Fire and Iceland

By G.F. Skipworth

In Fire and Iceland, Volume 2 of Fables of the Carpailtin Campfire, the Shindaheen, Chadishar, and four thousand Native American warriors meet the unlikeliest invasion at the unlikeliest location, turning our conception of off-world life upside-down. Where are they from, why are they here, and do they really eat that stuff? Vilia isn't going to like this one bit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.F. Skipworth
• Release date: Jan 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310540882

G.F. Skipworth

George Skipworth has toured much of the globe as a concert pianist, symphonic/operatic conductor, vocalist, and composer/arranger. However, on the day he sat down to write a 4th Symphony, a novel came out instead. 12 books later, and he's still going strong

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FIRE AND ICELAND

G.F. Skipworth

Rosslare Press/Rosslare Arts International

Fables of the Carpailtin Campfire, vol. 2

Copyright© by G.F. Skipworth. All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles, reports and reviews. For info, address: Rosslare Press/Rosslare Arts International, 7660 SW Oleson Rd., Portland, Oregon 97223

ISBN-13: 978-0-9824710-1-2 ISBN-10: 0-9824710-1-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009905382

Acknowledgements, Dedications & Warnings

Acknowledgments

To the academic world at large, who put my ADDICT degree (Arts Diploma for Dot your I and Cross your T) to such good use. Its guidance has restored my sense of priorities, in which beauty and the creation of memorable events take their proper place below review file arts and crafts, and knowing which drawer is designated for the paper clips.

To Tali, the Shindahee archaeologist, for finding the lost syllabus to my How to Stop Losing Stuff class

To the Quadrivium

It is a scary thought, indeed, to know that, whatever the question, the best answer still lies in the Middle Ages.

Before continuing, may we all sing a verse or two of THE ALMA MATER

Sing when the northern lights are wafting, seen over iceberg, crag or foam,

Sing when the tenure bell is ringing. Come! Write another useless tome.

Sing to the last pure academic. Sing! Raise a glass to the scholar’s creed,

Cherish the rare old days of kudos, this year your chairs are barracudos,

Lift high your glasses, don’t be a Judos, remember…you’re what you read!

Hail, hail to thee at sea or heartland, Reykyavik, Oxford, Yale or Partland

All of the caps and gowns in Smartland, Hail! We sing to Thee!

Hail, hail to thee on peak or prairie, may your careers be ‘strordinary

Published from Rome to Tucumcari, Hail! We sing to Thee!

♦♦♦♦

Warning:

Being a college student is to enter a sanctioned four-year party, in which one loses one’s mind and all of one’s notions of reality. Being a college professor is to enter the very same thing, except that there’s no party… it can last forever…and forever isn’t long enough.

(Should anyone find themselves in such a predicament, we recommend a reading of the following story)

Episodes

Thank You for Flying Icelandic

The Trouble with Tyrfel

Floki

Vecchia Scuola and the Great Raisin Revot

Ranga

Tyrfel & Isolde

Here Comes the Bride!

Return to Carpailti

To That Little Bar on the Corner

Karapin Central Park

Marpoulce

Know When to Fold

Up a Lazy River

To the Shores of Shindahee

Can You Tell Me How (How to Get To…)

The Black Stones

Vaudeville Lives

Had a Lovely Time (Wish You’d Been There)

Ascension

Watch the Skies!

Going Home

Allies

CZ or the Real Thing?

The Ruse

I’m Going Where the Lights are Shining (I’m Going to Be a Big Star)

Narwahl General

The Rest….of the Stoooory!

