A revised version of the first segment, followed by a second story.
~~~~~
1 Elul 5768 Anno Mundi [September 2, 2008]
Solomon's City, Fortune Province [New York City, New York], United Kingdom of Davidsland
The countdown to the New Year has begun in Solomon’s City. All over the metropolis, masses of humanity converge on the markets to jump start their preparation for the High Holy Days.
They come from all over the world and speak every tongue. Though every effort has been expended by every Lord Mayor since the legendary administration of Abraham Hasdai (“Old Father Abraham”, as the history scrolls fondly call him) to force the diffusion of Ladino as the city's only used language, the city’s history as the capital and focal point for the United Kingdom of Davidsland has methodically undermined that policy for almost three centuries.
Pushing through these crowds in the narrow passageways of the Waknin Marketplace (the oldest such establishment in Solomon’s City, founded soon after the purchase of Obadya Island from the natives by the Imperial Cooperative), Julian Melekh, Guardsman of the City, Officer of the Kingdom, Preserver of Public Morals, barely notices the features of the locale that once inspired the originators of the Humanist Movement—the merchants hawking their promises of a real genuine not-to-be-missed bargain, old women gossiping in none too subtle tones, exhausted mothers struggling to hold onto their children while they haggle for a better price, and the nose-numbing mingling of spices from the furthest corners of the world—a tall man with a curved nose, thin beard, and aloof black eyes, Julian bears himself with all the dignity and graces that should be expected from the oldest continuous law enforcement organization in the New World.
Pacing slowly in his forest green peaked cap, pine green tunic, and dark gold trousers completed with a set of well used black boots, Julian, bored since the start of his rounds, scans for trouble—anything to liven up his daily routine. It could always be worse he thinks, brushing past a young married couple strolling hand in hand. Imagine the poor bastards who got selected to patrol the Gardens. On this hot and humid day, walking through an indoor market with circulated air wasn't the worst place to be, by far.
Walking past the stand of an especially loud French fishmonger, he gives a glare to an old man slumped against a nearby pillar, begging for alms.
Would it trouble him to read the posted regulations? fumes Julian inwardly. But a glimpse at the ragged man’s stump of a leg gives him pause.
A veteran. The men who had given up the best years of their lives to serve the Almighty and the King in the Dahai War always had place of respect in Julian's heart; his father’s stories of the desperate, annihilating battles in East Asia had motivated him to give his own life to public service. Despite receiving the humiliation after applying to be trained at Fort Joshua (his asthma had done him in during the physical), his love for anything to do with the military had never dimmed.
“Alms for a Legionnaire?” begs the ragged man to Julian. His white hair hangs in fragile wisps aside his scarred face. It’s a face that tells the world everything—of lost comrades, of bland army meals over cooking fires everywhere from the gates of the Citadel Bay to Outer Manchuria, and of the mockery that bloodshed makes of the staunchest patriot.
“More than that, avi,” says Julian to the former Legionnaire. He takes out his large black contactor and pushes the tan button; for an ordinary drunk or panhandler, he calls for a Jailor’s Wagon. For a broken veteran who reminds him so much of his own father, he’ll always call the Tzedakah Center; technically, they exist for anyone who’s down on their luck, but the only street people Julian ever asks for them to pick up are veterans. “A warm bed and a hearty meal are waiting for you.”
“Thank the Lord!” croaks the veteran. “Bless you, Guardsman!”
Before Julian can reply, he hears a loud argument break out two stalls down. “Swindler! Idolating bitch! I’d sooner worship Baal than pay that price!”
Such outbursts are to be expected in any market in the realms of Jewry, from the United Kingdom to distant Biafra. What attracts Julian’s attention is the nature of the man doing most of the shouting (with his vitriol aimed at the daughter of a Sephardic trading family). The enraged fellow is a short, dark skinned, tickly bearded man wearing a bright green turban bordered with a fine gold silken trim. The colors match his flowing robes perfectly. The outfit is rounded out with a gold scimitar. Only slight variations would be needed to turn the angry man into a caricature of one of the famous characters from the pirate novels of Isaac Sasson.
