Beginning (story)

Beginning, The




“Now, wait just a minute!”

“What?”

“You can’t just go barging in like that.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” the flustered voice faltered, “it needs proper consideration.”


“I’ve considered it and I’m ready to begin.”

“You can’t be ready!” A polished shoe stomped an exclamation on the floor. Tiny clouds of dust rose up and settled down again, some of them on the shoe.

“Why not?”

“Stop saying that.”

“Why?”

“Oh for heaven’s sakes, can’t you be serious for one minute?”

“I am being serious. This is a very serious matter to me. It matters a great deal. Fact of the matter is, I couldn’t be more serious if I tried.”

Dusty shoe turned its tip accusingly towards its pristinely polished, gleaming counterpart. It may have felt victimised by the dust, or that it was unfair it should be singled out; it’s generally quite hard to tell with shoes. Farther up, the immaculately pressed pinstriped trousers trembled anxiously. Farther up still, a pair of pale, rice-papery hands clenched and unclenched with tiny, vigorous spasms. And still higher, a voice strained by decades of choked-back opinions squeaked in an incomprehensible rage.

“Knghhhhhh…ahghgh…knknkkn..”

“What?”

Ancient, thin lips puckered up in a childish pout, unable to make the right words.

Bertram shrugged. He didn’t have time for this. Not now. He was ready and he would begin, the old codger would just have to bear it. He walked over to his desk, sat down, grabbed a pen and, with particular gusto he hadn’t felt for over a year, wrote on the 110gsm paper he had prepared especially for this occasion:

Shame it wasn’t Tuesday.

In the middle of the room, slightly trembling, First Undersecretary, Sir Waleter Discordant, closed his eyes, fully expecting a plague of locusts or, at the very least, a bolt of lightning. Neither occurred. After a few minutes fraught with inner turmoil, Sir Waleter chanced a peek through his left eye and spying no immediate danger, but seeing Bertram feverishly at his task, let both his eyes shoot wide open.

Tuesday is generally known to be a good sort of day. Not like Monday, which everybody hates, or Sunday, the day before the day that everybody hates. It is a day after all the bad days have passed but before the week reaches the peak of tedium. In some ways, Tuesday is possibly better than even Friday. Bertram continued to write in his large, round handwriting, scraping the biro on the 110-gsm papers designed for heavy printing. The ink soaked in, leaving no smears.

“We are ruined, ruined!” intoned the First Undersecretary into his palms, which were pressed tightly over his long, drawn face.

“Nonsense, pure nonsense!” Bertram managed a quip amidst his frenzied pen strokes.

“You have no idea what you’ve done, have you?”

Sir Waleter turned sharply towards Bertram, or rather, Bertram’s hunched, yet still broad, back. “And at least straighten up when you are writing, you look like a…like a…like a person of poor breeding,” he finished huffily. Or it might have been haughtily, it wasn’t always easy to tell with the First Undersecretary; huff and haught were pretty much it, as far as his tone went.

Bertram straightened up in his chair and continued.

Had it been Tuesday, by golly, it would have been glorious. Birds chirping, sun shining, merriment and cheer all around. One could get used to that sort of Tuesday, Felibrant thought to himself, tying his shoelace for the fifteenth time. Why can’t they make the blasted things stick, he thought crossly to himself. Now, it may be argued that thinking is usually done to oneself, but it has also been said, by certain classes of new wave thinkers, that some thinking can be, and in fact often is, done aloud, for all to hear.

Sir Waleter, having read the latest paragraph over Bertram’s shoulder, groaned loudly. Bertram studiously ignored him and continued to write.

In any case, even if Felibrant were thinking aloud, which he wasn’t, there would have been no one to hear his thinking, for he was alone, there wasn’t a soul around. That is to say,

“And another thing, why in the name of all that is holy do you insist on using that daft implement?” Sir Waleter wrinkled his nose at the biro in Bertram’s hand. “Honestly, with that sort of attitude, you might as well use a typewriter or,” Sir Waleter hesitated, as if the words he was about to say would cause him actual physical pain, “even that evil contraption you use for your daily correspondence.”

Bertram paused for a moment to examine the biro in his hand. Apparently satisfied, he gave it a fond little smile and pressed on; there were souls around; of birds, small mammals, flowers and such, if those things had souls, on which point Felibrant was somewhat unsure; but there wasn’t a human person to be seen anywhere, and that was the point. Or rather, that would have been the point if, indeed, there was a point to be made, which wasn’t altogether clear.

Sir Waleter walked over to the overstuffed chair by the fireplace and sank into it wordlessly. His wispy, white hair stuck limply to his head and his knees appeared even bonier than usual. Truth be told, they worked themselves up into two sharp points of worry. At least that’s what a casual observer would have thought, had they been observing him, which they were not, because Bertram had his back turned to him and there was nobody else in the room.

Sir Waleter looked forlornly at the italicised words floating in the air around him. He was done for, he knew. There was simply no way to get himself, or that buffoon, Bertram, out of this predicament.

Just then, a heavy candlestick, the one on top of the marble fireplace in front of the gilded mirror, fell off and landed with a thud on the Persian carpet at the First Undersecretary’s feet.

Sir Waleter stared at the candlestick at his feet and then at Bertram, still writing furiously. He narrowed his eyes and raised one sharp eyebrow. Taking a deep breath, he glanced about, bracing himself for the next italicized calamity.

