The Deep Woods Bulletin, VOL. 8, NO. 17
The Deep Woods Bulletin, VOL. 8, NO. 17
The week of... what is the week, now? We cannot recall.
A crow scans a sea of rubble from his perch at the top of a flag pole. If he could just pick it out… there. He takes wing and lands on a pile of detritus. Sorting through it, he finds mostly inedible, useless garbage. Bones picked clean of meat and marrow and clothing. Shards of glass worn smooth by the wind. Empty, rusted cans.
But here and there, useful bits to be taken home. He gathers them in his beak.
He pauses. Something is wrong. Movement now, suddenly, from the corner of his eye. He leaps away, narrowly dodging a snarling, scaled thing, a claw grazing the feathers on the back of his head. It turns and pounces again, but slips on a glass bottle. The crow is already in the air, flying back to safety, caw-laughing all the way.
He spots his tree and quietly descends. His mate is there, sitting on their eggs. She nibbles his cheek and looks intently at the salvage: torn rags, clumps of hair, and a scrap of paper.
The paper would be of interest to you, were alive to see it: it is a copy of the DEEP WOODS BULLETIN. There is no one left here who can read it. Perhaps one day, human language will return. But not today.
The pair stuff the wadding into the sides of their nest, sealing the hole blown open by last night’s piercing storm. Insulation for their precious, fragile eggs. They puff themselves up and nestle into one another. A second glance is cast at the paper.
If it could be read, this is what it would say:
Fiery the angels fell
Did you see the meteor that lit the night like day? You there, your bones, did they shake? Did your teeth chatter in your jaw, even as it flattened the hills outside Hampshire? Were you deafened by the inhuman screams coming from the smouldering depths of the crater?
Some of you did. Some of you were. The most curious, not taking the time to sweep the broken glass from their blown-out bedroom windows, took to the impact site almost immediately. Their dogs, when bidden, would not come to their masters’ sides. In the hours before the fall, they withdrew into the darkest, quietest parts of the home, clustered together in a comforting pile, tails and ears tucked down. Did they receive some sort of advanced warning? Could they smell it in the air? We cannot know; we are not ourselves dogs.
We will relate as best we can what these brave few townsfolk witnessed.
The crater, ashen and smoking, held at its bottom a writhing mass, glowing red-hot: the source of the screaming, now unmistakably a woman’s. She screeched a stream of incomprehensible babble, with a few English words heard hear and there. It was agreed that multiple references were made to a king of some kind.
The gathering was cut short by the sudden and silent arrival of the Leafeaters, the enigmatic green-and-gold clad personal guard of the Dappled Queen. “As if from nowhere,” said one onlooker. “Nice uniforms all covered in dirt, too.” The guard split, wordlessly, into thee groups. The first fixed bayonets to their long guns and advanced on the crowd, pushing them back and establishing a perimeter. The second walked a circle around the crater, scattering seeds as it went. The third followed close behind with small copper cans, pouring shimmering liquid into the soil.
Moments later, a wall of thickly-woven and spined bamboo sprang up. The air grew thick, deadening the screams. The crowd quietly dispersed. Little has changed there since, save for the erection of a secondary wooden wall around the site.
The Leafeaters manning the gate refused to respond to any of the questions posed by our increasingly impatient correspondent. A letter sent to our office by the Crown declared the area to be “of utmost concern to the security of the Realm” and will be off-limits until further notice.
We would very much like to get to the bottom of this. However, as the Crown has shut down all inquiry, we will have to resort to secondary sources. Interested parties may contact us in the usual way.
An appetite for science
Dr. Panagiotis Kleftiko’s Itinerant Manufactory & Grill has a new home, having just recently set up shop on a cliff overlooking Maldon Valley. Dr. Kleftiko has been a fixture of the region since his arrival from Greece in January. You may have seen his oblong carriage rattling along a country road, driverless, puffing steam from several chimneys placed haphazardly along the tin-plated exterior. Upon arrival to its destination, it begins a most fantastic transformation.
First, its six wheels splay outwards. Then, with great whirring clicks, the tin plates pop open and unfold in the most convoluted way. This ingenious unpacking turns the carriage into a smart, squat little structure nearly three times the size of its initial configuration. Robust metal arms grip the ground to fortify the building. A sign in colourful electric lightbulbs invites you into the workshop and sales floor.
Inside, Dr. Kleftiko can be found behind the counter at his bench, hammering away on some widget or doodad. He sells all manner of contraptions, from measurement tools to specialty astronomical equipment to devices so complex that he cannot quite explain their purpose to a layperson.
