kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"JustMoreoftheSame"

words

"Om mane padme hum?" The inquisitor was a short, squat fellow with greasy hair. He looked rather uncomfortable and fidgeted under the group's glare.

"Om mane padme hum," the parrot squawked.

"No, you dolt!" Bob was the group's leader, and his criticism had broken many with its scathing wittiness.

Paul fidgeted some more, unsure of what to do or say.

"Look, we're not after some transcendental bliss. We want a pirate, right? A real one, not some Lazarus Long gallivanting across the spaceways. Bluebeard." Bob pointed at the carefully prepared mock-up.

Straw littered the floor under the scarecrow they had stolen. Blue paint was splattered all over from a misguided attempt to mimic woad, while Polly had left a trail down its back of variously white, yellow and somewhat brownish bird-fluids. The mockup's head had been a matter of debate, but was now enshrouded by a black cloth sack; no one could find an eye-patch, and they had figured that a blind pirate was preferable to a fully sighted one.

"Bluebeard," the parrot squawked.

"Okay, thanks. Paul can't think of anything, so... I suppose if I'm going to delegate this task then it falls to you, George."

Paul's expression brightened while George's fell appreciably. "Uh. Oh ghost of antiquity... we, uh, we beseech thee... summoned be... uh.... join our mockery?" He gulped, and Bob slapped him hard on the back.

"Good one! Never knew you were a poet! All right, places people! We've got a ghost to summon! George, over there. Paul, over there. Let's get started."

Paul shifted, ever more uncomfortable. "Umm. Bob?"

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Weren't we going to wait for sunset?"

"Ain't it yet? You must've spent hours coming up with that little ditty you wanted to pass off as a summoning"

Paul glowered. "It's only three."

"It's only three," the parrot squawked.

Bob looked around. "George, what's your timepiece say?"

"I, uh, I don't got one."

"Really? And what happened to the poet? Come on, don't hold back on us. This gang could get a reputation for being educated or something. Poet away, my man."

It was George's turn to twitch under Bob's glare again. "I, uh, don't got, uh, one. Uh," tried George.

Bob feigned a gunshot wound to the heart. "My gods, free verse too?" He shook his head in amazement. "Okay, anywise, Paul, why don't you go check outside and make sure the sun and your little wrist-watch agree."

Paul walked over to the door, and peered outside. "It's daylight."

"Daylight," the parrot squawked.

Bob shrugged. "Let's go to the arcade!"



It was only a twenty-minute walk to the arcade, but since they had time on their hands and an exciting evening ahead of them, they did their best to pass it. Countless cows were tipped, fences broken, and cars hassled. Eventually, however, they actually did manage to stop at the tiny corner market across from the arcade. A bright neon sign proclaimed "Girls!", and that was what had first attracted them to the market. Even after the disappointment that the store just had cold drinks, condiments, and an old fart behind the counter, the joke kept them coming back.

"Well, what can I do fer you, sonnies?"

Bob looked around the store. "Just getting something to drink and something to eat, play around a little. And tonight... Tonight, we're gonna summon a ghost."

"A ghost, eh? Sonny, doncher know you can't summon no ghosts? Doesn't matter one way or nother the state of their soul, just don't do no good trying to summon no ghosts. Don't work, see?"

George looked surprised. "Uh. Why do you say that? I mean, uh, yeah. What makes you so, uh, opinionated in this subject?"

"Well, sonny. Do you believe in Heaven and Hell?"

"Uh. Kinda. Like, I mean... sure."

"Okay. Would you say this ghost you're looking for was a good person, or a bad person?"

"Uh. Bad, definitely."

Paul chimed in. "Yeah, he was a pirate! Scourge of the seaways! Pillager of plunder! All that sort of stuff! Bluebeard the magnificent!"

The old man stroked his fading beard. "Hmm. Bluebeard, you say? An interesting character, oh yes. Quite an interesting character. These days we'd say he was quite a bad person, yes." The old man chuckled cryptically. "Now, would you say a bad person would go to Heaven or to Hell?"

"Hell, I suppose. Just, uh, just for the sake of argument."

"No, we'll have no caveat 'for the sake of argument.' I want you to tell me truly, would you say a bad person would go to Heaven or to Hell?"