The air in the room grew heavy with anticipation and dewy with the pressure of discordant realities. By the large bay window, old damask curtains twitched in a ghostly breeze, their mustard yellow fabric appearing to change hue in fits of creative pique.

And then, Bertram stopped writing. He leaned back in his chair, pen poised in mid air and a faraway look in his eye. After a few moments that seemed to Sir Waleter to last an eternity, Bertram exclaimed a small “Ha!” and hunched, once again, over his desk.

In the fireplace, the fire crackled excitedly, sending small, orange cinders flying in all directions. Sir Waleter gripped the arms of his chair with bony hands and waited with bated breath.

Bertram paused to scratch his chin, wiggled slightly in his seat and, pressing his pen tightly to the 100gsm paper, methodically crossed out the last two paragraphs.

Sir Waleter draw back in surprise as the candlestick repositioned itself back on the top of the fireplace. His knees, too, were no longer wrapped in a gauzy cloud of italics.

“How can this be?” he exclaimed excitedly. “I’ve never heard of such a thing! It cannot be done!”

Bertram turned slightly in his chair and half-faced the old man. “Not to be pointing out the obvious, or anything, but, it seems to me that it can, indeed, be done, for it was done, by me, just now, as you sat there watching.” He didn’t add ‘you daft old bag of bones’ as he would have liked to; after all, Bertram wasn’t of poor breeding, no matter what the old dust jacket said.

“But…but…” Sir Waleter grappled for words.

“It seems to me, Sir Waleter,” Bertram continued, “that for one who professes himself the foremost authority on Scribe Cognitive Spatial Displacement, you find yourself inopportunely short of fitting words.” He now turned around fully to direct an accusing stare at the First Undersecretary. No sense ruining the occasion with a lack of appropriate dramatics, he had always been fond of saying, and never had his adage held truer than at this precise moment.

Sir Waleter remained silent. He had been hoping his lack of response would entice Bertram to continue with his discourse. In truth, he would gladly have subjected himself to the most unbearable of insults if that had stopped Bertram writing. Yes, he had to admit, he had never witnessed this type of spontaneous nullification before, but he had enough experience to know that this type of anomaly could not exist without some type of unwelcome recompense. Thus, he leaned forward slightly and assumed an expression of polite interest.

“If you ask me,” Bertram continued, “it is difficult to imagine what use is your presence here. All you ever do is tell me not to do anything. How am I to achieve greatness by not-doing things?”

Sir Waleter brought the tips of his fingers together in front of his gaunt face.
“There will be repercussions,” he said.

“What kind of repercussions?”

“I don’t know yet. But you’d better prepare yourself Bertram, it could be anything.”

Bertram scoffed. He was growing confident, he could feel the power of creation coursing through his hands, which were itching to get back to writing. He made to turn back.

“Look!” Sir Waleter called out.

“What?” Bertram snapped back tersely.

“Look at the candlestick!” Sir Waleter pointed towards the mantelpiece. In place of the candlestick that had been written onto the floor and then crossed back into place, now stood a small, yellow rubber duck.

Sir Walter suddenly twitched and bent closely over his knees. They appeared as bony as ever, but otherwise unchanged. He breathed an unguarded sigh of relief.

He stood up suddenly and pointed at the rubber duck.

“See. I told you!”

“Hmm,” said Bertram.

“Don’t you just sit there hmming, young man. You get your behind off that chair and away from those writing implements this instant. There is no way of knowing what will transpire next, whether you write it or not!”

“Interesting.” A sly smile spread across Bertram’s face. “Regardless of whether I write it or not, you say,” he continued. “By Gods this is extraordinary.”

“No! I mean yes, it is extraordinary but not in a positive sense of the word. Bertram, please, keep your wits about you, boy, this is the most delicate of situations.” Sir Waleter allowed a certain amount of pleading to creep into his voice.

“I don’t see that there is anything to be worried about, Sir Waleter. In fact, I would go so far as to say that nothing will ever cause me worry from now on. Can’t you see? I’m all powerful, I could do anything I wanted..”

“Stop, stop that at once!” Sir Waleter screamed, turning a paler shade of pale.

“Why should I?” Bertram raised his bulk slowly off the chair and drew himself up to his full height of 6 feet and 4 inches. “Are you afraid of me?” he looked quizzically at the First Undersecretary, who was renowned throughout the known Universe for his laconic absence of any kind of fear.

“Bertram, I implore you,” Sir Waleter pleaded wretchedly, “you must stop this now. Any which way, you must stop.”

Bertram tut-tutted impatiently. “You are spouting pure nonsense, Sir Waleter. Frankly, I’ve lost interest in discussing this issue with you.” He sat down again. “And now, back to my writing.”

Sir Waleter started to protest but instead of words, he spouted pure nonsense: “jshdfweup dsfhwoeh w apsrowf cfwo.” Astonished, he clapped his hands to his mouth.

Bertram picked up his pen, “Before I get back to it, Sir Waleter, I must tell you …” He flourished the pen in the air, as if it were a quill. ”I feel, if I fancied it, I could erase the Whole World …”


P I N G


And just like that, there was no world. No Bertram, no Sir Waleter, no curtains and no fireplace. Even Felibrant was no more. It was a shame though, because tomorrow could have been Tuesday and we all know what a corker of the day that can be.




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