Maxwellianisms

Far Off Unhappy Things

Chapter six: Maxwellianisms

By Renko Doremi Rodenburg

Accompanied ‘Galeomy’ By Hobo Jesus

“Here, little book, what will you tell me?” Maxwell muttered as he picked the first book to catch his eye from a plank. Around him, students of the Spire.

It was a book on astrology. A historical artifact, nothing more. Completely useless. Beneath these overcast skies, what use was there for astrology?

“Tsk.” He put the book back and went looking for more.

“There’s no one for me to really talk to,” he said as he picked up another interesting looking book, carefully dodging another student who couldn’t quite see him. “That makes it hard to tell a story. I hope you’re okay with me talking to books and such every now and then.”

This was a book about dryads and nymphs. He shoved it in his pockets. The Spire didn’t need this one.

“Hey there,” he said to a student that ignored him. Laughing, he walked on.

Another useless book, this time about animal life in the forests around the Lus. Rows and rows of useless books, and worse, boring books. Commentary on this-and-this philosopher’s interpretation of metaphysics, endless commentaries on commentaries of historical treaties. Occasionally, some insightful books on ontology. “Wouldn’t want to give people ideas,” he said to one of them as he shoved it into his pockets.

Of course the good books, the really interesting books, were kept behind lock and key. And merely being extremely hard to notice was not enough to get to them- but with a little luck they kept mirrors in those dusty old rooms, or at least reflective glass.

After stealing enough books for today, he sneaked into a lesson on divination. Taking notes in the back of class, he wondered what Fleur had done wrong that she hadn’t enjoyed this. He’d watched her wander through the halls and stairwells of the Spire for months, always discontent, always trying to get away from something.

“Seems like magical school life isn’t for everyone,” he said to the girl sitting next to him in the class benches. She didn’t notice, but did stop writing for a few seconds. Perhaps, she too, was now pondering if she truly belonged here.

After class he wandered up to the cantina with the massive window. The Spire hadn’t been built for humans, and the stairs and glass were all added long after the original owners had departed, giving the entire building a very messy, almost maze-like feel. Staring out of the window and over the ancient city, Maxwell felt content.

This magnificent paradise hewn from rough stone, in some places seemingly built completely vertical, covered in plants and growths. Stairs and bridges, alleys and tunnels. An infinite maze full of wonder. Of hidden shops, rowdy taverns and the lairs of crooks. Even under the overcast sky it was pretty- yet how much prettier would it have been at the height of summer? The idea that anyone could be discontent here was staggering to him. And the idea that most of the people here were, was almost incomprehensible.

Beyond the city was the forest. The Forest of Forever Fall, but of course that hadn’t always been its name. Before Prince Autumn, before the advent of these days of eternal Autumn, when months still passed months and season followed season it had been something else. That was before Maxwell his time though, and scant writing of those times remained now.

But it was beautiful. He never tired of the orange, red and yellow that were so characteristic of this world, so instantly recognizable. Of walking along the banks of the river Lus, wading through the perpetually falling leaves. In rain or wind, night or day, this was his home.

“I’m being sentimental again,” He said to no-one in particular. “But I really did want to show you what it looks like for me.”

When he left the Spire it was windy. A particularly strong late September wind swept through the streets, and Maxwell had to hold on to his cowl to prevent it from being blown off as he crossed the bridge connecting Lusan and Luson.

“Of course,” he said to a baker on the market standing behind a little stand as he ate the man’s pastries without him noticing, “good luck explaining what a September wind is. Or what September is, for that matter.”

“Huh,” the baker replied. “Who’s there?”

Maxwell walked on, laughing to himself.

He left Luson and walked down the path from the city gates to House Charis, the tavern Akela ran, and where he lived. It was the perfect, idyllic house. A large cottage with a cutesy, melancholy look. Charming. Inviting. Irresistible, apparently even to the likes of Fleur.

After he walked in he immediately tossed most of the books he stole into the fire, only sparing the book on nymphs and dryads. Then, he sat down at the counter and removed his cowl, revealing his face and breaking the spell.

