The Voynich Madness

The Voynich Madness
by
Bobby Derie

The angular blade of her black utility knife cut gently through the tape and bubble wrap. Layer after layer peeled away to reveal the dark prize within, a thick mass of pages in a floppy dark brown cover that felt warm and slightly furry under her fingertips. With a manicured nail she traced the letters on the front cover, then carefully opened the book, inspecting the binding, the paper. Her eyes looked over the familiar alien glyphs, the vivid greens and browns of the strange plants, flipped past charts of stars and squat, rotund, naked women in tubes and baths...

"What's that?"

Vivian crept into the room, yoga pants clinging on for dear life. Following her was a panting, skittering, unwieldy thing like a mop without a handle, only a tiny pink ribbon holding up enough fur so that the brainless dog could see where it was going. Shoggoth waddled up to the fallen packaging and gave it an engrossing sniff, tiny tuft of a tail wagging.

"The Voynich manuscript," Aribel turned to one of the fold-outs, crude stars drawn in strange zodiac circles. "A facsimile, anyway."

Vive crept up behind her bookworm, propping her head up on Aribel's head, her breasts pressing into the smaller girl's neck. A flush rushed across Aribel's cheeks, and Vivian smiled. "Another mysterious book." She let one long-nailed finger rake gently down the back of Aribel's arm.

"The most mysterious book in the world." Vivian turned another page, showing the strange, almost crude jars or containers with their little labels. "No one knows when it was written, or by whom. We don't even know what language it's in, or if it's a code. No one's ever deciphered it...never even come close to deciphering it. No one can identify the plants or what these charts mean or..."

"But I bet you have a theory," Vive breathed in her ear, her left hand stroking Aribel's collarbone. Shoggoth ceased sniffing the fallen packaging to give herself a generous scratch, working, with grunts and pants, as if to discharge something from her ear with her back paw, occasionally stopping to lick it.

"I..." Aribel was panting now, but with an effort stopped her hands from shaking, and turned back to the first page. "It's not that simple. It's a trap. A madness."

Something warm and wet slipped into Aribel's ear, with just a hint of teeth. When it left, she had to stop herself from shaking her head.

"It's like...we don't know what script the text is written in, or what language that script is meant to represent. We don't know if it's ciphertext or plaintext. But we do know we've never seen it before, or anywhere else. So if it's a script for writing a natural language - the kind people speak - it's one we've never seen before. That's fair enough, that kind of thing crops up every now and again. But it also doesn't follow the rules for any natural language we know - so if it's a script for a natural language in plaintext, it's one we don't recognize or it's extinct."

Vive's inquisitive hand slipped down into Aribel's shirt, languidly exploring the valley between her pert little breasts.

"But it does have rules, or it looks like it does. So it isn't just gibberish - or if it is gibberish, it's gibberish that's been generated by some system or procedure to not look like gibberish. I'm...no, that's not quite right. Let me try again." She took a deep breath as Vivian's hand cupped her right breast, thumb idly pressing on the nipple.

"It's real, or its a hoax. If it's a hoax, it's one that somebody went to a lot of trouble to make - over 250 pages of pseudo-text with illustrations. Probably took more than one scribe, plus an artist - not a great artist - and some expensive pigments and vellum. There's a definite layout to the whole thing, the text is too neat, wraps around the drawings...it could still be a hoax, something dreamed up to fool a prince with more gold than sense. But say it isn't purely a hoax, that there is some information content to the text. That gives four broad possibiliTIES."

Aribel yelped as Vivian squeezed her nipple between thumb and forefinger, and began laying light kisses along the smaller woman's neck, letting her breasts drag down Aribel's back.

"It's plaintext or enciphered; it's a known language, or an unknown language. We can rule out plaintext in a known language - no language we know has characters like these - so it's either plaintext in an unknown language, or a known or unknown language that's been enciphered somehow."

