Grand Council
Overseer William Wendyl Wesley looked over his alliterative nameplate to
examine the man who had been ushered into his presence. Peering through glasses so thick that
they could have been used to deflect small missiles, he found himself having
difficulty focusing on the figure standing before him. It took him over a minute to realize
that this was not because of the “ravages of age,” but because the man was so
jittery he was literally vibrating.
Attempting to size him up, Wesley leaned forward, feeling his back creak
and pop with every centimeter.
There wasn’t much
to “size up.” James Finkelburg was no more than five-feet two-inches tall. He
possessed a slight build hidden beneath a baggy sweater-vest that threatened to
engulf the thin arms and legs that protruded from it, like toothpicks in a
marshmallow.
Wesley turned to
look at the seven other council members and sighed, rubbing his forehead with
long bony fingers, and began with the first question he had asked at least
twenty times already that morning,
“Do you know why you are here?”
James coughed a
little and cleared his throat, “Y-yes sir, it is finally my turn to try and
write th-the hero?”
“Incorrect, it is
finally your turn to be considered for
the position of writing the hero. Now, unless I ask for elaboration you will
answer any remaining questions I have with a simple one-word answer. Am I clear?”
James looked down
at his rather worn shoes, “Y-yes.”
Wesley
had enjoyed his position on the council, watching history write itself, but as
the years had worn on, his optimism and appreciation for his vocation
waned. In the fifty years he had
served on this board he and the regents had only found sixteen original ideas,
and so far each one of them had failed.
Oh sure, they had
all survived for some amount of time.
For instance, the German boxing champion had lasted seventeen years
before being lured by harpies to face off against a depressed Danish Dane who
stabbed him with a poisoned fencing foil, but the council needed someone who
could survive everything. Wesley
removed his glasses and began to clean them on the sleeve of his tweed jacket,
“You know, then, what this task entails?”
“Y-yes.”
“Do you, sir,
think that you can write the hero that will be able to keep this town, and
those beyond its borders, safe?”
The young man,
apparently too anxious to stutter out a single syllable, simply nodded.
“Do you know the
rules associated with this task?”
“Yes,” James
sounded less nervous and a little indignant that his knowledge of the rules be
questioned.
Wesley replaced
his glasses, folded his hands in front of him and said in a an apathetic tone,
“You will recite them to the scribe at my left and if they are satisfactory
then we will proceed.”
James
turned to acknowledge the middle-aged woman who was sitting with a piece of
paper in front of her. Her hair
was poofed out in a manner that made it look like she had styled it via
sticking a fork in a light socket and giant, glittering nails attached to bony
fingers. She reminded James quite
a bit of his grade-school Boy Scout den mother, and he lost himself for a
second as he suddenly realized he no longer knew how to tie a rope into twelve
different knots.
He
was brought sharply back to reality by the snapping of two bony, shiny
fingernail polished, fingers, “Mistah Finkelburg,” she rolled out in a deep
Boston accent, “If ya wouldn’t mind gettin’ stahted, Aye’m not gettin' ahny
youngah ya know.”
James glanced up
at her lofty seat, then quickly looked back down at his ill-fitting shoes,
slammed his eyes shut, and began to speak rapidly, “The first rule is that the
chosen author must have a completely original idea for his or her intended
hero. Some of the attributes may be similar, but it must still differ enough
from its predecessors to ensure that it will not face immediate failure. The second rule says that, if the hero
should fail, the author does not have the ability to write the hero back to
life again, and if their hero fails they can never attempt to write another
hero into being.”
James was twisting
the sweatervest like he was trying to wring the memorized rules out, as he sped
onwards at a pace that would make a cattle auctioneer envious, “The third rule
is that, because the heroes are actual people, one cannot write beginning
parameters for one that are beyond what a normal human would have. They must be
specific enough to have the necessary skills, but not so specific that a human
being matching the traits can’t be found.
The final rule states that, while the author can write to help the hero,
they may not interfere with heroes free will. The only time in which they can
change the course of the hero’s life is iftheymustbanishthemfromthescene.”
