The Heart is a Void: Ashes to Ashes - Chapter 101: Heavy Metal (Is The Law)

Chapter 101: Heavy Metal (Is The Law)

After reading the first sheet that Fahiz had handed over, Sharak handed ito to Crucis. “This is somewhat similar to the bookmark, I suppose. Since the war earlier, Adonais has been drawing on Hamlet often — a bit of a surprise, we would be expecting it to draw on, say, Tamburlaine, Coriolanus, but it has been insistent on its choice. Well, it must know what it’s doing.”

“This has quite a title,” Crucis remarked after a quick glance.

“Well. It helpfully describes the scene in which the poem is set. I believe that the reader ought to appreciate this aid.”

“I appreciate it, certainly.”

Grisier joined Crucis in reading the sheet of paper.

POEM, ON DESECRATING THE GRAVE OF OPHELIA

“Acta est fabula, plaudite.”

I was a beast–yes, yes, that I well knew–

a very devil. But I was mad–mad, I tell you,

for very rage, because this one

little slip of a girl, this meagre, half-starved,

brainless child had stirred my blood.

Why indeed? Fool, a man knows not himself! How

am I to know then, if you do not tell? But all

that I know, for being told: I am mad, and it is due to her.

Her father, even he, wisely told me this, and to his

koan I have faithfully been true, so you see.

But she was a foolish young girl, devoted

to her imbecilic father, most drab in dress

and appearance, not really impressive in

any way, save for her emotive hysteria, which

admittedly verged on madness in perpetuum.

Her blanched dress have I often seen in

derangement due to tears shed over me.

But it was not she who was mad, it was I!—

and a wise counsel has told me this. Who am I,

then, to doubt it? This is why I have desecrated

her corpse, and turned her grave to a trench, for

I acquiesced (as one ought) to yon experts who told me that

she drives me to wild madness – and, lo, I saw her grave.

Well. What else was I to do? I wot not. Indeed, why!

Why would you ask me such a question, when I am mad

and dangerous? Do you not realise that I am unpredictable,

violent, rash, and uncouth? You should have bethought

yourself for your own safety, methinks, and not for

the well-being of her dog-eaten corpse – yea, which dogs?

The dogs which I have escorted here. They howl

even as the bats sing. Listen! And soon they shall

be lively attendants of your interrogation, long after it has ended.

“A charming take on Hamlet,” Crucis said. “It finally unveils the mystery of what should happen if the sun breed dogs in a dead daughter. How did the automaton so easily convert its knowledge of Hamlet into this brilliant, macabre form?”

“It is a common trope of the automaton, to take a text and make it macabre, though it seems even more inclined to it now because of your recent battle,” Sharak said. “We call this kind of transformation to a text ‘ubac,’ and the original text an ‘adret.’ Often, it is simply a matter of the automaton finding fault-lines in the original text, and naturally reconstructing the architecture of the original text as a ruins. The automaton sometimes marks the genre of its darker works as ‘LVNDRTWR SYNDROME,’ though I’m not sure why.”

“That sounds familiar, I’ll think about it,” Cruvis said. “Also, the mention of a ‘koan’ may seem out of place, perhaps ‘dictum’? But it doesn’t bother me, really.”

“Is the ‘ubac’ usually like this?” Grisier said. “I would almost expect something more abrupt, like, ‘Tom opened the door, and saw his grandmother, but actually she was a big bad wolf who wanted to eat him.’ But this one is quite subtle.”

“No, not all automatons are the same, though all have by now some ability to write a good ‘ubac.’ Indeed, this automaton, Adonais, was trained first on the texts of the Lord Dunsany. While it soon learnt to emulate them well, it would often populate his great castles and rural landscapes with skeletons, dungeons, blood, and plague. And since it learnt of Poe’s Masque, it has truly never looked back. Yet often this works to its advantage. Since it trained on Dunsany’s prose, which often eschewed frivolities like ‘plot’ in favour of grand, atmospheric scenes and settings, it not only adds blood but can modulate the tone of a text to a more macabre and aggressive one.”