Epilogue

The Fable of Fire and Iceland

(as first I heard it recounted at the Carpailtin Campfire)

Thank You for Flying Icelandic

For a young woman who has traveled in regions of which no human has ever dreamed, there were still several items of interest in this short junket from Seattle to Reykjavik. Vilia, well into her thirteenth year,

must be called a young woman, as the salutation of girl does not pay sufficient tribute to one who has participated heroically in an interplanetary war. She had expressed her doubts to Gray that, although it is ultimately logical to translate an Icelandic document with the aid of Icelanders, who have retained ninety seven percent of their language habits from the past thousand years, she could just as easily have sought out a professor of historical linguistics from any number of prestigious American universities. Gray, however, had gently insisted on the journey, intimating that to view

the terrain, and to feel one’s foot sink into the document’s native soil was important to some consequential lesson down the road. Whether it was just Gray immersing himself in the wondrous far corners of his tactile imagination, or there was really something to it, she couldn’t tell. However, if one considers the experiences of her last several months, Gray was not to be taken lightly, logical or not. It wouldn’t have mattered, for Gray’s opinion was heartily seconded by Banjeel, who generally keeps a tight rein on the far corners of her tactile imagination. In the past few months, Vilia had visited the time fold where the Shindaheen live for the first time, escorted by Marta, and had spent some time there in the initial phases of training. That’s the thing about the Shindaheen. You can spend a lifetime with them and come out having spent no appreciable time at all. At any rate, it was fortunate that neither she nor Marta was confronted by the ritual of the four guards, and the welcoming had been extraordinarily festive. She supposed that her return to Eagle Cap, where Gray and Marta have lived almost exclusively since the Carpailtin War, was something of a spring break, but the way in which it was presented to her made it sound suspiciously like an assignment.

Interesting, as well, was the fact that this was the first time Vilia had ever boarded a modern commercial airliner, and the logic of it still astounded her, despite her more than average knowledge of physics for her age, and despite her already extensive experience as a spanner. Still, the concept of air machines lifted by forward thrust, when boiled down to its basics, seemed absurd…We’ll all sit in this heavy metal can, be thrown into the air, stay there for a while and come to a controlled stop in a place almost half a world away. For a spanner, that’s like walking into the next room…these poor humans.

With this many hours to kill, and given the way looking out dark windows at night brings out the reflective side of many people, her mind retraced the evolution of her relationship with Marta, Gray and the others. Her reunion with Binté had brought on a host of unfamiliar feelings that, for the moment, waited in line behind more present demands. However, it was clear that she was altered, and would never return to those days that were so tortuous, yet so much simpler. Unbridled tempers and violent defensiveness grow less becoming from the teen years into the twenties, but when one has been thrown into the arena from which Vilia had just emerged, the difference between twelve and thirteen becomes vast. By her feet lay the long cylindrical scroll case. She had not seen it unrolled, and had received no explanation as to its contents, its importance, or the need to have it hand delivered to Gray’s friend, Floki, a professor at the Icelandic State University. Odd, that with a capitol city so dominant over the rest of the small nation, they decided to put a major university in such a place…islands? She touched her left coat pocket as a reminder that she had thought to bring the translator. Her time there wasn’t going to be long, and she didn’t want to spend it all learning the language of a place she’d never see again. Reaching into the other pocket, she pulled out the folded paper and perused it again…Professor Floki Vilhjalmursson…not only a noted linguist, it seems, but an historian of ancient cultures. The only thing she knew about this scroll was that it predated the normal perceptions of the centuries in which Iceland was settled…it predated those times…by eons.

As Vilia’s flight neared its landing time, another thought crossed her mind. Engrossed as Gray was in earthly matters, he was equally adamant about the avoidance of manipulating them, so this mission probably didn’t carry too much importance. Ah, well, for all she knew, she was delivering a birthday gift to an old crony, nothing more. Glad to finally disembark from the flying contraption, she walked down the ramp into the central airport, noticing right off that she looked entirely out of place in her futuristic dark glasses, utterly useless here, and her rather hip wardrobe in general. Seattle’s a city of extraverts, and it was a rare sunny day there, so what else was she to do? Winding through the labyrinth of corridors, checkpoints and vendor stations of every variety, she noticed the plethora of book stores, so emblematic of Iceland’s high literacy rate…but she noticed something else as well…the man in the white suit…the one beside her getting off the plane…the one watching her from the door of the luggage area…the one waiting as she rounded the first bend in the hallway…the one watching her over the magazine at the news counter…and the one at the taxi stop where she left the main terminal. All the same man…she was sure of it, but that wasn’t possible, unless he was a gifted spanner, and was willing to risk it in dense, public places. Still, she’d seen him five times in five minutes and, each time, he was paying attention only to her. Perhaps he was her contact person. Knowing Gray and the company he keeps, it made perfect sense that someone interesting would meet her. She was certainly not unaccustomed to unusual people. So, why couldn’t he just come out and announce himself?

