Egg

In the crepuscular gloom of dawn, the first egg sat quietly and pondered its existence.

The simplicity and certainty of being an egg was often satisfying although there were times (the present instant as an example) where the lack of direction and/or greater purpose could lead to an irritable ennui.

It was at times like these that the egg began to contemplate the world outside of itself. It considered the bracken that formed its bed and the hard, stony frame which pushed through the foliage and pressed awkwardly against the egg’s outer membrane. But these ruminations would lead inevitably to thoughts of the egg’s own comfort (or lack thereof) and the egg was keen to explore further afield, beyond its own experience and understanding.

What was outside this nest?

The egg wondered (and not for the first time) what destiny would be discovered if it dared (or, indeed, had the capacity to) roll forward. Would it simply find more bracken? Or more rock? Or possibly (and this somewhat stretched the egg’s imaginative faculties) something else entirely? But what else? Something like bracken? Or something like rock? Perhaps softer than bracken. Or harder than rock. Or some unfounded density that resided somewhere between bracken and rock. Brock? Rocken? Rack?

One of the greater frustrations of being an egg was having a rather limited frame of reference.

But these contemplations on the possibilities of “something else” would inevitably lead the egg to consider the concept of “nothing else”, which led, inextricably, to the notion of nothingness. What if it rolled forward to find nothing? No rock. No bracken. No egg. Just nothing. Would the egg fall? Float? Fly? Disappear?

What if rolling forward meant the end for the egg? No more egg. But then what would happen to the bracken and the rock? With no egg to surround, support and nest, what would be their use? The egg had often attempted to conjure up some other meaning for its silent companions but with little success. The egg could never quite come to terms with the idea of bracken or rock before egg. As far as the egg was concerned, it had always been there (at least for as long as the egg could remember) and so there could not possibly have been anything before it. And if the egg were to come to an end, that would surely result in the denouement of everything that the egg had ever understood. However, this link between the perception of Self with the existence of Other would lead the egg to the incontrovertible conclusion that the egg could never be truly certain that anything existed before, after or outside of itself.

This dawning solipsism brought little comfort to the egg. In fact it was downright depressing.

And so the egg reached far down, through its albumen, into the recesses of its yolk and searched, desperately, for another incontrovertible conclusion. There must have been something before the first egg. Something. After all, the egg could not have appeared from no where. Some object, some being, some Other must have had some part in an arrangement which lead to the creation of the egg. During these sessions of philosophical meditation, the egg had, piece by piece, constructed an image of its creator:

At first, the egg had envisaged a giant version of itself: same rotund shape and speckled tan; simply bigger. But this manifestation did not satisfy the egg. Surely the creator of an egg must be considerably more complex than an egg and the egg itself felt that it lacked the capacity to create a miniature version of itself (despite the egg’s apparent ability to construct bracken, rock and a giant Creator Egg out of nothing). And so the giant egg was compounded upon. On top of the giant egg, the egg placed another, much smaller egg. This could move independently of the larger egg body but was, nevertheless, irreducibly connected. Sticking out from this smaller egg was the top end of an even tinier egg, only this one was as hard as rock and split through the middle, allowing it to open and shut at will (the excitement, when this latest installment was added, came from the possibility that the egg had now designed an opening in the Creator Egg through which the egg may well have emerged). In subsequent cogitations, the egg went on to attach two large leaves of bracken on either side of the Creator Egg which would largely remain motionless and parallel to the main, giant egg until they were called upon to lift up and stretch outwards from the body. This appurtenance afforded the Creator Egg the sufficient grandeur and majesty required to adopt the role of architect and originator of the first egg.

Having now begotten this begetter, the egg allowed itself a certain comfort. The Creator Egg offered few answers but the egg at least had somewhere to direct its musings.

What is outside this nest?

Is there something else, beyond my understanding?

What happens when I am nothing?

What came before me?

Who am I?

Who are you?

On this particular occasion, the egg found itself falling into the same cycle of thought and reflection but remained entirely unaware of its own evanescence and impending cessation. Had the egg been aware how little time it had left, it may well have shifted the trajectory of its introspection.

For in the bowels of the first egg, something slowly stirred, pushed against the sides and began to ask its questions.

G

The Circle of Life

The grey clouds overhead part momentarily allowing a shaft of golden sunlight to trickle down through the overcast sky. Down between the crooked chimney pots waving their dancing grey streamers, glancing from the proudly polished flank of a passing omnibus before stumbling through the rushing hoop of a flat capped child, until, finally striking a tiny grime smeared window.

