Dark World: The Name of the Game

(The story begins here.)
(The last recap is here.)

“I think I’ll bow to national custom and ask this in English,” Darren announced. “What sort of polyglot stew were you using just now? Is it one of your father’s games?”

The woman’s face darkened. “No. No game. Nothing about Father is a game now.”

“What’s wrong? Is he…?”

“I don’t know. He disappeared day before yesterday—perhaps even further back. He went on what was supposed to be a brief expedition late last week, and he never came back.”

“Then why the silly language game?”

“It’s not a game. It’s a clue—about the only one I have. Father encountered a strange pidgin and began documenting it as best he could. He dubbed it ‘Neo Patwa,’ which just means ‘New Language’ in the pidgin itself.”

“A pidgin? That’s why I’m here too—but what I’ve encountered is more coherent in its sources: it’s like Provençal with some French, English, German, and Spanish thrown in. That mongrel of yours… Let’s see: ‘canti’ and ‘satya’ are Hindustani, ‘lai’ is Chinese, ‘mintan’and ‘pintu’ are Indonesian, ‘ya’ German, and ‘open’ and ‘yu’ English. At least in my case, the language derives from sources in the same area and family.”

“But this new pidgin isn’t impossible, just unusual. Father thought it might have originated in the Indian Ocean somewhere—at least until he began finding what appeared to be African roots as well. He left a copy of a crude lexicon and some grammar notes. He was going out to find out more when he vanished.”

“Where was he?”

“Somewhere a little to the south. It’s a pity you weren’t here: he didn’t want me along, but he might have taken you. There are some foreign workers—at least two distinct groups, he thought, possibly three—involved in projects south of here. He didn’t know what the projects were or who was behind them, and he didn’t care. He just wanted to find out about the languages.”

“Do you have his notes?”

“Yes—they’re upstairs in his study.” Her gaze went from casual to piercing. “Are you just curious?”

“Of course not. We’ll find him.”

She smiled victoriously and turned toward a grand staircase heading upward.

“I’d better go with you,” Darren added. “You realize you’re in danger, don’t you?”

“I know that I am being watched; I am sure you feel it too. You always were sensitive that way.”

“Well, then—”

“No. I can take care of myself, and Father’s sanctum shall remain undisturbed.”

She did not object to the group’s following her up the stairs, however, and only insisted that they stop before what looked like the door to a vault.

“The password has been changed, Darren. Otherwise it’s the same as you remember: a combination lock with letters instead of numbers—Father hates numbers.”

“Numbers would be more secure,” Dr. Fleming muttered. “Words have patterns that may be guessed.”

“If you can guess the language, perhaps. Now turn around like gentlemen while I open the door.”

They did so, and Darren made a brief, silent prayer that was immediately answered. Then the door opened, and he caught a glimpse of the study beyond and the massive steel shutters at the far end of the room. With a cheerful wave, the woman entered and shut the door.

Darren had scarcely reached the door when he heard her scream.

Next: Again with the Locked Room!

Dark World: Friend or Foe?

Owing to an ISP crash, I'm posting almost a day late and back-dating. Sorry. As usual, mousing over a foreign word or phrase will provide a gloss.

(The story begins here.)
(The last recap is here.)

Darren relieved Lassiter at the wheel and brought the company to the grounds of a small mansion outside Boston. The house was not enormous—it was a three-story building (effectively two where it was built partly into a hill) with probably no more than thirty rooms. Still it sat solid as a castle, and the grounds sloped gently down to the common earth around it, including the road where Darren parked.

“We don’t drive inside?” Dr. Fleming inquired from the back as he changed to a seated position and grabbed his pack.

“There’s the little matter of the front gate,” Darren replied. “I’m sure the car could push through it, but we would likely make a better impression by opening it. Besides, we aren’t here as guests—at least not yet—so I see no reason to turn up at the front door like an expedition. I’ll go first; you and Lassiter can follow.”

“That may be a good idea if our bad luck continues and they start shooting,” Lassiter muttered.

Darren smiled. “Nothing to worry about; the professor hasn’t used a blowgun on anyone in ages, and I’m sure his daughter Clio no longer carries her bow and quiver around.”

The other two glanced at him as if to determine how serious he was, but he turned serenely and walked to the gate. It was locked, but he reached through and did something to release it. Then he sauntered through, followed by the others, and Dr. Fletcher pushed it back in place with a click.