Vilia had no clear instruction as to whom she would meet, or where she should go to meet them. For right now, though, the still small voice urged her to keep moving. They’d find her soon enough, but not standing around looking lost or confused. Among the benefits of her first sessions with the Shindaheen was the ability to feel the intent of all who approach, instead of waiting until there’s a hand around your throat. Her hackles were beginning to rise, although she couldn’t begin to think why. And yet, as she turned right into the open air, there he was again, walking toward her…cigarette in one hand (which, in this day and age, was most odd) and a newspaper tucked under the other arm (also odd, as most people use a portable news alert that fits into the breast pocket). Vilia thought to reverse her direction, but on turning her head, was astonished to see the same man walking toward her from the left. Thinking to cross the street to avoid both, she hesitated, as he was there also, crossing toward her. Then, she saw the other two, pushing their way out the glass doors from which she had just come. So goes the same man theory. These were five identical twins, by all accounts, down to the curly blonde hair, the sunglasses (the only ones other than Vilia wearing them in the whole country), the white suits and open blue shirts. As she quickened the pace, all five adjusted accordingly, continuing on their intercept course. Decision time was at hand, although she could not pin down the nature of their interest in her. More important, for the moment, was her final observation before they all collided…no one else in the crowd seemed to notice them at all and, in fact, two or three had walked right through them without noticing or suffering any ill-effects. Regardless, they did collide, in a sense. More accurately, the two who reached her first grabbed at the scroll case slung over Vilia’s back, and very nearly lifted it off from over her head, had she not been so well-prepared and too quick, well beyond their expectations. In fact, one of the twins was surprised to find his hand holding that of his colleague instead of Vilia’s, who vacated the center spot to the rear of the right intruder. This, of course, cut the threat in half for a second or two. Now, one mustn’t think for a moment that someone like Vilia is going to go anywhere unarmed. That is why she is seldom seen out of her floor length coat or capes. In fact, all the usual cutlery was present, but one doesn’t just unfurl a shindie in a major airport, unless the situation is dire and, at present, she held on to her newfound restraint…that is, in terms of cutlery. In terms of hand to hand self defense, however, she was the same old Vilia. Assailant number one was truly crippled by the punch to the back ribs, and number two was stopped cold by a kick to the face. Number three was thrown to the ground with spine-breaking force, and numbers four and five each got an index and middle finger to the throat…and yet, by the time Vilia rebounded from each maneuver, the effects had already worn off…they had recovered completely and almost immediately. It was disconcerting, as well, that they showed no change at all in facial expression. Grasping the situation quickly, the new Vilia did what the old Vilia would never have deigned to do…she ran. Without looking back, she knew they were in pursuit, but for Vilia, running skill is on the same high level with all the others. Barely breaking stride, she kicked off her shoes and streaked alongside the terminal’s glass windows in Olympic time, checking their reflections to assess her lead. In their street shoes, the five attackers had even less chance to close the gap. She was within a few seconds of reaching the terminal’s last section, and then the whole city would be open to her. She doubted they could do much there…but then, she should not have assumed that the group would top out at five, for she didn’t account for the two coming around the corner, directly at her. With little time to formulate a plan, she surveyed the grounds for an escape route, since fighting would be a futile proposition. As they neared, the two added twins broke into a sprint and prepared to tackle her. But, upon reaching her, two things occurred. One…Vilia vaulted them both, as she had expected to do. Two…all seven were hit by a bright beam coming from a forward location, a beam that crashed into them with an audible, physical impact, immobilizing all seven for the time being. Vilia searched for its source, and dead ahead, saw a young couple, probably in their twenties, holding what appeared to be a hefty shoulder weapon, and gesturing frantically for her to join them across the tall cyclone fence. As she paused, she heard the young woman shout…Hurry! It will only hold them for a moment! They stood before a tiny green automobile, with its right door open. It was probably the smallest thing on four wheels Vilia had ever seen. Already, she could see that her assailants were coming out of their freeze, and getting their bearings. Realizing that she had no time to span, she ran at the fence with all the speed she could muster in such a short distance, and vaulted the fourteen foot barrier, touching it with her foot only once or twice, as she sprang vertically at the cold Icelandic sky. Four bounds later and she plunged head first into the tiny auto’s back seat. The young man was already behind the wheel, and as the group of twins watched blankly from behind the fence, the Autobianchi Bianchina sped…well…it drove away. Sitting up with a jolt, Vilia was ready for answers. So, who are they? The mumbled response from the front seat was uninformative…I’m afraid you’ll find out soon enough. All right, let’s move on to the next question…Who are you? The young man answered…Better for us if we don’t say. The young woman added, Better for you that you don’t know.

