The Sanctuary

No, nothing to do with the TV show – in fact I wrote this in a field in Suffolk at a small festival long before I’d heard of that show! Not that I’m saying they stole my idea, but my thoughts are being taped by the CIA. No, really, they are…

Anyway, this is chapter 1 of The Sanctuary – enjoy…

The Sanctuary

Chapter 1

Copyright J. N. Thorpe

The history of the Sanctuary was unclear. For the most part, its inhabitants were content to enjoy hearing the folklore and stories of their land, sung in ballads by the ancient spirits of their ancestors. For them, it was enough to lie under the ever changing vistas of starlight, and be softly lulled into a peaceful sleep by the gentle voices of the dead, telling them of the stars that they saw long ago, and of the many visitors from those stars. Some of those Xenians still walked under the Firmament, a living validation of the ancestors’ songs.

Some, however, were not content just with stories. Professor Hendlepog Trudwindle padded between the tranquil shelves of the Repository’s Philosophy section, clutching a dangerous book under his furry arm. It was a history book, deposited by a visiting Xenian over three hundred years ago. Hendlepog was particularly excited by the chapter on Natural History, which, if he could verify the source, might help support his theory. After nearly twenty years of searching, he believed that he had finally found a clue to the true origins of the Sanctuary. The book told of a tree that grew from the tallest mountain of a far away world. This vast tree had been growing, according to the book, for millions of years, and its colossal seeds would, after centuries of ripening, sail away beyond the clouds. These seeds were what had caught Hendlepog’s attention. He needed a lot more to go on than just seeds, though.

More miles away than Professor Trudwindle liked to think about without a nice, fresh fruit pie and a strong cup of tea to hand, a Xenian visitor was coming through the Spinning Gate. Captain Elvis Beefheart strode purposefully away from the shimmering, twisted matrix of threads that he had just emerged from. He glanced doubtfully up at the sky for a moment, expecting to see unfamiliar stars against the cold, limitless night, but above him the dome of the Firmament was shining, the gigantic, ancient carapace of this little world projecting daylight down into the Sanctuary. The means by which it did so were a mystery to him, like so much else about this place. The Sanctuary was a legend, a myth that only the mad or the foolhardy would go searching for. Elvis wasn’t sure which he was, but as he walked down the mountain path to a nearby settlement, passing brightly painted wooden signs covered with the symbols of alien languages, he knew that at least he was right.

This was the place – the first stepping stone on the journey to making his fortune. The journal that bounced against his ribs from inside the pocket of his surcoat had guided him this far against all the odds, so he had no reason to suspect that the treasure it described was not real. Not now his boots pressed against the earth of this magical land, this floating kingdom with its fabulous inhabitants and breath-taking sights. Was there anything better in life, he wondered, than this? To be starting out on a fresh adventure in unknown lands where few men had ever walked, in search of fabled treasures? Not for him, there wasn’t. As he neared the bizarre collection of alien buildings – all shining towers and spires, erupting straight from the ground at odd angles – he grinned.

According to the words penned by one Joseph MacAllister-Hargrind, this jagged protrusion of brilliantly scintillating structures was known as the Flute. He could hear the radiant chords that each massive shard emitted, mingling flawlessly into an endlessly captivating symphony. Already, he was beginning to appreciate why his ancestor, MacAllister-Hargrind, had taken his own life in the end. Having seen such wonders as this place, to then return to the spoiled, corrupted desolation of Earth must have been heart-breaking. Especially since the man had evidently read much of what their home world had once been like, thousands of years ago. It was hard to imagine that such a cess-pool of a planet could once have been a paradise – though coming here, Elvis could at least daydream. He had read his ancestor’s journal from cover to cover, and it told him much of what life in the Twenty-fifth century had been like. Little different to the present, it seemed, with its wars and its desperation, its squalor. Elvis was glad to be a very long way from home.

