The Word of Zed (Part 1)

The Astronomer
(c) 2008 Melissa Gay

Many, many years ago I had the opportunity to write a novelette for an anthology and the requirement was that the story be based on this wonderful artwork created by artist Melissa Gay.  The Word of Zed was the result.

Please do check out Melissa's work at her website. She's incredibly talented.

I was deeply into my Sir Terry Prachett years at that point, so there is some Pratchettian nuances here. The cat, Bobkins, was a stray in our neighborhood, and Paris Impton is a takeoff on a certain celebrity. The real life version is a lot more caring and kind, and is currently doing charity work for the victims of the LA fires. Bless her! 

So seventeen years later, here's that story, serialized (seven parts). I hope you enjoy it! 

The Word of Zed
​Part 1

Words are magical. Words shape lives. They have power. Take the word imp for instance. Imps are mischievous, known to play pranks. They are quick on their two-toed feet, can hear the faintest sounds courtesy of their triangular-shaped ears, and giggle nervously while they dream up some naughty jest. It's not easy being an imp; you try being mischievous 24/7.

Some say that imps are in the grip of the Darker Powers, but that's all P.R. For the most part the Darker Powers aren't known for a sense of humor. At the first prank, an imp would find itself in serious trouble. Instead of dabbling with “ruling the world” sort of stuff, imps are content with the occasional game of Old Goblin or betting on the salamanders at the Happy Valley Racetrack.

Then there was Zed. He was so named because he was the last impling in a huge family and his mother ran out of names. It was also a nudge in the anthropomorphic ribs of the High Lord of All Mischief, Blessed be His Impishness, that enough was enough. Sometimes the gods need a prod with a sharp stick to get the hint. Zed was indeed the last in the family, and the most unique.

He had all the usual imp-like features: rugged skin that made him look like he'd been dipped in a pot of dull green paint, split toes, long fingers and large bat-like ears that swiveled in the wind like sails on a privateer.

That's where the similarity ended. Imps are naughty; Zed was not. While his umpti-odd brothers and sisters jinneed up cunning games, devious ruses and outright mayhem, he was content to stare at letters. Any letter would do. Some days it was “A”, others a “P”. They fascinated him. When he started duplicating them in his morning gruel his future went in a different direction.

While his fellow imps capered and chattered and made life difficult for those around them, Zed scribed letters. The letters multiplied and begat words. Sentences begat paragraphs and then whole scrolls. This talent led him to his role as Scribe to the Great Magi; or as the locals called him at the corner pub—the Guy with the Really Big Telescope.

It was a great job. The Magi dictated and Zed scribed. It worked perfectly until something grew more powerful than his love of words. Zed lowered his gaze to the scrollcard in his hand. The object of his current obsession was pictured on that card. Paris Impton was the most beautiful imphet he'd ever seen.

Her eyes were wide like “ohs”, not slitted like his. Her noticeably shortened ears were adorned with jewels. Her nose didn't stick out either, but tapered gently to the tip. She had platinum hair that shown like a glittering meteor and her body had curves where he didn't.

Like most star-struck imps, he's written a gushing fan scroll. He'd never expected a reply, but he'd received one. The most magnificent imphet had written him. Or at least one of her Scribes had, but that was close enough.

“Did you get that?” the Magi asked.

Zed sighed and tucked the card under his hind foot to hide it.

​“Yes, master,” he replied, his voice an octave lower than most of his kind. He shifted his quill to the scroll and quoted as he wrote, “‘Black Nights are always solitary, not found in pairs or large groups.’” Of course, they'd be. There was only one night at a time. Sometimes his master seemed so simple.

As if reading his mind, the Magi added, “That is knight with a “K”, Scribe. The warrior sort. You are too literal on occasion.”

Zed made the change, glowering as he did. Once it was complete, he consulted the dial above them as it turned in a great circle marking time. Just the Scorpion needed to pass and his day was done. He looked forward to a quiet evening with the latest installment of Vanity Imp. There was a new article about Paris and he couldn't wait to read about her exploits.

When there was nothing more from his master, he pulled the card out again. Paris was in a regal pose, though his kind had no royalty to speak of. Surely if they did, they would look like her. Her hip jutted out at a coquettish angle and her mouth formed an oval pout. Her long legs didn't seem as awkward as his.

