Attention Matthew Downie

#22 by Citizen Matthew Downie - 10/25/2003 2:28:43 PM

Tax attack
You know how there's an optimum tax rate point at which you get the maximum possible income? How high can you get this point to be? Increasing the rate gradually and boosting morale in every other way seems to be the key. Today, I managed to get my taxes up to 91% without harming my income.

Elven Song

Downie glided delicately across the tavern floor, trying not to inhale.
“What do you want, pixie-face?” said the barkeep.
Elves, it seemed, were not welcome here.
“Is there any chance of a fresh pot of jasmine tea?” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I understand you serve drinks here. Lotus tea, perhaps? Hot or iced, I don’t mind.”
“We have beer, and nothing else.”
“Even lemon tea would do.”
“For someone with such large ears, you don’t hear too good, do you?”
“For someone with such a face as yours, you don’t exactly compensate with your personality.”
“What?”
“No matter. I shall take my business otherwhere.”
As he left, he looked around, to see if there were any of those comely barmaids that were supposedly traditional in such places. But he saw no-one worthy of his attention, and instead walked back out to the village green.
On it stood a lone oak tree. He climbed it swiftly, propped himself on a branch, and sought for a muse. From up here, he could see the city and the great Tower of Wizardry. He longed for the evening, and the appearance of the first stars. He tried to compose a verse or two on the subject.

a shining speck might
be a world beyond any
you could imagine

a human heart might
conceal nightmares beyond the
darkest you could fear

His reverie was interrupted. A man was standing on a tree-stump just a few feet below him, addressing a small gathering.
“Brothers!” he began, though one of them looked more like a sister. Quite an alluring one, too, a petite girl in a velvet robe, with a hint of metal beneath. He enjoyed the company of human women, who were passionate where elf-maids were detached, and who were easily won over by his gift for projecting the impression that he had hidden depths. Also, mortal women were preferable by the very nature of their mortality; an affair that ended badly with an elf lady could lead to awkward encounters many centuries hence. The demagogue continued to harangue the mob, in an overly loud tone that utterly extinguished Downie’s creative spark. “You have all witnessed the way The Wanderer is now behaving. The man we once adored with all our hearts now shows himself to be corrupt and selfish, a blasphemer against the most holy Frogboy. He loves power now only for its own sake.”
Downie had indeed sensed a certain shadow within Ray the last time they had met. Was it the power of the ring? Could any man be trusted with such power? Could an elf? He hoped that Ray would yet redeem himself. Men were fallible creatures, prone to strange impulses and passions, and it was wrong to judge them harshly. “We must rise up against his treachery!” continued the orator. “We must demand that the wizards who still follow the path of Pure Good unite against him and his henchmen!”
At this, Downie stuck his head out through the leaves. The crowd was taken aback; until now, no-one had imagined there might be someone up there. He said, “Surely it is not right to go to war against someone so weak and frail as Ray.”
The speaker recovered well. “What foolishness is this? Ray is not weak and frail. He is the mightiest of wizards!”
“Well, that’s an even better reason not to fight him,” said Downie.
“Only a head-in-the-clouds dreamer could imagine that we are safe while Ray has us in his power.”
“Only a slack-jawed dimwit could imagine that we would be any safer if a war broke out, and wizard fought wizard with fire, lightning and brimstone,” countered Downie. He himself had long since renounced all war. He was old enough to remember the Uruk war, when noble warriors from across the world had come together to bring down the dark-lord Sadduman, believing him to be in possession of a wand of mass destruction. So many good men lost, so many thousands of Uruk-hais slaughtered, and for what? No wand was ever found, and the land was just as violent and dangerous after as before.
“I see you for what you are!” cried the demagogue. “You are one of Ray’s minions, here to spy on us. Bring me an axe! I shall take him down.”
A dwarf in the crowd, highly amused, threw him an axe, which he swiftly put to work, hacking and hewing at the great tree of the green.
“Perhaps,” said Downie, “The situation might be clearer if I were to make use of this.” He drew something off his back. The crowd stepped back, seeing it to be a short-bow. But a more careful examination revealed that it had not one but five strings of differing lengths. He twanged one, and it gave off a single harmonious note.
He began to sing.

Upon a time, I met a maid,
Her hair and hands and face were fair,
In the distant land of Kilbraid
There was no finer anywhere.

I wooed her then with wine and song
With flowers and poems and pretty things.
In her eyes I could do no wrong
Our love was as the wealth of kings.

But Kilbraid has its pirate scourge,
The Githon clans, as they are known.
A brigand came to feel the urge
To take my sweetheart for his own.

He was the Yuntos of a ship
And Kroft was his much hated name.
He ruled his men with sword and whip.
On seas of blood he built his fame.

With bandit skill he touched my love,
And stole away her precious locket,
And as he passed me, gave a shove,
And slipped it in my pocket.