The window is small and low. The only source of natural light for the basement room that it strains to illuminate. The dribble of light that has struggled through the grime tries to dispel the shadows cast by the old tallow candle being used to light the long, wooden workbench. A bench which runs nearly the entire width of the small, stone walled room.

            A huge eye. Unblinking, it watches as metal pincers perform a delicate dance before it. Gripping, lifting, dropping, twisting. Each movement a carefully choreographed part of a greater work.

A scratching. The great eye darts to the right, directing its unblinking stare to the source of the abrasive noise. Its stops. The great eye focuses back on the brazen dancers before it.

Again the scratching.

The great eye pierces the culprit with its lance like stare. The eye retreats and diminishes.

            “Must you insist on incessantly scratching your trivial thoughts into that grubby little notebook?” protests the owner of the eye quietly in his silken voice. 

            He sits at the bench, now bolt upright, a smart shirt and waistcoat clothing his torso. On his lower half he wears a pair of smart, straight trousers above a pair of polished, if slightly dusty shoes. On the desk glimmers a myriad collection of brass cogs and sprockets, screws, spacers, springs and levers. There is a small red stained, leather bound notebook, nearly new, filled with complicated looking plans. A magnifying stand catches the candle light, a spectrum playing across the curved glass lens. The being currently fixed in his steely gaze is a dishevelled creature. He is dressed in a torn and ripped suit, his hair is unkempt and a grubby bandage is looped around his arm. In his hands are the objects of his masters irritation. A small black notebook, a shabby parody of his masters unspoiled volume, and old lead pencil.

            “Apologies…” he rasps.

            “No matter… “ he says, releasing him from his penetrating gaze.

            Once more he bends his back, picks up his tweezers and returns to his work…

Time passes…

            The object of the figures industry begins to take form. The mass of brass components is slowly coalescing into a recognisable shape. The desk, once covered in a million different elements, begins to be home to a few larger conglomerations. Some clicking, some whirring; all utterly complicated.

            The light from the candle now illuminates a figure whose suit is well worn, whose shoes are now scuffed and whose hair, once slicked back and ordered, now hangs down around his brow.

            He speaks.

“It’s near constant! A constant scratching, gnawing away at my mind” he mutters. “How am I supposed to focus on my work?”

            “I’m sorry. I try to be unobtrusive…” he says, tucking the little black book into his threadbare pocket.

            “Well try harder! I begin to feel that your constant niggling at my consciousness is a ploy to unhinge!”

            “No sir! I would never…”

            “Well stop! I must work!” he asserts with passion.

And he does.

Picking up one of his assemblies he begins to join it to another. With regular reference to his now slightly dog eared red notebook, the product of his labour begins to take shape…

Time passes…

            A shadowy mass lies crumpled on the floor before him. He stands over him, his eyes wide, uncomprehending.

 Seething. He was seething. Skin stretched tight across bunched fists. Jaw clenched. Before he knew what was happening he had had his hands around the throat of the source of his resentment. He had felt panicked hands clawing at his arms as he held him. He hadn’t meant to break him. He had been surprised when he heard the sharp crack of something in his neck give way. He was so shocked he didn’t even drop him as he shuddered in his clutch, only releasing him to slump to the ground when he finally became still.

“W-what…” he stammers, staring at the half seen mass on the floor before him. “I didn’t mean…”

He falls silent as he notices half a pencil on the floor, splintered in two in the struggle. A black notebook lies nearby. He stoops and picks it up. With a shaking hand he opens the book and gazes in astonishment at the contents. The notebook contains neatly ordered rows of the owner’s tiny, neat handwriting. It seems to be descriptions of his deeds, things he has said, his mood, his mannerisms; a complete observational record of his actions and state of mind.

Puzzled he flicks backwards to the beginning of the book and is stunned to see diagrams. Beautiful, delicately drawn diagrams of complex mechanisms, systems of levers and pulleys, ingenious mechanical computation devices, so similar to the contents of his own notebook! All designed to fit perfectly the outline of a human form…

He turns his head. Behind him, on the bench lies the unmistakable form of a man. A man made of brass. The focus of his labours. Cogs and levers for his innards, delicate systems of springs and pulleys his muscles, cunningly wrought glass orbs for its eyes, skillfully fashioned metal irises… The candles glow glimmers from the polished surfaces.

He casts his gaze back down, across his tattered suit, to the book in his hand, amazed at the similarity. Until…

He sees the ripped sleeve of his shirt, torn by the clawing hands of his victim.

He sees the ruptured skin beneath his worn shirtsleeve...

He sees the faintest... Glimmer... Of brass…

He leans on the bench, his mind spinning, as the full force of revelation hits him.

All he can do is stand there.

For a full thirty minutes he stands there. As still as an unwound clock...

Finally. He stirs.

