🚀 go-pugleaf

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   PARIAH #11: "LOOK UPON THESE WORKS, YE MIGHTY, AND DESPAIR!"
        Copyright 1994, Greg Fishbone, all rights reserved.

  Permission is hereby granted to disseminate or reproduce this
  work via electronic means only, for entertainment purposes only,
  and only if all attributions and headers remain in place and the
  text of the work (including attributions and headers) is not
  altered in any way.  Any reproduction of this work for profit of
  any form is strictly forbidden without the express written
  permission of Greg Fishbone.  Hard copy reproduction is limited
  to single copies printed for the use of the user only, and
  cannot be mass produced or disseminated in any way.  All other
  rights not specifically referred to in this notice are reserved
  to Greg Fishbone.  "Pariah", "Wilcox Township", and all
  character names used in this story are trademarks belonging to
  Greg Fishbone, who reserves all rights to their use.  Feedback
  to fishbone@astro.ocis.temple.edu is always appreciated, even
  the critical nit-picky stuff, though I prefer unqualified
  praise.  Thanks for reading!


   Phil found himself walking through the narrow, cobbled streets
of an ancient city.  All around, merchants in drab tunics hawked
their wares in primitive stalls, with cloth awnings to filter out
the oppressive sun.  The people were short and thin, and almost
without exception seemed on the verge of starvation.  Phil saw no
modern vehicles, power lines, or any other indication that the
twentieth century had come to this part of the world.  He thought
it was a dream at first, but it was much too vivid; the azure
color of the cloudless sky, the competing shouts of the merchants,
the texture of the stones under the soles of his shoes, and, most
of all, the earthy smell of the place.
   He felt someone grab his arm, and looked down to see a bearded
man with a dark complexion placing a silver bracelet around his
wrist.  "Just as I thought, good sir -- it looks as if you were
born with that bracelet, so well it suits you!"  Phil was startled
speechless, and the man seized the opportunity to continue his
pitch.  "It is the finest silver alloy, of course.  Many have I
sold for eighty peshils, but now that I see how perfectly you wear
this one, it would make my heart glad to give it to you.  For
fifty peshils."
   Phil examined the bracelet closely, and saw that it was
handmade and had a fairly hefty weight to it.  The band was a good
two inches wide, a quarter of an inch thick, and had a circular
design engraved all the way around.  He had never owned a piece of
jewelry in his life, but somehow this particular item appealed to
him.  "Fifty peshils?  What--?"
   "Did I say fifty?  Ah, good sir, I meant to say *forty*
peshils, exactly half the price I got on others of lesser quality
and workmanship.  I will be losing money, of course, but matching
a man to his metal always puts a smile on my face."
   Phil took out his wallet and removed a few bills; not much, but
it was all he had.  "How much in American?"
   "No, worthy sir, I do not wish to barter for your paper
engravings, interesting as they may appear.  I need the peshils.
I have two wives and eight children to support, and the king, long
may he reign, has taxed the soul out of our household.  Please,
generous sir, thirty peshils -- no less."
   "I'm sorry...  I really like the bracelet, but I don't have any
peshils.  I don't even know what a peshil is!"  With a scowl, the
man yanked the silver bracelet from Phil's wrist and spat on the
front of his t-shirt before disappearing back into the marketplace
crowd.  Phil stood stunned for a moment, watching the brown saliva
run down his clothing.
   "Philip Richardson!"  A little man, bald and clean-shaven, sat
on a stone bench not far away, beckoning for Phil to join him.
His skin was so pale that it appeared green in the bright
sunlight, and his eyes so large and set together that he barely
looked human.  His features were ageless, like nobody Phil had
ever met, and yet he seemed strangely familiar.
   "Who are you, and what is this place?" asked Phil, sitting down
next to the man.
   The man cocked his head at a strange angle.  "You do not
recognize your ancestral home, Philip Richardson?" he asked.  "No,
of course not.  Not after six thousand years...  I keep forgetting
that you people see time as a linear variable."
   "Let's try this again; what is your name?"
   "I have no name as such, but men call me the Giver."
   "Okay, Giver.  Now we're getting somewhere.  And what is the
name of this city?"
   "It is called Ankha at the present, though it will be known in
your time by a different title.  It is the capital of a great
empire that will soon be remembered only in legend, and then even
the legend will be forgotten."
   "Hmm.  All right.  Now here's where it gets a bit tricky; how
did I get here?"
   "I brought you here, of course.  I find it much easier to
commune across the centuries from a standard perspective, though
we could have just as easily met any time or any place else,
Philip Richardson."
   "Please, just Phil."
   "As you wish.  You have another question?"