Damnation! A Himyar captain! Every man with a ship considers himself a prince in the ancient realms of the Himyar Empire, coupled with the appropriate egos and wealth to prove the point.
Stepping away from the veteran (the Tzedakah people will come to help him shortly), Julian draws his short black club and straightens himself to his full height. Striding in the same fashion as a Khazar Knight preparing to accept his commission, he approaches the stand.
“Is there a problem, good sir?”
The young woman (and the thin, nervous man who must be her father) behind the metal counter shrinks back slightly. “Only that this fucking bitch has tried to pass off that sewer rat fur as pte hide!” thunders the Himyar captain in his sing-song Ladino. A small crowd has gathered to watch the confrontation, more curious to see such an exotic foreigner than anything else. “I demand that you drive this, this foul clan from the market immediately! They stink of fraud!”
Julian looks at the infamous fur in question. Being no expert in the field of Natural Studies, he has no idea what the thick, brown fur coat is. Odds are that it probably did come from the ubiquitous Plains Cow. He knows, of course, that no family applying to sell furs in a public marketplace would be stupid enough to risk the wrath of the authorities by selling a product made from the most hated of vermin.
Julian has no patience for anyone with an (overtly) aristocratic attitude, much less a wealthy scion of ancient Himyar. “I suggest that you move on, sir,” he tells the captain tersely, stepping forward. “Causing a disturbance in a place of public enterprise is punishable by a heavy fine.” The Himyar captain’s face turns a rather nasty shade of purple at Julian’s pronouncement. The foreigner’s rather hapless looking manservant flinches.
“Gehenna take you!” bellows the captain, who has enough self control left to saying something truly regrettable to a Guardsman. He gestures to his servant, and angrily pushes past Julian, walking quickly in the direction of one of the exits. The crowd disperses back towards its original activities, its curiosity sated for now.
Julian nods to the Sephardic woman (a pretty young thing with protuberant brown eyes and raven black hair), and turns in the direction of his veteran. He sees the old warrior being assisted towards the exit by to Tzedakah volunteers, wearing their austere brown robes.
Satisfied at his upholding of the law and morals of this part of the market, Julian Melekh walks in the direction of the Square of the Beloved, the nucleus of this establishment. Looking at the leather bound timer bound to his right wrist, he sees that he has only twenty minutes until the end of his rounds, and he could use one of the dishes that are served at Barak’s. He’s heard very good things about their Gondar Surprise...
~~~~~
10 Shevet 5769 Anno Mundi [January 4, 2009]
Kiryat Anavim, Hasdai Province [St. Louis, Missouri], United Kingdom of Davidsland
It’s the dead of night, and Kiryat Anavim, the City of Grapes, is abuzz with all of the nightlife that can be expected of a settlement of its size—the circuses and amphitheaters play host to their working class patrons, the Century Tower (an ugly, turn of the century building built in grossly unfashionable neo-Stoic style) is awash in purple and blue colors from its searchlights, in a losing effort to diminish its status as the New World’s most infamous eyesore. Pleasure barges owned by the town elite drift lazily down the mighty Cahokia River. Anyone can have a fun time in the entertainment center of the United Kingdom—even if they prefer venues that bring about the wrath of the City Guardsmen when they’re uncovered.
One of the most popular of these underground establishments is Isaac’s; anyone who’s anyone on the fringes of society stops by here at least once a month. Like its pale imitators, every vice that has been rendered illegal by the laws of the land can be found here, in this non-descript stone pile in the outskirts of the unofficially named Celebrity District—smut (mostly foreign), hard drugs, and prostitutes that cater to both tastes.