Akela, ever diligently waiting behind the counter, snorted in surprise.

“You almost scared me,” she said, smiling.

“Almost. I’ll try harder next time.”

“How was your day, dear?” The old tavernkeep asked him.

“Ah, it was good,” he replied. “I went to school. Got to go to my old home in a bit, talk with fath- talk with Master Weyer. But I’ll warm up here first. Is Fleur in?”

“Fleur is upstairs, with a girl she brought. She wants her to move in with her. She’s her younger sister? Her daughter maybe? It’s very hard to get any semblance of coherent information out of her.”

“That’s very curious,” Maxwell said. “Well, I’ll be here reading a book so if they come down I’ll say hi to them.”

“Alright dear. Want me to make you anything?”

“No, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Akela said, ever smiling warmly.

He sat down in a corner near the windows, on one of the old, creaky wooden benches, and opened the book on dryads.

“What are you reading?” Akela asked him a while later as she placed a cup of hot chocolate on the table in front of him.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“But I did it anyway,” she replied.

“I’m reading about nymphs and dryads. I met a dryad, so I want to know more about them.”

“It’s dangerous, wandering the forest like that. It’s playing with fire, what you do.”

“Fire,” Maxwell said. “Fire.”

The candles on the table lit.

“Autumn, you’re incorrigible. Just make sure you don’t get hurt.” Akela said.

“I won’t get hurt, because I don’t have a habit of being in stories where it makes sense for me to get hurt. This Autumn cottage fantasy, who’d get hurt in that? The worst that can happen to me is the flu.”

“Be careful, okay?”

“I will.”

Akela didn’t understand. Nobody understood- and that was fine. He wouldn’t be feeding books to flames if he wanted others to get it.

Engrossed in the book, the afternoon slowly passed. In the kitchen, Akela worked hard to make sure she’d have enough food ready to serve if people would come by. Not that they ever did, so occasionally Maxwell and her would eat together. Now that Fleur lived here she’d probably join as well, but the last few days she had spent in town or moping about in her room upstairs.

“Akela, do you have some paper to write on, I want to make a shopping list.”

“Sure dear,” she yelled from the kitchen. A few minutes later she presented Maxwell with ink, a quill, and a roll of paper.

“Thank you,” he said as he put the ink and the quill aside and took a fountain pen from one of his myriad pockets.

It was a tool unknown in this world, a gift from his father. A memento from a world he would never speak about. A world bleaker still than this one seemed to be for most.

Shopping list done, he shoved it in a pocket and then carefully put his fountain pen away.

“I’m going to Master Weyer’s place, I’ll be back for dinner around eight or so,” he yelled to the old wolf-lady in the kitchen.

“Alright dear,” came the reply.

He headed back into town, putting on his cowl the moment he approached the gates, grinning as three mercenaries who just headed out promptly forgot he existed.

Fisher’s Lane wasn’t far from the city gate, less than fifteen minutes walking, and he entered the mansion without knocking. He dashed past his brother Darcy, who- obviously- didn’t see him, up the stairs and knocked on the door to his father’s office.

“Come in,” Allestar Weyer said, his voice muffled by the wooden door.

Inside, two disheveled looking mercenaries were already seated on chairs before Allestar’s desk. A rather imposing woman, and a shorter man who was nonetheless built quite well.

“Huh,” the man said confused as Maxwell closed the door behind him, and sat down on a third chair.

“Maxwell,” his father said sternly.

Laughing, he removed his cowl. “I’m here.”

“Woah,” the short man said.

“What in Autumn’s name,” the woman swore.

“This is Maxwell. He works for me,” Allestar said. “He’ll be very interested in what you’ve got to tell.” He then turned to Maxwell. “To bring you up to speed, these two are mercenaries who were hunting down some of the more, hmmmm.” He paused for a second. “Hard to find targets Prince Autumn has put a price on. ”

“We were hunting elves in refuge, the scum that have caused our nation so much harm,” the woman started explaining. “I was with Gregor and Bernard, my companions. This here is Gregor,” she said as she gestured towards her companion. “We heard of a desolate, far off place where one of them was said to hide in a tower. When we got there, well.”