   "Well, let's see...  Yeah, I have another question.  *Why* did
you bring me here?"
   "We need to talk, Phil."
   "So you transported me back in time six thousand years -- to a
city so ancient that nobody even remembers its name -- just to
*talk*?  Is that basically it?"
   "Basically.  You find that hard to believe?"
   "I should," he sighed, "but after the day I've had I'm ready to
believe just about anything."
   The Giver nodded.  "You refer to your encountering Becky-Sue
Tyler, yes?"
   Phil stared back at the little man.  "What do you know about
her?"
   "She has a Gift, and I am the Giver," the man said, as if the
connection were obvious.  "I have been watching her closely and
she shows much promise, though her lack of self-esteem is most
troubling..."
   "Wait, wait, time-out...  You mean *you're* the one responsible
for Becky-Sue's powers?  And you've been 'watching her closely'
from six thousand years away?"
   "Six thousand is merely an approximation," said the Giver.  "I
am not entirely comfortable with the arbitrary time units you
people use to separate events."
   "Don't change the subject, Giver!  You made her what she is;
hated, feared, abandoned -- and now you have the nerve to complain
about her low self-esteem?"
   "The Gift made her what she is," the Giver corrected him.
"Once given, I no longer have any control over how the Gift is
manifested or how it is used -- or abused."
   "I see."  The Giver remained calm and unemotional under Phil's
accusing gaze, which only served to make Phil even more upset.  "I
don't suppose this Gift of yours came with an instruction manual,
did it?  How could you possibly expect a poor country girl like
Becky-Sue to deal with that kind of power?"
   "She has the potential to become much more than what she is, if
that is indeed her destiny, and she will find the Gift to be a
great help--"  The Giver was interrupted by a loud commotion from
another section of the marketplace; shouting, bell-ringing, and
the sound of distant trumpets.
   "What?  What is it?"
   "The king approaches.  Come, let us continue our conversation
somewhere else."
   "Maybe I don't want to," said Phil, defiantly.  "Maybe I want
to stay here and see the king."
   The Giver sighed and crossed his arms patiently.  "That is your
choice."  By this time the marketplace was in chaos, as the people
scrambled to clear a path for the royal procession and still
remain in a prime viewing area.  The bench that Phil and the Giver
sat on soon became, conveniently enough, part of the boundary
between the crowd and the street, though Phil was sure that it was
no coincidence.
   The king's litter appeared, borne by four strong men, and
proceeded by guards and heralds in bright uniforms.  "All hail
Ozymandias, King of Kings, long may he reign!" one of the heralds
shouted.
   Phil shot the Giver a sideways glance.  "Ozymandias?  Isn't
that from some poem?"
   "You know the poem?" asked the Giver.  "It seems the poet had a
conversation with one of the Gifted, who told him--"
   "Shhhhh!" hissed one of the merchants, giving the Giver a
disapproving look.  Phil turned his attention to King Ozymandias
as the ruler sat in his velvet-draped litter, surveying the crowd.
He looked to be about thirty, and his most distinguishing features
were his long, black beard and his contemptuous sneer.  It may
have been a trick of the light or a figment of Phil's imagination,
but the king also appeared to be surrounded by a faint aura of
white light.
   "You there!" shouted the king in a most authoritative voice.
The merchant he was addressing dropped a clay pot in shock.  "Why
do you not cast your gaze downward like the others?  What makes
you believe yourself worthy to look your king in the eye?"
   "N-n-nothing, Your Majesty.  It was a mistake!  I won't do it
again, I promise!"
   "No, you will not," said Ozymandias, as he raised his fist.  A
brilliant bolt of energy shot forth from the king's hand,
vaporizing the man in an instant, leaving nothing behind but a
pair of smoldering sandals.
   Phil looked over at the Giver with his eyes wide with
amazement.  "Yes," the little man nodded, "Ozymandias is one of
the Gifted as well."
   "How could you just sit here and let that happen?" Phil
whispered.
   "It matters not to you, for this is all nothing more than your
ancient history.  As for me, I am content in the knowledge that
Ozymandias will soon be punished for this abuse and the others he
has committed."
   "Punished by who?  If you're the one who gave him his powers,
why don't you just take them back?"
   Ozymandias turned his attention toward their bench, attracted
by the sound of muted conversation, and did a double-take when he
saw the source of the noise.  "Giver!" he shouted, pointing an
accusing finger at Phil's companion.  "How did you break out of
prison *again*?"
   "As I have told you before, Ozymandias, location is irrelevant
to such as myself.  I needed to hold a conversation with this
young man, and I felt that he would be more comfortable out here
than in a dank subterrainian cell."