“Ah, that makes sense… Honestly, I never really saw Ophelia as likeable,” Grisier said. “So I’m glad that this edgy automaton agrees.”

“So what if it’s ‘edgy’? If Hamlet cuts himself with his own edge, then should he live — but he died because he was cut with Laertes’, which was poisoned,” Sharak replied.

“I mean, I don’t mind it, I once had a room-mate whose favourite songs were ‘Mutilation’ by Death and ‘Vicer Exciser’ by Whitechapel. He used to play them loudly every night, though he was a busy student specialising in pre-Elizabethan Tudor England. Great guy. Honestly, the music wasn’t bad, compared to what you’ll hear on the radios nowadays. He SMSed me a couple days ago that he was playing this game, so he might be in here. Surprised that he hasn’t joined DeathGang or the Hashin, to be honest, heh,” Grisier replied.

“I’m sure he will, if he’s here,” Crucis said. “The metal warrior’s strength is ‘hatred, torment, and pain,’ after all. Quite like the automaton Hamlet.”

“Well, I guess it’s no surprise, since automatons are made of metal.”

“Indeed. As to Ophelia, her character is portrayed decently, but she was a foolish, prattling knave and I consider it honest that this automaton denied her a still, secret grave.”

“To be frank, this Mage had a reasonable point,” Sharak said. “At least, it is one that commonly puzzles those in our land, since we only discovered the text recently. Ophelia and Gertrude are as Hecubas, where one questions what they are to Hamlet. Hamlet invests much emotional speech on the people around him, but scarcely ever they do him the recompense of justifying this.”

“Yes, but centralisation is often the play’s strength,” Crucis said. “As such, lesser side-tragedies come across as lighter than comic relief. So really it is caught in a catch-22 on that matter.”

“Centralisation? I suppose so, yes. Having a centralising tragic hero means that the play’s other ‘tragedies’ get fanfare but do not have articulation,” Sharak said. “And we question whether Ophelia’s madness is supposed to be laughed at, or just reads that way.”

“It is the madness of hyperactive social conformity, a slapstick clutching for railings that are not there. Yet it barely distinguishes her from Gertrude. The religious often see visions, but no-one finds themselves unique simply because they join the church catholic. And even in a nunnery, the many nuns are as one, though in truth they are zero.

“I’m not convinced that the hysterics of Ophelia or Gertrude justify the emotional weight Hamlet — and the play’s structure — gives them, indeed given their role as courtly charlatans I doubt that there is space in the play to shine forth why they have such part in Hamlet’s heart. I doubt that even stalwart Grebanier could truly justify this, on a dramatic level. And the adulation of King Hamlet, likewise, is left as blunt. It is easy to admire Hamlet, but that the play attempts to disperse the audience’s sympathies between all of these holy innocents is a shame. Call me an atheist, or a Satan, if you must, but I disdain wringing a man to procure a soul for soulless conditions.”

“Well said. Would you mind looking through some of these nameless books soon? I’m interested in what you would make of them. You are quite as charmingly bloodless as our automatons, so I’m sure you could advise us on which texts would resonate with them.”

“Sure, of course.”

“Each Assassins here is some kind of killing machine,” Grisier said. “Although they have a callous disregard for Asimov’s three laws.”

“Those three laws are said too much, they’re not enough. There’s more beauty in the bleeding, at least the victims feel something.”

“Quite. Well, then you’ll like the sermon back in Kruxol. Very emotional preacher.”

“An emotional sermon? Sounds great. What a time to be alive…”

Sharak coughed to get their attention.

“Well, this one seems like a strange format,” Sharak said as he leafed through the papers. “Most of these poems are quite normal, often using the ‘ubac,’ but this one is slightly bedevilling. Adonais used the conceit of a fragmentary, lost poem. Have a look, tell me what you make of it.”

Crucis handed the first poem to DicingDevil to look at, then took a piece of paper from Sharak.