The driveway led almost directly to the front door, though it bent slightly with the curvature of the ground. Darren walked up the steps to the door and knocked with a confidence he hoped was believable.

The door opened, revealing a young woman almost Darren’s height, with a strong, plain face completely eclipsed by beautiful, lively eyes. “Darren! Canti!” Her smile flared and faded. “Satya, yu canti lai, ya?”

Darren was clearly nonplussed, and Dr. Fleming fumed. “Excellent—gibberish again. I’m beginning to believe in curses.”

Darren scowled and guessed. “Satya.”

The woman smiled—almost laughed—and beckoned as she opened the door wide and said, “Pintu open. Mintan lai.”

Darren bowed slightly and entered, followed by his friends.

Next: The Name of the Game

Dark World: Good Morning, Beantown

(The story begins here.)
(The last recap is here.)

They drove in silence for a few minutes before Lassiter succumbed to curiosity. “What is the linguistic angle?”

Darren roused himself from deep thought or shallow sleep. “The languages we keep running into. We’ve encountered at least two, perhaps three, though I’m not sure whether the dark woman and the priest are really speaking different languages or just dialects of the same language. Whatever Newman used was certainly different.”

“But he wasn’t from another world—he’s one of us, not someone who appears and disappears.”

“True, but he evidently thought it was the other world opening up, and he expected his language to be understood there.”

Lassiter considered this briefly. “Okay, so what do the languages tell us?”

“They tell me, at least, that we keep running into things like ‘yo es,’ which is like saying ‘I is.’ And these aren’t ignorant peasants, so I think it must be a proper part of the language. That suggests a pidgin or creole. That would also help explain the Germanic words in an otherwise Romance vocabulary. The man we’re going to visit is an authority on such languages; I met him while learning Beach-la-Mar, among other things, and I tagged along with him after that.”

“If you’re such great friends, why were you so far from Boston? New York isn’t Massachusetts.”

“There was a bit of a disagreement not so long ago—nothing to do with Dr. FitzHugh himself, but still… It seemed better to go away for a while, and I felt a call that brought me to a mob that was trying to kill Victor. I have since come to appreciate the temptation, but—”

“So we’re headed into another private war,” Dr. Fleming muttered.

“Nothing so dramatic,” Darren replied. “All going well, I can arrange an interview with the doctor, and we can gain some useful information and perhaps even some help.”

“I think I’ll provide some help of my own,” Dr. Fleming said, pulling over. “Lassiter, take the wheel. Darren, sit next to him and be prepared to take over. I’ll stretch out in the back after I make some preparations.”

Darren glanced back as the doctor opened the trunk of the car and began stuffing things into a pack. He received no explanation, however, and soon the doctor rejoined them and stretched out—or as near it as his length allowed—in the back. He was asleep almost immediately, and Darren tried not to worry too much as Lassiter proceeded into the gathering darkness.

Yet to his great surprise, hour followed hour uneventfully, and as the sun rose, he could see Boston before him.

Next: Friend or Foe?

Return to Dark World

It's been a while, and since I do write ahead, I'd forgotten where I left the story here on the blog. And I've been thinking about posting synopses at the beginning or end of each major story arc. So:

The story thus far...

Henry Lassiter has sought help for his lycanthropy, turning to Dr. Victor Fleming, a typical 1930s jack-of-all-sciences-master-of-all. The interview gets too intense, and Darren Christopher, a globetrotting missionary kid, does an exorcism that appears to diminish the problem somewhat.

Lassiter contracted his condition while surveying in Europe, where he found himself unexpectedly exposed to another world or reality, complete with fierce creatures called "li lupes de asel." A group allied with the Nazis tried to harness his lycanthropy for its own ends and got massacred.

On returning to the US, Lassiter claims to have been hunted. Dr. Fleming takes him to a colleague named Dvorak, but they have an odd experience with a strange, bulletproof woman and even more wolves. Soon after, Darren encounters a priest who explains a little of what is going on: an impingement of a dark world with our own.

The visit to Dvorak is inconclusive: he is nearly killed by an unknown mastermind, and Dr. Fleming decides to try another colleague, Dr. Adam Newman of the Better Angel Foundation.

