Timestream, Part 1

[The usual mishmash of mystery, weird science, and adventure tale, in several parts. I hope you enjoy it, Dear Reader - RJ]

Imagine that we share our reality with many others, both geographical and temporal. As we move inexorably from one day to the next, as on a mechanical escalator, so, too, are other times moving on their own escalators. Those metaphorical devices do not always move at the same speed relative to one another. Time slips and slides. In the gaps, one can pass through…if one knows the way. But beware, traveler: fifty years in the future may not be fifty years in your future. And customs may be very strange indeed…

***

I opened the front door and stepped into the darkened hallway. Turning on a lamp, I called out, “Anybody home?” but received no reply; indeed, the house had the feel of emptiness.

This was odd, because I had been detained on an interview for a story, and expected my sister to have arrived well before me. A small notecard was on the side table near the entrance. Have been asked to conduct a small investigation out of town. May be several days before I return. Will contact if possible. Kathy. I found this to be highly unusual, but I took the note at face value, despite a certain amount of unease.

A week passed, and my unease grew. It wasn’t like her to be gone this long; certainly not without a telegram or letter to tell me where she was. Had something happened: could she be hurt, and unable to contact me? I recalled her escapade with the Goreans, and the mishap that resulted in an inadvertent stay in the Miskatonic Valley. The more I thought about it, the more I became determined to track her down.

As Kathy had left no clue regarding the nature of “small investigation,” much less its location (outside of the precise movements in her note), this was going to take some time. I stopped at her favorite pub, asked questions of her favorite seamstress, tracked down friends, all to no avail. Finally, it occurred to me to check with Mr. Daniels at the Downs airfield whether Kathy filed a flight plan. Indeed she had – for a land called Octoberville, which was unfamiliar to me, and to Mr. Daniels as well. “She left very specific notes about how to reach it,” he told me, and handed me several sheets of paper in my sister’s very precise handwriting. I confess I had no idea why one would travel in the manner indicated, but I thanked Mr. Daniels and pocketed the notes.

I had my airship taken out of storage and loaded some supplies. At the last moment, I thought that I needed some assistance, particularly if Kathy required medical attention. I asked my talented, if somewhat eccentric and highly deaf, friend, Mr. Roland Luminos, to accompany me.

“An airship? Oh dear me, bless you, young lady, I haven’t been on an airship in many years. My stomach, you know. Hasn’t been the same since that incident in ’68 when…”

“Yes, Roland, I recall the story. Let me assure you that progress has marched on since then, and that my ship is much steadier in the sky than what you are used to.”

“Quite so. Well then, let me grab my bowler and my second-best walking stick and we can be on our way.”

We fought a tremendous lag storm as we neared the city, and Roland, true to his word, found that his stomach did not care for the buffeting the ship took, though he at least had the presence of mind to be sick over the side. Eventually, we made it to the air dock and left the ship in the care of a shady-looking man wearing denim trousers and a tight undershirt with lettering on it. He eyed Roland’s long coat and my walking dress suspiciously.

“I say, this place is utterly mobbed!” said Roland, working his way through the crowd. I agreed, but my reply was lost in the din.

We entered the police station and approached the matron on duty. “How may I help you?” she asked, spitting out the words so rapidly that I heard “HowmayIhelpyou” in a foreign dialect.

“Hello – er, Sergeant, is it? My name is Rhianon Jameson, and this is my companion, Mr. Roland Luminos. We are searching for my sister, Kathy Jameson, and have reason to believe she is in this city, or was, as of a few days prior.” I showed the woman a daguerreotype of Kathy.

“Neverheardofher. Next!”

I stood my ground. “Wait! My sister is missing; are you not the one to whom I should be reporting? I must insist that you start an investigation!”

She looked past us, and repeated, “Next!” Looking at me, she said, “Nuthin’ I can do for you. Be on your way before I arrest you for loitering.”

“I say!” exclaimed Roland. “That’s not very sporting of you.” I tugged on his sleeve so he would move over. The last thing we needed was to languish in this foreign jail and be unable to locate Kathy.

