The Name's Clara

I collect old books. Mostly turn of the century stuff published between 1870 and 1920. My parents did too. They emassed a collection of books somewhere in the thousands. They got them out of abandoned houses, at auctions, as gifts and at every antique store on the east coast. My dad cleaned out his house after the divorce and I got some of the books. I planned to keep the good ones and hopefully sell some of the ones I didn’t have room for. For the past several days I have been researching the different titles and publishing dates to see how much they’re worth, usually it’s somewhere between $15-$50 so I’m not getting rich off it any time soon. I encountered this book:

Beautiful, right? Screams late Victorian period opulence. Definitely keeping it. I check for an owner’s name or little note on the title page, I love books that were Christmas gifts long ago. Instead I find this:

A gift for a student as an award for her academic success. From either 1875 or 1895. Very fucking cool. I search for the Chatsworth Institute of Baltimore Maryland in hopes that I am holding a significant piece of history in my hands. No such Institute has ever existed in Baltimore, none. Not historically, not currently. There is a Chatsworth school in Maryland but it’s a contemporary public school. I cannot find record of this school anywhere online, there is nothing left behind, it must have been a formal school to afford to give awards. There should be some trace of it. It’s like this book came from an alternate universe.

Let’s go to the title page:

Beautifully illustrated by a W Cunston or W Gunston. Neither name being up anyone. The name of the author of this book is nowhere to be seen. The publisher is London based and mostly published childrens books (including the words of Beatrice Potter) and that is the only concrete fact I can get. Googling “Eilon Manor” and “The Four Sisters” brings up very little. I sift and I find a book called Eilon Manor published in 1863. Like Baptista, it’s an incredibly boring piece of literature for Victorian young women. The author is listed as D. Richard, no first name, no gender, no location. D. Richard does not seem to exist either.

A sigh escapes you as you toss over the last of your rations, not even bothering to stand up as you do so. What’s the point? You think. I’ve been trapped in this cave for days, nobody is looking for me, and the monsters are closing in. Why should I bother even trying? I could just fall asleep now, and let this little mimic eat me too.

The thing is… it doesn’t. It eats your rations, but when you lay down and try to sleep, it doesn’t attack. You do hear it move closer, but you don’t open your eyes until you feel something nudge your hand. As you barely open your eyes, you can see that the mimic has morphed itself into a crude sword. You can’t help but chuckle.

“You’re cute, but I don’t have anything left to give you.” You don’t have anything left to give for yourself either, but you don’t say so.

The mimic doesn’t seem to take no for an answer. It becomes a dagger, then an axe, then a staff, as though it’s trying to determine what your preffered weapon is.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not working. I’m not going to pick you up and take you into some other part of this stupid cave system. Nice try, though.”

You turn away from it and attempt to sleep again. As you do so, you find yourself shivering. You really wish, as you doze off, that you had a blanket.

When you wake, much later, you’re surprised to find yourself covered with the warmest blanket you’ve ever had. You quickly sit up, eagerly hoping that someone had cone for you, but the cave is empty. When you look at the blanket, you notice the imperfect edges and the janky seam across the middle.

“…why haven’t you eaten me yet?” You ask the little mimic that’s now laying on top of you. “What’s wrong with you?”

The mimic, still in the form of the blanket, slithers off of you, but it does not respond. Instead, it begins taking the form of weapons again. When it turns into a crooked staff, you reach out, despite yourself. Your fingers wrap around it and you use it to haul your aching, injured body to your feet. “I guess there are probably nicer places to die.”

You know you won’t get far. And you don’t. Especially not without light. The mimic doesn’t seem too bothered, though. When you collapse again, it scuttles off. Perhaps this was simply where it wanted you to take it. Perhaps now you can finally succumb to your exhaustion.

Then, a few minutes later, a misshapen clay cup bumps against your hand. It’s full of water, and there’s a crack in the middle like a jagged mouth. You pick up the cup and you drink, telling yourself it’s only out of desperation. When you set the cup down, that little cracked mouth seems to smile.

This goes on for what feels like days. The mimic helps you limp along through the tunnels, transforming into whatever you may need at any given time. Every time you fall asleep, you expect not to wake up. Yet, you do, usually with a mimic blanket wrapped around you. It brings you food and water when you can.

The biggest surprise comes when one morning, you find you’re pleased to have survived another night. You’re happy to have the mimic keeping you warm. It’s a new feeling, and a confusing one, but it’s not unpleasant.

The other monsters that you know are down here seem to leave you alone for the most part. You aren’t sure why. It crosses your mind that maybe it has something to do with the mimic. Then again, maybe they’re just waiting for you to die. Death is gradually beginning to sound less and less appealing.

The day you catch a glimpse of sunlight down a long and narrow tunnel is the first day you finally feel like your old self again. Your pace quickens, and you don’t need to lean on the mimic’s staff form quite so much. The illusion shatters when you reach the light’s source. A small gap, high above. You curl up on the floor and cry. When you finally have the strength to look up again, your mimic has become a ladder.

Getting up is hard, in your state. Climbing, even more so. But the ladder is the biggest and best transformation the mimic has done so far, and if it wants you to get out, then you can’t let it down.

You feel it push up under you when you reach the gap. It helps you squeeze through, and then… freedom. Fresh air, and sunlight. You lay on your back on the stone, and you pass out.

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A great Rabbi was once asked, "Why did God create atheists?"

The Rabbi said, "Atheists are the most important example for all who believe in God. When an atheist is moral, and good, and kind, and compassionate, it's not because he believes God commanded him to be so, nor because he fears any punishment for being bad. An atheist performs acts of righteousness because he knows it is the right thing to do. And where is God in this? If he is in the atheist's heart, or guiding him, it doesn't matter. The atheist helps regardless. He helps because he believes there is nobody else, no power that can or will act without his own deeds.

We’re so lucky they filmed Lord of the Rings when they did. Twenty years later, they would’ve had Viggo Mortensen riding a green bike that they CGI into a horse because that’s better for some reason.

Isengard and Orthanc? Bigature (miniature but like, the size of a tennis court). Minas Tirith? Bigature. Helm’s Deep, the Black Gate, Barad-dur, Minas Morgul, Osgiliath, even elements of Lothlorien, Moria, and the Grey Havens? BIGATURES. Hobbits and Gandalf in one shot? Almost always tricks of perspective with, for example, a table set that was made in 3 pieces to move and make you think Tiny Elijah Wood™ was sitting at the same table as Giant Ian McKellan™, not greenscreen. They literally went so far as to make the Hobbits’ clothes (on the taller actors, not their little stunt doubles) with thicker thread to make their smallness look real.

Those statues, the Gates of Argonath? CG. The gorge and the boats? Real.

let's not think about the 2019-2022 pandemic going on

let's not think about how such a pandemic causing his parents' death would make Tadashi grow up to want to provide better free universal healthcare and lead him to majoring in engineering to create a "personal healthcare companion"

let's not think about how Cass relies on her cafe to provide for her family and that maybe she was so unwilling to close was because there was a time when it had to be closed and it was difficult to take care of a 3 year old and 10 year old

For any writers: http://er.jsc.nasa.gov/seh/SFTerms.html