MacAllister-Hargrind told of what to expect in the Flute. It was a place inhabited by strange giants, he had written. Insectoid cyborgs known as the Drixxylf, the custodians of the Spinning Gate. Picking his way through the maze of singing crystals by a route memorized from the map in MacAllister-Hargrind’s journal, he found his way to the heart of the Flute. A winding stairway led up through the labyrinth to a white cluster of crystals like an explosion of diamonds. Carved into this was a concave hollow where the stairs ended, and a dais upon which rested a huge and elaborate contraption resembling a chair connected to an intricate, clockwork machine. And before it, administering to the machine with twists of dials and pulling of levers, was a Drixxylf. It turned to face him as he climbed the stairs. It was twice his height, with a long, sinuously segmented body, seemingly constructed of the same crystal as the Flute itself. Massive pincers on its upper arms glinted, opening and snapping shut. This, apparently, was a greeting – an invitation. Joseph had called this place the Lightsong Temple, though its Drixxylf name was unpronounceable to humans, and very long. This is where visitors came to share their knowledge and their memories, and to gain knowledge of other places in return. It was the Drixxylf equivalent of a library, but also a conscious, sentient machine which held the collective experiences of millions of souls. These memories were the source of the Flute’s songs. Joseph had described the experience as ‘blissfully terrifying’. Elvis approached with some trepidation, wondering what strange, alien dreams the Lightsong Temple held. The Drixxylf towered over him. Its lozenge-shaped head inclined, glittering mouth-parts clicking in time with its pincers as it motioned for Elvis to take a seat. Steeling himself, he obeyed.

“Alright, boy?”

The voice startled him, loud and garish against the temple’s tranquil serenity. Looking up, he was greeted by the ruddy, white-bearded face of his great, great, great, great (Elvis forgot how many ‘greats’ it was) grand father, Joseph MacAllister-Hargrind.

“Erm,” Elvis replied, pausing to collect his thoughts, which didn’t help matters much.

“I’m a construct sorta thing, boy. Y’know, like a recording?”

“Oh, er…ok. Hey, great, whatever, grandad Joseph thing. How’s it hanging, man?”

“Aye, hale an’ hearty, boy, hale, an’ hearty.”

The manifestation of Joseph was that of an old man – he’d been in his seventies when he’d come to the Sanctuary – but still straight-backed and proud, resplendent in his antique finery. His ample stomach was artfully disguised by a black waistcoat, threaded with a silver filigree of gossamer fine patterns. Over this he wore a great, gun metal coat of what looked like real leather. His head was adorned with a grand, tri-corner hat, emblazoned with a silver skull-and-cross-bones. His, long, white hair and beard were plaited with jewel-studded, silver bands. Elvis, who, by contrast, wore a tattered, black surcoat over a stained and grubby ship suit, had never seen such ostentation. This, he realised was how proper pirates looked. Joseph MacAllister-Hargrind was an impressive sight.

“So, I’m guessing ye’ll be here arter me treasure, right, boy?” Joseph’s pulled a huge, ornate pipe from his pocket, and proceeded to pack it with a pungent weed. Elvis caught himself salivating at the smell of it, then wondered how a construct could be so convincing.

“Yup – least that’s the plan, y’know? So, like, any help would be, uh, like, really, helpful, man. Y’know?” He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the journal. “Oh, an’ I, er, like, brought this. Been passed down through the generations kinda thing for, like… well, ages.”

“Three hundred years, or thereabouts. I should know – right, boy? Ne’er thought to see the blessed thing agin, mind, boy. Oh, this is a rare, fine gift. Thank ye kindly, boy.” He took the small, leather bound book from Elvis’ hand, much to the young captain’s surprise. For a construct, Joseph MacAllister-Hargrind seemed convincingly real. “This ain’t the real journal, boy – it’s sorta like a symbol, a representation, see? Ye’r still plugged into that there chair, remember. All this is is a key to yer memories o’ the journal, for the Flute to take a copy, like.”

“Oh, okay, I get it, man.” Elvis nodded, turning his hands over as he eyed them, wondering just how real they were. “So, if that’s the gift I’ve, like, given you – or the Flute, whatever – then I get a gift from you in return, yeah?”

“Ah!” Joseph nodded, holding up a bejewelled, podgy finger, then turning away from Elvis. From somewhere behind him he produced an odd looking musical instrument, something like a cross between an accordion and a set of bag-pipes. He slung the thing’s strap over his shoulder, adjusting it until it nestled comfortably against his belly. “Right. Now, then. How does it go?..” Elvis waited expectantly while Joseph chewed on a fingernail, apparently lost in thought.

“Erm, like, how does what, go, man?”

“What? Oh! Right, then, aye. Here goes, boy. Come on, now!” And with that Joseph grabbed at the strange device, forcing a tune from its many tubes and valves and buttons and levers. Around much parping, whistling and tooting, he sang the shanty that told of the World Tree. It was a sad and beautiful lament – despite Joseph’s murderously comical rendition of it. A majestic tree once stood atop the tallest mountain, a tree so old that it was ancient when the first things with eyes to look upon it were born. As the tree had grown and spread its roots and its branches into the world, so the world had grown around it. And where the tree’s seeds fell, all the creatures of the world were born from the land and the sea. And so the whole world was given form and life, until everywhere there was an abundance of wonders to behold. Then one day, the tree died.

