JohnSeven2: Matter of Concepts

The Haunted Streets


John Seven 2: Matter of Concepts

There was a place called Plailly.

         A house will always find itself a storage space, like a garage or an attic, and perhaps that is no different for the Universe itself. For that, it found Swanshill and Plailly. It is Plailly that we will talk about. The Place Apart. One that be plugged in like a plug into a socket into the world or be removed as desired. There were even a few instances where this place was entirely removed from the history, but long gone were the times of war and bloodshed, the place flourished from their newfound peace into farms and tourist attraction.

         As apart Plailly has always been, it has to move along with time. On occassions even the Gods would have find need for change, though nobody expected them to welcome tourists without bludgeoning them. It was generally assumed the tourists were, well, satisfactory. They were pretty good at not seeing things and spread many news, just to convince every-one, "No, magic isn't real, there are no Vampires or Werewolves, and elves are basically ridiculous, you can't use Spells to get your own way and no you can't buy more Time."

         At least, nearly enough peoples were convinced, now everyone only have to worry about Nuclear and not both Nuclear and Magic.

         But nearly enough peoples does not mean everyone. No Spells are perfect.

         One in a Null Chance is always possible. It has been discussed, and its possibility debated over. In the end few brighter ones decided Null is not often that Nullic it was cracked up to be. It was always Interventions that make things more interesting. Intervention, that was the word. 1

         And this Intervention was made a point in time no-one would have bothered themselves with. Many pairs of eyes - which were not actually eyes to begin with - observed, and they made simple comments, of what could have passed as uninterested remarks. And when silence resumed, they looked at each other.

         Let him know, said one, his gaze put forth a certain distance away at a young man, walking as happy as a lark out of Swanshill Airport, certainly enough, oblivious to the dangerous schemes planned the night before, but not oblivious to everything, as it seems. He straightened and his head turned.

          His intense blue eyes replied with its own gaze back to the one who had spoken. And their eyes - one of eyes and another of non-eyes - met.

         It had already been Intervened.



***



John Seven often found his father's gaze disconcerting, as was now. They were so deep he would have lost himself in it if-

         "Why are you looking at me like that?" asked John. His eye lids trembled from their hunger to just blink - one more time. They had stopped blinking for some time now.

         Peter McGarland blinked, finally. "No, nothing. I was just... Thought you were looking at something," he said, looking away. He walked to the pavement and waved for a taxi.

         The talk unsettled John, so he decided to just try forgetting about what happened. Whatever it was, he did not think it was the pressurised cabin of the aeroplane that made the flight to Swanshill.

         A taxi stopped in front of Peter and the driver stepped out. "Peter! I thought I recognised that face and camera! Still stuck with that old box?"

         "This is a vintage," said Peter sternly.

         The driver laughed. "Anyway good to see you again, Peter."

         They shook hands. "To you as well, Calan," said Peter.

         "More photos to take? More ruins to stampede? Why, I have never knew anyone who could be bothered with a heap of stones for three times in a year!"

         Peter rolled his eyes. "Of course we don't go to the same landmark <i>all</i> the time, but this time is different. It is for John. It was his birthday yesterday and I have something special for him, you know our tradition, an Eighteen Sprite," Peter replied.

         Calan's face darkened. "But Pete, it's October, only few days to halloween. Three days, specifically."

         Peter sighed. "I know, and I don't really like this. But his birthday is too close to Halloween, and I knew this day would come. And you see, all of them want to tag along."

         Calan's jaw dropped open. "Like, all seven of them?"

         Peter glanced over his shoulder again, as well as stepping aside to give Calan a clear view of the evidence: his eight potential customers. Peter's wife Laura was assessing the duty-free goods she had bought from the airport. Carrying everything would well kill just about anyone, but she had many helping hands. Seven pairs, to be exact.

         "Oh dear, it is really all of them," Calan muttered with a loopsided smile.

         "There's nine of us including me," Peter said. "We will need another taxi."

         "Forget about a taxi," said Calan. "I will get Matt and his eight-seater. He will be happy to be paid for the price of a taxi instead, and we'll go together."

