h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

The hound and the seal read the letter solemnly. Art was imitating life again.

The conversation is conducted in barks, and sounds somewhat aggressive.

They quite like the idea of having a bunch of deranged rednecks gang-rape the trout, but decide that would be too derivative.

They have concluded, on the whole, that it's probably time for somebody to commit another act of minor literary arson.

Pinniped has gone away to think about it.

Pinniped raps the pointer against the flipchart easel, to call this rabble to order.

They're all here, and they're all more-or-less paying attention. So far, so good.

The seal pores over his notes. Oh, yeah. He hurls a banjo into the river, where it sinks meaningfully. The group exchange "what-the-f***-was-that-about?" glances.

"Right", barks Pinniped. "We're here to decide the future of this thread. It's Post #442, and that's some kind of investment, yeah? Only we seem to be flagging a bit".

He scowls at the trout.

"Orchid, read the letter".

The whale makes an effort, but it takes her several attempts to negotiate 'Pedethtrian'. What with her bladder-control difficulties, she's been dreading having to say 'Otharkth'. After that it all goes somewhat inaudible.

Pinniped nods, as if the rendition has been remotely coherent. "You all understand what that means?", he demands.

Everybody nods. Everybody looks utterly bewildered at the same time.

"Good", says Pinniped, with the finality of someone who couldn't have explained it either. "Waz - what's in the basket?"

"Nugg'n", declares the lammergaier, perching atop it on tip-talon, beakful of lid.

Pinniped glowers, and waddles over to the vacant receptacle. "It's not a bl**dy Royal Box, y'know", he yells into the aperture. "You're supposed to do some s*dding work too, you lazy cow!"

Absolutely barking, acquiesces the assembled company.

"OK", shouts Pinniped, turning back to the group. He really does seem to be quite ventilated : if flippers could be clenched, they would be. "Three weeks ago, we had storylines coming out of our ears. Now look at us. Somebody suggest a plot - now!"

"Or he will", adds Jodan, unhelpfully.

The easel slowly topples into the undergrowth. Pinniped snarls at Orchid, who is surreptitiously sniffing a marker-pen, and pointedly turns his back on the lot of them.

Boots was sniffing around the undergrowth. Not his undergrowth, you understand, just undergrowth in general. They needed a project, something to do with 'Otharkth' whatever that may be. Or maybe not? The publisher had said it was good to have a shaggy dog in the story. He must ask Trout what exactly a shaggy dog did. He was sure that Trout would have the definitive answer or at least one definitive answer.
Projects Mmmmmm?
Perhaps they could refurbish the Pananma canal? Perhaps Hypatia could be kidnapped and dragged through the Bayou and taken to the Alamo (geography was not his strongest suit), Then they could all rescue her and have a gunfight. Trout and the phocid could make the guns, didn't they both do something with metal. If you can build a bridge surely a little thing that goes 'BANG!' can't be hard.
Orchid could wear a bonnet.
Hang on a second! Where was Orchid?
'Waz, Hypatia, Pin, Trout, Jazzme, has anyone seen Orchid in the last five minutes?'

'Speckly and fatty Lizzard were keeping her under control' said Hypatia.

'You let Orchid wander off into the undergrowth!!!!' Pin almost exploded.
'All I wanted was a plot for heaven's sake! Orchid in the wilderness is a catstrophe! Come on we've got to get her back before the whole of the future is rewritten!'

The conflagration was small by Hollywood standards. No vehicle exploded in a ball of orange and black. No electrical installation became the focus of an unlikely display of pyromania. And much to the Jazmme's chagrin, no erotic passion-play occurred on a furry white rug in front of a raging hearth.

Instead, Pinniped held on to the letter for as long as possible, until the flame from the last vestige of its substance and the sentiment contained thereon licked at his fin, scorching him, forcing him to let go. Free from the seal, the tiny fragment of burning paper flew aloft and away.

The others looked on approvingly, glad to be rid of the missive.

"Come on," the canine panted to the phocid, "let's get on with the story. There's been too much arsin' about".