He knows what he must do. He stands up straight once more and wraps an old piece of cloth around his damaged arm.

“I must finish what he started,” he says…

Time passes…

            The grey clouds overhead part momentarily allowing a shaft of golden sunlight to trickle down through the overcast sky. Down between the proud television aerials, standing sentinel above the rooftops, glancing from the dust stained red trim of a passing double-decker before being pushed aside by a chain of day-glo clad schoolchildren, until finally it strikes a tiny grime smeared window.

The window is small and low. The only source of natural light for the basement room that it strains to illuminate. The dribble of light that has struggled through the grime tries to dispel the shadows cast by the old tallow candle being used to light the long, wooden workbench. A bench which runs nearly the entire width of the small, stone walled room.

A figure sits at the bench. He is dressed in a smart shirt, waistcoat, straight trousers and highly polished shoes. Opposite him, on the other side of the room sits a dishevelled looking figure in a torn and ripped suit. He has unkempt hair and a grubby bandage looped around his arm. In his hands are a pencil and a small, red stained leather bound notebook.

He merely sits there. Watching. A pencil poised in his hand.

            A huge eye. 
            Unblinking.

B.

The day the worm turned

There once was a very special worm.

Now, it is worth mentioning that there are many worms.  So many, in fact, it maybe better to start elsewhere in our story...

A wise old raven asked one of the pigs if she could please get her trotters on a giant set of scales; a bit like the kind that the farmer uses to weight the small animals except, well, much bigger.  When the pig protested the otiosity of the task the raven explained that, should she go through with it, the results would be surprisingly engaging.  Again the pig protested; “Don’t be so eager, oh Raven, to squander my time, for I have truffles to snuffle and should be bathing in slime”.  At last, the Raven, agreed to elucidate the mysterious task and went on to explain why such activity would be so ‘engaging’.  

He unravelled the story and the yarn spun as thus.  The Raven had over heard the tomcat boasting to the new chicks that he had been party to information which would play an important part in his elaborate plan of knocking the old herd of cows off, what he described as their ‘high-horse’; incidentally a phrase so nonsensical to the raven could he only guess the tomcat learnt it from spending time amongst the humans of the farmhouse and doesn’t quite understand what it means.

The information was this.  That if you were to weigh the entire herd of cows against all the worms in the ground underneath their hooves then the worms would out weigh the cows.

When the raven finished his tale the pig stood for a moment, agog.  

“But that would mean...” 

She tailed off as the raven spoke up again “yes, indeed it would.”  

“Well, then we need to tell the tomcat as quickly as possible to keep quiet about this.”  

“I’m afraid it is too late.  The chicks, it seems, have remarkable networks through which to propagate slander.  Half the farm yard has already heard the story and it is starting to move out to the fields”

Historically the cows and the cats had not seen eye to eye.  Partly because of their massive size the cows didn’t feel it necessary to engage with such ‘paltry, scatty and ridiculously single-stomached’ creatures.  The cats on the other hand felt that the cows constant standing-up-ness betrayed deeper insecurities of character, self-belief and purpose; cats, after all, never stand when they... can.... s-p-r-a-w-l.....  

That the cows were in charge didn’t seem to phase the tomcat in his plan to defame the cows throughout the farm.

It’s worth delving into the history here for the cows had indeed been elected leaders in the past; during an era now long forgotten.  Before the humans arrived there were hundreds of years of The Great Freedom.  A time when the animals came together not for their associated and collaborative utility but for leisure; to socialise; to share their lives with each other.  But as the the yoke and bridle of human governance shackled the animals to their function the giddy innocence of their past was dismembered and disregarded.

The animals soon learnt that a new sheriff was in town.  One who harvested them for their milk; stole their eggs and, ultimately, took the meat from their back as payment for room and board.  There was no way out.  Gradually the animals lost their faculties and became more docile.  Speaking less; chewing more.  Whilst all retained their voice; few chose to use it.  

And the cows, once the majestic queens of middle England, now chewed cud in the muddy fields waiting for milking time or the butchers block.

Their unfair disempowerment led to bitterness and cruelty.  Cows would now regularly lash their tails at the friendly flies who used to sit quietly on their backs.  There was even a story of a kitten who lost her life to the on coming stampede of heifers at milking time.  The great cruelty being that all the while animal law clearly stated that the cows had the royal decree and ultimately should be setting an example.  The cows were the crown princesses of The Great Freedom; but their bitterness at being undermined consumed them.

It was one day during the height of summer a few years back that the tomcat had been talking with mouse.  Contrary to popular belief the two races got on well; often tomcat would take his family out for a day with the mice.  Sometimes the kittens would be told off for pretending to swallow the mouse pups but after a quick fur ball and towel dry the mini beast would be up and scurrying again.