         "That is ridi-"

         "Peter! I bet he is more excited than you!" Calan exclaimed. "I will pay for his coffee later, if he grumbles."

         "Thanks Cal," Peter grinned, patting his friend's shoulder. "I will not be able to go anywhere without you. When I'm all done with the business in Plailly, I will come back here for a party in Swanshill."

         "Be sure to call me," Calan grinned back. "Now what are you waiting for? Cram whatever the boot can hold into my taxi. These much shopping bags are madness!"

         Peter laughed. " Laura, heard that? This is madness!"

         "Don't forget about your chocolate and red wine galore!" Laura snapped, but she was smiling. "Come on boys and girls, get some of the things into the taxi."

         "What boys and girls?" Thomas Three grumbled. "How long are you going to call us that?"

         Laura smiled. "All right, Thomas. Young ladies and fine gentlemen, get moving." She turned to John, who was staring off into the space grinning to himself. "John? Get moving?"

         John looked up. "What?" he said, bleary eyed.

         The slightly older man, Billy Five, elbowed his ribs. "Are you still in your little delirious stoned state?" he said jokingly. "Getting jittery and all that since yesterday, this boy."

         John forgot everything else and started to laugh in his delirious manner. "I am finally going to get my Eighteen Sprite! Really, an Eighteen Sprite! I'm actually... Eighteen!"

         "Gods John, you're always this mad when you're excited, aren't you?" Billy said, groaning.

         "I am not mad, I am just excited," said John.

         "Madness and excitement is practically together," said Billy. "You can't get one without getting the other."

         "Maybe a little more excited than excited," said John, smiling. "But certainly not mad." He hesitated wistfully. "You know all this time I only get to hear you guys talk about this Eighteen Sprite. I never got to see it. It's like a state secret or something, the way it seems to me."

         Alice Two rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, John," she said. "It's like just an Eighteen Sprite. Not rad, I mean, you know when you get the Pyral Sprite."

         John turned to his father. "Father, when will I get a Pyral Sprite?"

         Peter shook his head. "Don't push it, John Seven. I've already planned for you a Halloween in Plailly, you're not getting the Pyral Sprite."

         "But Alice got it!" said John in protest.

         "She did it without my permission," Peter replied begrudgingly. "I grounded her almost a year for that. And Alice Two, you better not give your brother any mischievous ideas," he warned.

         Peter had a habit of calling his children by their first and middle name. Of course, it had been his idea to name his children with numbers.

         Alice poked out her tongue. "Bluh, whatever."

         "If you young peoples are wise," said Calan, his expression weary, "you'd better stay away from these sprites, mark my word. You like to visit Plailly? That's fine. But you're going too deep into it and that's not healthy. You don't know what you are playing with."

         John crossed his arms across his chest. "Sprites are awesome. They are not unhealthy as you put it, if you can even call a sprite unhealthy," he said, and was gratefully relieved Alice had turned her attention to a complaining Thomas Three that she did not hear what Calan had said, or they would have to deal with a very angry Alice Two.

         Calan regarded John with his arms crossed across his chest. "How much certain are you?"

         "As certain as I can see," said John.

         There was a hint of amusemen in Calan's eyes. "Really, how much are you seeing, I wonder? Do you see sprites as papers, or magic, perhaps-" Calan began.

         "Cal!" Peter said, cutting Calan short sharply. His glare was steel, and almost terrifying.

         Calan's face twisted into an expression that reminded one of a painful bowel movement. "Well, that's that," he said, clearing his throat.

         Peter pulled Calan aside with a jerk. "Have you lost your marbles?" he said in a hiss.

         Calan glanced at Peter and shifted his eyes away. "I don't know... Something... is wrong..."

         John looked at his father and Calan with deep worry that was his frown. It had been a long time since his father was particularly scary, and next to obtaining Pyral Sprites, he was against mentioning of certain matters, such as the... Come to think of it now, John wondered, what issue was concerned to make his father irate? And then about what Calan tried to imply, which had not made any sense. So sprites were papers with symbols drawn on it for a certain function, they are just magic, very normal, there was almost no point worth mulling over. He could almost forget everything about-

         "Where was I again? Yes, Peter, you really must draw the line somewhere, bold and clear," said Calan aloud.

