Bukwyrld - The Short Story, Page 2

then took that to a quiet corner to drink and watch the fun. The place was already packed, even so early in the day, as if no-one in the city had anything better to do than come to the taverns and watch the shows.

  Most of the tables were gathered in clumps, each clump with a small pedestal set toward the centre, each pedestal adorned with its robed priest or evangelist. Some were more lavishly adorned than others, but they all had their gimmick. Some were in rags, others with a touch of gold, some even in three piece suits.

  Cameron was within earshot of three, only one of which was a wailer. He shouted fire and brimstone on occasion, but was a mild wailer as far as wailers went. The other two barely made a sound, although on occasion Cameron could pick up a phrase or two, most of which brought a quick smile – like when one tried to convince his listeners that the world really was flat and it was just that time and space were so curved it didn't look flat. Cameron wondered if any would try and disprove the complex mathematics explaining why it was you could never fall off the edge.

  In fact Cameron was still chuckling to himself when an elderly man approached and sat opposite him at the table without so much as asking. What annoyed the most was the fact that this man, although dressed more or less normally, had his religious ID tag pinned firm to his jacket. Another evangelist or wacko priest. Cameron took another long drink, almost willing to sit and listen to what the old guy had to say for himself. He needed a good laugh.

  It wasn't long before the priest started talking. “Cameron,” he said, straight off the cuff. “It's good to finally meet you... again.”

  Cameron had thought for a moment that he might be looking for religion, but that was fading fast. Then he had considered the evangelists good for a laugh, even looking forward to disputing their claims. Now that he actually was facing one he was tempted to tell him to go to hell. Cameron wondered if he had one.

  “So you know my name,” Cameron shot back. Perhaps that was it, the fact that he used his name. “I'm a sceptic, so I'm sure there's a good reason for that.”

  “Oh,” the priest's eyes widened. “What sect?”

  Cameron shook his head. “A sceptic sceptic. I don't really believe anyone – including the sceptics.”

  He gave a nod. “Not surprising. It is difficult to blindly follow a faith when you can perhaps sense the truth of reality. I suppose that is why my following is so small. There are so few who can sense the truth.”

  Yes, there was that sense that this man was reading minds, but Cameron was not about to be fooled so easily. These priests were good at this, even the completely genuine ones – those who really believed the things they were preaching. Sure, he had just been thinking about blindly following a faith, but then what else would a sceptic sceptic have to think about. As for the truth of reality... “So how many followers do you have?” Cameron asked, avoiding the bait.

  “I shortly hope to have at least one disciple,” the old man smiled, “but that will depend on how well you sense the truth, and how willing you are to accept the full implications of it.”

  That brought a brief chuckle. “I don't even know who you are, and so I'm not likely to accept very much at all.”

  “Who I am will take time, and names are simply random labels bestowed upon us by a higher power. They fit the décor, certainly, but do they truly tell anything of who we are?”

  “Just give me your name and religion,” Cameron barked impatiently, “and I'll decide whether I want to listen. If you're just some new faction of Amwayism then I just don't want to know.”

  The man shrugged. “You may call me Ian if you wish.”

  Cameron stared. “Do you have any idea how stupid Ian sounds as a name for priest?”

  “Good. I'm not a priest and I only wear the badge because it entitles me to a free meal. Religious speakers tend to preach faith and belief, while I preach the true nature of reality.”

  That brought a smile. “You're a funny guy, Ian. We won't argue the fact that everyone thinks they're preaching their own nature of reality.”

  “Of course not,” Ian said, serious but with a trace of smile. “They're wrong, of course, which is exactly what they say about every other religion. The difference is that I can prove my reality – indeed this meeting itself is almost proof enough.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. I really should have caught that. It was all in the way you saw me sitting here on my own, then walked over here for this nice little chat. This was all meant to be, right? This is all part of my destiny.”

  Ian cocked his head. “You might say that this meeting was indeed arranged by a higher power.”