Accused was I of thievery
By the man who’d robbed a thousand more.
Oh, bitter, cruel irony!
In vain did I implore.

She sailed with him on the next tide.
I lost her to the foamy seas.
I swore to return her to my side,
Or take my vengeance, as I pleased.

I trained myself in sail and steel,
Sold all I had to buy a ship,
And searched the world for hide or tale
Of the girl who lingered on my lip.

Though years had passed, I came at last
Upon the vessel of my foe.
I boarded it with blade in hand.
Full ten men did I lay low.

To the cabin did I make my way;
Saw a figure there I almost slew.
Her hair and hands and face were grey
It was the maid who once I knew.

And there, the man who led this band
Kilbraid’s Githon Yuntos, Kroft.
A wizened frame, with sword in hand
That he could barely hold aloft.

I left at once, a shattered soul.
Too many years had passed me by.
Revenge, it is a foolish goal.
For time struts on, and all men die.

As he finished the last verse, the tree began to topple over. He sprang from his branch, landing lightly on the ground, and stood face to face with the angry axe-wielding demagogue.v “What possible bearing does that song have our situation?” the man demanded.
“Very little,” admitted Downie, “but there was a powerful runic evocation concealed in the words of the next-to-last stanza.”
The demagogue tried to swing the axe, but found he could not move.
“I’m a pacifist myself, of course,” said Downie.
The demagogue’s feet sank into the ground. His neck stretched skywards, his arms contorting wildly. His skin hardened, and turned to bark. A new oak now stood on the green, replacing its fallen cousin.
The crowd fled, save for the woman who had earlier taken his fancy.
“Why?” she said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Pity him not, my lady. He will be happier as a tree. Wood does not speak, but it listens, and is patient.”
“But even so…”
“And I needed to test my trap. Were anyone senseless enough to attack Ray in open battle, they would be slain at once. But a clever snare might yet bring him down.”
“You mean, you plan to kill him?”
“Certainly not! But if, perhaps, one day, such a thing were to become necessary, it would be as well to have the means prepared, don’t you think?”
“Who are you?” she said.
“Oh, I’m no-one special. Just a humble travelling poet. Perhaps you’d care to travel with me awhile?”
“I must admit, I have nothing better to do. Where are you going?”
“Oh, I’m just following the stars, following the stars.”
He looked up into the sky. Night was drawing in. The darkness was growing.
He laughed, and the two of them set off down the road.

It's not Downie, it's Downie!

“So, what’s your name?” said the lady, after they had walked together for a while.
“In human towns, I am known as Matthew.”
“And your real name?”
“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.”
“Try me.”
“Downie.”
“Downie?”
“Not even close! Your human tongues are so graceless!”
“Charming.”
“If you travel with me long enough, you will learn that the tongue of an elf is nimble and versatile.”
“Sounds like fun. Aren’t you going to ask my name?”
“No,” said Downie. “I prefer you with a sense of mystery.”
“Why?”
“It’s for your own safety. Literary convention. No author would dare to kill you off with so many unanswered questions lingering.”
“You’re weird. So what will you call me?”
“Whatever takes my fancy, lady. Words are my weapons, after all. They are my bread and butter. They are… you know, important stuff.”
They passed a site where a new spaceport was being built, but Downie hurried on by. The whole thing seemed dreadfully unevocative to him, especially after all the trouble they’d been to in establishing a High Fantasy style. And what was the point in speculating about the stars if you could just go and visit them the next day?
Instead, they travelled into a stretch of green virgin forest.
“Ooh, a red squirrel,” said the lady, pointing.
“As a matter of fact, I am fluent in the speech of squirrels,” said Downie, and he signalled to the creature with a twitch of his nostrils.
“Really? What’s he saying to you?”
“‘I like acorns.’ They’re not great conversationalists.”
It was almost midnight now, but the weather was fine, so they decided to bed down in a clearing, beneath the stars. Downie pointed out some of the constellations. “That’s Skowbo... That’s Vizzard… That one’s Gladstone…”
“You’re showing off, aren’t you?”
“It is hard for me to do anything else. My lady, I think you should know that I am still young and do not yet feel ready for a long-term relationship. It seems wrong to settle down when you’re only 1200 years old. What I’m saying is, don’t count on this thing lasting more than a few dozen years. Also, as an elf, I am unable to give you a child,” he said, since they were operating within a strict Tolkien milieu rather than some derivative knock-off with half-elves in it, “so if you want to start a family, you’ll have to find someone else to help.”
“Taking a lot for granted there, aren’t you?”
“No, no. You misunderstand. I just felt that it was best to caution you of these obstacles up front. If we were already romantically involved, bringing up such difficulties might spoil the mood somewhat.”
She slept. He stayed awake, watching the stars.

