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christmas special; part two
IP: 95.149.91.94
Posted on December 25, 2009 at 04:05:57 PM by georgia

They whip down the ladder and run, hand in hand, down the chaotic street. A wheelbarrow of fruit upturns as a few children fly past it, causing mottled green and red apples to roll in all directions – bouncing off the kerb, slipping under people’s feet and disintegrating beneath a horse-drawn carriage. The man pushing the barrow starts to shout angrily and Aura half-turns to help him collect his cargo, but Heath pulls her on forcefully. Somewhere, a woman screams and a man yells. As they run, Aura shouts to Heath (only way to be heard in the frenzied atmosphere) to ask him what’s going on, and he shouts something inaudible back and waves a dismissive hand. Resigned to ask again later, she follows him dutifully down several back-alleys (all overcrowded with panicking people) and up and over a few houses when the streets are too full to even jostle their way through. Eventually he grasps her arm and tugs her sideways into what must be some kind of inn; a strong waft of alcohol and the faint smell of cooking hangs in the air, along with something else. Aura sniffs, just as her eye falls on a thin, smoking stick poking out of a little pot on a table. Lavender incense. There are several people gathered in the room already, talking and gesticulating wildly, and Aura is surprised to see that she recognises a few of them. There, sitting at a long table – Mahatma Gandhi. She’d recognise the long white robe, bald head and funny circular spectacles anywhere. Gandhi is talking to a black-bearded man in a top hat who Aura recognises as Abraham Lincoln, one of the greatest presidents of the United States of America. Standing at the bar are several men she isn’t familiar with, arguing with – it seems incredible, but it’s true – Michael Jackson and Princess Diana. These figures are pretty amazing, but they’re nothing compared to some of the other faces in the room. Albus Dumbledore. Kenny from South Park. Commander Julius Root. Larka the wolf. Jack from Titanic. Mufasa the lion. Sam from Ghost. “Your mouth is open,” Heath points out to her, and she shuts it quickly. “The situation can easily come to hand!” One of the men Aura doesn’t recognise shouts suddenly, slamming his fist on the table; “we can solve it with triangles!” There’s a general moan across the room. “D’Arvit, Pythagoras,” barks Root, his face turning its familiar purple hue; “shut up about damn triangles!” “I think we must be with our people,” murmurs Diana. “Abe, what do you think?” “Certainly, certainly,” Lincoln pokes his thumbs into his jacket and rolls on his heels. “We must do what is right, Diana. We must always do what is right.” Larka and Mufasa growl in agreement. Sam slides into a chair and puts his head in his hands tiredly while Dumbledore stands a little apart from the group, his blue eyes twinkling merrily behind his half-moon spectacles, as if he finds the whole situation somewhat amusing. Nobody else seems to, though. Every other face in the room is dead serious. Aura briefly has time to reflect on how adorable Jack looks with a solemn expression before Heath speaks up: “It’s no use standing here arguing like we always do. We need to man the defences – everyone in this commune knows their role, it’s just up to us to make sure they assume it. We should all split in different directions and tell people to get into position... chances are, they have already; they know what the siren means.” A general murmur of agreement (although neither Gandhi nor Pythagoras look particularly enthused by the idea), so Heath organises everyone into groups and sends them off to different corners of the commune. Aura stays with him, and the pair are accompanied by Dumbledore and Mufasa. Dumbledore sweeps ahead of them, humming tunelessly, and Mufasa pads silently in the rear, leaving Heath and Aura time to talk. She opens the conversation with a straight question. “What was that all about?” “The council. They make all the major decisions around here. I expect you’re wondering what raiders are too?” She nods. “Everyone goes to the realm of the dead Aura, no matter from what world originally, or whether they did good or bad; there’s no heaven and hell. Just... this – a dumping ground for lost souls. The good ones decided to band together into communes and form their own heaven – we lead simple lives, but it suits us, and we work together for the greater good of the commune. “The bad ones have no such security. Think of them as bandits, or pirates: they have no resources of their own so they loot and pillage ours. Every now and again they try and take over in a raid.” “Couldn’t you try talking with them?” Heath laughs bitterly. “You can’t talk to the bad ones. They get hungry, they raid, we defend, they scatter and get hungrier.” “The circle of death,” rumbles Mufasa, who had been eavesdropping shamelessly. A quiet whizzing noise fills the air, nestled beneath shouts and cranking machinery. As they near the outer wall, Aura sees men stationed with crossbows and realises with a sudden sickness that the sound is arrows flying through the air towards their targets. Horrendous screams and petrified cries suggest that these marksmen are, to say the last, quite good at their job. Leaving Heath to shout at some stragglers, she follows Mufasa – who is patrolling the wall calmly – and, as she peeks over to spy on the intruders, is surprised to find she recognises as many faces there as she had done back in the inn. Davy Jones, Adolf Hitler, Gozer the Gozarian, the Green Goblin, Josef Stalin and Sgorr the red deer are among many other characters, fictional and non, animal and human, cartoon and real. She’s also surprised to see that they don’t look as evil as they appeared in life – rather, they look much more like ordinary people who are scared, angry and frustrated. Those that are sword-fighting with some of ‘the good ones’ are quickly becoming enraged and making (what would be fatal) mistakes. The battle is brief and bloody. Once the ‘good ones’ decide to release a few cauldrons of burning acid over the side of the wall, the ‘enemy’ quickly back off and – as Heath said – scatter. Aura watches with an increasing feeling of nausea as Sgorr runs lopsidedly into the distant fog, hobbling slightly because of an injured Stalin draped over his back. “We damn well showed them!” Aura turns to see Root and several others strolling over, looking extremely pleased with themselves. “Bastards won’t show their faces around here again!” Pythagoras slides over to her, producing a sketch of a perfect equilateral triangle. “With this positioning,” he mutters in her ear, “we could have destroyed them for good – ” Dumbledore clears his throat loudly. “Shall we retire to our chamber now that the bloody business is done? Gandhi, I believe, has made some rather excellent garden vegetable soup.” In twos and threes, the group splits and wanders off, leaving Heath and Aura alone once more. “How are the council elected?” She asks him. “We elected ourselves.” Silence for a moment. “You were wrong,” Aura says quietly, picking up a crossbow from the edge of the wall and throwing it down in disgust. “This isn’t a dumping ground. This is hell.” “Aura – ” “No.” She turns away from him furiously. “We’re done here. Those people are scared – all they want is a little something to ease the torture of their existence, and what do you do? Drive them out because once, in a past life, they were scripted as ‘bad’. You call yourselves ‘the good ones’? You’re worse than they are.”

Replies:

• christmas special; part three - By georgia December 25, 2009 at 04:06:39 PM

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