She leaned her head back and opened her mouth, and Vive swooped down for a long kiss, wrapping her right arm around Aribel's belly in a back-hug. Shoggoth stopped scratching herself long enough to sit up and wag her tail at the scene.

"The script...we've never seen that exact script. But we've seen scripts sort of like it. There are things like old Arabic numerals, which we know were used in some old code systems, there are aspects of the script that look like miniscule, shorthand, old encryption systems...the gut reaction is that it's an encoded text. It looks really simple. But nothing falls out. The only thing we know is what it isn't. It isn't a simple cipher. It doesn't follow the rules of any known language. It might - based on radiocarbon dating of the vellum, and the general nature of the text and the drawing style, and a couple of little details, like the shape of a crossbow and the crenelations on a castle - be from northern Italy in the early-to-mid 1400s. But that's it, that's all we know."

Vivian nuzzled. "But you have a theory."

"I...I think..." Aribel gulped, "I think that the text is too sure and too long to be something complicated. I think, if this isn't a hoax, it was a book that was meant to be read. I think there is a system behind this, whatever it is - whether it's an unknown language or a known one, plaintext or ciphertext. But I can't say more than that. I won't say more than that."

Shoggoth began licking herself. Vivian smiled between kisses.

"That's the madness, you see. This is the reef that people have run themselves aground on. Smart people. Historions, doctors, cryptologists. I don't have the expertise to evaluate this...don't have the time to dig through manuscripts, try to tease hints from old herbals and astronomical manuscripts, don't have the knowledge of statistics and cryptoanalysis to crunch the numbers, don't know enough about codicology and paleography to talk about the book itself and how it was written..."

"But you want to?"

"...yes."

"Madness," Vivian buried her face in Aribel's hair as the bookworm closed the facsimile, the bold words staring upwards from the warm brown leather cover. Shoggoth skittered happily behind them as they adjoined to the bedroom.

###

Bram Stoker Remix

Bram Stoker Remix
by
remixed by Bobby Derie, text by Bram Stoker

So intent were all on the cliff that they did not notice her coming; as the roar of the wind came from them to her, they could not hear her voice when she spoke from a distance. So threatening did these overhanging masses look, that for a few seconds I feared to stir lest some of them should topple over on me. These—whatever they were—were of massive grey stone, probably limestone rudely cut—if indeed they were not shaped naturally. These form part of the rocky system of the Skares, which spread out fan-like from the point of Whinnyfold. The place itself was, as a natural wonder, superb; but to me as a treasure hunter it was a disappointment.

Within all was dark; but she entered as freely and with as little misgiving or restraint as if it had been broad daylight. She stood with downcast eyes idly picking at the sleeve of her dress, seeming to have tacitly acquiesced in the proposal. As well as personal experience and the lessons of eyes and ears and intelligence, there were other things to classify and adjust; things which were entirely from the outside of her own life.

"I won't feel so heavy-headed when I get out of this mummy smell." broke in Miss Trelawny in a sort of passion of anxiety, her face drawn with pain. "And so you, like the others, would play your brains against mine." Before we parted she gave me a kiss and a hug that made my blood tingle.

It was nearly an hour when he looked up from his book, disturbed by the sudden stillness. Each of us had done his work as well as he could; so far as thought, and endeavour, and opportunity go, we are prepared for the whole of our journey, and for our work when we get to Galatz. When I looked back over the letters translated from the cipher thus depleted, I found to my inexpressible joy that the sequence and sense were almost complete.

“I shall read it myself if you think it best!” I said instinctively!

"Yes," emphatically.

"This document”—holding it up—“is as follows:

"Perhaps you can tell me what that figure of Ptah-Seker-Ausar holding the Tet wrapped in the Sceptre of Papyrus means?