“We seem to be travelling aimlessly. Do you have a plan?” she asked, the next day.
“Indeed I do. We will wander about at random until something happens, and one of us has to save the other’s life. Romance will follow on from there.”
“But suppose nothing happens?”
“We’re adventurers! Something always happens!”
“I thought you were naught but a humble poet?”
“Good point. I’d best don my adventuring hat.”
He took off his feathered cap, and put on a studded leather cap, with a furry trim to keep the ears warm.
“Now,” he said. “There is a village a league or two ahead. We’ll go there, and accept the quest they offer us.”
“How do you know they’ll offer us a quest?”
“It’s an isolated village! Of course they’ll offer us a quest! The mayor’s daughter will have been kidnapped, no doubt. Either that, or they will all be living in fear of a terrible troll.”
“Or a pack of savage wargs?”
“Exactly! You know, that reminds me of a song.”
“Which you’re going to sing to me?”
“Later.”
“Promise?
“I promise.”
“Is there any chance of a chamomile tea?” he said.
“This is an inn, not a herbalists,” said the innkeeper.
“I could use a beer,” said the lady.
“Peppermint tea, perhaps?”
“Make that two beers,” said the lady. “I don’t drink beer,” said Downie.
“They’re both for me.”
“Why do all my travelling companions turn out to be alcoholics?” he mused.
“Probably just coincidence,” she said.
He addressed the innkeeper. “I don’t suppose the mayor’s daughter’s been kidnapped?”
“I’m the mayor, and I don’t have a daughter.”
Downie sighed, and turned to stare at the fire, and took off his furry hat.

scent of autumn pine
drowned by smoke of burning logs
hope that’s not an ent…

He became aware that people were staring at him. Had he committed some great faux pas? No, it must have been the unleashing of his ears.
“A soulless faery!” cried the mayor.
“Well, if you like. I suppose it’s more dignified than ‘pixie-face.’”
The lady drew close to his side, and reached into her pocket.
“You’ve sullied this lady, haven’t you?” said the mayor.
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Come on, let’s get him!”
“Ah, this must be that adventure we were seeking. How disappointing. When will I find a foeman worthy of my steel?”
They closed in on him, but he flipped himself up onto the mantelpiece, and then leapt over the mob, putting his foot on someone’s head and making it all the way to the door.
“Metaphorically speaking, of course,” he added, turning back. “I carry no steel.”
“Hey!” said the lady, but Downie slipped away.

She looked around at the surly men, one of whom said, “Well, my pretty, we may have lost the elf, but we still have you.”
“So it would appear,” she said.
The tall one put his arms around her from behind. “Hey, she’s wearing splint mail!”
The fat one tore away part of her robe. “Nah, that’s scale mail. Splint mail consists of vertical metal strips on a flexible backing.”
“Really? Tell me, what’s the difference between ring mail and chain mail? I can never remember.”
“Shut up!” said the mayor.
“Hey, is that a chastity belt?”
“Put her down! We’re going to use her as bait. The elf will return for her.”
“You think?” she said, doubtfully.
“You’d better hope so.”

Soon, she found herself in the village square, hands tied behind her back, a noose around her neck and a trapdoor beneath her feet. The mob was now three dozen strong.
“Well?” said the short one. “I don’t see him.”
“He’s out there,” said the mayor. “Been listening to us the whole time, I bet. You know how sneaky elves can be. Go on, girl, call him.”
“Hey! Downie!” she shouted. “For Frog’s sake! You said you wanted to rescue me, now’s your chance!”
A voice came from nowhere.
“It’s not ‘Downie’. It’s Downie. You’re saying it wrong.”
They all looked around, nervously. In the distance, they heard a sound like a wolf howling.
There was a musical note. An arrow sang out through the air, narrowly missing the rope. They turned in the direction it had come from.
“Damn. Let me try that again.”
Another note, another arrow. This time, it went was about a foot lower. If the lady had worn an apple on her head, it would have been a very impressive shot, barely scraping her hair. It grazed the rope, but didn’t sever it.
“You Frog-damned incompetent buffoon!” yelled the lady. “That could have killed me!”
“Sorry. This bow’s been pretty useless since I converted it into a musical instrument.”
A dozen armed men began to fan out, to search for the source of the missile fire.
“Fear not, lady. I always keep my promises,” shouted Downie.
“Oh really?”
“Yes! I promised you a song, and I’ll give you one!”
He began to play. It was the same tune as in the last song she’d heard him sing. She wondered if it was the only one he knew.

When I was young and unaware
I met a maid, and grew quite fond.
Her heart and hands and face were fair.
Her hair? A kind of strawberry-blonde.

I courted her with wine and song
And all my usual tawdry ploys.
I won her love before too long
Despite a dozen rival boys.

Her family never would relent
And threatened me when we did meet.
But we cared not for their consent;
Forbidden fruit is always sweet.