Unbeknown to anyone however, the amount of arson about would shortly be greatly and locally enhanced, as the now tiny ember settled onto the sad brown growth that was a bed of dried up old mustard and cress, which itself rested among the tinder-dry undergrowth of Hypatia's ornamental bush, into which Orchid (plastic by nature it is recalled) had shuffled.

"Woof"

The seal looked back at Boots. "You did that without moving your lips."

Hypatia was a bit flustered. She didn't remember telling anyone that the Ozarks were actually interesting. She sighed and went in to cancel the white water canoing trip scheduled for that afternoon, the moonshine-making demonstration for tomorrow, and the snipe hunt for the day after. She wondered if she could get her money back on the Silver Dollar City tickets.

She was desperate to find an outing this diverse group of travellers would enjoy. She supposed she could take them to the cave at the rear of her property. The one that was said to contain an entry way into hell. She hadn't really believed the story, although strange things sometimes appeared in these parts. But, hey, she had gotten a erm... hell of a price on the property.

The group was gathered and semi-attentive. "What do you know about cave art?"

The shark had toured the river from the dam down to the rapids, finding both the crappies and the giant catfish. Somehow neither had attracted him as he had hoped they would. Two earthworms suspended from strings did catch his eye as the were suspended in the only section of water totally devoid of life. Two pre-pubescent faces stared down from the bank, their straw-like hair topped with matching wide-brimmed hats, much the worse for wear. The freckles that spread from the respective noses reminded him of a star map. One had Cassiopeia on his chin while the girl's forehead resembled Orion. The angry red glow in the woods behind them made a strangely beautiful and terrifying frame to the image.

The cacophany of yelps and growls makes perfect sense to Pinniped. The hound is a good friend and a kindred spirit.

"Yeah, seals are at least as well adapted to caves as sheep", he replies. "Don't worry about it. As for Hyp going on about Hell, well, I know all about that, and it's no big deal. OK, I didn't go myself, but Speak did. He thought it was cool. Figuratively speaking, of course".

The hound looks even more confused than usual.

"It's Coleridge's late husband who does it. Samvel. You've probably heard of him. He hangs round people's necks for some reason. Then there's this hell-ship, and that's kind of the more extreme penance, right? It appears from nowhere whenever some idiot harms one of the Pier crowd, the one's I dreamed up. That's why I'm not too worried about Orchid. If Orchid was in real trouble, a ghastly galleon with a dead crew would have turned up, and they'd have killed everybody. I think we'd have noticed, yeah? Hey, that reminds me : I've been meaning to talk to my solicitor about copyright and that Depp guy".

His companion whimpers, and begins to howl balefully.

"Speak said that? He got a call on THAT telephone?"

The seal looks worried for a moment, but then appears to dismiss it. "Well, he didn't call me, so he can't have been too concerned. Anyway, who'd hurt Orchid? Yeah, I know Trout has been touchy ever since his damn bus went whoosh, but he wouldn't dare. He reads backthreads, y'know. He'll know all about the Curse".

They pair of them fall silent, and the only sound is the dripping of water in the darkness. They continue on down into the cave, following the others. But the hound's ears are pressed flat to his skull; he has a very bad feeling about all of this.

...meanwhile Orchid sits strangely motionless in the blackened clearing, wearing a glazed look.

'Don't worry Christopher Robin' said Alice. 'You will learn that life is generally stranger then fiction...What's fiction? Well it's the bit that takes what you know and adds to it what you wish it could be, and sort of makes a map about how it could work out... No it doesn't necessarily happen that way... it's just how you could imagine it happening...and it doesn't always happen because other people cloud, or add to your perceptions of life. OK I know perception is a difficult concept, but you're just going to have to deal with that.

'Orchid will you please concentrate, this is sort of important!'

Dear God it was so much easier being an actress or a florist. This 'teaching concepts' is a bridge too far for a seriously useless hound.

'Orchid, do you believe that sleeping beauty was rescued by the Prince?'

'Oh yeth of courth I do, and he wath jutht gorgeouth.'

'And do you think Ben will live to be our heroine?'