Quite ironic, muses the individual who's currently the most famous patron of Isaac’s, that this city, founded by the Pious Ones two hundred years ago as a utopian religious community, could produce such a decadent business. That patron is the richly dressed Rodan ben Rey. He is the nation’s most infamous Humanist ideologue and author, and at the moment, lying on silken cushions smoking a reserved hookah, he is quite pleased by the latest news that he has received from his publisher in Solomon’s City.
He got the message today; the City Council there has outlawed his latest (and, in his humble opinion, his greatest) work, the extremely explicit Saga of the Perplexed. It’s certain to sell out all prints now, faster than a prime codfish on Grand Island.
Leaning back on his cushions, listening to the foul-mouthed lyrics of the underground singer Serfati, he reflects on the progress that his chosen ideology has made since its inception in Solomon’s City, in the void of yesteryear.
Humanism started out, over a century ago, as a comparatively harmless philosophy, with poets, artists, and sculptors celebrating the romantic qualities of the common man in the narrow walkways of the capital. Over time, it’s evolved into something utterly removed from such golden-hued beginnings—quite simply, it advocates the removal of all religious influences from society—in the view of Humanists, mankind is capable of managing its collective affairs without any kind of moral authority. More to the point, such laws should be overthrown, by any means necessary.
Some would-be revolutionaries have tried; their attempts proved laughably impotent in a nation that revolves around its laws and traditions like the United Kingdom—not nearly as much as the Mother Country, or the Restored Kingdom itself—but enough not to tolerate that kind of riff-raff.
For ben Rey, the quill is mightier than any sword or thunderarm. He’s a bit of a romantic in that regard; he writes his stories and tracts on the leathery parchments that went out style after the Silent Revolution that birthed Davidsland.
It’s the principle that counts! he tells himself, thoughtfully chewing on his hookah. The past had some gems scattered amidst the sewage of religious hypocrisy—paper that’s pleasing to touch, and cheap tobacco. As long as I have that, I’m a free man!
And speaking of hypocrisy, his newest story will be a truly grand adventure down that road; he’s worked quite hard on it too, going in disguise to the shuls of the Pious Ones for weeks to observe the styles of their Rabbis.
It will concern an ambitious Rabbinical student from Rome No! Jerusalem! The hypocrite must be from the center of it all! who comes to the United Kingdom to lead a community of Pious Ones. He’ll be a swine of the highest order—he’ll chase men and women, spark rumors most evil, and cause misery wherever he goes—but he’ll always win back the weak-minded religious fools with his desperate on-the-spot piety.
He barks a laugh. This story will write itself! Nothing can stop a free man from spreading the truth! His quill scribbles across the parchment rapidly.
Upstairs from the free men and women of the City of Grapes, Isaac Mizrahi, the dour and dumpy owner of this joint, calmly speaks into his office contactor.
“Yes yes,” he says. “The Rodan ben Rey.” He shrugs behind his polished wood desk, leaning back and puffing his pipe. “Of course I’m not fucking you around, Director. I promised you a big fish this month. If I’m lying, you can seize my entire establishment. Have I ever failed you, sir?”
A pause on the other end. “Losing your place will be the least of your worries of you screw us on this, Isaac,” growls Director Benjamin Sebag of the City Guardsmen to his unseen agent from the other end of the line. “But of course, if we get ben Rey, you’ll get a just reward.”
“Splendid, Major,” says Isaac, flashing a rare grin at the stationary assembled at his table. “Pick him up from wherever he goes after leaving my place,” he finishes. “Good evening.”
Standing, Isaac Mizrahi listens to the music wafting into his sanctum with the tobacco and narcotic smoke. He stretches gamely to the tune of Serfati’s It Couldn’t Be You, and looks out of his narrow windows at the lightened metropolis swirling with life around his stone pile
They’ll grab him once he’s at least two blocks from here. Not a moment too soon; that smug fool isn’t worth the parchment he prints on. He hears ben Ray's distinctive barking laughter again over the music and chatter below.
Not a moment too soon indeed.
~~~~~
Comments?