   "Impertinent swine!  Guards, escort the Giver back to his cell
and double the sentries!"
   "I have not yet finished my conversation," the Giver stated.
   "Very well," said the king.  "I would not want anyone to think
me inconsiderate...  Lock the foreigner up as well!"
   "Hey!" Phil protested, as he felt strong hands grab him by the
shoulders and two sharp spear points against his back.  "Thanks a
lot," he muttered under his breath to the Giver.
   "You're welcome, Phil."
   The guards marched Phil and the Giver through the bustling city
of Ankha, past bystanders who pointed at them and spoke amongst
themselves in low tones that Phil could not quite make out.  The
Giver seemed totally resigned to his fate, and did not bother to
resist the guards in any way.  Phil followed his example, fairly
certain that no real harm could come to him in the past but not
quite ready to put his belief to the test.  Within a few minutes,
they arrived at the prison, a large building with tiny windows.
   "Why didn't he zap you into ether like he did to that poor
merchant?" Phil whispered, as the guards escorted them through a
maze of passages and downward stairways.
   "He intends to make an even more dramatic example of me," the
Giver explained.  "I am to be executed at the Harvest Festival, in
front of the crowd in the main amphitheater.  It should be quite
spectacular."
   "In here," said one of the guards, shoving them roughly through
a final doorway and securing the gate behind them.  It was almost
pitch black, with the only light coming from a small crack near
the ceiling.
   "You're planning to escape again, right?" asked Phil.
   "Why ever for?" the Giver asked calmly.
   "Because if you don't, they're going to *kill* you!"
   "If that is my fate."
   "Forget it, stranger," said a young male voice in the darkness.
"Mere mortals were never meant to understand gods, women, or the
Giver."
   "Philip Richardson, meet Kirmos noc Alenbar," said the Giver.
   "Charmed to meet you," said Kirmos.
   "What are you in for, Kirmos?" asked Phil.
   "An assassination attempt, according to our noble king, long
may he suffer the most agonizing tortures imaginable in the
afterlife for what he has done to Ankha and its people.
Yourself?"
   "I'm here for a conversation with the Giver."
   "Ah, you have my pity.  He has been my cellmate off and on for
the past week, and my head is filled with such nonsense that I
strongly fear for my sanity."
   "Our time grows short, Philip Richardson," said the Giver.
"You are here because you have made contact with Becky-Sue Tyler,
and so I must explain to you a little bit about the nature of the
Gifted and the Charmed."
   "So I'm *Charmed* now?"
   "You have always been Charmed," the Giver told him.  "The Gift
is a power, while the Charm is a powerless state.  The two are
equal and opposite forces that cancel each other out, as you have
seen.  Also as you have seen, the Charmed can easily detect the
Gifted, while the Gifted can not detect the Charmed."
   "Okay, that makes sense.  I suppose you're going to tell me
that the Charmed and Gifted are not allowed to date?"
   "That is your choice and hers."
   "Damn straight it is!"
   "But consider that this choice may make things more difficult
for you in the future.  The Gifted are free to use their Gifts in
any manner they choose, or to choose not to use them at all.  The
only responsibility of the Gifted is to never use the Gift to kill
or cause needless pain or suffering--"
   "Like the king," said Kirmos, "long may he choke on a piece of
rotten meat and suffocate in a pool of his own putrid vomit."
   "Thank you, Kirmos," said the Giver.  "When the Gift is abused
in this manner, it is the duty of one of the Charmed to punish
that Gifted individual--"
   "--with death!" added Kirmos, gleefully.  "I like that part."
   "That's all right for King Ozymandias," said Phil, "but what
about Becky-Sue?  She didn't mean to kill anyone..."
   "The murder of Robert Tyler and Mary-Sue Tyler were abuses of
the Gift," the Giver stated.  "A Charmed individual has already
been dispatched to punish the Gifted."
   "No..."
   "You must not interfere with the punishment, Phil."
   "No!"
   "If the assigned Charmed is unable to perform the punishment,
the assignment will fall to you."
   "*NOOOOO*!!!"  Phil awoke with a start and tumbled out of bed,
completely disoriented.  His throat was dry and his heart pounded
in his chest as he struggled to free himself from the constricting
clutches of his blanket.  Phil could still feel the moist prison
air against his skin, manifesting as droplets of sweat, and the
musky smell of dried urine and human waste lingered in the most
unsettling manner.
   _Just a dream,_ he tried to reassure himself, a little
frightened at the thought that his mind could manufacture such a
vivid experience.  _But if it's not a dream..._  Phil let the
thought trail away, not wanting to even consider the implications.