Sinkronisity

By Stephen Faulds

Old Rang lives in a cave on the edge of a time warp. His visitors include the Nottle villagers who believe he makes the sun rise every morning and a time traveller called Vince Yaga who is the least superstitious man in the universe.

Vince Yaga discovers Ruce Lemming, a character from an unfinished epic fantasy novel by Seferin Fane. Ruce is being stalked by a mutant lawnmower named Victor. After a variety of erroneous misadventures which involve an array of characters including Buggeroni, an inventor from Florence; his wife Florrida; Belinda Nort, an out of work actress; an old Fakir and Rod Singlet, a Nostralian Itinerant, Seferin is helped to finish his novel so that Ruce and everyone in the immediate vicinity, including the lawnmower can fulfil their respective destinies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Faulds
• Release date: Apr 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476391564

Stephen Faulds

Stephen Faulds is an English teacher at a Perth high school with many years experience teaching both English and Drama. He has written seven novels and published numerous poems, short stories and articles. He has written many short scripts, which have been performed by students at both primary and secondary level. His play Seatown was performed at The Blue Room theatre in 2007 and has been published by The Australian Script Centre. He has a web site featuring his writing, photography and artwork. He recently wrote a sequel to Seatown with the assistance of an ARTSWA writing grant. His work is featured on a web site at www.stephenfaulds.com which is archived at the State Library of WAWriter’s notebook http://stephenfaulds.wikispaces.com/

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SINKRONISITY

Stephen Faulds

Published by Stephen Faulds

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2006 Stephen Faulds

Revised edition 2019

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. If you enjoy this novel please post a review.

Ruce Lemming was sitting on the Pub verandah in the late afternoon sun with a glass of beer. He was waiting for his destuny to unfold. The sound of a lawnmower was growing in the distance. Ruce looked out from the verandah. He had never even seen a lawnmower before. If he had, he might have thought it interesting that a bottle green one with no operator was churning through the dust toward the Pub.

You can be fairly certain that if the sound of a lawnmower is constant, it is not actually mowing a lawn. Mowing involves lots of throttling up and down as deeper grass gives way to patches of bare sand and vice versa, the mower is turned around to go back and do another row or, the carburettor gets dirt in it and needs to be gunned. A continuous, full throttle revving means either the person mowing the lawn has dropped dead on the lawn with a heart attack and the mower is standing still with no grass to slow it down or, the mower is travelling cross country feeling angry. The latter had never happened in local experience.

When the lawnmower arrived at the verandah steps it stopped and dropped its revs. To someone who didn’t know better, it appeared to be muttering to itself.

Ruce also didn’t know that lawnmowers don’t go up steps onto Pub verandahs and head towards the saloon bar. When patrons and Locals started yelling and jumping out of windows, Ruce’s limited power of inference led him to the conclusion that something was wrong. He ran to the saloon bar door. Machine or not, the lawnmower looked angry. It was glaring down from the top of the bar. The deserted bar.

The threatening thrum of the mower was full of malcontent. Having cleared the bar of patrons and mown a strip through the cigarette butts on the lino, the mower had left itself with no one on which to focus its obviously disturbed feelings. Ruce had stepped into the breech.

It wasn’t that Ruce was brave. He had no mental reference for machinery. If there had been a monster, or an evil Lord and he had a sword in his hand, he might have been brave. All he knew was that the lawnmower seemed upset. This concerned him. The bottle green cowling shone in the yellow bar light. Ruce stared at it and read the word embossed there. Not being a fluent reader, he read aloud.

‘Victa.’

The thrumming eased. The mower seemed to relax. Ruce continued to stare. No one had ever called the lawnmower by its name before. It had found a friend. Ruce tilted his head. For some reason he knew he just had done something both wonderful and stupid.

It’s not easy being a lawnmower. Very few people understand lawnmowers. Almost no one calls them by their name. Victa had found someone who did. This was his kind of person. He wanted to live in Ruce’s backyard.

The mower idled up to Ruce. The bar began to fill slowly with cautious patrons. The Locals went back to their stools and picked up their beers. Ruce felt very self-conscious, like a Dutch boy who has put his finger in the dyke wall out of curiosity and realises he can’t just take it out again. The Locals, all hairy-armed men in blue singlets stared in admiration.

‘Never seen nuthin’ like it.’

‘Meen eetha.’

‘This bloke’s a legend I reckon.’

‘’E should go down in histree.’

‘They should put his pitcha ron a coaster.’

The lawnmower agreed.

