'Odalisque' by PF Jeffery (DFL's comments)

Chapter 19 – Toiling

 

Again, I am reminded of the UK ‘Big Brother’ Reality/Unreality TV show (in a good way): with the changing of passive/active roles, changing ‘heads of house’, Heaven/Hell, changing of friends and befriending etc. etc.

 

Then, the introduction of bond-lockers etc and the almost abrupt transition of our heroine from the Laughing Phallus scenario to that of becoming one of Sam’s cart horses.  The latter situation is a striking concept, beautifully handled...reminding me sometimes of certain elements in Goldfrapp’s stage act.

 

Choice snippets among many;

 

This was a development I had not foreseen.  Back in the days of my personage, I had of course punished slaves – although my feeling remained that I had made rather a mess of it.  Taking responsibility for the discipline of my fellow slaves was quite another matter, and not at all welcome.  The fact that our lives might depend upon it rendered matters very much worse.

 

True to her word, Madame Scurf provided us, in the whip-making workshop, with our own image of the goddess.  She was only about six inches tall, moulded from sawdust and glue, crudely painted, but the image sufficed.  The more religious of us prepared an adequate altar and we soon felt the gracious presence of Our Lady of the Lamp.  It may be that there were the remains of whores in the glue of her composition, allowing them to achieve – in some wise – unity with the deity.

 

Sam buckled the cart harness to mine, almost fondling me as he did so.  His touch proved surprisingly gentle.  His kindness, if it might be so considered, was not of the sort persons direct toward their fellows.  Rather, it was such as one might bestow upon a valued beast.

“Good ’orsey,” he cooed, “pretty ’orsey… ’old steady, nah, ’orsey.”

 

Unbuckling a pouch at her waist, the basta produced a fragment of beast-flake.  Unlike the biscuit Sam had given me earlier, it was slightly sweet, had a pleasant oaty flavour and was not in the least musty.  Taking a brush from another pouch, she attended to my hair.  She didn’t have time to make me gleam like a military draught slave, but by the time she was done I felt an unexpected stirring of personal pride.

Leaving the barracks saddened me.  My regret at passing from the care of the basta was only a little ameliorated by the fact that we were now travelling unladen.  An empty cart after a rub down with a clean towel is, for a draught slave, a great luxury.  Perhaps I was, as yet, insufficiently accustomed to heavy loads to fully appreciate a light one.

 

.......................................

Query:

 

I didn’t get the grammatical sense of this:

 

The exercise was worse than useless – they were marking time, on a sharp right-hand turn the slaves to the left make all the effort.

 

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Word docs of the actual chapters are freely available to readers of this blog.

 

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The links to all Chapter comments by me are here: http://weirdmonger.blogspot.com/2008/06/odalisque.html

 

 

 

Posted by: newdfl on 8/13/2008 4:45:34 AM , 3 comments

Submitted by Pet at 8/14/2008 5:05:24 AM

Thank you.

Never having watched "Big Brother", I'm rather bemused by the comparison with that show.

The horse girls no longer appear in Goldfrapp's stage act (although the wolf ladies do) -- but I think that Goldfrapp and I may have drawn upon the same archetype, here.

I'm not sure that I understand your query. Do you mean that you don't follow the grammar of the sentence -- or that you don't undertand its meaning? Looking at sentence, I see that its structure is a little unusual, in that it has two adverbial clauses of causation, the second of them qualifying the first. Moreover, clauses of this kind are often introduced by "because" (or a synonym) -- but that is understood, rather than stated, in both instances. Essentially:

(Main clause) The exercise was worse than useless
(First adverbial clause) [because] they were marking time
(Second adverbial clause, qualifying the first) [because] on a sharp right-hand turn the slaves to the left make all the effort.

Is that clear now? Have I failed to grasp the nature of your query? Do you think that it needs changing?

I assume that you understand the physics of the sentence -- that, in turning a vehicle sharply to the right, more effort has to be applied to its left hand side than to its right.

Submitted by des at 8/14/2008 6:35:13 AM

I think, on reflection, I must have been bemused by the past tense (was, were) followed by the present tense (make).

Submitted by Pet at 8/14/2008 7:17:54 AM

I see, that makes sense. The tense changes, I suppose, from specific past experience to that of a generalised reflection upon that experience.

 

od 8
DFL’S COMMENTS ON ‘ODALISQUE’ BY PF JEFFERY

 

 

Chapter 8 - Destinations

 

Onward with Tuerqui’s rite of passage in captivity, spiritually, salaciously, politically. A real fantasy flavour to this chapter, with shifting visions – perhaps symbolic of the novel itself strobing between truth and untruth ... between faith and fabrication.  Beautifully told, as ever.  And we meet one of the big name players of the story towards the end of the chapter.