“Did you find her?” Maxwell asked. He was already forming some scenarios in his head.

“No. We found paintings of her, though. In the tower lived a freak, some kind of magician or soothsayer. He had all kinds of weird shit laying around. Metal closets, freezing cold or boiling hot on the inside. All kinds of bizarre metal furniture. Lights that burned without fire. Water that flowed through tubes with no apparent source. He was with a woman. Red hair, wearing leather and furs. Striking tattoos on her arms. Probably a barbarian, either from a forest tribe or from the wastelands.”

“I see, and then?”

“Well, that’s a bit hard to understand. It seems he and the woman were in some kind of conflict, but to be honest I have no clue what the hell they were talking about. The woman suddenly dashed off, and we thought she had left.”

“And then?” He asked.

“Then we tried to beat the location of the pointy eared freak out of him. We assumed he knew, because he had like a hundred different paintings of her.”

She paused again, to Maxwell’s annoyance. “Continue,” he said.

“Well, we got a lot of useful shit out of him, but he didn’t know where his elfwife was holed up now. Apparently she left him quite a while ago.”

“Where is he now?” Maxwell asked.

“He didn’t survive the interrogation. Then, as Bertrand left to bury the geezer in his own backyard, he got murdered by the barbarian woman, laying in wait somewhere. She stole all our shit and ran.”

“Damn, that’s harsh. My condolences,” Maxwell said.

“Am I correct that you can use this information, Maxwell?” His father asked.

“Hm.”

“You two can go,” he said to the two mercenaries. “Darcy will pay you handsomely.”

The two of them got up, and looked befuddled as Allestar stretched out his hand. He shook his head and gestured to them to get out of his office, which they did.

“What do you think, Max?” He asked after making sure they were out of earshot.

“Well, I thought that story was going somewhere else entirely at first,” Maxwell replied.

“Explain,” Allestar said.

“Well, looking at the conspicuous absence of one of their friends, and inferring some details from their story- Elves don’t generally hide in distant towers- I assumed they had a run in with something quite different.”

“Something like Fleur or Violet,” Allestar added.

“Guess that’s not exactly how it went. But, once again, the picture is incomplete. Want me to take a look at the tower and see what they missed?” Maxwell asked.

“No, I think I’ll go there myself. I have a feeling I know what I’m going to find there, and it’s something for my eyes only.”

“Ah,” Maxwell replied.

“I want you to go chase after another piece of our puzzle- The woman who killed one of the bandi- I mean mercenaries.”

“Okay. That’s not gonna be easy. She can be anywhere.”

“You can do it.” Allestar’s voice was confident. It filled Maxwell with energy, seeing his father so ever proud of him.

“And I will do it. I have some other things I was working on first which I dearly want to complete, as well as accompany Fleur at least once when you send her out thieving, but after that I’ll go chase her.”

“Good,” his father replied. “I’ll be see-” He broke off his sentence as Maxwell pulled his cowl over his head. “Weird fucking kid,” he said.

Whistling, Maxwell walked down the stairs and to the first floor. As he looked around for a bit, preparing to head outside, he spotted a woman with black hair and deep red eyes- Octavia. Feeling another melancholy mood come up, he decided to follow her around the house for a bit.

Octavia was a vampire, and probably his father’s most expensive possession in this world.

“Hey,” he said to her. She didn’t notice and walked on, to the staff kitchen, where she started to stack and sort plates and cutlery.

He shook his head and left.

The light had already been dimming when he set out for his father’s place, and in the twenty minutes he spent inside night had begun to fall over the Lands Lost. It was an ever cozy place, even under cover of darkness. The little torches burning in the city, the mage-light illuminating some houses and the flicker of fireplaces shining through yet other windows. People still up and about, hurrying home from their day job, or to a place to drink their sorrows away. Some girls- slaves, captive barbarians from the matriarchal tribes that lived in the distant black forests- tried to entice men to visit opium dens.

It reminded him of Octavia. Sometimes this land was dark and depressing indeed, he had to admit that, but it wouldn’t curb his mood. There could be no enjoying the light without recoiling from the shadows.