  “God. Right? What you haven't mentioned is exactly who that god is. Perhaps something more orthodox, like Christianity or Blenderism.”

  “God indeed,” Ian sighed. “Reality is a little more complex than that, and yet far more simple.”

  That caught Cameron's attention. This religion might not be quite run of the mill and worth quite a laugh. “Profound! Can we fill in some of the details now, like the actual basis of this religion.”

  Something Ian seemed keen to avoid. “I write books, amongst other things, but it is the books that brought about this revelation.”

  Cameron slumped and narrowed his gaze. “Show me a leader of a sect that doesn't write books.”

  “You miss the point,” Ian groaned. “I write fiction, stories, books about people doing things and living out their lives, setting them goals and obstacles. It's a rather rewarding pastime, although time-consuming.”

  “You're right. I missed the point.”

  “Some of the characters in my stories might also write books,” Ian then speculated, “although I don't know of any who do. There are a great many incidentals, so the chances are...”

  “Ramblism perhaps,” Cameron tried. “The Church of the Not-Very-Profound.”

  Ian shrugged. “I was merely speculating; thinking what it must be like for those characters of my book as they sit there writing their own books. And then there are the characters of those books, and the books beyond them. Mind boggling, isn't it.”

  “The only thing mind-boggling is the fact that I'm sitting here listening to this.”

  “Why?” Ian shot back, dead serious. “How do you think they feel?”

  Cameron stared. “I don't think they feel very much at all, Ian. They're just characters created by your warped mind, little people that you imagine are writing their own little books...” He broke off and shook his head, not really believing he could have been roped into pursuing that line of argument. “Look,” Cameron then tried. “I'm not sure where this is headed, but I don't really think I'm interested anyway. I've go too much to do to just sit here and chat.“

  “If you have somewhere to go, then go. I'm not about to stop you.” And Ian sat there, staring ahead.

  Cameron fondled the bottle. It was still half full. He had been doing too much talking and not enough drinking. “This is my table and I'd like to finish my drink in peace. Maybe you could just wander off and find some other sucker.”

  “I'm not the one who has other things to do. I too have purpose and goals, and they are best attained by speaking with you.” Then Ian smiled. “And I propose that your purpose is to be here with me, so you need to leave to prove me wrong.”

  Cameron was intrigued, but not that intrigued. This man was good, very good, and as yet he had never mentioned what his faith was all about. He had to be selling something. “You're still here,” Ian said a moment later.

  “Of course I'm still here. I haven't finished my drink yet.”

  Ian shook his head. “No. You are here because you have nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. You have been brought here for the express purpose of speaking with me, brought by my higher power, my God if you like. Indeed everybody's God.”

  “I'm here because my drink is here, and I'll be damned if I'll let you or your god make me leave it.”

  “If someone was writing a book about this, about
the two of us sitting here speculating on the nature of reality, then I'm sure he would give you good reason not to leave. He does not need to restrain you physically as I might, for he can draw upon your stubborn nature not to leave this table, or use your sense of intrigue, or your desire not to leave that half-full bottle – even though you are quite capable of taking it with you.”

  “But this isn't a book,” Cameron smiled, “and no-one controls me.”

  “What if it was a book?”

  “Then I suppose I could just as likely strip naked and start dancing on the table.”

  “That might not be in character for you, but if you wish to do so then feel free.”

  Cameron was beginning to feel extremely agitated. It was all past being a joke, and this priest wasn't as easily tripped up as some. “If I danced naked on the table then I would get arrested, but at least it would be what I wanted to do, not what some writer...” The pause then was quite lengthy, and it all clicked into place. Cameron just couldn't believe he had sat and listened to such a load of absolute crap. “So that's it,” he whined. “That's the entire basis of your theology. I've been to more meaningful Tupperware parties!”

  “That each of our worlds and realities are the plots and scenes of an author's work, yes. Simplicity, and yet such depth. Can you imagine the number of levels and amount of variety that must exist.”

  “We're characters and we live in a book,” Cameron clarified. “That has