“Don’t mind her,” said a thin man with purple hair standing straight up in short spikes. He was perched at the edge of a desk and was cleaning his nails with a small knife. “As you can see, they’re a little busy today.”

“A little bitty toady?” Roland said, puzzled.

“What has brought all these people to your town?” I asked.

He shifted his weight forward and peered at me. “You don’t know? Well, I can tell from the way you’re dressed and the funny way you talk that you’re not from around here. Well, we had ourselves a nasty little murder, and the town selectmen made the mistake of offering a tidy reward to anyone who could find the killer. Jobs being a little scarce around these parts, that reward brought every idiot in three counties digging through this town.”

Roland cupped an ear. “Digging in his gown? That’s dashed unsporting, really.”

We ignored him. I showed the man Kathy’s picture. “Have you seen this woman?”

He nodded. “Oh yeah. She kinda sticks out, right? That flaming red hair and that funny way she dresses. I’ve seen her around, usually with Commodore Billings.” I looked blankly at the name. “Oh right, you don’t know anyone. The Commodore is pretty famous here. He came from some foreign place to run our little navy. He’s an old guy now – even older than you.” This last comment was directed at Roland, who for once heard the entire remark correctly and sputtered a bit.

“Do you know where we might find the Commodore?”

“He lives in a big place about a mile out o’ town, but he’s often in his office at the naval yard.”
We thanked him, and were almost on our way when I asked, “It was fortuitous that we met you here. What brought you to the police station just now?”

He waved a hand near the desk. “I’m just waiting to be processed. I’m in the business of redistributin’ the wealth in this town. It’s a profession the law don’t take very kindly to.”

“You are a thief then, sir?” Roland asked.

“That’s a real unkind way of putting it. Anyway, they’re real busy today, so they asked me to wait a while until they could book me. It’s no big deal. I had nothing better to do today anyway.”

[To be continued...]

The Mansion at Kintyre

Mr. Planter Leitner kindly invited me to look inside the "summer cottage" in Kintyre - I refer to it as the mansion, as it dwarfs my tiny cottages in the Downs - so I took him up on the offer.

My first stop was the Shakespere Room, dedicated to the Bard of Avon. As unladylike as it is, I could not stop from helping myself to a cigar from the box and *cough* puffing on it *cough* as I perused the room. Below, a portrait of famed English stage producer David Garrick and a putative death mask of Mr. Shakespeare.


The shelves are filled with works by and about Shakespeare and his plays. This includes plays wrongly attributed to Shakespeare as of 1664, altered versions of plays, and a 19th century view of women in Shakespeare's works. Hmm, I may have to pull that one from the shelf.


As I made my way to the other wing of the mansion, I must have brushed against a hidden mechanism that revealed a passageway to an underground chamber. This must have been what Mr. Leitner meant in his reference to "Giordano's basement"! I looked at the art on the walls, but, sadly, I left my lens cap on when I took pictures down there.

I rectified this situation when I returned to the main floor and entered the 1878 Room. This library contains works and ephemera (such as the portrait of President Rutherford Hayes that may be seen to the left in the picture below) available as of that date.


Shelves in this room are labeled: "Deadwood and the Dakotas," "Controversial Issues" (which, at the moment, means "slavery"), "Literature," "Social Sciences," "Religion," "The West," "U.S. History and Government," "Matters, Manners, and Philosophy," and, um, "Erotica."

Purely in the interest of research and the advancement of Knowledge - the things I do for you, Gentle Reader - I pulled a recent volume from the latter shelves. It was entitled The Romance of Lust, or Early Experiences. As that great font of human knowledge, Wikipedia, relates, this book was published anonymously in four volumes between 1873 and 1876.

I fanned myself profusely while scanning the book. "The novel is told in first person....Charlie [Roberts] possesses...seemingly insatiable sexual appetite." I spent the next two hours with the book - again, all in the name of Science, of course. I shall not detail the sordid perversions described therein, only noting that this book should not be seen by the faint of heart!

Whither the Wind Shall Take Me

My typist has decided that a change of scenery might be a good idea, so I will be boarding a large airship today, and therefore out of Aetherwave contact with all of you fine people for several days. If everyone behaves, I may have pictures. Or was that supposed to be my threat? Hmm.