After growing and growing for countless ages, watching over the many creatures and peoples that prospered under its mighty branches, its great limbs began to wither and crack. It had just one seed left to shed, and when this last, feather-leafed pod finally broke away and floated into the sky, the great tree’s verdant leaves began to fade to grey and crumble. By the time the seed had sailed beyond the horizon, all that was left of the World Tree was billowing clouds of dust. Then the mountain began to shake, and then the world below began to tremble. The mountain erupted, shooting fire miles into the sky, and blotting out the sun with smoke and ash. Lava spewed down over the land, which broke apart, and the seas flooded over it. In smoke and flame and steam and ash, the world was remade. Many of its people perished in the world’s violent shudders of loss and sorrow for the tree. It was many years before smoke finally stopped flowing from the shattered mountain, and many centuries before the land and its people were healed.

One day, when the grand mothers of those who had lived through the great upheaval were long since dead and gone, a group of adepts from a far away temple climbed the mountain. It was a long and dangerous climb, but presently they discovered that a lake had formed in a crater where the World Tree had once grown. In the middle of this lake was an island, and on this island they built a new temple. Inside this they planted the first seed shed by a new tree that grew in their lands, grown from the last seed of the World Tree. They worshipped the seed, and prayed for it to grow.

Captain Elvis came to with a start, as if from a dream, to find his tear stained eyes peering up at the shimmering, crystalline shell of the Drixxylf.

Professor Hendlepog Trudwindle munched on a berry and nut shortcake as he pondered the book before him. It seemed reasonable to assume, given the available evidence, that the Sacred Seed had come from Canopaen-Nubis Isle to the south west, and that the great tree which gave the island its name was a child of the World Tree from which all life had sprung, and without which there would be no berry and nut shortcake. This much he had surmised, but now what was he to do about it, if anything? His study was warm and cosy, bathed as it was in the mid-afternoon sun, and his capacious armchair was so comfortably soft that he just had to have a little nap while he ruminated in the matter. He’d only been dozing for a few minutes, though, when he felt a soft nudging at his elbow. He muttered his objection to Wyrd disturbing him, brushing the Librariax cat’s paw away as he shifted to an even more comfortable position without opening his eyes. Wyrd persisted, this time a little more firmly.

“Wake up, Professor Trudwindle. You have a visitor.” Wyrd’s deep, purring voice was as soft and warm as the chair into which Hendlepog snuggled, but the sense of his words made the professor open his eyes.

“A visitor? Really? For me?”

“Indeed,” replied Wyrd, his emerald eyes blinking sagely in his golden head.

“Well, well. A visitor! For me! This is extraordinary news.” Hendlepog brushed the crumbs from from his furry lap and stood up, stretching. “I’d better go and prepare myself. Um, did this visitor happen to give your their name, or where they’re from?”

“They did not, Professor. Just that they would like your help to find a book. That one.” Wyrd’s paw stroked the book on Hendlepog’s table.

“This one? But, I…that’s…really?” Wyrd nodded again. Hendlepog raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well, by all the stars! Isn’t that extraordinary? This very book that I was just reading when you came in, and now I have a visitor, and he wants to see it! Really, truly extraordinary.” Wyrd rolled his eyes and trotted away. Hendlepog bumbled after him, fussing with his bow tie. “D’you know,” he said to Wyrd’s back, “I haven’t had a visitor for, what -”

“Three and a half years,” Wyrd interjected as he sauntered into the adjoining room that passed for Hendlepog’s office.

“Well, it’s shaping up to be rather an eventful day.” Hendlepog followed Wyrd into the poky room, which was crammed with overflowing shelves of books, pictures, charts, scrolls and all sorts of curios. Hendlepog, preoccupied as he was, bumped into one of the shelves, knocking off a jar of small fuzzy, brightly coloured worms. Wyrd’s tail flashed out, coiling around the jar before it hit the floor, but a few of the worms escaped, giggling maniacally as they fled across the floor. Wyrd replaced the jar carefully onto the shelf.

“You really should tidy up in here,” he said as Hendlepog navigated his way to his desk, clearing a pile of books from the chair before it. Vootle, the viewing gnome, paced about irritably on the desk, scratching his bald head and cursing under his breath.

