Bread

By Stephen Brown

One man's obsession with scotland. One shamanic detective. one twelfth century monk catapulted through time to present day England.
A devil, a megalomaniac maths lecturer and the world on the brink of economic collapse. It sounds a convoluted tale, but it all fits together - honest.
And what's more, while it doesn't actually explain how time travel is possible, it does at least prove that it does exist. Irrefutably.
That is, of course, if you believe the word of a man whose business card contains no contact details, who smokes mushrooms through a pipe and who talks to mooses.
And what has any of this got to do with Scotland?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Brown
• Release date: Jun 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301415755

Stephen Brown

Stephen Brown is Emeritus Professor of Learning Technologies and former Head of the School of Media and Communication at De Montfort University. He has been Senior Technology Adviser at the JISC Technologies Centre, Head of Distance Learning at BT, Royal Academy of Engineering Visiting Professor in Engineering Design, and President of the Association for Learning Technology. He has also been a Member of the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development and an Associate Member of the Institute for Ergonomics and Human Factors. Since 2005, he has been a registered European Commission research expert in the fields of Technology Enhanced Learning, Digital Libraries and Cultural Heritage. He was a member of the AHRC Peer Review College for ten years.

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BREAD

By Stephen Brown

Copyright 2012 Stephen Brown

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Also available in Paperback. See author website for details

http://www.thestephenbrown.co.uk/

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For

Douglas Adams

A genius 1952 – 2001

Table of Contents

Title Page

Contents

The Beginning

About the Author

Other Works

Chosen Charity

THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY

It is early spring, and my first impressions of Scotland have been beautiful. Despite the torrential rain and howling, relentless winds - or perhaps partly because of them - the whole place exudes a certain freshness that sings to the soul made stale by city life. There is an ever-present, timeless quality that is difficult to describe; like a watch that has had the hour and minute hands removed - only the second hand tick-tick-ticking resolutely away. An imprecise, immeasurable time, unrelated to any fixed points of reference that simply passes inevitably and relentlessly towards who knows what.

Lately I have found my attention being drawn towards Scotland in a variety of faint but insistent ways. My dreams have been haunted by hazy images of thick-bearded highlanders, the blue and white flag of St Andrew waving continually in my peripheral vision; in my thoughts, wind battered mountains and long, low lochs have been vying for my attention in ways which would have a group of surrealist painters fighting hand over fist to get down on canvas.

What’s more, these influences have not been limited to my sleeping, but have carried over with alarming prevalence into my everyday, waking world: on the television I have noticed an inundation of Scotsmen and women - news reporters, spokespeople being interviewed, politicians (they’re all bloody Scottish, every one of them), doctors, game show hosts - an unstoppable tide it would seem.

In fact, the only thing that could possibly bring more attention to our northern neighbours would be if their national football team was to actually win a match, but that is so unlikely it has shot through the realms of impossibility and burst out the other side.

It’s not just a recent thing - for several months now I have had these nagging feelings, tugging me inexorably in the direction of the Borders and beyond. It is similar in many respects to the tweaking of a long forgotten memory, yet I am sure that it can’t be, as I have never been further north than Chester.

I had come to thinking, what can be so special about all those thistles and glens that is strong enough to distract me from my day to day life? What is it about all that rugged coastline and the splattering of tiny, fragmented islands that have been sneezed from the nose of Caledonia that allures me so much? How can I have become so addicted to Scotland?

Anyway, there it is and here I am. Finally, after a long, drawn out winter of speculation I have made the decision to come up here and find out once and for all. It is my intention to learn where all things Scottish come from. How all the kilts and bagpipes and all that sort of stuff actually came into being. The origins of Scottishness and how the nation then evolved from there.

Is that my mission in life, my raison d’être? Is that why I am now here in Scotland, to carry out my life’s true purpose? Perhaps it is too ambitious; a too all-embracing task for one man (especially me) to complete; maybe I’ll be forced to leave an unfinished legacy for others to continue after my death.