Dr. Newman isn't any help either; Lassiter thinks he's connected with the German group that kidnapped him earlier. Darren apparently triggers yet another connection between worlds, though this time of a more positive nature, perhaps, and he and his friends escape.

Dr. Fleming is out of ideas, and Darren suggests visiting an old friend in Boston to check on the peculiar languages they keep running into.

Next: Good Morning, Beantown

Free speech and the flag

I recently watched a discussion of free speech vs flag etiquette. It's nice to see that the barbarians and pseudo-intellectuals can be civil so long as they're confirming each other's views.

The point at issue was whether it's okay to deface the US flag in the course of expressing one's views--the specific (and fictional) case involved burning "Why I love America" into the flag. The idea was that it's possible to do that in America without unpleasant consequences; we stand behind free speech perhaps more than any other country than I can think of, and that's generally a good thing.

But I still don't think that the particular instance of free speech was good or justifiable.

The problem is that such acts are fundamentally selfish--and worse, they confuse vandalism with Art. I doubt I'd get much support if I vandalized an artwork by burning a personal message onto it: there, the selfishness and vandalism would be too obvious.

What's wrong with messing up the flag, then?

Fundamentally, it isn't my unique property. It can be argued that if you own something, you can trash it. That's debatable, but I doubt anyone would claim it's okay to trash something you do not own uniquely.

Now, certain things are iconic: they are in the public domain, the common property of all, the unique property of none. They're like national parks: in a sense we all own them, but we own them collectively. I have no unique claim on Yellowstone. Because I lack such a claim, I have no right to vandalize the place. In fact, I would be committing a crime against the other "owners" of the park.

The same is true of the flag. I have a stake in it, but while I may own an instance of the flag, I don't own the flag proper: the archetype of which my physical flag is an ectype. So long as it is merely another object, my ownership is perhaps sufficient excuse for anything I do to it. But if my action is meaningful only with reference to the object's extended, iconic meaning, it's like vandalizing public property.

Again, there are limits on free speech--famously, the rule against yelling "Fire!" in a crowded building. Vandalism is similar: to destroy something you don't uniquely own--in particular, something I too have a stake in--mostly tells me that you're a selfish jerk.

Yet such selfishness is common these days. Any decent person will be troubled at least by the obvious desecration of a holy symbol, as putting a crucifix in urine. Yet when selfish jerks vandalize the Ichthys by putting legs on it and invoking "Darwin," the response of some believers, at least, is to answer desecration with desecration: they take it upon themselves to modify the symbol too, though in an attempt to defend it. Their reaction isn't as offensive, but it does demonstrate ignorance of the symbol's nature: it isn't the sort of thing that should be changed like this. (Variation is another matter: the plain Ichthys without letters, the one with the Greek acronym, and the one with the inscription "Jesus" are all faithful to the original concept.)

We are a generation of iconoclasts, too busy demonstrating our cleverness by destroying symbols and icons to realize how we cheapen the world for everyone. Anyone can tear something down and call the wreckage "Art" or "Free Speech"; it's much harder to create a new icon. It's too much work, in fact, and that's why we would rather call vandalism Art than strive for the real thing.

Flood Tide: a Free Book review

Flood Tide by Sara Ware Bassett (audiobook here) is the story of an elderly, eccentric tinkerer (Willie Spence) who tinkers with more than just gadgets. He's fix-it man to a small New England town almost a century ago, and he keeps getting "ketched by an idee" for some new contraption. But he also tries to fix some romances along the way, and they work out pretty well.

There are some things that are never spelled out--where does Willie's income come in? He's far from rich, but he has enough to get by on--he and live-in housekeeper Celestina Morton. Contributions from people he's helped out? Perhaps.

Willie's Panglossian faith in the basic goodness of people seems contradicted by the behavior of a former friend turned rapid viper, but Willie remains relatively serene. You'd think a tinkerer would realize the value of an adjustment, such as whacking the jerk with a wrench upside the head. "Straighten up, y' kooky ol' coot!" But that would detract from the generic inspirational preachment at the end.

Theologically, this is a bit on the brainless fluff side: though there are specifically Christian references, there are also references to "the gods"; there is also the contradictory optimism about human nature in the midst of People Behaving Badly. Still, if you don't take the theological implications seriously (while guarding against the humanistic worldview involved), there are some good messages here, especially where romantic relationships are concerned. Though this is ideologically motivated, the ideology doesn't really drive the story.