“Oww, I only gone an’ lost the blessed signal now you turned up, ain’t I?”

“Hello, Vootle,” Hendlepog addressed the miniscule, bearded man dressed in dirty overalls, who ignored him entirely, fretting as he was over the view screen.

“Right,” Vootle declared, rolling up his little sleeves and striding forward to boot the view screen’s frame as hard as he could, which wasn’t all that hard. It had the desired effect, though, and the view screen flickered into life. Satisfied, Vootle strutted off to his hut amongst the paperweights to smoke his pipe. Hendlepog was confronted with the image of a most peculiar looking creature.

“Ah, hey, there, Professor Hendle- um, Hendlepog?”

The creature’s face was a pinkish-brown, and smooth skinned, except for the sparse whiskers around its mouth and the long, greyish hair extending from its scalp down to its shoulders. Its clothes were dark and weather worn, its strange, triangular head gear battered and crumpled. Hendlepog was put in mind of a seasoned traveller, one of the many Xenian merchants who came from all over the local galaxy to trade in the Sanctuary’s markets.

“Erm, hello, Mister, er?” He had a vague memory of seeing similar kinds of Xenians before, possibly in a book. He rarely left the Repository these days, having been so busy with his research and his lectures.

“Um, my name’s, like, Captain Elvis Beefheart. Sol system, yeah?” Something about the way this Captain Elvis Beefheart’s eyes seemed only half focussed on him suggested to Hendlepog that this was indeed a weary traveller. He felt intrigued and rather privileged to think that a Xenian wanted his help so urgently that they didn’t even have time to rest.

“Sol system? Hmmm…” Hendlepog flicked open the Repository Lore portal on his view screen, and entered a search request on the Sol system. Amongst other entries – star maps, coordinates – he found a reference to a race known as Humans, a space faring race, some of whom had visited the Sanctuary before. Apparently, a handful had even settled here, though Hendlepog had never been to their village. Hendlepog read the rest of the entry with interest, then closed the Lore screen and returned to the view of the Human named Captain Elvis Beefheart.

“Well, er, welcome, indeed, Captain Elvis Beefheart, of planet… Earth? I, er, I’m told that you would like my assistance in finding a particular book,?”

“Damn straight, prof. Oorm Skulkrond’s Anthropaedia, third volume. Totally, like, love the Skulk, man…”

“Well, now, isn’t that a coincidence? I happen to have been reading that very volume just a few minutes ago!” Hendlepog was genuinely excited to meet someone who shared an interest in Natural History – and a Xenian, no less. Perhaps this could even lead to the evidence he needed to prove his theory correct? He dared not hope.

“Well, y’know, my uh…an ancestor of mine, he like, brought the whole thing here, man. Prof. Little bear thing…” the Human giggled, though Hendlepog was unsure as to why. It was most likely a Xenian greeting. Suddenly Hendlepog jumped up – a rare and uncharacteristic movement for him that further disordered the clutter on his desk and caused Vootle to jump, choking on his pipe and spluttering out curses around gouts of smoke. Ignoring him, Hendlepog clapped his hands together.

“Of course! I knew I’d heard of Humans before! I believe Mister Skulkrond was a member of your species. Why, this is simply wonderful!” Hendlepog jiggled around gleefully, to which the human smiled. Vootle slammed the door of his hut and drew the tiny curtains, muttering all the while.

“So yeah, like, if we could, y’know, meet up so I could get into some Skulk, that’d be cool.”

“Of course, of course. Though I’m afraid that Xenians are forbidden from entering the Repository here. I shall, therefore, bring Mister Skulkrond’s marvellous Anthropaedia, third volume, to you.”

“Yeah, cool, no probs, Prof. How’s about we meet at Gong Maison?”

“Hmm…” Hendlepog didn’t often venture as far as Gong Maison, being as it was nearly thirty miles west. Still, he could take the Perambulator and be there for sundown, in time for a cup or two of honey-sweet tea. “Very well,” he agreed, “we shall meet at Gong Maison.”

“Wicked, nice. There’s like, an airplane thing, y’know, like well old flying machine. In the village square. Seeya there soon as, Prof.”

“Um, yes, that sounds perfect. I shall pack some provisions – and the book, of course – and I could be there for, shall we say half past sixty five?”

“Yeah, cool.”

“Splendid. Ahh, might I ask, Captain Beefheart, what your particular interest is in the third volume of the Anthropaedia?”

“Oh, man, y’know… I just wanna like, help that seed of yours grow, man.”

END OF EXTRACT