When he got back to House Charis, so beautiful with the light flickering through the windows, radiating such warmth and hospitality, he was pleasantly surprised to see Fleur and her friend already sitting at a table with Akela.

“Hey hey, I’m home,” he said after removing his cowl.

“Hello dear,” Akela greeted him.

“The boy,” the new girl chirped, brimming with enthusiasm. Yet, there was something subtly wrong with her.

Her blue eyes were reminiscent of Fleur’s unnaturally coloured hair, and her blonde hair slightly too radiant. She looked as if she could be no older than twelve, but a weariness normally only seen in the elderly, the damned and those who had visited the lands of the dead had set into her expression, her eyes. He made a mental note to be careful around her.

“My name’s Maxwell,” he said to her with a smile. As he sat down across from her, next to Akela. “And yours? Or should I just call you Girl?”

“That’s a better nickname than Knives,” Fleur replied.

“Well my name’s Amelie,” the girl said. “I’m Fleur’s best friend!”

“Nice to meet you Amelie, how are you enjoying it here?”

The girl smiled, and looked around the tavern for a bit, as if she hadn’t quite made up her mind yet and was casting her final judgment. “I love it,” she finally said.

“Don’t let your food go cold,” Akela warned.

As he ate, Maxwell was annoyed he couldn’t stare at people like he was used to without wearing his cowl. But the occasional glance at Fleur still provided him with a wealth of detail. Still, the girl looked as if she wanted to die. An expression contorted between despair and anger.

“You doing alright, Fleur?” He asked.

“Yeah, I am,” she said in an angry tone.

“Tomorrow I’m going to the market and buy some gifts for a friend of mine, do you want to come?” He asked her.

“Why?” She replied.

“Because we’re friends,” he said. “After that I have to go do research though.”

“Why? I mean into what?” She asked, going from confused to curious mid-sentence. With every passing day, it seemed more clear to Maxwell that Fleur had issues with mood swings.

“Someone has killed one of my employer’s friends. It’s my job to figure out who.”

“Oh,” Fleur said. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’ll catch her.”

“Her?” Fleur asked, now cautious.

“Some barbarian woman with red hair and striking tattoos on her arms. Can’t be that hard to find. Still, the Lands Lost are pretty big.”

“A- a barbarian girl? Was? Euh?” Fleur stammered and staggered. “Was she alive? Or one of the living dead?”

Maxwell raised one eyebrow in confusion. “What do you mean? I’d assume that’d have been part of the report, yes, if she had been a zombie.”

“Oh,” Fleur said, disappointed.

“Do explain,” Maxwell said.

“Fleur’s boyfriend was killed and eaten by a sexy zombie with bright red hair,” Amelie said. “She’s been all mopey about it for weeks.”

“Amelie,” Fleur chided her friend.

Akela shook her head while making a ‘tsk tsk’ sound.

“I didn’t know, Fleur, my condolences,” Maxwell said. “Now I’m definitely taking you to the market, and then to visit my friend tomorrow. You need some distractions or this sadness will eat you alive.”

Fleur pushed her plate away, and got up.

“Don’t you think I don’t know that,” she said. “Don’t you?” She yelled, her voice breaking.

She turned around and walked off, one of her arms trembling as she did. Once she was up the stairs and in her room, Akela turned to Maxwell.

“She’s suffering. Don’t mind her. She must’ve been through a lot.”

“She’ll be fine, she bounces from happy to suicidal in the span of a minute,” Amelie added.

Maxwell shook his head. It seemed Fleur didn’t belong- no matter if you put her in a magic school, a court full of intrigue or a cutesy tavern.

Nothing he hadn’t fixed before, though.

Notes from the Demiurge

Welcome back to Maxwellianisms, now with accompanying music. The track is called ‘Galeomy’, by Hobo Jesus.

“A word without clear English translation. It appears to be a combination of various roots and suffixes, and may be a proper name or a nonsense word.”

You can find and support Hobo Jesus here:
https://hobojesus.bandcamp.com/track/galeomy-long