Your friend,
Dracula"

I was so surprised that I said without thinking:

"As I looked there came a cold shiver in the air, and the snow began to fall. Though I did not realise it at the time, the dead man’s weight was beginning to tell sorely upon me. He had been born in the Castle, and had served its succession of masters—present or absent—ever since. Such loyalty was a power and a help in the land, for it knew danger in every form; and anything which aided the cohesion of its integers was a natural asset. He was of that courageous, fixed trueness to his undertaking, that if he should deem it his duty to guard a secret he would do it to the last. His face was strong and merciless, evil, crafty, and vindictive, with a sensual mouth, hooked nose of ruddy colour, and shaped like the beak of a bird of prey. He study new tongues. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due."

Here she interrupted me. “Still, as an old servant . . . ”

She laid her hand on mine and said reassuringly: "The old devil, perhaps."

“How do you mean?” I queried. It never even occurred to him that a lady could so far step from the confines of convention as to take the initiative in a matter of affection. It is not as if they were strangers. It was not possible to doubt that the phantom figure which had been so close to me during the dark hours of the night was actual flesh and blood. Whenever she would try to recollect there would become a buzzing in her ears and a dimness in her eyes, and all would pass away. She never forgot the words he had said to her:

"He doubted me when I took him from her kiss when she was dying. A man does not like to prove such a truth; Byron excepted from the category, jealousy. He became a user of Voodoo, which seems to be a service of the utmost baseness and cruelty. Besides, he can summon his wolf and I know not what. But don’t you go building up superstitious horrors or fears on it. I shall not ever allude to it again unless you wish. I will hold your secret sacred."

Here he was interrupted by another scream from Mrs. Witham, and steps had to be taken for her recovery. I didn’t feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety. When the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and I in his; there was no need for speaking between us. My heart began to beat wildly. This done, and it had all been done in a couple of seconds, he worked the electric switch of the syren, which screamed out quickly once, twice, thrice. She ignored, however, all his little private signalling, and presently ordered tea to be brought. I looked at her in wonder and in some secret concern.

"Van Helsing went about his work systematically. The Doctor mentioned two names; and within a few minutes a mounted messenger was galloping to Norcester, the nearest telegraph centre. This done, and it had all been done in a couple of seconds, he worked the electric switch of the syren, which screamed out quickly once, twice, thrice. All this time Doctor Winchester was attending to his patient; now dressing the wounds in the wrist or making minute examination all over the head and throat, and over the heart. It was a hideous mockery, for the broken features and seamed scars took strange shapes and strange colours, and queer lines of white showed out as the straining muscles pressed on the old cicatrices. The sight made her almost faint. The Professor made a few more passes and then stopped, and I could see that his forehead was covered with great beads of perspiration. Still there was a wild, uneasy light of triumph in his eyes, and he kept murmuring to himself over and over again. In his delight and excitement he breathed so hard that it seemed almost like a cat purring. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I knew too well."

As she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began to quicken, and everything became more and more clear. The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. One and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever. And so in the East the passing of the two years of silence and gloom seemed to be the winning of something brighter to follow. Little by little the fierce chattering of her teeth began to abate as the warmth of her surroundings stole through her. As he was going out of the room a thought struck her. Back flooded the old memory of her independence and her theory of sexual equality.

"Sleep well to-night. My work is finished, and I am free." There was a premeditated self-suppression, a gravity of restraint, which implied some falsity; some intention other than the words conveyed.

I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was little sleep in the Castle that night till late. What I dreamt of—if I dreamt at all—I know not. “I must not deceive myself; it was no dream, but all a grim reality. We want no proofs; we ask none to believe us!”

###

To Meet at Midnight

To Meet at Midnight
by
Bobby Derie

"Those who do not forgive deserve it not themselves," the priest spoke aloud. The light from the setting sun reflected off her blade, playing over his face. With a smooth pull, she drew and cut. The old priest's scream came out as a reedy whine.

"Suits me just fine."

*

The sun was set, and the first stars of evening were faint against the deepening purple sky. Her revolver spat fire once, twice. The last two women fell, their brains painted the wall behind them, their swords clattered on the floor.