Ruce Lemming did not exist in time. Technically he didn’t exist at all. He was a character from an unfinished story by an unknown fantasy writer named Seferin Fane. He was actually supposed to be on a Quest for a magical stone. This magical stone was going to defeat the Dark Lord Morchoclat from the Kingdom of Dungeonhelm. Which would restore the power of Peterneer the Beneficent Tetrateuch of Lothlozenge in the Realm of Titsuzi. So it was technically of little import that his state of non-existence had moved to the verandah of the Sandgarden Hotel at three o’clock in the afternoon that Saturday. Except for the fact that he found himself sitting next to Rod Singlet, a local who had never seen a Quester in Seltic armour with a green rose on the breastplate.

‘Crikey!’ said the Rod, thumping him on the shoulder. ‘Where'd you come from?’

‘Avaunt!’ said Ruce, drawing his sword.

‘Put that bloody thing away!’ said Rod. ‘You shouldn't even be carrying it round in public.’ Ruce glared.

‘Dost thou serve the Dark Lord?’

‘They only serve brewery beer in this pub mate. None of that boutique rubbish. Ask the barmaid. That’s her with the big knockers ... I said put that away or you’ll be wearing a knuckle sandwich.’

Also drinking at the Sandgarden that day was Vince Yaga of Odl, a Time Traveller. Vince was wearing cowboy boots and a highly decorated coat. When the Barmaid inquired about the collection of charms, amulets and badges he simply said ‘Travel souvenirs,’ to which she replied ‘You must have been to a lot of funny places then.’

Vince tried to change the subject. It was more interesting than jumping to the end of the conversation. (When Vince introduced himself he usually didn’t mention he was a time traveller. It put people off knowing you could nip backwards and forwards in a conversation and catch them off guard or get the punch line of a joke before it was delivered.)

‘Do they bring you good luck?’ she asked, looking closely at an amulet that featured a scorpion eating an elephunt.

‘Not that I've noticed,’ said Vince.

Vince Yaga of Odl was the least superstitious man in the known universe. His lack of superstition was due to the fact that he had been everywhere at least twice and observed that for everything there was a reason and that most things people thought were going to happen didn’t. He wore his charms to humour the beliefs of others. His favourite was a badge that said Bulls Hit.

Vince liked the Sandgarden because it was one of those traditional pubs with a long wide verandah. Of course tradition is relevant to time and place. Vince was accustomed to seeing tradition change very rapidly and so he had lost a lot of respect for it. His drinking mate Rod Singlet on the other hand was a Nostralian Itinerant. He wouldn’t drink beer any place with art deco or paisley wallpaper.

‘Makes me puke. Give me your weatherboard and corrugated any day.’ The most important consideration was that the beer was cold. Vince had been quietly studying Ruce since his appearance.

‘Sheath thy sword,’ said Vince with the manner of a bloke who surprises his mates speaking the local dialect in a foreign country Club Med. Ruce stared for a moment then did as Vince had suggested.

‘What’re you drinking anyway?’ Rod asked.

Ruce looked up at the chalk board. His eyes fell on a Pink Dekari.

‘Bloody poof’s drink,’ said Rod. He signalled the barmaid and in his deepest voice said, ‘One of them and spare the pink.’

‘What brings you to the Sandgarden?’ asked Vince.

‘I seeketh the Stone of Power,’ said Ruce.

‘Yeah? Where d’ you expect to find that?’ asked Rod dragging his eyes away from the barmaid.

‘The Stone of Power may be foundeth in the Crypt of Nessa under the Holy Mountain.’

‘And where is that?’

‘The Holy Mountain ist in the East of the World.’

‘That could be anywhere,’ said Vince. ‘Which world for a start?’

‘Your Dekari is coming,’ said Rod, watching the Barmaid approach.

‘Enjoy Honey,’ said the Barmaid with a lingering glance into Ruce’s eyes.

‘This Stone of Power,’ said Vince. ‘Why do you seek it?’

Ruce Lemming licked his lips savouring the first taste of the frothy pink indulgence and the beginning of a warm, no worries mate feeling rising from his belly.

‘The Dark Lord ist destroying the Kingdom. Only the Stone hath the power to prevail against him.’

‘What was the name of the kingdom again?’

‘Titsuzi. Realm of Peterneer the Beneficent Tetrateuch of Lothlozenge.’

‘So how do you come to have the job of finding this Stone?’ asked Vince.

Ruce stared as if confused for a moment then replied. ‘It ist my destuny!’

Ruce Lemming had only a rudimentary personality. Seferin Fane had not finished the first draft of his novel so there was no real depth to him. He lacked congruency. He was still very simplistic in his thinking, existential in his motivation and was struggling with his pseudo medyeval diction. Beyond a basic will to survive and a certain amount of curiosity he had not developed any real moral substance. He had not asked to be let loose wandering the real world. It had been an accident. Certain metaphysical laws beyond the comprehension of the layman had been activated and Ruce, a fictional character destined for the paper shredder had stepped into three-dimensional existence. Various other characters from Seferin Fane’s novel had done the same and were currently at large elsewhere in the universe.

