The Fiction-Writing Directorate

In Part One of this tale, Our Heroes learned of their Urgent Need for a Manifesto (lest their Web-Site license be revoked!), and traveled Bravely to the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan. Upon arrival, they found themselves Surrounded by angry Miners with Rifles! In Part Two, Lida distracted the hostile miners while Gustav and Ethelie crept into the mine. Many hours later, our Intrepid Trio fled Kazakhstan just moments before the mine exploded!

Gustav

I have hesitated: I do not know if this woeful tale should be told. There are reasons why strong men blanch at the thought of the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan; there are reasons even the most hardened criminals speak of it only in whispers; there are reasons, my friends, why I will never tread its paths again, even had it not been destroyed in the explosion as we fled.

I did not wish to tell you, for the horrors of your own mind are sufficient for your torments; I did not wish to add to your burden. Ethelie argued that we must show our Vulnerability, be Open and Authentic to connect with our Agents. A splendid argument, I’m sure, but I held my ground: I would not have a generation of writers driven insane by my dark tale.

Then Lida took my trembling hand, and gazed fondly into my eyes, and simply said, “You must, Gustav. You must warn them.”

She was consoling, and she was right: I could not let any other writers venture unknowingly into the perils of the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan. I shall complete the tale.

The Festering Darkness Embraced Us.

Once we saw that Lida had the irate miners firmly in hand, Ethelie and I took up our equipment and crept into the mine. We heard no sounds of pursuit, but it was not until we had turned the first corner that I paused to light a flickering light against the foul darkness. This darkness was no mere absence of light; it seemed to have an oily presence of its own, which pressed insinuatingly against my skin. I shuddered, but would not be daunted. No, my friends, I would not be daunted until we were much deeper in the bowels of the mountain.

I peered into the heavy bag I bore upon my shoulder: it contained Markus, my astonishingly corpulent cat, whom I love more than any other creature in the world. I should not have brought him, I know–O how I know! Do not burden me with your recriminations!–but I could not bear to be parted from him, and I found his purring weight a great comfort as we trudged through the labyrinthine passages of the Mines.

“Hurry,” Ethelie said, her face stern, as usual. “Lida will not be able to distract them for as long as we’d like. She overestimates her skills.” She prodded one of the canaries—a writer who simply refused to write, no matter what measures we took– with her umbrella. He protested, but one glance at her face was sufficient to silence him, and he led us deeper into the tunnels. Ethelie watched him carefully for any signs of peril, but for a seemingly endless trudge through the tunnels, it seemed all was safe and quiet.

It was not.

The First Canary Suffocated.

Unbeknownst to us, a noxious and strangling gas oozed out of the depths of the earth, turning the air impure. The canary stood before us, clutching his throat, gasping desperately for air, his face turning dark and slack, and ultimately collapsed. Ethelie fastened her gas mask more firmly and bent to feel for a pulse. “He’s dead,” she said, her words muffled by her mask. Poor lad; he was only eighteen. If only he had been willing to Write, what a long and marvel-filled life he might have had. I was thankful Lida was not here to make an insipid pronouncement about how this shameful loss was “just like writing.”

There was nothing we could do for him. I avoided squashing him as I stepped over his body and continued down the tunnel, Markus thumping heavily against my back with every step, a weighted counterpoint to my pace.

The other canaries did not fare much better than the first.  The second fell to some sort of tentacled horror; Ethelie dispatched the beast with her pistol. I had to calm Markus after the shot, for the sound terrified him and he yowled. Ethelie looked surprised that I had smuggled Markus in, then glowered, but did not say anything; she just pursed her lips and waited impatiently until we were ready to continue.

The third and fourth canaries died when a tunnel collapsed; the fifth drowned by an angry dwarf; the sixth was pierced by a stalagtite, and I cannot say if the stalagtite fell or was hurled by some dark horror awoken by our passage. We had only one canary left, and we still hadn’t found a Manifesto. The mines were ancient, and the richest veins had been exhausted years ago: but we could not return without our Manifesto.

We Find the Manifesto!

Deep under the mountain, time loses meaning: there is nothing but your steps, the constant pressing darkness, your faint light, your obese cat purring against your back. I do not know how long we wandered, urgent and seeking; but I know that at long last, we reached our goal.

I heard Ethelie gasp, and raised the lantern higher. It cast its fragile beams on what we’d been seeking: a Manifesto. O, my friend, it was an absolutely magnificent specimen, and I could not imagine why it had not been wrested from the earth long before now.

Then I heard terrible claws scraping against stone, and knew: this manifesto was protected by a dragon.

We Confront the Dragon.

Ethelie cursed; I have never heard her use such language before. “Run!” she shouted to me — but she turned to face the monster, raising her tiny pistol in her quaking hands, even though she had to know it would be no use to the fire-breathing horror that hunted us.

“No,” I said. I could not let her die alone!

“Fine,” she said, and shoved the gun in my hand as she ran past. She grabbed the Manifesto, which separated from the living stone with a strange squelching-ripping sound. She grabbed the lantern, as well, and the grasping darkness finally won possession of my person.

So be it. I exist to serve the Directorate; and if the best way I can do that giving my life so that Ethelie might flee with the Manifesto, then so be it. I consoled myself with the belief that my death would be instantaneous; it would not take long for me to die when engulfed in dragon-fire.

A great wind blew through the tunnel as the dragon inhaled, preparatory to incinerating me with a massive exhale; it would only be seconds.

I pulled Markus out of the bag and clutched him to my chest, though my arms could barely support his bulk. I buried my face in his musty fur, and waited. In those agonizing seconds, I first felt him purr, and then heard it, until there was nothing left in the world but the warmth of his body, his sound, his scent –

An instant later he yowled fiercely and squirmed in my arms. I could not hold him! I am too weak! I–

I am sorry. Allow me to collect myself.

The End

I could not see through the impenetrable dark, but I could feel and I could hear. Markus leaped out of my arms and hurled himself through the darkness toward the beast, howling and screeching as fiercely as if he were a whole pack of VerbHounds. I heard him land on the dragon with a meaty thump and I heard the dragon’s claws thrashing against the walls of the mine and I ran.

I ran.

I could not save Markus and I could not stand with him. I simply ran. Behind me, Markus’s battle with the dragon raged on — and as you know from Part II of this woeful tale, it ultimately lead to the complete destruction of the entire mines.

O Markus!

The rest of the tale does not bear telling. We boarded Lida’s zeppelin and sailed away from Kazakhstan forever. Ethelie gripped the Manifesto in her bony hands the entire voyage, eyes glinting as viciously as the dragon’s, while Lida prattled on about the Lessons she’d learned about Vulnerability and Struggle and Sacrifice and Pie and Duty.

Markus’s headstone lies beneath the old cherry tree beside the kraken’s pond, though his body was destroyed along with, one assumes, that of the dragon and all those miners. I visit it often, remembering my friend’s bravery, and cursing my own cowardice.

His epitaph? “Enjoy your damn manifesto.”

Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe.