INCOMPETENT GODS Roman

Suivi de

EFFETS DE MIROIRS De la satire en fantaisie Essai

Mémoire

Lucie-Gabrielle Jolicoeur

Maîtrise en études littéraires Maître ès arts (M.A.)

Québec, Canada

RÉSUMÉ

Ce mémoire est composé de deux sections, une de création et l‟autre de réflexion. La première consiste d‟un roman de fantaisie satirique, Incompetent Gods (écrit en anglais) et la deuxième d‟un essai à propos de ce genre.

Incompetent Gods Dans une dimension parallèle, créée par les dieux écœurés de l‟athéisme régnant dans la nôtre, immortels et mortels vivent ensemble en cacophonie. Leurs relations sont étroitement surveillées par la compagnie Dieux Inc. qui emploie et contrôle la plupart des divinités. Son PDG, la reine Louhi Pohjola, court un grave danger car Goblin et son souverain-fifre Japhet essaient de se débarrasser d‟elle afin de conquérir le monde. Ce récit satirique, en utilisant la transvalorisation de mythes anciens, la parodie de lieux communs présents en fantaisie, la transposition de dieux dans un contexte corporatif et des jeux de langage, se veut une critique de notre société, de nos valeurs et de nos utopies.

Effets de miroirs. De la satire en fantaisie Cet essai présente une étude littéraire de l‟œuvre de Terry Pratchett, un des géniteurs de la fantaisie satirique contemporaine, suivie d‟une réflexion sur le processus de création. Cela dans le but de répondre à deux questions : comment se moquer d‟une chose alors qu‟on en évoque une autre? Et comment créer un effet de reconnaissance entre le merveilleux et le réel? Idéalement, ceci permettra d‟offrir une nouvelle perspective sur ce genre si mal apprécié.

III

ABSTRACT

This thesis is made up of two parts. The first one, Incompetent Gods, is a short satirical fantasy novel written in English. The second part consists of an essay about the genre.

Incompetent Gods In a parallel world, created by the gods sickened with the atheism in our dimension, mortals and immortals live together in cacophony. Their relations are monitored by Gods Inc., a huge multinational that employs and controls most divinities. Its CEO, Queen Louhi Pohjola, is in grave danger, for in order to conquer the world, Goblin and his side-king Japhet are doing all they can to get rid of her. By devaluing old myths, parodying the clichés of fantasy, transposing gods into a corporate context and playing with language, this satirical fable aims to critique our society, our values and our utopias.

Effets de miroirs. De la satire en fantaisie This essay (in French) presents a literary study of the works of Terry Pratchett, one of the most famed authors of contemporary satirical fantasy, and a reflection on the creative process that answers two questions: how to ridicule one thing while evoking another? And how to create a mirror of reality through the use of fantasy? Ideally, this will give new insights into this badly perceived genre.

TABLE DES MATIERES

RÉSUMÉ ...... III ABSTRACT ...... V INCOMPETENT GODS ...... 1 ANNEX - THE GODS ...... 112 EFFETS DE MIROIRS ...... 115 INTRODUCTION...... 115 TERRY PRATCHETT ET LE DISCWORLD ...... 118 TERRY PRATCHETT, ENTRE SATIRE ET FANTAISIE ...... 127 REFLETS DU MONDE : SATIRE DU RÉEL PAR L‟IRRÉEL ...... 141 CONCLUSION ...... 149 BIBLIOGRAPHIE ...... 153 ANNEXE 1 - TRADUCTIONS ...... 157 ANNEXE 2 - EXTRAITS SUPPLÉMENTAIRES ...... 169

VII

INCOMPETENT GODS

PROLOGUE SAHARA DESERT TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO

Deep in the desert, near an oasis so remote even the water had lost its way, a man lay on the sand, dying. A shrivelled palm tree drew lines over his desiccated body. His skin, covered by a few rags, was red and peeling. Matted and full of dirt, his dark brown hair curled like short dreadlocks. Only his eyes gave away the fact that he was still alive, for deep in their blackness, white fire swirled. The big spider, which had been watching from a few feet away, approached. “Anansi, help me,” murmured the wreck between two convulsions. The spider jumped on his chest. Mandibles clicking, it asked a question. The man took a long shuddering breath. “Jupiter… He killed all my faithful… Destroyed Carthage, my temples, my statues… so, so long ago.” The spider clicked faster and louder. “No… not his fault, I asked him to… they were feeding me their newborn… I couldn‟t take it anymore.” The spider grew, and grew, reaching the size of a baby elephant. Furiously, it started to envelop the dying being in a mesh of its webs. Anansi was furious. Being a trickster god, he appreciated a good joke as much as anybody, but this one had gone too far. The husk he was gift-wrapping was the titan Ba‟al, and as annoying as titans could be, they should not be found agonizing in the desert. This sort of thing could make you question your own immortality. The monstrous spider god put the finishing touches on the delicate cocoon he had weaved, climbed unto it and, holding it tight, disappeared.

Jupiter shouting, “Will you all just shut up!” was the first thing Anansi heard when he recorporealised. He was in the right place, the amphitheatre in Olympus.

The gods had been holding the pan-pantheon meeting (now affectionately dubbed the Oh Us! Will it ever end! meeting), here for fifty years. This could explain Jupiter‟s ire, or it could just be that the gods in the stands were being their usual aggravating selves. Anansi had appeared right below the dais. Jupiter, his hair electrified, stood up from his throne and glared at Anansi, face full of anger and questions. Mostly anger. “What in my name are you doing here? And take human form, you‟re scaring the ladies.” Jupiter gestured towards his wife Juno, sitting on another throne beside his. She looked disdainful rather than scared, but Anansi obeyed, becoming a lithe man, black as night, with the same red eyes as the spider. Mercury, sitting cross-legged beside his boss, slab and stylus on his lap, grabbed a sheet from a stack behind him and tossed it at Anansi impassively. This happened often. Anansi tied the sheet at his waist, earning himself another scathing glare from Jupiter (whose toga hung in perfect folds), and pointed to the cocoon. “I found Ba‟al in the desert!” With a flick of his wrist he split the cocoon in two, revealing Ba‟al who had lost consciousness. An exclamation travelled the stands. Jupiter fell back on his throne. Juno stared down her nose at both supplicant and recumbent, and sniffed dismissively. “So? I don‟t recall you being on today‟s agenda.” “I don‟t care about your stupid agenda. Your husband destroyed his city and his cult, this is his responsibility.” The Shela-Na-Gig, probably the most unattractive fertility goddess ever,1 cradled the dying titan‟s head on her knees.2 “And if this is what happens to a deity without believers,” she interjected, “I would say it is quite pertinent to the agenda.” Juno turned to her husband. “You did this, you dumbass?” Jupiter reddened and cleared his throat. “I guess… sort of.” His voice took on a plaintive tone. “But how could I have known? And anyway, he asked for it!”

1 She has the skin of an elephant and the face of a tortoise. 2 But she does have a great personality.

Anansi sighed. “Yes, yes, it‟s not your fault. What I want to know is how you‟re going to fix it.” Jupiter closed his eyes. Wrinkles of intense concentration appeared on his face. The minutes dragged by. “I know!” he exclaimed, his eyes snapping open, “let‟s make him a lar!” Jupiter lost his focus but continued, rubbing his beard: “Now, what could he be a lar of? The domestic divinity roster is pretty full.” “Ba‟al is essentially a big hole,” said Mercury. “Why don‟t we make him the lar of lost things? The Eater of Lost Objects has a nice ring to it.” “Perfect!” said Jupiter. “Go announce him in the temples… And steal lots of stuff, people have to start swearing fast.” He threw a worried look at Ba‟al. “That‟s not going to work,” said Anansi. “The Romans barely believe in YOU anymore. That‟s what this whole meeting is about.” The assembly erupted. Some gods yelled their agreement, others nasty insults. Thor, hammering his head to relieve the boredom, demanded beer. Jupiter slumped on his throne. Kali stood up as the noise lessened. “Why don‟t we just wipe the slate? A little deluge always makes an impression.” Anubis bolted upright. “Not that again! It‟s hell in the underworld for years after that kind of stunt.” Silently, Jupiter rose out of his stupor. His blue eyes flashed cold lightening. He seemed to grow bigger as force welled up inside him. The amphitheatre fell silent. The Ruler of Olympus seized his sceptre, turned around and stabbed the empty air above his head. He lowered his arm to the ground, ripping reality apart. It tore with a screeching sound, revealing the rosy darkness glowing beyond. “We‟re starting over,” thundered Jupiter, spinning back. “And this time we‟ll stay with the humans, so they never stop believing… Let‟s go!” And Jupiter entered the portal with aplomb. A girlie scream and a thump followed. “And watch the step!”

PRESENT DAY IN A DIMENSION NOT SO FAR AWAY

CONVERSATIONS OF DRUNKEN GODS

Atlantis City! Most improbable megalopolis of the universe! Shining example of the might of the gods! Up on the Northeastern corner of Mu, the divine island, it sprawls, sparkling like snow under the sun. White marble covers every available surface; even the streets are paved with it. The tall buildings are a study in the many shades of white as they rival one another in splendour and ingenuity: City Hall brings to mind the Himalayas, the Philharmonic is shaped like a giant tuba, Atlantis Bank looks like stumbling piles of translucent coins… Yet none equal the tower standing in its centre. Built by gods, who have little use for the laws of physics and very big egos, it is believed to be the most impressive, and disturbing, example of architecture in the cosmos. It would certainly amaze an architect. The tower has a standard square base but, twenty feet from the ground, it curves and starts to spiral. Higher up it turns back, squiggles, goes in for loops and finally reaches up past the cloud with a tapering, endless spire. The whole thing seems as light as Styrofoam, looks like an antler gone mad and is cold marble to the touch. Tourists love it. The human citizens of Atlantis are merely annoyed by it, especially the small army of graffiti cleaners who spend all of every day cleaning inane insults from the unlikeliest nooks and crannies. But the most disturbing thing about this building is what it represents, for it is the seat of Gods Incorporated, the company that controls most divinities and the ultimate fate of man.

High up in the tower, Ba‟al entered his office and dropped heavily into his chair. He grabbed his hair as if to pull it out, then tried to stretch his cheeks down to his chest. Yearning to scream, he expelled a titanic sigh and let his head fall backwards. Feeling too tall for the chair, he got up and went to stand at the window, where he performed the calisthenics common to all fed-up office drones.3

3 For example: practice diving out of the window, wall push-ups with the head and neck rotations (Satan, world champion, is always available for pointers on that last one).

Forehead against the glass, he fought the slight vertigo and gazed down at the shimmering expanse of the city. The flying carpets danced their usual ballet amidst the endless traffic jams. He followed the leaps of the bouncing post office. His vision blurred, as always, at the sight of Teleport Inc.‟s mazelike building. His head was pounding (butting the wall never really helps). He wished he had taken his usual catnap during the meeting. It had lasted three whole hours. Luckily the human marketing specialist had then stormed out, yelling about the waste of time and unfairness of it. With another sigh, he went to the corner closest to his desk. There, reminiscent of a teenager‟s bedroom, lay a jumble of stuff. It contained a few mismatched socks, gloves, buttons, some tassel keys, four or five wallets and a socket wrench. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The objects became transparent and slowly disappeared. As his essence ingested the lost items, energy coursed through his veins. He went back to his desk, sat down, cracked his knuckles, turned on his thaumo- computer, and went to work. The people who hadn‟t paid their fees would regret it today. He sniggered, as he often did, at the thought that it was humans who had invented the clothes dryer. He sank his hands into the liquid metal plate atop his desk, closed his eyes and hummed. A damp sock appeared before him. He threw it into the corner.

It was six o‟clock when he came out of his work trance. He swore softly. A whole hour of unpaid overtime, and Jupiter would be waiting for him. Still, he felt the glow of a job well done, and there was a nice little breakfast waiting in the corner. He got up and stretched. The office was deserted so he didn‟t have to wait long for the bobsleigh-elevator and was standing in the street five minutes later. The evening traffic had lessened, but he decided to walk. Bacch‟s was close by, and he probably wouldn‟t be in any state to fly his carpet later on. Bacchus had opened his bar centuries ago, not long after the founding of Gods Inc. The company had deemed him unemployable: no one would pay to not get drunk, and serving drinks to working gods was out of the question. Bacchus had taken this in stride. Thanks to his international franchises, he was now one of the world‟s richest divinities.

The small building, shaped like an ouzo bottle, was white, like everything in the city. Once inside, glazed brick walls, shimmering fabrics and garishly painted altars formed a maelstrom of colours. The human waitresses were pretty, curvaceous and fun. Bacchus knew his clientele‟s tastes (or lack thereof). Ba‟al looked around for Jupiter and the others. The place was, as usual, full of colleagues bobbing to the soft enchanting rhythm of Rai music. The steel drums and the familiarity of the décor soothed his nerves. Finally, he spotted his friend, sitting at the bar, putting the moves on another one of Bacchus‟s barmaids. Rakish, with a godlike body,4 blue eyes and curly, blond, almost white hair, Jupiter, having shaved his beard and switched his toga for a t-shirt and jeans, looked like a cool surfer dude. He never had any trouble getting women into bed (the troubles started when Juno found out). “Well, look who it is!” said the very relaxed Jupiter. “You look as if Charybdis5 spit you out, and you‟re late.” “Unlike you, I work,” snapped Ba‟al. Jupiter was never tired. He did have a job at the company, but he rarely had any work to do. The number of thunder gods was such that their offices were on time-share. Science had not helped boost their worship, and lightning rods had rendered them almost powerless against the unbeliever. Nowadays, the weather god‟s department was mostly in charge of butterfly negotiations. Ba‟al swept the air in a contrite gesture and sat down. “I‟m sorry, pal. I‟ve had a lousy day at the office. I had to spend three hours in a meeting… Marketing is on our backs about our stupid mission statement.” “Did you try the „pay us or we annoy you to death‟ one?” asked Jupiter in a mocking tone. “Yeah,” answered Ba‟al with a smile. “Didn‟t work.” He turned the barmaid, who had been trying to catch his eye since he‟d walked in. “Hello, Miss,” he greeted her gently. “Please give me three shots of Bacch Daniels and a double… no, triple, spiced rum on ice.”

4 The tanned and muscled kind, not the tentacled and floppy kind. 5 Charybdis is the well-known monster/garbage dispenser of the Mediterranean. See the Annex on page 111 for more details.

“That‟s the spirit,” cheered Jupiter before sinking into melancholy. “Don‟t you miss the good old days, when we could have fun without having to answer to a committee… Or a blood sucking, hybrid CEO?” Ba‟al shrugged. He didn‟t like it when his friends disparaged Louhi. She had been his girlfriend, hundreds of years ago. Yet he preferred to stay silent on the subject, his friends teased him mercilessly when he took her defence. The drinks arrived. Ba‟al gave a shooter to Jupiter and winked at the girl over the rim of his own. “There‟s one for you, honey.” She smiled at him, her big blue eyes shining. He wondered at his friend‟s luck with women. The whole world knew what a womanizer he was and in spite of that… Although this one might have better sense: she hadn‟t glanced at Jupiter for a while now. And, judging from the downcast expression, his friend had noticed. “Do you know what I had to do today?” muttered Jupiter after the barmaid had left with the empty shooters. “I had to go ruin a wedding because the groom‟s ex-girlfriend paid more for rain than the couple for the absence of it… We now auction the weather. When I think I created this dimension. I‟ve become a non-entity. And the only blasphemers I get to fry these days are bozos who wander around the countryside.” Ba‟al grabbed his friend by the shoulder. “Come on pal, cheer up. At least they‟re usually philosophers.” He clinked his glass on Jupiter‟s. “Enough with the nostalgia. Let‟s drink, and forget about the rest.” “That‟s a great plan,” approved the Shela-Na-Gig, appearing between the two with Anansi in tow. As usual, her looks almost stunned them off their stool. And before the newcomers could order, a commotion erupted outside in front of the terrace as a cloud chariot dispersed passers-by and parked through a lamppost. Thor leapt from the passenger seat, his long blond mane shining in the setting sun. Manitou, a morose spirit(s) guide and Ah-Peku, cloud rider extraordinaire, followed more sedately. They entered to an effusion of greetings, and the gang proceeded with the evening‟s business: getting horribly drunk.

Hours later, the music had become louder, saving the few remaining customers from hearing a conversation which had taken a serious turn downhill.

“I need another drink,” announced Ba‟al, leaning precariously on his elbow. “I‟m starting to have blood in my alcohol.” He emptied the bottle into the tumbler in front of him, splashing the counter. Manitou, his plume headdress hanging by an ear, scrutinized his glass. “Do we drink because we are thirsty, or are we thirsty because we drink?” Thor waved his hammer. “Who cares?” He emptied his beer. “War on thirst! War on sobriety!” “You‟re abesolu… you‟re right!” agreed Jupiter, tilting his stool. “Reason be damned. Let‟s drink in case of future thirst! Oups!” he blurted as his seat fell from under him. “Don‟t worry, I didn‟t spill any,” he continued from the floor, before spilling his drink in the approximate region of his mouth. “Where‟s my funnel?” asked Ah-Peku, searching under a table. “I drink for all the sober people,” said Anansi expansively. “I drink by proxy.” “Bar… girl,” mumbled Shela, squinting at the girl and then at her empty glass. “I‟ve turned into a non-drinker. Give me something, fast, before Anansi procures it all.” The barmaid let go of the column she was holding on to, leaned forward to grab a new bottle and fell flat on her face. “Well?” asked Shela, peering over the bar. Bacchus, a fat and jolly god always looking two seconds away from a heart attack, appeared behind the counter. A vein pulsing on his forehead, he took a moment to survey the scene before him. “Gods!” he exclaimed disapprovingly. “I‟ve asked you a thousand times to stop destroying my barmaids.” “Hey Bacch!” said Ba‟al jovially. “Come… hic… join us. You… hic… won‟t have to catch up… hic… Nan‟s been drinking by proxy… hic.” He hiccupped again. He was getting a strange feeling, something he had not felt in a thousand years: a small tug in his central core. He dismissed it, and then it started again. Either he needed to vomit, or he was being summoned. If Gods Inc. thought they could summon him at this hour, they had another thing coming. He got up, made his way to the bathroom and lost consciousness, draped on the toilet bowl.

VEXATIONS OF MONARCHY

Halfway across the world, in the Summer Palace near Karta, two robed figures were standing on the rim of a glowing abyss. “Well, that worked… not at all. What did you do, you… your Majesty?” asked Goblin, with what he thought was admirable restraint. Goblin was, obviously, a goblin. In short, he was short, with silver hair and eyes, leathery skin and pointy ears. He had been born to a human mother, who, when she saw him, had yelled “GOBLIN?” at the top of her lungs before fainting for a few days, hence the name. Among other things, Goblin was the grand vizier to His Greatness King Japhet, Ruler of Ipheria and the Southern Isles, and the world (eventually). The King was an ineffectual dunce, but he looked the part. He was, quite simply, majestic. Exceptionally fit, with ebony skin and a great white smile, he towered over everybody. He also had big broad shoulders, ideal for taking the blame if everything went wrong. Right now, His Uselessness was leaning on the altar beside the abyss, pouting. “I did everything you told me to. It‟s your fault it didn‟t work. Why didn‟t you stay with me instead of hiding in the next room?” “I told you, Your Worthiness,” explained Goblin with fake patience. “If you want the titan to be YOUR servant, you must conjure him alone.” That was a lie: whatever the situation, a summoned divinity would only obey his invoker. But Goblin didn‟t want to be seen by Ba‟al, not to mention that if the summons was badly executed, divinities could get very nasty indeed. There were many possible reasons for tonight‟s failure, but none could be remedied now, they had to postpone the plan. Prince Asset would be arriving soon and he could not find out about this. Goblin glanced disdainfully at the King, then got a hold of himself. Even if His Odiousness was not strictly necessary, Goblin didn‟t enjoy wearing KICK ME signs. He preferred to work from the shadows. He pulled a hidden lever, which raised two panels, closing the abyss. “It‟s all right, Your Industriousness,” reassured Goblin, bowing obsequiously. “Go and rest, I‟ll clean up in here and find out why the summons didn‟t work.”

“But Goblin!” The king was petulant. “I was supposed to be the world‟s most powerful ruler in less than a week. We need my brother, he‟s good with the gods…” “And the other rulers,” continued Goblin. “Do you really trust his lack of ambition? Especially when you‟ll have so much power?” The king frowned in puzzlement before stomping his foot childishly. “Oh, Poo! Just hurry it up, will you! I need new concubines, and fast!” His Pompousness left in a huff, in the timeless manner of dim-witted kings, and slammed the door, leaving a bemused Goblin staring at it. He shook his head. He had chosen Japhet for his stupidity and childish behaviour. Now was not the time to be surprised by the extent of both. As he put away the paraphernalia in a cupboard, pushed the altar against the curving wall and slid a carpet over the trapdoor, Goblin daydreamed. As usual, imagining Queen Louhi in the black hole that was Ba‟al‟s stomach gave him a little shiver of pleasure. It had been a stroke of luck to find the abyss here. He had been trying to get rid of his nemesis for ten years, but all the assassins had disappeared. Of course, this new plan meant that he would have to put up with His Childishness for a long time, but in the end, goblins lived a lot longer than humans. Especially decadent, pleasure-seeking humans like the king. He took off the robe he had slipped over his three-piece suit. Just as he was stuffing it into the cupboard, Prince Asset walked in. “Oh, it‟s you, Goblin,” said the Prince with distaste as he looked around the room. “The majordomo told me my brother was in here, I need to speak with him.” Whereas Japhet was handsome and regal, Asset was homely and common. Emaciated and tall, but shorter and paler than his brother, he always looked a bit unwell. However, as brains and beauty were inversely distributed in the family, Goblin preferred to tread warily. He hurriedly closed and locked the cupboard. “Good morning, prince Asset. His Stateliness was here, but he left, surely to spend what is left of the night with a concubine.” “What‟s going on?” Asset wrinkled his nose. “It smells like hell in here.” “Ah, yes, the smell… His Firmness asked me to experiment with yet another potency drug, you can go ask him if it worked.” “I see… I guess what I need to tell him can wait a bit.”

“You could always talk to me,” replied Goblin, wearing his most sycophantic smile. “Your brother does trust me.” The prince stared at him coldly for a moment. “He does, but you see, I‟m pretty sure I know what happened to my brother Kafar. So I don‟t think I‟m ready to trust you. My shape‟s not much, but I happen to like it.” “Am I to blame for the fact that he decided to play sheep on the day of the Grand Mechoui?” Goblin shrugged and manoeuvred Asset out of the room. “Oh well, I wish I could convince you of my innocence… Sadly, this is a busy day.”

*****

Queen Louhi‟s palace in Picchu is unique in the world. Not for its uncounted booby traps, nor for its sprawling basements, which are said to be a gateway to hell, but because of the six domelike audience chambers growing out of its main hexagonal tower. This architectural obscenity is useful for two reasons: the first is that the Queen is known for her strange sense of humour and anything that makes her laugh is appreciated by her subjects. Secondly, it allows the palace secretaries, who know their sovereign‟s usual mood is bad, often contagious and sometimes messy, to schedule six audiences a day. Andrew was standing in the corridor leading to one of those chambers, admiring the set up. Today, the Queen had graciously invited five of the biggest chiefs of industry in the Northern Kingdom for an audience. The companies they represented were coincidently five of the kingdom‟s biggest debtors. They did not look comfortable. The Queen did. Dressed in her usual black and royal blue military uniform, her shining red mane in a casual ponytail, she sat leisurely in a big obsidian chair. There was no dais in this chamber; the big moat between her and her audience (today filled with verrucous toads) was usually enough to impress. The moat was not the main reason for the bigwigs‟ discomfort. They had been in this room before, but today, twenty guards with long pikes at the ready stood behind them, blocking the exit. And, as an added distraction, a tone-deaf heavy metal band was playing in the corner. That was just nasty. Andrew leaned on the wall and concentrated on the crossword puzzle pinned on his clipboard. He was probably the strangest bodyguard in existence. In the thirty years he had

worked with the Queen, he had protected more people from his client than the other way around. He had given up his job as a secret agent of the European Coalition for this. Sure, it was less exciting, but it was a lot funnier. A commotion back in the main tower drew him from his reverie. Andrew was just in time to grab prince Asset as he was about to dash into the chamber.6 “Whoa! You can‟t go in there! And I recommend you watch where you put your feet around here… Look down.” The panting prince obeyed. “Yeuch! What the hell?” Then he raised his eyes to Andrew‟s with determination. “Doesn‟t matter. I have to see the Queen.” “I beg your pardon?” said Andrew, pulling out an earplug. “I need to speak to the Queen. I think my brother‟s finally become criminally stupid.” Andrew snorted. “That‟s news. Nevertheless, it has to wait. The Queen is playing evil tyrant” “Please,” insisted Asset. “There‟s something going on, something creepy.” “I‟m sure you‟re right, but this is important too. World affairs are all very well but, first and foremost, the Queen has a country to rule. Anyhoo, I‟m sure she has smelled your presence by now… she‟ll be wrapping up soon.” Still twitching, the prince looked around, searching for a way through to the Queen. As he took in the sights, his eyes widened in bafflement. “Why a moat? Why toads? Why are those guys crying? And what is making that godsawful noise?” Two of the bigwigs were now crying on each other‟s shoulder, while a third was vehemently addressing the Queen. Andrew pointed at the heavily made-up band before explaining. “The Queen thinks a punishment should seem worse than death, it being so final and well, fast. If you fall into that moat you have to spend an indeterminate amount of time with gross toads, not to mention the musicians, and the rest of your life with embarrassing skin diseases. I assure you, the results are amazing. Those guys are the CEOs of some of the biggest companies in the kingdom, they‟re supposed to be tough, and I swear the first guy started to cry as soon as he saw the toads.”

6 He was actually dashing into the moat.

The prince still seemed confused. “But why does she want them to cry?” “They manage companies in debt with the kingdom. They got financial aid last year, but they have yet to show their books to the Queen and they refuse to give up their perks while still firing employees.” As he was talking, the third bigwig took a stake out from his inside pocket and aimed it at the Queen. In one fluid movement, she ducked and pulled a lever. The man disappeared with a scream, which wasn‟t interrupted by the thump. “What now?” The prince was grabbing his hair. “Where did he go?” “The platypus pit,” answered Andrew. “Don‟t worry, they‟re females. Harmless but really annoying. Oh! And now this one is making threats.” Andrew pointed at the fourth bigwig, before shaking his head. “Tsk tsk. The Queen does NOT respond well to threats, she only makes bigger ones… She‟s very competitive by nature.” The Queen stood up, her eyes fixed hungrily on the talking CEO. His harangue petered out. The Queen‟s incisors grew, elongating over her lips. She jumped over to the man, took him by the hair, sniffed his throat and held him over the moat. “Oh gods!” whined Asset, before grabbing Andrew‟s arm. “She‟s going to eat him! We have to help!” Andrew disengaged with an annoyed shrug. “Whose bodyguard do you think I am? If I had to intervene every time the Queen faked a bloodlust… She doesn‟t drink human blood, she hasn‟t for centuries.” The chief of industry abandoned dignity and bladder. The Queen smiled at the spreading stain and took a step back, bringing the man over solid ground. She let go and he fell into a heap on the floor. Seeing the Queen turn to the last CEO, Andrew motioned Asset towards the corridor. “See, it‟s over, her majesty has been magnanimous. The last one should do better. His company is in trouble mostly because he has the same debtors we do. Let‟s go wait in her office.”

The Queen‟s office was a great hexagonal room, taking up almost an entire floor of the tower. The theme here was wood. Two great mahogany doors faced each other across an expanse of parquet floor where at least four different essences of wood could be picked from the flower patterns. An enormous desk, simply carved in what must have been the

world‟s biggest baobab, occupied the centre of the room. The adjoining walls behind the desk were embedded with bookshelves of the same reddish brown as the books‟ leather spines, and each had a small wooden writing-table protruding from it. This was a working room: mounds of reports and unfiled paperwork occupied every flat surface. It was also well illuminated, since the two remaining walls were made of glass.7 Asset dropped into one of the tiny chairs facing the desk. “Does she do that often?” he asked, still shaking. Instead of sitting, Andrew leaned on the side of the desk. “No, not often. It would stop working if she did. And the Queen is great at making things work. If she has to scare the pee out of someone to do so, it‟s a bonus.” The Queen burst in and lithely leapt into her plush office chair. “Now, that was fun!” she breathed as she reclined and lifted her boots up on the desk. “My dear Asset, stop smelling all anxious. Whatever it is, I‟m sure we can fix it.” “I hope so, Majesty,” said Asset nervously, before starting his explanation. “All my diplomatic assignments felt bogus this week, so I tried to confront my brother. Instead I found Goblin, in the central room of the palace. It‟s a weird dome, hewn in very old stone. I think the palace was built around it. It‟s never used. I believe my dad was afraid of it.” The prince paused, as if lost in his memories. “No, I know he was. Anyway, after Goblin left the castle, I went back and searched the room. I found weird sands and amulets in a cupboard. And then I lifted the carpet.” Asset‟s mouth twisted in distaste. “There was blood” “Animal or human?” asked the Queen, as she dropped her feet and leaned across the desk. Andrew answered for Asset. “Hem, my Queen? Not everyone has your flair for blood.” The prince, flustered, continued hoarsely. “The room smelled like a slaughterhouse, pungent, so I think it probably was an animal. But the important thing is that under the carpet, and the blood, there was a trapdoor. I tried to open it, but I couldn‟t find out how. After that I went to talk to my brother… It did not go well.” He shook his head sadly and a tear threatened from the corner of his eye.

7 Actually, to the Queen‟s dismay, shatterproof Plexiglas (an accountant thought it would make sense after the last defenestration, he hasn‟t been seen since).

“You‟re doing this for his own good,” said Louhi, kindly. “He‟s obviously in over his head.” “It‟s still treason,” replied Asset. Suddenly, Andrew realized what the prince‟s findings meant. “Majesty, they‟re trying to invoke a god!” “I know,” said the Queen, looking worried. “It‟s almost impossible, but we can‟t take any chances. Asset, you know Gods Inc. was founded because the Global Gods Wars almost destroyed the planet, right?” Asset nodded. “Yes, people had started using the gods as weapons, and since gods are all more or less equal in power…” “Exactly,” confirmed the Queen, “it was just a matter of time after humans figured out how to make gods do their bidding. Anyway, the company put a stop to all of it.” She stood up slowly. “Well, today you will meet my biggest secret: the only man who has managed to control gods and use them as weapons of mass destruction in the last two hundred years.”

SO MANY WAYS TO BE BAD

With a pop, Goblin materialized in the teleportation doorframe. Most people get queasy after one jump and are still checking their important appendages five minutes afterwards (or looking for new ones).8 After five jumps, Goblin was still the same shape, but he sure didn‟t feel like it. This place was the closest he had to a home. Still groggy, he made his way past the threadbare couch and rickety table to the washroom, where he splashed water on his face. The hated mirror showed him his pointy ears, his brown leathery skin… he closed his eyes. Still holding a small towel, he came back into the living room and surveyed the desolation. His mother‟s house, once so neat. Not so much now that she was rotting in an asylum, paying for the relentless beatings his classmates had given him all through his youth. Sent him to a human school, had she? Dumb bitch. He went to the tiny kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Not that his father was any better. Well, okay, he was a god. But Goblin knew firsthand that being a son of a god wasn‟t anything terribly special and anyway, his was in retirement somewhere up in the clouds. Goblin had only seen his father twice, when he was eighteen, and only because the god had needed his help. Well, he would soon have revenge on him too. He deposited the glass on the counter, already crowded with miscellaneous half-rinsed dishes. He really should try and find time to clean up here, but not now. He had to find out why the summoning hadn‟t worked, and fast. He sat down cross-legged on the floor, and took a deep breath.

***** Gaelin Taslin, vice-president of God‟s Incorporated, took a step outside the executive teleport chamber into the atrium and groaned. Today was “ananthropomorphic day”. Once a month, the gods got to take a holiday from humdrum humanoid shapes and look any way they wanted. Since most gods are versatile shapeshifters and have god-awful taste in

8 Teleportation is a wonderful, incredibly fast way to get around. It uses natural breaches in the space-time continuum. The same breaches which are responsible for the creation of sphinxes, minotaurs, mermaids…

clothing, this meant that temporary blindness or at least a good headache was lurking around every corner. It was meant to boost morale. It usually sank his. Ganesha, in his elephant form, was happily squatting half the room (he couldn‟t get into his office). A big bull with golden horns and equine legs was chatting with a human receptionist. A squiggle and a blob were arguing near the coffee machine. This did not help Gaelin‟s usual disgust with the company‟s décor. The public floors were a mix between a casino and a music hall, making for one brash and glitzy Molotov cocktail. Overworked friezes painted in silver and gold accentuated the garish and mismatching colour of the walls. Pinball machines lined the mazelike corridors and strange sculptures by Helvetian madmen occupied every available nook. The orgy of sights and sounds brought on another wave of dizziness. Gaelin shook his head and decided not to take a bobsleigh. Looking downwards, he made his way to the more conventional elevator. Where Satan was waiting, obligingly holding the elevator doors. Gaelin almost made a dash for the stairs, but there, infinite dangers lay.9 The prince of darkness was in full regalia: horns, tail, cloven feet, goat beard, red skin, midnight tuxedo and, for some reason, a multicoloured pucci-like cape. The best-dressed man would look frumpy beside the angel. Gaelin, wishing he were blind (again), could feel his well-travelled three-piece suit wrinkle in shame. “Hey Gaelin, buddy, you‟re just the man I want to see,” said Lucifer with bonhomie. Gaelin sighed. Of course this wasn‟t a coincidence, it never was. “Hello, Lucifer,” he said tersely. “Looking good as always. Nice cape.” “You like it?” Satan twirled. “Versace made it just for me. Which brings me to what is happening in my department…” Gaelin tried to stop the flow. “You should set up an appointment with the board, you know I can‟t do much outside my jurisdiction.” He should have saved his breath. The angel might be a poof but when he wanted to talk to you there was no stopping him. “… Can you believe it? Someone is trying the Faust trick again. It‟s the second time this year. People shouldn‟t get to go to heaven just because they used my gifts for good! I

9 If the city‟s buildings could have been thought of by Dali and built by Gaudi, the staircases are right out of Esher‟s worst nightmares.

spend a lot for those souls, and Big G just swoops in, saying they redeemed themselves by feeding the homeless or curing the sick… Hoopla! I mean, they sign a contract and everything…” Gaelin idly wondered who the hell Versace and Faust were, but there was no way to find out since the angel dealt with interruptions the same way a giant dealt with ants. He sighed, closed his eyes and thought of his agenda for the day. The elevator stopped on the 178th floor. Still talking, Satan followed him out. In a sense, having a conversation with him was restful, you didn‟t have to participate. And it gave him an excuse to roam the halls, everyone assumed he was trying to lose the guy. Now, how exactly was he going to lose the guy? Walking faster, stopping or stepping backwards hadn‟t worked. Just as he finally spotted Ba‟al in the coffee lounge, inspiration struck. “Lucifer!” he said loudly. “Lucifer!” he insisted. Finally the angel stopped talking. Gaelin took him by the shoulder and pulled him close. “I‟m not supposed to tell you,” he whispered, “but none of that really matters. Louhi is planning to close the soul procurement office in a month or so. She says it‟s not cost effective.” “But that‟s impossible!” whined Lucifer loudly. Gaelin made a shushing gesture and continued in the same conspiratorial tone: “She should be arriving soon. She‟s the one you need to convince.” As he watched the angel stride towards the elevators uttering all the curses known to man (and a few unknown), Gaelin struggled with a demonic grin. It was no wonder he‟d missed Ba‟al on his first time around. The titan was sunk low into the lounge‟s purgatorial couch with a pink towel draped over his face. Gaelin approached quietly and was about to lift the towel when Ba‟al caught his wrist. “Please don‟t,” rumbled the titan with a whining lilt. “Unless you‟re an undertaker.” He lifted a corner of the towel. “Ah, almost. What do you want, Gaelin? I‟m in my Friday morning brainstorming session.”

The statement was punctuated by sniggers from Kali, who, being handily advantaged, often prepared a communal lunch on the 178th floor. “He‟s always like this on Friday mornings. If you want him to be coherent, I can give him his first Bloody Louhi right away.” “Yes, please do,” answered Gaelin, not quite daring to look around.10 “What‟s wrong with him?” he ended in a whisper. “I‟m not a hundred percent sure, but I‟d wager it‟s a case of Bacchus poisoning,” said Kali, who had diverted two hands to mix the drink. “Jupiter and his other drinking buddies don‟t even bother showing up on Fridays… I wonder why he does. He spends most of the day on this couch.” “How drunk do they get, exactly?” said Gaelin. “That, I don‟t know.” Kali handed Ba‟al his cocktail. “All I know is that Bacchus brings him here making jokes about where he fell unconscious.” Ba‟al found his voice with the first sip. “Stop whispering about me. Gaelin, I know you don‟t care about my health, so spill it, what do you want?” “I got a complaint from Mister De Rinjd yesterday,” said Gaelin softly. “But we can look at it another day. If you lost consciousness last night…” Ba‟al took off the towel and started to rise, Gaelin stepped back. “So I got dead drunk last night! So I woke up with my head in a toilet bowl! I can still make you eat any complaint from that deranged, stuck up, rich, shareholder bastard!” Gaelin had backed up almost to the doorway. “No, no, it‟s all right,” he said, hands making a soothing gesture. “I‟ll take care of everything.” As he hurried to the elevator, Gaelin‟s thoughts were a whirlwind. The titan‟s habits, his loss of consciousness, could explain so many things…

*****

Just when Asset thought the descent would never end, the elevator finally reached its destination. The doors opened into an empty vestibule filled with electronic gadgetry.

10 Kali doesn‟t change anything much on ananthropomorphic day. She‟s dark blue and has six arms after all. What she does is wear her traditional garb: almost nothing but jewellery.

Almost immediately, the lights went out and were replaced by a green nimbus. Then a mirrored ball slid down from the ceiling, a dance square illuminated the floor and the music started. The song‟s words were inane (something about the letters of the alphabet) but the beat was fun. And the Queen was quite a good dancer. Her steps followed the flashes exactly and after a minute the lights came back on. The strange little smile on Andrew‟s face made Asset wonder if this charade had really been necessary, when at last the vestibule‟s doors unlocked. They stepped into an enormous tunnel-like vault. Four people were busy at workstations facing the far end, where, delimited by an electromagnetic shield, the semblance of a studio apartment had been created. In it, a short, severe looking man dressed in a beige military uniform was pottering around a huge table and humming sombre classical music. “Do you recognize him?” asked Louhi softly, as the made their way through the workstations. Asset examined the man, who did look a bit familiar. Then the funny little moustache gave it away. “No!” he exclaimed with disbelief. “He can‟t still be alive! Who would let that madman live? And if it‟s him, he should be older… Methuselah old” “He does spend most of his time in a cryogenic bed,” explained Andrew, pointing at a man-sized tube. “He also gets daily injections and we‟re pretty sure he‟s had some genetic splicing done. For the rest, we can‟t deny he is a madman, but he‟s also a genius madman. They have their uses, especially when you want to understand other madmen.” “He‟s actually done a lot of good in the last forty years,” added Louhi, “even if it was against his will. I always say people are more helpful alive than dead… Except for me, of course.” Sensing the shield dissipate, the man looked up and stood to attention, his beady eyes fixed on the Queen with a mixture of hate and admiration. “Heil, dear kaptor!” he spitted with a barbaric accent. Then a flicker of hope entered his voice as he saw Asset. “Who is dis person?”

