Story for My Brother

On the thirteenth day of the new century I descended from the world of vapours and made my way to earth, taking the form of a middleaged man in a small Icelandic town. The following account is a true story that occurred to me whilst dwelling there among the ghouls and gremlins that pass as human beings.

The village industry is the design and production of ‘schlaktar’, a type of medieval footwear still popular among the Northern tribes. By the miraculous process of unidirectional flow, it allows heat to enter but not exit the shoe, thus creating maximum warmth and therefore minimum discomfort to the toes and feet. And you will find most native Icelanders very proud of this invention.

I procured myself a job at the local schlaktar factory, and worked quietly for a matter of months before I was uncovered. It was a small, dark-haired woman who uncovered me. It came to her attention that the schlaktar that I produced were of remarkable quality indeed: strong and hard-wearing in function, unique and sophisticate in design, efficient and cheap in production. She had regarded herself as somewhat of a queen in the schlaktar business, the greatest schlakateer of the North, and I think, to be honest (as one is always wont to be), she was a little angry at having her position challenged by a newcomer on the scene, and such an embarrassingly commonplace newcomer at that.

She set her heart upon destroying me.

At first she tried the direct path. She greeted me enthusiastically in the hallways, piled favour upon favour upon me, praised my work. She referred to us as ‘friends’, and suggested an evening picnic on the beach together, as friends are wont to do. Well, it was cold out there on that beach. But I am from the vapour world, and do not feel such things, although my human form did shiver a little. And we sat on the beach, because she wanted to, and she attempted to reason me out of my powers.

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Her: ‘You feel as if you are the best schlaktar maker in the business.’

Me: ‘No, not really, I just use the tools at hand and I follow the line of the grain. I crave no reward, I desire no recognition beyond the beauty of good schlaktar.’

Her: ‘Nevertheless, you have a remarkable gift and you feel … incorrect because you know you do not deserve that ability.’

Me: ‘Not really, no. The winds lift me up; the winds place me down at whim. They take me where they will and I obey them, struggling not, fighting not.’

Her: ‘Believe me, I know how you feel. You feel as if you have come at the wrong time, to the wrong place, and you are doing the wrong things. You feel as if your whole personage is completely and utterly wrong.’

It was at this moment that I recognised this creature. She was no mortal. She was one of the dark ones, just a fledgling and not a very powerful fledgling at that, but nevertheless capable of considerable damage, certainly one to watch for on a dark night when one is at slightly less than one's usual strength. Her name is Petraash, and her weapons are flattery, manipulation and deceit. I was immediately on guard, but I couldn't let her know that I knew or she would unleash the force of her powers upon me, and I, as an unassuming middleaged man, had not my full vapour resistance to call upon. So I pretended to be tired and she took me home to sleep.

The next morning, when I got to the factory, a very different reception rose to greet me at the door. Instead of the usual felicitations and salutations, there was a stony silence and an ugly chill in the air. A cloud of stiff, indecipherable granite surrounded the building and it took me a while to uncode it. Upon entry into the workroom, I found my machine had been tampered with, my supplies cut through lengthways, and my table forced over to the unfortunate lop-side—the side of fever and misfortune—thus rendering my implements useless, my craftsmanship shonky, and my working day an absolute waste. I received ‘bad vibes’ from all directions. Upon questioning as to the origins of this freeze in affection, the response was entirely nonexistent.

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At length my closest acquaintance, an ex-priest who had shown me the ropes, revealed to me why everyone was so distant. ‘We heard what you did last night.’ My mind filled up in panic. One thousand things that I could have done flooded into my head, and I would have immediately confessed to all of them with the slightest bit of pressure. It is a giveaway vapour trait.