"Well. You see.... They'd go to Hell... but it would be, like, heaven, see... uh, Nirvana, like, you know. The music group. Music, and girls, and like, all the stuff that uh, virtuous people, would consider hell. Right?"

"Okay. I see." The old man looked somewhat discomfited, but pressed on. The gleam never quite left his eyes. "When you summon a ghost, that just tells the ghost you would like to see it, right? Or do you think that you have control over someone else's soul?"

"Uh. When you put it like, uh, like the way you put it, I have to say no. Yeah. I mean, yeah, no. Well, like. Yeah, it's not like we have control over someone's soul, so yeah, we're uh, just saying like, uh, yoo-hoo, ghost, uh, wanna come play?"

"And your hell is comprised of just the things which virtuous people would hate?"

"Yeah..."

"And so your hell is comprised of just the things which those who were not virtuous would love?"

"Yeah..."

"And one who is a bad person, we would call them not virtuous?"

"Uh, duh. Yeah."

"So, if this Bluebeard has everything that he could want, then why would he come to your call?"

"Oh. Ya know. I never thought about that. Uh. Gee."

Bob looked around. His authority was being undermined. He glared at the old man, who didn't seem to notice. George looked at Bob. "Hey, so, Bob, what are we supposed to be getting Bluebeard to come here for, anyway?"

Bob ignored the question. "Hey, guys. It's getting late and we want to get some games in before the summoning, right? Get yer junk and get on over to the arcade, pronto-like." Bob walked out of the store. George and Paul shrugged, and walked off after him, somewhat confused. The old man just sat and chuckled to himself.



The sun had set and the trio were back at the shack. Bob was busily making sure that everything was just so, and that everyone knew what they were doing.

"We don't want any screw-ups," looking pointedly at Paul. "Do you know the chant, now?"

"George's, right? That thing that kept rhyming with 'ee'? Umm. Yeah, I know it. Oh ghost of antiquity, we beseech thee... umm... summoned be..."

Bob smacked him on the shoulder with the backside of his hand. "What, you want to start it now? Okay. If youse forgets, just follow along."

"Follow along," squawked the parrot.

Bob looked from George to Paul, and from Paul to George, and then from George around the room back to George. Off the corner, rebound, over the hoop, over to Paul, under the shelf, behind the parrot and back to Paul. "You guys don't seem too hot. What's up?"

Paul and George looked at each other. Neither wanted to speak up, but Paul was more foolhardy. "Well, umm. It's, umm. Well, you see. I mean, umm. What's the point of all this, anyway? That old guy proved it's not going to, umm, work, right?"

George nodded. "That. Uh, that sums it up for me too, Bob."

Bob looked at the two of them. "That old coot got you scared?"

Paul shook his head. "It's not that. It's umm, it's just that, well, it's not going to work, right? So, umm. What's the point?"

Bob started laughing. "What, did you peeps think it was gonna work before? I mean, come on? Does either of you believe in the soul, or Heaven or Hell, or like, the afterlife and stuff? Neither of you *thought* this was gonna work before, right?"

George and Bob vigorously shook their heads.

"Well then, what's changed?"

George and Bob looked at each other. They shrugged.

"Well what's changed?"

Paul spoke up. "Well, umm... Still, what's the point of all this?"

Bob looked at the two of them again. "What the hell point to you think the point of this is? What, were you having fun before you talked to that old coot or what? I mean, we stole this scarecrow out of some poor fool's backyard, stole some paint from the hardware store, stole a parrot from the pet shop... We've had a week of fun, right? And now we get to jump around and chant some mystic mumbo-jumbo, and we like, maybe pretend something happens. And then we have a story to tell everyone for months to come, and a reason to steal more stuff? Right?"

"Polly want a cracker. *squawk* Polly want a cracker." The parrot rocked back and forth on her perch, and preened a bit. A slight globule of shit dropped off from her and joined the trail earthwards.

George shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. Alright."

"Sure," Paul said.

"That's the spirit! Places now people! Paul, over there, George over there..."

George and Paul stretched, stood up, and walked over to generally where Bob was pointing. They formed a rather sloppy triangle around the mock-up.

"Okay. Now, there's not enough room for us to hold hands and still be outside the circle, and that's for sissies anywise, so... like, don't go in the circle, whatever happens... And say the lines when I say them... And then the fun should begin." Bob was grinning ear to ear.

"And then the fun should begin," squawked the parrot.