The Queen sighed. “No H, he‟s not here to free you. How many times do I have to say it? Everyone thinks you‟re dead. He is my collaborator.” She handed him Asset‟s drawings. “He has found evidence that someone is trying to invoke a god.” Still ramrod straight, H glanced at the piece of paper. “Gods kan not be infoked anymore!” “That‟s what I thought, but didn‟t you” “Gods can‟t,” H interrupted. “But titans can.” “What?” exclaimed both the Queen and Andrew. “Gods came later. The company vas able to contain their essence in small objects, totems. But titans, they are linked to the vorld‟s shape! Their essence can be in rifers, mountains, falleys… none of vhich can easily be stored in the company‟s basement,” he ended with a titter. “Fine, we get it, sort of,” said Andrew impatiently. “What we need to know is which titan they are trying to invoke and, if at all possible, what they want him to do.” “Kinderspiel!” said H, condescending. “Vhere vere they doing the infocation? Show me on this map,” he ended, turning a computer screen towards Asset. Reluctantly, Asset approached and pointed to the palace‟s location on the map. “Now,” explained H as he got busy with the keyboard. “Titans are ancient, so ve hafe to adjust the map.” After a few seconds he lifted his head from the screen, looked at the trio with delight and announced in a momentous fashion: “My inimical friends, I think ve are facing an apocalypse!” “No!” squeaked Asset. “There he goes again,” whispered Louhi, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, grand!” said Andrew, “It‟s always an apocalypse with this” “Vell,” said H indignantly, “I like apocalypses and this von should be fun.” He pointed at the screen. “That spot, there, vas vonce the religious centre of Carthage. And Carthage‟s main deity vas” “Ba‟al!” exclaimed Louhi with a start. H looked at her reproachfully for interrupting.

“Ba‟al is a pretty benign deity,” said Andrew. “Not if you read his history,” retorted H. “His cult used to be von of the bloodiest. They efen had baby sacrifices.” “But didn‟t Jupiter make sure it couldn‟t happen again?” asked Asset. “Something about salting the earth…” “Ah! But how do you salt a fiery abyss?” said the Queen with calm understanding. “Ba‟al would probably have accepted it‟s destruction, even if it meant his own, but that hole goes down to the very centre of the planet. How do you destroy one without the other?” “Exactly!” beamed H. “This means that a good, but fery powerful titan vill hafe two choices: obey the command of his master, vhich vill probably be dastardly; or accept the abyss‟ destruction and risk the earth… If the command is too awful, boom!” H illustrated with his hands. “Wait!” said Asset, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “Yes, my brother is a megalomaniac with the IQ of a carpet tassel. But to risk the destruction of the planet…” “He might not be the one responsible,” said the Queen. “That creature you told me about, that Goblin, is probably pulling the strings. Who is that little snot?” She hit her palm with her fist. “Who becomes grand vizier without me knowing a thing about them? This is really getting on my nerves.” “It certainly fits,” said Asset. “Goblin doesn‟t seem to care for anything, he won‟t give a damn about the planet.” “More importantly, majesty,” said Andrew, frowning with worry, “you are the one they are going to want to get rid of. You are the main obstacle to anyone wanting world domination.” He turned to H. “So, how do we stop them?” “You‟re asking me?” said H, with feigned surprise. “Vhy vould I help? I don‟t know who this Goblin is and I don‟t care, but he seems to be quite a troublemaker so I am on his side. And if he vants to kill the Queen, then I say: Wunderbar!” Louhi took a deep breath, leaned over the table and flattened her hands on it. “Look you nutcase: if I die, almost no one will know you‟re alive. Those who do, will not free you. And if I don‟t authorize your injections, you will die in a matter of weeks, in the throes of really bad withdrawal I might add. Now, I acknowledge that you hate me and that you‟re

not on my side. It doesn‟t matter because my side is your side. In fact, for you, it is the only side, so get some ideas. And fast!” H had started to pout at “nutcase” and was now turning his back to them. After a few seconds he deflated and came back to the table. “Your arguments are compelling, as alvays, my Queen. I think that first, ve hafe to find out who this Goblin is. It might gife us a better idea of vhat he is after and vhat his plans are.” He went to stand in front of Asset. “You discofered this conspiracy. Vhat can you tell me about him?” The prince stepped back. “Not much. He‟s a goblin and he arrived from nowhere. I only met him once my brother got the throne, but I do suspect him of being behind the strange pandemic that spread through the family beforehand.” Chin in fist, H thought for a moment. “Na gut. Kill him. And do not grimace. It is usually the best vay to stop this kind of thing. But before you do, find out eferything you can, because if you fail…” H‟s face lit up. “You are going to need gadgets!” Humming with pleasure, he opened a big cupboard and started rummaging through its shelves. Finally, muttering unintelligibly, he took out a few boxes and spun back towards them, smiling proudly. He took an electric blue object the size of a stick of gum from the first box. “This is the Teleportation Hacker. You insert it in a teleportation pod‟s computer and it enables you to repeat any trip made in the previous twenty-four hours. There is a chance the little genius is making his trips in many jumps to afoid being traced, so make sure you check the times correctly. If you find anything interesting, you can send us the information fia… The Telenotebuch!” He opened another box with a flourish. “Does it have to be pink?” said Asset. “Yes, it is the StrawBerry edition,” answered H with a miffed expression. “Just write the information in the message box, type H in destination and press „send‟. And now, my latest infention: The Infisibility Simulator Ring-Bomb!” The „tada!‟ remained unsaid but was felt nonetheless. As no cheers erupted, he explained: “Vhen you turn de jevel, you become fery nearly infisible”

“Very nearly? Why not totally?” said Asset. “Because true infisibility is impossible,” said H, now cranky. “Just stand in shadows and don‟t make a sound. And if you are found, just pull out the jevel and throw it like a grenade.” “Hum,” murmured Asset as he examined the big purple stone. “It is a big stone, of very bad taste, but it doesn‟t make for a very big bomb.” “That is the point, little ingrate,” exploded H, his colour turning to vermillion. “That vay it passes through security checks. And I svear that vhen it goes off, you vill be the only think left standink.” Asset took out a handkerchief and wiped his face as the Queen laid a calming hand on H‟s shoulder. “That‟s enough,” she said with a barely restrained smile. “Well done, H. You really invent the most wonderful little toys. Now, do you think there‟s any point in talking to Ba‟al?” For a second H looked as if he would resume his pouting, then he shrugged. “Ja, vhy not? If he is varned, he might be able to circumfent de summons and defour the infoker instead. It vould also help to know vhat happens to the things he eats… vhere they go.” “Good idea,” agreed Louhi. “This is the top priority for the whole underground department. Andrew!” Andrew was facing the wall, his shoulders twitching spasmodically. At the Queen‟s call, he froze but didn‟t turn around. Followed by Asset, she went to join him. “I‟m sorry, majesty, he‟s just so…” “I know,‟ said the Queen with a big smile. “But seriously, you get Asset on his way back to Karta, I‟ll take care of Ba‟al. I‟m counting on you two. When you find out something, contact me, I should be at God‟s Inc. for a while.” Before Andrew could object, she turned into a mist and disappeared.

As they made their way to the palace‟s teleportation chamber in a more conventional manner (the elevator), Asset could feel his insides churning. Finally, he seized what courage he had and turned to Andrew. “I don‟t think I can do this Andrew. I didn‟t mind keeping an eye on my brother for you. I knew he badly needed

watching, but this… This is dangerous. Following Goblin, killing him, it‟s too much. I‟m not a secret agent and I‟m certainly not a hero.” A fleeting look of disdain marred Andrew‟s patrician features. “You know that if you don‟t, it might mean the end of the world, right?” They stepped off the elevator. Eyes fixed on the wall, Asset nodded with shame. “Sometimes not doing anything is the worst thing anyone can do.” continued Andrew. “You saw your brothers die, and you did nothing. You saw the culprit ascend to the throne, and you did nothing…” “I‟m only the son of a concubine!” cried Asset. “Out of the line of succession, which is why I‟m alive. I couldn‟t have done anything, least of all take the crown! I don‟t want it! Ever!” “Don‟t blame you. Kings die fast and painfully in Ipheria. I‟ve read the histories. But now that I think about it, aren‟t you Japhet‟s heir?” They had reached the teleportation chamber. As Andrew held the door open, Asset could only stare at him, aghast, his mind filled with the image of his brother Kafar, turning on the mechoui spit, reverting to his human shape in death. “If we put someone else on this, your brother will surely die, even if he is just a puppet, which means…” Andrew put his hand on Asset‟s shoulders. “If you do it, we won‟t have to involve anyone else, and, like most of H‟s apocalypses, it‟ll probably blow over in a few days. If you see a way to take care of this without killing anyone, you have my blessing, but if not… You‟ll just have to find your guts, if you don‟t want the universe to use them for garters.” Andrew turned to the computer and set up the teleportation coordinates. Asset considered his choices and sighed. There weren‟t any, apart from teleporting to the moon. And even there, the Queen would certainly find him. He got into the pod.

ANNOYANCES

Louhi held her head in her hands and, thinking of black holes, stared at the opaque darkness of her glass desk. She wanted to cry. She was so, so sorry. Sorry that the world was still turning, that she had been born, that she wasn‟t deaf or dead (more accurately dead and buried), that she couldn‟t turn into a bat in the daytime, that she had come in today, that she had found Satan pacing outside her office, that she had invited him in… The angel had been ranting his endless laundry list of complaints for forty-five minutes now, and she still didn‟t exactly understand what she was supposed to apologize for. There was something about her plant having eaten his cape while he had been waiting, as for the rest… She tried once more to interrupt, to ask what this was all about. To no avail. Amidst her many regrets, one was becoming imperative: she didn‟t have a trapdoor in this office. She would have one installed as soon as… Why not now? He wasn‟t listening to her, why should she listen to him? She pressed the button of her intercom and spoke loudly to cover Satan‟s tirade. “Thalia, please set up a meeting with my architect, as soon as possible.” “Sure, boss,” answered a lilting voice. “Anything else?” “Apart from not calling me boss, no. Have you got something for me?” The angel was now looking down at her with indignation, getting redder by the minute. At least she had succeeded in shutting him up. “Sorry, boss. Gaelin is here, but he says he doesn‟t mind waiting.” The voice dropped to a whisper. “He‟s sitting on the bench and smiling.” Louhi had stolen that bench from a high school gym; it kept people from lingering outside her office. That anyone could smile while sitting on it… A shadow crossed Satan‟s features. “Send him in, now please,” she said, barely able to contain her fury. She lifted her head to Satan. “Lucifer, I swear to you, the soul procurement office is not closing. Money is not the only currency here and punishment is a necessary incentive for humans. As for your problem with Big G, I can‟t really meddle, Anubis is your head of department.” Afraid of interruption, she had blurted it all out very fast. Lucky she didn‟t need to breathe. Satan‟s face softened with relief. “You‟re not closing it?”

Louhi shook her head and Satan turned to Gaelin who had just sidled in. “Gaelin, buddy! You were wrong! She‟s not closing the office!” Rage flashed in Gaelin‟s eyes. “She isn‟t? Well, that‟s good news.” “Not for you, Gaelin,” said Louhi. “You will mediate this dispute, and you are now the VP in charge of Afterlife relations.” “Wow!” exclaimed Satan. “This is, like, the best day. I get someone on my side and Gaelin gets a promotion. Thank you, Louhi.” The angel, humming a happy song, strode out, almost skipping. The silence stretched between Gaelin and Louhi. Finally, putting on a brave grin, Gaelin broke it. “I‟m sorry. I had to get rid of him this morning. It‟s the only thing that came to mind.” Louhi smiled thinly. “Yes, I‟m sure it seemed like a good idea at the time. I hope it was worth it. That promotion wasn‟t a joke. You better find a good ombudsgod, this dispute will get ugly.” Gaelin frowned, but seemed to accept his fate. She really didn‟t like this ascetic little man: he made her skin crawl and he kind of looked like a goblin. He was also a busybody, always nitpicking and complaining, which had probably caused the surprising decrease in productivity of the last few years.11 Only the respect she had for the man‟s father made her keep him on. And now, here he was, dropping a folder of inane paperwork on her desk. She didn‟t have time for this, she had to talk to Ba‟al. ***** Asset had never been good with computers. He hated them and had a sneaking suspicion that they returned the feeling. He might be right. In this world seeped in magic and pullulating with gods, the need for technology and computers has been a thorn in the sides of philosophers (sometimes literally) for a while now. This is their explanation:

11 Surprising because productivity was almost non-existent to begin with.

Gods, while being quite proficient in magic (they are the source of it), find that it drains their energies and prefer to do simple things simply. Then there are the humans, who, generally, are not so good at it. For the really lousy magicians, it is not so bad. Magic just blows up in their face and burns off their eyebrows. A better class of practitioners might be able to work a few spells, but soon find out that they do not control their dire consequences (monsters appearing in the neighbourhood or family members growing grass in their ears). The really powerful sorcerer, a rare specimen, usually manages to get disintegrated by a bungled curse sooner rather than later, thus becoming rarer. And so, the eyebrowless magicians turned to science (the others were too busy being dead or chased by friends and family sporting spiky objects), invented technology and, more recently, computers. Alas, these brought new frustrations to this young breed of eyebrowless humans (homo thaumoineptus). The computers would, when used by amateurs (or anyone really), ask for thing to be redone from start, freeze, shut down completely or fly out the window.12 It is to cure these problems that magical technology was invented. The first thaumo-computer was unveiled with fanfare in front of a huge gathering. A member of the audience was picked at random to ask the computer a question. Since random is often a synonym for bad (Lady Luck is a b…), the man was a philosopher who was only interested in one thing, so he typed: “What is the meaning of life? Seriously?” The computer whirred, then buzzed, then fizzed. After a few minutes, it flashed in answer: 42… Error… Error… Redo from scratch… UNDO… UNDO…

12 It is not clear if the computers do this by themselves. It is, however, the reason environmentalists are against computers

The computer froze with these last, pulsating words. The screen then turned black and everything went silent. With a last beep, it exploded and a strange blue cloud enveloped the audience. The computer‟s remaining pieces then flew out of the window where they disintegrated. Thus were neatly combined all the problems inherent to both magic and technology for, when the cloud cleared, the audience realized they were either dead or leafy in the ear region. That‟s when the monsters appeared and killed a few more. The rest ran away and were never heard from again. It‟s gotten better since, but not much.

After half an hour filled with grunting and swearing, Asset finally found the way to insert the hacker key. Luckily, there was only one departure around the time Goblin had left. Asset pressed the repeat button and got back into the pod. He materialized in a dilapidated office building called Fawly Towers. One look at the billboard and Asset was certain Goblin hadn‟t stayed here. Only one occupant remained, a child psychiatrist, the others had only left the errant plastic letter stuck in the rails. If Goblin were seeing a psychiatrist, they probably wouldn‟t be in this mess. To Asset‟s relief, the old computer was simpler than the one back at the palace. There was only one minute between Goblin‟s arrival and the next departure, which seemed to confirm his guess. The next stop was in an apartment building, in what sounded like the centre of Gangfok. Asset hesitated. He couldn‟t picture Goblin with a woman, but that was the point. In Gangfok, anything was available for the right price. He checked the computer (a glitzy new model, with the entry hole hidden under a brilliant Hello Pussy sticker), and once again a departure closely followed Goblin‟s arrival. Asset hoped he wasn‟t misreading the clues; someone could have gotten in right after Goblin had left. Maybe he was making himself queasy for nothing, but since he didn‟t know how to even begin tracking Goblin in this city… “Shit!” he swore as he materialized. He was in a public teleport station. He got out of his pod and looked over at the agents warily. Teleport Inc.‟s employees had the reputation of being the least cooperative bureaucrats of all the dimensions.

Finally, Asset decided the bald one seemed to have the most authority. With fake confidence, he brandished his gold chain of office and insinuated himself behind the desk. He approached the man and smiled widely. “Excuse me?” The man shot him a dark look and went around, apparently listening to a voice in his headphones. “Sure, honey, I‟d love to get there next month.” Asset again tried to get in the man‟s way. “Mister! I am Prince Asset, international ambassador from Ipheria.” He lifted the medallion of his chain. The man examined him from head to toe. “It sounds real good, dear… Can you wait a second? There‟s a doofus client talking to me… I am ignoring him, pumpkin, but he keeps getting in my way.” The man turned and went to pour himself a cup of coffee. Asset followed. “I‟m really sorry, sir, but it‟s a matter of life and death,” he insisted, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. “Did you hear that, cupcake? It‟s a matter of life and death.” Asset could hear cupcake‟s laughter over the man‟s sniggering. He dropped into the closest of the arrival lounge‟s little chairs. Finally, after five more minutes of chatter (something about a picnic and a weekend at the spa), the man took off his headphones and approached him with a small wicked smile. “Well, mister ambassador, what is it you want?” “A goblin passed through here earlier today, I need to know where he went.” The man pretended to think about it. “No can do. All travels are confidential.” Asset brandished his hacker key. “Then give me access to the right computer. You just have to point it out and let me insert this” “Can‟t let you do that!” said the man, glancing at the key with distaste. “No one‟s allowed to insert thingies in my computers.” “Then please tell me where he went, give me a hint, anything. If I don‟t find him the consequences will be dire.” The man seemed to enjoy Asset‟s growing desperation. “Dire, you say? That‟s too bad, but it doesn‟t change anything…”

“I‟m sure you can do something… Why don‟t you just send me where he went, please!” “You‟re right, I probably could help. But I won‟t, you‟re annoying.” Asset felt something pop in his brain. That is probably why his hand, instead of reaching for his wallet like the situation demanded, reached for the man‟s collar, pulling him close.

Half an hour later, Asset came out from under a dolmen and found himself on the hills of a freezing moor, wearing only his socks, boxer shorts and a t-shirt.13 The agents had taken the hacker key but had ceded to his pleas and left him the StrawBerry (just a calculator, honest) and the ring, saying the gaudiest woman wouldn‟t wear something that ugly and that a prince should have better taste or at least a stylist. They had warned him, back at the station, that this was a natural breach, which only led to one or two places. Since the moor was deserted, the portal must lead elsewhere than the station. He went around the dolmen, and noticed drawings on the capstone. On the side he had come out of, there was an engraving of the Teleport Inc. logo. On the other was a childish rendering of a small house. He entered by that side, and, after the usual lurch, found himself inside a metal doorframe in the living room of what appeared to be a private residence. A modest one at that. From where he stood he could see a small kitchen and a partly opened door gave him a glimpse into a tiny bathroom. The furniture was basic, threadbare and dusty. There was a sense of utility about the place; it felt like the sort used only once in a while to shower and change before leaving again. This had to be Goblin‟s lair. Asset went to the front door and opened it in order to get the address. Outside he found a quaint suburban neighbourhood, every house but this one meticulously maintained. He opened the mailbox beside the door. It was mostly filled with junk mail addressed to the occupant, but for one sent to a Cerida Taslin. The numbers matched the ones on the door, so the chances of a postal error were minimal.

13 Which makes the bribe one of the biggest one ever given to a Teleport Inc. employee. Seriously, it‟s in the book of records: 2000 Coronas, a Vutton wallet, a Roulex watch, a pair of Tucci loafers, an Arvari suit, a Balanchekbok coat and a gold chain of office.

Now, if only he could get the hang of that blasted StrawBerry.

OLD… FRIENDS? It had taken a lot of Askicins and three Bloody Louhis, but Ba‟al was feeling better. Not divine, but close to his usual self. Trying to concentrate on his computer, he swore, once more, that he wouldn‟t ever drink to excess again. He leaned back in his chair and saw Louhi approaching his office. She looked mad: long red hair bristling, delicate chin jutting and emerald eyes flashing. He had always found her beautiful in her tantrums… Wait, she usually avoided him now, what could she want? And then he remembered. He fought the urge to hide under the desk. He knew he should have left early. “Hello, Ba‟al.” Her soft and earthy voice threw him down memory lane. Why the hell had he been such an ass? Something must have shown in his eyes; Louhi reddened and cleared her throat. “I see you still work late on Fridays.” The sarcasm appeared to help her regain composure. “Gaelin was kind enough to show me Mister De Rinjd‟s complaint. He also mentioned that you were not well enough to deal with it today… But I figure a hangover has never killed anygod, so I brought you the letter. Here, read it.” Ba‟al didn‟t take it. “I don‟t want to read that man‟s letter. I can‟t believe you are taking his side in this.” “It‟s not a question of sides,” breathed Louhi impatiently. “Now just read it!” Her eyes widened, her chin angling towards the letter. Knowing he was pouting, but unable to stop, he grabbed the letter. This wasn‟t De Rinjd‟s letter; this was Louhi‟s handwriting. He looked up at her, she gestured to keep reading. Hi Ba’al, Don’t say anything. Pretend this is the letter. It’s important. Have you been summoned lately? Cough for no, scratch your head for yes. Then tell me it’s the wrong letter.

Ba‟al was about to cough when he remembered the strange tug he had felt on his essence the night before. But had it really been a summons? He scratched his head, coughed and doodled I don’t know on a piece of paper littering his desk. “Hem, Louhi, I think I have the wrong letter.” Louhi squeezed a fist, sighed and finally noticed the doodle. She raised an eyebrow and searched through the folder she was holding. She hesitated for a second, then handed him another letter. “Sorry about that. Now, I understand your desire to annoy the man, but perhaps you could be subtler than a charging elephant about it?” He nodded noncommittally and read the new letter. We need to talk. Ask me to dinner, it shouldn’t seem too strange if people know our history. Or find a way to meet me at the palace, discreetly. It’s really urgent.

Dinner? With Louhi? Unbidden, flashes of her alabaster skin invaded his mind. He shook his head like an etch-a-sketch. She wasn‟t the naïve half goddess he had met six hundred years ago. She now held more power than most gods. He felt intimidated. And she was probably still a megabitch. A beautiful, eccentric, intelligent and fun megabitch, but a megabitch nonetheless. He raised his eyes. She was still babbling about De Rinjd, and she looked worried. If she looked worried, he would probably be doing something in his pants. But he was prepared to do what he could to help. “Louhi, it‟s okay. I‟ll deal with it…subtly, I swear. I can even stop, if that‟s what you want. Now, hem…” Blast! He could feel a blush rising. His co-workers already teased him constantly about their affair (six centuries wasn‟t very long for gods), if he went to dinner with her… She had seen his hesitation, she sighed with disbelief. “All right, I‟ll drop the matter, for now. By the way, I‟m staying in Atlantis tonight, do you know a good place for take- out?” Ba‟al seized his courage and the line. “Forget take-out. There‟s this new place I wanted to try out tonight, why don‟t you join me?”

Hidden amidst the garish foliage of one of the fake plants, Gaelin observed the couple. They seemed to know each other a lot better than he had previously suspected.14 Should he be worried? He tiptoed to the elevator. Perhaps his plans should not be put off any longer.

*****

Andrew was troubled. Far from him the idea of criticizing one of her Majesty‟s decisions, but Asset was obviously unsuited to the task she had set upon him. So, instead of going straight down to the basement, he had stopped in her office and was now going through her giant Rolodex. Finally, stuck behind another card in the wrong letter of the alphabet, he found the one he was looking for. It was wrinkled, torn and yellowed with age. He looked at the phone and hesitated. The Queen would not like this show of initiative. He remembered Asset‟s timorous face and damned the consequences. He was her Majesty‟s bodyguard; he would do what needed to be done for her safety.

When he arrived in the Eagle‟s Nest, it was already aflutter with activity. Armed with a felt pen and a white board, H was egging on the Nerd Squad. Shortly after having imprisoned H, the Queen had handpicked the first generation of nerds. This replacement batch was young and quite mystifying to Andrew, who had little use and quite a few misunderstandings with computers and technology. But the Queen was adamant: H needed a sounding board for his less insane ideas. So there they were, all at their stations: John, the short and dark computer wizard; Jules, the pudgy intellectual, complete with thinning ponytail; Walter, the tech specialist, a desiccated hippy and, in the sound booth, Lara, the communications expert,15 a slight young woman with amber skin and blue-black hair.

14 As the company‟s tight-ass, Gaelin is not up-to-date in office gossip. 15 This makes absolutely no sense, anyone can use a phone. Unknown to all but Andrew and the Queen, Lara‟s real specialties are martial arts, explosives and bunker security, for she is the nest‟s protector. As such, she‟s the only one Andrew can actually talk to (which might explain the communication angle).

The white board was divided in three columns: one for Goblin, one for the abyss and one for Ba‟al. H was standing in front of John, who was energetically tapping on a computer while glancing at two others whirring on each side of him. Suddenly, John sank back in his chair and gave the machine an obscene sign. “There is NO info on this Goblin. A big freakish void. No birth certificate, no school transcript, no social security, no travel ID, no carpet permit or registration. Nil, nada, nothing.” H turned towards him. “Andrew, are you sure this person is really a goblin, or does he only look like vone?” “The Queen checked before. He has all the markers so he‟s probably the real thing.” “Na gut. John, hack into the Goblin Tribe database. They are few and keep fery good track of their own kind.” H went to Jules‟s station. “Vat about you?” Jules had put away his computer to make room for musty old books. Andrew was surprised; he had thought these nerds were all about gadgetry. Finger raised, Jules finished reading a paragraph. “All the research on Ba‟al is either psychological or philosophical and it only covers the fact that he abandoned his cult and his worshippers. Depending on whom you read, he‟s a saint, a traitor, a coward, a crazy idealist idiot or a kleptomaniac. No one agrees, except for the women who say that whatever he is, he‟s one handsome son of an abyss.” “His good looks won‟t help us here,” said Andrew. “Keep searching. Anything on the abyss itself?” Walter answered, studying images on his computer screen. “Scientists say it predates the continental formation and that, as far as they can tell, there‟s a good chance it does go right to the centre of the earth,” “They‟re not sure?” “It seems every camera they sent down there disappeared. Quantum physicists have also studied it. They think that it may be more than a black hole: that it might lead to other worlds. But as nothing or no one has ever come back, they are not too keen on testing the theory.” John raised his hand. “When Ba‟al eats things, he can return them. This one time, I said a small prayer, paid my late fees, and I got my left shoe back.”

Andrew shook his head. “You had probably just lost it. Anyway, it was just a shoe, inanimate and small. But a person?” Lara burst out of the communication booth. “Just got a message from Asset, sir. Three messages actually, all saying the same thing. Is he a techno-idiot?” She shrugged, shoulders rising to meet her bobbed hair. “Whatever… He‟s in a private home, which he thinks might be Goblin‟s. The address is 1566 Mon Street, in Cardiff, Gallia. He adds that some of the mail was addressed to a Cerida Taslin, who might be the genuine resident.” “Taslin,” said Andrew pensively. “The name rings a bell. John, get on it, find out anything you can about the woman. Now, back to what happen to someone going down Ba‟al‟s throat” “Vait!” said H, finger dictatorially raised. “Our vondeful sofereign, is she not impaired in the life department? She does not need to breathe and can endure almost any temperature. Only direct sunlight can hurt her, and at her age, not fery much. She could probably surfife being eaten by Ba‟al…” Suddenly, H seemed the one depressed. “Hey! Everyone!” said John from his station. “Maybe you‟re right,” said Andrew, his attention still on H. “But we don‟t even know for sure if they are after the Queen. And anyway, if she is thrown into another dimension, it won‟t help us here.” “Sorry to interrupt” said John. “They must be after the Queen,” answered H, oblivious. “Hey! Dudes!” yelled John. “They are after the Queen. And I know who they are!” Andrew rushed to John‟s desk. “What! Why didn‟t you say? And did you just call me dude?” John sighed, then gestured towards a computer. “There‟s a Goblin in the tribe database, born thirty years ago in Cardiff, but the info ends there.” He pointed at another screen. “When I entered Cerida Taslin in the computer, I found out she gave birth to a son on the same date. She has another son, name of Gaelin. And I found a picture of her… look who she‟s with.” Andrew leaned in to look at the image, then recoiled. “Mwari! Damn! He‟s Gaelin Taslin‟s father, you know, God‟s Inc.‟s second in command. Goblin and Gaelin must be brothers.” He held up two fingers. “One controls a king who is obviously after world

domination, the other is a major shareholder of God‟s Inc. and has a good chance of being elected CEO if the Queen disappears.” “This confirms they are after her,” said H, smirking at Andrew. “Vould you not agree?” “Fine,” growled Andrew. “Now we‟re sure. What do we do about it?” “If Ba‟al eats the Queen, we‟ll just have to find a way to make him regurgitate her,” proposed Lara forcefully. Andrew scratched his head. “If he‟s mastered by that gnome, he won‟t be able to.” “I have an idea, sir,” said Walter. “The problem is simple. If she is eaten, the Queen can survive anywhere. We just need to know where she will be and find a portal or a dimensional vortex” “Yes, we got that,” cut in Andrew impatiently (nerd talk always made him edgy). “Get on with it, what‟s the bloody idea?” Walter‟s enthusiasm was not dampened. “A seeker, sir. A pan-dimensional seeker. We built one for H a while back. Not only can we see where it goes, but it‟s also programmed to return. If there‟s a way back, it‟ll find it.” He opened a cupboard. “Now, where in gods‟ names did we put it?” Andrew kicked himself mentally, but his curiosity got the better of him. “How can you track something that is out of this dimension?” Walter emerged from the cupboard and turned around with a shiny look in his eyes. “Funny you should ask. It‟s actually quite simple. We follow it on a special computer that uses quantum and logarithmic equations and can follow lines in the space-time continuum…” There he goes, thought Andrew with mounting horror. “… Of course, it is a bit unstable, like all magi-tech, and it works better in dimensions similar to ours” Andrew grabbed him by the collar. “Look, you quack, I don‟t speak nerd. Does your thingy work or not?” “Please, sir,” said Lara with a dark look at Walter. “He means we‟ll know how many dimensions sideways it is and where it would be in the equivalence of our world. Walter, you should know better.”

Andrew looked at her with relief and let Walter‟s collar go. “So basically, we get Ba‟al to swallow it and we monitor it to find a way back for the Queen?” Lara nodded. Andrew smiled and took the seeker from Walter‟s limp hand. “Good show! Can we send it to her right away?” “Yes, sir. I have a small teleportation device in my booth. Do you want to talk to her at the same time? Then follow me.”

*****

As quietly as a mouse-burglar, Louhi entered her tower apartment and tiptoed to her bedroom. In a world that nowadays held very little to fear, only her mother could still induce terror with merely a glance. Loviatar, Daugther of Death and Mother of the Nine Diseases,16 was not an easy goddess to love. She spent little time here since her mother had bullied an invitation to stay in the guest bedroom. Why she had accepted was still beyond her. It was a shame. She adored this place. In a need for contrast from her palace filled with mementoes of her long existence, she had had the place decorated in a deceptively simple (but oh so expensive) style. She entered her bedroom‟s antechamber and went straight to an enormous mirror covering almost the entire wall.17 As she examined herself, she had to remind the butterflies in her stomach that this wasn‟t a date. Still, she looked pretty good for six hundred and four. Perhaps a bit paler, more austere with her gaunter cheeks and prominent cheekbones. Being a vampire did that to you, especially one on a no-human-blood diet. Her ridiculously abundant red hair made up for it. Should she change and maybe add a touch of funky coloured eye shadow? She dropped onto the black leather love seat. What was she doing, thinking? This was Ba‟al she was having supper with. She had to be cool, cooler than her usual room temperature.

16 Some politicians say ten. They argue that the number should include Louhi. 17 The myth about vampires having no reflection goes against all logic. Have you ever seen a badly coiffed one?

Ba‟al had been her first love, back when she was only the mortal spawn of an unknown deity. Humans had such great capacity for love. She had never known such intensity since becoming a vampire. Oh, she had experienced greater, stronger and more understanding love with her husband Inti, but nothing this passionate. Today, she could perhaps understand Ba‟al‟s nonchalance with her. Immortals protected their hearts from time and the death of loved ones. Those who didn‟t, well… She put everything out of her mind and got up. She was about to enter her closet, having decided she would at least get out of her military uniform, when she saw the phone‟s blinking light (part of her silence policy). Finally, some news. Still distracted, she listened to Andrew‟s explanations with half an ear. Then he mumbled something… “YOU WHAT? ARE YOU CRAZY? HE‟S NUTS! AND NOT IN A FUN WAY!” she yelled before remembering her mother. “How dare you call the Frog? You know I dislike him and his methods.” “I‟m sorry, majesty,” answered Andrew, his voice pained but resolute. “But Asset was clearly not up to the task and now he‟s alone against two.” “Fine! What‟s done is done,” she fumed, barely containing her urge to scream. “Send me the thingy, I‟ll get Ba‟al to eat it. I‟ll call back later.” Andrew was still talking, but she had had enough of his bright ideas for today. She hung up quietly, refraining from banging the receiver. She couldn‟t believe it… The Frog! Of all the maniacal, insane, brilliant and deadly assassins in the world, Andrew had to pick that one. He just killed anything that got in his way, and that stupid accent… She almost hit her desk in fury when she sensed doom descend upon her. “Hello, dear,” croaked her mother, standing in the doorway. “Since you seem to have either forgotten your manners or my existence, I thought it best to come all the way here to greet you myself.” Loviatar had taken her crone appearance (she could also look Louhi‟s age or like a young girl). She usually did when she wanted one of her children to feel guilty. “Hi, mom,” said Louhi brightly. “I‟m in a bit of a hurry, and I wasn‟t sure you were here.” “Yes,” sighed Loviatar, “always too busy for your poor old blind mother.”

Her mother wasn‟t really blind. She was however, like a lot of Death‟s agents, lacking in the eye department (it is said that death, like love, is blind18). “Enough with the theatrics, mom. You can see fine. And please stop looking like that.” Loviatar conveyed a world of motherly disapproval with her empty eye sockets. It always intrigued Louhi how she managed it. Then she shrugged with her whole body and turned Louhi‟s age. They resembled each other closely, having the same build and the same angular features, except that her mother‟s hair was blond (and the eye thing). “Is this better?” Her mother approached and scrutinized her. “You look pale, dear. I bet you still don‟t eat enough.” Loviatar‟s skin was so tanned her hair looked almost white, which meant she had devoured someone not long ago. While not a vampire, she was exceedingly carnivorous and refused to eat anything but human beings, and often at that. Her mother‟s eating habits were becoming Louhi‟s human resources nightmare. “Mom, you know how I feel about eating humans…‟ It was their usual fight, and it never did any good. She turned back to the mirror and put on some eye shadow. “I just don‟t understand why you still care about them so much,” said Loviatar in a pained voice. “Are you putting on eye shadow? This is becoming interesting. My baby girl has a date. With whom? And dear, you really should change, and maybe do something with your hair.” Louhi closed her eyes. She would have to say something, or she would never get out of here. Her mother had ways. “If you must know, I‟m going to have supper with Ba‟al. But it‟s not a date.” “Not a date… Really? With Ba‟al? Well of course dear, whatever you say.” She came up behind Louhi and tried a few things with the red mane. She sighed. “Well, at least you could change. The boots are good, but the rest… you look like an iron maiden in that getup. Why don‟t you put on a pair of jeans and that little purple shirt… you know, the one that makes you look as if you actually had boobs?” Louhi gave up. “Fine, but then we won‟t have time to chat. I‟m already late as it is.” Followed by her mother‟s sniggers, she escaped to her closet.

18 We don‟t know what the moral of that is, feel free to make one up.

She took off her uniform slowly. She was so tired of winning every Worst Mother in the World contest. But who could compete with the fact that Loviatar had devoured her father when she was but a babe, had shipped her to an assassins‟ boarding school at age five or had set her up on a blind date with a cousin who also happened to be a vampire? She had to admit she wasn‟t really mad about the last one. It had given her power and immortality. But she questioned her mother‟s motives. Had it been to immortalize her or had it been more to turn her into the bloodthirsty daughter Loviatar thought she deserved? Whatever, to her mother‟s dismay, she had conquered the bloodlust, if not easily, then quite soon after being turned. And assassins‟ school hadn‟t been so bad. It had strengthened her, made her smarter. She probably wouldn‟t have survived two minutes on the Northmen‟s boats without the training and would never have become their Queen upon arrival in the new land. There was no excuse for the father thing, but she had to admit she owed a lot of her current status to her mother. Not to mention the fact that she was right about the little purple shirt. Louhi came back to the antechamber sheepishly and hugged her mother. Loviatar froze, not used to friendly gestures from her children. “I‟m sorry to have to leave, mom. Maybe we could have supper next week?” This made the prospect of being engulfed by Ba‟al a little more appealing. The hug seemed to soften Loviatar, but she still answered harshly. “And eat what, my dear? Some veggie delicacy? No thanks, you never let me taste the waiters”

*****

With a crackle of electricity, Gaelin materialized home. He felt as if his brain was trying to come out of his ear; there had to be a better way to mask his comings and goings. Shakily, he made his way to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Twice. This was as good as he was going to feel. He got back to the living room and sat on the floor in the lotus position. He put his worries about Ba‟al and Louhi aside and cleared his mind, humming slightly. His skin tingled and the change began. His small ears grew points, his nose elongated, his grey eyes and dusty blond hair became silver, his skin darkened and took on a leathery texture. Finally, with a slight exhalation, he lost a few inches of height.

It was on the morning following the Incandescent Wedgie (and a night filled with tears), that Goblin had discovered this talent. At first he had thought that his father had felt his pain and taken pity on him. But it hadn‟t lasted long, and he had figured out it was his own doing. It had been a glimmer of hope for the little goblin plagued by his looks. He had never become a proficient shape-shifter. But while the changes were slight, they did make all the difference. At sixteen, in time for his entrance to the Upper school, he had mastered his human shape. It took little persuasion for the headmaster to correct the typo that had followed him through his school years, and Gaelin was born. Later, it had been easy to convince his father, who was feeling doubly guilty for leaving two sons in the hands of an insane woman, to give Gaelin and Goblin two important posts… and to keep the secret. A mixture of relief and shame flooded through him as he let the alien shape go. He heard something behind him, a soft sound, maybe an intake of breath. Could someone have found this place? He turned around, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Was he becoming paranoid? He felt watched. He always had a hard time with his senses when he changed. They were so much sharper in this shape. He had probably heard the wind or a small animal brushing against the house. It could even have been the house itself; the old place was full of sounds. Maybe he should fix it up a bit. Another day. If the Queen was talking to Ba‟al, there was no more time to waste. He could feel it in his ear points. He would have to go through with the Plan even if Asset was at the palace. When Ba‟al woke up tomorrow, he would be in his power.

*****

“It would be better if we knew how to reach you, Majesty… Majesty?” Andrew looked at the receiver with irritation. “She hung up,” he told Lara before putting it in its cradle. “What‟s that blinking light?” Lara pushed him away from the console. “It‟s a message from Asset, sir. At least he only sent it once this time.” “Well, what does it say?” Lara stared at her screen for a moment. “Only two words, sir: „Shape-shifter‟ and „Pursuit‟, what does it mean?”

A heavy silence fell on the room. “Oh bugger,” mumbled Andrew softly. “That‟s why we couldn‟t find anything on Goblin,” said John. “He must have switched everything to Gaelin‟s name.” “Hmmm,” rumbled H, rubbing his chin pensively. “And also, he has been hiding this for a long time. Ve hafe to assume he is fery figilant and fery smart.” “Yes,” agreed Andrew in a discouraged voice. “And Asset is now in pursuit… Who wants to bet on how that will end? Lara, send him a message: tell him to kill Goblin on sight. We‟ll just have to hope he won‟t realize he‟s being pursued and wait for Asset in some form or other.” Lara got busy at her console. “And I need your phone again,” continued Andrew. “I better warn the Frog.”

*****

Claude (AKA the Frog) was almost done putting his gear together when he got Andrew‟s second call. Bordel de merde! There was nothing worse than an enfoiré de shapeshifter! You had to stab everything that moved. Which didn‟t bother him that much, personally. But he remembered Louhi‟s modus operandi in school and, from what he‟d heard, she hadn‟t changed a bit in that regard. If his body count were too high, she would have him over a foutu de spit. What‟s more, the putain de job was in Ipheria! He just didn‟t fit in there. It was too hot, too sandy. Being a gnome, and so very small, he could of course disappear anywhere, but Ipheria needed a lot more saloperie de make-up. It‟s not easy being green. Merde!

ROUND THE BEND

Asset stepped out of the shadows, thanking the gods in bulk for having retained his scream. Maybe it was the sweater and the pants. Tight was quite a big euphemism. He slipped on the sneakers he had found, they were lace ups but so small he had a feeling they were for ladies, and continued his interrupted search of the small desk. He needed a bit of money to get back to the palace. That he had given all he had to the teleport agents would leave them brushing their bellybuttons with indifference. Finally, he found a few bills. It wasn‟t much, but it should be enough. As he arrived in the public station, he cursed all the gods he had previously thanked. Goblin was still there, not twenty feet away, talking to the balding official who was studying the contents of a brown envelope. Another agent saw him and pointed. Goblin turned, their eyes met. Asset started running. If he could make it around the bend in the hallway, he would be able to use the ring. The commotion behind him gave his feet wings. He made it, rotated the stone and tried to repress his panting. Just in time. The three agents turned the corner, followed by Goblin. “Where the hell is he?” said one of them. “He just turned here!” Goblin shushed him, nose in the air and ears vibrating. “Boo-boo-be-boo-boop!” trilled the StrawBerry. All eyes turned to Asset. “Well, well, prince Asset, what a pleasure,” mocked Goblin smugly. He took the StrawBerry out of Asset‟s unresisting hands and stared at it for a moment. “Gadgets and an invisibility spell,” he said thoughtfully. “Where could you have gotten all that, I wonder?” “Do you want us to arrest him, sir?” asked an eager agent. “It would be a pleasure.” Goblin waved him away. “No. This man is guilty of treason against his own brother, His Illustriousness King Japhet.” He raised the StrawBerry. “We need to get him to Ipheria. Although an escort would be appreciated…” The agents assured Goblin of their full cooperation. This was the time to use the ring bomb; he doubted Goblin would overlook it for long. And yet he couldn‟t. The agents were nasty bullies, but they didn‟t deserve to die because of Goblin.

*****

Relieved at her luck in getting away so easily, Louhi fled her mother‟s presence and arrived in the lobby five minutes early. Ba‟al was there, waiting for her. “Your mom home?” he teased, seeing her haggard expression. Then, with a little bow, he gestured towards the ornate doors. “We‟re walking?” asked Louhi. “Yes, it‟s close by, maybe a ten minute walk. You know I hate materializing, and teleporting for that matter, they make me queasy,” he said with a slight shiver. “Yes, I remember,” she whispered. “And with the traffic I‟m sure walking is faster,” he continued. “Not to mention that even if you roll your carpet, it‟s impossible to park on the week-end.” That was so Ba‟al. He knew she had a deluxe carpet with driver here, but he preferred to call the shots when taking a woman out. It was either incredibly charming or prehistorically sexist; she wasn‟t sure. The doorman opened the doors with an eloquent smile. He couldn‟t know about their affair, could he? His ancestors hadn‟t even been thought of back then! Surely she was being paranoid. Ba‟al took her elbow, making her jump nervously. She forced herself to relax, it was just so they wouldn‟t get lost in the crowd. The evening was balmy (gods refuse the concept of bad weather) and the blooming flower trees perfumed the air. Louhi savoured the experience. The land in Picchu was so dry and the palace so remote. Of course, it was a city in itself, but it wasn‟t the same. Over there everyone was always busy, doing something, going somewhere. Here, it was like a recess yard. This part of the city had been built in the euphoria following the end of the Wars. Human beings, rather glad to be rid of their divinities, had supplied any desired materials and gods, giddy at the thought of their own paradise, had erected fantastic structures. Which had threatened to fall over almost immediately, so they had needed to bring in human architects. Nevertheless, the achievement was great and Atlantis had become the number one tourist destination in the world.

Ba‟al obviously enjoyed walking around and mixing with the crowds. He was always tender with humans as he considered them to be the only divine creation of any worth. They hadn‟t talked since the lobby and his closeness was making her uncomfortable. “Ba‟al?” she squeaked. She cleared her throat. Before she could speak, he took her arm, turning her to face him. Suddenly, it was as if they were surrounded by a cone of silence. A silence heavy with possibilities. Damn! Her mother was right. This was a date. “What‟s going on, Louhi?” he asked, face filled with concern. Louhi tried to speak but her mouth was too dry. How come his proximity could still do this to her? She lowered her eyes and slowly rallied. “We better talk about it in the restaurant. For now, you have to eat this.” She handed him the seeker. Ba‟al took the black wiry device and grimaced. “I think I just started dieting.” “No silly, you have to EAT it… in essence.”19 Ba‟al stared at her for a second, then he sighed and closed his eyes, humming softly. The seeker disappeared. Silently, they started to walk again, pausing from time to time, playing tourist. They admired the town hall shaped like a chain of mountains. The undulating flying carpet store made Louhi slightly dizzy. They got to the park, which seemed to be Ba‟al‟s favourite spot. It was true that, despite some incongruities, it was the city‟s most relaxing view.20 They turned on the Grand Promenade. Most bars and restaurants were located on this street, consequently the busiest of the island. Tonight, strangely, no carpets were flying in the lower lane, and the passersby seemed to be expecting something. And then Bastet appeared, in cat shape, strutting to the beat of a Kenny Larvitz song. Louhi smiled. The goddess was putting on quite a show, tail high in the air, shoulders

19 This might be a good time to explain Ba‟al‟s digestive systems. He can eat a pizza without sending it half chewed to another dimension, but that‟s just feeding his body, which is basically the same as ours. When he feeds his essence, it‟s a bit different. Let‟s say you haven‟t paid your monthly sacrificial fee, Ba‟al will then send part of his essence in your clothes dryer (or toolbox, or drawer, or anywhere really), wrap it around a sock or two (but never a pair), transport it to his office or the abyss and finally ingest it. And perhaps send it, half chewed, to another dimension. 20 Some flowers were as big as trees, and some trees could make a bonsai feel too tall.

bouncing playfully to the beat, meowing sexily at the males (human, god or cat) who attracted her notice. When she saw them, she blew Louhi a kiss and threw a strange look at Ba‟al. Louhi was amazed, she didn‟t know cats could wink… or leer. Behind Bastet, a huge traffic jam was forming but the music was so loud it drowned the yelling. The song was blaring out of the delivery carpet following the cat, driven by a resigned looking man with a bleak expression. “Better you than me, mate,” said Ba‟al amicably. “You don‟t know the worst of it,” answered the man. “She does this every Friday. Every time. Just jumps on my head and sinks her claws in until I stop and put on her music. Look at her… it‟s indecent, is what it is.” He sighed wearily. “And then the wife nags because I come home late.” “Why don‟t you take another street? Or use a faster height?” asked Louhi. The man blushed. “Weeelll, there are perks, you know?” He scrutinized Louhi. “Hey, aren‟t you that Queen lady? The CEO of the nut farm?” Still looking at Bastet, Louhi nodded absently. She had to remind herself not to bristle at the familiarity. In Atlantis, she wasn‟t anything special. She turned back to the man who was now squirming in his seat. “They‟re not BIG perks, mind you, just cats being real nice to me.” He broke eye contact and went back to fulminating. Ba‟al pulled Louhi away. “They don‟t sleep together, do they?” she asked. “I mean, the man just told us he was married.” “No, no… well, maybe. But it‟s probably just a rebate on his fees. It happens,” he continued hastily, noticing her scowl. “Don‟t open that can of worms, you‟ll be at it till doomsday. Ah, here we are!” The building had obviously been designed to attract attention. Contrasting sharply with the rest of the street, it looked like a huge block of black granite. Beside the door, a small white marble plaque announced the name in bright red. “Fou Raide,” read Louhi bemusedly. “Are they calling us crazy or are they proclaiming themselves?”

Ba‟al grinned. “Everyone‟s crazy around here, so I guess both work. I know it looks too trendy to be any good, but I‟ve been hearing great things about the place… and they have boudin.” “Straight to stereotypes, I see,” she said as they entered, faking a sneer. The interior was stark and opulent. The stone floor, the leather seats and the lacquered walls were all a deep shining black. The tables and the waiters were dressed in dazzling white. Here and there, vibrant touches of red drew the eye. In the centre, a small group of musicians were playing classical music as clients ignored them and enjoyed their meal. A man appeared behind the lectern at the entrance. Tall and sticklike he gave the impression that his well-trimmed moustache had been soaking in vinegar for a few days. Against all the laws of physiognomy, his frown deepened as he looked them over. “Do you have a reservation, môssieur?” Ba‟al slapped his forehead theatrically. “I forgot! Can you please find us a table?” “Môssieur is forcing me to point out that neither Madame nor Môssieur are properly attired to dine here.” The Maitre D‟ was surreptitiously waving at Louhi‟s jeans and Ba‟al‟s lack of tie. Ba‟al looked at her worriedly before bending over the lectern and handing the man a fifty coronas bill. “Please find us a table,” he murmured nervously. His anxiety failed to communicate itself to the suicidal man. “Because of your party‟s attire, it will have to be an out of the way one,” said the man in a loud voice. “That‟s fine,” said Ba‟al, making shushing gestures. “We will have one of those available in three hours,” continued the Maitre D‟ in the same tone. Ba‟al sidled closer to him and whispered something, gesturing towards Louhi. This was becoming funny. She approached as the man, recoiling from Ba‟al‟s proximity, looked at her and answered: “I do not.” Ba‟al‟s shoulder‟s sagged. “She‟s right behind me, isn‟t she?” “Yes Môssieur.” “Is she smiling?”

The man nodded. “Have you ever heard the phrase: cruel and unusual punishment?” The Maitre D‟ surely had a ready retort. He didn‟t utter it, Louhi‟s hand was squeezing his throat. He did manage a small squeak, when she grabbed his unmentionables, and a deep “oomph” as she hoisted him up in the air. Finally, the poor man was able to yell as she threw him across the room. The scream stopped when he hit the kitchen‟s swinging doors. Ba‟al turned to Louhi in the sudden quiet. “I was trying for incognito,” he said disapprovingly. “Aaaaah!” echoed the Maitre D‟ as he was chucked out of the kitchen. He landed in front of the musicians. A huge man with a disgusted expression stepped out behind him. “None of that in my soup!” The musicians grinned happily and broke into a fanfare. A waiter, blessed with a better memory for faces, came up to them with an affable smile. “Good evening, Mrs. Pohjola, Mister Hammon, your table will be ready in a minute. Would you care to sit at the bar in the meantime?” Ba‟al sighed in relief. “Yes, thank you.” He took Louhi‟s elbow. “Come on, I need a drink, and you can start telling me what this is all about.” They walked past the crumpled Maitre D‟. Louhi stopped and studied him for a moment. “I wonder, why does he suddenly remind me of a boomerang?”

*****

In the harem gardens, His Mightiness King Japhet was getting a massage from three of his favourite concubines. A fourth was singing odes about him while feeding him sweets. This was a good day. Goblin and Asset had stayed out of his hair, and they were the only ones who thought he should do other things, like run the country. What was the point of being king if you had to work? He sighed as his muscles relaxed past the point of inertia. Soon he would rule half the world. A part of his brain told him that this would involve more work and that letting

Goblin do it in his stead was a BAD idea, but he ignored it. He could see it now, concubines of every race and creed, gold, the best delicacies the world had to offer, silks, jewels, power… And that would only be the beginning. “Excuse me, Your Virileness,” wheedled a eunuch. The dream faded. “Yes, what do you want?” said Japhet rudely. “The Grand Vizier is waiting in the Judiciary Antechamber. He says he must talk to Your Graciousness at once.” Great! He had to start ruling again. He should have known it couldn‟t last. Still, there are things that should not go to waste and there was no real hurry. He grabbed a concubine.

Goblin was pacing the antechamber angrily when the king finally walked in. With barely a nod, His Tardiness sat on the Throne of Judgment and arranged his finery. “Well Goblin, what is it now? I was occupied.” Goblin took a deep, deep breath. “I had to arrest Asset, Your Busyness. He has to be tried and convicted right away. He knows too much about our plan.” “Asset? But I talked to him earlier. I told him not to put his nose where it did not belong.” “It would seem you have been flagrantly disobeyed. I caught him following me and sending information. I think he is working with international forces to dethrone you.” Fierce rage and blubbering sadness warred on the king‟s features. Finally they settled into cold resolution. “All right. Cut his head off!” “We can‟t, Your Mercifulness. There‟s a law against fratricide and he is the only remaining member of the royal family…” The king glowered; he hated being reminded that he had yet to father a child. “So maybe condemn him to life imprisonment, in my care,” continued Goblin very fast. “ I‟ll make sure it doesn‟t last too long. And tonight we do the ritual!” The king‟s face lit up. It was like giving candy to a baby. Goblin went to open the door. Asset was waiting, his hands tied behind his back. Two guards manhandled him into the room and threw him, kneeling, at Japhet‟s feet. The court appointed lawyer followed, winking at Goblin.

The trial did not last long. When it was over, the king unexpectedly ordered the guards and the lawyer out. He stood up from his throne and looked at Asset with pained eyes. “That you, my own brother, would betray me like this” “Japhet, please,” begged Asset. “You know I‟ve never been interested in reigning. I was only worried that Goblin was using you to do something… dangerous.” “You dare badmouth my most loyal councillor! It‟s always the same story with you. Contrary to what you might think, I‟m not stupid. Thanks to him, I will soon be the most powerful man in the world.” The King became exalted. “At a snap from my fingers, cities will fall, continents will crumble…” His Madness hesitated, perhaps unsure of what else he could achieve. He settled for cackling, madly. Asset‟s head dropped. Majestically, the king whirled from his brother towards Goblin, who opened the door. “I leave him in your care. Thank you, Goblin, for warning me of this most heinous plot.” Goblin was about to close the door after His Astuteness when Asset turned away from him. Instinctively, he pulled back the door and hid behind it. There was a huge explosion and he was squeezed against the wall. He came out to find the king lying face down outside the room. He dragged him back in as the smoke cleared. “What? How?” croaked Asset. Goblin ignored him and felt for the king‟s pulse. “He‟s dead. Which I guess saves me from having to kill him later. Still, right at this moment, it is a bit inconvenient.” He searched his pockets, giving the stricken Asset a small smile. “Lucky the door was reinforced steel, heh? But don‟t worry, I have more than one discord on my fiddle.” He found what he was looking for, a magical pacemaker. He put the flesh coloured plaque on Japhet‟s chest and whispered a spell. It sank in and disappeared. “There! We can‟t have you as king just yet. Not before I give you a lobotomy anyway. This way everyone will think he‟s in a coma and I will become regent. And now… Guards! Guards! The prisoner tried to kill the king!”

*****

Andrew re-entered the booth and stood behind Lara. Without looking up, she said in an exasperated tone: “No, sir, I still haven‟t heard from Asset.” She pressed a key desultorily. “And none of the messages we sent have been accessed.” Andrew stepped out of the booth. “It‟s been hours. I knew we shouldn‟t have sent him. By now Goblin probably knows that we know and he‟ll move faster than we anticipated… Where the hell is that seeker?” he bellowed, going to Walter‟s desk. “It‟s pretty far sideways, sir, in what quantum thaumo-physicists call the nutball sector. The geography should be similar but I don‟t know if we‟ll be able to find a direct portal.” “Why nutball?” Jules lifted his head out of a book. “I‟ve been researching it, sir. They split from us about two thousand years ago. Get this, they don‟t have gods there” “Lucky bastards… Doesn‟t explain the nutball though.” “Wait, the gods aren‟t there, but they believe in them anyway. Especially this Yahweh one.” “What! Big G? The one who‟s always going on about being unique?” Andrew sniggered. “Are you telling me he‟s got them convinced over there?” “Not everyone, sir, and it is in decline, but nevertheless a significant number of believers.” “Okay, I‟m starting to get the nutball.” “That‟s not all, sir. They don‟t have magic but they‟re very well armed, dangerously so. And they keep fighting each other over some kind of dust, which is strange, it‟s pretty polluted. But the funniest thing, if you believe the book, is that they have democracies” “Pull the other one… Really? The people in Heland tried that. They had to give up after fifty years, it was costing too much to imprison the politicians.” Jules shrugged. “Apparently, they‟re very attached to the system. They keep getting into wars to protect or impose it. It‟s almost as if it was a new deity.” “Perhaps it is. The Queen won‟t like it. If we can‟t stop Goblin, she‟ll probably get into a dozen fights a day, democratically beating sense into people… How do they feel about vampires?”

“I don‟t know, sir. Information about other dimensions is hard to find.” Jules took another book. “This guy says they are all about the mundane and the ordinary. They probably wouldn‟t believe she‟s a vampire unless she bit them.” John came out of the refreshment chamber and joined them. “I had an idea, sir. Why don‟t we contact Goblin‟s father? He set up God‟s Inc. and he‟s a good friend of the Queen‟s.” “Contact Mwari?” said Andrew, thoughtful. “Maybe. Thing is, when he left, he made sure everyone knew it was his fiftieth attempt at retirement, and that we had better leave him to it.” “But it‟s his son” “It‟s always his sons. I think he‟d gratefully cut off his zwizwi they‟ve been so much trouble.” Getting to Mwari wasn‟t easy. First you had to find his cave, somewhere close to the Mosi-ao-tunya falls (it refused to stay mapped), and then convince his oracle to pass on the message. “All right, you can go, but be careful. I heard the lady in the cave has been replaced by something more… dissuasive.” John‟s complexion became pastier than usual. “What? Me? I don‟t want to go to Ipheria! I‟m a computer expert, not an adventurer.” Andrew looked up to the ceiling, started counting to ten, and gave up after five. “No one can know about this threat, which means that I can‟t send a soldier and that we‟re stretched a little thin. So shut up, get a transceiver and a tracer and GET GOING!” Andrew took a deep breath. He felt a little bad for the nerd, but he really didn‟t have a choice. And now, for some reason, Walter was lurking behind him. He whirled, startling the hippy. “What are you doing here? You‟re supposed to be watching the seeker.” “That‟s what I wanted to talk to you about. I just didn‟t want to interrupt” “Go ahead, interrupt.” “It‟s not interrupting if…” Walter‟s self-preservation instincts kicked in. “Ahem. The seeker is acting funny, sir. It‟s now in that place‟s equivalent for North Ipheria, my guess is that the portal and the abyss are”

“What the bloody hell is he doing?” shouted Andrew. “Get away from there, H, right now! H was sitting in front of Walter‟s computer. He backed away sheepishly as Walter jumped to take his place. “He‟s broken our contact!” announced Walter after a glance at the blank screen. “What did you do?” “I did not do anythink,” said H righteously. “It was working fine a minute ago…” Under the squad‟s combined stares, H broke down, sniggering. “Ja! I did it! I did it! You vill nefer see the Queen again! I vill finally be free!” Andrew took out his gun. “You will only be free when you die, you little bozo.” Lara took hold of his shoulder gently, putting herself between them. “That‟s what he wants, sir. Don‟t you see?” Over Lara‟s shoulder, he continued to stare intently at H. “So? It‟s what I want too. That way everybody‟s happy.” “The Queen won‟t be,” insisted Lara. “And there is a better way.” Some of the tension left Andrew‟s body. “It would really be good for my nerves…” He gave up. “Fine! What‟s your way?” “We put him in his pod and insert a virtual reality nightmare in the dream programming.” To Andrew‟s intense satisfaction, H blanched. “I have no idea what you just said, but it seems to have an effect. Do it. And H, if the Queen gets stuck over there, I‟ll fill this basement in concrete AFTER making sure your pod has enough batteries to last a hundred years.” Jules and Lara dragged H to his pod. John, looking miserable, was waiting for the elevator. He had a bulky transceiver strapped to his back. Andrew sighed. “Go to the depot before you leave. Tell them you‟re going on vacation, camping in the jungle. You‟ll need the equipment, just in case…” The elevator doors opened. John nodded gloomily and got on. Andrew leaned over Walter, who was frantically tapping keys. “Can you fix it?” “I don‟t know, sir, I‟m trying. It‟s just that I don‟t know what he did.”

“Okay, stop for a second and calm down. What were you going to tell me before?” Walter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It was close to what we would call Lixus, on the North Ipherian coast. That‟s when it started moving weirdly, going up and down, sometimes circling. Maybe there‟s a portal in the city, but it can‟t find it.” “Can that thing fly? Or swim?” “It can easily cross a river or a lake…” Walter hit his head. “But probably not an ocean! That‟s what it must be doing, trying to find a boat or a carpet going the right way.” Andrew was impressed. “Can it really do that? It‟s that smart?” “It‟s that magical,” countered Walter. “And utterly dedicated to its one and only task. It will never give up.” “What can we safely deduce from its position? Could it have reached the right latitude?” “Maybe. All that we can know for sure is that there is a portal, or the seeker wouldn‟t have moved. Also, we can probably rule out North, East and South of where it currently is.” “That still leaves a lot of ocean, not to mention a whole other continent.” Andrew sighed. “Oh well, keep trying to get the signal back.” Lara gestured from her booth. “I have the Queen on the line, sir.” When he got close she dropped her voice to a whisper. “I did a complete recap, sir, but she sounds weird, blurred somehow. Andrew nodded and took the proffered receiver.

He hung up with disgust five minutes later. Blurred indeed! Completely smashed is what she was. She had even called him a fuddy-duddy. He got out of the booth. “Okay, squad. We can now safely say the situation has degenerated to Savagely Unpleasant. One, the Queen just told me that the chances of John reaching Mwari are slim to none. She confirmed he set up some nasty booby traps. She does agree that we should still try it. Lara, please send John a warning, without scaring him too much. Then there‟s the seeker, but fortunately our wonderful sovereign is now, hem, too busy to call. We need other ideas” “Sir!” shouted Lara from the booth. “I‟m getting a message from Asset! It says… Oh! Hem: Gnan-gna-gna-gna-gna-gnan!!!!!!”

“How many exclamation marks?” asked Andrew “Six, sir.” “That settles it, I‟m going over there.” “Are you sure that‟s a good idea, sir?” asked Walter. “That Goblin is pretty sharp. I know you were one of the best secret agents in the world, but that was…” “Was what?” rumbled Andrew. “A long time ago? I know how long ago it was, you little nerd. But I can still kill a barking maniac when I have to. Now, go get my gear and a few of H‟s gadgets and no more backtalk, is that clear?”

Lara, finger and temper prickling, handed Andrew the beige shirt. Of course, being the only woman in a room full of men (most of them geeks, which made it even worse) meant that she was the one who had to sew special buttons, even if she was terrible at it. The copy of the uniform was good. Despite his pale skin, her boss should have no trouble blending in with the palace guard. Walter gave him the earpiece. Andrew sneered. “Does it have to be yellow?” “H did name it the Canary, sir,” she answered. “The colour was on the specs,” added Walter. “The earlier version is another colour.” “Ah?‟ said Andrew hopefully. “It‟s called the Lilac, sir,‟ continued Walter. “It‟s mauve.” “Oh,” murmured Andrew, dejected. “I‟ll keep this one then.” He stood up and faced them. “Right then! I‟m locking the elevator exit once I‟m out, so you‟re on your own. Lara‟s in charge and any new ideas go through her. Since she can actually understand what you wankers are talking about, this might actually be an improvement. Walter, get the seeker working, and keep track of the Queen. Lara, try calling her once in a while. Jules, get as much information as you can on that dimension so you can set up an extraction procedure. And squad… you know the drill. After ten days without news…” They all nodded, watching their leader as the elevator closed.

*****

Bad Mother Fucker was king of the palace cats. He was big, black and in charge, and he did it with ALL the cats in the castle‟s vicinity. His name was therefore a mystery, but

there seemed to be a consensus among the people and anyways, it was just background noise to him. Right now, BMF was confused. A rare occurrence in his simple and hedonistic life. The mouse he had caught was a bit too big, quite overdressed and much too green. Also, it didn‟t smell right, not like a mouse but rather like the women who used to scratch his ears when he was young, and still had ears. It was also yelling its name, along with other words he heard often, which mice didn‟t usually do. Then it dawned. This wasn‟t a mouse, it was a toy, a toy just for him. He hadn‟t had one in years, but he remembered what to do. You patted it around, shredded it to pieces, ate the ones that proved organic, chewed the rest and left it lying around to annoy the cleaning people. Satisfied once more with the state of the world, BMF proceeded to do exactly that.

THE MORNING AFTER

Asset awoke in the dome room. A reddish light issued from the uncovered abyss. Over his head, his hands were manacled to the wall. He winced in pain. The guards had not been gentle: there was a huge bump near his temple, his whole body felt like one giant bruise, and his arms were already sore. Then his memory assailed him. His brother was dead. He had killed his only brother. A little voice inside his brain reminded him that Japhet was the reason for this lack of brothers, but there had been a time when they had been close, almost inseparable. Which Japhet hadn‟t forgotten, even after Goblin had started to mess with his head. Grief, mostly for the man his brother could have been, threatened to overwhelm him. To quell it he inspected his surroundings. Other than his manacles and a twin pair hanging near him, many alterations had been done since his last visit. The hole was belted with electronics and strange writings. Beside it, the altar was covered with a rich purple cloth. Over on the other side, a surveillance booth, complete with radio and screens, had been installed on the wall. Obviously, Goblin had chosen this room as his new headquarters. As he craned his neck, trying to look at the locking mechanism of his cuffs, Goblin entered, carrying a large puppy. “Ah, Asset, awake at last. Sorry about the unconventional dungeon, but I thought I should keep you close. That spell I used on your brother‟s heart is volatile.” Asset lunged. Ineffectually. All he did was lose his footing. “Temper, temper!” mocked Goblin. “You should watch it, it makes you accident prone, you know, with bombs and stuff…” “Just tell me how I missed you,” he whispered, hanging there, giving Goblin his most hateful glare. Goblin‟s smile stretched a bit farther. “I‟m not a telepath, but I have studied humans for a long time to perfect Gaelin. I‟ve become quite good at face-reading, and yours is always such a show.” He put the puppy on the altar, tying the leash on a ring protruding from it, and looked at his watch. “Ha! I see it‟s almost time to start, Ba‟al should be waking up soon. Aren‟t you glad you‟re awake to witness the first of my many triumphs?”

Goblin turned towards the cupboard and started to take out a few items. The puppy whined and looked at Asset. “What are you going to do? You‟re going to kill that puppy aren‟t you?” Goblin, eyes filled with disdain, didn‟t bother answering. Instead he shook out a surprising robe, covered in jewelled symbols, and slipped it over his head. “Answer me, dammit,‟ insisted Asset. “Of course I am.” Goblin held out the matching hat as if it that was all the explanation needed. “I am grand Vizier, you know.” He put the hat on.

*****

At the palace‟s service entrance, Andrew knocked the uncooperative (awake and at his post) sentry unconscious. He hoped he wasn‟t too late. He had lost a lot of time at the safe house where he had teleported. He just didn‟t understand women. Yes, he was still attractive, but why did they seem to think he had time to sleep with every woman he came across? He was on her Majesty‟s Secret Service for gods‟ sake. The place was a maze. It took thirty minutes, but he finally had to admit it, if only to himself. He was lost. There was no real way to tell, of course. Every winding corridor was the same length, every peaceful atrium identical. All the walls were white and the floor was a continuous path of red marble. But he was sure he had seen that cat ripping apart that toy before. He needed a “You are here” dot. The nerds were no help. Apparently the palace maps were outdated. In retrospect, maybe he should have taken H‟s positioning thingy even if it was flaming orange. Or maybe the nerds were right and he was rusty. He sighed. There was no alternative. He would have to use the “grab someone, ask for directions and bash his head in” routine. That‟s when he stumbled into the harems.

*****

Ba‟al opened his eyes as the dawning sun lit up the curtains. Louhi was snuggled in the crook of his arm, finally asleep. Trust a vampire to keep you up all night. He was exhausted but it didn‟t matter, only this moment mattered. He kissed her hair and closed his eyes. And tensed. Something was tugging at his core. He tried to resist, shaking Louhi, but this time the pull was too strong. He let his body dissolve. He drew back together over the abyss. Under the world‟s most hideous hat (it looked like something from the Smurf‟s disco line), stood a weird little creature, dressed in something resembling a wrestler‟s bathrobe. “Who are you?” he asked, to gain a few minutes. Maybe there was something wrong with the summons; it was always fun to devour an inept invoker. Goblin wasn‟t fooled. “Does it matter? Anyway, I‟m sure you know, I‟m sure the Bitch told you.” There was nothing wrong with the summons. Yet he had to gain a little time. He was sure Louhi had almost awakened at his last shake. And if he rattled Gaelin enough, maybe he‟d make a mistake. “Just trying to be civil, Goblin. Nice outfit by the way, especially the hat. Knowing how you hate doing your own dirty work, I expected to be meeting your patsy instead.” “That was the plan, actually, but things change. Get over it. I am your master and between you and me, it‟s an improvement.” Ba‟al turned his boxer shorts into baggy pants and took the genie pose. “All right, Master, I am your devoted servant! Oh bountiful and great Master! It will be a pleasure to grant all your dirty perverted wishes. I can start by incinerating that dress if you want.” Without that thing on, Goblin would be unprotected. “Quit it, Ba‟al! I can see what you‟re doing. Know this: if I die, it will automatically trigger an explosion in the abyss” “I‟m sure. But I have a feeling what you‟re planning won‟t have anyone doing their happy dance. I‟ll gladly let my essence rejoin the ether if it messes up your plans.” “And the planet? This hole goes all the way down to the centre, or so close it doesn‟t matter. I‟m not a specialist, but I don‟t think letting a shitload of explosives fall down there

is a good idea. So stop stalling and Eat Louhi Pohjola, Daughter of Loviatar, Queen of Heland and Andea, but start by bringing her here.” Ba‟al hung his head. He had no choice, and the little freak had not even given him the possibility of eating another Louhi. Then again he hadn‟t specified a timetable, so no need to rush. Goblin realized his mistake. “Now would be nice.” Ba‟al sighed and slowly dispersed, sending his essence to fetch Louhi.

*****

Louhi woke up, slightly dazed. Who had screamed at her to wake up? Where was she? She hated waking up after the sunrise. It was easier to stay conscious through it. The night‟s events reassembled themselves. She was at Ba‟al‟s. Not great,21 but not terrible. The fact that he wasn‟t there and that, logically, it was he who had screamed at her to wake up was bit more worrying. She got out of bed, found a phone and called Andrew. She hung up two minutes later, filled with impotent rage. Andrew had gone to Karta (idiot!); John was now lost in the freaking jungle (incapable!), still trying to contact a god who had metaphorically taken his phone off the hook (irresponsible!); and the rest of the squad were adrift (twits!). Maybe Andrew would be able to intervene in time, but Ba‟al‟s absence augured badly. He would probably only get himself killed. It irked her to no end, but the Frog was now their best hope. If he was the one to get them out of this, her few remaining classmates (three, including Claude) would never let her hear the end of it. And now the Nerds were alone. She didn‟t know what good they would be without Andrew or H to make plans. Typically, for geniuses they could sometimes be phenomenally dumb. At least they had reconnected with the seeker. It was now in the middle of an ocean. A lot of help that was! She didn‟t think she had much time left, how she was going to find that portal was anyone‟s guess. Should she stay naked? If she saw Goblin, it might fluster him a little. But not that much and it would only make things complicated in the other dimension.

21 It had only taken her ten years to get over the god the last time around.

Just as she finished brushing her hair a peculiar swathing sensation came upon her. She tried to hold on to the bathroom counter, but it was no use, the vortex pulled her in. Wrapped in the cloud, it was as if her limbs had disappeared, and yet she felt somehow comforted. In her mind she heard (or sensed, or intuited) a whisper: “I‟m sorry sweetie, he made no mistake, I had no choice. He put explosives in the abyss.” Her mind smiled. Only Ba‟al would call her sweetie. Gradually, as the cloud slowly dissipated, her senses returned and she could feel her body once more. Blinking, still a bit disoriented, she found herself held gently by Ba‟al facing Goblin. His face split in a manic grin. “Ah, Louhi! So glad you could come. Do you know? Earlier, I was a bit mad at Asset for having warned you. Now I realize that the fact that you knew and were powerless to stop me only magnifies my triumph!” Louhi calmly looked around the room. She glared at Asset, who hung his head, and at Ba‟al. He let her out of his grasp and she stepped lightly to the floor. She waited another minute and returned her attention to Goblin, smiling and arching an eyebrow. “Why are you smiling, Bitch? You think you can stop this? You can‟t. Any funny business and the whole world goes BOOM! Do you really think that Ba‟al will risk the planet to save you?” She let her grin widen, she wasn‟t really listening anyway. What was that code again? She rubbed her chin, played with her left earlobe, and tapped the right side of her nose twice. “Stop that!” yelled Goblin. “I‟m already regent of Ipheria, and after your disappearance, I should gain control of your kingdoms easily, especially since I‟ll be CEO of Gods Inc. Soon, all the other world leaders will be puppets led by yours truly, and then the fun will begin. I expect Earth will shortly rival Hell for sheer unpleasantness, and the divine and human races will eventually face slavery or extinction… Why won‟t you say something?” “I enjoy letting gloaters talk. They are so informative… and stupid. You really think no one will stop you? You‟re just a little jerk with a grudge against the world. I give you a week at the most.” She tried to pierce the room‟s shadows one last time. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”

Goblin‟s blush reached an alarming stage.22 “But at least you will be dead. Even if I fail, which I doubt no matter what you say, that will be worth it.” “Then I guess I shouldn‟t disappoint.” She whirled and dove into the abyss. It was a long fall, so long that after a while, it didn‟t even feel like falling. The only clue was that wind didn‟t usually come from underneath. Taking a comfortable position, Louhi wondered for a moment if she should have killed Goblin. It might have made things simpler. But she disliked killing, a major failing both as a vampire and a Queen, and Goblin was the type to rig the explosives to his heart rate. She sighed and reclined. Had the Frog been there? Had he understood their old school code? Whatever, that dive had been worth at least a ten.

22 A goblin‟s blush can be quite a spectacle. Instead of their skin, it affects their hair, which stands on end and turns into different colours.

DOWN IN THE DUMPS

John swore and slapped his cheek. He swore again; his attempt to dislodge the mosquito had only resulted in searing pain. His skin, unused to the glare from something other than a computer screen, had been burned to a crisp by the hot Ipherian sun. Slapping it was a bad idea. Of course, having bad ideas seemed to be his modus operandi lately. It was hard to tell which was the worst. Coming up with the idea that Mwari could be of help didn‟t really count as a bad idea. As for going himself, that certainly hadn‟t been his idea. Forgetting to bring sunscreen, mosquito repellent and a compass, while not an idea as such, was bad. He was pretty sure the worst idea had been turning left at the ridge. And trying that shortcut he thought he had seen on the map, that was certainly in the top five. He was now lost in a rainforest. He knew this because he was sitting gingerly on a huge tree root and his damp clothes were stuck to his skin. He added wearing black for this mission as one of the many bad ideas. The falls were surrounded by rainforests, so he might be close. He could also be very far away. If only he could reach the Nest. He shook his bulky (and cherry red) transceiver desultorily and, once more, got only static. The humidity had not helped it in any noticeable fashion. He sighed and wished he were in front of his computer.

Hidden behind an oversized bush, animals watched John hungrily. They were having a meeting about him. They did not often see this type of human. Most came better prepared or with tours. He didn‟t look like a pilgrim,23 but Big Snake said he was going to the cave. He was going the wrong way, but that still gave him protection until he came out. Lioness proposed nudging him in the right direction, to accelerate matters, but Mwari had expressly forbidden them from helping humans in their efforts to contact him. Some were of the opinion that this man was probably inedible in any case. Finally, Sneaky Crocodile came up with a compromise they could all agree on. Scaring him off the paths that led away from the falls was not against the rules.

23 Mwari‟s worshippers were sacred to the jungle animals (insects did not respect the tradition). Tourists, however, were fair game.

*****

That had been… unexpected. Goblin was perplexed, could the Bitch have found a loophole? Yet questioning Ba‟al and Asset would have to wait. Right now, he had an audience with the Ipherian nobility. Something he had hoped to do much, much later (after a lot of culling), but Japhet‟s “coma” had pushed it forward on the timetable. The small auditorium used for these purposes was dark and stuffy. Thirty sweaty aristocrats, donning silk and feathers, did nothing to lighten the ambiance. Their mumblings failed to stop when Goblin entered. Nobles like to pretend you don‟t exist. Then Duke Tahir got up and silence fell abruptly. “We do not recognize your nomination as regent. You are neither royal nor noble. We demand you step down in favour of Asset immediately.” Goblin strove to look aghast. “But the prince tried to kill our beloved sovereign!” “So?” Count Fornoth, who had stood up beside the duke, waved the air with disdain. “Being assassinated is considered a natural death for a king… How do you think His Highness got the throne?” Goblin was afraid of this. Count Fornoth, inconsequential as he might be, had a point. Goblin knew quite well what His Murderousness had done, he had done it for him. “That‟s as may be, but there are a few facts you are not aware of. First: Prince Asset was convicted of treason minutes before his attempt.” This froze the audience. “Second: I‟m as noble as any of you. While I do not usually make my lineage public, for divine reasons, I will if you continue to oppose me. Last, and much more importantly, I have already had my regency approved by Gods Incorporated.” At this announcement, almost all the nobles deflated. All except the duke, who seemed to have a ready retort. “But let us address the real issue,” said Goblin very fast. “Contrary to what has been leaked to the press, the king‟s condition is very serious. I doubt he will live for more than a week or two. Then his known murderer and a convicted traitor will ascend the throne. The people in the streets are already restless and asking for Asset‟s head, what do you think will happen if he becomes king?” Duke Tahir and Count Fornoth finally sat down. Goblin let his gaze slowly sweep the audience.

“Revolt!” he shouted. “And you know what that means,” he continued in a normal tone. “So this is what I propose to do: Asset will be tried, and convicted, as quickly as possible. Six days should be enough to arrange a public trial. Finally, as regent, I will immediately give each of you independent governance of your ancestral lands, and I will distribute all the royal holdings after Asset‟s sentence is carried out.” He could sense the information sinking in. As expected (his family was next in line to the throne), Duke Tahir shot out of his chair. “You can‟t do this! It will make the kingdom a federate state when what it needs is a strong centralized government.” But suddenly, the duke had no friends. The others all saw this as their one chance at real power. Goblin smiled. “Let‟s vote then. Who is in favour of my proposition?” As he pretended to count the forest of hands, Goblin marvelled at the sheer stupidity of humans. Only two out of thirty could sense there was something wrong, and Goblin was ready to bet his right arm that they couldn‟t really hazard a guess. In six days, Asset would be sentenced to life in an asylum and he would stay regent a little longer. Afterwards he would distribute the royal lands haphazardly, drawing lines across villages and families. Then he would dissolve the monarchy and let the whole mess take care of itself. In ten years the continent would be a pit of tribal and territorial wars, ruled by fury and hate.

*****

Asset forgot his grief as he watched Ba‟al. The god was sitting on the abyss‟ ledge, sadly staring into its depths. “I‟m sure she has found a way to come back,” he said, commiserating. “This is entirely my fault. I was supposed to kill Goblin. Instead I killed my brother, the Queen is gone and Goblin is now regent, ready to wreak havoc upon the world… I am the world‟s greatest loser–” “Why?” barked Ba‟al, a glint of savagery in his eyes. “Why didn‟t you kill him? Louhi told me she was counting on you to stop it before it would get this far.” Asset‟s stomach twisted in fear. Gods were good at looking human, you could easily forget that they didn‟t know the difference between humanity and humidity.

“I couldn‟t,” he said. “Not without killing dozens of others at the same time. All I had was this stupid bomb gun…” Ba‟al pressed his thumb between his eyebrows. When he looked back at Asset, the glint was gone, replaced by a bemused expression. “So instead of killing a few bad guys, you risked the whole planet. I don‟t remember who was on the committee that created humans but they should have gone lighter on morality and given you better math skills.” He sighed and stood up on the ledge. “Whatever, it‟s done. And you‟re right, I think she had a plan. I don‟t know if it worked… I‟ve never seen anything come back, even during the Great Indigestion of 1930. What we have to do now is get out of here and stop that little monstrosity before he can wreak havoc, or whatever it is you said. I don‟t know what havoc is but it sounds bad.” Ba‟al started to study the electronics and writings around the abyss, apparently searching for a break. “You can‟t get out of the circle!” cried Asset. “Goblin said that if you did, the explosives would go off.” “We‟ll have to see… I think the little beast is bluffing.” “Please Ba‟al! Check before you step out! You can descend partway down, right? So check first” “Yes Ba‟al, check it out, please!” whined Goblin, imitating Asset. He was leaning on the door with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Although if I think about it, I know few gods who can tell a toaster from an alarm clock. But check if you want, I reassure you, I‟m not bluffing. My death is a price I‟m willing to pay if it means the destruction of this world and everybody on it.” He went to stand between Ba‟al and the control panel. “I‟ve been listening. The Bitch had a plan, did she? What was it?” Ba‟al blushed with rage. Goblin raised his right hand towards a big red button. “I don‟t know. I wouldn‟t tell you if I did.” Goblin stared at Ba‟al for a moment then sighed wearily, turning back towards the console. “Why does everyone have to play the hero? Then I have to torture, and maim, and kill… Not that I don‟t enjoy a bit of torture, mind you, but I do have other things to do.” He glanced at the screen and did a double take. “Well, well, what do we have here? I do

believe it‟s the Bitch‟s puppet, in a dress, coming to join us. Annoying but, apart from the dress, not completely unexpected. Good thing I had those other manacles installed.” Goblin took a pistol and a black truncheon from the console and sidled close to the door. Seconds later, it opened slowly and a gun appeared. Before Asset could shout a warning, it was thrown all the way open and Andrew entered the room. But Goblin was just as fast. He got out from behind the door and pointed the gun at Andrew‟s head and the truncheon below his waist. It emitted a bluish spark and Andrew fell writhing to the floor. The noise drew a guard, who manacled the moaning Andrew beside Asset and searched him. Goblin left the gun in the guard‟s hand but took the Canary with interest. “So you have gadgets too,” he mused before looking Andrew up and down with a smirk. “Knocking out women now?24 You really are too old for this. No wonder you protect someone ten times stronger than you. Of course, her strength won‟t do her any good where she is…” Goblin realized he was speaking in vain, Andrew had fallen unconscious. He frowned at the truncheon with feigned remorse. “Oops! I guess I overdid it a little.” He turned to the others. “I‟ll come back to question him later. I bet he knows a lot more than you two anyway. But I think I better make sure you can‟t move, Ba‟al. It would be a shame if you destroyed the planet now that my plans for it are going so well.”

*****

In the Eagle‟s Nest, morale was bleak. The Nerds had brought their chairs to Walter‟s desk and were staring at his computer screens with consternation. “Catastrophic does not begin to describe this,” said Lara. The Queen‟s tracer was now beeping in the other dimension. They couldn‟t tell if she was all right, she had no vital functions for the tracer to detect, and the dot wasn‟t moving. Which didn‟t mean much as they could only discern movement in the other world over long distances. The seeker was circling on the far side of the ocean, presumably trying to find the portal, but its spirals weren‟t diminishing visibly. They had lost all communication with

24 Andrew had not needed to knock anyone out; the concubines were so desperate for attention they had gladly taken their clothes off. They had been quite surprised to see him put them on afterwards, but that‟s a matter for the palace psychologists.

John so they couldn‟t tell him he was going the wrong way, or ways, plural. He seemed to try every direction but the right one. That‟s what happened when you sent a nerd into the jungle. Worst of all, Goblin was now effectively ruling Ipheria and Andrew had fallen in his clutches. Lara squeezed her head. “You‟d think that with the IQs in this room we could find some way to help.” “We could wake H,” said Walter. “He‟s supposedly the ideas guy.” “He would only try to escape,” said Jules. “And I wouldn‟t trust any of his idea, he‟s not afraid of us.” Lara got up. “I say no. He makes my skin crawl. Okay, let‟s think.” She started pacing. “All we can do for the Queen is watch the seeker and complete an extraction protocol. In the meantime, can you think of any way we could help either Andrew or John?” Jules tapped his lips pretentiously. “A manner that does not involve one of us magically turning into Hercules, I assume? Then no, I can‟t” Walter threw him an exasperated look. “The Annoying One, while as annoying as always, has a point. But why don‟t we give Goblin a hard time instead? If we figure out his plans, we could ruin them.” Lara stopped in front of Walter. “Good idea! And maybe we can sow trouble in Ipheria.” “Wouldn‟t that involve getting out?” said Jules with a sneer. “Yes,” murmured Lara. “One of us will have to go out.” Jules looked at her as if she had gone crazy. “And how do you propose we do that? We‟re locked in, remember?” “There‟s the secret exit.” She felt a blush rising as they both stared at her in bewilderment. “Look, there has to be a second in command. Andrew told me about it and gave me the code in case anything happened to him.” “I didn‟t see him give you anything when he left.” said Jules, still incredulous. “I‟ve had them for two years”

“So you‟ve been second in command for two years?” asked Walter in a nasty tone. “I‟ve been here longer than you, I can‟t believe you‟re it.” “Will you stop? It didn‟t matter while Andrew was here, and now…” There was a minute of tense silence. Jules broke it. “If I was Goblin, or, more precisely, Gaelin, my next step would be to secure control of Gods Inc. and give my support to Goblin‟s regency. Who inherits Louhi‟s shares?” “The thing is, she only has five percent,” explained Walter, still fuming. “The others she controls by proxy. Her own shares will probably go to her mother and the rest will revert to their real owners, Inti and Vishnu. Both are in the ethereal sphere: Inti was too badly hurt to come back so soon and Vishnu needs time to reincarnate. And he usually only notices things when all hell breaks loose.” Lara sighed. “So the three founders and main shareholders are either in retirement, incorporeal or ethereal. Gaelin has Mwari‟s shares, if he has one important board member on his side, he won‟t have any trouble seizing control.” “I wonder why Inti didn‟t leave his shares to Louhi outright,” wondered Jules. “He gave her his kingdom so why balk at a few shares?” Lara shrugged. “It was a long time ago, Louhi was still an unknown, maybe the others didn‟t agree? It doesn‟t really matter now.” Walter jumped out of his chair. “Wait! If her mother has five percent, she can call a meeting and expose Gaelin.” “Loviatar!” moaned Jules, all colour leaving his face. “You want to speak with Loviatar? You do know she‟s insane, right?” Lara shook her head. “According to the Queen, she‟s not insane as such. More like sadistically mad. You sound as if you‟ve met her.” Jules twitched. “Hem… yes. Sort of.” “Good. You‟re the one going outside.” “What? No! No way! Ah-han. Surviving her was my job interview and the Queen swore I would never have to go through that again.” “Someone has to go and it can‟t be me… Just phone her, if you‟re such a scaredy nerd. Who else could you contact?”

“Why not Medusa or Cerberus, while we‟re at it?” asked Jules sullenly, arms crossed high on his chest. Walter ignored him. “Isn‟t Ba‟al‟s best friend Jupiter? Maybe he could help, he does work at Gods Inc.” “Not much, according to some,” joked Lara. “But sure, why not. Anyone else come to mind? No? Okay Jules, once you‟re out, try to find others who would want to help.” “Why the hurry?” said Jules nervously. “Don‟t bite my head off, but it‟s true. The Queen is not the most enlightened of rulers and she is certainly not a nice person. Shouldn‟t we see what kind of job Goblin does?” Lara tightened her fists. “You‟re just saying this so I won‟t send you… Fine! Walter, you go in his stead. But first, hold him while I find some handcuffs. Just in case.”

THE ROAD TO HELL

FROM THE ATLANTIS FINANCIAL TIMES WHERE IS THE CEO QUEEN? … Her absence was noticed yesterday when the regent of Ipheria called for the company’s support. Morbe’s Most Powerful Woman in the World was last seen at Fou Raide’s in the company of the titan Ba’al Hammon. Gaelin Taslin, Gods Inc.’s second in command, told the press that Ba’al is also missing, which might suggest foul play. At Picchu Palace, officials have declared that knowing their eccentric sovereign, it is too early to assume anything, and that there is no cause for worry since no one has yet discovered a big pile of dust. But in financial sectors, the combined disappearance of Gods Inc.’s CEO and one of its biggest moneymakers has caused a panic. Shares have taken a plunge and Mr. Taslin has called for an emergency board meeting. His explanation was succinct: “A big pile of dust is easier to hide than you might think.”

*****

Down in the underworld‟s executive lounge, Anubis hastily put on his ceremonial mantle and combed the tuft of hair between his ears. Kings were often a problem down here, they always expected things to be just so, oblivious to the gravity of the situation and to the fact that they didn‟t make the rules anymore. Even so, this guy was unbelievable. He had refused to queue, making scene after scene until the exasperated psychopomps had let him pass at the front of the line. Then he had adamantly refused to be assisted by anyone other than Anubis himself, and right away no less. A smile appeared on Anubis‟s muzzle. Unless he was missing his guess, this king was going directly to hell, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred coronas. Funny he should be in such a hurry.

*****

When Gaelin arrived in the conference room, the other board members were waiting, standing nervously around the large round table. He smiled at them politely and sat where he always sat, on the right of the throne-like chair that marked CEO status.

Everyone followed suit except for the Sinian conglomerate representative, who remained behind his chair. “Before we start, I‟d like to know why we are having this meeting. Louhi hasn‟t been missing long and there is no reason to suspect” Gaelin interrupted smoothly. “No reason apart from the fact that she isn‟t here, you mean? I‟m actually surprised she wasn‟t waiting for us, sarcastic eyebrow raised.” He threw a sad look at the chair. “But I reassure all of you. We are here only to select a temporary replacement. This company cannot run itself much longer.” He took a breath to steady his excitement and coughed. A bluish smoke was coming out of the huge sapphire inlaid in the centre of the table. Gaelin had always wondered about that stone. Slowly the mist took the shape of a spindly man wearing a neat three-piece suit and small horn-rimmed glasses. “Has Mrs. Louhi Pohjola disappeared?” asked the apparition. “I am her lawyer.” “Louhi has a lawyer?” wondered a shareholder. “I thought she had banned them from her kingdoms. Hard to believe she would employ one.” “I understand your surprise,” explained the phantom. “In fact, her exact words when she hired me were: „The only lawyer I can tolerate is a dead one.‟ Hence my inconsistent state.” “She killed you so you could become her lawyer?” “No, she hired me because I was dead.” Gaelin stood up. He didn‟t have time for this. The ghost noticed and faked a small cough. “Perhaps I better get to the point. Let‟s see.” The lawyer looked at his transparent papers.25 “Ah, yes. In case of her demise, or disappearance since her permanent death might be hard to prove, Mrs. Pohjola left instructions that her personal shares, which amount to five percent of the voting stock, be given to her mother. Furthermore” “I‟m sorry to interrupt,” said Gaelin, not at all sorry. “Isn‟t it a bit early to be reading her will? We only want to ensure the smooth running of the company in her absence.”

25 This had been an unexpected bonus for Louhi, who had cried out in rapture: “For once I can see through the legalese!”

“Nevertheless, my client has requested that if a vote is taken in her absence, she be represented by her heir and that Inti and Vishnu be made aware of the situation immediately.” Gaelin wanted to shriek. With inhuman force, he controlled his vocal chords and softly said: “Inti and Vishnu are in the ethereal plane, contacting them could take months. And the company charter clearly states that if the CEO is incapacitated in any way, even an incomplete board can vote a temporary replacement.” “All of what you say is true. My client has only requested that the board graciously follow her instructions. As for the heir, her mother, doesn‟t she live in the building? Her presence would be easy enough to arrange.” “He‟s right Gaelin,” said the Sinian representative. “We can get Loviatar here easily, and we really should try to reach Inti and Vishnu before we decide anything.” Gaelin pulled an earlobe. On cue, De Rinjd stood up. “Maybe a compromise is in order, mister ghost lawyer. If we agree to contact Inti and Vishnu immediately, can we vote for a replacement that would only last until they come back? The shares have already plummeted, it would be nice to stabilize their value before the whole world goes into a recession.” “I suppose so. As I said, it is only a request. But I admonish all of you to watch whoever you choose closely” Suddenly, screams erupted outside the doors. Seconds later they fell to the floor in a shower of cement. In the dust, a little old lady wearing an insane grin appeared. Her empty eye sockets searched the room, then fixed on Gaelin. She changed her grip on her walking stick and charged.

*****

Jupiter was sitting at the bar alone, ignoring his carousing friends. He was in a foul mood and it didn‟t help in any way whatsoever that tonight was Boy‟s Band Night at Bacch‟s. Staring at the newspaper, he wondered where his best friend was. He had tried calling Ba‟al ten times without success. All he had was the cryptic message Juno had given him yesterday: “Something bad is happening. Watch out for Gaelin.”

Juno hated Ba‟al (she hated all his friends), which might explain the message‟s curtness. A fight about Gaelin had broken out when he had asked if she could elaborate. His wife liked the little twerp for some reason. Was the something bad Louhi‟s disappearance? It wasn‟t to him, but Ba‟al might think so. Was it Ba‟al‟s? Or both? And what could that small office rat have to do with it? Bacchus, smiling warmly, sat down beside him. “Jup, buddy, you‟re going to have to quiet down a bit. The ruckus you‟re making is driving clients away.” “Hi Bacch. I‟m just worried about Al. Have you seen him around?” “No, I‟m sorry.” A frown invaded the god‟s jolly features. “The whole story stinks. Al would never have hurt Louhi and that lady must be one hard bitch to kill. Where could she be?” “I‟m sorry,” said a nasal voice behind them. They turned to find a tall gangly human with pasty skin, lots of zits, a greasy ponytail, taped glasses and a pathetic attempt at a beard. They turned back, Bacchus mumbling something about not looking for waiters and Jupiter refusing to sign autographs. The human grabbed them by the shoulder. “No wait. You‟re Jupiter, right? Ba‟al‟s friend? I know what happened to him, and to the Queen. They could use your help.” “And who are you?” asked Jupiter warily. “My name is Walter, I‟m part of a secret service” Both gods erupted in laughter. “Hoo! He‟s an S-P-Y,” whispered Jupiter loudly. “No really! Okay, so I‟m only the tech support.” The laughter continued, Walter sighed. “Fine then! I‟m part of Queen Louhi‟s Nerd Squad,” he ended, biting of the last words. Bacchus wiped an eye. “That, I can believe.” “Do you want to know what happened or not?” asked Walter, pouting. Jupiter was still giggling so Bacchus answered: “Sure, why not. At least you make my friend laugh. But let‟s go up to my office. You wouldn‟t believe what has ears around this place.”

“You say you have already talked to Loviatar?” asked Bacchus after Walter had finished recounting the last days‟ events. No one was laughing now.

“Yes, do you think she‟ll be able to expose Goblin? She seemed a bit unstable to me.” Walter shuddered. Bacchus pointed at the silent television in the corner of his office. “Unstable is, I think, an understatement. She‟s been arrested for assaulting someone at the meeting. Gaelin, presumably.” “Did she eat him?” asked Jupiter earnestly. “I assume not, they would have shown pictures.” “Shit!” swore Jupiter. “So now there‟s no way to stop Gaelin from gaining control over half the planet,” said Walter. Bacchus looked at him sourly. “Half? At the helm of Gods Inc. he could rule the whole shebang in a few months.” “Can‟t we do anything?” asked Jupiter. “Officially, no. Unless Walter has proof?” Walter shook his head. “Our only eyewitness is Prince Asset. The rest is recordings and conjecture.” “We can‟t just let him get away with it,” wailed Jupiter. “We won‟t,” said Bacchus, smiling broadly. “I can‟t appear to be involved and you‟ll probably be under surveillance soon, if you aren‟t already, but we have many friends.” He gestured towards the great glass window that gave an overview of the bar. “The gang‟s all here. I‟m sure that with all this god power we can make his life… uncomfortable.” “What!” said Walter. “You want to go after Goblin with a bunch of drunken, over the hill gods?” “Watch yourself, nerd,” thundered Jupiter. “These gods held immense power… once. Bacch, he‟s right. I haven‟t seen one of us sober for more than a few hours. The most they‟ll be able to do is annoy him all willy-nilly.” “Well, annoying someone should hardly be done in an ordered manner… Don‟t worry, we‟ll make a party of it.”

*****

As the last board members filed out of the room, Gaelin was finally able to nurse his wounds. The mad goddess had broken his nose, given him a black eye, dislocated his shoulder, bit his thigh and cracked his skull. But she hadn‟t talked, and he healed fast. All she had achieved with the outburst was confirm everybody‟s opinion that she was insane. Now, whatever she said would be automatically discounted and he would find it easy to explain his refusal if she asked for her daughter‟s kingdoms. He smiled. He was CEO of Gods Inc… Temporarily, at least. He hadn‟t expected the lawyer. He would have to do everything in his power to block communications to the ethereal plane. Worst-case scenario, he only had two months to transform this company into a worse madhouse than it already was. Which shouldn‟t be too difficult. He would just have to put a little more pressure on his new department.

*****

In the master bedroom of the presidential palace, Louhi waited for the President for Life to wake up. President for Life! You had to admire the hypocrisy. Instead of admitting monarchy was more efficient, they dressed it up in democratic clothes. What a dimension. She was having a good time, it was nice to get a holiday. She had spent the last days visiting the city. While a bit dusty, it was very beautiful. As was this place. She was sitting on a huge silk-covered couch, every multicoloured cushion paradise to the touch. The bed the president was sleeping in was covered in the same shiny fabric. The ceiling and the small window openings were magnificently crenulated. The commodes and the tables, carved in the same gleaming wood as the floor, looked almost chocolaty in the dark. This was the life. The little president had done well for himself. She wished she could stay, but she had to get moving. Finding that portal wouldn‟t be easy. Which was why she was here. Travelling was complicated in this dimension. Had she been a smidge slower at the airport earlier tonight, she would now be rotting in a jail cell. She smiled. To take her for a terrorist. Her, the picture of tradition and respect for authority (sure, it was usually hers, but still). Worse, the conflict seemed to be based on religion, and weirder still, it was all about the same god. She could have understood a fight

about whose god was better, but this seemed to be about who worshipped it best. It made no sense. Gods don‟t care about how, it‟s the being worshipped that‟s important. It was as if this dimension and hers were at opposites on the spectrum of possibilities. Back home, the gods were innumerable and the rulers few and absolute. Had people here tried to streamline their religion to compensate for their complicated politics or was it the other way around? Then again, having only one god didn‟t seem to simplify much of anything. On another note, her first human encounter had been bizarre. She had been forcefully getting information from a young man. When he had found out she was a vampire, he had asked to be transformed, his mind filling with visions of orgies of blood and sex. She had had the hardest time making him understand that being a vampire meant spending your life on a diet if you didn‟t want mobs with stakes on your doorstep every five minutes.

“Who the hell are you?” Ah! The president was awake and pointing a gun at her. Time to be a terrorist. “Just so you know: that‟s not going to kill me.” “No? It makes pretty big holes and those holes usually do the trick. What‟s yours?” “I can duck” She ducked as he pulled the trigger. “Hey! I didn‟t even get to tell you the” She started before he shot once more. The bullet went through a mist. Louhi reappeared. “Look, mister, calm” Another shot rang out. She turned into a bat and instinctively went for his hair. The president shot his ceiling twice then stopped after receiving a small avalanche of plaster on his face. Guards banged on the door, which Louhi had barred. The bat squeaked in the president‟s ear: “Put that thing down, will you? And tell them you‟re all right.” “Am I? All right, I mean?” “Yes, yes, now please put it down.” The president carefully placed the gun on a table at his side and shouted at the guards: “I‟m fine! But stay close!” He turned to Louhi who had morphed back to human form. “When people barge in here it‟s not usually good for my health.”

“I didn‟t barge, I flew.” she pointed at the window. “Ah yes, bat…” He made a small flying gesture with his hands. “Nice trick.” “Actually, I misted, it‟s easier.” Her gaze fell on the gun. She shrugged and glanced up at the ceiling. “You know, I think you might have been right. That thing would have given me the ultimate headache.” The president nodded absently. “Look, who, or what, the hell are you? And what do you want?” “My name is Louhi Pohjola. I‟m a vampire, which I thought would have been self- evident, and I need your help.” “This isn‟t a coup d‟état?” He inched closer to his gun. Louhi sighed. “No, I don‟t want to hurt you. I‟m already the Queen of a huge kingdom. It‟s in another dimension.” She noticed the look of faint dismay marring the president‟s features.26 “I‟m not crazy.” She hesitated. “Or perhaps I am, but it doesn‟t matter. All I want is to go back there and kick some ass. I was the victim of a coup d‟état.” A lot of emotions warred on the president‟s face: scepticism, conciliation, fear, dismay again and a sort of hope. Finally he shuddered and looked at her with sympathy. “Those are always a pain.” A faraway shadow entered his eyes. “Mine is coming, I think. Perhaps I deserve it…” He shook his head. “All right, I‟ll help. What do you need?” “Identification papers and transportation close to where the portal is.” “Papers are easy. As for the portal, where might that be?” He asked worriedly, as if expecting the answer to be Saturn. “Do you have a map? Our worlds are quite similar, I should be able to show you.” The president‟s shoulders lowered an inch. “I‟ll have to ask someone outside…” Louhi bared her teeth, which slowly elongated past her lip. The president‟s eyes widened. That move always impressed. “Don‟t thry anysing!” Alas, there was the lisp. The president rushed near the door. “Jeeves?” A murmur answered. “Get me a map of the world right away.”

26 You know, the sort of look one gets when they have to ride an elevator going down ninety stories with a naked man wearing a lampshade and playing the trumpet with a funnel. Louhi recognized it easily, she wore it often enough at Gods Incorporated.

He turned and leaned on the door with feint nonchalance. “So in your world you‟re a Queen… and a vampire?” “Well, it does save all the succession nonsense.” “Yes, of course. But don‟t people call you tyrant or bloodsucker of the people? “Not around me, but sure, it‟s part of the game. Although over there, most rulers are tyrants.” The president sighed wistfully. “And no one complains about human rights and the importance of self-governance?” “Self-governance?” Louhi blew a raspberry. “To us, democracy means a kitchen with too many cooks. And people are quite glad not to have to deal with the gods.” “Gods?” “Ah yes, I forgot to mention, my world is teeming with gods.” The president goggled. “What?” “You heard me, they‟re all over the place. I‟ve seen their names here and there in this world, but they‟re all in ours.” “You mean the mythological gods? They exist? “Yes, yes. And to be frank they‟re a bit of a bother.” “They live on earth, among you?” The president‟s expression turned to horror. “That must be awful.” “It‟s no picnic, I assure you.” A whisper of paper announced the arrival of the map, sliding under the door. The president took it and brought it to the coffee table. He sat down on the couch and unfolded it. Louhi approached, but stayed standing, inspecting the map. Her finger circled a spot on the far side of the ocean. “Last I heard, the portal was around there.” The president‟s shoulder blades loosened completely. He wouldn‟t have to charter a spaceship.

*****

Andrew slowly emerged from unconsciousness. The usual questions presented themselves: Who, what, where and why are my privates hurting so much? He could feel his

arms tied above his head, had he tried some kinky stuff? He opened his eyes, and recollection dawned. Ba‟al was tied spread-eagled over the covered abyss. This probably meant the Queen was gone. Asset was sleeping beside him, hanging from his manacles. Andrew‟s thoughts whirled with new interrogations: Where was the Frog? Had John found Mwari? Were the others panicking in the Eagle‟s Nest? What blunders could they inadvertently cause? He never should have come here. If he could, he would kick himself, it would save the Queen time. Had Goblin taken all his gadgets? The button microphone was supposedly undetectable. He thought he could see it under the harem dress. He should at least let the Squad know he was all right. “Oh… kay, I‟m hurting too much to be dead, so” Ba‟al raised his head. “Careful! The room‟s bugged.” Andrew nodded his understanding. “The Queen?” “Down the abyss… Gone.” “And Goblin?” “Had to leave. Said he‟d be back to question you.” “Any idea what he‟s up to?” “Conquering the world and transforming it into hell apparently.” “Ah… The usual drill, then.” “Yep. Enslave the gods, destroy humankind. Same old, same old. That‟s why I like Louhi. For an evil tyrant after world domination she‟s at least original enough not to want to destroy it.” “That‟s not why you like her, lover boy.” Ba‟al growled in response. Andrew considered his next words carefully. The point was giving the Nerds ideas without letting on that he was talking to someone. And then Goblin walked in. A very damaged Goblin. A burst of laughter escaped Andrew‟s lips. “Been making friends, Goblin?” “Don‟t worry about me, Andrew. I heal fast. It was a small price to pay for being the head of Gods Incorporated.”

“Hey! I want to see!” cut in Ba‟al, straining his neck to get a better view. Goblin ignored him. “What is strange is that Loviatar did this. Regrettably, she was apprehended before she could say anything, but one would almost think she knew Gaelin was responsible for her daughter‟s disappearance. Now, who might have told her?” Andrew shrugged, beaming internally. His Nerds had actually done something. “Who knows why Loviatar does anything? You do know she‟s a raving loony, right?” “I do agree she doesn‟t have the best grip on her emotions but I don‟t think she‟s delusional. I pin her more as the disembowelling, bathing in blood, psycho killer type. In fact, she‟s refreshingly honest about it. I think you have a team hidden somewhere, and one of them went to tell her.” “Louhi saw her mother before we had dinner,” said Ba‟al. “Maybe she told her about your plans.” Andrew doubted it. The Queen thought the less her mother knew, the better, but perhaps Goblin would believe it. “Ah yes, you were with her the other night,” said Goblin, careful not to get too close to the titan. “I‟ve been learning things about you two. She must have told you something about her operations, no?” Andrew sniggered. “Shows how much you know. They were much too busy shagging and getting pissed to talk.” Ba‟al paused in his admiration of Goblin‟s bruises to shoot him a dirty look. Goblin continued. “Of course, she might not trust you… Or love you the way you love her.” Ba‟al angrily pulled on his restraints. “Tut, tut, careful now. You know I can blow this joint. What do you know?” Ba‟al returned wearily to his recumbent position. “She only told me that Japhet, with you behind him, would try to summon me. Probably to get rid of her. She didn‟t know what your exact plans were.” “That‟s all? She didn‟t tell you anything else?” “Only to try and resist. She figured Japhet was so stupid he was bound to make a mistake. She was wrong and now she‟s dead… I ate her. Press the button, you little freak, see if I care.”

Ba‟al let his head fall to the floor. Goblin smiled and turned to Asset, who had awakened. “Cheerful, isn‟t he? What about you, prince? You must have met some of the Queen‟s friends when she sent you to spy on me. Why don‟t you tell me who and where they are?” Asset wasn‟t listening. An inane smile had appeared on his face at the sight of Goblin‟s. “Answer me!” shouted Goblin, shaking the prince roughly. “I only know the Queen and Andrew.” “What about all those little toys you both had, who gave them to you?” “Andrew did, I swear.” “Ah, yes. Andrew the techie,” said Goblin sarcastically. “Asset, if you don‟t tell me all that you know right” “You can‟t hurt me, not before the trial anyway. I‟m still part of the royal family.” Chin in hand, Goblin stared at the prince for a moment. “Quite right, if I intend for there to be a trial… Whatever, I can hurt Andrew, as much as I want.” He glanced slyly at Andrew. “Alas, he has been trained not to talk. Then again, it‟s been a while. There‟s a reason spies retire young.” He grabbed Andrew‟s face tightly, wrinkling the skin. “It would be so much easier to talk…” Andrew shook his head, breaking Goblin‟s grip. “There is no team. The plan was for me to stop you. I failed, end of story.” Goblin smiled. “Yes, that‟s believable. The Queen put all her eggs in an old, overused basket.” He turned away from Andrew with a flourish and went to the console. “Send in Doctor Çadix,” he said in the interphone. Almost immediately, a slight man, reminiscent of a bird of prey, entered. Two burly assistants followed him in, rolling a huge stainless steel table covered with torture instruments. Goblin pointed out Andrew. “Torture him as much as you like, but don‟t kill him. I want to know who works for him, where to find them and what their plans are.” He went to the opened door and turned back. “Anyone want to talk?” Silence answered. “Can‟t say I‟m

surprised. Dr Çadix is very good at his job, Andrew. You will shortly look at lot worse than I do.”

GODS FALLING ON THEIR HEADS

God (or Big G, as the others called him here) stared at the two memos on his desk. As he usually did when he was thinking, he combed his long white beard with his fingers. 42%! His approval rating had fallen to 42%! Oh, people still appreciated the work he had done creating the universe. “Bloody good show,” they said. But that was a long time ago and people forgot that it was actually a lot more difficult than saying “Fiat Lux” and things like that. Now they were mostly saying: “What have you done for me lately?” His worse rating, the one that brought the whole thing down, was for his management of natural disasters. He sighed. How could you explain that stopping one tsunami could cause ten more? (Ah! The thunder gods had learned that lesson! Maybe he should have kept the butterfly thing quiet.) He hadn‟t involved himself in human affairs in centuries: each time he did, it came back to bite him in the ass, ending in wars or massacres. And then there was the second memo, the one that confirmed his appointment as head of the procurement division. He didn‟t understand, and Gaelin had not really explained. “Just say no,” he had said. “No to what?” he had asked. “Everything!” had been the answer. So now he would receive slips asking for stuff and he would ignore them. Soon, he would need a bigger office. Or he could recycle the paper into trees. He liked trees. They were the least bothersome and most pleasing of all his creations. He snapped his fingers. His chair transformed into a cloud and a night hat, matching his nightgown, appeared on his head. It was time for a nap. Whatever the reason behind it, he had become quite good at ignoring people asking for things…

*****

John abruptly stopped in his tracks. A great lioness was sprawled across the path, cleaning its hind leg. It looked up and the soft purr she was making turned into a growl. He took a careful step back, and another, and another, until he was out of her sight. He let go of the breath he had unconsciously been holding and ran to the path he had dismissed earlier. Something strange was going on. Not counting the gargantuan mosquitoes, this would be the fourth time he had come across a voracious animal. And he was still alive. Did he have some sort of talent or should he be insulted?

Whatever the case, his luck worried him. When would it give out? There seemed to be quite a few beasts around, one was bound to feel peckish sooner or later. And another thing: the first two days he hadn‟t seen the shade of an animal, never mind a big nasty one, but now they seemed to await him at every turn. He arrived at a split in the path. He slipped his hand into his pocket to get his coin. Both paths looked the same, except that there was a long tree trunk lying in the middle of the right one. Ah, no, scratch that. The trunk was opening a huge mouth full of big, pointy teeth. His hand let go of the coin, left was the way to go.

*****

Her nose stuck to the window, Louhi stared at the airplanes. She hadn‟t blinked for a while and her eyes were hurting. She could pretend it was the rising sun, but she knew better. For the first time in decades (or maybe even centuries), she was nervous. Never mind nervous, she was scared to death. Those gigantic hulking things couldn‟t really fly, could they? She saw one take off, unmindful of the impossibility. It passed close to a tower in the distance. In her mind‟s eye, she saw the crash, the flames, the shrapnel… Even she couldn‟t walk away from something like that. She was now glad to have to take two planes. The first one, a short flight north, would be practice. She looked at her tickets, then at her watch, then back at her tickets. They were late for boarding. Very late. Actually, they should have taken off five minutes ago. She started fretting, it was better than worrying about big boxes of death. As she made her way to the attendant‟s desk, she remembered the little president‟s advice: be patient, don‟t carry liquids (she still wondered about that one) and don‟t lose your temper. He had insisted on the last. Louhi transformed her stalk into pacing. Oh, how she wished she could use the bat or the mist to glide over long distances!

*****

Tired of the screams, Lara turned down the volume to an inaudible hum. She threw an angry look at Jules, sitting next to her, right hand cuffed to his office chair. “So, do you still think we should wait and see if Goblin is better than the Queen?”

She could see he was as troubled as she was, but then he shrugged. “Gods know how sorry I am to be playing devil‟s advocate, especially after hearing that, but while the Queen is the epitome of cool, she has had prisoners tortured plenty of times.” “Maybe…but she was sure of their guilt. Had probably read it in their mind.” “Aaah, but isn‟t Andrew guilty, to Goblin‟s point of view?” “Stop it! You know the Queen is better than that monster. At least she never planned on turning the world into hell.” “I‟m not sure we can believe everything Ba‟al said, they were bantering and…” He sighed. “I know it was stupid, especially seeing the lengths the guy went to for power. I was only hoping there was someone better or nicer out there. Someone who would make humankind happy.” “I don‟t think it‟s possible for our species to be happy. I don‟t think we‟re programmed for it, which the Queen understands. Look, I get it, we all need to hope, but it‟s not real.” She turned back to her console and checked if the screams had stopped. They hadn‟t. “We must face the possibility that Andrew might talk, we have to warn Walter.” As she connected to Walter‟s transceiver, Jules rolled his chair to the computers under her watchful eye. “Lara, come here!” he called out just as she hung up. “Look, the Queen is moving! She made it! And John is finally going the right way!” Lara went to stand behind him and expelled a breath of relief. “Finally, some good news. You think he met a guide? He should get there soon.” Her frown returned. “Let‟s just hope the Queen was wrong about the booby traps.”

*****

Walter hung up the phone, just as Bacchus walked into his office. “Have you found out anything?” asked the god, searching his face. “Yes, some good, some bad. I discovered an Ipherian noble willing to help, Duke Tahir. He‟s on his way to meet me, he should arrive early tomorrow.” “And the bad?” “Andrew is being tortured. Horribly. He hasn‟t talked yet, but…”

Bacchus smacked his lips. “We can‟t do anything about it if he does.” He looked at his watch. “Ah! The ones who went to work should be arriving soon.” “I‟m already here.” Manitou had entered unnoticed. He dropped into a chair. “And I need a drink. The good stuff, mind.” “Make that two,” said Shela from the doorway. “And I don‟t care about the quality.” Manitou looked exhausted, like the cavalry had harassed him for three days straight. It was hard to tell with Shela, but her ears were drooping a little. They were both sipping their drinks silently when Jupiter arrived. Bacchus immediately got up to fix him a drink. Jupiter took it, drained it and gave it back, obviously wanting a refill. He grabbed the glass and finally sat down, looking at the other two. “Today sucked for everybody, then?” Manitou stared pensively in the depths of his drink. “I spent all day trying to get a new phone… using other people‟s. Still don‟t have one. And then Satan walks in my office, asking me to explain my expense account. It seems someone in accounting doesn‟t like the amount of headdresses I charge to the company. I tried to explain: they‟re very fragile and I need them to look the part. But does the Prince of Lies believe me?” Shela cut in with a wave of the hand. “That‟s nothing. Communications and billing services went kablooie in both the Sex and the Fertility departments. We spent all day trying to fix it! We‟re the busiest departments of that damn circus, it‟s always chaos, but today… We‟re going to see a lot of unhappy mothers in nine months, let me tell you. At least the sacred prostitutes got a day off.” “I think I‟m going to win,” muttered Jupiter. There were wrinkles on his face. “What happened to you?” asked Bacchus with concern. “I spent all morning in a performance review…” “I didn‟t know we had those,” said Shela. “But really, that‟s not so bad.” “Conducted by the Norns,” ended Jupiter with a shiver. “Nasty,” whistled Manitou. “Why? What are Norns?” asked Walter. “They‟re one of the fated triads, like the Parcae,” answered Bacchus. “It‟s always annoying to have sentences spoken by three people in turn, but the Norns are worse. They

are astonishingly stupid. It‟s said they share one brain, a really small one.” He leaned back towards Jupiter. “You look as if there is something else.” “The Erinyes…” “Oooh! What did you do?” squeaked Shela.27 “Nothing!” snapped Jupiter. “Apart from perhaps being a waste of space. They spent all day measuring offices and drawing plans. They made me look at colour and fabric swatches for hours, forced me to pick some. And then they chose something completely different.” “All right, you win,” said Manitou, looking amused for a fleeting second. “Strange, isn‟t it, that all those things have happened on the same day?” Were they blind? thought Walter. “Are you blind?” he asked loudly. “Don‟t you realize this is all Gaelin‟s doing?” Jupiter didn‟t acknowledge him. “Wait, I‟m not done. We have a problem. Thor and Ah might be in trouble, especially if the dork‟s right. The Norns were very curious about their absence. Taranis covered for them, told the Norns they were on assignment but I‟m not sure they bought it.” Shela scoffed. “Those two? On assignment? No wonder the Norns didn‟t believe it. They‟re stupid, but sheesh.” Manitou stood up. “And what if something of the kind happened in Anansi‟s department?” He turned towards Walter. “If Gaelin is behind it, what happens now?” Shela jumped out of her chair. “I say we all quit. I‟m sure I can still sell my wares on the street.” This caused an embarrassed silence. Was Shela unaware of her resemblance to a Smurf on steroids? Manitou recovered first. “You know Gods Inc. won‟t let us run around on our own in case we start altering reality.” “Why not?” argued Shela. “He‟s altering it.”

27 If they usually target the living, the fated triads can actually bother anyone they want. The Erinyes, however, can only harass the guilty. But, as Louhi would say, everyone‟s guilty of something.

“He‟s human,” answered Bacchus, pouring new drinks. “Or at least he looks like one. They‟re allowed. The only reason I can act independently is that I give the company a percentage of my profits. And someone is always watching.” Walter took advantage of the ensuing silence to finally answer Manitou‟s question. “What happens now? Gaelin will soon know who is behind all the pestering, and I doubt he‟ll be happy.”

*****

“Inquiries are now being conducted about Queen Louhi Pohjola’s disappearance despite the reassurances issuing out of Picchu Palace. The Vampire Queen of Heland and Andea, also CEO of Gods Incorporated, hasn’t been seen for four days. Her absence has led to a major crash of the Gods Incorporated shares and Helanders have begun questioning her rule. This morning, Gaelin Taslin, her replacement at Gods Inc., has announced the company will take temporary control of the Queen’s kingdoms since she didn’t have any known heirs and her mother Loviatar is now in isolation at Mu’s Asylum. We have no more details, as the press conference was then cut short by a freak storm, and a bolt of lightning almost fried Mister Taslin. Which brings us to our next story: weather patterns going haywire all over the planet. Our meteorologist Ryan Seguin will try to explain what could be causing the perturbations. So Ryan, did someone piss off the thunder gods? Hanhan”

Dropping his feet to the ground, Gaelin turned off the television. Thunder gods! He should have guessed. He‟d been dodging storms for two days now. This morning, a lightning bolt had almost unravelled his carpet. Not to mention the one at the press conference, which had come close to killing him. Actually, that one had been propitious, it had cut short the questioning. Moreover, the storms also followed Goblin, even in the desert. Someone out there was still working for the Bitch. And wasn‟t Jupiter one of Ba‟al‟s closest friends? Maybe his new task force could help. He pressed the button of his intercom. “Did anyone from Infernal Management visit the Weather Department yesterday?” His secretary sniggered. “I think so, sir. Let me check.”

There was a rustle of paper and the scratchy voice came back after a minute. “Yes, the Norns were there in the morning and the Erinyes spent all day on that floor.” “Find one of them and ask if Jupiter was missing… Oh, and get me a priest, I might have some invoking to do later.” He clicked off. No matter the answer, this needed to stop. No more silly torturing. Andrew had to talk, even if it was with his last breath. Doctor Çadix would just have to be a little tougher. The intercom buzzed. “Sir? Jupiter was here yesterday. Megeara even bragged about burying him in carpet samples. I also talked to the Norns. They confirmed Jupiter‟s presence but they added that two weather gods were missing: Thor and Ah-Peku.” Thor and Ah-Peku? Were they Ba‟al‟s friends too? Or had Jupiter put them up to it? Whatever… He punched the button. “Where is that priest?” He wanted this settled before he called Çadix.

*****

“I think I‟m a miracle worker,” said Doctor Çadix. “My wonderful salve has already healed your wounds. Time for another round… Unless you have something to say?” The silence made Asset‟s heart twinge in sympathy. That salve didn‟t take away the pain, it just healed the wounds so the tortured didn‟t bleed to death. He wished he could help, but he knew Andrew wouldn‟t want him to talk. Also, just the thought of Goblin getting his hands on H could induce a whole body twitch. The doctor applied a burning iron. The skin sizzled, Andrew moaned. Asset turned his eyes away. Ba‟al was staring vacantly into space, as if listening to an inner voice. He was rising slowly, stretching his bonds. It looked like he was being pulled by the ceiling. Suddenly, the titan‟s middle rose another foot and the trap doors fell open. The doctor started. “What now? You don‟t like to see your little friend tortured?” He approached Ba‟al, while edging toward the console. “You better not be trying anything. With your hands tied, I‟ll reach the detonator before you…”

The doctor stumbled; his feet tangled themselves in the air. Slowly, he started to fall. Not straight down, but with a curve, as if someone had thrown him. Ba‟al stretched to the opposite side of the abyss. The doctor seemed to hang over it for a moment, before being remembered by the god of gravity. The scream went on for a long time. Everyone stared stupidly at the hole. Then one of the attendants woke from his stupor and walked to the console. “Please don‟t,” begged Asset. “You‟ll blow us all to bits.” The burly man, hand on the button, threw him a confused look. He was not paid to think. He had been told to press the button in case of emergency, and this was an emergency. The phone rang.

*****

John looked at the cave‟s entrance with wonder. He couldn‟t quite believe he had found it. And he was still in one piece. It was a miracle. He was still panting from his race against the leopard. He had never run so fast in his life, never looking where he was going, and had tripped over a huge snake. He had fallen, his nose pointing right at the cave. The snake had hissed at him disdainfully and slithered away. He was now sitting under a makeshift tent (a tarp hanging from a tree), sipping a NotcaféTM. He had tried fixing the transmitter one last time. Alas, this close to the falls, the humidity fell in drops. He knew he was only putting off the inevitable, but he wished he could talk to the others before going in. Sighing, he wrapped the pieces of the transceiver carefully and stowed them into his backpack. He got to the cave‟s entrance and peered inside; the darkness was impenetrable. He took a deep breath and entered. He waited a minute, hoping his eyes would get used to the gloom. They didn‟t. With his hands, he felt he was in a man- shaped tunnel, he would have to follow it by touch. After a few minutes, he realized the tunnel was shrinking. Claustrophobia set in, soon joined by all her phobia friends. He fell to the ground, into a puddle, and rolled into a whimpering ball.

And then Basilouhiphobia28 crashed the party. It got him back up and made him take a deep breath. It wouldn‟t do any good to stay alive if the Queen found out he had chickened out. He started walking once more. Somehow, the tunnel didn‟t seem so bad anymore and it wasn‟t long before he saw the proverbial light at the end of it. He entered the cave cautiously. It looked like a modern high-rise luxury penthouse (except for the lack of windows). Reclining on a fashionable couch was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her white blond hair curved on the side of her angelic face. A shimmering blue dress flattered every luscious curve. She smiled, her lips pink and plush. “John! Finally!” she purred, her throaty voice inviting. “You‟ve kept me waiting a long time, you bad boy.” John glanced over his shoulder. There was no one following, she was talking to him. “Come over here baby, sit with me, have a glass of this wonderful champagne.” John fled.

*****

“Now, this is the life,” said Thor, reclining in his seat and putting his feet on the rim. They were in Ah-Peku‟s cloud chariot, circling the upper floors of the Gods Incorporated tower. Ah-Peku beamed at his friend. “It‟s what we were meant to do. We should be spending our days playing with the clouds, having fun. Not cooped up in an office all day.” “Yeah! It‟s the revenge of the thunder gods!” Thor punched the air.29 “So, do we wait for him to come out or do I send my hammer through the wall?” “Isn‟t that a bit obvious? What if it misses, like my bolt did yesterday?” “Hum, maybe. By the way, what was that about?” “I don‟t know. Maybe he has some amulets protecting him.” “That would explain it…” Thor blanched. “Ah, I‟m feeling strange. Like I‟ve quaffed a couple of pints of schnapps and smoked some weird shit on top of it.” Ah-Peku examined his friend. “Damn! You‟re being summoned!” “What! Who would dare? I‟ll burn them to a”

28 Fear of Queen Louhi. 29 The air was quite miffed about this. It hadn‟t done anything to deserve this kind of treatment.

“No, you have to resist. Don‟t you get it? Only the company can do this, and that means Gaelin‟s on to us… Oh, crap, I‟m starting to feel it too.” The chariot gave a lurch and fell a few feet. Rising to meet them was a line of carpets. “Oh, priests!” swore Thor, his eyes screwed in concentration. Ah-Peku let his chariot fall. Maybe he would be able to lose them in the mazes of the old city.

SHIT HAPPENS

In the bathroom, Lara splashed some water on her face. She was exhausted. The mirror wasn‟t kind about it and her body was close to rebellion. She buried her face in a towel for a quick nap, then shook herself awake. Time to go back. Jules was talking. “So what if she smiled at you… or talked to you. What the hell‟s wrong with you?” Lara rushed to the booth. Jules was stretched from his chair to the phone with uncommon flexibility. The receiver was lying on the counter; he must have dislodged it with his teeth. “What are you doing? Who‟s on the phone?” “It‟s John… It rang, so I thought I better answer.” “You know you‟re not to touch the phone…” Lara punched in the speaker and dropped the receiver in its cradle. “John? Is it really you?” “Yeah. I fixed my transceiver. Is something wrong?” Lara sighed with relief. “Nothing important. It‟s great to talk to you… finally.” “Technological repairs are not easy around here, it‟s always too humid. And I kept getting lost.” “Yes, we know. That‟s the point. If you had repaired it before, we could have guided you. Well anyway, you‟re there now. Have you spoken to Mwari?” “Hem. I‟ve hit a bit of a snag.” Jules started grinning. Lara frowned at him. “Was the oracle replaced by something dangerous?” “Well… I don‟t know…” John sighed. “When I got to the cave, there was this beautiful woman. She was smiling… sexily.” “I still don‟t see the problem, pal,” said Jules. “She wanted me to join her on the couch and drink champagne, me… So I ran out and fixed the transceiver.” Jules was now laughing and even Lara couldn‟t refrain a smile. In between bouts of hilarity, Jules found his breath. “Look, man. A woman trying to seduce you is a bonus in my book. Get back in there and pretend you‟re a man. Then go get Mwari.”

Abruptly, Lara stopped giggling. “Wait! This is weird. Why would the oracle try and seduce John?” “Hey!” shouted John, affronted. “Maybe she‟s lonely cooped up in that cave,” said Jules sceptically. “Or she‟s a nymphomaniac succubus. The sort that has sex with you until your brains turn to pudding.” “Really?” wondered John. A guffaw escaped Jules. “I‟d put my money on a bögge. It reads your brains and chooses your biggest fear… which says something about you, John.” “What does it say about me, hun? I‟ll have you know that” “Shut up, you two,” said Lara. “Do any of you know anything about succubae or bögge? To start with: how to tell them apart?” “No,” answered John as Jules shook his head. “Wouldn‟t H know?” “Maybe, but I‟m not sure I should wake him.” “Lara,” said Jules in a solemn voice. “I know you don‟t trust me, but, right now, our best bet is to get Mwari to stop Goblin. In fact, it‟s pretty much all we have left.” “And the fastest way to get information is to wake H, I know.” Lara hesitated for another second. “Fine! John, we‟ll call you as soon as he‟s awake. And keep that damn transceiver working.”

John switched off the transceiver, put it away in its case and propped it on a rock. He was still in the tunnel and the floor was wet. Yet he didn‟t dare leave. Outside, a group of animals, each one looking more dangerous than the next, were sitting, standing and lounging, all in a circle. It was as if they were talking. The huge lioness, perhaps sensing his gaze, looked up at him and growled. Were they talking about him?

*****

Ohshitgodsnoouchdamn! thought Gaelin as he pitched forward and crashed to the ground. How in hell could he have put his shoes on the wrong feet? And then tied them together? He had to face facts, being two people was a lot harder than he had thought.

He hurriedly arranged his footwear. He had to get to Picchu Plaza. He was scheduled to speak in fifteen minutes and the teleport station was on the opposite side of the palace. He would have to walk fast. That was the problem: he was always in a hurry. Japhet‟s death had hurt him more than he had expected. The king could have done some of the work. The Ipherian plan was moving quicker than expected and rancour was already spreading like a plague at Gods Incorporated. Last, but certainly not least, he had to deal with his prisoners. One of them would have to talk. As always, when you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. Except he didn‟t have the time. This speech was more important than wringing Andrew‟s neck. Heland had easily been wrested from the Queen‟s influence. He had mentioned self-governance once and everyone had jumped on the wagon. Andea would be harder. Louhi had ruled them for hundreds of years, either as Inti‟s consort or on her own. They didn‟t know any other way to live and, in fact, they seemed quite happy with their ruler when she wasn‟t dropping them into dungeons… and you never really heard those people complaining either. Gaelin tapped his jacket pocket to feel the reassuring hardness of his cue cards. He had spent months writing this speech, it was perfect. Now, if only the people would listen. Palace officials were still saying the Queen would come back soon, not to worry, and most believed it. Doubt assailed him. Maybe he could revise his speech while walking. He took it out. Ocraposhitodamnthegodstoeverlastinghell! It wasn‟t his speech, it was a deck of playing cards. He didn‟t even own playing cards! How had they gotten there? And why was his other pocket filled with mayonnaise? Gaelin turned around and ran back to the teleportation station, the swearing litany echoing in his head. He would be a bit late but he had to find his speech. He entered the pod, not noticing a small spider pushing a mouse in with him…

*****

John stared into the rabbit‟s ruby-red eyes. It was tiny, fluffy and white. It was also snarling, foaming at the mouth and unbelievingly scary.

Behind it the lioness was sleeping. There was no doubt left, the animals were watching him and had no intention of letting him out of the cave. It probably said something about him that they left a bunny on guard. Humiliation warred with fear. His only hope was to reach Mwari. He could never tell anyone about this. The transceiver beeped, making the rabbit‟s nose twitch. John closed his eyes and answered with a squeak.

John answered on the first ring. He sounded breathless and scared. “Hey John, is something wrong?” John cleared his throat, making the speaker whistle. “It doesn‟t matter. Just tell me H can help.” “Hallo John,” whined H unpleasantly. “Hafing trouble, are ve?” He was trussed up in a high chair close to the console, with the lobotomizer strapped to his head and the Flamingo pointed at his stomach.30 However, H wasn‟t the type to let his annoyance standard slip for a little thing like that. Lara squeezed his shoulder. “Just ask him, will you.” H threw her a dark look. “Did the voman look familiar?” “Familiar?” asked John. “Ja! Familiar… Hafe you seen her before? Perhaps in a picture or efen in your dreams? The silence stretched for a minute. “I guess the dress was familiar, and maybe the hair. The rest… I didn‟t stay long enough to study her.” “Na gut. It is probably a Bögge in any case.” “Are you sure?” asked Lara. “It is more logical… A succubus vould hafe to be killed, breaking all contact. And they are fery dangerous, not Mwari‟s style. Ve hafe to assume it‟s a Bögge, else there is no vay to deal vith it.” “You‟re not sure?” exclaimed John. “I might go in there to die?” “I‟m sorry, John,” said Lara. “He‟s right. We have to take the chance. If it‟s a succubus, at least you‟ll die happy. John sighed heavily. “Fine. How do I deal with a Bögge, then?”

30 Another of H‟s inventions, the Flamingo is an automatic cannon set up on a stand like a camera (or a flamingo) that shoots on movement. It is, of course, hot pink. The lobotomizer is lime green.

“A bögge feeds on fear. It doesn‟t vant to kill, just feed. This one might just vant you to leafe. Vhen a fictim dies, it is from an oferdose of fear. The trick is to know, fundamentally know, that all it does is play vith your mind, taking images and making them seem real. So try not to think of anythink too scary. Focus on contacting Mwari… vhile forgetting vhat he looks like.” “I‟ve never seen him.” “Gut for you.” “Okay, then what?” “You hafe to exhaust it. If you calmly face your fear, it vill change, and change, hoping to find somethink that vorks. Usually, after four or five changes they start to fizzle. Then you can force it to contact Mwari. Threaten to trap it in a vase and play de bagpipes. They hate bagpipes.” “And where do I find those? Ah, never mind, thanks. Lara, I have to go. The batteries are getting low and I might need to contact you again.” “All right, be careful. And good luck.”

John switched off the transceiver. The lioness had now joined the rabbit. She yawned, showing her impressive teeth. The rabbit growled and frothed. It‟s teeth were tiny, but as sharp as razor blades. It let out a piercing scream. Not wanting to take his eyes off them, John slowly made his way backwards into the tunnel. He only turned forward after a bend had hidden the entrance from his sight. The tunnel seemed different, smaller for one thing. He didn‟t remember hitting his head so often before. And had it been so narrow? And so dusty and dry? He sneezed. Desperately trying to control his claustrophobia, he reminded himself that the changes confirmed the Bögge theory, which meant he had a chance. He just had to quit being afraid. He stopped, breathed deeply and imagined he was somewhere else, somewhere far away. The sense of oppression lifted and he started forward once more. Then the smell hit. He recognized it; he had smelled the same at the Lemuria Zoo, close to the lions‟ dens. He was still trying to convince himself it was an olfactory illusion when the tunnel ended. And there she was, in all her yawning glory: the same lioness that was waiting for him at the other end of the tunnel.

100

He couldn‟t move. His brain was unable to choose which one to face and his legs had no idea which way to go. The lioness frowned. A second later, John found himself in an audience chamber, atop a trapdoor, facing the Queen in full regalia. A new wave of terror hit. He still hadn‟t reached Mwari. He had to reach Mwari, or the Queen would kill him. Panic was replaced by weak determination. The Queen scowled. And morphed into the white rabbit. Yet somehow, it failed to be as frothy and as mind- bogglingly terrifying as the one outside. Something clicked in John‟s brain. He brandished the pickle jar he had in his bag. “You made a mistake, bögman! Now get me Mwari… and fast, before I get my bagpipes.”

*****

Jupiter, Shela and Manitou were lounging around Bacch‟s pool, nursing the mother of all hangovers, when Anansi arrived. “Looks like I missed a hell of a party.” Jupiter cracked an eye open. “Nan! You‟re okay! Why didn‟t you contact us last night?” “Chill god. I was in spider form on Gaelin‟s shoe and I lost track of time. Let me tell you, that guy is going to be maaead…” “We‟re not so sure that‟s such a good thing anymore,” said Shela from her huge pool chair. “Why? What‟s happened?” asked Anansi. “Bacch reacted like you earlier at the bar. Like I was supposed to be dead or something…” “Or something,” rumbled Manitou from under his umbrella. He lowered it a little, careful to remain in its shade. “Thor and Ah were caught. They‟re in stipples. We thought you were too.” “So we got plastered,” ended Jupiter before diving in the pool. “How did Gaelin find out?” “He got hit by a bolt of lightening,” said Manitou, “that was a big clue. Too bad they missed.”

101

Shela waved him to silence. “Things are changing at Gods Inc., and not in a good way. All we know is that the Norns and the Erinyes were in the Weather Department on special assignment from Gaelin on that day. We think they told him Thor and Ah were absent.” “Also, weird things have been happening to Jup,” added Manitou. “Little accidents. And he‟s sure he‟s being followed.” He did a little disgruntled gesture with his free hand then leaned forward eagerly. “What about you? Were you successful?” Anansi was about to answer when Bacchus walked out of the house and, with a heavy sigh of lassitude, dropped into a garden chair, almost toppling it backwards. “What now?” wondered Manitou. “My employees have decided to unionize… and strike. All on the same day. I don‟t understand. I treat them well… Just because I criticized their cleaning. It‟s a mutiny, that‟s what it is. And to top it all off, this god Apep was waiting for me when I finally made it to my office. He asked all sorts of nasty questions about Al and Jup…” “Another one?” asked Jupiter, dragging his head out of the water. “Apep?” squeaked Shela. “I saw him coming out of the Fertility Banks right before the mess yesterday.” “He‟s in Ba‟al‟s department, isn‟t he?” said Anansi, “he‟s an annoyance god. I think we have found the source of your problems, Bacch.” “Which means Gaelin‟s probably behind this too,” said Manitou. Bacchus‟ capillaries threatened to burst. “I. Am. Going. To. KILL. Him!” They waited a minute to see if he would explode. He didn‟t. “It does give one ideas…” said Anansi dreamily. “We could do the same to him.” A smidge less green, Jupiter got out of the pool. “Us? Strike? What would that do? No one would notice…” Bacchus smiled. “It‟s not the strike that‟s important. It‟s the threat of it, the illusion.” “Let‟s leak it to the press,” said Shela. “It‟s Friday. He won‟t be able to check if it‟s true.” “I‟ll go call my contact at the Times,” said a buoyed Bacchus on his way inside. Jupiter followed. “I‟ll go make Bloody Louhis.”

102

A second later, his head emerged from a window. “Come inside! Quick! Gaelin‟s on the TV!” He peered back inside and started laughing. “And something‟s happened to his face.” Anansi grinned. “I‟ve been trying to tell you…”

*****

His voice got lost amidst the jeering laughter of the crowd. Gaelin finally gave up and stepped off the podium. Andea be damned, he thought angrily, kicking the dust as he made his way back to the teleport station. The speech had gone wrong from the start. Someone had messed with his notes, although it hardly mattered, he had barely uttered two words before the laughter erupted. He didn‟t understand, when had he become funny? Even now, the teleport agent was smiling inanely at him. “What the hell is so amusing?” he asked, grabbing the man by his lapel. “Nothing, sir. I‟m sorry, sir.” The man was almost crying from refrained laughter. Gaelin let go and went to look into the arrival lounge‟s mirror. “Get one of your medics right away. If they don‟t get me back to normal, Teleport Inc. is facing a worse lawsuit than the elephant man‟s.” Andea wasn‟t a priority anymore. It would be chaos after a few months of the Bitch‟s absence anyway. Then they would come begging. It was time to deal with Andrew once and for all… As soon as his face was fixed.

103

BLUNDERING RESCUE

FROM THE ATLANTIS FINANCIAL TIMES STRIKE AT GODS INC.! ... Apparently a group of wrathful divinities has banded together to contest Mr. Taslin’s appointment and his new reforms. The strike will begin on Monday morning and the group urges every Gods Incorporated employee to participate or at least take the day off. Reached at the Teleport Incorporated hospital in Lemuria where he is undergoing treatment for a teleportation accident (more on page 3), Mr. Taslin has assured the paper that this is only the rumblings of a small minority and that divine services will not be affected. He added that he had no plans to remain CEO any longer than necessary. The strike is not the first challenge to Mr. Taslin’s leadership. It has been fragile from the start. Just before the vote that named him CEO in interim, the goddess Loviatar tried to kill him and two thunder gods are in special custody for an alleged attack by lightning bolt…

*****

Goblin checked the contents of his pockets carefully before entering the teleportation pod. The butterflies in his stomach (happily not the kind to give him wings) fluttered as he pressed the Enter key. He got out and rushed to a mirror. He let out a breath of relief. Nothing new. Although it could hardly get worse: he now had the nose and mouth of a rodent and his eyes and hair had lost their silver tint forever. In his goblin form his ears looked normal, but, just like his hands and feet, he couldn‟t get them to turn human in Gaelin‟s. He couldn‟t bear to think of the other mouse-like appendage… He wouldn‟t be visiting the harem anytime soon. A freak! That‟s what he was now: a real freak! And those doctors and lawyers at the Teleport hospital… the gall! They had blamed him for the accident because he had mouse pellets in his pockets, and had threatened to leak the fact that he was a shape-shifter if he sued. Relevant in court, they said!

104

He wouldn‟t be able to keep up the charade of Gaelin/Goblin anymore. He needed a puppet here in Ipheria. It was all going wrong without a figurehead. The strike rumour was a sign: he had to spend more time at Gods Incorporated. But right now he needed to know who was behind the attacks. He would get their names and whereabouts from Andrew… even if he had to dismember him with his own hands!

He walked in the dome room and his mood lifted. The assistants/goons did not understand the concept of metaphor: they had followed his instructions to the letter. Andrew was really hanging from the ceiling by his feet (quite a sight in harem wear), Asset was really mummified to a chair with masking tape and Ba‟al was tied face down and really eating dirt (one of the goons was sitting on his head and holding a dust pan). Goblin smiled, this was doing him a world of good. Then Andrew started to laugh. “Oh dear,” he wheezed, tears of joys streaking his forehead. “I never thought I would say this, but am I ever glad to see you!” Goblin shrugged. “Go ahead, laugh. I won‟t begrudge it to a dying man. But then you will tell me who is behind this.” “Or what? Torture?” asked Andrew. “How predictable. I didn‟t talk to your Doctor Çadsex, why would I talk to you? Besides, I haven‟t the slightest clue who‟s behind this. And if I did, I wouldn‟t thank them for this last sight by telling.” “Oh, I know you can withstand the pain, Doctor Çadix was very impressed, but can Asset?” He brandished the object he had been holding behind his back. I looked a little like a headset. A headset for a multi-eared alien. “I have little toys too: this will fry his brain slowly and very painfully as every little branch discharges higher and higher amounts of electricity.” Ba‟al spat out a dust bunny. “You can‟t do that. He has to stand trial!” “You think I still care about that?” Goblin waved dismissively. “Anyway, what‟s wonderful about this toy is that it doesn‟t leave any marks, only madness.” And he would have an Ipherian side-king once again, two birds, one stone. He waited a minute, Andrew stayed silent. He approached Asset. Even knowing what was in store, the prince was smiling at his disfiguration. He had to find a surgeon willing to try.

105

He fixed the headset around the prince‟s head. “Last chance, Andrew…” The door burst open. Duke Tahir entered, accompanied by a guard, some nobles and a wiry hippy. “Stop right this instant! In the name of the king!” shouted the duke. “We know the prince is not guilty, we know he was tricked by you. Guard! Seize him!” Nothing happened. Goblin smiled, took out his gun and clarified the situation. “The palace guards answer only to me, Tahir.” He gave a little sign. The guard and the goon at the door knocked down two of the nobles. As the goon took hold of the duke, the guard grabbed the hippy and was about to slit his throat. “Wait!” ordered Goblin. “Who is this?” Andrew flinched. “Oh, he‟s one of the troublemakers. Tie him up,” he told the guard. “He‟ll talk. We might not even need torture.” The duke tried to shake off the goon, to imperceptible effect. “You think I came without taking some insurance? If I don‟t get out of here, Count Fornoth has” Goblin approached. “Ah but you will come out, my dear duke. Only by then you‟ll be on my side.” He gave the duke‟s cheek a pat and stepped back. “So this is how it‟s going to work: I will fry Asset‟s brain, and Ipheria will have a new king, albeit a crazy one. It won‟t be the first time. Then I‟ll fry yours, my Duke, leaving you just enough to be able to perform the crowning ceremony. In the meantime, my boys will get the nonentity to talk and I‟ll let Andrew die from a brain haemorrhage” “No son. That‟s enough.” Goblin whirled. Mwari, with an eyebrowless nerd in tow, had appeared beside the altar. A pleonastic scowl aggravated his features.31 “Dad? What are you doing here?” “Preventing another one of my sons from destroying the world apparently. Actually, two of my sons, I hear you‟re both Gaelin and Goblin. How could you deceive me like this? I trusted you with everything.”

31 Mwari is as ugly as they come and looks mad under any circumstance.

106

Goblin lowered his eyes, then frowned. “How could I deceive you? Easy. You were never there. I met you on my eighteenth birthday, and you only came because you needed someone to take over your affairs, not because you cared.” “I cared son, I did. Your mother… She said it was hard enough raising a little goblin without me coming around and scaring the neighbours. She wanted you to have a normal life. I tried to make sure she never wanted for anything. Maybe I should have forced her to acknowledge your goblin heritage…” “Don‟t blame yourself, Mwar‟,” said Ba‟al softly. “A lot of us never see our kids. Come to think of it, a lot of kids never see their dad. It doesn‟t turn them into raving megalomaniacs. Look at Louhi… or perhaps that‟s not the best example.” “How is Louhi?” asked Mwari. “I heard you ate her.” “Hey!” yelled Goblin, his hair starting to blush. “So even now, you care more about HER. I‟M your son. But no, as usual, you‟re more concerned with this planet and every one else on it. Well, it doesn‟t matter anymore. I WILL conquer this world, I WILL turn it into hell, and there‟s nothing you can do to stop me.” “The Queen is fine sir,” said Walter, answering Mwari‟s question. “She was thrown into another dimension. She should be back shortly.” “WHAT?” screamed Goblin, his hair now two feet high. “So that was the plan? Keeping me occupied until she came back? Fine! I‟ll just have to kill her with my bare hands. I assure you, there are ways. And as for you, daddy dearest,” he put his hand on the detonator near his heart. “Ba‟al, I command you, by the power of my summons, to eat Mwari the Creator. Now.” “No!” shouted Ba‟al. His manacles exploded, the goon holding his head was thrown into the wall as he jumped upright, floating over the abyss. “You can‟t disobey me,” whined Goblin. “I‟ll blow the world into smithereens. If I can‟t rule it, it will not exist.” Ba‟al looked down on him regally. “Calm down Gobble. You‟re foaming. I‟m still your slave, but I won‟t eat Mwari.” Mwari was listening to John. He raised his head. “I don‟t mind, Ba‟al. Maybe it‟ll calm him down.” He glanced worriedly at Goblin.

107

“No offence, Mwar‟, but you‟re not very appetizing. I‟d really rather not.” “None taken” “That‟s it!” screamed Goblin shrilly, jumping up and down. “Enough! I said Eat Him! Eat Hiiiim!” Then he froze, his face in a rictus of hate and delight, and fell backwards, stiff as a plank. Two shots rang out, felling the guard and the remaining goon. A small ragged creature holding two oversized guns jumped on Goblin‟s face. It was humanoid, except for its skin, which appeared to be green under the running make-up. It holstered its guns and bowed with a flourish. “Claude Carmet, always at your service, messieurs.” “You little loon!” yelled Andrew, extending his hand towards the Frog ineffectually. “The bomb! The whole world will explode…” “Mais non. I am not an imbécile. He is only sleeping.” He kicked Goblin‟s nose with nonchalance. “It was hard enough finding ze right narcotique, zis is no country for gnomes.” He shrugged. “He should stay like zis for a few days, enough time to deactivate ze bombe.” He looked up. His audience looked relieved but still disapproving. “Quoi? Merde! Everyone was just standing around, not doing anyzing. I saved your lives! And I was only supposed to do it tomorrow, but it‟s been a long week and I was getting bored. Please explain to ze Queen, Andrew, force majeure and all zat.” “You were here the whole time!” screamed Andrew, trying to slip his feet out of the cuffs. “You waited a whole bloody week! I was almost tortured to death…” “Only almost, zat is the important part, non? Who do you think got rid of Çadix? Ze Queen told me to wait a week. We all know what happens when she doesn‟t get her way. Since you don‟t need me anymore…” He jumped off Goblin, then addressed everyone while pointing at Andrew. “Please wait a moment before letting ze travelo down, he looks émotif.” He looked up. “I will be expecting payment before ze end of ze week, sissy man.” He disappeared. Andrew fell on his head.

108

EPILOGUE Lara, uncomfortable in an ill-fitting harness, was deep in the abyss, trying to dismantle the last of the bombs. She was also trying to ignore the conversations, or, rather more accurately, the fights going on above her head. Asset had finally stopped whining and had resignedly accepted the throne of Ipheria. Mwari was coming out of retirement. He had been unable to think up a convenient replacement so had given in to Andrew‟s ministrations about power and duty. Hearing that kind of thing didn‟t do her any good. It took away all the respect you were supposed to feel towards your betters… Made you realize they were just like everyone else: lazy, selfish and mean little jerks. And then it was done, the last bomb was dismantled, she had saved the world… Again! As usual, no one even noticed.

On the other side of the palace, in one of the smaller kitchens, a poor unsuspecting cook opened a cupboard. He was almost mauled to death by a big, black, spitting ball of fur.

*****

On the quiet waters of the archipelago, Andrew, enjoying the perfumed nocturnal air, searched for the right island. After passing a few deserted ones, he accosted on the island closest to the Queen‟s tracer signal. It appeared to be occupied by a highly luxurious resort. Also a highly private resort, as the number of security men heading his way indicated. After half an hour of hostile questioning, just as he was about to get violent, an imperious cough was heard. “It‟s all right, he‟s with me,” said the Queen. After checking her credentials, the men dispersed, muttering about pompous men taking themselves for some Bond fellow. The Queen scowled at him. “I didn‟t expect you so soon. I‟ve barely begun my vacation… which, by the way, is the first I‟ve taken in about a hundred years.” “Majesty! You‟ve been in this world for almost a week!”

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“Yeah, well, this place is a lot harder to get around in than the nerds made it seem. It‟s not just the democracies, or the bureaucracies, they also have unions and strikes. Everything is incredibly complicated. It makes you thankful for the good old-fashioned corruption of the Teleport Inc. employees.” She sighed and shook her head. “And it wasn‟t just malignant functionaries, I also had to affront airplanes, which are big boxes of death, airplane food, evil hotel shampoo bottles and incompetent saltshakers… And the only person I liked is considered a monster. Just because he tries to make his vision of utopia come true.” She loomed over him. “And now I finally get to relax, and you show up a day earlier than expected. I am not pleased.” “So the Frog was telling the truth? You told him to wait? So you could take a vacation? I was tortured, you know.” “Serves you right. What the hell were you doing there in the first place?” She had planned it all, even his punishment. He wasn‟t surprised, just a smidge offended. “Majesty, we do have to go back… The world needs you, and you don‟t want to miss Asset‟s coronation, do you?” She stopped scowling and laughed. “Oh, he must be furious. What happened to Japhet?” She got on the little boat. “Never mind, you can tell me later. What else do I need to know?” Andrew pushed the boat in the water and jumped on. “We have Goblin in custody and Mwari has agreed to come out of retirement for a bit. Gaelin has done some damage at Gods Inc: downsizing, rationalizing… he even put Thor and Ah-Peku in stipples. They tried to help, along with Jupiter, Bacchus and some others.” “Ba‟al‟s friends. Remind me to thank them. Have Thor and Ah-Peku been let out?” “Walter was on his way to Bacch‟s when I left. They should be out by now. How did you know where the portal was?” “There was this awful movie on one of those airplanes. It seems things disappear often in this part of the world. I figured the portal would be close.” She became pensive. “I‟ve been wondering… Could this dimension be one of our hells? Or maybe we‟re one of theirs?” She paused. “What did you say happened in the kingdoms?”

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“I didn‟t,” Andrew was nervous about this but she would find out eventually. “Goblin failed to take over Andea, everyone there is still loyal to you, but” “Let me guess, Heland aligned itself with him.” “Ahem, not exactly. Goblin gave them a choice. They dissolved the Union and chose to become a republic.” “Ah, idealism,” said the Queen glumly. “And we have Goblin?” Andrew nodded. “Wonderful, another madman in my basement. Where did you put him?” “I‟ve had him thrown in the parochial pit.” They didn‟t talk for a long time. The tropical melody filled theirs ears, accompanied by the putputput of the boat‟s motor. The fragrant wind caressed their faces. “Which one is that again?” asked the Queen. “The pit with the religious fanatic or the one with the annoying little birds?”

THE END

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THE GODS

A useful guide to the characters in the Gods Inc. novels. Classed by pantheon

GRECO-ROMAN

JUPITER (g. Zeus): God of thunder, ruler of Olympus. Killed his father. Enjoys taking funny shapes to seduce young women. Strangely enough, it works; he has many children, some of them legitimate.

JUNO (g. Hera): Goddess of marriage. Wed to Jupiter. That says it all, really.

MERCURY (g. Hermes): God of commerce, travellers and thieves… and flower merchants. Son of Jupiter and the nymph Maya. Messenger of the gods and psychopomp, he has nifty winged shoes.

ATHENA (r. Minerva): Daughter of Zeus and Metis, born fully-grown from Zeus‟s head. Goddess of war and wisdom.

MITHRAS: Actually an ancient oriental deity. God of soldiers and a bit of a mystic (or a berserker, as you prefer). Enjoys orgies filled with masochistic rituals and drugs.

CHARYBDIS: Well-known monster/garbage dispenser of the Mediterranean. Famed for terrorizing sailors exhausted after years of war, horse building, witch loving, etc., who are worried that their wives are getting it on with other men.

CERBERUS: Three headed bulldog, guardian of the underworld.

KEMET

OSIRIS: God of agriculture and death. Wed to Isis, father of Horus. Got hacked to pieces by his brother Seth, was later put back together by his wife. According to legend, a bit was missing. Which bit depends on the state of mind of the person telling the story.

ISIS: Mother goddess, and a great magician. Turns into a cow.

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NEPHTYS: Guardian goddess, associated with homes and temples. Gives protection and divine assistance. Isis‟s sister, she is also a great magician. Wed to Seth, the god of storms and chaos. Considered to be the Pharaoh‟s nurse, she can incinerate his enemies with her fiery breath. Turns into a falcon.

ANUBIS: Jackal-headed god of death and embalming. He guides the soul of the dead, assisting in the weighing of their soul.

APEP: Ancient god of chaos; Seth stole most of his functions. These days he mostly hangs out in kitchens messing up Tupperwares. Turns into a lizard (a huge dragon back in the day, now a little bitty gecko).

SEKHMET: Warrior goddess, known as the lady of slaughter, and a solar deity. Turns into a lioness.

THOT: Lunar deity. Inventor of writing and language, he is the god of scribes and of time. Can turn into either a baboon or an ibis.

BASTET: feline deity, goddess of music, dance, health and healing. Considered to be benign, but when thwarted can turn into a lion.

NORTHERN & EASTERN EUROPEAN

ODIN: God of runes, magic, ruse and war. Heads the Scandinavian pantheon. Gave up an eye for his knowledge of magic.

THOR: God of thunder and rain. Son of Odin. Carries around a big hammer named Mjöllnir. Likes to fight, a lot.

LOKI: Trickster god. Enjoys tormenting Thor.

MIMIR: The Rememberer. God of wisdom and Odin‟s personal computer. Beheaded under strange circumstances during a fight with the giants, he never found his body amidst the carnage and now does without.

AEGIR: Elemental, personification of the sea. As he is huge, he is also considered a giant, but one who gets along with gods (somewhat of a traitor, finally).

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LOVIATAR: Finnish goddess. Daughter of Death and mother of the Nine Diseases, she is the incarnation of senseless, violent death. As such, she enjoys killing humans and eating them. Doesn‟t have eyes (it‟s a theme).

CELTIC

TARANIS: God of thunder. (Yes, another one)

SHELA-NA-GIG: Goddess of fertility. Has the basic body shape of a tortoise, with huge breasts and labia, and the skin of an elephant. Known for her great personality.

IPHERIAN

BA‟AL HAMMON: God of Carthage. Anthropomorphisation of a black hole. His faithful used to sacrifice first-borns to him so the hole of nothingness would not expand.

MWARI: Creator god, renowned for being the ugliest immortal. Lives up in the skies but can be reached through his oracle. Absentee father, he always has a lot of trouble disciplining his sons.

ANANSI: Trickster god, takes the shape of a spider. Small and lithe, he enjoys tormenting his bigger colleagues with dangerous practical jokes.

ORIENTAL & MIDDLE EASTERN

YAHWEH: (or God) I‟m not touching this one.

LUCIFER: Angel of light. Thrown down from heaven for criticizing the Previous. Now known as Satan or the Prince of Lies, he rules over Hell.

AHURA-MAZDA: Creator god of Zoroastrianism. God of wisdom, light and lightening.

MONKEY: King of men and trickster. His tales are told in Journey to the West.

MARDUK: God of priests and king of Babylon.

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HINDU

VISHNU: Part of the Supreme Triad, he is the Preserver or Protector (Brahma is the creator, Shiva the destroyer). Shapeless, he needs to incarnate in an avatar to come to earth.

KALI: Goddess of time, change, destruction and creation. She has six arms and her skin is dark blue.

NASATYAS: doctors to the gods

GANDABERUNDA: Two-headed eagle. Associated with Vishnu.

HELAND & ANDEA

INTI: Sun god and Giver of life, god of civilisation and Supreme Ruler of the Incas.

AH-PEKU: God of Thunder. Enjoys riding clouds.

QUETZALCOATL: Feathered serpent, symbol of death and resurrection. God of the morning star, he makes, watches and transgresses the boundaries between earth and sky.

MANITOU: Great Spirit, guide and provider.

VOTAN: God of wisdom and communication. Doesn‟t mind looking his age, to the great dismay of all who must look at him.

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EFFETS DE MIROIRS De la satire en fantaisie

INTRODUCTION La fantaisie satirique, comme tout genre hybride, déborde la simple définition. On peut considérer le mélange comme nouveau ou, au contraire, comme la renaissance d‟un style très ancien. Car bien que le fait soit resté rare, la cohabitation du merveilleux et de la satire existe depuis les balbutiements de la littérature. Pensons seulement aux fables d‟Ésope, au Roman de Renart, aux Livres de Rabelais et aux Voyages de Swift.

Tout d‟abord, quelques notions de base. La fantaisie (ou fantasy) se déroule généralement dans un monde secondaire : une autre planète, une Terre mythique (passée ou future) ou une dimension parallèle modifiant notre réalité de manière plus ou moins subtile. La naturalisation du surnaturel (ou de la magie, équivalente à la science en science-fiction) en est l‟élément essentiel32.

La satire, en utilisant la parodie, l‟exagération, la diminution et la transposition, dénonce avec ironie les travers d‟une société. Elle est aussi tragique que comique, elle expose le contraste entre l‟homme tel qu’il devrait être et l‟homme tel qu’il est.

Certains considèrent la fusion des deux comme une détérioration de la fantaisie, déjà déclassée au rang de paralittérature. Pour les puristes, le rire étant automatiquement associé à la parodie, cela donne de l‟anti-fantaisie ou de la low fantasy, terme péjoratif s‟il en est un. Pourtant la satire amène une profondeur au commentaire sous-jacent parfois trop simpliste du genre. Le mélange, quand il est réussi, nous présente un miroir déformé de

32 Cette définition a été distillée à partir du Dictionnaire des termes littéraires et des définitions données par Ann Swinfen dans In Defense of Fantasy. A study of the genre in English and American litterature since 1945, et Anne Besson dans La fantasy.

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notre monde33. Par ailleurs, quelques spécialistes affirment que la fantaisie, de par sa dimension morale exacerbée, ramène la satire à ses sources primitives34.

Il ne faut jamais oublier que la fantaisie se veut une critique de la société. Comme la science-fiction, elle trahit le désir de trouver des solutions sociales. Ces littératures questionnent et reconstruisent le monde. Par des effets de distance spatio-temporelle, elles nous permettent de réfléchir à notre réalité. Elles dépassent le scientifique et le magique pour révéler l‟inconscient d‟une époque. Ce sont les romans à thèse de la modernité.

L‟ajout de l‟ironie, située à un deuxième niveau souvent très réaliste, permet de dénoncer les aspects absurdes et injustes de la vie.

Mais la fantaisie satirique reste un phénomène un peu à part. La haute fantaisie épique est profondément hostile au rire. Celui-ci nuit à l‟émerveillement, enlève de la majesté aux exploits valeureux et ramène les héros à l‟humanité. Comme le dit Bakhtine : « C‟est le rire qui abolit la distance épique […]. Le rire a le pouvoir remarquable de rapprocher l‟objet […], il anéantit la peur et la vénération…35 ». Pour faire rire, un auteur doit ancrer l‟imaginaire dans le familier, créer des analogons avec la réalité. La fantaisie satirique serait-elle trop réaliste?

Progressivement, l‟hybride retrouve ses lettres de noblesse, en grande partie grâce à Terry Pratchett, principal géniteur de la fantaisie satirique contemporaine. Sur son Discworld, un monde plat voyageant à travers l‟espace sur le dos d‟une tortue, il a créé une société fantastique par laquelle il se moque de la nôtre. Son œuvre est gigantesque, une vraie comédie inhumaine; elle compte plus de quarante livres. Les premiers tombent plutôt sous l‟appellation de parodie (de la fantaisie épique, du roman initiatique, des contes de fées, des romans policiers et de Shakespeare), puis ils deviennent peu à peu plus distinctifs. Tout en continuant d‟utiliser ces modèles insérés dans son monde fantastique, Pratchett quitte le travestissement pour tomber dans la satire. Les aventures, les parcours initiatiques et les enquêtes deviennent prétextes à une critique, railleuse certes, mais très sérieuse, parfois même philosophique, de la nature humaine.

33 Jean R. Scheidegger, Le Roman de Renart ou le texte de la dérision, Genève, Librairie Droz (Publications romanes et françaises), 1989, p. 388. 34 John M. Bullit, Jonathan Swift and the Anatomy of Satire, Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1966, p.160. 35 Mikhaïl Bakhtine, Esthétique et théorie du roman, Paris, Gallimard, 1978, p.458.

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En fait, Pratchett écrit une fantaisie constamment entrecoupée par la réalité36. Certains l‟ont même surnommé le Dickens du XXe siècle37 à cause de sa préoccupation envers le glauque de la vie (il n‟y accorde toutefois pas de valeur morale). Il refuse les héros et les méchants absolus, ses personnages étant principalement humains, même quand ils ne le sont pas. De plus, il réussit à concrétiser les métaphores et les allégories qui régissent notre société, révélant ainsi leur fragilité et ce qu‟elles peuvent avoir d‟absurde et d‟utopique.

En examinant l‟œuvre de Pratchett, je tenterai de répondre aux deux questions qui me tracassent en tant qu‟auteur de fantaisie satirique : comment se moquer d‟une chose alors qu‟on en évoque une autre? Et surtout : comment créer un effet de reconnaissance entre le merveilleux et le réel? Idéalement, ceci permettra d‟offrir une nouvelle perspective sur ce genre si mal apprécié.

Évidemment, si la fantaisie satirique est rare, les études la concernant le sont encore davantage. J‟appuierai donc mes conclusions sur des recherches dans divers ouvrages concernant la satire, le rire et la fantaisie. J‟essaierai de trouver des parallèles entre ce qui a été dit à propos du Roman de Renart, de l‟œuvre de Rabelais ainsi que celle de Swift, et mes propres conclusions sur celle de Pratchett. Et pour mieux comprendre le processus de création, j‟étudierai quelques essais d‟auteurs familiers avec le genre, tels que J.R.R. Tolkien, Margaret Atwood, Umberto Eco et Stephen King.

Cet essai sera divisé en trois parties. La première présentera le Discworld, ce monde créé par Pratchett, et la deuxième situera son œuvre en relation avec la satire et la fantaisie. Dans la dernière, je présenterai une réflexion sur la création de fantaisie satirique.

36 Edward James, Weaving the Carpet, dans Terry Pratchett: Guilty of Litterature. 2nd Edition, Baltimore, Old Earth Books, 2004, p 20. 37 Nickianne Moody, Death and work, ibid. p.158.

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TERRY PRATCHETT ET LE DISCWORLD Terry Pratchett est né en 1948 à Beaconsfield, en Angleterre. En 1971, alors qu‟il est journaliste à la Buck’s Free Press, il publie son premier livre, The Carpet People, une fantaisie pour enfants. Le premier roman du Discworld, The Colour of Magic, apparaît douze ans plus tard, en 1983. Aujourd‟hui, Pratchett vit toujours en Angleterre, et il continue à écrire malgré une rare forme d‟Alzheimer.

Le Discworld

Through the fathomless deeps of space swims the star turtle Great A‟Tuin, bearing on its back the four giant elephants who carry on their shoulders the mass of the Discworld. A tiny sun and moon spin around them, […] nowhere else in the multiverse is it sometimes necessary for an elephant to cock a leg to allow the sun to go past38.

Bienvenue sur le Discworld, un monde où l‟imaginaire prend vie. Ici, la magie est monnaie courante, la narrativité est une loi aussi implacable que la gravité, et le racisme n‟est pas une question de couleur. Les civilisations, les époques et les légendes de notre réalité s‟y entremêlent, formant une tapisserie littéraire complexe et bigarrée.

[In the University], the professor of recondite architecture and origami map folding is needed in order to locate the egregious professor of cruel and unusual geography…39

This book does not contain a map. Please feel free to draw your own40.

La géographie du Discworld est vague et mouvante, mais souvent familière. Éphèbe, cité démocratique où pullule les philosophes, rappelle l‟Athènes antique. Genua ressemble à la Nouvelle-Orléans du début du XXe siècle. Les innombrables petits états dans les montagnes des Ramtops ont des airs de royaumes écossais ou de cantons suisses. Djelibeyby, bourré de pyramides, caricature l‟Égypte des pharaons…

Si le centre physique du Disque est Cori Celesti, montagne-essieu où résident les dieux, son centre narratif se trouve à Ankh-Morpock.

38 Terry Pratchett, Wyrd Sisters, London, Corgi Books, 1989, p. 5. Pour la traduction, voir l'entrée 1 de l’annexe 1, page 155. 39 Matthew Hills, Mapping Narrative Spaces, dans Terry Pratchett: Guilty of Litterature. 2nd Edition, Baltimore, Old Earth Books, 2004, p. 231. T2, p. 155. 40 Terry Pratchett, Sourcery, London, Corgi Books, 1989, p.5. T3, p. 155.

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Poets long ago gave up trying to describe the city. Now the more cunning ones try to excuse it. They say, well, maybe it is smelly, maybe it is overcrowded, maybe it is a bit like Hell would be if they shut the fire off and stabled a herd of incontinent cows there for a year, but you must admit that it is full of sheer, vibrant, dynamic life41.

Ankh-Morpock, c‟est Rome, Londres, New York : toutes les routes y mènent, toutes les histoires de Pratchett la mentionnent. Ancienne capitale d‟Empire, maintenant plus qu‟une cité-État, elle semble par moments médiévale, par d‟autres victorienne. Compliquée et dangereuse, elle est dirigée par le Patricien, Lord Vetinari, un dictateur bienveillant et machiavélique, « droit comme un tire bouchon42 ».

The temporal ruler of the sprawling city of Ankh-Morpork was sitting in his chair at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne, looking for any signs of intelligence in the intelligence reports. […] He did of course sometimes have people horribly tortured to death, but this was considered to be perfectly acceptable behaviour for a civic ruler and generally approved of by the overwhelming majority of citizens. The people of Ankh are of a practical persuasion, and felt that the Patrician's edict forbidding all street theatre and mime artists made up for a lot of things. He didn't administer a reign of terror, just the occasional light shower43.

La ville est dominée par la tour d‟Unseen University, l‟université des sorciers. Sur le Disque, la magie est dangereuse, il faut la contrôler, ou même en éviter l‟usage. Si les membres de la faculté arrivent à se mobiliser lorsque l‟univers est en péril, la structure tortueuse de l‟institution les a transformés en bureaucrates pantouflards.

Wizards, when faced with danger, would immediately stop and argue amongst themselves about exactly what kind of danger it was. By the time everyone in the party understood, either it had become the sort of danger where your options are so very, very clear that you instantly take one of them or die, or it had got bored and gone away. Even danger has its pride44.

Le Libraire fait exception.

A magical accident in the Library […], had some time ago turned the Librarian into an orang-utan. He had since resisted all efforts to turn him back. He liked the handy long arms, the prehensile toes and the right to scratch himself

41 Terry Pratchett, Moving Pictures, London, Corgi Books, 1991, p. 13-14. T4, p. 155. 42 Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms, London, Corgi Books, 1994, p. 70. Ma traduction. Dorénavant, mes traductions porteront la mention MT. 43 Terry, Sourcery, loc. cit., p. 76-77. T5, p. 155. 44 Terry Pratchett, The Last Continent, London, Corgi Books, 1999, p. 221. T6, p. 156.

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in public, but most of all he liked the way all the big questions of existence had suddenly resolved themselves into a vague interest in where his next banana was coming from. It wasn't that he was unaware of the despair and nobility of the human condition. It was just that as far as he was concerned you could stuff it45.

Présent dans la plupart des aventures, il ne dit que « oook », mais il est probablement la « personne » la plus valeureuse du Discworld. Son amour pour sa nouvelle forme met en relief et ridiculise l‟obnubilation des humains pour la leur.

D‟ailleurs, sur le Disque, l‟humain n‟est pas la seule créature intelligente : il y a des nains, des trolls, des loups-garous, des vampires, des gnomes, des golems, des zombies… Chaque groupe possédant ses forces, défauts et particularités, et tous se retrouvent à Ankh- Morpock.

Rincewind, l’incompétent sorcier

À l‟origine, les premiers livres de Pratchett ne semblaient vouées qu‟à parodier la fantaisie épique. Rincewind est faible, incapable de magie et couard. Semblable à Gulliver, il subit ses aventures, protégé par la chance et par des forces complémentaires comme sa valise anthropophage ou des héros rencontrés en chemin. Tel Ulysse, en voulant éviter les dangers, il se retrouve toujours plus loin.

Puis les romans deviennent de plus en plus ironiques, montrant bien l‟évolution de Pratchett en tant que satiriste, philosophe et écrivain.

Les voyages de Rincewind sur le Disque et au-delà (dans le temps, les dimensions et l‟espace) sont l‟aspect le plus intéressant du cycle. Pratchett aime bien y explorer l‟idée de choc culturel ainsi que les différents niveaux de civilisation. Rincewind, malgré sa médiocrité, est perspicace et cynique : il comprend la nature humaine et comment le monde fonctionne.

„We speak you in language of celestial city of Ankh-More-Pork. Language of freedom and progress. Language of One Man, One Vote!‟ „Yes,‟ said Rincewind. A vision of Ankh-Morpork's Patrician floated across his memory. One man, one vote. Yes. „I've met him. He's definitely got the vote‟46.

45 Terry Pratchett, Sourcery, loc. cit., p.16. T7, p. 156. 46 Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times, London, Corgi Books, 1995, p. 123. T8, p. 156.

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Les sorcières de Lancre

Lancre est un petit royaume paisible, tout en verticalité, niché dans les montagnes des Ramtops. La monarchie de ce paradis rural figé dans un moyen-âge éclairé repose sur le gros bon sens paysan.

The people of Lancre wouldn't dream of living in anything other than a monarchy. They'd done so for thousands of years and knew that it worked. But they'd also found that it didn't do to pay too much attention to what the King wanted, because there was bound to be another king along in forty years or so and he'd be certain to want something different and so they'd have gone to all that trouble for nothing. In the meantime, his job as they saw it was to mostly stay in the palace, practise the waving, have enough sense to face the right way on coins and let them get on with the ploughing, sowing, growing and harvesting. It was, as they saw it, a social contract. They did what they always did, and he let them47.

Le roi de Lancre doit composer avec un pouvoir secondaire, celui des sorcières : « Verence couperait sa propre jambe avant de mettre une sorcière en prison. Ça serait moins problématique à long terme et probablement moins douloureux48. »

La plus puissante est Granny Weatherwax, une vieille fille solitaire et aigre. Son intelligence et ses talents démesurés la posent en équilibre sur la ligne entre le bien et le mal, entre la justice et la corruption. Heureusement, elle profite de la compagnie très terre à terre de sa collègue et complice Nanny Ogg, une « vieille valise dégoûtante », mariée trois fois et matriarche d‟un énorme clan.

Dans ce cycle, Pratchett aime bien jouer avec les oppositions : entre l‟ancien et le moderne, le rural et l‟urbain. Il y explore également la causalité narrative, le féminisme, la justice et le prix du pouvoir. À l‟instar de Rincewind, les sorcières aiment bien voyager, mais plus dans une impulsion de confrontation que de fuite.

Dans chaque histoire, elles affrontent des ennemis à haute connotation théâtrale et littéraire : un roi usurpateur, une fée marraine, un fantôme de l‟opéra, la reine des fées, une famille de vampires… De ce fait, le registre se situe souvent au niveau de la parodie, mais les intertextes sont si nombreux (légendes, mythes ruraux, sagas scandinaves, contes de fées et théâtre de Shakespeare), qu‟on se retrouve plutôt devant une distillation satirique de représentations culturelles et littéraires qui peut rappeler le Roman de Renart.

47 Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum, London, Corgi Books, 1999, p. 57. T9, p. 156. 48 Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies, London, Corgi Books, 1993, p. 36. MT

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La Mort

La Mort est LE personnage récurrent du Discworld. Chez Pratchett, toute vie est précieuse, toute mort importante. Le décès d‟un personnage, fût-il méchant où négligeable, mérite donc la visite de La Mort, un grand squelette de sept pieds armé d‟une faux et vêtu d‟une longue tunique à capuchon noire.

„Children are our hope for the future.' THERE IS NO HOPE FOR THE FUTURE, said Death. 'What does it contain, then?' ME. 'Besides you I mean!' Death gave him a puzzled look. I'M SORRY? […] 'I meant,' said Ipslore, bitterly, 'what is there in this world that makes living worthwhile?' Death thought about it. CATS, he said eventually, CATS ARE NICE49.

Sur le Discworld, La Mort a développé une personnalité. Fasciné par l‟humanité, il a adopté une jeune fille, pris un apprenti (Mort) et a même impliqué sa petite-fille adoptive dans l‟entreprise familiale (Soul Music, Hogfather, Thief of Time). Sa maison est calquée sur les demeures humaines et il essaie régulièrement de se fondre dans le monde des mortels.

Ces romans se préoccupent beaucoup de métaphysique. La Mort, en définitive une représentation anthropomorphique née de croyances, se pose en défenseur de la vie (et de sa fin éventuelle) contre des forces qui en veulent l‟extinction. Ses opposants traditionnels sont les Contrôleurs de la réalité qui jugent l‟humanité trop chaotique. En jouant sur ces deux perspectives extérieures (La Mort, attirée, et les Contrôleurs, agacés), Pratchett examine ce qui fait de nous des êtres humains.

'All right,' said Susan. 'I'm not stupid. You're saying humans need... fantasies to make life bearable.' REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE. 'Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little-' YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES. 'So we can believe the big ones?'

49 Terry Pratchett, Sourcery, loc. cit., p.11. T10, p. 157.

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YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING50.

Les livres de ce cycle sont des Bildungsroman à saveur victorienne, genre particulièrement privilégié par Pratchett. Il aime affronter la logique idéaliste de la jeunesse avec celle, un peu ternie, de l‟expérience. En insérant des anachronismes de notre société contemporaine sur le Discworld, il illustre le choc des générations et oppose tradition et modernité.

Par ailleurs, les affrontements apocalyptiques de ces récits affectent la trame du réel ; les sorciers sont souvent mis à contribution, ce qui permet l‟exposition des conflits intergénérationnels et administratifs cachés derrière les murs d‟une institution. Car finalement, les grandes préoccupations de ce cycle sont le travail sous toutes ses formes et l‟éthique du devoir, reflétant les tourments vécus dans l‟Angleterre des années 1980.

La Police d’Ankh-Morpock

Les livres de ce cycle sont écrits sur le modèle du roman policier : il y a crime, enquête et coup de théâtre final, sauf que les crimes se révèlent politiques en nature. Dans les premières aventures, les coupables sont des conspirateurs qui cherchent à renverser Vetinari. Par la suite, les intrigues s‟internationalisent et prennent une tournure diplomatique.

La série commence alors que les forces de l‟ordre d‟Ankh-Morpock reposent dans la déchéance, la ville étant plutôt policée par ses nombreuses guildes, dont celles des assassins, des voleurs et des « couturières ». La situation se modifie avec l‟arrivée de Carrot, un jeune homme adopté par des nains et élevé dans les montagnes. Et le seul, étrangement, à posséder une copie des lois de la cité, perdues et oubliées depuis longtemps.

"I said, Vimes, that one of your men arrested the head of the Thieves' Guild." […] Wonse grinned mirthlessly. "Tied him up and left him in front of the palace. There's a bit of a stink about it, I'm afraid. There was a note… ah… here it is: 'This man is charged with, Conspiracy to commit Crime, under Section 14 (iii) of the General Felonies Act, 1678, by me, Carrot Ironfoundersson.' […] "Right you are, Mr Secretary," [Vimes] said. "I'll see to it that he learns that arresting thieves is against the law51."

50 Terry Pratchett, Hogfather, London, Corgi Books, 1997, p. 422. T11, p. 157. 51 Terry Pratchett, Guards ! Guards !, London, Corgi Books, 1990, p. 62-65. T12, p. 157.

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Le personnage focalisateur des romans est Samuel Vimes, un homme des bas-fonds, honnête et désabusé. À mesure que la série avance, il devient, grâce à son mariage et l‟étrange sens de l‟humour de Vetinari qui le couvre de titres et d‟honneurs, un des hommes les plus riches et puissants de la ville. Malgré cela, Vimes reste obstinément le détective de style américain, méfiant et dur52.

Carrot, lui, serait le dernier descendant de la maison royale d‟Ankh-Morpock, situation qu‟il refuse d‟admettre ou de réfuter. Sa pensée reste généralement hermétique, mais ses actions nous présentent un être hybride, mélangeant le policier britannique, poli, naïf et pointilleux, et le héros de fantaisie épique, grand, fort et charismatique. Avec ce personnage, Pratchett aime bien renverser les conventions de la littérature héroïque.

En même temps que Vimes, les forces policières se relèvent de leur décrépitude. Les effectifs augmentant, Vimes se voit obligé de respecter « la situation ethnique de la cité » dans sa politique d‟embauche, permettant à Pratchett de se pencher sur les conflits raciaux des grandes villes, thème qui prend une toute autre ampleur dans le Discworld.

To understand why dwarfs and trolls don't like each other you have to go back a long way. They get along like chalk and cheese. Very like chalk and cheese, really. One is organic, the other isn't, and also smells a bit cheesy. Dwarfs make a living by smashing up rocks with valuable minerals in them and the silicon-based lifeform known as trolls are, basically, rocks with valuable minerals in them. In the wild they also spend most of the daylight hours dormant, and that's not a situation a rock containing valuable minerals needs to be in when there are dwarfs around. And dwarfs hate trolls because, after you've just found an interesting seam of valuable minerals, you don't like rocks that suddenly stand up and tear your arm off because you've just stuck a pick-axe in their ear53.

Tout en dénigrant les préjudices mesquins, il essaie de comprendre les raisons derrière les haines viscérales divisant certains peuples. Il en profite aussi pour se moquer de nos sociétés dites multiculturelles et de nos compromis qui nient la réalité de différences pourtant bien réelles.

He was aware that a wise man should always respect the folkways of others, to use Carrot's happy phrase, but Vimes often had difficulty with this idea. For

52 Vous trouverez la Théorie des Bottes sur les inégalités socio-économiques du Capitaine Samuel Vimes dans l‟annexe 2, entrée 1, à la page 167. 53 Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms, loc. cit., p. 46. T13, p. 158.

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one thing, there were people in the world whose folkways consisted of gutting other people like clams and this was not a procedure that commanded, in Vimes, any kind of respect at all54.

Dans ce cycle comme dans celui de La Mort, Pratchett aime bien analyser la condition humaine, mais avec une autre perspective. En utilisant les diverses races du Discworld, qu‟elles soient non organiques (trolls et golems), mortes (zombies et vampires) ou de formes différentes (nains, loups-garous, gnomes, etc.), il démontre que l‟humanité dépend de la pensée et de la moralité de chaque être plutôt que de sa forme55.

Les autres romans

Ce dernier cycle, qu‟on pourrait nommer divers, comprend une dizaine de romans qui ne s‟assemblent pas tout à fait avec les autres. Les histoires se déroulent cependant à l‟intérieur de cadres plus ou moins connus, comme Ankh-Morpock et les pays entourant la Mer Circulaire (la Méditerranée du Discworld) et on y retrouve souvent des personnages familiers.

Si ces récits sont trop différents pour permettre une analyse cohérente, on peut toutefois en dégager une thématique, car Pratchett y caricature des milieux et des institutions de notre monde moderne56.

Le plus commenté et analysé des livres de Pratchett est Small Gods, qui examine tous les aspects de la religion : le dieu, les croyants, les prophètes, le dogme, l‟inquisition et, surtout, le clergé. Pratchett y reprend l‟histoire de Jésus (en y mêlant un peu de Copernic), et la renverse tout en conservant sa valeur intrinsèque. Dans ce roman, plus que dans tout autre, Pratchett souligne l‟importance du choix individuel et l‟absurdité inhérente à toute utopie collective.

The inquisitors stopped work twice a day for coffee. Their mugs, which each man had brought from home, were grouped around the kettle on the hearth of the central furnace, which incidentally heated the irons and knives.

54 Terry Pratchett, The Fifth Elephant, London, Corgi Books, 2000, p. 61. T14, p. 158. 55 Pour le récit des premiers pas de Dorfl le Golem dans le monde des êtres pensants voir l‟annexe 2, entrée 2, page 168. 56 Moving Pictures parodie Hollywood, The Truth lève le voile sur le monde des médias, Going Postal met en opposition entreprenariat et fonction publique, Making Money explore le secteur financier, Monstrous Regiment révèle les dessous de l‟armée et enfin, Unseen Academicals rit du sport professionnel et universitaire.

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They had legends on them like A Present From the Holy Grotto of Ossory, or To The World's Greatest Daddy. Most of them were chipped, and no two of them were the same. And it all meant this: that there are hardly any excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot easily be duplicated by a normal, kindly family man who just comes in to work every day and has a job to do57.

Ce bref exposé de l‟œuvre de Pratchett, aussi incomplet qu‟il puisse être, en montre l‟ampleur ainsi que le sérieux des sujets abordés. Quelques autres facteurs généraux sont nécessaires afin d‟en saisir le caractère exceptionnel. Premièrement, chaque roman, même s‟il s‟inscrit dans une lignée, est indépendant. Comme la Comédie humaine de Balzac, le Discworld est une entreprise immense, un monde complet où les personnages et les histoires se rencontrent et s‟entrecoupent.

Exception faite de sa narration dominante, Pratchett résiste à toutes les conventions du genre de la fantaisie. Il a réussi à donner une cohérence au Discworld tout en refusant l‟habituelle précision des mondes secondaires. Il dépasse la morale facile et l‟allégorie simple, nous forçant souvent à hésiter quant au jugement à porter sur les actions narratives et ses personnages58. Et, malgré une ironie parfois grinçante, ses leçons gardent toujours un caractère bon enfant et optimiste.

De plus, contrairement à l‟hypothèse de Tolkien, qui prétend que la fantaisie est déclassée au niveau littéraire à cause de son incompatibilité avec le théâtre, presque tous les romans du Discworld ont été adaptés pour la scène.

Pratchett a reçu de nombreux prix littéraires et a été anobli par la reine pour ses services à la littérature. Il est récipiendaire de huit doctorats émérites, une tortue de l‟époque éocène de la Nouvelle-Zélande a été nommée Psephophorus terrypratchetti en son honneur, il a été invité à siéger au conseil d‟administration de la Fondation des orangs- outangs et il est adoré par des milliers de libraires autour du monde.

“We've got the only librarian who can rip off your arm with his leg. People respect that. Only the other day the head of the Thieves' Guild was asking me if we could turn their librarian into an ape and, besides, he's the only one of you buggers who stays awake more'n an hour a day.”59

57 Terry Pratchett, Small Gods, London, Corgi Books, 1993, p. 19. T15, p. 158. 58 David Couegnas, Introduction à la paralittérature, Paris, Seuil, 1992, p.113. 59 Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times, loc. cit., p. 24. T16, p. 159.

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TERRY PRATCHETT, ENTRE SATIRE ET FANTAISIE Aux confluents de deux genres considérés contradictoires, Pratchett a taillé un espace remarquable. Mais le Discworld ne s‟est pas formé d‟un coup, l‟équilibre n‟a pas été atteint immédiatement. Ce n‟est qu‟à partir du sixième roman qu‟on s‟aperçoit que le Discworld a désormais une vie propre, qu‟il est devenu tangible. Et l‟humour de Pratchett y gagne discernement et finesse, devenant de plus en plus satirique.

De la parodie à la satire : les aventures de Rincewind

Différencions d‟abord parodie et satire : la parodie imite d‟autres œuvres de façon volontaire et consciente, elle se rit des représentations d‟une société; la satire dénonce et se moque des travers d‟une société, elle la parodie, en quelque sorte60. Les deux se rejoignent car les représentations que se fabrique une société sont révélatrices en soi. Cependant, si la satire se veut drôle et distrayante, son but est ultimement didactique. Le lecteur doit pouvoir percevoir l‟humour ET la leçon61.

Le cycle de Rincewind est celui qui permet le mieux de suivre l‟évolution de Pratchett entre la parodie et la satire. Rincewind est le premier « héros » du Discworld, c‟est grâce à ses aventures que le Disque a pris forme. Cet anti-sorcier est une parodie de tous les mages qui peuplent notre imaginaire. Ses alliés comme ses ennemis sont également des caricatures facilement reconnaissables. La parodie est réussie, mais facile. Comme le dit Genette : « Le style épique, par sa stéréotypie formulaire, est non seulement une cible toute désignée pour l‟imitation plaisante et le détournement parodique, il est constamment en instance, voire en position d‟auto-pastiche et d‟auto-parodie involontaire.62 »

Rincewind représente en plus cette figure éternelle qui dénonce les conventions pernicieuses : il est, tour à tour et parfois en même temps, le sot, le fripon et le bouffon63. Dès The Colour of Magic, plusieurs éléments dépassent le simple pastiche. Sa première « quête » consiste à accompagner et protéger Twoflower, le premier touriste du Discworld,

60 Jean R. Sheidegger, Le Roman de Renart ou le texte de la dérision, Genève, Librairie Droz (Publications romanes et françaises), 1989, p. 291 et 364. 61 John M. Bullit, Jonathan Swift and the Anatomy of Satire, Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1966, p. 32. 62 Gérard Genette , Palimpsestes. La littérature au second degré, Paris, Éditions du Seuil, 1982, p.22. 63 Mikhaïl Bakhtine, Esthétique et théorie du roman, Paris, Gallimard, 1978, p. 309.

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qui occupe lui aussi le rôle de sot ou d‟ingénu, à un degré supérieur (Rincewind conclue que « touriste » veut dire « idiot »). Twoflower a trop d‟argent, est trop naïf et pense que tout ce qu‟il voit est coquet ou pittoresque, malgré les nombreuses évidences du contraire.

Dans ce premier livre, le héros qui arrive à la rescousse est un stéréotype (grand, fort et bête). Inversement, le sauveur du second (The Light Fantastic) a presque cent ans et se nomme Cohen le Barbare, Genghis de son prénom. Si son nom évoque le travestissement de Gengis Khan et de Conan le barbare, ce personnage, qui recroisera le chemin de Rincewind, s‟avère infiniment plus complexe et mieux défini.

L‟aventure suivante, Sourcery, cinquième livre du Discworld, implique Rincewind dans une guerre magique. Riche en rebondissement, probablement le plus rocambolesque de la série, cet ouvrage tombe pourtant un peu à plat. La parodies y surabondent (Geasa celtiques, Contes de mille et une nuit, voleuse au doigt de fée…), et le mélange est finalement plus ou moins réussi.

Dans Faust Eric, un démonologiste en crise d'adolescence tente d'invoquer un démon pour obtenir pouvoir, richesse, amour et vie éternelle. Il reçoit Rincewind. Cette fois la parodie est bien définie, ce qui permet à Pratchett d‟accentuer l‟aspect satirique. De plus, le Discworld a maintenant pris vie (c‟est le neuvième roman) et certaines de ses caractéristiques donnent une tournure particulière à l‟histoire. On apprend donc que la vie est née de la décomposition d‟un sandwich (sans mayonnaise) et les péripéties de la guerre de Troie perdent beaucoup de leur éclat.

Lavaeolus sighed. "Sounds like them," he said. He turned to Elenor. "Our lot - that is, my lot - are going to burn down the city," he said. "It sounds very heroic. It's just the kind of thing they go for. It might be a good idea to come with us. Bring the kids. Make it a day out for all the family, why don't you?" Eric pulled Rincewind's ear towards his mouth. "This is a joke, isn't it?" he said. "She's not really the fair Elenor, you're just having me on?" "It's always the same with these hot-blooded types," said Rincewind. "They definitely go downhill at thirty-five." "It's the pasta that does it," said the sergeant. "But I read where she was the most beautiful -" "Ah, well," said the sergeant. "If you're going to go around reading -"

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"The thing is," said Rincewind quickly, "it's what they call dramatic necessity. No-one's going to be interested in a war fought over a quite pleasant lady, moderately attractive in a good light. Are they?" Eric was nearly in tears. "But it said her face launched a thousand ships - " "That's what you call a metaphor," said Rincewind. "Lying," the sergeant explained, kindly64.

Au dix-septième roman, Interesting Times, la satire de Pratchett atteint son paroxysme. Après avoir été oublié quelque temps sur une île tropicale, Rincewind est projeté dans l‟Empire du Counterweight Continent (qui ressemble à la Chine impériale) en pleine révolution populaire. Au même moment, Cohen a décidé de le conquérir avec sa horde de héros séniles, question de prendre sa retraite avec panache. Les parallèles avec Animal Farm de Georges Orwell sont flagrants et on sent rapidement les éléments de dystopie se glisser dans les bonnes intentions des révolutionnaires.

[Rincewind] stared glumly at the floor. He quite liked the job of Water Buffalo String Holder. It sounded nearly as good as the profession of Castaway. He longed for the kind of life where you could really concentrate on the squishiness of the mud underfoot, and make up pictures in the clouds; the kind of life where you could let your mind catch up with you and speculate for hours at a time about when your water buffalo was next going to enrich the loam. But it was probably difficult enough as it was without people trying to improve it... He wanted to say: how can you be so nice and yet so dumb? The best thing you can do with the peasants is leave them alone. Let them get on with it. When people who can read and write start fighting on behalf of people who can't, you just end up with another kind of stupidity. If you want to help them, build a big library or something somewhere and leave the door open65.

Mais Pratchett tient à nous laisser sur une note d‟espoir, et on quitte le Continent avec l‟impression que Genghis Cohen, le héros barbare, la légende encore vivante, sera finalement un très bon souverain.

Les dernières aventures de Rincewind (The Last Continent et The Last Hero), présentent une satire plus douce, davantage modulée sur l‟histoire. Pratchett va plutôt

64 Terry Pratchett, Faust Eric, London, Corgi Books, 2000, p. 95. T17, p. 159. 65 Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times, London, Corgi Books, 1995, p. 209. T18, p. 159.

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transposer ses critiques dans les autres cycles, avec toujours cette perspicacité teintée d‟espoir66.

'But surely the purpose of- I mean, wouldn't it be nice if you ended up with some creature that started to think about the universe-?' 'Good gravy, I don't want anything poking around!' said the god testily. 'There's enough patches and stitches in it as it is without some clever devil trying to find more, I can assure you. No, the gods on the mainland have got that right at least. Intelligence is like legs - too many and you trip yourself up…67

Le Discworld : un monde fantastique?

La question se pose pour tout univers merveilleux, qu'il s'agisse de contes de fées ou de science-fiction : créations pures ou variations du nôtre68? L‟interrogation est particulièrement pertinente à propos du Discworld car, à mesure que la série avance, on oublie constamment qu‟on se trouve sur un monde plat soutenu par quatre éléphants juchés sur le dos d‟une tortue. Les personnages les plus étranges sont si reconnaissables, les situations insolites deviennent si plausibles, qu‟on ressent à peine l‟effet de dislocation.

“Hey, that's Reg Shoe! He's a zombie! He falls to bits all the time!” “Very big man in the undead community, sir,” said Carrot. “How come he joined?” “He came round last week to complain about the Watch harassing some bogeymen, sir. He was very, er, vehement, sir. So I persuaded him that what the Watch needed was some expertise, and so he joined up, sir.” “No more complaints?” “Twice as many, sir. All from undead, sir, and all against Mr Shoe. Funny, that.” Vimes gave his captain a sideways look. “He's very hurt about it, sir. He says he's found that the undead just don't understand the difficulties of policing in a multi-vital society, sir.” Good gods, thought Vimes, that's just what I would have done. But I'd have done it because I'm not a nice person. Carrot is a nice person, he's practically got medals for it, surely he wouldn't have...69

66 Pour ne nommer que quelques exemples: Jingo, (la police) aborde la guerre et ses excès; Soul Music (La Mort) illustre notre obsession pour la célébrité; The Truth dénonce le monopole et la corruption des médias et enfin n‟oublions pas la satire virulente de la religion qu‟est Small Gods. 67 Terry Pratchett, The Last Continent, London, Corgi Books, 1999, p. 227. T19, p. 160. 68 Voir chapitre de Marie-Agnès Thirard, Le monde merveilleux des contes de fées : autres mondes ou miroir de la société du XVIIe siècle? dans Autres Mondes, Arras, Presses de l‟Université d‟Artois (Cahiers Robinson), 2005. 69 Terry Pratchett, Jingo, London, Corgi Books, 1998, p.48-49, T20, p. 160.

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Comme l‟a dit Tolkien à propos du conte de fées : « … ces histoires parlent de choses simples et fondamentales, aucunement fantaisistes, mais ces banalités sont valorisées au contraste de leur environnement.70 » Un monde secondaire permet à l‟auteur d‟offrir sa philosophie, sa vision de la société. De simplifier le tout pour le rendre plus saisissable. Le plus souvent, les éléments de merveilleux ne servent qu‟à appuyer sa perspective.

Sur le Discworld, l‟ordinaire ne fait pas seulement intrusion, il est omniprésent. Qu‟on soit à Ankh-Morpock ou dans les Ramtops, Pratchett ne nous laisse jamais oublier quelles sont les préoccupations basiques de l‟être humain.

She'd heard that this was depressing King Verence, who was teaching himself kinging out of books. His plans for better irrigation and agriculture were warmly applauded by the people of Lancre, who then did nothing about them. Nor did they take any notice of his scheme for sanitation, i.e., that there should be some, since the Lancrastian idea of posh sanitation was a non-slippery path to the privy and a mailorder catalogue with really soft pages. They'd agreed to the idea of a Royal Society for the Betterment of Mankind, but since this largely consisted of as much time as Shawn Ogg had to spare on Thursday afternoons, Mankind was safe from too much Betterment for a while…71

De plus, la profusion de races intelligentes sur le Disque nous oblige à confronter une vérité soupçonnée depuis les Voyages de Gulliver : « la nature humaine, loin d‟être radicalement diverse de par le monde, est finalement, toujours la même72. » Pratchett se sert de cette diversité pour démontrer que l‟humanité est plutôt une question d‟âme que d‟apparence. Que l‟être humain n‟a pas le monopole des qualités, au contraire, qu‟il possède les pires défauts.

And Sergeant Colon once again knew a secret about bravery. It was arguably a kind of enhanced cowardice: the knowledge that while death may await you if you advance it will be a picnic compared to the certain living hell that awaits should you retreat.73

Enfin, malgré le fait que la temporalité de son monde oscille entre l‟antiquité et l‟ère victorienne, Pratchett a réussi à lui donner une saveur technologique contemporaine avec la

70 J.R.R. Tolkien, Tree and Leaf. Including the poem Mythopoeia, London, HarperCollins Publishers, 2001, p. 37. MT 71 Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum, London, Corgi Books, 1999, p. 57. T21, p. 161 72 Daniel Carey, Les voyages de Gulliver. Mondes lointains ou mondes proches, Caen, Presses universitaires de Caen, 2002, p. 148. MT 73 Terry Pratchett, Jingo, loc. cit., p. 295. T22, p. 161

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conception de procédés magiques ainsi que l‟adaptation de vieilles avancées techniques telles que le sémaphore.

Sur le Discworld, les règles, les métaphores et les allégories qui régissent notre monde deviennent réalité. L‟impossible est logique et la logique révèle son absurdité. « On rit du familier vu à travers des lunettes absurdes et on rit car l‟absurde nous semble si familier.74 »

Corporal Nobbs's appearance could best be summarized this way. One of the minor laws of the narrative universe is that any homely featured man who has, for some reason, to disguise himself as a woman will apparently become attractive to some otherwise perfectly sane men with, as the ardent scrolls say, hilarious results. In this case the laws were fighting against the fact of Corporal Nobby Nobbs, and gave up75.

La particularité de Pratchett repose dans son refus d‟appliquer les règles de transformation de la réalité communes à son genre. Oui, certaines lois régissant son monde sont farfelues, mais Pratchett a réussi à lui donner une cohésion, affranchissant ainsi le Discworld de la fantaisie76.

Ironie, critique et points de ralliement

Voici l‟élément incontournable de la fantaisie satirique : au-delà de toute prétention au réalisme, un satiriste doit amener le lecteur à se reconnaître, ou à reconnaître une situation, dans le miroir de la satire77.

Les techniques de Pratchett sont diverses : récupérations de mythes et de traditions, contaminations (géographiques, temporelles, culturelles et technologiques), humanisations et jeux de mots. Il aime aussi beaucoup faire fléchir la réalité grâce à ce que Bergson appelle l‟inversion du sens commun : « [Cela] consiste à prétendre modeler les choses sur une idée qu‟on a […], à voir ce à quoi on pense au lieu de penser à ce qu‟on voit78. »

74 Andrew Butler, Theories of Humor, dans Terry Pratchett: Guilty of Litterature. 2nd Edition, Baltimore, Old Earth Books, 2004, p. 69. MT 75 Terry Pratchett, Jingo, loc. cit., p. 310. T23, p. 161. 76 John Clute, Coming of Age, dans Terry Pratchett: Guilty of Litterature, loc. cit. p. 30. 77 Jefferson Holdridge, Lashing the Vice, dans Les voyages de Gulliver. Mondes lointains ou mondes proches, loc. cit., p. 158. 78 Henri Bergson, Le rire. Essai sur la signification du comique, Paris, Presses universitaires de France, 1981, p. 138.

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The Committee for Equal Heights had objected but things had mired somewhat because, firstly, most of the actual Committee was human, since dwarfs were generally too busy to worry about that sort of thing, and in any case their position hinged on pointing out that Mr Stronginthearm né Smith was too tall, which was clearly a sizeist discrimination and technically illegal under the Committee's own rules79.

La fantaisie possède un avantage : si les habitants des mondes secondaires font face aux mêmes problèmes spirituels et moraux que nous, ceux-ci sont plus clairement posés et la nécessité d‟une solution est plus insistante. Les fantaisistes posent les questions qui ont préoccupé les penseurs politiques depuis la naissance des sociétés organisées80. Pratchett ne fait pas exception, mais il ajoute la réflexion plus terre à terre du satiriste. Sous sa plume, la religion, le travail et la politique prennent une tournure unique.

There were such things as dwarf gods. Dwarfs were not a naturally religious species, but in a world where pit props could crack without warning and pockets of firedamp could suddenly explode they'd seen the need for gods as the sort of supernatural equivalent of a hard hat. Besides, when you hit your thumb with an eight-pound hammer it's nice to be able to blaspheme. It takes a very special and strong-minded kind of atheist to jump up and down with their hand clasped under their other armpit and shout, 'Oh, random-fluctuations-in-the-space-time- continuum!' or 'Aaargh, primitive-and-out-moded-concept on a crutch!'81

La particularité unanimement appréciée de la fantaisie de Pratchett est qu‟elle est démocratique. Et ce, malgré le fait qu‟il ne met jamais en scène une démocratie fonctionnelle et qu‟il a plutôt tendance à la dénigrer.

Vimes had once discussed the Ephebian idea of 'democracy' with Carrot, and had been rather interested in the idea that everyone had a vote until he found out that while he, Vimes, would have a vote, there was no way in the rules that anyone could prevent Nobby Nobbs from having one as well. Vimes could see the flaw there straight away82.