Who knows, but I’m here now, so I can make a start at least.

My first port of call is here in Skye, or ‘Skye’ as the locals call it, just off the rugged north-western coast. In the mouth of the beautiful Loch Alsh there is an island, over which a bridge has been built connecting Skye up with the rest of the mainland. Legend has it that the very first haggis was conceived, prepared and eaten there, on the ‘wee small’ island of Eilean Ban.

On the site of this supposed historical event there now stands a hotel, huge and impressive. It is a five star affair, catering for conferences, functions and Americans more than anything. I am staying just down the road in the Loch and Quay, a small family run place - it was apparently the present man of the house who thought up the inspirational title. I see him at the beginning and end of every day collapsed in a small rowing boat with a few empty bottles of Glen Fiddich as sleeping partners. Such a shame, a wasted talent like that.

The story goes that there were two villages - fishing villages, both relying heavily on the multitude of squid that used to visit the loch all year round. The happy coexistence of these villages was unfortunately brought to an end when they became embroiled in a dispute: long, long ago a Mr Gavin Glenragh accused his neighbour Colin McArum of cutting his nets. This bitter feud lasted seven whole generations.

Many hideous acts of vandalism were carried out by both sides over the years, until a deal was finally struck by William Donley Glenragh and Colin McArum - a descendant, not the same man. He would have had to have been an immortal, if it was the same Colin, and there are apparently very few immortals now living on the west coast of Scotland (rumour has it they have all moved to Zimbabwe for reasons known only to themselves).

The deal came with the proclamation that both villages would stop fishing entirely and they would all eat badgers. How the present day Haggis has evolved from this is quite beyond me, but I intend to find out.

There were several conferences going on at the Eilean Ban Hotel where my search started yesterday. A large contingent from Interpol were discussing whether there was any point in them existing as an organisation anymore; there was a sizable group of Swiss pocket-watch manufacturers wondering whether or not to call it a day and go digital, and there was also a lone hitch hiker from Swansea who thought he had heard that Status Quo were playing a concert here (I’ve checked and they’re actually playing in Redcliff, deep in the heartland of Zimbabwe at the moment, to a group of fans who have been with them ‘from the start...’)

There was one which particularly caught my eye however, going on in the MacPlimsol Hall. It seemed on a smaller scale, with only a handful of people inside gathered around the stage, where a man in his mid fifties was speaking. His light rimmed spectacles and grey hair would have made him look distinguished, had it not been for his grin, which was in between that of the Cheshire Cat and a used car salesman.

Looking at the set up through the glass panel in the door, I noticed that upon the raised platform he was speaking from there stood a large blackboard with ominously familiar sigils scrawled across it. Directly across from this on the opposite side of the stage was one of the more modern white boards decorated with yet more hieroglyphics.

Dominating his background however, was the inevitable OHP, or overhead projector, that we all learned to hate whilst going through school and college - I dare say they used the accursed things at University too, but who would notice? The only reason any student attends any lectures at Uni is because they tend to be secure and relatively quiet places to sober up or come around from whatever they were on the night before. I was intrigued. What was going on in there?

Outside the conference halls in the plush, carpeted corridor, sandwich boards had been positioned outside the doors, advertising the theme of the lectures going on inside. A cursory glance was enough to make me choke in amazement. I could not believe my eyes! Surely not?

A second look was required.

But it was true! The bare faced cheek of the man! No wonder the contents of the black and white boards had seemed so familiar. Professor Alan Humphries, the speaker inside, was claiming – quite unashamedly - that Maths Can Be Fun!

I was in half a mind to nip back into the Interpol Conference and insist they come and arrest this man immediately. Something held me back however. I never minded maths at school to be honest, more for the fact that it teaches your brain how to think than for all the swirly squiggles and formulae you have to go through.

No, if this man was actually here in this highly respected hotel, talking to actual people and was actually being paid for it, there must be something worth listening to, surely.