 

No typos or queries this time! Damn!

 

Some snippets I took a fancy to:

 

=====================

It was hard to sleep that night, settled on the ground without any form of bedding.  The proximity of the Badlands – and realisation that we were to cross them the following day – added to the difficulty.  It became cold during the night, and we girls drew closer for warmth – and comfort, I’m sure.  Before dawn, we were in one big cluster, struggling restlessly as slaves attempted to avoid the perimeter.

 

==================

Abruptly, I stepped from the mist.  Before me was a barren greyish expanse – undoubtedly the Grey Plain – and such had been my expectation.  What the name did not imply was that it would surge and roll as though it were the sea[1][1].  For the moment, I was more concerned with a sensation like sea sickness than with the unnaturalness of what should have been solid ground behaving thus.

[1][1] This must have been an effect of breathing the hallucinatory vapour as Tuerqui crossed the Doubtful Ridge.  Accounts of journeys in the opposite direction report similar things of the Cracked Meadow – and the innocent farmlands beyond.

===========================

 

 

Soon I was in a strange dream world where things that might have been slave boys vanished whenever I tried to look at them.

 

==================

 

An impression that refused to be dismissed was of the plants having been tortured into unnatural forms.  Years later, my friend Passibelle told me that this was precisely correct – that the mad torment composer Calline Smith had spent several years inflicting pain upon Badlands vegetation[2][2].

[2] Calline Smith (YD 529-572) was a torment composer, of whom strange stories are told.  The story of plant torment is recounted at length in Doreen Harkness’ Lives of the Composers, although she gives it no credence.  Presumably, nothing of the sort ever existed – and none of Smith’s scores survive.  Rabbit Wood now seems to be an unremarkable tract of woodland.

 

 

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Word docs of the actual chapters are freely available to readers of this blog.

 The links to all Chapter comments by me are here: http://weirdmonger.blogspot.com/2008/06/odalisque.html

 

 

 

 

 

Posted by: newdfl on 7/2/2008 10:38:08 AM , 4 comments

Submitted by Pet at 7/2/2008 11:34:24 AM

No typos or queries? Either you were less alert whilst reading the chapter or I was more alert whilst writing it. I wonder which (I hope the latter).

This is the chapter Rog Calenture plans to publish in a magazine.

The big name player to whom you refer reappears in Chapter 10 -- but her chief moment in the book isn't until Chapter 49.

Submitted by des at 7/2/2008 11:39:00 AM

Has Rog got the 'Odalisque' chapter or the 'Of Bondlings & Blesh' chapter?

Submitted by Pet at 7/2/2008 12:05:38 PM

He has both. I said I'd prefer him to print the "Odalisque" one. He was talking of illustrating it, too. But it seems a long while since I last heard from him. I'm not sure what's happening about it.

Submitted by Pet at 7/2/2008 12:16:04 PM

Checking, I find that Rog last contacted me on 11th June(!!). Amongst other things he said:

"If you’d prefer that the revised Chapter 8 be published instead of the earlier version, let me know."

To which I responded (on 12th June) with:

"If possible, I'd prefer you to use the revised version of Chapter 8. (Unless doing so involves you in too much work.)"

I haven't heard from him since then. Maybe I should send him another email.

---

Cerne Zoo
The grounds were full of cages containing chalk drawings acting as if they couldn't get enough flesh to quench their desire for full-blooded erection as monstrous people.

AMBULANCE CHASERS

http://www.knibbworld.com/campbelldiscuss/messages/1/5478.html?1327392256

Ship In The Bottle

 Published 'Sierra Heaven' 1998

 

 

The beautiful princess had never seen the sea in real life although she did take great delight in its image of relentless power - and, indeed, she traced drawings of the oceans upon tracing­-paper, the flimsiest tracing-paper it was possible to obtain without its integrity as tracing-paper being compromised. On the other hand, she had seen the sea in her dreams many times and its waves were crumpled tissue, its ships pencil points, and the wind that blew was her own sweet breath of passion.

 

 

One day, when she reached the earliest age of child-bearing, her father the King informed her about the marriage he had arranged for her - arranged even before she had been conceived as the child who eventually turned out to be the Princess - to a Prince, a handsome Prince; one not only, by all accounts of gossip, hornier than most, but also one who happened to live beside a foggy sea, and a foggy sea to live beside was better than no sea at all.