In one hand was her Teacup Hedgehog, Tiggy, who peered over the top of its china home. Zed was sure Paris' sultry smile was just for him. He pointedly ignored the notation on the back that this was one of over ten thousand scroll cards printed by the engraving firm of Newt, Hamster and Mimeograph.

No, it was just for him.

“Scribe?” 

“Master?” he replied, turning in such a way to shield the object of his affection.

“Please tell Mallet and Wrench to stop making so much noise. They are distracting. Surely they can move the chains in a quieter fashion.”

“Yes, Master.” He craned his neck and glared at the two dragonets hanging from a thick chain some thirty feet above. When they got bored, they made noise. When they weren't bored, they made noise. Noise was to a dragonet like rain to a thunderstorm. You couldn't have one without the other.

For a moment he felt bad having to chastise them. They were more impish than he was. If anything, they should be grumbling at him about scritching away with his quill all day. Imps were not supposed to be Scribes.

He switched his mind to the Draconian dialect and announced, “Noise… stop… master.”

“Noise… like… me,” Wrench replied in the queer reverse order that characterized that particular dialect. Oddly enough, the younger the dragon, the more simple the language. It was only the old ones who understood the power of the spoken word.

Zed muttered under his breath. “I know you like the noise.” Wrench zipped down and hovered inches from Zed's long nose. He cocked his head, not understanding. Zed tried again. “Noise… stop… master… now!”

Wrench grumbled under his breath. More importantly, the noise stopped. Mallet squeaked a retort from high above them. It was very rude.

Fortunately, the Magi could not speak Draconian or he would have been shocked at the suggestion of what he could do with his telescope.
 
Zed became aware that his master was droning on again and that he'd missed a good deal of the dictation. Capable of rewinding conversations in his head, he flipped his mind back to when the Magi started talking and transcribed. As his mother had once observed, the High Lord of All Mischief, Blessed be His Impishness, had a devious sense of humor when it had come to creating Zed.
 
Above him the giant wheel snapped to the Hour of the Scorpion and he exhaled a sigh of relief. Another day done.

“Oh my, that time already,” the Magi said, clearly disappointed. “We shall continue with the knights in the morning. With the dragonets aid on the chains, he retracted the scope and then descended the stairs, tugging on his beard as he went. “I am most keen to find out how they practice their fighting skills if they are always alone. That is quite a puzzle.”

He reached the floor of the observatory and then paused. Gazing up at Zed, he added, “Good evening, Scribe. Be sure to file the scrolls properly.”

“Yes, sir.” Of course, he'd file the scrolls properly or they'd raise a ruckus. Words did that if you treated them improperly.

Wrench zipped down and hovered by his nose, the beat of its wings like a small fan. “Play… now…we?” it squeaked.

Zed shook his head. “I'm too tired,” he fibbed. In truth, he wanted to curl up in his niche in the Scrollery and sigh over the delightful Miss Impton. As Wrench gave him a look of disappointment, Zed remembered the parchment that he'd written to his mum. He tugged it out of his vest and gave it to the dragonet.

“Away….send… this.”

Wrench clamped it in a claw, delivering tiny little cuts into the paper. Zed rolled his eyes at the sight. His mother once questioned him why his letters looked like someone had poked holes in them.

“Just the dragonets,” he muttered. He was the only one of his mother's thirty-seven implings who could write. The others sent her roasted bats, bits of string or discarded butterfly wings they'd found. They had it easy; Zed had to write every day.

He cleaned the quill between his toes and then jammed a stopper toad into the top of the ink bottle. The amphibian puffed up to fill the space and then issued a low croak.

Zed rolled the parchment and hopped down the stairs one at a time. Once he reached the observatory floor, he followed the green stars painted on the flat black stones. He knew where he was going, but not all of the master's servants were that smart. Green stars went to the Scrollery, blue stars to the dragon perches in the Tower, yellow stars to his small room and red stars to where the Magi lived. Zed never followed the red stars.

As he pattered off he heard Mallet banging on the chains and zipping around the giant cogwheels like a mechanical dragonfly. Someday he'd get too big and get stuck. Then there'd be stray bits of dragon to clean up.

Wrench was back already, having posted the letter to the gnome at the front gate. He promptly challenged his friend to a game of glide, dive and roll and the ruckus began.

“They're no better than common gremlins,” Zed muttered. “Worse.” Gremlins couldn't fly and didn't have voices that made your ears plead for mercy.