Of corth I do the's the reathon we're here ithen't the?'

'And we don't know how it's going to turn out do we?'

'Of corth we do. Ben ith going to find the man of her dreamth and they are going to live happily ever after.'

'Ok great Orchid, you've grasped the concept! Thats fiction. Describe the man now!'

'Well he mutht look like Kevin Cothtna and have the intellect of Jonothan Miller and the wit of Oscar Wilde...'

'Stop there you useless piece of blubber!!! When did you ever see such a package?'

'Well I haven't acthualy theen it booth but I dream about it every night.'

At this point Trout interrupted

'Quit while your ahead boots and before the second bottle of chardonnay clouds what could have been an almost effective arguement.'

Gratefuly the hound hit the kennel.

Hypatia had never been frightened of the cave. She had been intrigued, yes; admired the neolithic art, certainly; but not frightened. Until the bones were disturbed last summer that is.

She had given permission for an anthropology class from MU to enter the cave and take pictures of the wall paintings. One of the students had wandered too deep into the cavern, beyond the lighted areas,to a place that Hypatia had found years ago and had jealously guarded from the public.

By the time the student was missed, it was too late. She hoped that he had become claustrophobic and had returned to the surface, but that wasn't the case. Once the other students were safely above ground, she and the professor returned to the depths to search.

The student had been found dead, face down in the dust with a stalactite protruding from his back. An unfortunate accident, she had said. A fluke of nature. A tremor must have caused the calcite to fall. A tragedy to lose one so young.

The professor returned to the surface and called the sheriff, leaving Hypatia alone with the body....giving her enough time to retrieve the ancient shaman's thigh bone that was visible underneath the student's arm and return it to the wall niche where it belonged.

The sheriff's deputies removed the body. They had no interest in examining the scene. Caves were a dime a dozen in the Ozarks. The young professor was so shaken at the loss of his student that he made no attempt to explore further, either.

When they were all gone, Hypatia had rearranged the bones as carefully as she could and had said a prayer for the soul of the shaman. The next day she had returned and placed a deerskin pouch filled with tobacco and three eagle feathers beside the bones as an offering.

The paintings in the upper cavern had been studied and determined to be of fairly recent origin - about 800AD. But the paintings and remains in the back of the cave, the ones that few knew about and no one talked about, were much older.

Native Osage had told stories about the cave being a portal to the underworld as a way to frighten the white man and keep him away from this sacred place. But they feared it themselves, and over the centuries the cave had developed a sinister reputation.

Shortly after buying the property, Hypatia had brought in a friend from Taos and they had explored the site over a period of several months. They had found the ancient paintings and the bones of 37 men. Artifacts present with the bones indicated that they were medicine men. Pollen from their pouches had been sent for testing. The results created a dilemma. The remains were over 30,000 years old. Which was clearly impossible.

Hypatia had been advised to keep the find secret...to tell anyone who had heard rumors and asked about the cave that the paintings in the front were all that was present. They were a nice find in and of themseves and would serve as a means of preventing interest in the rest of the cave. And that is what she had done.

She would show her guests the wall paintings, Trout would complain about their poor quality, and they would leave the way they had come. She didn't think any of them would be interested in venturing beyond the lighted cavern, especially if she told then that there was nothing of interest in the lower regions of the cave. On the other hand, she had been curious about the underground lake. Perhaps one of her aquatic friends could explore it for her and make a report.

All of the sheep had already wandered into the cave. They had a strange habit of wandering off when Pin held meetings.

Pip suddenly noticed the painting on the cave. As an expert on paintings (McKenzie had a rather large art gallery) he stared at it, with moving eyes, for a good ten minutes.

"Hmm. Interesting texture. The color schemes are clearly derivative of Picasso, but the strokes are taken from Fragonard obviously, but the figures are more original. Their fashion is odd... perhaps a parody or expression of irony based on modern fashions. The simplicity of the drawings and the lack of canvas, to me, mean that the painter was attempting to show how hollow and simple all paintings really are.