 

This news was pleasing to one of such strong sex as the Princess, boding well in as much as her undercurrents would be fathomed and her yearnings quenched by a Prince, one with lead in his pencil. Yet she suddenly feared that any prince thus worth his salt would first instruct doctors to examine his bride-to-be, hence discovering that her own tidal breakwater had been breached in dreams and her seed-beds thus despoiled - that the contract between the Prince and the Princess would therefore be deemed null and void even before the Prince had the chance to plumb the depths of her desires.

 

 

Indeed, her integrity, she knew, would be found in tatters, but what made everything so futile in hindsight was the fact that dreams for her had, in any event, never lived up to expectations, simply involving untraceable deep-sea fishing trawlers that sailed too close to the wind or crewless ships that merely passed in the night.

 

Separation

ODALISQUE by PF Jeffery (Chapter 3)

Before the next chapter. Here's a bonus treat for you all. An example of the author's handwriting:
http://newdfl.bloghorn.com/212
(And not being a fading gooseberry, here's mine: http://newdfl.bloghorn.com/213)

Chapter 3 - Unease

A nice snippet (Lord Bustain again):

At this tense moment, Lord Bustain joined us. Approaching the table, his hand was down the front of his breeches – scratching, or I hoped that he was merely scratching. He took the chair next to Jenna’s – she shifted her seat in the opposite direction. Lord Bustain sniffed the fingers that had lately been in his breeches.

Two nifty footnotes:

Nazemen – an hirsute race originating in northern Essex. Now thought to have been fully human – if exceptionally ugly – at this time they were regarded as one of the species of semi-human tom-men.
Nazepork – the flesh of nazemen, served as meat. So called because of its similarity to pork.

Another tasty titbit:

“It was at the Old Gate this morning. One guard skewered, another slit open from throat to willie. A third ’un missing – but that ain’t the most o’ it.” He seemed to be enjoying the grisly story.

No typos this time! damn!

As well as its grotesque and the sex-spiritual, I love this novel's sense of geographical place:

Jenna nodded from time to time as the cartographer’s finger traced a line across the map – through the Meadowlands, Mankash, Lankash and to the city of Leeds in distant Yocker.

Finally, a fuller example of the tangible fictions now made even meatier by this rewrite, a lovely section for you to read (although I'm not sure, without checking, whether this section has in fact changed much from 'Of Bondlings & Blesh'):

“Indeed, I think that you will very likely transfer to the black line. It is a wonderful device known as a rail way. Mighty steam engines are mounted upon iron bogies, and draw padded carriages, their wheels guided by metal rails.”

“Nonsense!” Sir Thomas snorted.

“Why is it nonsense, Sir Thomas?” I asked – finding the idea of a rail way exciting, in so far as I understood it.

“It is quite impossible for a steam engine to draw wheeled vehicles, Princess Margaret, and that is all there is to it.”

“But my father has boats powered by steam engines. If a boat, why not a wheeled vehicle?”

“I am afraid that Michaelson’s third law of motion is against you. Less power is required to move a body through an aqueous environment than over a dry one. Hence the ratio of weight to power in an engine allows it to move a body through water, but would be insufficient to move a vehicle over land. On firm ground, only the gods may fashion machines with sufficient power to move – that is to say persons, slaves and other beasts.”

With a sudden inspiration, I asked: “Have you heard of a flicker machine?”

“Yes, Princess Margaret, I know the device: it projects a shadow play onto the wall. Flicker rolls are turned by a small steam engine, the furnace also provides the light. Sometimes the shadows look like dancing people or beasts – more often they don’t. What of it?”

“Suppose a flicker machine was laid on its side. The steam engine would turn the flicker roll and it would act as a wheel. The thing would move like a miniature steam carriage.”

“Unfortunately not. The device is no more than a toy. More importantly, it simply would not work. It has enough power to move the flicker roll, which is light – but not to move its own weight.”

He took a memorandum book from his pocket and scribbled down some equations about power to weight ratios, velocity and inertia. None of it meant much to me – Miss Lace’s schoolroom strap had left me with few ideas on mathematics, apart from the fact of its being a branch of knowledge that stung my bottom. My attention turned from Sir Thomas’ voice to the song birds. It was far too nice a day to listen to my father’s pedants.

Although unable to argue with an Engineer in Ordinary, I hoped that he was wrong. It would be thrilling to ride in a carriage drawn by a giant flicker machine on its side. Clement Allan believed in the rail way. Who was to say that a cartographer’s opinion counted for less than an engineer’s?

