DIMENSION 3.9

©2006 Brendan J. O’Sullivan

31-05-206

 

DIMENSION 3.9

 

In the galaxy called Kimly Yaw, there is a star with at least 9 known planets orbiting, this is known as the Arsol System. The 3^rd planets perfect proximity makes its climate habitable for many wondrous, beautiful and magnificent multi-celled organisms, the dominant species are multicommunicative bipeds who lovingly named their planet Heart. Because of the huge diversity of opinions, beliefs, conmen and greedy bastards, the Heartlings have pulled off the incredible feat of having both Heaven & Hell existing as the same place at the same time. It has become known as the HeHe syndrome, and there is no known (or financially viable, at least) cure.

 

Once upon a time, there lived a small man called, well, he didn’t actually have a name, because, seeing as he was the only man, it didn’t really seem that important, and passports wouldn’t be invented for ages yet. His missus, who shall also remain nameless (but if she’d had one she’d probably spend her teenage years agonising about whether it made her sound cute or ‘dead old’), well, her belly had started growing really big recently, and although they attributed this to an apple-and-butterfly-only diet, the woman began having dreams, experiencing cravings, of as yet unimagined small communities, where folk spoke with clipped tones and bred whippets. It wasn’t the villagers themselves she craved but the black crumbly rock they dug from the bowels of the earth, so they could burn it and pollute the sky.

 

After a while, the belly was ready, the pain was fantastic, and the epidural was sorely missed. The he and she were actually spending most of their time being aware of things that didn’t yet exist, and this instilled in them both a sense of wondrous over-ambitious creativity which would permeate every single one of their kind from that moment on. Well to cut a long story sideways, a small version of the he popped out, and then another, and, after some very dubious goings on reproduction-wise for a good few decades, there was soon a thriving clan of heartlings living a joyous, peaceful(ish. i.e. tigers and bears didn’t respect the clans Sunday morning lie-in policy too fondly) existence. Pretty soon, it would be time for the clan to venture further out, explore their own planet, discover, learn, progress. Maybe, just maybe they would even come across another clan like theirs, how magical would that be! Then they could focus all their energy on beating the shit out of each other for a few yards of floor-space.

 

CHAPTER 1.1 - TUESDAY

 

Tinram was very, very, verry warm. Which was o.k. The not o.k. thing was that he had another 25 minutes sat in this study room with his tutor. That in itself was not the not o.k. thing, it was that he had really twitchy legs and wanted to be outside in the blazing sun,  to run around the field inhaling the beautiful clean air, and expounding his expoundless stores of energy. Instead, he resignedly (but eagerly) listened to his tutor, explaining how close the planet Heart had come to disaster in the past, due to the dastardly deeds of  Fred Oathill, erstwhile bad guy and chaos bringer, whom the ortopsists still considered a VERY STRANGE CASE INDEED.

 

“And So, Tinram, that is why his body, deceased and debated for many years now, is still preserved in liquid amber and suspended from the highest part of Dullnoon Bridge, for all to see. And so we can keep an eye on him, in case of . . . err, well its not that we’re a paranoid people, it is, as I explained the most curious, and sadly, destructive heartling our hestory has encountered, and we want to be sure he’s not faking, ahem. PLUS, the inspiration by visual impressionism policy may well spark off an idea in one of the brilliant students from this land, possibly yourself”

“Tutor” - Tinram took the complement like a poker dealer palming a good card - “are there other cases like the Oathill one? I mean, not his badness, but all the genetic discrepancies, and questions about his origins?”

“Yes, there have been quite a few suspected similar cases, but the heartlings in question seemed quite inconsequential in comparison to our Mr Oathill. Hmmmm, Tinram, may I ask if you need to make a nature call, your legs appear to be having quite a party down there” Tinram ceased his mini-danceathon, and proceeded to curl his toes into his feet, in tight balls, to the point that his toe knuckles whiteness almost out-dazzled his white trainers.

“No, sorry tutor, I’m just having one of my running urge attacks, but I found today’s lesson so fascinating I didn’t really notice it so much. May I?”

Tutor shutdown the digitized display he had been working from, and indicated that his charge could leave, for fear that the poor lad might snap his feet in two if he didn’t get to run soon. The audible ‘G’bye!/(Whooosh)’ as the student burst to his feet and departed produced a wry smile on the tutors face.

           

 

       

                Radwen Tutor was probably the most sought after tutor in the land, NOT because he was cheap and passed the thick students regardless, but because he seemed to instil certain values, ethics and a good nature into those who came into his close proximity, he was a fair yet grey haired being with an almost unnerving calmness about him, that permeated the air around him like a really nice smelling pipe-tobacco. (Obviously, with smoking being frowned upon by the League of Young Lung Lovers and the powers that be, a non aerosol imitation tobacco spray would be the closest comparison available at short notice). Radwen took a good suck on his ‘Tinbacco’ nozzle and sat down to summarize his students’ days progress - spectacular as usual - then idly, indulgently contemplated himself in his minds eye.

            A tall, wily man, with a sparkle in his eyes (aren’t they all…) wearing a flowing mauve chiffon and fur lined robe, more akin to a wizards than an expander of fresh minds attire. He had good teeth, he’d left the bad ones in a hanky under the pillow for years, but since he’d been raised in an orphanage, there hadn’t been a ‘tooth gremlin’ available to dispose of his first set, and he’d grown quite attached to them, ironically after they became detached from him. He was strong, but in a I-don’t-want-to-get-my-hands-dirty kind of way, i.e. he could carry 3 suitcases at once, but wouldn’t touch a wallpaper table with a freshly bleached bargepole. His beard (surprise!) was the kind you might find adorned by a tall warlock who drags hairy dwarves across epic landscapes to throw away jewellery, except Radwens beard usually contained a fair amount of detritus in the form of crumbs, twigs, and lost beard brushes. Lets face it, it was more like a nest, but with less poachers.

            Radwens thoughts turned to the forthcoming nights entertainment, its main course consisting of a thundering operatic performance of Sinsori’s big hit, The Barber of Vellise, a rip-roaring saga proudly played and displayed by rotund blokes and rotunder lasses in exuberant expanses of expensively elegant attire. To be honest, Radwen didn’t care as much for the Opera as much as a person of his cerebral bent would be expected, he thought it was full of self-centred, self-obsessed arrogantocrats. He was quite violently vocal in his disdain for the purveyors of high decibel yelling in the name of song, and told his pupils that they only had to listen to the ‘singers’ rehearsals to view the depths of selfishness (Its all Me-me-me-me, he half-jokingly informed them). His inner self suspected that the real reason behind his negativity was an old-fashioned ideal rallying against the curious, angular architecture of the Dysney Opera House in Saltauria, or ‘Up Over’ as it was locally known. In fact, to prove what a real split minded genius he was, he forced a part of himself to really enjoy the Opera, to the point that he could describe every inch of the complex area of every aria, the top to toe of every libretto, and the anti-diets, dirty secrets and various stresses of all those whinging squealers in flouncy dresses. As head of the classical music department, it was his duty to know this information anyway, but, being the inquisitive, detail-obsessed brain box that he was, were it not for him being such a sought after teacher, he would probably be heading the nations league table for Top Fanatical Stalker in the Shitrib Isles 3 years running, 2 years hiding and maybe a few months disguised as a tree in the Premier Ministers garden.