The wives and kids were sunning themselves and playing on one of the quiet meadows behind the house while the older gents padded along by the stream.

“You know why though don’t you, old friend?” proclaimed the mouse “they didn’t know how else to do it”

“So, you’re saying it’s as simple as that?!”

The past 20 minutes had been a revelation to the tomcat.  He had never even thought how the cow had come to be in charge in the first place believing it only to be a turn of fate or the will of Kitsomagso.  But this?  So simple?  So arbitrary?  So impossible to change.  He felt immediately elated and hopeless.  How could he change this?  Could he invoke a change in ancient law?  Unlikely since the cows had the final ratification on any law passed in the farm animal world.

At this stage it may seem an unrelated bit of information but cows are in fact very big.  

They weigh on average 3/4 of a ton.  Which is the weight of a small car.  Collectively this means they weigh a lot.  100 cows weighs the same as a small house.

What tomcat had just learnt as mouse flippantly shared his stories was that the cows were not elected, not ordained, not chosen by the pull of a sword from a stone, but merely out of convenience.  It was not in fact one cow who was chosen as queen but, in fact, a whole group of cows.  So the story goes the animal council had gathered to find a new leader.  A grand monarch to rein over them all.  The best way they could think to do this was to weigh each other.

The owls had been working all week with the crows to set up a giant set of scales and each animal took it in turn to sit on one side of the scale.  The small animals sat it out so the cat went first, and versus the rabbit easily won.  The tortoise crept over next.  The scale shifted as he eased himself on but eventually creaked into settling with the cat.  The cat began to wonder if it was his lucky day - perhaps he would be crowned king of the animals like his mane haired cousin was over in Africa.  But on the next measure, against the sheep dog, he was soon dethroned.  Then came the sheep.  Who was heavier.  Then came the pig.  Who was heavier.  Then came the horse.  Who was heavier.  And finally came the cow.  Who was heaviest of all the animals...

The other animals were alarmed.  How did this happen?  They never saw it coming?  They petitioned the owls to recalibrate the scales or reread the rules.  Following which the owls spent the afternoon checking the scales for signs of rot or wear or anything to invalidate the results.  But the simple fact was - the cows were bigger.  

Then one of the smaller owls spoke up: “what about all the cows?” he tweets  “Are they ALL bigger?”

Immediately the great count began.  A group of snakes were called over from the forest - some of them were in fact VERY good with numbers and were given the task of counting how many animals of each breed there were.  They counted all day and all night for 32 days and eventually the result was given.  The cows had won.  They weighed more than any other group of animals.

And so the decision was made.  The cows weigh the most so the cows should be in charge.

Tomcat pondered how simple this was.  Yet so impossible to overthrow.  He knew that the pigs and the horses had allegiance to the cows as they allowed them to share space in their fields and provided the cows with extra tasty bits of grass.  And these were the only other heavy animals around.

The situation was, it seemed, hopeless.

That is until today.

“The revolution is underway!” proclaimed the chicks to the sheep dog, who stirred sleepily from his slumber at the foot of the tractor tyre.

“What do you mean?  I didn’t notice anything?”

“You were asleep you lazy clot” cried the tiniest little chick to the mutt “the cows are being overthrown.  Tomcat has found a rightful successor to the miserable old cudchunks”

At this sheep dog lept to his feet and, upon rounding the corner, found himself staring at quite a scene.  The entire farmyard had gathered in the cows field with the chickens noisily clucking their opinions.  The rats and mice scurrying around.  Owls soared above in broad daylight.  The snakes slithered.  Frogs and toads croaked.  The pigs stood facing off against the sheep and goats.  The horses, whinnying and rearing up, stood in line either side of the cows.  And in the middle of the cacophony tomcat proclaimed loudly that the day of jubilee had come and that, by the power invested in him, a new monarch was to be crowned...

At this raven landed in the midst of the gathering and there.  Was.  Quiet.

Mayor Raven explained about the tomcats story, filling in the holes in his over excited retelling.  But ultimately always pointing towards the fact that yes, indeed, a new king would today be crowned.

The cows was distraught.  And upon learning that they were no longer untouchable immediately to the masses gathered an blithered out a garbled apology for their behaviour.  While their long cow eyelashes flicked away tears and the crowd began to absorb the full significance of the message a being, invisible but already in attendance, began to show themselves to the joined throng.

Quietly, gently, he pushed his pink fleshy head out of the ground and wiggled towards the tomcat and raven.

Indeed this was a very special worm and this was a very special day for the farmyard.

This was the day the worm turned.

M