In any event, I hope to have enough to entertain you in my absence. Starting two days from now, Blogger willing, is the first part of a new tale...one I have not yet finished, so let us hope everything works out all right.

(Oh, that? Never mind that picture. No, I'm not the Jameson in peril this time around...)

Tanglewood - Trees and Tinyville

My journy through the wild lands of Caledon continued in Tanglewood. Like Kittiwickshire, it is home to many tiny folk and many large trees, creating a lush canopy. Flying over the area, one can scarecely believe anyone has set foot in it for hundreds of years.

But settle here they have. The area is almost entirely residential, a tranquil refuge. Below, Ziskey Grove and, beyond it, mostly covered by trees, is the Vicerene's retreat (the mountain in the background is Lionsgate, and is connected to the rustic house in Tanglewood).


In central Tanglewood lies Moody Pond, where a tiny sailboat waits to be launched.


Near the eastern border is a new addition, the Tanglewood Infirmary. Given the way Caledonians are always getting into scrapes, one can never have too many places to get patched up!

This peaceful spot, complete with cow, is Belgar Grove, a spot that begs one to stop and look for a while. A short distance away is the Caledon Library special collections building. While looking for a good angle for a photograph of the building, I met a former neighbor from the Downs, Miss Sophie Zuta, who now has a cottage in Tanglewood, Fae Hollow (look for the giant mushrooms). Miss Zuta and I had a lovely chat beneath the towering trees.

The entire western side of the area is taken up by Tinyville, with a variety of buildings for the wee folk, including the Tinyville branch of the library. At the far end of Tinyville lies Toad Hall (home of Mr. Toad, from Wind in the Willows fame) and, beyond that, the Wild Wood, which will also be known to readers of Kenneth Grahame book.

After this visit, I dislike the idea of heading back to civilization, but duty calls.

New England in Autumn

When the leaves turn to fire and the winds come from Canada, the air in New England turns crisp and clear. The turgid air of summer is gone, as are the summer crowds. The lighthouse still flashes its warnings, but few pleasure craft remain to take heed I walk across the empty beaches, through the quiet forests, through the town square, peering through large panes ofr glass at signs advertising end-of-season discounts.


The shop signs rattle in the breeze. I sit at an empty table outside the cafe and sip cocoa, steam rising around my head as I lift the mug to my lips.


This is not the cold of winter, when the Atlantic foams and roars, bringing the kind of bone-numbing chill that can be eased only by sitting before a roaring fire, sipping a peated whisky or old cognac. It is a gentle touch of cold, a harbinger of the season to come.


For now, the harvest is over, the tourists have gone, the shutters have been placed on the summer homes, and there is time to be alone.

"Autumn," by Thomas Hood.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;--
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?--With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up as one, And
Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?--Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noonday,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,--
The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three
On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling,--and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad's immortality?--
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,
The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,
And honey bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing'd across the main;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair:
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care;--
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower,--and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's,--she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,--
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

Art Galleries in Tabula Rasa

As I had previously complained that I was unable to enter the Tabula Rasa sim (part of a larger estate called Avalon Town), once my (still unexplained) banning was kindly removed I thought I should pay a visit myself.

Kathy has already described Miss Callipygian Christensen's exhibit at the Exposure Art Gallery, so I decided to pop into several of the surrounding galleries. My first stop was at the Tricia Aferdita Gallery, a very modernistic building carrying very modernistic pictures. Interesting, but not my cup of tea.


Mr. PJ Trenton, known to readers of The Primgraph and Prim Perfect for his extraordinary photographs that accompany articles in those two fine publications, has a space called Render Design and Photography. Although some of what I assume to be his work is displayed on the walls, much of the space appears designed for meeting with potential clients.


Mr. Trenton owns the aforementioned Exposure Art Gallery, which is still showing Miss Christensen's portraiture work.

The large space shown below is that of Zanphoria Gallery and Studio. I do so enjoy the fact that galleries provide a place where one can rest one's weary bones.

