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| Chronicles of the Cake Stop |
| Vol IV No. 2 |
Slipping between worlds
Traverse imagination
Time and space are one
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Redshift draws her recently acquired sword from the special sheath slung underneath the seat of her
Windcheetah and scents the air, testing for danger with the finely honed senses of a master of the
shadow arts. The rift has closed behind them, and the sudden, thick quiet of A-Time descends over
them like an eiderdown of syrup. Aeroflash is no longer hovering. He has solidity here. A few of the
Cake Stop take the opportunity to give him a hug, something that they have not been able to do since
the fateful day on the Magic Roundabout in Swindon.
It is not noiseless in A-Time. It is simply thick. Sounds have the same carrying ability and clarity as
they would underwater, although there is not the vast rush of the ocean providing a backround of white
noise. Songs sung here echo across universes; stories told become myth; deeds become legend. The
attention of a gnat has the weight of the glance of a man; the attention of a man has the weight of the
glance of a god. The glance of a god has the crushing weight of history behind it.
But these few, these happy few, these few are heroes. They create history. Theirs is the stuff of legends,
their stories are the myths of the throwaway age, their songs part of the great harmonies. They arrive in
the vast, rolling, false-colour topography of A-Time, with its sandworms, giant clowns, snake women,
harpies and centaurs, and A-Time stands up and takes notice.
The High Priestess takes a moment to collect herself. Her face is impassive behind the mirrored lenses
of the Rudy Projects fashioned by her old friend Wayland, but there is already a hint of strain in her
features. It has not escaped her attention, nor that of the plucky young Kathy Pike, that one of the more
recent incomers to the Intrepid Sorority, Bagonabike, is proving something of a distraction for the
pixie-eared EvilChuffy. The mystic writing on Caledfwlch is writhing and glowing dully in a way that
suggests the scurrilous scallywag has a great deal on his mind and is somewhat restless. By the way he
has dropped back from his usual position near the front of the pack, where The Cardinal usually keeps
them so that he can indulge in mutual whinging with Fingal, and is now acting as domestique for the
lady who hides her beauty and lovely nature behind a false facade of frigidity beyond which few men
have been privileged enough to glimpse, it is clear he has been captivated by her genteel femininity.
As has Terry. It may yet come to fisticuffs. This is a note of discordance that they could well do
without at this time.
Thought and Memory glide past and then alight, one on the rackpack on Fingal's rear rack, the other on
the aerobars. FatBloke is right behind Ravenbait at this time and finds himself being stared at by a
raven with mad eyes and big claws. He drops back and moves a little to one side, where he finds
Bardsandwarriors trying to remember the corvid identification tips Ravenbait had once told him.
Flying Monkey and Nuttycyclist have taken up the rear of the pack. Nutty is carrying a severe injury,
and has been told quite firmly not to try taking any turns at the front. There is also the question of a rear
guard to make sure that the pack does not split, especially with all the new people who will not
understand the potential seriousness of becoming lost in A-Time.
At the first crossroads Ravenbait leads them straight on. This is the path to the castle of the Tour God
Armstrong, however there is no risk of being ambushed by centaurs this time. They pass the tree of the
Hanged God, but Old One Eye is taking a break from his self-crucifixion today. The ground ripples and
the soft ridge of a sandworm cast appears in the lurid green earth, trundling slowly back in the direction
they have come, parallel with the road. One of the hoopy birds, they of the incredibly long, thin legs
and predatory beak capable of piercing straight through a buried worm underfoot, flaps down with a
crazy flutter of stubby wings, the occasional grey feather floating away on the still air, landing near the
cast and stalking forward after its creator.
A movement for off to the right catches Gonzo's eye. His mouth works noiselessly as he spots his first
giant clown. The enormous figure, possibly some twenty storeys high, is striding across the landscape
with the blank yet somehow darkly evil expression that they all wear.
"Yes," says Hasufel. "It's a clown. A very, very, very big clown. If we're lucky we won't see any more."
Behind them Macleach fingers the tab on a tin of Irn Bru but knows that it is not yet time to awaken his
superhero alter-ego. It is enough to know that he could, if he chose.
Simplebsharris pulls out a banana from a pocket somewhere and offers it around. No one is really in
the mood, so he eats it himself.