Once in the Scrollery, Zed climbed into his niche. He had his own room, but he liked being near the words, and they didn't seem to mind. He extracted Vanity Imp from under his bedding. Paris Impton graced the cover. He gave her a chaste kiss and thumbed to the article with anticipation, entering a world he could only imagine in his dreams. 

* * * * *

At the Brown household, the bedtime ritual was always the same. Aiden would deliver a quick look under the sheets to check for monsters. After pounding on his pillow to ensure there were no nasties hiding inside—monsters were pretty clever you know—he'd snuggle in, pulling his Milky Way Galaxy sheets up to his nose. 

​Bobkins would take that as his cue and sail up on the bed, stalk along Aiden's side and then flop himself over the boy's knee, pinning him to the mattress. Aiden would snake out an arm and give the cat a scratch. Purring would ensue.

“Good night, kiddo,” Melissa called from the doorway, “and Happy Birthday!”

A grin considerably larger than normal appeared on her son's exhausted face. A big bowl of chocolate nut ice cream and a Hulk-sized piece of cake would do in any five-year-old.
​
“I'll exchange your grandmothers' gifts tomorrow,” she added.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She could hear the relief in his voice. Little boys did not want fancy dress shirts or pencil cases with pictures of presidents on them. Nor did they want books on coin collecting.

Uncle Jim understood kids. His gifts were always cool. Last year it had been a robot that he'd programmed to chase after Bobkins. The robot screeched, “Halt! Halt!” before firing foam-tipped darts at the fleeing feline. This year Jim had helped her create The Book.

She edged the door nearly closed, leaving sufficient paw space lest Bobkins decided to wander. After curling up in her own bed, Melissa waited in nervous anticipation. By now Aiden would be digging under the pillow for his book and penlight. He didn't think Mom knew he read after the lights were out, but that was part of the allure. Forbidden fruit. For the past week, he'd been reading a book on dinosaurs. Tonight he'd find something different.

This year's present was one-of-a-kind. How she'd top it next year, she had no notion. All that mattered was that Aiden had an awesome birthday. She heard a yelp of surprise and then silence. Melissa grinned. “Gotcha!”

Once his mother had gone to bed, Aiden dug under the pillow like a squirrel after the world's largest nut. Up came the Spider Man penlight and then the book. After another furtive glance toward the door, he propped himself against the headboard and placed the book on his knees.

Then he stared. This wasn't his dinosaur book, the one with the big jelly stain on the cover. This was a new one. He opened it wide eyed, the tiny penlight wavering in the dim air like a drunken firefly.

He saw his name and the words Happy Birthday! Mom & Uncle Jim.

“She knows,” he said, shaking his head. Bobkins groomed a paw in silence as if this was too obvious to comment upon. Aiden turned another page and started back in surprise when it came up to meet him. It was a pop-up book.

“Neat,” he said and then bent closer to study the page. He sounded out the first two words. He'd have to have his mom help with some of the others. But he didn't need help with the picture. There was this guy. He had a beard and wore a big purple robe with some sort of white fur around the edges.

“Bet it's made out of mouse fur,” Aiden said. Bobkins stopped licking and raised his head at the sound of what might be a late night snack. “And he's got a gold crown. He's looking at a tell… tell…” He frowned. “You know, you look at stars.” He leaned closer, examining the scene with his penlight. “I bet he can see everything!” The penlight veered left, revealing a green creature.

“Wow! I wonder what he is.” Looking down at the words he found one that looked familiar. He knew this one. “Imp.” His mom called him that a lot when he was misbehaving and she'd even made him a T-shirt that had the word on it. This imp was green like a leaf and held a big feather in his hand. He wrote words on a long piece of paper. “He's got funny ears,” Aiden giggled.

Bobkins began to wash one of his own in apparent sympathy. Then Aiden spied the two flying creatures hanging from the chains near the top of the picture. One had a wrench in his hand and the other a hammer of some sort. He knew what they were.

“And there's dragons! Wow. I wonder what they do. Wait until I show Uncle Jim,” he announced.

​A yawn made Aiden close the book and hide it away. Clicking off the penlight, he buried it as well. Burrowing under the covers, he smiled. His mom had gotten him a book with imps and dragons and his tummy was full of cake and ice cream. It was his best birthday ever.​
​

Part Two

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(c) 2008 Jana Oliver
All Rights Reserved
(and yes, that means you AI)