Bob called out instructions. "Okay, now, everyone close your eyes. Yes, I'm going to close mine too. No peeking! Everyone's eyes closed?"

George and Paul nodded.

"Everyone's eyes closed?"

George and Paul nodded more vigorously.

"Come on people, are your eyes closed or not? Say something!"

George stammered, "Yeah. I mean, uh, yeah, my eyes are closed. Oh. Yeah, my eyes are closed."

Paul chimed in, "Me too."

"Okay, now: visualize Bluebeard."

"But we can't, umm... see him. What's the mock-up for if we have our eyes, umm, closed?" Paul looked confused, but it was lost on everyone.

"Just visualize, you dolt. Come on, you helped put it together. So... Bluebeard's like this scarecrow, right? Just fleshed out a bit. I suppose he'd have like, muscles... And his paint job would be a lot better. And probably he'd like, have an axe, and a beard."

"A blue beard?" queried Paul.

"What do you think? He was called that because he picked his nose?"

Paul and George shut up.

"Now. Visualize harder. Okay. Now. Repeat after me: 'Oh ghost of antiquity, we beseech thee... summoned be... join our mockery'."

Paul and George stumblingly repeated the words.

There was a flash of thunder from outside. Bob opened his eyes.

There was silence.

Bob stared at the apparition before him. It was a pirate all right, down to the eye-patch and missing leg. He most definitely wasn't painted blue, but he did have a parrot, and it looked just like the one they had stolen. Bob looked at the other parrot just to make sure it was still there. It was. It looked back at Bob, and yawned a wide, rubber-tongued parrot yawn.

"Oh ghost of antiquity, we beseech thee, summoned be, join our mockery," the parrot squawked.

"Oh shit," was Bob's only retort.

Paul piped up. "Umm, can we open our eyes now? Did it umm, like, work?"

"Oh. Yeah. Go for it."

"But... Bob... umm, why are there two of them? How can there be two Bluebeards? Bob... what's wrong?" Paul asked.

The first two parrots opened their mouths in lazy yawns. "Oh ghost of antiquity, we beseech thee, summoned be, join our mockery," they squawked.

Bob stared. "Shit shit shit. I know this... Umm..... Come on, come on... yeah! This is the Fibonacci Sequence! Oh man, we're doomed! Run!" Bob ran as fast as he could out of the shack, with Paul and George close behind.



They were sitting outside of the arcade, sipping on drinks. Bob still hadn't stopped shaking, and George and Paul were simply clueless.

"So... Uh. I guess we like, uh, need a new place to meet?"

"George, you just don't have a clue. Do you know what the Fibonacci Sequence means?"

"Uh.... no? More ghosts?"

"Not just more ghosts.... Lots more ghosts. If we don't take care of this somehow, there isn't going to be anything *but* more ghosts."

"Well... why don't we, umm, like, ask the guy at the corner, umm, market type place. He seemed to convince us pretty certain that, umm, there wasn't any way for us to summon a ghost... right? So, umm, like, maybe he can convince them of that too?"

Bob was shocked, once again, but definitely not for the last time that night. "Paul, that's brilliant. I'd swear you were psychic and staring in my brain, sometimes."

The three of them rushed to the market. The old man sat still and complacent behind the counter as they explained what had happened. Then he took a deep breath, and contemplated for a few minutes. The three of them fidgeted incessantly.

"You say that a parrot summoned another ghost, after you three?"

Bob was on the spot, impatient with the man's slowness. "No. I'm saying that the parrot summoned the same ghost. And then they summoned some more. And for all I know there's more after that. All the same ghost. The *same* ghost. Lots of him. It's the Fibonacci Sequence!"

"Well, I'm not all that much for Fibonacci. But didn't we decide together that you couldn't succeed at summoning a ghost? Off with you. Can't be."

"But..." Bob coughed back his pride, somewhat. "Sir, if you please. We don't need to be convinced of that. *They* need to be convinced of that. And we thought maybe you could convince them."

"Very well, just for the sake of pursuing knowledge, mind you."



They made slower time getting back to the shack, as the old man shuffled slowly, muttering to himself about this and that. By the time they made it there, there were Bluebeards pouring out of the sides. The circle, after all, had only been designed to hold one of them. Magick went its own way with paradoxes.

