[NT] - Resale
The Marchend Cauldron revolved slowly in mid-air, although only because Mike was making it do so, not under its own steam. It didn't shimmer or gleam or appear to be mystical in any way, except that if he really, really, really concentrated, it seemed to be a little more purple than it actually was.
"So how does he do it then?" Charity asked, perched on the corner of the desk. "The ritual thingy."
Mike shrugged. "I dunno, do I?"
"I thought you were an expert. You were going on about that, uh. Vashta Nerada?" She frowned. "No, hang on, that's from that telly program."
"Bhakti narada," Mike sighed. "The devotional processional. I know the theory; it's the details that screw you over. ...your mom's big on mythology; she ever quoted Campbell at you?"
"No?" Charity frowned. "No, hang on, wait, I know this. Um. The thing where all stories have a sort of, like, inherent structure? That repeats, no matter the source -- the details change, but the beats are the same, even if you're Greek or Norse or Polynesion or whatever. The meta-story!"
"Meta-story." Mike nodded. "That's pretty good. Bhakti Narada is the meta-processional. It's the ur-journey, if you want to be pretentious about it--"
"--which you always do," Charity said.
Mike ignored this. The cauldron spun slowly.
"So, what?" she asked eventually.
"To end is to begin," Mike said. Charity stared at him. "The end is where we begin."
"Pre. Ten. Shus. Look," she added, "isn't it just an off switch? We give it to him, he does the mumbo-jumbo, the March ends -- I mean, why else call it the March-End Cauldron? And can I just say, every mystical artefact should be named that way. 'KillsZombies Sword'. 'StabsVampires Stake'. That would be so much better than 'the wand of watoombi' or whatever. Seriously, who--"
"Please stop talking," Mike said. "You're disturbing my brooding."
Charity beamed. "That's what I'm here for, boss!"
"The Death March sort of... pushes him, folds him up, out of life. Angled out of proper alignment. Dead and not dead. And this, this takes that push away, so he falls back down again." Mike frowned at it. "Round and round... Maybe it would be a mercy to keep it from him."
Charity reached out to slap him and he caught her wrist, so she smacked him with the other hand.
"Ow!" he complained.
"Stop being a twat!"
"What? I said maybe! I wasn't actually going to! Geez!" Mike glared half-heartedly, rummaging in his pockets. "Look, see, got my phone." He waved the X-Palm at her. "Texting him right now."
"Make sure you do."
"I am."
"Okay, then." Charity stretched, yawning. "I'm gonna grab some shut-eye. Tell him!"
"I am!" Mike insisted. She just waved as she left. "Uppity slayers."
"I heard that!"
"You were supposed to!"
He stared at the cauldron some more, then sighed and shifted and placed it on the altar in the small ocean-side temple.
"To end is to begin," he said.
The cauldron said nothing. It just sat there. Solid. Boring. Very faintly purple.
"Still," Mike added to himself, wandering outside to get a better signal. "Just because nothing else is ever easy, doesn't mean I can't be wrong once in a while!"
He tapped the last letter on the screen and hit send--
J. BOWLS FOR SALE, GOING CHEAP. COME TO GENOSHA. BRING $10.--and then he sat down against the wall to wait.
"So how does he do it then?" Charity asked, perched on the corner of the desk. "The ritual thingy."
Mike shrugged. "I dunno, do I?"
"I thought you were an expert. You were going on about that, uh. Vashta Nerada?" She frowned. "No, hang on, that's from that telly program."
"Bhakti narada," Mike sighed. "The devotional processional. I know the theory; it's the details that screw you over. ...your mom's big on mythology; she ever quoted Campbell at you?"
"No?" Charity frowned. "No, hang on, wait, I know this. Um. The thing where all stories have a sort of, like, inherent structure? That repeats, no matter the source -- the details change, but the beats are the same, even if you're Greek or Norse or Polynesion or whatever. The meta-story!"
"Meta-story." Mike nodded. "That's pretty good. Bhakti Narada is the meta-processional. It's the ur-journey, if you want to be pretentious about it--"
"--which you always do," Charity said.
Mike ignored this. The cauldron spun slowly.
"So, what?" she asked eventually.
"To end is to begin," Mike said. Charity stared at him. "The end is where we begin."
"Pre. Ten. Shus. Look," she added, "isn't it just an off switch? We give it to him, he does the mumbo-jumbo, the March ends -- I mean, why else call it the March-End Cauldron? And can I just say, every mystical artefact should be named that way. 'KillsZombies Sword'. 'StabsVampires Stake'. That would be so much better than 'the wand of watoombi' or whatever. Seriously, who--"
"Please stop talking," Mike said. "You're disturbing my brooding."
Charity beamed. "That's what I'm here for, boss!"
"The Death March sort of... pushes him, folds him up, out of life. Angled out of proper alignment. Dead and not dead. And this, this takes that push away, so he falls back down again." Mike frowned at it. "Round and round... Maybe it would be a mercy to keep it from him."
Charity reached out to slap him and he caught her wrist, so she smacked him with the other hand.
"Ow!" he complained.
"Stop being a twat!"
"What? I said maybe! I wasn't actually going to! Geez!" Mike glared half-heartedly, rummaging in his pockets. "Look, see, got my phone." He waved the X-Palm at her. "Texting him right now."
"Make sure you do."
"I am."
"Okay, then." Charity stretched, yawning. "I'm gonna grab some shut-eye. Tell him!"
"I am!" Mike insisted. She just waved as she left. "Uppity slayers."
"I heard that!"
"You were supposed to!"
He stared at the cauldron some more, then sighed and shifted and placed it on the altar in the small ocean-side temple.
"To end is to begin," he said.
The cauldron said nothing. It just sat there. Solid. Boring. Very faintly purple.
"Still," Mike added to himself, wandering outside to get a better signal. "Just because nothing else is ever easy, doesn't mean I can't be wrong once in a while!"
He tapped the last letter on the screen and hit send--
J. BOWLS FOR SALE, GOING CHEAP. COME TO GENOSHA. BRING $10.--and then he sat down against the wall to wait.