I entered the hall as quietly as possible - which was not very, as I fell down the two short steps immediately inside the door. Professor Humphries glared at the cause of this interruption over his podium like a judge, before taking a casual sip from his glass of Sparkling Skye Spring water (manufactured and bottled in Bristol) and motioned for me to please take a seat.

For several minutes he droned on in what has be to said was an incredibly boring voice, and I could see heads dropping in front of me, as the gathered ensemble tried to stay awake. It was almost hypnotic; his voice became a monotonous dull throbbing sound at the back of my consciousness, and the algebraic symbols began to swim and dance on the boards in front of me. The room was incredibly hot and stuffy, and it finally became like a despised relative’s slide show as the lights in the hall dimmed to nothing. A single spotlight focused on the boards at the back of the stage was all that was left. The voice mumbled on...

I was vaguely aware shortly before it happened that the Professor placed a pair of mirrored sunglasses on. The thought crossed my mind that this was an odd thing to do in a darkened room. Suddenly though, the spotlight was cut dead and several strobe lights flickering and flashing about is all I remember, until I came around with the rest of the audience several hours later.

The hotel has of course tried to hush the incident up, but apart from the embarrassment and anger caused by the ordeal, the only things any of us seems to have lost is any food we were carrying (I had a pack of Rolos taken from me) and also neck ties from the gentlemen and shoes from the women. Strange. Luckily I had no tie on, so it was only my sweet tooth which suffered.

I have decided to put my Scottish research on hold, in order to try and find out what had happened here, and why? The whole thing is quite mystifying and besides - it seems far more interesting than what I was doing originally.

***

TAKEN FROM THE RIGHT AND ORDERLY NOTEBOOK OF SADFAEL THE MONK

I had been summoned to see His Grace the Abbott in his study straight after Evensong, so I did not really notice the murals lining the otherwise bare corridors in this part of the Monastery, the flapping of my sandals echoing noisily as I dashed, almost running, to keep my engagement. Needless to say a whole myriad of thoughts were spinning in my head as I stood outside the door. I took a deep breath and knocked, waiting for the reply before entering.

To be requested for an audience with such immediacy straight after prayers meant it must be something quite serious, but as usual His Grace showed a composed and most holy frame of mind, not letting anything on. At the moment of my ingress he was holding out a handful of corn to his ‘pet’ Rocking Horse.

He doesn’t seem to be very hungry today Brother Sadfael. He hasn’t touched his meal from this morning. I am beginning to worry about him.

I looked away, unable to meet his eye and in the embarrassed silence that followed he patted the toy horse affectionately on the neck. It was always like this when somebody forgot to remove the food His Grace put down for the thing twice a day. I have since looked on the rota and seen that it was Brother Goot’s turn today and have already admonished him for his forgetfulness. Lord knows - I hope and pray - that we mean no harm by this deception, for surely it is kinder to His Grace this way, to humour him in this, his one and only weakness rather than telling him that for the past fifteen years he has been trying to feed a wooden toy. It could well break him, and he is such a great man.

Sighing and replacing the corn in the bowl at the horse’s feet, he stepped away and moved to the other side of his dark, wooden desk. His countenance was grave indeed and he proceeded to tell me of a Just and Righteous Mission for which he has singled me out.

Sadfael, there is a Just and Righteous Mission at hand, for which I have singled you out. He was always straight to the point, His Grace. Reports have been coming in from the countryside, he began, his face darkening further still. Most disturbing reports. The peasants from as far a field as Ashworthy and Hood have sent messengers here to St. Malcolm’s, all claiming that the very Devil is abroad, waging havoc and laying waste to all in his path.

I crossed myself as a chill passed down my spine, respectfully following His Grace over to the lead-lined window. We stood in silence for a few moments, watching as the crows fought the magpies and the pigeons fought each other for the scraps put out for them – not as much as was customary, due to Brother Goot’s lapse.

Your Grace, if this is true, if the Great Goat himself now walks among us, the Lord of Lies, could it mean that the Second Coming is at hand? Could this be the beginnings of the end? Could it be that Old Jake Peabody was right after all? The Abbott raised an eyebrow at the name.