         "It is still fine to me, I will make sure of that," said Peter, giving Calan a look that said "as long as you don't lose your marbles again".

         Except there was something worth mulling over. Whenever sprites were concerned where he tried to question the reality of sprites, his attention span greatly reduced by ninety-nine percent, he would have decided there was really almost no point worth mulling over. He could almost forget everything until he came to retrieve his unlost one percent of attention, he came to wonder why he never came close to understanding that sprites- are- why was it nearly impossible- to think-

         John gave up. He could almost feel the vein in his head popping out enough to tear through his skin. If brains could commit suicide, his one definitely had.

         The eight-seater arrived, and the McGarlands began to group themselves into two. Peter and Laura joined their two eldest sons, Michael One and Thomas Three in the taxi. On the other hand, the eight-seater would bear most of the turbulence of McGarlands: Alice Two, Jean Four, Billy Five, Julie Six and John Seven. And they had Matt the driver, who drove an eight-seater like a race car.

         "Maybe I should warn you before you get too high hopes of your Eighteen Sprite," said Julie Six. "I don't understand anything the sprite showed me until a year later. I mean, it was beautiful, the colours and the light, and it showed me the future. I know it is supposed to be the future but when you can't understand it you lost the fun."

         "Well that had to be your problem. It is a future-movie, how much sense do you expect from it? Of course you must do some sleuthing and thinking," Alice said, giving her temple a tap.

         "Perhaps it is different for everyone?" said John. "I wouldn't know, all of you are so secretive about what the sprite actually shows you."

         "Of course you want nobody go about knowing your future, with the embarrasing bits included," said Billy.

         John shrugged. "Fair point," he said.

         "For me the sprite was a puzzle so simple pre-schools get it immediately," said Jean.

         "Are you insulting me?" snapped Julie.

         "Oh come on, sprites are cool, that's final!" exclaimed Alice loudly. "It is just aout as great as what I had hoped for."

         "What else could you have hoped for, other than the Pyral Sprite?" said John.

         Alice smiled, her eyes twinkling in her usual mischief that was her answer. The siblings gasped together. "Can't be!"

         "Can be," said Alice proudly. "The Eighteen Sprite waas how I got my Pyral Sprite, it showed me how."

         "It showed you how to get the Pyral Sprite?" Jean's jaw dropped open. "From Mr Savenmill?"

         Julie yelped. "Him? That mad drunk? He actually sold you that when... when..." She faltered.

         "When he wouldn't sell any foreigners sprites even when he's completely stoned? Yeah, that's the man we're talking about," Alice said with a grin. "Believe me or not. The sprite showed me Mr Savenmill giving me something, so I went to him and oh gosh! He just handed the sprite to me without flirting!"

         "Flirting?" said John.

         "He's a person of great nonsense," said Alice, rolling her eyes. "And the way he flirts, I might add, sounds like he learn from a book or something."

         "Gods, Alice, why did you never tell us?" said a deflated Julie.

         "I only tell this because I need John to know," said Alice.

         "This is so unfair," said Julie. "makes me feel like what I've got is lame and- "

         "Of course mine's the best," said Alice, beaming.

         "Bullshit, you got yourself grounded," said Jean.

         "But it's totally mind blowing and insane! Ludicrous! The Pyral Sprite!" Julie shrieked. "Father was so pissed he acntually... the steam..."

         "Flipped out, steamed off his skull cap?" Alice suggested, waggling an eyebrow humorously.

         "Is there anything else you have not told us?" said John.

         "Why, is that not enough coming from Alice?" said Jean begrudgingly. "I don't think we need anymore newsflash for the day, Alice?"

         Alice did not reply. Her chin was resting on her hand, her gaze distant, and that raised everyone's eyebrows. Silence and Alice never went along, and if they do for once, it was not for good.

         "Come to think about it, guys," said Alice, softly. "Yes, there's one more thing. I believe I have mentioned father's mysterious friend, haven't I?"

         "The dark-haired man who smiles oddly?" said Billy.

         Jean frowned. "Are you still trying to spy on father?"