They pass the turning that they would need to take to visit Castle Armstrong. The old hands from the
League and the Sorority glance down the smooth track, shuddering a little and wondering if there is
any sign remaining of their battle with the ABD and the Humungous. Are the ancient wrecks of cars
still there: the dismembered shell of the mutant humvee, the rusting hulks of abandoned white vans, the
hubcaps and broken exhaust pipes? Are there still the skeletal claws of hands so used to grasping
steering wheels that they were never able to straighten their fingers, and the bones of skeletons
weakened by a lifetime spent imprisoned in mobile metal cages, or have these fragile and brittle things
turned to dust under the tiny feet of passing animals and the soft winds of the plain?
The High Priestess leads them onwards.
They see Rolling Rock, the last of its kind, sole survivor of a once great race of sentient boulders, now
forlornly searching for another, unable to understand that he is the last, that the rest of his species was
captured and crushed to be used as hardcore for the roads built by the ABD before they were
vanquished by the combined might of the Gods of Cycling. A high-pitched, mournful singing, drifting
from an immeasurable distance and making the hairs on the backs of their necks stand on end, is
identified with a horrified shudder by Jonathan Ellis as the Singing Ringing Tree. Shen advises him
that here in A-Time the Land can pull things from deep inside, the most hidden fears, and make them
seem real.
FatBloke starts looking nervous and muttering about Sarah and Hoppity. Macleach grabs him by the
shoulder.
"Pull yourself together man!" he urges through gritted teeth. "A clown Archetype has just gone past.
Do you want to make things really bad?"
"What's that noise?" asks Rigid Raider. "Sounds like the theme from The Exorcist."
"Oh crap," says Arellcat. "Somebody get Kitzy calmed down and get word forward that we have a
problem before this gets out of control. We'll have the Spirit of Dark and Lonely Waters and the
Mysterons turning up next."
Sleepless in the Saddle balks as he sees the face of Justin Timberlake suddenly appear in a cloud in an
otherwise cloudless sky.
There is a cracking, rumbling sound and what looks like an enormous sandworm breaks through the
ground at the side of the road. Only it isn't a sandworm. As a gurgling sounds comes from deep within
its metallic depths Rafletcher recognises it as the pipe from Bognor Regis swimming pool. The pack
starts to split to avoid the horrific sense of pulling and sucking dragging them towards it.
"Don't split the pack!" Flying Monkey cries desperately. Someone in the middle wobbles dangerously.
The entire set could come flying apart at any moment and he knows that the Priestess is struggling to
maintain the Egregore as it is.
To one side of the road is a hunched figure in a drab overcoat, lank hair falling forwards and hiding his
face. His feet are bare and dirty, his fingernails ragged and black with filth. Ndamauk shrieks and
swerves reflexively as a mass of fleshy green leaves splits open the road surface with a crack and
begins to grow vigorously at a horrifying rate. His back wheel clips the front of the Archaeologist's. Si
manages to remain in control, however Ndamauk is thrown off balance by the contact. He gets his bars
at an awkward angle and starts to fall sideways.
Elite 5th Cat pushes him back up from the relative solidity of her windcheetah. Yenrod grabs him and
stabilises him, but the sudden loss of cohesion has fatally damaged the pack. Cuddy Duck swerves to
avoid FatBloke, who has come almost to a stop to avoid running into the back of Bardsandwarriors.
Shane suddenly sprints forwards, yelling "Fire in the hole!!"
A grenade has suddenly appeared.
Powerless to stop the sudden disintegration, Ravenbait looks back in hopeless, strained despair, and
sees the lank and dirty man at the side of the road suddenly draw himself to his full height and let his
coat hang open. The grenade is a dud, but it doesn't matter. A pile up has occurred and the pack has
split. Already there is a shimmering indicating that the information matrix is reconfiguring to adapt to
the separate groups. Four separate knots of cyclists, and one or two isolated stragglers, suddenly vanish
their separate ways into the vast, uncharted wilderness of A-Time.
The High Priestess sees the cold, smug smile on the face of the unkempt man with the flat, white eyes
and steps forward in icy fury. The man flaps his arms upwards, as if doing an impression of a bird, and
suddenly explodes into a crowd of crows that disperses in all directions like a storm.
Ravenbait, Redshift, FatBloke, Cuddy, Hairyhippy, Kathy Pike, Tim Pike and Hasufel are left alone
with a pair of unconcerned ravens and no sign of their friends.
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