"He'll kill you," the madam slumped against the floor. The silk dress hung tight against her sagging tits, which heaved with every labored breath. "Stupid bitch. I've survived worse than you."

"No ma'am," she emptied the spent cartridges from the old Navy Colt. "You haven't." The single round slid home. The chambers spun with a gameshow whiz.

*

Gorillas don't cry. But they whine and scream when they're in pain. Wordless huffs and mewls interspersed with howls and sharp squeals as it moved. As the moon rose over the trees, she emptied the last of her bullets in its skull, and didn't count them wasted.

She holstered the gun and drew her Bowie. The little man's mustache twitched, the risen moon reflected in his glasses, and but the syringe in his left hand was already empty, his eyes vacant, glassy, irises huge but unseeing.

The blade flashed in the moonlight, its work still to be done.

*

Three bloody scalps hung from her belt, a red ruin trailed on the pants leg beneath them. Boots crunched on gravel in measured pace with the chimes as he walked the cemetery road between angels of granite and marble, past stones sharp and new to those that cracked and crumbled, and around the detritus has sprung tall grasses and wild flowers, to the low domed mounds where were built portals to private mausoleums; a sepulchral Shire where hobbits and elf-kings might have been laid to rest, ancient kings and vikings. Mothers and fathers.

He sniffed the darkness, and smelled blood. Teeth flashed in the moonlight.

"Well met," he spoke to the darkness. She leaned against the door to the mausoleum, her Bowie knife already brandished, but the sword was still strapped to her side.

"Your familiars are done for." His smile would have caused a wolf to roll over and show its belly, but she stood firm.

"And you ain't getting back into this crypt come sunup."

"You will stop me? With your little knife?"

"I seem to recall a Bowie did for one of you once."

"Yes. He was a Texan too, of course."

With a deliberate calm, he undid his cravat, removed his coat and hat, laying the black silk garments upon a nearby bench. She watched him undress, but never moved from the doorway.

"I must say, I'm surprised. Usually it's gasoline and gunpowder. Fire and silver. Holy water and crucifixes."

"Too much bother. You ain't worth more than steel and sunlight." She drew her sword. Old Toledo steel, brought over from Mexico. "An' I wanted you to know. I could have had you when you was sleepin'. I could have hauled your carcass into the bonfire, staked you out on the prairie to see the dawn. I could have buried pieces of you at every crossroad from here to Oklahoma. But it ain't just about the deed. I want you to know you been beat."

Naked, he faced her again. A sharp thumbnail dug at the skin of his sternum, finding a bloodless seam there. She watched him shuck the thin skin of humanity, and kick it away from him with one gore-slick paw, to land crumpled at the foot of the bench with his other clothes.

Twelve chimes rang out over house and field from the old church bell.

###

Student of the Club

Student of the Club
by
Bobby Derie

"Ojan! You're up." The Master kneeled before the proving ground; to either side of him were the Masters from the other villages and islands. Two lines of clean white river-stones six paces apart marked out the space; young students moved back and forth with palm-fan brooms, sweeping the sand smooth once more.

Ojan took his place to the Master's left. A lanky youth not yet at his full growth, Ojan had only passed through the manhood rites only the previous moon, and still had the scabs on his penis to show it. Today he was dressed in a red kilt, all ornament discarded. He held his club with his left hand, the tip towards the ground, as he had been taught. Safety first. It was two arm-lengths long, and widened from two-finger-lengths at the hilt to four finger-lengths at the widest part, narrowing down to a point, the edge divided into six striking-points on each side, the whole thing of hardwood and fire-hardened at the point.