The room smelt musty, with a faint suggestion that one of us might have farted. A shaft of light picked out dust motes circling lazily, the map spread upon the table was dappled with sunshine and shade. From beyond the window, the sound of birds rose to a crescendo – perhaps they were mobbing a hawk. Standing in the more shadowed part of the room, I felt a little chilly, and thought that it would’ve been a good idea to have slipped a cardigan over my sleeveless dress


That finishes the chapter in fine style. If you require to read more (even the whole finished novel) please ask for word attachments of each chapter as and when you read them. 

 

 

CHAPTER COMMENT LINKS: http://weirdmonger.blogspot.com/2008/06/odalisque.html

Tree Panning

Published 'Geek Love' 1996

 

“Intimacy, sheer intimacy!” said the man who lived in the wood next door.

 

Most of the same wood was later to provide the planks for the fence that divided my wood from his. But that was later, much later, after the story had been told. He had a wife, one who habitually wore large hats, some in the shape of things that were not hats, others somehow more like hats than proper hats – and her name was Mrs Worrals.

 

Mrs Worrals gave the lie to her husband’s momentous non-sequitur. She stripped herself near naked and often offered every single part of her body bar one for my exploration. Later, I built the fence.

The Middle Day
First published 'Twelfth Issue' 1992

If I could explain what happened to me that day, I wouldn’t be here now with so much time on my hands to scribble this out. If, indeed, I could explain the DAY itself, nestling as it seemed between Monday and Tuesday, I’d be a normal man - or a MORE normal man, able to return to his 9 to 5 office job, perhaps only to scribble out even greater nonsense than this I scribble now.

I was in North London for a business meeting, one of the few that I’m now asked to attend (whilst a few years ago there were many more, all over England - but for some reason, there’s not so much call these days for me to make visits outside the office). Being early (as was my wont) and not knowing the area at all well, I decided to rest my weary bones in Highgate Wood quite close to the venue of the meeting.

This wood turned out to be a delightful green oasis of towering trees and twittering birds in the midst of relentless roads and gaping undergrounds. As I settled down upon a bench , I could still hear the traffic on Muswell Hill Road; it was like some outraged (or outrageous) God muttering at my escape from his jurisdiction.

The day was Monday. I’m SURE the day was Monday ... except, an hour later after I had emerged from the secret garden (for that is how my mind had idealised this retreat) and had arrived precisely on time for the meeting (as I always prided myself on doing), I was informed by an officious receptionist that I had missed the meeting by one whole day!



Once upon a time, there was a wood in the middle of a city which, for a specific day each year, had a sabbatical from time.

It was necessary for it to have this Awayday, since life in the city was otherwise unbearable. Therefore, God allowed it an annual oasis of non-existence, where not even trees nor birds could disturb it, let alone His own self-confessed grumbling attentions to its natual processes.

Unlike death, which is probably the longest holiday of all, this day-break into nothingness could spruce up the trees and woodland paths, harmonise the birdsong and remove the litter which the local council had missed.

Death, on the other hand, being the mother and father of a day off, serves very little purpose in itself. It only encourages those who believe in reincarnation to come out of the woodshed and prance about naked.



Which is why, I suppose, they put me away here. It wasn’t because I was 24 hours late for the meeting, nor even for my shouts of “Blessed Be The Traffic And Its Wardens” - but the fact that I didn’t have a stitch on ... even my wristwatch had disappeared (and my nails!).

I hope they bring me some more paper later, since I haven’t really finished. Enough room, after this, to scribble a date for future reference, in case I get confused about days again. (All I can do is look forward to a sabbatical from madness, I suppose.)

Delicious
Delicious is not like abstemious or facetious. Abstemious and facetious have all the vowels contained within them—in the right order. Delicious lacks an a.
I read the slip of paper I'd pulled from the tin. Delicious, it said—and I wondered how delicious actually meant what it did mean. I'm sure it's some lingo thing, but I'm not half clever enough for that. Suddenly, I thought of the word suddenly; suddenly doesn't sound like suddenly, does it? Abruptly had more kick, more of a get up and go. Suddenly is sibilant and slow-moving like a sinuous snake.
Once, when in the West Indies, I tasted a snake. It was a delicacy there, a delightful delicacy. Its dead-eyes stared at me from either side of its head, as it lay coiled on my plate.
"It's delicious, try it and see," said my host. We had been drinking a lot. Well, none of my friends were particularly abstemious, and he was no exception.
I took my knife and cut into the snake's rind, finding it remarkably rubbery whilst with the feel of sawing cardboard. The fleshy innards oozed a green substance.
"It looks scrumptious," I said facetiously.
Suddenly, it leapt off the plate and bit me.
"Delicious," it hissed.


published: Blood Roses 2001