         Alice shrugged. "Well, not really, I know it is mostly futile, with his mysterious friend up and about. And do you know I have been trying to reach Stesefan Street for ages?"

         "Before Pyral or after?" John asked.

         "Both," said Alice. "Father is always guarding Stesefan Street from us, as in, whever I reach Stesefan Street, I would always find him and his mysterious friend there, waiting for me. That was ingenious of him, how he prevent me from approaching Mr Savenmill."

         "Except for once?"

         "Yes, for once, with the Pyral Sprite, which was clued in to me by the Eighteen Sprite," said Alice. "It doesn't make sense to me at first, then I realised for father to know I am going to Stesefan, there must be someone telling him. I am guessing it was his mysterious friend, that dark-haired man."

         The siblings exchanged nervous glances. "Have we met him personally?" said Billy.

         "Once, I think," said Jean. "He joined us for a family dinner? That was the only time if I am not mistakened."

         "The only time," Alice nodded.

         "I don't remember anything," said John.

         "You're probably too young too remember," said Jean. "It was when I was eight, or nine."

         "I remember, I was thirteen," said Alice. "So yes, some of you can't remember. Too young then. That wasn't even a particularly memorable night anyway, after the initial staring contest."

         "But you remembered?" said John.

         "I was thirteen," replied Alice testily. "And as young as I was then, I was always looking for trouble, am I not?"

         The rest of the siblings had a good laugh. And clearly, Alice was enjoying it herself. "Anyway that man looked enough trouble to me, I could not have not remembered him," she added. "I know that father did not want him in our family dinner, but that was clearly not a choice for him and what father doesn't like, I like."

         "You sure have a lot of guts," said Matt, breaking his long-time silence.

         "That's me," said Alice.

         "You don't convince Alice out of anything," said Billy.

         "Well, I know I don't," said Matt. He gave the eight-seater a slight brake to reduce its speed, for safety. "Nobody convince her out of anything, surely," he went on, as the rest chuckled at Alice's expense. "But the person you were talking about... worries me."

         Like any young inquisitive minds, the McGarlands asked: "Why?"

         "I think I know who you are referring to, this dark-haired person," said Matt. "I certainly wouldn't describe by how he looked, but by feeling, though. That is fundamental. Apperances are not everything."

         "By feeling, he's one hell of an unnerving man," said Alice. "Unnerved everyone, and I dare say, put father in a rather difficult situation between anger, confusion, frustration and hmm, a face he did when he faces my son's tantrum." She chuckled at the thought.

         "Yes, I think I'm certain now," said Matt. "If you will just listen to me, stay away from this... Him."

         "But he is a friend of our father," said Jean.

         Matt frowned. "Friend? Are you sure?"

         "If he is not friend, why do I always see them together?" said Alice. "And it is not just once or twice, but almost everytime. Whenever I tried to spy of father this guy would always show up, and when he shows up the next thing I knew I lost track of father. They were in café sometimes, drinking coffee, or sitting on a bench somewhere, talking. If they weren't friends, what kind of relationship is that? Homosexuality? Eww, no!"

         "Alice" Jean exclaimed in disgust.

         Matt grimaced. "You don't understand, because you do not know the nature of Plailly."

         "What nature?"

         "It is a soverign-ruled district," said Matt. "And by sovereign, I mean not any Sovereign but the Gods. Some of the Gods, anyway."

         "You are ridiculous, Plailly is an autonomous district of the Republic of-"

         "Yes, that as well, <i>under</i> the Sovereigns," said Matt. "Like Swanshill, but Plailly is much different, if you are listening to me at all. It is not like other places, the government is to rule and prosper, the Sovereigns don't bother with the trade and stocks. And this person you were talking about? I'm pretty sure he's one of them, and that means he is not going to see your father as a friend as humans do."

         "You are telling us, that guy is...?" the McGarlands siblings struggled to get the words through their think pan, but so oftenly, they creaked and refused to move on. Matt realised this with a sigh.

         "No, none of you are registering what I have said," said Matt.

         "Why not?"

         Matt had a terrible feeling he was going to drive into a windmill - his hands had the terrible irresistable urge to just give the wheel the right spin, and he would be saved from the questions. "Normally peoples... have a serious case of attention deficit disorder, when it comes to explaining what is Plailly," he managed through clenched teeth.