Old Jake Peabody? he enquired.

From the village, your Grace. The one who walks around with a bough of apple-wood tied around his neck, believing it somehow to be his Bible. He rants and raves continuously about the final war between Heaven and Hell being upon us. A glimmer shone briefly in the Abbott’s eye and he nodded with recognition.

Ahh yes, Mad Jake Peabody - Peabrain the villagers call him. Uncharitable souls. "No, no brother. He has been going on about Judgment Day being at hand for as long as anybody can remember; a half dozen years at least. I fear that poor Jake’s ramblings owe more to his fondness of the Brewer’s tap than to any inclinations towards God.

"I do not believe that these latest incidents – heinous though they undoubtedly are – foretell the opening of the Seven Seals, but certainly the Dark Angel has sent one of his Hellish minions to work his deprivations among us and he must, therefore, be stopped.

In consultation with my colleagues at the High Table, it has been decided that you are the one to be sent out after him.

Me, your Grace? I almost choked, so taken aback at this new confidence.

You, Brother Sadfael. It is our considered belief that in the whole of St. Malcolm’s there is none other with your… unique skills. He did not give me time to brook any further arguments as to my suitability, simply turned back to the window and continued on. You are familiar with the Rites of Exorcism?

Err, to a degree your Grace. I stammered.

Good. It is well for you that you will have ample time to refresh your memory of them as you walk. By the pleas for help coming in to us it can be deduced that the fiend’s path is carrying him East, ever away from the Monastery.

No doubt he fears the certain retribution that would be visited upon him were he to stray too close to this Holy seat, I proclaimed with fervour.

Err… yes… the Abbott replied, although with a somewhat furrowed brow. No doubt. The clouds in the evening sky show good portent of the weather for you on the morrow. I pray the Lord in his Mercy will bestow such favour upon you for the duration of your journey. His Grace moved toward the door. I followed meekly, still shocked.

I… I must leave so soon?

Oh yes. It is of the utmost importance that you do not dally Brother Sadfael. This spawn of Satan must be tracked, caught and banished as soon as possible. I recommend that you gather together a small pack of what you will need and then sleep. As it is I fear it may well take you several weeks to find this monster, so one more night will not overly hinder you, for the sake of freshness. He opened the door to usher me out into the cold corridor beyond. But no more than that. Do not expect anybody to see you off on the morrow brother – it is my intention to spare as many as possible, even from the knowledge of these troubled happenings, lest a great panic set in, allowing Lucifer a further foot in the door. You must be up and away before the others rise.

As I stumbled into the long and lonely corridor which now seemed to stretch far longer than ever it did, the Abbott folded his arms within the sleeves of his habit and stared at me with a look of absolute finality.

You are doing a great service to all of us Brother and I know I can rely on you to never quit, to never stop, to never come back until this thing is done. Numbly I nodded, dumbstruck by the gravity of it all. Maintaining his forceful stare, His Grace nodded one last time.

Goodbye Brother Sadfael, he said and then he closed the door.

Much as it troubles me to think of the tribulations that lie ahead, as I sit here in the tiny, unadorned cell which has been my humble home for many years now, I cannot help but count my blessings. For no matter how daunting, ‘tis an honour indeed to be given a quest in these times of darkness and devilment. True, it does mean that I must leave here on the Eve of the Great Centenary Cheese-fest, and will therefore miss the week-long celebrations, but God’s work is always more important than our own mortal frivolities; one must never lose sight of that.

Ahh, to think of it, an infidel on the loose, some Stygian Abomination, and it has been given up to me, Sadfael, to stop him!

This can only be a sign from the Lord! I must confess that there had been some unholy - or rather I should say ‘less than holy’ - thoughts racing around in my head these last few months. Why does He allow cabbages to rot after only three days, for example? Why am I not permitted a draft excluder in my cell? And why must I wear these unstylish sandals all the time?