I would like to thank Miss Elora Dawes for her time in assisting me with gaining access to this area.

Wandering Through Kittiwickshire

Kittiwickshire and Tanglewood to me represent the more whimsical and fanciful side of Caledon. (A floating city? Cavorite mines? I say they represent prosaic reality. My reality, at least.) Enormous trees towering over houses built for tinies. Fanciful, yet relaxing.

In fact, there are two distinct parts of Kittiwickshire. The first, a wooded, bucolic area, can be seen in the picture below (the small cottage in the foreground belongs to Mr. 1wuz Gray):


The other Kittiwickshire is in the main street, which is the commercial hub of the town. On one end, Miss Martini Discovolante's carousel on the pier:


One new addition is the Astrotorium, a large structure focused on the stars and planets (and showing a moving picture!). Below, the interior:

And the exterior:

Several other shops, focused on tinies (though wares for full-figured-folk can also be found) line the commercial heart of the area:

Naturally, the Caledon train system runs through it, and Mr. Bubba Daniels' Caledon Air Transport company has a hydroport in the southwest corner.

Psaltbrow Engineering Works and Other Neighbors

Time for another roundup of what is happening in my little corner of the world.

In the southeastern corner of the Downs is the Psaltbrow Engineering Works, where Mr. Alastair Whybrow works his magic with prims tinier than the eye can see. Note the enormous coffee carafe in the upper right-hand corner. Isn't it amazing how Mr. W. can keep his hands steady with that much caffeine in his system?

Mr. Whybrow - and I feel secure in saying that it is indeed Mister Whybrow, and not the lovely Missus Whybrow - has remedied one of Caledon's deficiencies: where to do one's business. Artfully named "The Bog," this shack is indeed what it appears to be. One can only hope that a door is slated for future installation.

The Whybrows also have the Church of St. Hilda's, in nearby Southend. (The church appears to have relocated a bit from the couple's wedding, but that sort of movement is unremarkable, given Caledon's geologic instability.) Behind the church is the Psaltery-Whybrow garden and bandstand; I look forward to tapping my toes to some wonderful music when the weather warms.

Also in the Downs is the Tryst Doune Manor. Mr. Doune is a newcomer to these shores, but he appears to have brought some money with him, judging from the size of the estate.

Just across the Glengarry border is the residence of Miss Parakeet Unplugged. The autumn leaves show off this fine mansion splendidly.

Haunted House Hopping

I visited a number of haunted houses this season and, call me jaded, but I didn't find any to be particularly scary. Perhaps there's only so much that can be done in SL. But here's a quick recap.

Amityville: much blood, little else.

Bentham Manor: Fun tram ride, visually interesting.

A crypt in Sandvik: Nice crypt. Not a haunted house, but a nice crypt just the same.

Midnight's Haunted House: More blood. I liked the room of crazed clowns armed with knives, though.

This must have hurt just a bit:

Ramos Designs: As with Bentham Manor, visually interesting, though not a high scare factor.

Humorous Haunts

Miss Emilly Orr, always the connoisseur of haunted houses, wrote ofone from OneDom, on Jai. (I was a little tardy in visiting, so this is being posted after All Hallow's Eve. Ah well.)


This was one of the more amusing houses I've visited. Sit down on chairs and couches. Pumpkins or severed heads materialize next to you as you sit, or lounge, or meditate while hovering in mid-air. (I would have sworn there was a couch when I sat!)

The meal is the obligatory repast of braaaiiiins. (Again? We just had brains.)


Life getting you down? Things just a little too intense for you? No problem: slit your wrists and take a nice bath. (This one might have been more effective without the stream of blood coming from the shower head.)


Have a drink at the bar...but don't lose your wits...or your entire head.


The study - complete with flying books - has a hidden door that leads to a small maze.


But my favorite spot was the kitchen. The oven has a lovely turkey cooking in it. Open the door. Mmm, smell it cooking! Now click on the turkey. Go ahead. What could go wrong? Well, you could be sucked into the oven. With the turkey.

And he's not happy.

I survived my battle with Mr. Tom, living another day to report on this unique haunted house. Until next year!