The scribe
squinted at James, “Aye’m gonna guess that last paht was right. Sure, he’s
got’um.”
Wesley rubbed his
temples with his claw-like fingers, “Very well, you know the rules. Remember,
if you are chosen you will be bound to those rules by this council. Now, this is a very serious matter
young man, can you be counted on to stay in these parameters?”
“Y-yes,” James
nodded slightly, his rushed speech deteriorating into stutters once again,
finally, cautiously reopening his eyes.
“Alright, then we
will listen to your idea for the hero, please address the record keeper to my
right to make sure that your idea has not already been voiced.”
James turned to an
even older man who was half leaning on a stack of books. Before he could speak however the man
piped up in a wizened voice, “Young man, I will warn you, if this council has
to hear about another hero plot that involves a killer robot, or someone who
invents a killer robot, or someone who contemplates a killer robot over their
morning coffee we will forcibly remove you. I might even have security tazer
you for good measure.”
James gulped and
little beads of sweat began to appear around his reddish hairline, “I-I assure
you sir, I didn’t even think of creating a killer r-robot.”
The old man gave
him a toothy smile and wheezed out, “Proceed then.”
James straightened
his loose sweater vest and spoke with a little more confidence, almost like he
was going to force every ounce of bravery out of his pores, “I have m-made a
study of the past written heroes. The heroes that have been written in the past
have all been, g-good, well written, and well rounded, but, and don’t get me
wrong I admire the previous authors, but they have been inherently… umm, well
f-flawed. Unfortunately there is
no perfect person, and since the hero must be an actual human, there is no way
we will ever be able to summon a single person who has all the knowledge,
physical prowess and basic qualifications that w-we need.”
“Are you here
simply to tell the council that we will always fail, or do you have a point Mr.
Finkelburg?”
James gulped
visibly and began to speak at a greater rate of speed, “W-well, I have said
that no one single hero can embody all of those qualities, they will be too
dominant in some aspects and too weak at others. Therefore, I would like to suggest a sp-split, instead of
the traditional single hero, I wish to write two c-complimentary heroes. One would have the requisite knowledge
and the other the requisite physical prowess. By creating two complimentary heroes instead of j-just one
solitary hero, then we can possibly prevent the flaws that were the downfall of
the previous ones.”
The room was
silent for a few moments. Wesley
stopped rubbing his temples, he sat straighter in his chair, a few of his old
joints cracking as he leaned towards the back of his chair, “We will need a
sample of your writing, please sit down and proceed.”
The middle-aged
scribe held out a pad of paper and a pen for James which he took gingerly, as
if it might suddenly turn into a rabid weasel, saying, “W-what, well, umm, what
would the council like me to write?”
“Anything,” Wesley
shooed him towards a side desk with a wave of his ancient hand, “We just need
to make sure that you can actually write with enough detail to feasibly create
something.”
James walked over
to a small table and chair, the sounds of frantic scribbling echoing through
the chamber before his pants even connected with the seat. Within moments, the sound of hooves
could be heard and the council room door sprang open with enough force it
nearly took the heavy oak contraptions off of their hinges. In the doorway stood a tall, white,
unicorn, its majestic gold horn nearly touching the top of the tall doorway
that lead into the council chambers.
Wesley leaned
forward in his chair, “Mr. Finkelburg, you can stop writing, if you will please
come over here once more.”
Wesley motioned to
some men standing at the doorway, “Security, if you wouldn’t mind removing the
creature before it messes on the carpet it would be greatly appreciated; those
blue stains from the last unicorn took environmental services ages to clean
up.”
Three men in blue
uniforms stepped forward, calmly haltered the unicorn and lead it out of the
council room closing the partially destroyed doors behind them as best they
could.
“Well, Mr. James,
a unicorn… isn’t that a little cliché?”
“I s-suppose so,
b-but I thought you just wanted me to write with enough detail to make it
work.”