"So... these are the Bluebeards you spoke of? Well, they're hardly Bluebeards. Don't even look like him. Just figments. Kindly remove me from your hallucination."

"Can't you do something to get rid of them?" pleaded Bob.

"Well, I suppose I could try talking to one. Maybe they would know what they were doing. Who knows, perhaps they're simply carpenters bent on fixing your shack?"

The shack collapsed, presumably from the weight of Bluebeards that had appeared atop it.

"It seems to be in better condition already. However, onwards towards knowledge." He pointed at a Bluebeard closest the group. "You there. Tell me, what is your name?"

"I am Bluebeard. Scourge of the seas!"

"And that other person there, would you say his name is Bluebeard as well?"

"Not only that, but he's the same Bluebeard as me, matey."

"Well, that was simple. Can't be." The old man turned to the three boys. "Told you it had to be impossible, didn't I?"

"But.... they're still there," Bob posited.

"Hrm. Quite right. Alright, let's see." He turned to another Bluebeard that had just appeared. "Excuse me. How can you all be the same Bluebeard? Tell me. Do you think a being has more than one soul?"

"No...."

"And would a ghost be anything more than the manifestation of a soul?"

"I couldn't argue there."

"But you say that you are all Bluebeard?"

"Aye."

"But you are all ghosts?"

"Aye."

"So either you have to give up that you are all Bluebeard, or that the body has more than one soul. Neither of which I think it would be easy to convince me of. So do kindly depart."

"Ah, matey. You think to confuse me. It's like another thing entirely, though. Do you mind if I inquire with you to see what it be?"

"By all means, do so, please."

"Well then. When you speak of death, would you say it's aught but the soul separating from the body?"

"I wouldn't."

"Would you agree, though, that when a soul indulges in pleasures, it becomes more tied in with the body, so that it does not wish to leave at death?"

"I would be willing to agree to that. It does seem quite plausible to me."

"Well, take a soul like mine then. It indulged itself in pleasures while it was alive. Pleasures the like of which got me executed that miserable December."

"Go on."

"My soul, I would say, would be so entangled with the body that it would be very slow to leave. Sorta like old Polly, here, just unwilling to leave. The body would rot, and various things running about in the hollows of the earth would consume it. In this manner, ye see, the body itself would be torn into various pieces and scattered about."

"I think I see where you are taking this, but please go on."

"The soul would reluctantly take leave of the body after a time. But by then it would have been sundered same as the body, and thus scattered about it would not be able to find its other parts, no matter how much like attracts like."

"Yes, that is where I saw you going. And I am much convinced that what you say is true. However, there is one part of your argument that still troubles me."

"Arr, matey?"

"Well, let us assume the soul is divisible in the manner we have agreed."

"Yeah?"

"Well... How would a soul divide? If we liken a soul to a chair, for instance, a chair would divide in parts. It would have a seat, a back, and some legs. These would be the most likely to be split upon, and it would take much greater force to break it upon other lines."

"I'm folling yer."

"Or if we looked on it as knowledge, then the soul would divide into parts such as knowledge of fishing, knowledge of the stars, or knowledge of people. There would be a multitude of such parts, as yourselves represent. Each of these knowledges, however, would be separate and distinct. Or do you think that mathematics and literature would overlap?"

"No, I'd see them as distinct. Both to be avoided, but avoided separately, certainly."

"Well then, if all things have naturally separable lines, and these lines do not overlap, one would presume that your soul would also follow this."

"Aye."

"So we would presume that one part of your soul would know speech, and one part of your soul would know math, and one part of your soul would know astrogation, and so on."

"So..."

"So, since I've spoken now with three of you, you simply can not all be distinctly separate parts of the same soul."

"Oh. I think I" He disappeared in a poof of blue smoke.

"I think he saw what you meant. But what about all the others? They're still here." Bob gestured around.

"Oh, they're just more of the same." Immediately, every single Bluebeard disappeared in a suffocating explosion of blue pyrotechnics. When the clouds cleared, the old man walked around a bit, surveying the damage.

"They're just more of the same," squawked a parrot.

The old man stared at the parrot, which was still attached to the misshapen scarecrow. "That one, too." He wiggled his fingers at it as if to say 'Shoo'.

"But...!" George squeaked. The parrot and scarecrow disappeared. "But that one was real!"

"Of course not. It disappeared, after all."