         "I am not sure about that, though," said Jean. "I'm all ears."

         The other siblings nodded. "Yeah, all ears."

         "Do you even remember what I have said earlier?" Matt asked, but he could feel that question was to himself as well: "Do you even know what you have said earlier? Do you even know what you are doing right now?"

         "Er..." The siblings looked at each other, none having a brighter face than a blank stare. "About what?" they asked in unison.

         "Stay away from Him?"

         "O...yeah, that...?"

         "And when I say stay away from Him I also mean do not try to get too close with Plailly," said Matt. "Well, seeing that we are heading to Plailly, I think trying to tell you to stay away is impossible."

         "Why stay away?" said Alice. "It's like our second home!"

         Matt managed only by not driving into a tree. "Uh, really?" And he failed to manage a smile.

         "Absolutely," said Julie. "And together, Plailly and Swanshill makes the best tourist attraction ever on Earth!"

         "Seconded!" Alice grinned.

         "Thirded, whatever's the right word," said Billy, smiling.

         Matt laughed. "Is that a compliment?"

         "To both Plailly and Swanshill, our second homes," said Alice.

         Matt beamed, but his smile stopped halfway. "Why am I even trying to explain..." he muttered softly, but just enough John could just catch the words.

         And then his head started to hurt, not quite literally however. What was happening somehow was not making any sense, but he just could not place his hands on whatever it was. As if what Matt had said tried to make through his mind, but only halfway when the brain-tubes refused to give way. He tried to unsuccessfully dismiss the ridiculous doubts, what his siblings were doing extraordinarily well, like how he used to.

         Used to, that was the word. Something was wrong. He used to ignore that and now it was coming back to him in waves. Nobody was really listening to what Matt tried to explain, and even he was struggling. It felt to John like there was a wall between Matt and him and he was climbing it, almost reaching the top...

         After some time struggling with the balance, John finally gave up trying to ignore the facts and let them sink in, starting from the earliest of his memories. The first sprite from his father - a harmless glowing sprite. As a kid, he gazed in wonder at the mysterious paper. "What is this fa?" he had asked. "It is a sprite," his father replied. "Sprut," he tried to pronounce the word. "Sprite," his father corrected. When he was ten, he learnt about the parts of a sprite. The paper, the circumference circle, and the symbol of the spell which the circumference circle enclosed. When he was older, he knew that sprites were often hard to acquire. Only through his father were the McGarlands be able to access these sprites, and only the specially prepared sprites, where they have their McGarland sigil drawn together with the circumference circle. He heard of the name: Mac Glarland, their Ceremonial Surname, that enabled the McGarlands to use sprites. A very tongue-twisting name, he recalled. Sprites had always been a part of his life, he was amazed his didn't notice sprites were not part of everyone else's life.

         He told his best friend about the sprites once. He showed him the glowing sprite, which his friend thought it was beautiful, and interesting. Could his friend perhaps had seen something else? And when Alice was using the Pyral Sprite, she made a horse out of fire. The neighbour was shouting "firecrackers!". At first, it didn't seem odd. Sprites were so normal to John that he never considered them otherwise.

         "How does this work?" he had asked Arthur, a friend from Plailly. "It's the patterns, how it was drawn," his friend had explained. "It's like punched cards of the Universe."

         His memories jogged to a more recent one, about what Calan had tried to say when Peter cut him off, about sprites are like magic. If Calan had asked the same question again now, it would have made sense. He never saw a sprite for what it was - something that was not supposed to exist, something that was not possible, something that in Plailly it was part of life but out of it sprites are forgotten like it never was.

         He was at the top of the wall, and now he was falling down from it, to the other side to Matt.

         Alice nudged him. "Why are you looking so... surprised?"

         John stared at Alice, then past her, at his other siblings. Did they not realise? Even Alice! How about Peter, his father?

         "John?" Alice nudged John on his arm tentatively. "You are scaring me like this, you know, with this expression."

         John saw himself at the rear-view mirror. His eyes were wide, and the blue was intense. He always had these deep blue eyes from his father, and somehow it was deeper than usual. More intense.