Across the expanse of fresh-swept sand stood Mulan, of the Far Island. He was bigger than Ojan by a head, and had the sleek muscles of a diver; they said that the masters on the Far Island made their apprentices swim the length of a channel, holding their clubs above their heads so they wouldn't get wet... He wore only a diver's loincloth, a pale-colored thing held together with laces, showing off the sweeping lines that were the outline of his manhood tattoos, to be filled in as he completed them. His club was a curved shillelagh an arm's length long with a knob shaped like a whale's head.

The apprentices from the other islands sat and waited their turns, clubs held at their knees.

The Master held up one nut-brown hand up, then dropped it down.

Mulan rushed to the assault, a scream beginning in his throat, swinging the club above his head. Ojan stepped forward, careful of his footwork in the sand and stabbed his longer club out; the tip caught Mulan beneath the sternum, bringing his rush to a sudden halt and cutting his war-yell off in a rush of air. The smaller youth took a step forward to try and press the advantage with a sweeping arc of his club, but Mulan beat the thinner club off with a back-handed swipe and shakily backed out of range.

That set the stage for the next few tense passes; Ojan using the longer reach against Mulan's greater raw power, always keeping the taller youth from closing. Finally, after a parry where Ojan had slightly overextended himself, Mulan launched himself forward and attempted to grapple, sweeping his club low to hook Ojan's left knee while the Far Islander's left hand closed on Ojan's right wrist. The slighter youth seemed caught for a moment, but planted his club as deep as he could in the sand and straightened up on his right leg, his forehead smacking straight into the bigger youth's nose with a crunch. Blood dripped onto the sand, and the Masters tapped the white stones nearest them.

Tired and breathing hard, Mulan's blood still dripping from his forehead, Ojan realized he had won.

###

S'Mores

S'Mores
by
Bobby Derie

"The S'Mores people trace their lineage to the Early Graham Cracker culture, after the invasion of the Hershey Horde. The invaders settled and mingled with the conquered peoples, giving rise to a new mixed class. However, when the Graham Crackers overthrew their chocolate overlords, this new mixed race was forced out as well, and wandered south to the Marshes of Mallow, where dwelt its own aboriginal race since time immemorial. This, then, was the early beginning of the First S'More Empire, as chronicled in the Book of Night Fires."

Jill carefully stacked the chocolate bricks on the golden crackers. Bill looked on expectantly, holding the bag of marshmallows.

He dreamed of crusty-skinned warriors that smelled gently of honey and oats, battling fearsome giant children, or baking slowly under the harsh sun on long treks beside the banks of a river they dared not swim in, for the dangers that lurked unseen beneath the water, the vast-mouthed horrors of the water-horse and the crocodile. There was conflict on that march, aye, and treachery, sedition, and civil war! Bronze blades gleamed in golden brown fists, rising and falling, molten brown ichor falling into the dust, the whole battlefield a sweet-smelling morass with the slaughter. In the end of course there were soft-bodied Mallow maidens and comely youths, pale as ghosts, warm and gooey on the inside, yielding to their hybrid conquerors...

Bill was brought away from his daze by the striking of a match. Jill looked at him strangely. The flame licked the wood from the dry fungus used as kindling, spreading langorously up the logs. The two set about constructing the treats in silent concentration. Bill was given the task of spearing the marshmallows. When they had four, Jill brought forth the old, long-handled iron poker.

"They were cruel," she spoke low, almost to herself, and Bill had to focus to hear her words above the crackle of the fire. "They had to be. It was an inhospitable place. A wilderness, surrounded by enemies. They reared cities where once there had been only scattered villages; drew down trees and cleared fields, drained swamps and leveled hills to lay roads between them. None of that came easy. Every House wanted power for themselves, every hearth a shrine for its own ancestral god. The old religion of the fire, a cult for every family. Carried down from when it was hard to make fire, when it was kept alive, stoked and fed every day, carried with you in glowing embers in horns or pots...they believed their spirits went into the fire, when they died. It was their link to the divine. But the Mallows, they had their own ways, too. Heresies."

Putting on the oven mitts, she held the laden poker over the fire. "And for that, they burned."

###