Ruce was dressed in Seltic armour with a green rose on the breastplate. It was part of Seferin Fane’s glad bag of literary stereotypes, which also gave Ruce long brown hair, a three month beard and dark come-to-my-boudoir eyes. The hilt of his sword was jewel encrusted. It looked like a relic from Days of Old and suggested unseen magical power especially the carvings etched on the blade.

Since arriving in reality Ruce had become increasingly confused by the poor correlation between it and the vague outline of a destuny he had been written to fulfil. It was obvious that most places he had been so far, he didn’t belong. He had encountered indifference, mirth, incredulity and occasionally anger as he wandered through the tangible universe and challenged its inhabitants. At the Sandgarden Hotel that afternoon Ruce experienced something he hadn’t encountered in any other part of reality or for that matter fantasy. He was blotto. He lay slumped in a deck chair enjoying his first taste of that state of mind, which did not require him to give a bugger about anything.

‘You right there mate?’

Ruce groaned. To the locals Ruce was just another weirdo from the across the desert who couldn’t hold his grog. To Vince Yaga the Time Traveller however Ruce was an enigma. He had aroused Vince’s scientific curiosity. Vince wanted to know how such a character came to be here. He was like something out of a bad fantasy novel. Vince intended to investigate further. He leaned over the supine fantasy hero and inspected the inebriated expression on his face.

‘Don't go away,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ Ruce blinked slowly.

Being a Time Traveller Vince could say he would be back in a minute and mean it literally. He could travel to a distant planet or three hundred years into the future, live to a ripe old age and still be back in a minute.

The lawnmower sidled up to Ruce’s inert body. It had definitely taken a liking to him.

op. cit.

Rodney's Galactic Dictionary 4th edition (the one with the blue cover)

time warp: a point in the universe where the pressure of the momentum of time, causes a buckling of the fabric allowing time to spin like a rotor blade and in effect to stand still.

time slip: the phenomena which causes things and people to find themselves translocated to a time warp, and from there to anywhere in the known universe - thought to be caused either by an undiscovered virus, or proximity to subtle geological disturbances. Certain personality types are known to be sensitive to time slip. Geniuses, particularly inventors who use dangerous chemicals and explosives are prone. It can be exacerbated by lateral thinking, love-at-first-sight and some religions.

~

Old Rang was wise. You could tell that because he rarely spoke. Most people show their ignorance by speaking. Old Rang had discovered the time-honoured principle that he who keeps mum gives nothing away. It also helps if you have

a straggly beard and you can sit cross-legged for long periods.

People on all kinds of quests came to Old Rang for advice and guidance. He never told them anything they didn’t want to hear. In fact he never told them anything at all and they rarely went away disappointed.

Rang lived in a cave. It was a partially renovated train tunnel that had collapsed, leaving a stoutly trussed entrance to a small chamber with a feature wall of broken rock and shattered timber. It was illuminated at night by five rusty oil lamps housing low wattage globes connected to mains electricity.

Old Rang’s cave was situated on a fault line in a time warp where not only was time warped but reality was fractured as well. As a consequence Old Rang’s visitors came from every dimension of time and space. It was like living at a crossroads near a big film studio. An executive with a briefcase on his way to work was likely to be followed by a Martien in the company of a Cowboy with a six-gun and pretty girl in a leopard skin bikini. And one of them might be carrying an ornate silver sword that belonged to a cousin who was starring in a remake of The Dragon’s Dungeon.

Old Rang kept his mind sharp and his body thin on a diet of bran fibre and black carrot juice. His extreme flexibility came from the practice of Lastic Yoga taught to him by Swami Nutmeat from the Ashram of Togaboga. In one of his past lives, or possibly a future life, Old Rang had been a gigolo and as a form of karmic penance he had tied a knot in his singular appendage. This gave him the impressive ability to sit cross-legged and bolt upright for long periods of time thus enhancing his inscrutability. Not to mention being able to stay calm in the presence of attractive young women.

Sitting as he did at the crossroads of reality Old Rang became many things to many people. To the Nottle Tribe of East Nanglia who lived in the valley below his cave, Old Rang was the Grandfather of Time. Every morning the sun rose over his cave and the sound of his yodelling meditation carried across their village. They knew that if Old Rang slept in, so would the sun. Accordingly, for as long as anyone could recall they had practised the ritual of the dropped bucket every morning before sunrise. A member of the tribe reminded by a simple roster of notches on bamboo poles, was required to walk past Old Rang’s cave yawning nonchalantly and drop a bucket at which he or she would curse, ‘Odarn!’ Old Rang thus awoken, the rostered Nottle returned to the village and the tribe would be blessed with Rang’s yodelling and yet another sunrise.