It must be a sign, an opportunity from God for me to expunge these and other blasphemous thoughts from my mind and thus to reaffirm my faith. He has bestowed a great honour upon me, and I must ensure that His trust is well founded. I now close this entry in order to pray for success and then go and pack.

But first I will quickly nip back to the Abbott’s rooms and remove the horse’s food which is still sitting uneaten. I am surprised he has not noticed how fat the birds are around here, but then His Grace does not get out as much as he used to.

A truly great man though.

In his youth.

Or so I am told.

***

THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY

It is amazing how people will insist on nothing but the police until the word compensation is mentioned. It was handed out in huge dollops by the hotel in order to keep the incident quiet. For the sake of a wasted afternoon and a packet of Rolos, I received three night’s free accommodation plus the princely sum of two hundred Scottish pounds.

All I have been able to ascertain is that, by switching on the strobe lights after we had been lulled into such a near hypnotic state, the whole audience had effectively been put into a kind of trance from which we only awoke almost as one, long after Humphries had gone. I have been unable to squeeze any information from the staff or management as to the credentials of the now infamous professor, or his whereabouts - or anything else about him in fact, so that is why I decided to invest my almost useless Scottish money in hiring a Private Detective.

He is an odd fellow, an Englishman currently ‘visiting his Scottish offices’. It transpires that at this time of year he normally works in and around Salisbury, but for four days during the waxing phase of the moon which he spends up here in Scotland. He also spends one night every three months, preferably during a new moon for some reason, squatting in a tent in Romney Marsh. Quite why he does this he seemed reluctant to tell me.

When he handed over his card I noticed several strange things immediately - well who wouldn’t, when presented with a business card with no name or address on it? All that appeared on the little white square were the words ‘Shamanic Detective’ in bold letters and then underneath that ‘Spiritual Arbitrator’ in slightly smaller script. What any of it is supposed to mean I have no idea.

Call me Eric, he said.

Eric, I repeated, Ok. He then hesitated a moment.

No, hang on. Not Eric, Vincent. Yes, that’s it. Vincent. Vince.

Fine, I said, although somewhat puzzled. Vince is fine. And your last name?

There was another moment’s pause. Dragon. Vince Dragon. I had to laugh. In a thick Scottish accent he told me it was highly rude up here to mock someone’s name.

I didn’t know you were Scottish, I said.

Aa’m no, but it’s still bad manners, he replied.

I’m sorry, I said finally, I don’t mean to mock your name, I just thought it a little unfortunate that you are what you are with a name like that: a Private Dick, with the initials V.D.

***

CASEBOOK OF GEEZA VERMIES

A strange job, I’ll say that much. Some mad professor nicking peoples’ food, ties and shoes. No obvious connection, but a hunch told me he would have headed down South and as the Moon was nearly in Her full face I followed him.

It wasn’t long before I realised my hunch was spot on. The guy I’d hitched with had stopped at a transport café for a break. I bought myself a cup of tea and had a herbal Pipe to try and get a trace on things - to see if I was heading in the right direction. And lo and behold, when I stepped back outside of the dingy place, wiping the grease my hands had picked up from the door handle onto my trousers, I spied a piece of stolen merchandise on the opposite side of the car park.

There was a young and unnecessarily rotund woman was sitting in her frozen foods delivery van with the door open, about to eat a piece of flapjack. I might have missed it, but at that moment the Pipe kicked in and I noticed traces of a strobe light still dancing between the oats that made up the base. I strode across the broken, pot-holed tarmac and confiscated the aforementioned confectionery item, telling her it must be taken to be used as evidence.

She looked at me with cold blue eyes and said nothing. She didn’t look convinced though, so I began to explain a bit more about the circumstances involved as I felt I owed it to her. She listened to my speech impassively and then, slowly extracting herself from her tatty vehicle, she stood and faced me.

She blinked once and when her eyes opened again I was staring straight into a pair of swirling, baleful pits filled with all the fury of the Seven Hells. She held me like that, rooted to the spot for several moments before speaking and when