Sa fantaisie est démocratique parce qu‟il ne réserve pas la noblesse de cœur à un type de personne. Avec Pratchett, elle peut se trouver chez la plus vile des créatures. En outre, au lieu de nous présenter des monarques intègres aux responsabilités accablantes comme la

79 Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay, London, Corgi Books, 1997, p. 197. T24, p. 161. 80 Ann Swinfen, In Defense of Fantasy. A study of the genre in English and American litterature since 1945, London, Routledge & Kegan, 1984, p. 91 et 192. 81 Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms, London, Corgi Books, 1994, p. 82. T25, p. 162. 82 Terry Pratchett, The Fifth Elephant, London, Corgi Books, 2000, p. 299. T26, p. 162.

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plupart des auteurs de fantaisie, Pratchett expose leur humanité. Ses rois sont des gens ordinaires, qui font leur boulot.

"I believe you find life such a problem because you think there are the good people and the bad people," said [Vetinari]. "You're wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides." He waved his thin hand towards the city and walked over to the window […] "Down there," he said, "are people who will follow any dragon, worship any god, ignore any iniquity. All out of a kind of humdrum, everyday badness. Not the really high, creative loathsomeness of the great sinners, but a sort of mass- produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might say, without a trace of originality. They accept evil not because they say yes, but because they don't say no. I'm sorry if this offends you," he added, patting the captain's shoulder, "but you fellows really need us." "Yes, sir?" said Vimes quietly. "Oh, yes. We're the only ones who know how to make things work. […] One day it's the ringing of the bells and the casting down of the evil tyrant, and the next it's everyone sitting around complaining that ever since the tyrant was overthrown no-one's been taking out the trash. Because the bad people know how to plan. It's part of the specification, you might say. Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don't seem to have the knack."83

Lord Vetinari, le Patricien d‟Ankh-Morpock est son dirigeant le plus intéressant. Tout puissant, cruel par moment, mais ascétique, incorruptible et par-dessus tout, sensé, il est le reflet du petit dictateur qui sommeille en chacun de nous.

“This city is full of clever men […] who tinker with things.” “I am so very sorry.” “They never think.” “Indeed.” Lord Vetinari leaned back and stared at the skylight. “They do things like open the Three Jolly Luck Take-Away Fish Bar on the site of the old temple in Dagon Street on the night of the Winter solstice when it also happens to be a full moon.” “That's people for you, I'm afraid.” “I never did find out what happened to Mr Hong.” “Poor fellow.” “And then there's the wizards. Tinker, tinker, tinker. Never think twice before grabbing a thread of the fabric of reality and giving it a pull.” “Shocking.” “The alchemists? Their idea of civic duty is mixing up things to see what happens.”

83 Terry Pratchett, Guards ! Guards !, London, Corgi Books, 1990, p.391-392. T27, p. 162.

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“I hear the bangs, even here.” “And then, of course, along comes someone like you-” “I really am terribly sorry.”84

En fantaisie, le lecteur est souvent appelé à ressentir une nostalgie pour l‟ère préindustrielle : pour le noble roi versus le politicien rusé; pour l‟œuvre artisanale, manuelle et spirituelle, en opposition au travail d‟usine dépourvu d‟âme. Cette nostalgie est présente chez Pratchett. On ressent bien cette valorisation du labeur à l‟ancienne avec La Mort, qui cueille les vies une à une, avec soin. Dans Reaper Man, son remplaçant est comparé à une moissonneuse-batteuse.

Mais Pratchett le satiriste est trop réaliste pour sombrer dans cette veine, à moins de vouloir dénoncer cette idéalisation. Si la bureaucratie moderne et l‟industrialisation sont une source infinie de matériel comique, il en va de même pour la décrépitude victorienne d‟Ankh-Morpock et les traditions médiévales des habitants des Ramtops.

Plus que tout, Pratchett aime se moquer de nos utopies. Grâce à des mises en situation farfelues et familières, il confronte les valeureux défenseurs de la patrie, les révolutionnaires hypocrites et les moralisateurs dépourvus de sens commun.

Big Fido was forging his band of strays into what the ignorant thought a wolf pack was. […] Big dogs, little dogs, fat dogs, skinny dogs. They were all watching, bright-eyed, as the poodle talked. About Destiny. About Discipline. About the Natural Superiority of the Canine Race. About Wolves. Only Big Fido's vision of wolves weren't wolves as Angua knew them. They were bigger, fiercer, wiser, the wolves of Big Fido's dream. They were Kings of the Forest, Terrors of the Night. They had names like Quickfang and Silverback. They were what every dog should aspire to. Big Fido had approved of Angua. She looked very much like a wolf, he said. They all listened, totally entranced, to a small dog who farted nervously while he talked and told them that the natural shape for a dog was a whole lot bigger. Angua would have laughed, were it not for the fact that she doubted very much if she'd get out of there alive.85

Cependant, Pratchett pousse généralement le raisonnement satirique un peu plus loin, pour prouver que l‟évolution est possible, que l‟espoir est permis et que, malgré le sérieux de certaines situations, il est toujours possible d‟en rire.

84 Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms, loc. cit., p.197-98. T28, p. 163. 85 Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms, loc. cit., p. 298. T30, p. 163.

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“Why are our people going out there?” said Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild. “Because they are showing a brisk pioneering spirit and seeking wealth and... additional wealth in a new land,” said Lord Vetinari. “What's in it for the Klatchians?” said Lord Downey. “Oh, they've gone out there because they are a bunch of unprincipled opportunists always ready to grab something for nothing,” said Lord Vetinari[…] “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said, “I seem to have read those last two sentences in the wrong order...86

L’espoir : la vision du lecteur liée à celle d’un personnage

Chez certains satiristes, l‟espoir semble inexistant, impossible. Animal Farm, par exemple, fait rire mais laisse un goût amer. Il est toutefois possible de dépasser la critique, de proposer des solutions, de laisser entrevoir la possibilité d‟un monde meilleur. En fantaisie, les combats se terminent souvent non seulement par la victoire du bien sur le mal, mais aussi par le triomphe de l‟humilité pratique sur la fierté. Le genre veut trouver une façon de sortir l‟humanité de son narcissisme autodestructeur87. Pratchett présente cette espérance en grande partie à travers la vision de ses personnages focalisateurs.

La plupart de ceux-ci sont âgés, désillusionnés, cyniques et résignés, mais ils n‟abandonnent pas. L‟accent est mis sur la question de choix : « le héros pratchettien est capable de sortir de sa voie et de s‟incliner vers l‟entente, le pardon et la pitié88. »

Rincewind, comme Gulliver, n‟aime pas la race humaine, ne s‟aime pas lui-même. Il se sait poltron et inapte, pareil aux autres. Il assume sa complicité personnelle dans les maux de société qu‟il perçoit et dénonce. Il déteste le fait qu‟à chaque fois, c‟est à lui qu‟on demande de sauver le monde au péril de sa vie. Malgré cela, et bien que tout en lui s‟y oppose, il finit toujours par accepter la mission.

Granny Weatherwax, sorcière puissante, femme hautaine, « têtologue » douée, personnifie le concept de la dualité humaine envers le bien et le mal et expose comment la ligne entre les deux peut parfois sembler mince et abrupte, ou large et floue. Granny connaît bien les être humains, elle n‟a aucune illusion sur leur qualité. Malgré cela, elle continue d‟aider son prochain, aventure après aventure, et résiste à la déshumanisation et à

86 Terry Pratchett, Jingo, loc. cit., p. 24. T31, p. 164. 87 Don D. Elgin, The Comedy of the Fantastic, Westport, Greenwood Press, 1985, p. 184. 88 Farah Mendelsohn, Faith and Ethics, dans Terry Pratchett: Guilty of Litterature, loc. cit. p. 239-240. MT

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la corruption qui vient avec la puissance. Elle s‟oblige, avec toute la force de sa volonté, à rester du côté du bien.

'Esme doesn't thrive on nice,' said Nanny Ogg. […]'To tell you the honest truth, there's always been a bit of the dark in the Weatherwaxes, and that's where the trouble is. Look at old Alison Weatherwax. […] Went to the bad, they say, just packed up one day and headed for Uberwald. And as for Esme's sister...' Nanny stopped, and restarted. 'Anyway, that's why she's always standin' behind herself and criticizin' what she's doing. Sometimes I reckon she's terrified she'll go bad without noticin'. 'Granny? But she's as moral as-' 'Oh, yes, she is. But that's because she's got Granny Weatherwax glarin' over her shoulder the whole time89.'

Sam Vimes est plus terre à terre, c‟est un pauvre type qui fait son boulot du mieux qu‟il peut. Même s‟il se retrouve avec de plus en plus de pouvoir à mesure que le cycle avance, il reste un voyou parvenu, qui ne souhaite qu‟être digne de sa femme et de sa position. Il regarde le monde entier, lui inclus, avec un dédain moqueur teinté d‟indignation. Il se méfie des « gens ordinaires » mais la suffisance des riches et la misère des pauvres le révoltent. Toujours, il s‟offusque du fait que travail ardu et honnêteté n‟amènent que victimisation. « Vimes, malgré sa colère et son racisme, comprend la valeur du compromis et de la compassion90. »

When Nobby had gone Vimes reached behind the desk and picked up a faded copy of Twurp's Peerage or, as he personally thought of it, the guide to the criminal classes. You wouldn't find slum dwellers in these pages, but you would find their landlords. And, while it was regarded as pretty good evidence of criminality to be living in a slum, for some reason owning a whole street of them merely got you invited to the very best social occasions91.

Les moments les plus réjouissants, pour Vimes et le lecteur, sont ceux où il arrive à utiliser la force de ce rang qu‟il n‟a pas désiré. Lorsqu‟il réussit à résoudre des situations potentiellement dangereuses avec le sens commun d‟un homme du peuple.

“Vimes, you have gone insane,” said [Lord Rust]. “You can't arrest the commander of an army!”

89 Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum, loc. cit., p. 133. T32, p. 164. 90 Farah Mendelsohn, art. cit., p. 240. MT 91 Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay, loc. cit., p.103-105. T33, p. 164.

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“Actually, Mr Vimes, I think we could,” said Carrot. “And the army, too. I mean, I don't see why we can't. We could charge them with behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace, sir. I mean, that's what warfare is.” Vimes's face split in a manic grin. “I like it.” “But in fairness our - that is, the Ankh-Morpork army - are also-” “Then you'd better arrest them too,” said Vimes. “Arrest the lot of 'em. Conspiracy to cause an affray,” he started to count on his fingers, “going equipped to commit a crime, obstruction, threatening behaviour, loitering with intent, loitering within tent, hah, travelling for the purposes of committing a crime, malicious lingering…92

Pratchett met en scène un autre personnage focalisateur : l‟Enfant. On le retrouve surtout dans les romans initiatiques et selon David Langford, c‟est toujours le même enfant décliné de manières différentes93. Cet enfant est confronté à des décisions morales, souvent pour la première fois. Il apprend à choisir entre deux maux et entre deux biens. Il apprend à différencier le bien utopique du mal possible. L‟identité propre, le passage à l‟âge adulte, deviennent une question de choix et ce, au-delà de toutes considérations de morphologie, de classe sociale et de culture.

Nothing for miles, except what he had brought with him. This must have been how the prophets felt, when they went into the desert to find… whatever it was they found, and talk to… whoever they talked to. He heard Om, slightly peevish, say: "People've got to believe in something. Might as well be gods. What else is there?" Brutha laughed. "You know," he said, "I don't think I believe in anything any more." […] "Do you really think you'll get him back to the Citadel and they'll believe you?" said Om. "Brother Nhumrod always said I was very truthful," said Brutha. […] "Anyway, there isn't anything else I can do. I couldn't just leave him." "Yes you could," said Om. "To die in the desert?" "Yes. It's easy. Much easier than not leaving him to die in the desert." "No." "This is how they do things in Ethics, is it?" said Om sarcastically. "I don't know. It's how I'm doing it."94

Pratchett parvient également à nous transmettre son optimisme avec des personnages hermétiques. Face à Vimes on retrouve deux figures énigmatiques, opposées l‟une à

92 Terry Pratchett, Jingo, loc. cit. p. 368. T34, p. 165. 93 David Langford, Introduction, dans Terry Pratchett: Guilty of Litterature, loc. cit. p. 3-14. 94 Terry Pratchett, Small Gods, London, Corgi Books, 1993, p. 261-262. T35, p. 165.

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l‟autre : Carrot, qui représente le Bien à tout prix, et Vetinari, disciple du Mal nécessaire. Et malgré leurs perspectives différentes ils sont tous deux entièrement dédiés au bien-être de la population d‟Ankh-Morpock et du Discworld en général.

"Never build a dungeon you wouldn't be happy to spend the night in yourself," said the Patrician, laying out the food on the cloth. "The world would be a happier place if more people remembered that. […] Never trust any ruler who puts his faith in tunnels and bunkers and escape routes. The chances are that his heart isn't in the job"95.

Mais le plus hermétiques des personnages du Discworld est sans conteste La Mort. Un peu comme les Houyhnhnms de Swift, il offre une perspective distanciée incomparable, avec en surplus, la compassion d‟une puissance inéluctable96.

La fantaisie a longtemps été considérée par ses détracteurs comme une forme de fuite, un déni de la réalité. Ann Swinfen argumente au contraire que la fantaisie est une méthode pour appréhender le réel, qu‟elle permet de percevoir les illusions de notre quotidien97. Je pense qu‟en plus, elle peut aider à accepter le monde tel qu‟il est. Surtout accouplée à la satire, qui nous mène à réaliser que, quel que soit l‟univers dans lequel il se trouve, l‟homme est toujours confronté aux mêmes problèmes.

D‟ailleurs, les mondes imaginaires sont utilisés comme outil didactique depuis longtemps. Au XVIIe, alors que la raison était jugée capable de produire de la connaissance, on considérait qu‟ils aidaient à la pratique de l‟extrapolation, permettaient de penser l‟homme d‟une manière universelle et promouvaient la participation active du lecteur98.

À la rencontre des deux genres, Pratchett démontre que la fantaisie peut être allégorique, moqueuse et satirique et que, plutôt que d‟en être invalidée, cela la rapproche des préoccupations humaines99. Comme le dit Sophie Klimis : « Loin d‟être une régression infantile, l‟humour apparaît comme la mobilisation véritablement adulte de l‟imaginaire,

95 Terry Pratchett, Guards ! Guards !, loc. cit., p.334. T36, p. 166. 96 Pour voir La Mort en action allez à l‟annexe 2, extrait 3, p. 171. 97 Ann Swinfen, op. cit., p. 230. 98 Claire Cazavane, Un imaginaire de l‟ailleurs : le « voyage des mondes » dans les Entretiens de Fontenelle dans Autres Mondes, loc. cit. p. 55-65. 99 Pour la position contraire voir Don D. Elgin dans The Comedy of the Fantastic, plus spécifiquement p.181

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qui permet à l‟homme de faire face à l‟absurdité et l‟injustice de la vie100. » La vie, fantastique ou non, reste une source constante de frustrations, de tragédies ridicules et d‟absurdités comiques. Heureusement, la fantaisie peut apporter des solutions aux critiques de la satire.

De toute évidence le genre est mal compris. Une des grandes farces de la critique littéraire réside dans le fait que les Voyages de Gulliver, satire presque sauvage, aient été classés dans la littérature enfantine101.

Pour Bakhtine : « Le satiriste qui rit n‟est jamais gai. À la limite, il est morne et sombre. Mais le rire de Gogol est victorieux de tout. En fait, il crée comme une catharsis de la réalité102. » Je crois que le rire de Pratchett a ainsi triomphé, tant de la fantaisie que de la réalité.

100 Sophie Klimis, Europe Anonyme, dans Mythe et création 2. L’œuvre, l’imaginaire, la société, Chamberry, Université de Savoie, 2007, p.30 101 John M. Bullit, op. cit., p. 79. 102 Mikhaïl Bakhtine, op. cit., 488

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REFLETS DU MONDE : SATIRE DU RÉEL PAR L’IRRÉEL Pour le satiriste, la fantaisie offre des avantages et des inconvénients. À l‟intérieur des paramètres conçus par l‟auteur, elle offre une liberté totale, mais exige une vigilance accrue envers ces données103. D‟autre part, le genre affiche clairement, presque naïvement, ses préoccupations éthiques104. Le satiriste doit donc s'écarter du ton moralisateur pour naviguer à travers le rire, l‟émotion, l‟étonnement et la leçon.

Il dépend aussi de l'accoutumance au genre de ses lecteurs. Un habitué de la fantaisie sera plus en mesure de percevoir la rupture des conventions et de ce fait plus sensible à l‟humour. Par contre, il peut aussi s‟en offusquer, voir l‟intrusion de la comédie comme une dégradation. Le néophyte, lui, sera peut-être trop distrait par l‟étrangeté de l‟espace qui s‟ouvre devant lui pour saisir toutes les nuances de la satire.

La création d’un monde, ancrage et distanciation

Selon Margaret Atwood, la faculté d‟imaginer d‟autres mondes est en nous dès l‟enfance. La disparition d‟objets et de personnes, du point de vue limité du berceau, nous amène à concevoir un ailleurs. Une réflexion sur l‟au-delà suivra généralement le premier décès. Somme toute, ce talent serait une propriété essentielle de l‟imagination humaine105.

L‟élaboration de son monde est une étape importante pour l‟auteur de fantaisie. Le mien s‟est créé de manière spontanée, tout en écrivant. Pour d‟autres, les paramètres sont mis en place avant le récit. Quoi qu‟il en soit, l‟écrivain devra éventuellement se pencher sur sa création pour en définir les règles et les structures.

Un monde imaginaire, peu importe son degré d‟éloignement, possédera souvent une structure similaire au monde primaire et la relation de cause à effet sera cohérente; « même le monde le plus impossible, pour être tel, doit avoir pour fond ce qui est possible dans le monde réel106. » Prudence et retenue sont de mise à cette étape et tout dépend du but de l‟auteur. S‟il veut débattre de notions concrètes, offrir sa perspective de notre société et la

103 Ann Swinfen, In Defense of Fantasy. A study of the genre in English and American litterature since 1945, London, Routledge & Kegan, 1984, p. 76. 104 Anne Besson, La fantasy, Paris, Klincksieck (50 questions), 2007, p. 173. 105 Margaret Atwood, In Other Worlds. SF and the Human Imagination, Toronto, McClelland & Stewart, 2011, p. 22-23. 106 Umberto Eco, Six promenades dans les bois du roman et d’ailleurs, Paris, Grasset, 1996, p. 11.

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critiquer, il vaut mieux ne pas trop s‟écarter de la réalité primaire afin de rester compréhensible pour le lecteur.

D‟ailleurs, une part de travail incombe à ce dernier. La description d‟un monde fictif ne peut être qu‟incomplète; elle commence dans l‟imagination de l‟auteur, mais s‟achève dans celle du lecteur. Pour Tolkien, « ce qui arrive, c‟est que le faiseur d‟histoire prouve sa capacité de "sub-créateur". Il crée un monde où votre esprit peut pénétrer. À l‟intérieur, ce qu‟il dit est vrai107 ». Cette impression de réalité est importante pour toute œuvre de fiction, mais elle devient primordiale pour une œuvre touchant au surnaturel108.

Ce monde imaginaire sera donc un parasite du réel, mais de quelle façon? Sera-t-il complètement indépendant? Quelle en sera la mécanique?

À travers les siècles, beaucoup de fabulistes ont choisi le récit de voyage. Cyrano de Bergerac, libéré « de la masse des préjugés de notre monde, […] s‟envole, délivré, vers la lune et le soleil109. » C‟est la distance qui rend crédibles les bizarreries qu‟il rencontre. Dans la même veine, on peut citer les Voyages de Gulliver ou The Hitchhicker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Toujours, on quitte notre société et l‟exotisme justifie la différence. La présence des deux mondes accentue les contrastes.

L‟auteur peut aussi jouer avec la temporalité, option évidemment courante en science- fiction. En fantaisie, on aura plutôt affaire à des mondes passéistes (parfois cycliques) avec aucun, ou très peu de liens avec la réalité primaire. L‟univers de Tolkien est exemplaire : sa Terre du Milieu, qui pourtant fonctionne sensiblement comme notre monde, exprime plus que de la nostalgie, c‟est un rejet total de la modernité. D‟autre part, le décalage temporel peut parfois, comme en science-fiction, servir d‟explication : le Il était une fois des contes de fées par exemple.

Alice au Pays des merveilles et la physique quantique ont généré une troisième possibilité, celle des dimensions parallèles. Ici encore, le lien avec l‟univers primaire est possible, mais non obligatoire. Dans Les chroniques de Narnia de C.S. Lewis, les voyages

107 J. R. R. Tolkien, Tree and Leaf. Including the poem Mythopoeia, London, HarperCollins Publishers, 2001, p.37. MT 108 Stephen King, On writing. A Memoir of the Craft, New York, Scribner, 2000, p. 230. 109 Rose-Marie Carré, Cyrano de Bergerac. Voyages imaginaires à la recherche de la vérité humaine, Paris, Minard (Archives des lettres modernes), 1977, p. 11.

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d‟une dimension à l‟autre intensifient l‟aspect fabuleux. Certains mondes, généralement plus proches de la réalité comme celui de Renart, où seule une donnée (ici les animaux anthropomorphisés) est changée, sont entièrement indépendants.

Bien sûr, d‟autres sont plus difficiles à définir. Hogwarts, l‟école d‟Harry Potter, existe dans notre réalité mais en est séparé en même temps. Et comment définir le Discworld? Mélange d‟anciennes croyances de notre monde (jouant ainsi sur l‟aspect temporel) le Disque se situe dans une autre dimension, celle de l‟imaginaire. Par contre, l‟infini de l‟espace étant souvent évoqué, il pourrait aussi n‟être que très éloigné.

J‟ai choisi de situer mon roman dans une dimension parallèle, une Terre alternative qui se serait séparée de la nôtre il y a deux mille ans. Elle est physiquement semblable et il reste encore quelques points de liaison. Géographiquement, la seule différence est l‟existence de l‟Atlantide que j‟ai finalement décidé de ne pas situer. L‟aspect fission me permet d‟utiliser des toponymes antiques, pouvant être reconnus par le lecteur.

Mais tout monde imaginaire doit avoir ses particularités. Sur la lune de Cyrano, les hommes marchent à quatre pattes et la longueur du pénis compte plus que celle de l‟épée. Quelque part sur cette terre se cache des Géants paillards, des dragons et, avec plus de facilité, des Lilliputiens. La galaxie grouille de créatures étranges : l'une d'elles, possédant vingt-six bras, est unique pour avoir inventé le déodorant avant la roue. Parfois, les lapins portent des montres, les renards violent les louves et les castors reçoivent à souper. Un monde peut se cacher derrière une ruelle ou s‟afficher, fièrement, sur le dos d‟une tortue géante.

Mon univers se distingue par le principe de sa création : la présence, physique et indiscutable, des dieux mythologiques. Écœurés de l‟athéisme régnant à l‟aube de l‟ère chrétienne, ils ont déchiré la réalité et créé la nouvelle dimension, tout en se promettant, cette fois-ci, de rester proches de leurs fidèles. On y trouve aussi plusieurs races légendaires, dues aux mutations génétiques découlant des accouplements entre dieux et humains. La magie y est monnaie courante et, pour accentuer l‟effet de dislocation, j‟ai ajouté des transformations pragmatiques comme la téléportation et les tapis volants.

À cette étape, j‟ai compris que l‟essentiel est d‟encourager l‟adhésion et la compréhension du lecteur, tout en gardant l‟impression d‟étrangeté. Le processus semblait

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d‟abord se faire naturellement, mais il a par la suite nécessité un long travail d‟harmonisation.

Utilisation de mythes – écueils de la familiarité

Mon roman Incompetent Gods est né d‟une anecdote farfelue : pour distraire les enfants d‟une copine qui cherchait ses clés, j‟ai inventé le personnage de Ba‟al, ancienne divinité titulaire de Carthage recyclé en lare des objets perdus après la destruction de sa ville par les romains. Nous avons même « sacrifié » quelques billets de Monopoly, question d‟aider les recherches de maman. Le germe de Dieux Inc., immense multinationale gérant le monde et employant des divinités réduites et démotivées, était semé. L‟utilisation de mythologies existantes allait m‟inspirer, mais également m‟embarrasser, car l‟utilisation de symboles provoque immédiatement un hors-texte. L‟écrivain doit y rejoindre le lecteur, créer une illusion mémorielle. En fantaisie satirique, c‟est dans cet espace de connivence que se cachent les plus beaux moments de lecture.

Le mythe fonctionne à prime abord comme économie narrative. Le nom de Jupiter remorque une multitude d‟informations; il est à la fois résumé, commentaire et leçon. Stephen King considère que cette richesse significative du symbolisme en fait carrément une autre forme de langage110. En fantaisie, l‟avantage se dédouble : « les mythes permettent de renvoyer le lecteur [d‟un] univers nouveau à quelque chose de connu111. »

Mais l‟arme est à double tranchant, nous explique Eco : « … le lecteur aborde le texte à partir d‟une perspective idéologique personnelle qui est partie intégrante de son encyclopédie112. » À l‟instar des lecteurs qui s‟offusquent de la dégradation de leur fantaisie par l‟humour, j‟en ai connu qui étaient incapables d‟accepter ma dévalorisation des dieux.

Le mythe est plus qu‟un simple récit, il a de l‟importance; on y retrouve les clés d‟une civilisation113. L‟auteur est à la merci du corpus existant, il doit respecter certaines données fondamentales. En même temps, l‟écrivain qui réactualise un mythe doit faire plus qu‟en livrer sa propre lecture. Il faut dépasser la simple adaptation. En privilégiant et télescopant

110 Stephen King, op. cit., p. 200. 111 Dominique Viart, Mythes et imaginaire des signes : Butor, Robbe-Grillet, Simon, dans Mythe et création. Théorie, figures, Bruxelles, Facultés universitaires Saint-Louis, 2005, p. 277. 112 Umberto Eco, Lector in fabula ou la coopération interprétative dans les textes narratifs, Paris, Grasset, 1985, p. 109. 113 Margaret Atwood, op. cit., p. 49.

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des caractéristiques, il doit concevoir un personnage qui vit et respire. Idéalement, ce travail presqu‟alchimique aboutira à la création d‟un mythe nouveau.

En Pratchett, j‟estime avoir trouvé un virtuose. Son Discworld est un amalgame de mutations mythologiques vues d‟un autre angle. Dans Small Gods, où il détourne l‟histoire de Jésus, le message reste reconnaissable tout en acquérant un nouvel éclat. Surtout, il ne fait jamais plus que des allusions; nul n‟est dépendant d‟une compétence culturelle particulière pour apprécier ses romans.

Et voilà le point essentiel : l‟importance de ne pas rebuter le lecteur. Chacun possède un bagage culturel différent. Si le récit et l‟humour d‟un texte dépendent exclusivement de celui de l‟auteur, la communication se rompt et il ne résulte qu‟un amas d‟énigmes fastidieuses.

Rire de l’autre, rire de soi

Cependant, le lecteur de fantaisie satirique a plus à faire que de comprendre l‟histoire et d‟en rire. Il doit être interpellé par les situations, capable de percevoir les comparatifs et les analogons avec le réel.

L‟auteur qui veut offrir sa vision de notre société et sa philosophie personnelle utilise l‟allégorie pour dessiner une image transcendante de la réalité114. Son univers sera donc un miroir, parfois idéalisant, parfois dégradant. En transposant des événements dans un contexte au fonctionnement différent, la fantaisie satirique enseigne au moyen d‟illusion et de séduction, en cheminant de travers sur des voies détournées115.

Sur le Discworld, une princesse se reconnaît par sa capacité de faire pipi à travers douze matelas et les cosmochéloniens se disputent sur les causes de l‟origine de l‟univers : serait-ce la marche stable ou la Grande Orgie (the Big Bang)? Dans mon monde, les environnementalistes s‟opposent aux ordinateurs parce qu‟ils s‟envolent régulièrement par les fenêtres, les avocats doivent déposer leur âme en garantie auprès de Satan en passant le barreau et, chez Dieux Inc., les vendredis décontracts sont devenus les journées an- anthropomorphiques.

114 Ann Swinfen, op. cit., p. 92 et 121. 115 Jean R. Scheidegger, Le Roman de Renart ou le texte de la dérision, Genève, Librairie Droz (Publications romanes et françaises), 1989, p. 391.

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Un satiriste peut jouer avec les bonnes intentions et la logique absurde. La fantaisie donne l‟occasion de s‟amuser avec le vocabulaire en tordant les mots, en les réinventant (« ombudsdieu », par exemple). Un personnage cynique ou maître du jeu est aussi un outil précieux. En plus d‟aider à procurer au lecteur des sensations de correspondance et d‟empathie, ils permettent à l‟auteur de proposer des solutions.

D‟autre part, pour réussir une satire, un écrivain doit demeurer détaché, objectif. Ou au moins le prétendre avec succès116. Je crois que c‟est en partie à cause de cela que j‟écris en anglais dans ce genre; le français génère chez moi beaucoup d‟émotivité. Les choses dénoncées doivent sembler le faire d‟elles mêmes : « … le piège consiste à s‟effacer, à les laisser elles-mêmes afficher leur ridicule117. »

Réflexion sur mon processus de création

Il est difficile de se souvenir de la gestation d‟un récit. Le roman me semble être une créature qui prend vie presqu‟à l‟insu de son géniteur; tellement de facteurs, souvent inconscients, affectent ce qui atterrit sur la page blanche. En cela, je dois une fière chandelle aux essais de Margaret Atwood, Umberto Eco et Stephen King. Ils m‟ont permis de reconnaître et revivre les étapes de mon cheminement.

Tout commence par l‟inspiration, fugace et insaisissable. Pour comprendre son origine, il faut remonter loin dans le temps.

J‟ai été initiée à la fantaisie à l‟adolescence, suite à la découverte de la bibliothèque abandonnée de ma mère, morte quelques années auparavant. Maman, Silésienne d‟origine, ne lisait que l‟allemand et l‟anglais. Ce n‟est donc qu‟après plusieurs semestres à l‟école anglophone que ces étagères poussiéreuses m‟ont interpellée. J‟y ai découvert Tolkien, Dune et le Pays des Merveilles. L‟enchantement qui m‟a enveloppée à ce moment perdure encore aujourd‟hui.

La fantaisie a donc toujours été pour moi une littérature anglophone et, malgré Alice, longtemps sérieuse. Plus tard, Douglas Adams et son Hitchhicker’s Guide to the Galaxy

116 John M. Bullit, Jonathan Swift and the Anatomy of Satire, Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1966, p. 38. 117 Christian Meurillon, Le Prométhée illuminé de Cyrano de Bergerac, dans Mythe et création. Théorie, figures, loc. cit., p. 182.

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m‟a montré à quel point on pouvait s‟y amuser. L‟envie d‟écrire est venue avec Pratchett et le bonheur qu‟a provoqué son humour critique, sérieux et constructif.

Par ailleurs, ma fascination pour la mythologie, ma licence en histoire et mes mineures en archéologie et en histoire des religions ne sont certes pas étrangères au contexte de mon roman. Et enfin, mes préoccupations politiques transparaissent à plusieurs endroits.

Pendant deux ans, j‟ai écrit. Insatisfaite de la qualité du résultat, je me suis inscrite dans le programme de création littéraire. On m‟a dit qu‟il faudrait tout jeter, tout réécrire.

J‟étais consternée. Je ne voulais pas y croire. Lorsque je suis revenue à mes romans, après plusieurs cours, j‟ai dû me rendre à l‟évidence. Mon écriture était celle d‟une dilettante : maladroite et floue. J‟ai recommencé… et recommencé encore.

C‟est à force de pratique qu‟on arrive à donner une qualité à son langage, qualité qui permet ensuite d‟en dégager l‟intention, le message. Le cas de Pratchett l‟illustre parfaitement : ses premières aventures dans le Discworld sont un peu gauches, sa prose et sa satire n‟atteignent leur apogée qu‟après sept ou huit livres. Ce qui prouve l‟importance de connaître et de maîtriser les règles de base. Ne serait-ce que pour savoir quand et comment les briser.

À travers cette expérience, j‟ai aussi découvert mon inconscient. Et cela a suscité plein de questions. Pourquoi Goblin (qui soudain me rappelle étrangement un cousin par son refus de passer outre ses traumatismes d‟enfance) possède-t-il une double personnalité? Et, fait encore plus rare, deux personnalités maléfiques? Pourquoi ai-je dégradé les dieux? Je suis catholique pratiquante et je n‟ai même pas épargné Dieu. Ce qui m‟inquiète un peu…

N‟allons pas plus loin, mon roman contient assez d‟intentions claires. Si je désirais d‟abord faire rire, je voulais aussi passer des messages. Comme le dit Douglas Adams : « … ce que je trouve drôle sera affecté par ce à quoi je pense, par ce qui me tracasse. On ne part peut-être pas avec un but précis, mais [les choses qui nous préoccupent] trouvent leur chemin dans nos écrits.118 »

118 Paroles rapportées par Neil Gaiman, Don’t Panic. Douglas Adams and the Hitchhicker’s Guide to the Galaxy, 5e édition, London, Titan Books, 2009, p. 32.

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J‟avais besoin de dénoncer les bailouts accordés pendant la crise et les PDG qui se sont déplacés en jet privé pour les quémander; je voulais exprimer mon désarroi face à l‟obsession occidentale pour la démocratie à tout prix et fabuler sur notre dépendance à la technologie.

Finalement, ai-je humanisé les dieux? ou ai-je déifié des caractéristiques humaines? En créant ce monde où la religion n‟est plus une croyance mais un fait, ai-je semé les graines d‟une utopie ou d‟une dystopie? Peut-être n‟ai-je voulu qu‟expérimenter : suivre le cheminement d‟une variable jusqu‟à la modernité et spéculer sur le résultat.

Plonger ainsi dans le merveilleux m‟a longtemps donné le vertige. J‟étais la trapéziste cheminant entre une liberté absolue et des contraintes mal perçues. La fantaisie permet beaucoup de choses mais, pour certains, elle manquera toujours de sérieux. Une satire dans ce genre sera donc immensément dépendante du consentement et de la compréhension du lecteur. En tant qu‟auteur, je ne dois jamais oublier de me mettre à sa place et de m‟assurer de la cohésion des mondes que je crée. Idéalement, j‟arriverai ainsi à trouver cet équilibre entre l‟empathie et la critique, entre l‟émotion et la raison, entre le rire et la leçon.

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CONCLUSION En conclusion, les littératures du merveilleux sont capables d‟offrir une vision du monde plus vraie que la réalité. Elles simplifient le réel. En le transposant dans un autre contexte elles en révèlent les illusions tout en donnant des pistes de solutions. La capacité que possède la fantaisie d‟accentuer les contrastes en fait presque un outil didactique (d‟où possiblement sa popularité en littérature jeunesse). Dans cette perspective, sa combinaison avec la satire est naturelle et il n‟est pas surprenant que les origines de cet hybride se perdent dans la nuit des temps.

Créer un monde, une société, est une expérience de pensée qui fait travailler l‟imagination conceptuelle. Il faut s‟appliquer à l‟élaboration des rouages pour être cohérent. Il faut arriver à comprendre l‟Autre. Le rire ancre cet imaginaire dans le concret et la satire donne une nuance à la morale parfois trop simpliste de la fantaisie. En retour, celle-ci permet aux critiques de revenir à un message plus fondamental.

Échange profitable, et pourtant très mal vu de nos jours. Heureusement, l‟œuvre de Pratchett a redoré le blason terni de cette fusion. Il a brisé toutes les règles, même l‟interdiction de rire de la magie de Tolkien. C‟est peut-être la raison de son succès.

En jouant avec les stéréotypes et la géographie, il a réussi à créer un effet de reconnaissance entre le merveilleux et le réel. Les situations qu‟il nous présente semblent toujours un brin familières. Toutefois, il nous réserve souvent des surprises, comme dans Jingo, où l‟on devient incapable de distinguer les bons (ou le nous), des autres.

Il m‟a montré que pour rire d‟une chose en en montrant une autre, il suffisait de télescoper des caractéristiques ou de changer une variable. Qu‟un déjà-vu en fantaisie pouvait se créer avec l‟insertion d‟une simple banalité réaliste, comme la légende d‟une tasse. Qu‟on pouvait tout simplement laisser parler les situations d‟elles-mêmes, que la fantaisie n‟est finalement qu‟une question de décor.

Il réussit à se moquer d‟Hitler en le transformant en petit caniche blanc qui pète en discourant. Il nous montre le quotidien de La Mort et ce n‟est que plus tard qu‟on s‟aperçoit qu‟on a reçu une éducation exhaustive sur les services essentiels et publics, le travail et l‟État, ainsi qu‟une bonne leçon de compassion.

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Sa logique dépasse l‟absurdité pour nous plonger dans les tréfonds de la mentalité humaine. Pratchett est un humaniste, sentimental, généreux et inclusif. Si sa parodie de la société est pointue, elle est aussi bénigne et sans animosité. Il nous a donné un monde qui, en plus de refléter le nôtre d‟une manière singulièrement fidèle, nous permet d‟espérer qu‟un jour notre réalité rejoindra la sienne.

Grâce à lui, j‟ai compris que les éléments provenant de l‟imaginaire social (mythes, symboles et clichés) peuvent servir à provoquer une illusion mémorielle chez le lecteur, mais qu‟il faut par la suite transformer cela en quelque chose de plus significatif pour le toucher.

Car en bout de course, toute entreprise romanesque a un but, une finalité : être lue. Le lecteur doit pouvoir croire, s‟immerger, comprendre. D‟où la nécessité de savoir prendre sa place et l‟importance d‟une certaine technique. Cela n‟empêche pas d‟y mettre son âme.

Et la révélation m‟est venue : la fantaisie n‟a nul besoin d‟être prise dans le carcan de son genre. Je cite Pratchett, dans l‟introduction de la réédition de son premier roman : « Je croyais que la fantaisie était essentiellement à propos de batailles et de rois. Aujourd‟hui, je réalise que les vrais soucis de la fantaisie devraient être de ne pas avoir de batailles et de pouvoir se passer de rois.119 »

La fantaisie est une forme libre, si libre qu‟elle peut en devenir étourdissante. Mais parfois, dans ce miroir infini où tout est possible, le reflet offert par la satire peut être difficile à accepter.

119 Terry Pratchett, The Carpet People, London, Corgi Books, 2004, p. 7. MT

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Bibliographie

CORPUS À L’ÉTUDE

PRATCHETT, Terry, The Discworld Series, London, Gollancz/Corgi (and Doubleday in the United States), from 1983-2012.

PRATCHETT, Terry, The Colour of Magic, London, Corgi Books, 1985, 287 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, The Light Fantastic, London, Corgi Books, 1986.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Sourcery, London, Corgi Books, 1989, 270 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Wyrd Sisters, London, Corgi Books, 1989, 332 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Guards ! Guards !, London, Corgi Books, 1990, 412 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Moving Pictures, London, Corgi Books, 1991, 333 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Small Gods, London, Corgi Books, 1993, 381 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Lords and Ladies, London, Corgi Books, 1993, 382 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Men at Arms, London, Corgi Books, 1994, 381 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Interesting Times, London, Corgi Books, 1995, 351 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Hogfather, London, Corgi Books, 1997, 445 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Feet of Clay, London, Corgi Books, 1997, 411 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Jingo, London, Corgi Books, 1998, 414 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, The Last Continent, London, Corgi Books, 1999, 412 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Carpe Jugulum, London, Corgi Books, 1999, 425 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, Faust Eric, London, Corgi Books, 2000, 155 p.

PRATCHETT, Terry, The Fifth Elephant, London, Corgi Books, 2000, 460 p.

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PRATCHETT, Terry, The Carpet People, London, Corgi Books, 2004, 250 p.

CORPUS THÉORIQUE

ATWOOD, Margaret, Negotiating with the Dead, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2002, 219 p.

ATWOOD, Margaret, In Other Worlds. SF and the Human Imagination, Toronto, McClelland & Stewart, 2011, 255 p.

BAKHTINE, Mikhaïl, Esthétique et théorie du roman, Paris, Gallimard, 1978, 488 p.