FRAGMENT OF ‘A HOARY NIGHT,’ HAMLET’S LOST POEM

Never a songbird in this court. Only the wind

as it sings its antic song across the battlement —

its raps upon the walls, screaming, “Hamlet, revenge!”

Impolite, it wails on…

…One barely wakes in this court; wonder not, then,

that I wander like a sleepwalker, and hear a far-off river

mock me, “You rogue, you peasant-slave, Claudius lives!”

It laughs, it gambols, it jeers and celebrates his crowning

though it takes no joy in it but at my expense…

O, exotic world! that conspires to force my hand

into the act of treason. Do the winds and waters

no longer respect what vestige of heaven’s decree

is preserved in our law’s protection of monarchic right?

They crow on uncaring, they criticise, wail, and slander,

any thing that is to my disadvantage…

A prisoner departing for execution could not

be given less sterling plaudits.

“That’s an interesting point,” Crucis said. “There is a notable lack of living nature in Hamlet, which is concerned primarily with scenes within the court, stifling depths of human chatter and artificiality. This is part of how it becomes a ‘prison.’ One may wonder if a sparrow falling into the middle of the play should not be as exotic as a diving phoenix.”

“I can see how it contributes to the dinghy atmosphere,” Sharak replied. “Even the sparrow is more of a hypothetical, like the camel Hamlet pretends in the clouds, and we don’t see Hamlet’s adventures at sea except when he returns to recite them.”

“Of course. And a camel would be much more interesting matter than the laws of monarchic succession. Still, there is only so much passion as can be poured upon the dying court before the play resembles a long eulogy. The court’s direness is no fault in the play, but only that Hamlet’s passion is too fully absorbed in this, and does not like a wise Rousseau shy away to botany.”

“Rousseau? He is French, yes? The automaton seems to enjoy channeling him, although I think that it is more aptly a Robespierre or Herod.”

“These fragments are excellent, thanks,” Grisier said. “Incidentally, this building is a nice place to rest briefly, today has been long and the night’s parade will exacerbate that… But it’s a nice place anyway, do you find any books of our history? I could help you with deciphering that, if you want.”

“We have a few, but they are difficult to contextualise. So I’d appreciate the help, perhaps you can return here again? I’ll have to lug the heavy books out.”

“Sure. I’ll hopefully be able to come back at some point.”

“Good to hear.”

“Those fragments are good, perhaps you could integrate them as some sort of prologue, or something like a Phantasmagoria?” Crucis said.

“Well, that’s actually quite possible,” Sharak replied quickly. “The modern Phantasmagoria is a bit more lax, it is often used not for idealised and rueful ‘fantasies’ but simply for something that sets the scene and is slightly surrealist or based on an unconventional conceit. This new, lax Phantasmagoria is known as the ‘Gateway Spectre.’ If we arrange the poems of this sort into a book, then I daresay we could use this one as its spectre. A fine porch.”

“Yes, plus it’s earlier than the others, in terms of the play’s chronology.”

“Absolutely. By the way, does anyone know of an ‘Álvaro de Campos’? The automaton included a quotation from him, I’d suppose in Spanish, but such quotes aren’t always genuine.”

DicingDevil spoke up. “Funny that you ask, there is a Spanish poet by that name, he’s Darys’ favourite European poet.”

He was slouched tiredly in a corner, reading the poem about Ophelia’s grave. Danemy chirped from beside him. “Quite a poem, this one, by the way. Perhaps Adonais should join DeathGang.”

“To be honest, it would be a help. Instead of having to come up with speeches, we could just have the automaton generate some,” DicingDevil said with a grin.

“I would be curious what deviltry it could concoct in your service!” Shakar replied. “Well, these automatons service a few newsletters around here, for a fee. But I am stingy towards them, because newswriters more than most contrive to be frightful charlatans. If your leader gets in contact, then maybe we can arrange something. If he sends a mail to the Antiquities Library just East of the Hunting Lodge, then a friend of ours there will forward it on.”