“In the simplest terms,” he began, gesturing to a metallic semi-sphere dotted with opaque circular windows, “this, in conjunction with a number of instruments (that I can provide for a reasonable price) and a suitable supply of power, allows for the analysis of supervinial polyspline curvatures along semi-manifurls of both the standard and Rosenbaum variety.”
He paused for a moment, satisfied. Then, sighing and deflating a little, he pointed to a clock and said “This one tells the time.”
Far more is sold here than absurdly impenetrable technical marvels. “I serve a discerning clientele, it’s true. However, the fact of the matter is that demand is low, the academy is not buying as much as it should, and there are few deep-pocketed amateurs kicking around. I have had to diversify my selections.” From behind the counter, Kleftiko walked to an adjoining room of tables and chairs, where joints of meat roasted over charcoal flames.
“My father had a restaurant in the village, a taverna. I worked there as a boy. Some things stick. I put my little twist on it, but it is similar to what you would find there.” Many of the most demanding work in the restaurant has been automated. Clockwork constructs carefully turn the spits, automatically adjusting for temperature and doneness. A foot-pedal-powered vegetable slicer chops onions, tomatoes, and cucumbers for salad.
Above all this, a portrait photograph of Kleftiko Sr. and his wife watch over the space.
“The bulk of the business is done here. And the big spenders, they can have a souvlaki while I repair their telephonic encabulators.”
When asked why this specific spot was chosen, Kleftiko’s eyes darted briefly to the window, which commands an impressive view of the ancient runed standing stones that the Valley is famous for. He smiled. “It stands out, does it not?”
Customers began to file in. We left the doctor to his work and wish him the very best.
Dr. Kleftiko’s Itinerant Manufactory & Grill is open weekdays from 11:00 am - 10:00pm.
There was a STORY here. It’s gone now.
The exquisite journalistic composition that would have occupied this space has gone missing. Whether it up and left of its own accord, or whether, as we suspect, it was stolen and secreted away in the night, it is no longer here. After an initial panic, have committed ourselves, single-mindedly, to its safe return.
No expense has been spared in the tracking down of our beloved story, and no tool left unused. Even now, the gears of a great and terrible machine are turning. Old favours, nearly forgotten, have been found, dusted off, and called in. Feelers are being put out in a very literal sense; comply with them, should they happen upon you. Authorities have been notified.
Those authorities.
We now must reach out to you, dear reader. We humbly bend and scrape at your feet and beg for your assistance. With your combined and prodigious brainpower, you will be most useful in solving this case. We may also have a hunch that one or more of you are involved, directly or indirectly, in the disappearance. If so, please turn yourself in to our offices forthwith, story in hand and unharmed.
Like a displeased parent, we will not be mad. Only disappointed.
For the rest of you, we will attempt to provide as accurate a description of the piece as possible. We cannot simply reproduce it here. If we could, it would not be missing, you see?
The story resembles its many brothers and sisters and from a distance is indistinguishable from them. It is roughly one story in length, or the equivalent of three blurbs, written in ink on paper. It is possible that the story has been rewritten by its captors as a form of disguise. In that case, we have narrowed down the most likely combination of potential writing implements and materials.
Be on the lookout for any document written in or containing graphite, charcoal, blood, pastel, inscription or carving. Pay close attention to any parchment, vellum, slate tablets, birch bark, copper ingots, or clay cylinders. Included alongside this notice are composite images of the aforementioned configurations for identification purposes. As it could be anywhere, copies of these images will be posted everywhere.
You may have several questions. You may be asking how any of this is possible, how something as intangible as a news story can disappear, how no copies of the original were saved, how a different story could not be substituted in. And if only one copy was made and stolen, what does that say about the state of the BULLETIN’s newsroom? Just how trustworthy is this publication, and how lax its security?
These are all questions, yes. Questions asked by a copycat thief to probe our defenses and discover what cracks lie therein? Or perhaps you are a demoralization agent from the Competition. Engaging in a little corporate espionage, are we? We see right through you, and elect to keep our mouths firmly shut.
You will get nothing more from us.
Thank you for reading and for your continued interest!
Consider subscribing to the DEEP WOODS BULLETIN and sharing this post in particular. It would go a long way to growing our readership.
Our goal is to one day have every pair of eyes on this Earth glance, at least once, over an edition.
More is on the way, and your feedback is sincerely appreciated.
Yours eternally,
The Editor