“So we did,”
Wesley leaned back in his chair and, returning to massaging his aching head,
said, “This council must deliberate, if you will please remove yourself to the
outer chambers, we will call you back in once a decision has been made.”
The
lobby outside of the council chamber was a plush one. The carpet was thick enough that the soles of James’s shoes
disappeared in the pile as he sat, nervously drumming his fingers on his
legs. James leaned forward in the
dark green high-back chair looking up at the silver clock on the wall every few
seconds.
Over one hundred
authors had been interviewed since the last hero had died, and here he sat in
the dire hope that he would be the one that the council would pick for such an
honor. The more he thought about
it the more nervous he got, the more nervous he got the more he looked at the
clock, the more he looked at the clock the more he ignored what was going on in
the room around him.
“If you keep
turning your head that quickly you are surely going to snap your rather scrawny
neck.”
James
jumped at the sound of the smooth low rolling voice, which suddenly appeared at
his left arm. He swung around only
to be met with two bright purple eyes set amid short grey hair. James leapt back out of the chair
nearly falling on a wooden coffee table.
“Myyyyyy how you
are jumpy. You are worse than that
damnable Mad-Hatter.”
On the arm of the
chair sat a grey and black striped cat, with bright purple eyes and a silver
earring piercing its right ear.
“W-who are
y-y-you?” James said trying to
regain his composure.
“I-I-I am the
Cheshire Cat of course,” the tone was deadly derisive as it rolled out between
sharp looking teeth.
“If y-you are the
Cheshire C-cat aren’t you supposed to speak in incomprehensible riddles and
twists of logic?” James said attempting to straighten his slightly askew
glasses.
“I came out of a
sixth edition volume of Alice in Wonderland,
I’m afraid. After so many printings some of the qualities of my character got
washed out a bit. However, if you
would prefer, I could start speaking in riddles,” the cat’s eyes literally lit
up as a fiendish grin crossed his face.
“No, thank
you.”
The cat stretched,
yawned and smirked, his fangs catching the light in the room.
“You are James
Finkelburg, correct?” James wasn’t
sure if he should be speaking to a sixth edition escapee, and the cat noticed
his hesitation.
“I was in the
council room, you were too frightened to notice me I imagine,” James still
looked hesitant and Cheshire let out a low growl, “Well, if it eases your
paranoid, little mind, I work for the council.”
James did not respond,
instead he seemed to tense even further.
“I heard your
idea, two heroes, well that is a twist that even the record keeper hasn’t
heard. I find it… shall we say,
refreshing?”
James
blinked a couple of times before enthusiastically sputtering out, “D-do you
think the council likes it?”
The cat turned his
head impossibly far to the right and then said, “Well, not to get your
itty-bitty hopes up, they have been in there for some time, normally when they
reject someone they do so quickly.”
At that moment the
council doors opened and a security guard said, “If Mr. Finkelburg, and yes,
you too Cheshire, would follow me into the council chamber, then the council
can render its final decision.”
James wiped his
sweaty palms on his khakis and shuffled into the council’s presence.
Wesley watched the man in front perspire
and wiggle under his own anxious strain as he waited for the council’s
answer. He struggled to remind
himself that this was not actually the man who would be in the front lines of
battle, he would simply be writing for those who would be.
After a few
moments he leaned forward, “James Finkelburg, the council has made a
decision. You will proceed with
writing the next hero into our situation, or in your case the next heroes.”
James had a look
of absolute shock plastered across his face, this was not a man who was chosen
for anything, from sports teams, to dates to successfully carry a pile of
twigs.
“You will start
today and you will not leave the author’s apartment we have set up for you
until you are finished. Do you
have any questions?”
“No
s-sir.”
“Good,
Cheshire here will be watching your progress and when everything has been
completed to his satisfaction he will alert us. He will also be the one to head up the search to find your
heroes once you have written them in.
Now if you will follow Cheshire he will show you to your home until the
task is completed.”
Cheshire
appeared at Wesley’s side, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how heroes are
born.”
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