The Trouble with Tyrfel

How things have changed, and how they have stayed the same. Those who had participated in the Great War were quicker to move ahead than were the governments that had sent them. More and more water rations were reaching the former exile worlds, universities were beginning to alter acceptance policies, and the new coalition government was making some headway…but old hatreds tend to hang on, and nothing was going to hurry the erosion of deep resentment and class stereotypes. With the new government came the disbanding of the Chadishar, in favor of a more proactive, military approach to the gathering of intelligence. A Shindaheen involvement, unthinkable in the past, was noticed from time to time and, it is thought that their unseen presence guided some of the new policies, which was most fortunate. The Shindaheen, regardless of how welcome their presence may or may not have been, was the only established, stable component of the new order, and the only agency of enforcement that commanded any respect at all. One mustn’t think that the Chadishar were out of work, for they were the brightest lights in their professions…no fear on that point. However, the spirit among them was dimmed as they went to their separate paths…that is, of course, until Gray summoned them again to his beloved Earth. It didn’t take much arm twisting, just a little creative scheduling and the hint of a mission. Everyone had developed a taste for the modest earthly environment, at least for those parts of the northwest with which they were already familiar. Since that time, they had visited the coast once, except for Mixi, who was busy with the New World Games. Marta was away on a group bicycle trek around Prince Edward Island, oddly enough, after reading Anne of Green Gables. Gray hoped that her colleagues were in good condition, as Marta sheds a whole new light on stamina.

Tending to various affairs before blinking, the former Chadishar arrived a few hours apart, but not to the cabin on Eagle Cap, a suggestion which surprised them. Gray had, however, been clear that no immediate emergency existed, and that he was merely following Banjeel’s suggestion to meet elsewhere. To anyone with an alpine heart, he couldn’t have done better, as they sat around the four-sided fireplace in the central tower of the Mt. Hood Lodge, complete with bar and restaurant. As one of the first arrivals, Brogi was sampling lime-oriented improvisations in a vain attempt to approximate something based on Goushla juice. It was late winter and, at this elevation, the drifts were still several feet deep against the tall glass windows in the rear of the lodge. Skiing was in full swing, and would continue for two more months, at least.