Whenever Vince called in to visit Old Rang he always brought a bottle of something. Whether it was toad wine from sixteenth century Transilvainear or fortified raspberry vinegar from Venis of an indeterminate future date, they never failed to enjoy a convivial quaff and a bonhomious chat lasting into the early hours.

The first time Vince met Old Rang his rickety time capsule had skidded to a halt at the edge of the warp where past and future were disappearing like melted cheese down the little holes in a griller plate. The transistors in his time capsule had been glowing red and the hard drive of his main operating system spun like a vinyl record on heat.

‘I damn near blew up,’ he said later. ‘The spacetime continuum differential was overloaded.’

He had left his time capsule with the parking lights on and introduced himself to the old man sitting at the entrance to the cave. They had shared the contents of Vince’s nip flask of distilled Nepulese yak bile (12th century vintage) and Vince had got his first taste of Old Rang’s method of discourse.

‘I have just come from 2332.’

Old Rang nodded.

‘You're not surprised?’

Old Rang shook his head.

‘You're familiar with time travel?’

Old Rang nodded again.

‘It’s nothing new where I come from either.’

Old Rang scratched his nose.

‘Some people, Greenies mostly say it disturbs the equilibrium of the universe.’

Old Rang shifted on his cushion to relieve some intestinal pressure. He waved his hand by way of an apology.

‘Yeah. I think that’s a load of whatsiname too. There’s usually a little protest group at the landing pad when I arrive home.’

Old Rang smiled.

‘Misguided idealists. Mind you, I know I play with time travel at my own risk.’

Rang sniffed.

‘Apart from the way my hair keeps changing colour, I’ve had no side effects.’

The two sat pondering this in Old Rang’s silence.

Vince had left that day, highly impressed by Old Rang’s sagacity. Old Rang had said nothing to dispel the impression.

Vince’s visit today was purely business. He ignored Old Rang’s frown when he failed to produce any form of liquid refreshment.

‘I’ve just had a really weird experience,’ said Vince. The word weird is used by most people to describe things unusual. Vince, having seen weird from both sides, used the word to describe events that were right off the Rikter scale of anyone else’s definition of weird.

‘I was having a beer at the Sandgarden Hotel when in walks this character wearing a suit of armour.’

Rang was looking pointedly at Vince’s shoulder bag.

‘Now I know there's nothing unusual about a bloke in a suit of armour per se but let me tell you they don’t often walk into the Sandgarden Hotel at three in the afternoon.’

Rang was still staring at the shoulder bag.

‘You can appreciate how unsettling it was when I tell you I walked out without stopping at the bottle shop.’

Rang burped and looked away as if he had suddenly lost interest.

‘You see my point.’ Rang stared at a nearby rock.

‘So, I don’t know what to make of it,’ Vince went on. ‘Characters out of books and that’s what I think he is, don’t normally wander into Nostralian pubs and order pink Dekari’s.’

Rang was humming softly to himself like someone who has run out of patience.

‘Yeah, I know I look a bit out of place there myself. No need to rub it in. The point is, what am I going to do about it? Do I have a responsibility as a time traveller to at least notify the proper authorities?’

Rang’s humming skipped a beat.

‘You’re right, there are no proper authorities. Authorities are limited to their own time and space.’

Vince suddenly had an idea.

‘So, you’re saying that I need to find the bloke who wrote the book and get him to put this character back where he belongs?’

Old Rang was silent.

‘I should use my initiative. If you’ve said it once you’ve said it a hundred times.’

Talking to Old Rang always made things clearer.

‘Is it alright if I use your dunny?’

Old Rang’s dunny was on a bit of slope. That was because it sat on a crack running out of the time warp fault line. Consequently sewerage was not a problem because everything that went into it ceased to exist.

When he was comfortable, Vince picked up a pile of papers from the floor and began to flick idly through them. He noticed the pages were numbered and that they began from page thirteen. The earlier pages had obviously gone to oblivion. On the pages was a story full of strange names. At the bottom of each page was the title of the story: The Green Rose: Chronicles of the Dark Lord.

Vince emerged from the dunny clutching the papers.

‘This is the novel!’ he told Old Rang. ‘The one Ruce Lemming came from. It’s not finished.’

Rang’s inscrutable visage could easily have signified that of course he knew that. It was not unlike the look on the face of someone who has just eaten a very bland soup.

Seferin Fane had not been one of Old Rang’s more memorable visitors. He was a rather