BERGSON, Henri, Le rire. Essai sur la signification du comique, Paris, Presses universitaires de France, 1981, 157 p.

BESSON, Anne, La fantasy, Paris, Klincksieck (50 questions), 2007, 205 p.

BESSON, Anne [dir.], Autres Mondes, Arras, Presses de l‟Université d‟Artois (Cahiers Robinson), 2005, 211 p.

BULLIT, John M., Jonathan Swift and the Anatomy of Satire, Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1966, 214 p.

BUTLER, Andrew, Edward JAMES et Farah MENDLESOHN [Ed.], Terry Pratchett: Guilty of Litterature. 2nd Edition, Baltimore, Old Earth Books, 2004, 343 p.

CAREY, DANIEL et François BOULAIRE [dir.], Les voyages de Gulliver. Mondes lointains ou mondes proches, Caen, Presses universitaires de Caen, 2002, 173 p.

CARRÉ, Rose-Marie, Cyrano de Bergerac. Voyages imaginaires à la recherche de la vérité humaine, Paris, Minard (Archives des lettres modernes), 1977, 67 p.

COLSON, Raphaël et André-François RUAUD, Science-fiction. Une littérature du réel, Paris, Klincksieck (50 questions), 2006, 190 p.

COUEGNAS, David, Introduction à la paralittérature, Paris, Seuil, 1992, 201 p.

DEMERSON, Guy [dir.], Humanisme et facétie. Quinze études sur Rabelais, Orléans, Paradigme, 1994, 360 p.

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ECO, Umberto, Lector in fabula ou la coopération interprétative dans les textes narratifs, Paris, Grasset, 1985, 315 p.

ECO, Umberto, Six promenades dans les bois du roman et d’ailleurs, Paris, Grasset, 1996, 190 p.

ECO, Umberto, Comment voyager avec un saumon. Nouveaux pastiches et postiches, Paris, Grasset, 1997, 270 p.

ELGIN, Don D., The Comedy of the Fantastic, Westport, Greenwood Press, 1985, 204 p.

GENETTE, Gérard, Palimpsestes. La littérature au second degré, Paris, Éditions du Seuil, 1982, 453 p.

GAIMAN, Neil, Don’t Panic. Douglas Adams and the Hitchhicker’s Guide to the Galaxy, 5e édition, London, Titan Books, 2009, 275 p.

FAIVRE D‟ARCIER, Éléonore, Jean-Pol MADOU et Laurent VAN EYNDE [dir.], Mythe et création. Théorie, figures, Bruxelles, Facultés universitaires Saint-Louis, 2005, 267 p.

HASSLER, Donald M., Comic Tones in Science Fiction. The Art of Compromise with Nature, Westport CO, Greenwood Press, 1982, 143 p.

KING, Stephen, On writing. A Memoir of the Craft, New York, Scribner, 2000, 288 p.

ORWELL, Georges, Animal Farm, London, Secker and Warburg, 1945.

SAINT-GELAIS, Richard, L’empire du pseudo. Modernités de la science-fiction, Québec, Les Éditions Nota bene (Littératures), 1999, 399 p.

SANTI, Sylvain, Jean-Pol MADOU et Laurent VAN EYNDE [dir.], Mythe et création 2. L’œuvre, l’imaginaire, la société, Chamberry, Université de Savoie, 2007, 239 p.

SWINFEN, Ann, In Defense of Fantasy. A study of the genre in English and American litterature since 1945, London, Routledge & Kegan, 1984, 248 p.

SCHEIDEGGER, Jean R., Le Roman de Renart ou le texte de la dérision, Genève, Librairie Droz (Publications romanes et françaises), 1989, 466 p.

TOLKIEN, J.R.R., Tree and Leaf. Including the poem Mythopoeia, London, HarperCollins Publishers, 2001, 150 p.

VAN GORP, Hendrick, Dirk DELABATISTA et Lieven D‟HULST, et al., Dictionnaire des termes littéraires, Paris, Champion Classique, 2005, 533 p.

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ANNEXE 1

TRADUCTIONS

Pratchett est traduit en français chez les maisons d‟édition de l‟Atalante et Pocket. Par contre, ils sont encore difficiles à se procurer au Québec. Voici pourquoi j‟ai plutôt choisi de traduire les extraits présentés dans l‟essai Effets de Miroirs. Les références sont citées dans le corps du texte.

1. À travers les profondeurs insondables de l‟espace, nage A‟Tuin, la tortue astrale, avec sur son dos les quatre éléphants qui portent sur leurs épaules le poids du Discworld. Un petit soleil et une lune minuscule leur tournent autour […]. Et comme nulle part ailleurs, il est parfois nécessaire qu‟un éléphant doive redresser une patte pour laisser passer le soleil.

2. [À l‟Université], on a besoin du professeur d‟Architecture Mystérieuse et d‟Origami Cartographique pour trouver l‟Insigne professeur de Géographie Cruelle et Exceptionnelle…

3. Ce livre ne contient pas de carte. Sentez-vous libre d‟en dessiner une.

4. Cela fait longtemps que les poètes ont arrêté de décrire la ville. Aujourd‟hui, les plus fins d‟entre eux tentent de l‟excuser. Ils disent : Oui, en effet, elle est sale, elle est surpeuplée. Peut-être qu‟elle ressemble à l‟enfer si on y avait éteint les feux puis on y avait logé un troupeau de vaches incontinentes pour un an. Mais il faut admettre qu‟elle est dynamique, palpitante et pleine de vie.

5. Le dirigeant séculier de la grande cité d‟Ankh-Morpock, assis dans son fauteuil situé au bas des marches menant au trône, parcourait les rapports d‟intelligence à la recherche du moindre signe d‟intelligence. […] Bien sûr, il arrivait parfois qu‟il ait à faire torturer des gens à mort, mais cela était considéré comme parfaitement acceptable de la part d‟un dirigeant civique et généralement approuvé par une grande majorité de la population. Les

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citoyens d‟Ankh ont une mentalité pratique, et pour eux, le fait que le Patricien ait interdit toute forme de théâtre de rue ainsi que les mimes le rachetait de toute autre faute. Il n‟administrait pas un régime de terreur, seulement une diète légère.

6. Le premier réflexe des sorciers, lorsque confrontés à un danger, est de discuter de la sorte de danger qu‟il s‟agit. Quand enfin tous ceux impliqués ont compris, ou bien le danger est devenu si immédiat qu‟un geste doit être posé immédiatement sous peine de mort instantanée, ou bien ennuyé, il est parti de lui-même. Même le danger a son honneur.

7. Il y a quelque temps, le Libraire […] a été transformé en orang-outang suite à une explosion magique dans la librairie. Depuis, il résiste à toutes tentatives de le ramener à sa forme humaine. Il aime ses longs bras, ses orteils souples et d‟avoir le droit de se gratter en public. Mais, plus que tout, il aime le fait que tous les grands problèmes existentiels se sont soudain transformés en un vague intérêt sur la provenance de sa prochaine banane. Ce n‟est pas qu‟il est inconscient de la noblesse et du désespoir inhérents à la condition humaine, seulement il n‟en a rien à cirer.

8.  On parle à vous dans langage de ville céleste d‟Ankh-More-Pork. Langage de liberté et progrès. Langage de Un Homme, Un Vote !  Oui, répondit Rincewind. L‟image du Patricien d‟Ankh-Morpock lui revint à l‟esprit. Un homme, un vote. Oui.  Je l‟ai rencontré. Il possède bel et bien le vote.

9. Les habitants de Lancre n‟avaient jamais considéré vivre dans autre chose qu‟une monarchie. Le système existait depuis des millénaires et il fonctionnait. Mais ils avaient aussi appris qu‟il n‟était pas nécessaire de trop porter attention à ce que le roi disait, parce qu‟il serait remplacé tôt ou tard par un autre roi qui voudrait certainement autre chose et que, dans ce cas, ils se seraient donné du trouble pour rien. Ils considéraient donc que son travail était de résider dans le palais, se pratiquer aux gestes de mains, faire face du bon côté sur les pièces de monnaie et de les laisser s‟occuper du labourage, des

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semences, des cultures et de la cueillette. C‟était, à leur avis, un contrat social : ils faisaient ce qu‟ils voulaient, avec la bénédiction du roi.

10.  Les enfants sont notre espoir pour le futur. IL N‟Y A PAS D‟ESPOIR POUR LE FUTUR, dit La Mort.  Que peut-on espérer, alors ? MOI  À part vous, je veux dire. La Mort le regarda, confus. PARDON ? […]  Je veux dire, dit Ipsilore amèrement, qu‟y a-t-il dans ce monde qui donne valeur à la vie ? La Mort prit un instant de réflexion. LES CHATS, dit-il finalement. LES CHATS SONT CHOUETTES.

11.  Bon, j‟ai compris, dit Susan. Je ne suis pas stupide. Tu dis que les humains ont besoin de fantaisie pour rendre la vie endurable. VRAIMENT ? COMME SI C‟ÉTAIT UNE PETITE PILULE ROSE ? NON. LES HUMAINS ONT BESOIN DE FANTAISIE POUR ÊTRE HUMAINS. POUR ÊTRE À L‟ENDROIT OÙ L‟ANGE DÉCHU RENCONTRE LE SINGE PENSANT.  Les fées des dents ? Le Père Rotideporc ? Les petits OUI, POUR PRATIQUER. VOUS DEVEZ APPRENDRE À CROIRE AUX PETITS MENSONGES.  Pour être capable de croire les gros ? OUI. LA JUSTICE. LA MERCI. LE DEVOIR. CE GENRE DE TRUC.

12. Wonse sourit sans joie.  J‟ai dit, Vimes, qu‟un de vos hommes a arrêté le chef de la guilde des voleurs […]. Il l‟a attaché et laissé devant le palais. Ça a fait tout un drame, j‟en ai peur. Il y avait une note… Ah, la voilà : « Cet homme est accusé de conspiration afin de commettre un

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crime, selon la section 14 (iii) de la Loi générale des félonies, 1678, par moi, Carrot Ironfoundersson. » […]  Vous avez parfaitement raison, monsieur le secrétaire, dit [Vimes]. Je vais m‟assurer qu‟il apprenne qu‟arrêter des voleurs est contre la loi.

13. Pour comprendre pourquoi les nains et les trolls ne s‟aiment pas, il faut reculer loin dans le temps. Ils s‟entendent comme de la craie et du fromage. Vraiment comme de la craie et du fromage. L‟un est organique (et sent un peu le fromage), l‟autre ne l‟est pas. Les nains gagnent leur vie en minant des minéraux précieux dans le roc et les trolls, espèce à base de silicone, sont essentiellement des roches avec des minéraux précieux à l‟intérieur. Dans leur état naturel, ils sont nocturnes et dorment le jour. Ce qui n‟est pas une bonne idée quand il y a des nains dans les environs. Les nains eux, haïssent les trolls parce que, après avoir découvert une veine minérale intéressante, ce n‟est pas agréable de voir la roche se dresser soudainement et vous arracher le bras parce que vous lui avez enfoncé une pioche dans l‟oreille.

14. Il était conscient qu‟un homme sage, pour reprendre les mots de Carrot, se devait de respecter les coutumes des autres. Mais Vimes trouvait cela très difficile. Pour commencer, il y avait des gens dans le monde dont les coutumes consistaient de s‟étriper l‟un l‟autre comme des palourdes, ce qui, pour Vimes, ne commandait en aucune façon le respect.

15. Les inquisiteurs prenaient une pause-café deux fois par jour. Leurs tasses, qu‟ils avaient apportées de la maison, étaient regroupées autour de la bouilloire sur le foyer de la fournaise principale, qui incidemment chauffait les fers et les couteaux. Elles portaient des légendes telles Un Cadeau de la Grotte Sacrée d’Ossory, ou Au meilleur Papa du Monde. La plupart étaient ébréchées et il n‟y en avait pas deux pareilles. Et tout ça signifiait une chose : qu‟il n‟y a aucun excès commis par un dangereux psychopathe qui ne peut être reproduit par un homme normal, gentil père de famille, qui rentre au travail à tous les matins et fait son boulot.

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16.  Nous avons le seul libraire qui peut vous arracher le bras avec son pied. Les gens respectent cela. En fait, l‟autre jour le chef de la guilde des voleurs m‟a demandé si on pouvait transformer leur libraire en primate. Sans compter qu‟il est le seul parmi vous fainéants à rester éveillé plus qu‟une heure par jour.

17. Lavaleolus soupira.  Ça doit être eux, dit-il en se tournant vers Elenor. Notre bande – en fait, ma bande – va incendier la ville. Ça sonne très héroïque, c‟est tout à fait dans leurs cordes. Vous devriez venir avec nous. Amenez les enfants. Faites-en une petite sortie en famille, quoi. Eric tira l‟oreille de Rincewind vers lui.  C‟est une blague ? Ce n‟est pas vraiment la belle Elenor ?  C‟est toujours la même histoire avec ces femmes au sang chaud, dit Rincewind. Elles se laissent aller dans la trentaine.  C‟est à cause des pâtes, dit le sergent.  Mais j‟ai lu qu‟elle était la plus belle  Ah, évidemment, dit le sergent, si on lit  C‟est ce qu‟on appelle la nécessité dramatique, dit Rincewind rapidement. Personne ne s‟intéresse à une guerre causée par une femme plutôt plaisante et jolie sous la bonne lumière, comprends-tu ? Éric en pleurait presque.  Mais ça disait que son visage avait largué un millier de bateaux  C‟est ce qu‟on appelle une métaphore, dit Rincewind.  Un mensonge, expliqua le sergent avec gentillesse.

18. [Rincewind], maussade, regarda le sol. Il aimait beaucoup le job de Gardien de buffle. Ça semblait presqu‟aussi chouette que la profession de Naufragé. Il désirait tant ce genre de vie où on pouvait réellement se concentrer sur la consistance de la boue à ses pieds et créer des images dans les nuages. Le genre de vie qui permettait au cerveau de se reposer et d‟essayer de deviner dans combien de temps le buffle enrichirait à nouveau le sol.

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Mais ce boulot était probablement assez difficile sans que des bien-pensants décident de l‟améliorer… Il avait envie de leur dire : comment pouvez-vous être si gentils mais si stupides ? La meilleure chose que vous pouvez faire pour les paysans c‟est leur foutre la paix. Laissez- les faire ce qu‟ils ont à faire. Quand des gens qui savent lire et écrire se battent au nom des illettrés, ça ne donne qu‟une différente sorte d‟imbécillité. Si vous voulez les aider, bâtissez une grande bibliothèque et laissez la porte ouverte.

19.  Mais sûrement le but… Je veux dire : ne serait-ce pas intéressant si tout cela aboutissait à une créature qui se mettait à réfléchir à propos de l‟univers ?  Ça va pas, non ? dit le dieu avec agacement. Je ne veux surtout pas que quelqu‟un se mette à fouiller là-dedans ! Il y a assez de rapiéçages et de mailles sans qu‟un petit futé vienne en chercher plus, je t‟assure. Non, les dieux du continent ont toujours bien compris ça. L‟intelligence, c‟est comme les pattes : trop, on s‟enfarge dedans…

20.  Hé, mais c‟est Reg Shoe, ça ! Un Zombie ! Il perd des morceaux sans arrêt !  Un homme très important dans la communauté des morts-vivants, Sire, dit Carrot.  Pourquoi est-il devenu policier ?  Il est venu la semaine dernière se plaindre que nous harcelions un croque-mitaine, Sire. Il était très, hem, véhément, Sire. Alors je l‟ai convaincu que nous avions besoin de son expertise et il s‟est enrôlé, Sire.  Avons-nous réglé le problème des plaintes ?  Non, Sire, elles ont doublées. Et elles viennent toutes de morts-vivants et elles sont toutes à propos de M. Shoe. Étrange, non ? Vimes jeta un regard furtif à son capitaine.  Il en est très peiné, Sire. Il dit que les morts-vivants ne comprennent tout simplement pas combien il est difficile de policer une société multi-vitale, Sire. Bons dieux, se dit Vimes, c‟est ce que j‟aurais fait. Mais je l‟aurais fait parce que je suis un salaud. Carrot est une bonne personne, tellement qu‟il a presque reçu des médailles. Non, il ne peut pas avoir fait exprès…

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21. Elle avait entendu que cela déprimait le roi Verence, qui tentait d‟apprendre le métier de roi avec des livres. Ses plans pour une meilleure irrigation et pour une modernisation de l‟agriculture étaient chaudement applaudis par les habitants de Lancre, qui ensuite n‟y portaient plus attention. Pas plus qu‟ils ne se préoccupaient des ses projets de salubrité publique (tout simplement d‟en instaurer), car pour un Lancastrien, l‟hygiène de luxe c‟était un bon chemin pour se rendre aux sanitaires et un catalogue avec des pages très douces. Ils avaient donné leur accord à l‟instauration de la Société pour l‟Amélioration de la Condition Humaine, mais puisqu‟elle ne consistait que de Shawn Ogg (quand il avait un peu de temps le jeudi après-midi), l‟humanité ne risquait pas de souffrir d‟améliorations trop brusques.

22. Et le sergent Colon réalisa de nouveau le secret de la bravoure. C‟était en fait une sorte de super couardise : la certitude que, bien que la mort vous guette si vous avancez, elle sera un pique-nique comparé au calvaire qui vous attend si vous reculez.

23. L‟apparence du caporal Nobbs pouvait être résumée ainsi : une des lois mineures de l‟univers narratif est que tout homme à l‟allure plutôt moche qui doit, pour une raison ou une autre, se déguiser en femme, deviendra aussitôt immensément attirant pour d‟autres hommes, par ailleurs totalement sains d‟esprit, avec comme résultat une foule de quiproquos comiques. Ici, les lois se battaient contre le fait du caporal Nobby Nobbs. Elles abandonnèrent.

24. Le Comité pour l‟Égalité des Grandeurs s‟y était opposé mais les choses s‟étaient quelque peu embourbées parce que, premièrement, la plupart des membres du comité étaient humains (les nains n‟ont pas le temps de se préoccuper de ce genre de chose), et de plus, leur cause pivotait autour du fait que M. Stronginthearm, né Smith, était trop grand. Discrimination clairement grandiste et donc techniquement illégale selon les propres règles du comité.

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25. Les nains avaient des dieux. Ce n‟est pas qu‟ils étaient particulièrement religieux, mais dans un monde où les poutres de soutènement pouvaient craquer sans crier gare et les poches de grisou exploser soudainement, ils avaient ressenti le besoin d‟avoir des dieux comme une sorte d‟équivalent surnaturel à un casque dur. Sans compter que c‟est agréable de pouvoir blasphémer quand on écrase son pouce avec un marteau de huit livres. Ça prend un athée sacrément convaincu pour sauter de haut en bas avec sa main dans l‟aisselle en criant : « Oh, fluctuations-aléatoires-dans-le-continuum-de-l‟espace- temps ! » ou « Aaaargh, béquille-de-concept-primitif-et-démodé! »

26. Vimes avait déjà discuté avec Carrot du concept de « démocratie ». Il avait été plutôt intrigué par l‟idée de donner le vote à tout le monde avant de se rendre compte que si lui, Vimes, aurait un vote, il n‟y avait aucun moyen d‟empêcher Nobby Nobbs d‟en avoir un aussi. Il avait tout suite vu la faille.

27.  Je crois que vous avez autant de difficultés dans la vie parce que vous pensez qu‟il y a des bons et des méchants, dit [Vetinari]. Vous avez tort, bien sûr. Il n‟y a jamais que des méchants, sauf que souvent ils ne sont pas du même côté. De sa main effilée, il montra la ville et marcha vers la fenêtre […]  Là en bas, il y a des gens qui vont suivre n‟importe quel dragon, adorer n‟importe quel dieu, ignorer n‟importe quel vice. Par simple mesquinerie. Pas avec l‟immense méchanceté habile des grands pêcheurs, mais à cause d‟une sorte de noirceur à rabais de l‟âme. Le péché sans originalité, si vous voulez. Ils acceptent le mal, pas parce qu‟ils disent oui, mais parce qu‟ils ne disent pas non. Je suis désolé si cela vous offense, ajouta- t-il en tapotant l‟épaule du Capitaine, mais les gens comme vous ont vraiment besoin de gens comme nous.  Ah, oui, Sire ? dit Vimes doucement.  Oh, oui. Nous sommes les seuls à savoir comment faire fonctionner les choses. […] Un jour c‟est le carillon de cloches et la chute du méchant tyran, le lendemain tout le monde est assis en train de se plaindre qu‟il n‟y a personne pour s‟occuper des ordures. Parce que les méchants savent planifier. Ça fait partie de la définition, on peut dire. Chaque tyran cruel a un plan pour gérer le monde. Les bons ne semblent pas avoir le don.

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28.  Cette ville est pleine d‟hommes habiles qui touchent à tout […]  Je suis désolé.  Ils ne réfléchissent pas.  C‟est vrai. Le seigneur Vetinari se laissa aller vers l‟arrière et fixa la fenêtre au plafond.  Ils font des choses comme ouvrir le comptoir de poisson du Bar de la Chance Joyeuse en plein sur le site de l‟ancien temple de la rue Dagon, le jour du solstice d‟hiver, un soir de la pleine lune par-dessus le marché.  Ainsi sont les gens, j‟ai bien peur.  Je n‟ai jamais découvert ce qu‟il était advenu de M. Hong.  Pauvre homme.  Ensuite il y a les sorciers. Bricoler, rafistoler, tripoter. Ils n‟hésitent jamais avant de tirer sur un fil du tissu de la réalité.  Désolant.  Les alchimistes ? Leur idée du devoir civique c‟est de tout mélanger pour voir ce que ça donne.  J‟entends les explosions, même ici.  Puis, évidemment, apparaît un homme comme vous  Je suis vraiment désolé.

29. Lancre fonctionnait sur le système féodal. Ce qui voulait dire que tout le monde avait une vendetta (feud) avec tout le monde et qu‟ils la léguaient à leurs enfants. Certaines rancœurs s‟étaient transmises d‟une génération à l‟autre, atteignant le statut d‟antiquité de valeur.

30. Gros Fido forgeait sa meute de chiens abandonnés en ce qu‟un ignorant croyait qu‟était une meute de loups. […] Il y avait des grands chiens, des petits, des obèses, des maigres. Tous le regardaient parler, yeux brillants. De Destin. De discipline. De la Supériorité Intrinsèque de la race canine.

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Des Loups. Mais les loups de Gros Fido n‟étaient pas les loups qu‟Angua connaissait. Dans les rêves de Gros Fido, ils étaient plus gros, plus féroces et plus sages. Ils étaient les Rois de la Forêt, les Terreurs de la Nuit. Ils avaient des noms comme Canine Preste et Dos d‟Argent. Ils représentaient l‟ambition de tout être canin. Gros Fido avait donné son approbation à Angua. Elle ressemblait beaucoup à un loup, avait-il dit. Et les autres écoutaient, totalement transis, alors qu‟un petit chien qui pétait en discourant leur disait que la forme naturelle d‟un chien était beaucoup plus grande. Angua aurait ri, si ce n‟était du fait qu‟elle doutait sérieusement de s‟en sortir vivante.

31.  Pourquoi nos gens vont-ils là-bas ?  Parce qu‟ils démontrent un esprit d‟aventure et pour trouver de la richesse et… plus de richesse sur une nouvelle terre, dit le seigneur Vetinari.  Et les Klatchiens ? demanda le seigneur Downey.  Oh, ils y vont parce qu‟il sont une bande d‟opportunistes indisciplinés toujours prêts a s‟emparer de quelque chose sans payer, dit le seigneur Vetinari. […] Oh, pardon, il semblerait que j‟ai, par mégarde, inversé les deux phrases.

32.  Esme n‟est pas à l‟aise avec la gentillesse, dit Nanny Ogg. […] Pour dire vrai, il y a un côté sombre chez tous les Weatherwax. Prends la vieille Alison Weatherwax. […] Ils racontent qu‟elle est devenue mauvaise d‟un coup. Qu‟un jour elle a tout empaqueté ses choses et qu‟elle est partie pour Uberwald. Et la sœur d‟Esme… Nanny s‟arrêta, puis repris :  Enfin, c‟est pour cela qu‟elle se tient toujours derrière elle-même à critiquer ce qu‟elle fait. Parfois je crois qu‟elle est terrifiée à l‟idée de devenir méchante sans s‟en rendre compte.  Granny ? Mais elle est plus morale que qui  Oh oui. Parce qu‟elle a toujours Granny Weatherwax qui la guette derrière elle.

33. Après que Nobby soit sorti, Vimes s‟étira derrière son bureau pour ramasser une vieille copie du Twurp’s Peerage ou, comme il l‟appelait, le guide des classes criminelles. Le livre ne nommait pas les gens qui résidaient dans des taudis, mais leurs

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propriétaires. Et, si le fait de résider dans un taudis est vu comme ample preuve de tendances criminelles, pour une raison obscure, le fait d‟en posséder des rues entières faisait de vous un invité convoité. […]

34.  Vimes, dit Rust, avez-vous perdu la tête ? Vous ne pouvez pas arrêter le commandant d‟une armée !  En fait M. Vimes, dit Carrot, je pense que c‟est possible. Et l‟armée avec, pourquoi pas. Nous pouvons les accuser de conduite menaçant la paix, c‟est ça la guerre. Le visage de Vimes se fendit d‟un sourire maniaque.  Bonne idée !  Mais pour être juste, notre – c‟est à dire, l‟armée d‟Ankh-Morpock – est également  Arrêtons-les aussi, dit Vimes. Arrêtons-les tous : Conspiration pour causer la bagarre… Il commença à compter sur ses doigts. Se promener équipé pour commettre un crime, Faire obstruction, Comportement menaçant, Roder malintentionné, Roder dans une mauvaise tente, hah, Voyager avec le but de commettre un crime, Flânerie malicieuse…

35. Rien pour des milles à la ronde, a part ce qu‟il traînait avec lui. C‟est ainsi que les prophètes avaient dû se sentir, quand ils allaient dans le désert chercher… ce qu‟ils y trouvaient, ce à quoi ils parlaient.  Les gens doivent croire en quelque chose, dit Om, irrité. Aussi bien que ça soit des dieux. Qu‟y a-t-il d‟autre ? Brutha se mit à rire.  Tu sais, dit-il, je ne sais plus si je crois en quoi que ce soit. […]  Penses-tu vraiment que tu vas le ramener à la Citadelle et qu‟ils vont te croire ? demanda Om.  Frère Nhumrod a toujours dit que j‟étais très honnête, dit Brutha. De toute façon, il n‟y a rien d‟autre à faire. Je ne peux pas l‟abandonner comme ça.  Oui, tu peux.

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 Pour qu‟il meure dans le désert ?  Oui, c‟est facile. Plus facile que de ne pas le laisser mourir dans le désert.  Non.  C‟est comme ça qu‟ils font les choses à Éthique ? dit Om, sarcastique.  Je ne sais pas. C‟est comme ça que je fais, moi.

36.  Ne construisez jamais un donjon où vous seriez malheureux de passer la nuit, dit Vetinari en disposant la nourriture sur une couverte. Le monde serait un meilleur endroit si plus de gens suivaient cette maxime. […] ne faites jamais confiance à un dirigeant qui se fie à des tunnels, des refuges armés ou des issues préparées. Les probabilités sont qu‟il ne tient pas assez à son job.

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ANNEXE 2

EXTRAITS SUPPLÉMENTAIRES

1. She was, Vimes had been told, the richest woman in Ankh-Morpork. […] It was going to be a strange wedding, people said. Vimes treated his social superiors with barely concealed distaste, because the women made his head ache and the men made his fists itch. And Sybil Ramkin was the last survivor of one of the oldest families in Ankh. But they'd been thrown together like twigs in a whirlpool, and had yielded to the inevitable. […] The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money. Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. […] But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that'd still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet. This was the Captain Samuel Vimes 'Boots' theory of socio-economic unfairness.120

T. On lui avait fait savoir qu‟elle était la femme la plus riche d‟Ankh-Morpock. […] Les gens disaient que ce serait une noce étrange. Vimes traitait ses supérieurs sociaux avec un dédain mal caché, parce que les femmes lui donnaient des maux de têtes et les hommes lui donnaient des fourmis dans les poings. Et Sybil Ramkin était la dernière descendante d‟une des plus vieille famille de la ville. Mais ils s‟étaient rencontrés dans le tourbillon de la vie et avaient cédé à l‟inévitable. […] Si les riches étaient riches, raisonnait Vimes, c‟est parce qu‟ils dépensaient moins d‟argent. Les bottes, par exemple. Vimes gagnait trente-huit dollars plus allocations. Une bonne paire de bottes en cuir coûtait cinquante dollars. Par contre, une paire de bottes

120 Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms, London, Corgi Books, 1994, p. 35.

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ordinaire, qui pouvait durer une saison ou deux puis qui prenait l‟eau comme une éponge, coûtait environ dix dollars. […] Mais le truc, c‟est que la bonne paire de bottes durait des années et des années. Un homme qui pouvait payer cinquante dollars possédait une paire de bottes qui allait encore garder ses pieds au sec après dix ans, alors que le pauvre homme qui devait se contenter des bottes à rabais aurait dépensé cent dollars en bottes sur la même époque, et il aurait encore les pieds mouillés. Et voilà comment le Capitaine Samuel Vimes expliquait les inégalités socio- économiques.

2. At their head was Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Blind Io and the closest thing Ankh-Morpock had to a spokesman on religious issues. He spotted Vimes and hurried towards him, admonitory finger upraised. “Now see here, Vimes…” he began, and stopped. He glared at Dorfl. “Is this it?” he said. “If you mean the golem, this is him,” said Vimes. “Constable Dorfl, your reverence.” Dorfl touched his helmet respectfully. “How May We Be Of Service?” he said. “You‟ve done it this time, Vimes!” said Ridcully, ignoring him. “You‟ve gone altogether too far by half. You made this thing speak and it isn‟t even alive! […] This comes under the heading of gross profanity and the worship of idols” “I don‟t worship him. I‟m just employing him,” said Vimes, beginning to enjoy himself. “And he‟s far from idle.” He took a deep breath. “And if it‟s gross profanity you‟re looking for” “Excuse Me,” said Dorfl. “We‟re not listening to you! You‟re not even really alive!” said a priest. Dorfl nodded. “This Is Fundamentally True,” he said. “See? He admits it!” “I Suggest You Take Me And Smash Me And Grind The Bits Into Fragments And Pound The Fragments Into Powder And Mill Them Again To the Finest Dust There Can Be, And I Believe You Will Not Find A Single Atom Of Life” “True! Let‟s do it!”

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“However, In Order To Test This Fully, One Of You Must Volunteer To Undergo The Same Process.” There was silence. “That‟s not fair,” said a priest, after a while. “All anyone has to do is bake up your dust again and you‟ll be alive…” There was more silence. Ridcully said, “Is it just me, or are we on tricky theological ground here?” There was more silence. Another priest said, “Is it true you‟ve said you‟ll believe in any god whose existence can be proven by logical debate?” “Yes.” Vimes had a feeling about the immediate future and took a few steps away from Dorfl. “But the gods plainly do exist,” said a priest. “It Is Not Evident.” A bolt of lightening lanced through the clouds and hit Dorfl‟s helmet. There was a sheet of flame and then a trickling noise. Dorfl‟s molten armor formed puddles around his white-hot feet. “I Don‟t Call That Much Of An Argument,” said Dorfl calmly, from somewhere in the clouds of steam. “It‟s tended to carry the audience,” said Vimes. “Up until now.” […] “When I Am Off Duty I Will Gladly Dispute With The Priest Of The Most Worthy God.” [said Dorfl, making little clinking sounds as he cooled] He turned and strode on across the bridge. Vimes nodded hurriedly at the shocked priests and ran after him. We took him and baked him in the fire and he’s turned out to be free, he thought. No words in the head except for the ones he’s chosen to put there himself. And he’s not just an atheist, he’s a ceramic atheist. Fireproof! It looked like being a good day. Behind them, on the bridge, a fight was breaking out. 121

121 Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay, London, Corgi Books, 1997, p.403-406.

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T. À leur tête marchait Hughnon Ridcully, Grand prêtre d‟Io l‟aveugle et le porte-parole des questions religieuses à Ankh-Morpock. Il aperçut Vimes et se pressa à sa rencontre, doigt de remontrance levé bien haut.  Alors Vimes… commença-t-il avant de lancer un regard noir à Dorfl. Est-ce la chose ?  Si vous voulez dire le golem, dit Vimes, c‟est lui : Officier Dorfl, votre révérence. Dorfl toucha son casque poliment.  Comment Pouvons-Nous Vous Aider ? dit-il.  Ça c‟est le bouquet, Vimes, dit Ridcully en ignorant le golem. Vous êtes allé vraiment trop loin. Vous lui avez donné une voix alors qu‟il n‟est même pas vivant ! […] C‟est un blasphème, de la vénération d‟idoles  Je ne le vénère pas, je l‟emploie, dit Vimes qui commençait à s‟amuser. Et il ne mène pas une vie idyllique… Il prit une grande inspiration.  Et si c‟est des blasphèmes que vous voulez  Excusez-moi, dit Dorfl.  Toi, on ne t‟écoute pas ! dit un prêtre. Tu n‟est pas un être vivant !  Cela Est Fondamentalement Vrai, dit Dorfl en opinant de la tête.  Vous voyez ? Il le reconnaît !  Je Suggère Que Vous Me Preniez Et Que Vous Me Cassiez En Morceaux. Que Vous Égrainiez Les Morceaux, Que Vous Écrasiez Les Graines en Poudre, Puis Que Vous la Mouliez Jusqu‟à Obtenir La Poussière La Plus Fine Qui Soit. Et Je Crois Que Vous N‟y Trouverez Pas Une Once De Vie  Bien dit ! Faisons-le !  Par Contre, Pour Que L‟Expérience Soit Valable, Un De Vous Doit Se Soumettre Au Même Traitement. Le silence se fit.  Ce n‟est pas juste ! dit un des prêtres après un moment. On a juste à cuire ta poussière pour que tu sois à nouveau vivant… Le silence revint.

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 Est-ce moi, dit Ridcully, ou sommes-nous en eaux théologiques troubles ? Le silence revint.  Est-ce vrai que tu a dit que tu croirais en n‟importe quel dieu dont l‟existence peut être prouvée par discours logique ? demanda un autre prêtre.  Oui. Vimes eut un pressentiment sur les événements à venir et s‟éloigna de Dorfl de quelques pas.  Mais les dieux ne peuvent qu‟exister, dit un prêtre.  Ce N‟est Pas Évident. Un éclair sortit des nuages et frappa le casque de Dorfl. Il eut une grande flamme suivie de cliquetis. L‟armure de Dorfl forma une flaque autour de ses pieds chauffés à blanc.  Je Ne Considère Pas Ça Comme Un Argument Sérieux, dit Dorfl calmement, à travers les nuages de vapeur.  Il convainc généralement les gens, dit Vimes. Enfin, jusqu‟à maintenant. […]  Lorsque Je Serai En Congé, Il Me Fera Plaisir De Discuter Avec Le Prêtre Du Meilleur Dieu, [dit Dorfl, faisant tic-tic en refroidissant]. Il se retourna et continua son chemin sur le pont. Vimes fit un salut rapide aux prêtres abasourdis et couru après lui. Nous l’avons pris et nous l’avons cuit et il s’avère qu’il est libre, pensa-t-il. Pas de mots dans son crane à part de ceux qu’il a choisi d’y mettre. Et il n’est pas seulement un athée, mais un athée en céramique. À l’épreuve du feu ! La journée commençait bien. Derrière eux, sur le pont, la bagarre éclatait.

3. In the Dwarf Bread Museum, in Whirligig Alley, Mr. Hopkinson the curator was somewhat excited. Apart from other considerations, he‟d just been murdered. But at the moment he was choosing to consider this an annoying detail. He‟d been beaten to death with a loaf of bread. This is unlikely even in the worst human bakeries, but dwarf bread has amazing properties as a weapon of offence. Dwarfs regard baking as part of the art of warfare. When they make rock cakes no simile is intended.

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“Look at this dent here,” said Mr. Hopkinson. “It‟s quite ruined the crust!” AND YOUR SKULL TOO, said Death. “Oh, yes,” said Mr Hopkinson, in the voice of one who regards skulls as ten a penny but is well aware of the rarity value of a good bread exhibit. “But what was wrong with a simple cosh? Or even a hammer? I could have provided one if asked.” Death who was by nature an obsessive personality himself, realized he was in the presence of a master. […] MR HOPKINSON, ARE YOU FULLY AWARE THAT YOU ARE DEAD? “Dead?” trilled the curator. “Oh no. I can‟t possibly be dead. Not at the moment. It‟s simply not convenient. I haven‟t even catalogued the combat muffins.” NEVERTHELESS “No, no. I‟m sorry, but it just won‟t do. You will have to wait. I really cannot be bothered with that sort of nonsense.” Death was nonplussed. Most people were, after the initial confusion, somewhat relieved when they died. A subconscious weight had been removed. The other cosmic shoe had dropped. The worst had happened and they could, metaphorically, get on with their lives. Few people treated it as an inconvenience that might go away if you complained enough. Mr. Hopkinson‟s hand went through a tabletop. “Oh.” YOU SEE? “This is most uncalled for. Couldn‟t you have arranged a less awkward time?” ONLY BY CONSULTATION WITH YOUR MURDERER “It all seems very badly organized. I wish to make a complaint. I pay my taxes, after all.” I AM DEATH, NOT TAXES. I TURN UP ONLY ONCE122.

T. Dans le Musée du Pain des Nains, sur l‟Allée Whirligig, le curateur, M. Hopkinson, était quelque peu énervé. Entre autres choses, il venait de se faire assassiner, ce qu‟il considérait pour le moment comme un détail mineur.

122 Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay, loc. cit., p. 27-29. T37, p. A-12

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Il s‟était fait assommer avec une miche de pain, fait improbable même dans la pire des boulangeries humaines. Mais le pain des nains possède la plupart des qualifications d‟un objet contondant. Les nains rangent la pâtisserie parmi les arts martiaux. Quand ils font des gâteaux rocher, ce n‟est pas une métaphore.  Avez-vous vu cette entaille ? dit M. Hopkinson. La croûte est totalement détruite ! ET VOTRE CRANE AUSSI, dit La Mort.  Ah, oui, dit M. Hopkinson dont le ton indiquait qu‟un crane n‟avait que peu de valeur comparé à un bel étalage de pain rarissime. Mais pourquoi n‟ont-ils pas utilisé une simple matraque ? Ou même un marteau ? J‟en aurais fourni un sur demande. La Mort, qui était de nature obsessionnelle par la force des choses, s‟aperçut qu‟il était en présence d‟un champion. […] M. HOPKINSON, ÊTES-VOUS CONSCIENT QUE VOUS ÊTES MORT ?  Mort ? dit le curateur. Oh non, je ne peux pas être mort. Pas en ce moment. Ça ne convient tout simplement pas. Je n‟ai pas encore terminé le catalogue des beignets de combat. NÉANMOINS  Ah non, je suis désolé, mais c‟est impossible. Vous devez attendre. Je ne peux pas être dérangé par ce genre d‟inanité. La Mort était déconcerté. Pour la plupart, les gens étaient, après le choc initial, plutôt soulagés quand ils mourraient. Un poids invisible s‟était envolé. Les dés étaient jetés. Le pire était arrivé et ils pouvaient, d‟une certaine façon, continuer leur chemin. Peu de gens traitaient leur décès comme une inconvenance évitable si on rouspète suffisamment. La main de M. Hopkinson traversa la table.  Oh. VOUS VOYEZ ?  Quelle engeance. N‟auriez-vous pas pu choisir un meilleur moment ? PAS SANS CONSULTER VOTRE ASSASSIN  Ça me semble vraiment mal organisé. Je veux porter plainte. Je paie mes impôts, après tout. JE SUIS LA MORT, PAS LE FISC. JE NE PASSE QU‟UNE FOIS.

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