Eventually, everyone was seated. They all agreed, even Mixi, that it was good to be back, talking over old, or recent, times, feeling useful again and being filled once more with the youthful suspicion that something’s up. In fact, something was up, but there was little information to go around. Nevertheless, Gray began the meeting… The news seems to be fairly good all the way around in terms of the reconciliation…some things are going along faster than others, but we all expected that. What I’m really watching and hoping for is the isolation of the separatists. As we know, a section of the population always forges ahead with social progress, while the middle section sits there watching the changes…and the section behind digs in its heels and makes a stink. Before long, everyone’s moved far enough forward to make the hate groups that hang back look like antiques. This has happened here on Earth many times. Well…despite the progress, someone, apparently, isn’t very happy about the new treaties and policy changes, at least, according to Banjeel. Neither of us knows exactly what we’re looking at and, in regard to some items, she isn’t allowed to discuss it with me any further. But, my guess is that there’s someone or something associated with the Shindaheen or, perhaps, who used to be, that is resisting the movement altogether. Mallee voiced the obvious question…Have there been attacks of any kind? What’s been happening to cause you and the Shindaheen so much concern? Gray shrugged, wishing that he could be more forthcoming…She can’t tell me, but whatever it is has come to this world, which is either unknown or ignored in almost any place you can name…so, it strikes me that there is someone of enough importance here that they feel the need to follow…to stalk…but, there is something else, of which I am, unfortunately, equally ignorant… but I’ll do my best. This…presence…is the object of an ancient document which Banjeel has passed on to me, in the hopes that I can make heads or tails of it. I could immediately tell that the text goes far back, well beyond my linguistic capabilities. So, I have sent it to a colleague who is a master linguist and historian. If he can’t decipher it, no one in my circle can. Vilia has taken it to him for me. I thought that, perhaps, she would enjoy a new earth culture, take some time off from training, and get the real story behind the translation. She’s very quick, as you know, and she loves detective stories. This should keep her imagination occupied.

The band of former Chadishar were appropriately intrigued as well, and Danta was eager to know what their involvement in the mystery might be, so long as war was not involved. Gray paused for a moment, and explained carefully. Two important matters come to mind. As you know, the new government’s intelligence agency is comprised primarily of tactical experts from the military. They excel at response, but lack the instinctual and, shall we say, unorthodox skills that all of you brought to the previous administration. If we are dealing with an entity that is, in any way, like or related to the Shindaheen, the rules of time and space will simply outmatch the current personnel. Secondly, there is one person who could tell me much, much more…a person, in fact, that you may remember, one who has resided on this very world since long before my arrival. My friends…I need to speak with Tyrfel, and I need you to help me get to him. Around the table, eyes widened, wry smiles began to break out and a second round of hot chocolate was ordered by all, with lime juice added for Brogi…To Tyrfel!"

Tyrfel Vintgassen…yes, everyone at the table knew Tyrfel. What description can possibly be offered that gives Tyrfel Vintgassen his due, either in terms of mere accuracy or in any attempt to explain the epic landscape that is his life? Tyrfel Vintgassen is the original swashbuckler of the central worlds, the sailor of the seven nebulae, (with plans for many more)…and is held as dear as a grandfather to everyone sitting at the table, except for Gray. To Gray, he is like an esteemed older brother. He is, in fact, the very one that first made Gray aware of this planet, and of his favorite regions upon it. He has, over the years, driven the Shindaheen crazy but, yet, they adore him. He, alone among the non-members, knows the way through their intricate time fold, and has the annoying habit of arriving unannounced…but before long, sure enough, there’s a warrior sitting on each knee, telling stories for the tenth time, drinking the Daedalus wine, and writhing in pain from the laughter.