I asked him exactly what it was that I had done, and he shook his head disgustedly. ‘Don't play the innocent with us. Tore her dress she did, trying to get away. And you twice her age and all.’ I felt sick as the realisation thrust itself upon me. I should have guessed! It was classic and predictable Petraash style—exploitation of commonplace stereotyping combined with the mobilisation of popular support. I, a middle-aged, unmarried man, obviously had frustrations of a sexual nature. She, a sympathetic, beautiful young lady, was an enticing target. It is entering a field and immediately being confronted by one huge, central, well-worn path. Do you walk it? Of course you walk it. Only a fool would forge a trail to the side. Only a fool would push down new grass, rather than trample the already crumpled blades. Believing this idea is like sinking into a comfy chair that you have sat in a hundred times already. Petraash knows that once a head grasps an explanation, it is nigh on impossible to make it let go, as the example of a dog with a bone illustrates. In short, there was nothing I could do or say that would convince people it was a lie.

PETRAASH! Convincing people that what they would most like to believe is true.

PETRAASH! Sliding herself into people's hearts through flattery and conniving, and then destroying all that is good. Why? Because she is pure evil.

PETRAASH! Preying on people's failings, she craves only fame and popular support, she destroys any competition, she shoots to kill, never to wound.

She gives the appearance of love and concern, but look closely, it is only when people are watching. I have seen her behind the sheds—the face slips off, the teeth come out, the devil slips out from between her eyes. But as soon as she is back in the lights the smile is on, the eyes are warm, the pinched and nasty lips are now stretched and open, page 161 laughing in her practised way, assuring you that her heart is with you, her spirit is alight with yours, while behind her back the knife is out and the brain is taking notes, watching for the Achilles', thinking of ways to destroy you.

It is the Herculean heel that I seek, not Achilles' mortal spot. I crave the secret place of strength, the tiny, humble X that is the key to a man's (excuse me I do not mean to exclude the female form, only to celebrate the male) everlasting brilliance—Churchill knew this place, Cleopatra, Chekhov, to name a few of the C's alone. When one falls in love one uncovers this spot, and from then on one can only interpret the actions of that soul as attempts to reach the divine—alas, once the opposite seed is sewn the reverse is true also.

And so this woman devastated my life. Slowly, though her evil contrivances, she poisoned all hearts towards the beauty of my mortal soul, and the bounty of my human gifts (schlaktar-making one of the least of these) until I had no resources left to refresh my heart. And so I wasted away; my spirit grew tired and ugly, bitter and colder, until the man I had grown accustomed to lost all energy for life altogether and gently slid away into the never-never, as many before have done and will continue to do, so long as the world turns round; one of the many nameless, one of the thousandfold modest, grey cremation plaques; no devastating death, no spectacular injustice, just another small-scale, household tragedy, not of the kind to break the world's heart, just to slowly wear it away. A tree, not struck down by a bolt of lightning, but confronted daily by the same, gentle and consistent sea-breeze. A little girl saying less and less each day until she is hardly there at all.

But, oh. You thought you had rid yourself of me, Petraash. Oh, forgive my gloating pride, you foolish maiden, for you have underestimated me. Did you really think you could banish me like that? There is no earthly soul who could possibly have predicted the depth of my anger—away forgiveness, away peace, away karma, away Mother Gaia. Petraash, I declare an endless war upon you and the foolish and ugly of your human kind. Alas you idiot souls who do not comprehend the reason for your sudden expulsion, there is an unseen and unknown force, i.e. ME, that is secretly working to destroy your page 162 plans, why? BECAUSE, YOU IMBECILES, I AM COMPELLED TO DESTROY ALL THOSE WHOSE MISSION IT IS TO DESTROY LIFE.

Aha, now I have you my fellow vapour friends, you have recognised it haven't you. You have glanced around and suddenly seen how ugly those anti-humans are. So gather round my friends, gather round and we shall defeat Petraash together—you may know her in another form, I urge you to recognise the function, silence the form and expel her, berate her, drive her screaming henceforth in the hellermost blaze of glory. There is no place for that behaviour here on this planet (I suggest she tries Pluto), and you, oh woman for whom this story is intended, know I hate and fully comprehend your ways and perish, perish, undeniably perish and be eaten out by worms.

There is no limit
to the anger of a wrong-ed man
there is no limit
to the number of ways I will destroy you
(sung)