The characters are the primary elements here, and in their case, there is no ambiguity. They're the sort you want to follow around and watch, which is the joy of the story.

As the story opens, Willie has just had an idee for keeping propellers from getting caught in the eel grass when Celestina's nephew Robert Morton, who happens to have a naval engineering background, shows up for a visit. He takes an interest in the project and in a local girl, when some rich friends turn up and complicate matters.

An auspicious opening! Let's check the vital components list:

Obnoxious, shallow rich girl? Check!
Wise (grand)motherly mentor figure? Check!
Dark family secret revealed to flabbergastification of all and sundry? Check!
Quirky will and (in)convenient demise? Check!
Strange goin's-on, conspiracy-wise? Check!

Looks like we're good to go!

For all its twists, Flood Tide is a fairly laid-back story: no nightmare potential, no real real chance of elevating your blood pressure, just an entertaining and sometimes inspiring read.

Flood Tide:

E-book
Audiobook

Illogical, Doctor...

A recent thread on a certain list gave me a Star Trek flashback--specifically to the countless times Spock would make some remark about logic (or its lack) that actually appealed to common sense. For as a rule, Spock's "logic" wasn't logician's logic but simply "what seems sensible to me based on assumptions I'm not about to publicize."

Okie-dokie.

Anyway, this sort of logic is alive and well, especially in politics. In this case the topic was initially Polish radio, but it wandered:

Interesa demando....mi ankaŭ scivolis pri la logiko, sed verŝajne logiko ne ĉiam dominas. Vidu: en Usono ni ankoraŭ ne akceptis la metran sistemon, kaj multaj homoj dubas pri la fakto de evolucio.

Interesting question....I also was curious about the logic, but probably logic doesn't always win out. Look, in the US we still didn't accept [should be "ne akceptAs"--don't accept] the metric system, and many people doubt the fact of evolution.

This is sensibility as perceived by the speaker, not logic as such. As Devil's Advocate I could observe that

1a. The sole advantages of the metric system are that it's decimal and interlocked. Earlier measurement systems arose separately as needed, and they did so before we decided to focus on one numerical base. Even the metric system allows for non-metric time, for that matter: a metric minute doesn't have 100 seconds.

1b. The metric system is based largely on abstractions (e.g., the size of the earth) that are outside common experience, whereas the quantities found in earlier systems were everyday matters, such as the length of the average stride or the distance from elbow to fingertip. It's good to standardize measures, but perhaps at a gut level, resistance to metric comes from the impression that it's unnatural in its bases.

2a. "Evolution" is such an ambiguous word I wish it would be abolished. Stellar and planetary evolution are similar, but they have practically nothing in common with biological evolution. Different terms should be used.

2b. Even granting that we're talking about biological evolution--I suppose we are; it's the one most likely to excite this kind of short-sighted snobbery--there is the difference between evolution as science and evolution as history. To say that something is scientifically possible is not to say that it has in fact occurred in a given case. Is evolution scientifically possible? I don't know; it's outside my field. I do see potential problems, but the question is far more complex (given the number of scientific fields that must be not just consulted but mastered at expert level) than most people realize, whether they be for or against the idea. A paleontologist likely knows too little about genetics, ecology, physiology, and several other topics than he needs to know before pontificating. That's why I'm skeptical. The degree of knowledge required to construct a unified field theory of physics would be trivial by comparison: at least the numerous topics involved would be more closely related.

2c. Even granting that biological evolution can occur, the question remains whether it did occur in our case. And the strongest rational claim that could be made (again assuming that biological evolution is possible) would be that evolution appeared to fit the available data. And that gets into metaphysical and theological issues. Do we trust appearances? Do we rule out divine intervention? (Intelligent Design, as previously noted, is not actually opposed to evolution and does not require miracles.) Nor are we faced with an absolute either/or: What if everything was created specially but evolution has operated since then?

The moral of the story is that humility is a good thing. It's good to admit that we don't know it all, and it's valuable to realize that people we disagree with are not therefore idiots. They may show themselves idiots in other ways, but offending our sense of "logic"--of what is sensible according to our metaphysical prejudices--is not enough.