Well…all of that is premature. Tyrfel is of Gray’s race and is, in most ways, either a duplicate or an exaggeration of his personality. Like Gray, he can play with his age, and is a skilled fighter. He loves all things that are humorous, adventurous, poetic, colorful, musical and…well…feminine. It is more than likely that some of these traits…are responsible for his taking up residence on Earth. The probability is that he has been, indeed, hiding out here…from what, only he knows, but it isn’t hard to guess. At any rate, he found himself a nice hole to hide in, serving as a maintenance man at a sanitarium for a time, then opting to continue his residence as a patient. He liked the food, and he liked the people. After all, what most folks call insane people are the only ones who know what’s going on outside the puny parameters of this…civilization. After a time, he was transferred to a facility for geriatric seniors out west where, he claimed, his family would be better able to keep an eye on him. Easily providing the necessary documentation for this fictitious family, he headed for the west of his dreams, where he could get in all manner of trouble, once the interns (what he called bouncers) were off duty, and he was presumed asleep. Every bar, dinner theater, concert hall, race track and rodeo knew Tyrfel, but the home could never pin anything on him. The geriatric center where he was stationed swore up and down that the ninety year old was peacefully sleeping at home, no matter what the police report said…and besides (in most cases), how could a ninety year old do what they said he did, anyway? We should all be so lucky.

And so, on a chilly morning in late March, nothing seemed amiss to see an antique station wagon pulling up in front of the Warm Springs Senior Estates in central Oregon. As logic would demand, Brogi emerged from the driver’s side, and assisted his fellow passengers by opening their doors. His taste in human clothing was not quite right, but despite the decidedly tropical summer hat, the paisley tie and green shirt above tartan print pants, he appeared to be, in every way, an appropriate son for the new and very wealthy resident, Grayford T. Bogenbender IV, rubber plantation magnate and founder of the McKenzie Trout Fly Co. so popular in these parts. Out came Mallee and Danta, circling around to the other side to open the far door. After some fussing about, there came Mr. Bogenbender himself, carried gingerly out of the back seat and into a collapsible wheelchair that had given Danta fits while they rehearsed with it back on Eagle Cap. As Mallee, ever the dutiful granddaughter, wheeled the old man toward the double doors, Danta the social worker, in a spectacular dark suit, took up his clipboard, adjusted his high intellect glasses and joined her with an air of great seriousness. Falling in behind was Mixi in full nurse regalia, and a white-coated Jemma, complete with stethoscope and mirrored head-band, doing the very best she could to keep her feet on the ground. Glancing around at his supporting players, Gray could not help but wonder if the Warm Springs Police Department knew their colleagues in Walla Walla, or those in the Oregon State Patrol. He understood that his friends were brand new to Earth, but they came perilously close to shading the line between a medical team and a Marx Brothers movie. Nevertheless, he shook his head as if to say, Here we go again, and adding a few nervous tics, motioned the group to advance through the doors and up to the front desk.

All the preparations had been made over the past weeks, so no problems were envisioned. But, of course, there’s always the extra paperwork. It doesn’t matter if you’re repairing a car, buying a refrigerator, booking a trip to Monte Carlo, or selecting Cuban cigars…there’s going to be extra paperwork. In Gray’s case, it was a rather lengthy survey of personal questions. Well, now, let’s see…Have you ever…? Gray thought, No, not on this world, anyway. Number thirty was particularly interesting…Religious preference. Gray wondered what sort of different treatment might ensue depending upon his answer. Almost as a dare, he filled in the blank…Church of the Vengeful Cyclostomata…home church…St. Turkey in the Straw. As it turned out, members of the staff, particularly a certain young, muscular and sneering Mr. Mofford, were not amused, but seemed to have held on to their interest in Mr. Bogenbender’s prodigious financial standing. Be that as it may, after some healthy pay-offs (under the table, as it were) with currency printed just last night on Eagle Cap, Gray was shown to his palatial suite of rooms overlooking the Warm Springs River, just south of what he would come to call the Cliffs of Casavante (so named after a manufacturer of fine pipe organs in the past century-the cliffs did, indeed, resemble such an instrument). When it was time for the crew to leave, Brogi played his part with great emotion…Papa, can you be happy here? Gray responded in the coarsest, to-the-point New York accent he could manage…Papa? Papa? Whaddya, Bahbra Streisand? A’ course not! I was headed to de Bahamas before you joiks shanghaied me ta dis place…sheez! Can I be happy heah? Yo momma raised a idiot, bless ‘er soul. Now get outta heah, moron. And, "get outta