“I’ll forward that.”

“And it’s good to hear that de Campos is a Spanish poet, and the automaton wasn’t just — as is its wont — making up names and sticking new-minted quotes on them.”

Sharak turned to Crucis and handed over another poem. Crucis noticed that the paper used for these poems was light, and almost seemed to float on his palms. He read over it.

BE, OR DO NOT BE!

“Se te queres matar, porque não te queres matar?” – Álvaro de Campos.

Why burn and rave, like a hysterical naif

Pleading in vain orisons with God himself?

‘Tis a simple task, to be, it is no predicate,

Is’t good, as they say? or evil?— It is amorphous only.

But if we wish not to be, then why wish to be?

O, strange creature, who would both be and not!

Why cluck your songs before a mawkish crowd,

And listen to their weeping, and their gasps

At the thought that they have trespassed something

Profound in the course of their dullard lives,

When you could end yourself and have done with it?

There is no charm in a life which is sheer charade,

Pawn of crowds’ gay pomp and celebrated kitsch,

Nor a life of one who roams as a ghost, with his mind

Tied up in thoughts of the afterlife.

If you wish to die, then do not wish to live!

Some would object, and say: you should live to spare

The brief sorrow of others — live on as their stooge,

Like an actor, who plays upon a stage some febrile

Degenerate concoction of vile playwright’s mind,

But as for yourself are nothing, and mean nothing.

No longer dance before rabble, sop of fragile hearts,

But in a blaze of glory enter that brave night.

If you wish to die, then do not wish to live!

Instead of meditation on death, I should rather hear

The long catechisms of the local fishmonger – for such is

The state of the fishmonger’s art at this time, due perhaps

To that puzzling force termed Progress, that they would rather

Be seen with a soliloquy on hand than a rod or halibut.

Ah, Progress! Your fruits rebut intelligent design – but wait.

Now come others to eavesdrop – and soon shall die.

This is a good cause for experiment, on this heady topic:

If they die, shall their dreams be strong enough

To stir them, or so tame and still as none could fear?

This experiment is a mere pastime, and I account it little,

For I have seen a black cat, and walked still down the path,

Not asking what dark dream may proceed. Yet how should this

Abet such experiment, which seeks pure entertainment or art —

And what true artist would not gladly immolate his audience? —

A dalliance of a young prince seeking the joys of life.

Man cannot weigh his every decision on hypotheticals.

But in this experiment, aye, Polonius shall shortly

Find if he suffers methodically by God’s hand, or he last

Suffered by my mad hand, and the glory then be to me.

And thus a hypothetical shall be his final epitaph.

Yet wait —

If he dreams, then surely I am loath to find out what

Perverse topics he dreams of – this must give one pause.

But in this pause, what wavering soliloquy may come?

Aye, then we must proceed on. I know not, to be or not to be,

But in this castle know: from my gracious audience, one must die.

“What could the quote at the beginning mean?” Sharak said.

Grisier spoke hesitantly. “Um, ‘if you propose to die’ — no, more accurately, ‘if you wish to die, why don’t you wish to die?’ Or something. Agh, it’s been a while since I studied Franco and the civil war.”

“No, that’s splendid. ‘Matar’ sounds like ‘mortal,’ ‘mortuum,’ ‘amort,’ etc., so it’s quite possibly related to ‘death’ by that root. The rest of the phrase is also slightly familiar. But it can be difficult to figure without knowing the language, and thank you kindly.”

“No problem.”

“It’s a brave poem, and has a refreshingly natural forthrightness,” Crucis said. “I also like how it connects to the other poet’s quote, it fits well.”

“Quite. Adonais seems to be having a good day, mayhap the war has inspired it.”

“So, there are at least three writing automatons: Endymion, Adonais, and Ibis? Is that all, or any more?” Crucis asked.

“There is one more,” said a voice from behind him.

He turned around, and saw Fahiz emerging from the room on the left.