We sought to take our wedding vow,
But tragedy soon came to pass.
A day that haunts me even now;
I found her dead upon the grass.

Her throat was cut, her life was lost,
Her dress was stained with mortal blood,
Her silken skin was cold as frost.
My tears, they flowed as ‘twere a flood.

But who had slain my darling pure?
A brother crazed? A jealous lout?
I sought a plan, a trap, a lure!
I swore in rage to find him out!

A summoning, a scheme quite grim
A settling of scores with death.
A spell I’d cast to seek out him
Who’d left me so sore bereft.

I called up forty devil hounds;
Spilt blood would be repaid with fire.
The killer would be shortly found;
They’d scour the village with their ire!

Their howling made a dreadful din
That filled you with the fear of hell.
The demon dogs could smell the sin
That in a human heart doth dwell.

And when at last the spell was past
I walked across the scorched land
The die was cast, it had been fast.
But who’d been dealt their final hand?

The hounds of hell had worked too well.
They’d sought out hearts too full of hate
The mad; the cruel; the bad; the fell.
And wrought upon them furious fate.

I walked in hush from house to house
So many sinful souls were bared.
No creature stirred, not man nor mouse
For not a single life was spared!

So though I’m but a soulless elf
Let this warning chill your bones.
Judge not lest you be judged yourself
Don’t be the one that casts the stones.

Downie finished his song, and leapt off a rooftop. He was utterly surrounded. There was silence for a moment. “Is that it?” said the lady. “No hidden spell? No cunning plan?”
“You expected me to work some secret charm into the words of my song? To summon a pack of hellhounds?”
“Something like that.”
“Did you not listen to my message? Anyway, there was no need.”
“You mean,” said the mayor, aiming a crossbow at his stomach, “that you trust us to see the light and let the two of you go?”
“No,” said Downie. “I mean I had no need to cast a summoning spell, because I already did it ten minutes ago.”
The howling sound came again. It was much closer now.
Several huge slavering dogs burst out from the undergrowth and began to run towards them through the village streets.
The mob panicked, broke, and ran.
The lady was left alone in the square, encircled by the dogs. She had some sort of small blade in her hands (which were now free), and was using it to cut the rope above her head, where the arrow had damaged it. “Downie! Call them off!” she cried.
“I keep telling you, it’s not ‘Downie’. It’s Downie.”
“Help me!”
“But surely your heart, at least, is pure as driven snow?” said Downie. The dogs were sniffing at her now.
“Get them away from me!” She had a blade in each hand now, and was desperately trying to ward off the beasts.
“I wonder what that means? ‘Driven snow’?”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with you? Surely you aren’t so superstitious as to believe in devil dogs?” said the elf.
“Huh?”
“They’re probably hoping for a biscuit or something.”
“They’re just normal dogs?”
“Of course! After all, I am a pacifist. And anyway, the ‘summon dogs’ spell is a lot easier than ‘summon hellhounds’. If they’re bothering you, I’ll perform the ritual banishment.”
He took a deep breath, coughed, and said, “Go on, shoo!”
The dogs scattered. The square was left silent. No creature stirred, not man nor mouse.
“Well, that was a reasonably entertaining way to pass the time,” said Downie. “Shall we go on to the next village?”
“You expect me to stay with you after that?”
“After what? I saved you without hurting anyone, didn’t I?”
“After… after I had to miss out on my beers thanks to your stupid ears?
“Hmm… There could be a song in that…”
“Tell me, do all your songs involving maidens fair?”
“Most of them. I was hoping to be able to pen one about you, in due time.”
“Hmm… Don’t they all end in tragedy?”
“All endings tend towards the tragic. It’s in their nature.”
“That’s a pretty miserable way of looking at things.”
“I’m a pretty miserable person. That’s why I seek adventure. It’s the only thing that keeps my mind off my melancholy. So, are you coming with me or what?”
“Fine. If I must.”
They set out along a path.
“Where did those knives come from?” he asked.
“Just one of my little secrets.”
“Do you really wear a chastity belt?”
“A young lady out on the road can’t be too careful.”
“You have a key for it?”
“Lost it while back.”
“That sounds dreadfully inconvenient.”
“Not really. I can pick the lock with my hairpin in two and a half seconds. It keeps my thief skills sharp. So, what do we do now?”
“We keep going. Sooner or later, I’ll get into trouble, and you’ll rescue me, and then we’ll have something to base a relationship on.”
“You know, there are other ways to strike up a rapport.”
“Oh, I could win you over with a love poem in half a minute. But that would be too easy.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Perhaps.”
“Come on, I think there’s another village this way. Maybe they’re besieged by orc raiders,” said the lady.
“Or live in fear of a dreadful wyvern.”
“Or are ruled over by a cruel necromancer.”
“Or a demon, could be a demon…”