         "Oh wow, John, you really do look scary," Matt remarked.

         "Don't you get angry when everyone's ignoring what you're really trying to explain?" John asked.

         Matt jumped on his seat. Fortunately for everyone his hands stayed where they were, firm on the steering wheel. "What did you say?" he said, eyes wide in fear.

         "You were trying to explain something," said John. He winced at the effort it took him. The fog - or whatever it was - was trying to pull him down, back to the other side of the wall. "And the conversation just now was odd. No, erratic. Nobody's really listening to you. The dark-haired guy, the Sovereigns, and staying away from Plailly." Matt did not answer, so John went on. "Is Plailly... bad?"

         "It does have a mirthful history and even darker nature," said Matt darkly. "Chaotic, if you ask me." His eyes shifted to the rear-view mirror, intent on seeing John's reaction. He hoped that John would say something irrelevant. The hope was in his eyes, which John did not notice.

         "What mirthful history, why chaotic?" he asked.

         Matt's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Shit."

         "John, what are you doing?" Alice interrupted, scoffing. "Starting your very own emotional session?"

         "No I'm not," John snapped.

         "You're a man god damnit, guys don't talk heart to heart," said Alice.

         "You're being prejudiced, Alice," said Billy.

         John groaned. "You get what I mean, Matt, they are doing this again!"

         This time Matt was shaking visibly. The eight-seater swerved slightly. "Wait, calm down, John. Shit, how did I mess this up? This shouldn't happen. I mean, John, are you for real? Like..." His eyes shifted to the road sign. It was only a matter of hundreds of metres left to Granerush, the boundary town between Swanshill and Plailly. Matt shuddered visibly. "John, do me a favour here; calm down and keep your words to yourself."

         "What?"

         "And do not tell your father what I have said just now!" added Matt quickly, nearly missing some of his syllables as he did. "He will kill me for this, man, I don't even know what has gotten into my head for me to say those things. This is important, ok? To you and me. Do not let your father know this!"

         "What? Why-"

         "This is not supposed to happen!"

         "By that you mean I am not supposed to know... whatever it is I am knowing now?" said John. There was no method of putting this. He could not say "sprites were not real" because he always knew that sprites were real, it was only the concept that had changed. Sprites now meant to him as "real in Plailly and not - supposed to be - real elsewhere". The definition of real, too, gave him problems.

         "Well, you can say that," said Matt. "There's no single way of putting it in words..."

         "Really, John, don't you think emotional issues are best to be discussed in a closed room?" said Julie, giggling with Alice.

         John ignored his sister. "But, why? Why must my father not know?"

         "Because Peter doesn't want any of his kids to know and he'll strangle me if he knows that you're out of the spell, because of me! And I don't want to mess with him, he has friends."

         "Friends?"

         "Those whom I had rather not mess with," said Matt, shifting his eyes nervously. "Just don't talk about this anymore, don't let Peter know!"

         "You mean, friends like that dark-haired man-"

         "John!" Billy exclaimed. "Gees, I have to say something. It's too personal to discuss these things right here."

         John could not care less, but he wondered what had his siblings heard instead, probably concerning questions about karma sutras. He looked at Matt. Matt was stricken pale, with whatever fear that had to do with his father or his friends, so John decided to shut his mouth. And then, he wasn't sure if he wanted his siblings to hear any more of the things he did not talked about.

         He remembered he was exactly like that, completely oblivious and ignorant. Until a moment ago, he never wondered or bothered, and in this case, listened properly. In his ignorant happy eighteen years, this was his first time realising spells and sprites shouldn't be real, and they are in fact quite absurd.

         Again, if magic - if it was magic - was real, it could be true perhaps a spell - or someone with a sprite - was keeping foreigners away from fully acknowledging the whole truth. Messing with the concepts, he thought. That was another way of putting it.



         

Footnotes
1  And some would point it out, Interventions, not interventions, would require another one in a null chance. And that was how peoples NEVER get things done, because if one went on debating, one would come to a conclusion that one in a null chance is one in a null chance itself. And then, one would wonder, does probabibility matter at all to the Omniscient and Omnipotent?