"The loin clothes and buffalo probably reflect the primitive urges that all people feel. That seems like a rather common interpretation today... this isn't very original. Was I supposed to feel that though? Is that a point of the piece? Does it mean there is nothing left to paint about? That there are no more subjects? All the landscapes have been landscaped, all the Biblical scenes have been imagined... all the still life has been done. There is nothing new under the sun. And look! My conclusion is clearly reinforced by the sun near the top."

The sheep promptly leaned forward and licked the painting.

"I've never tasted that sort of paint. All of the paintings in McKenzie were much better tasting."

"The man has such anger. An Ozark man would. It looks, from the clothes and hunting, that this man is an American from about... 40 years ago? Well, 40 years ago might be too much. It seems like the Ozark people would have advanced to the rest of society if they had forty years to go from this to where they are. I mean... I saw a double-decker outhouse on the roadside. Two! Both claiming to be the world's only.

"Truly, there is nothing new under the sun."

Pip concluded his speech with a certain eloquence.

The great and female sheep simply stared at him with a befuddled anger.

"Pip. It's a cave painting. That's a buffalo. That's a man in a loin cloth (I'm not sure what he's doing to the buffalo...) It is not high art. It is not avant garde. It is low brow. It could have been made with blood and feces... which you licked. And that's not a lack of canvas, that's an ancient cave wall that has been untouched for thousands of years. Which you also licked."

Pip looked at his friends with a sheepish grin, and they moved on.

Trout Montague picked up the modified Orchid, and made to tuck the no-longer leviathan leviathan into the pocket of his Harris Tweed suit; the heat from the fire had reduced her as happens when a crisp packet is baked in a low oven.

"I'm thooty", complained Orchid, somewhat vainly more concerned about her appearance than her dimensional metamorphism.

"Well thank your lucky stars that I'm not Harry Corbett", responded the Trout, content at least to verify that the hound's conversation had been real and not a resultant of Chardonnay-malaria, from which Boots was a habitual sufferer.

"Here", continued the salmonid, tossing in a hanky.

"Ugh, it'th all thticky and thmellth of camembert" said the miniature killer-whale ungratefully, whilst wiping herself down. "And what are theeth little fawn cloudth ..."

Closing the pocket flap and holding it shut, Trout Montague wondered whether rescuing Orchid had been such a grand idea after all.

Jazzme drew Hypatia to one side and said 'can you feel it?'

We are surrounded by THE PRESENCE. The spirits of our ancestors are all around us - ensuring us that we are all one with the creator.

This motely bunch of misfits are all a part of the great universal spirit, which is why we are still embroiled with them.

The great native American ancestors must have used this cave - was it public or just the medicine men who came here?

Of course you, like me, are not native American - I wonder if you are descended from the Celtic races - described now as pagans for their pre-christian religion, but all one with mother nature. Shaman, shaman

It was natural that Hypatia and Jazzme would relate to one another since they were the only human members of the troop. Not counting Wolfgang, of course. And who wanted to count Wolfgang? He hadn't joined the travellers in the Ozarks, thank goodness. She could only imagine what sort of mischief he would get up to. Probably arrest Uncle Harvey for entrepurenurial distilling.

Jazzme was right about Hypatias Celtic roots. But what he didn't know was that she had Native Amercan roots as well. Eight great grandparents. Five Celtic, two Germanic, one Cherokee.

She had never felt any particular attachment to her native roots. The family had been more embarassed by it than anything. But she experienced strange stirrings when she entered the cave. That is why she agreed not to publicize finding the bones. She wanted them to rest in peace, not be hauled to some museum vault, washed and x-rayed, broken and dated. She wanted them treated respectfully.

She didn't know how, but somehow the spirits of the dead shamans recoginized her as a protector and had left her in peace. But the students death had been no accident. Of that she was certain.

Where the heck had Trout and Orchid gotten to? And Wereshark? She wanted to talk to him about exploring the lake inside the cave. She was afaid the water would be too dark for any of them to see, but felt that Wereshark had the best chance. If anyone could find a portal to the underworld, it would be a shark. Sharks were among the first creatures on earth, after all.

She turned and retraced her steps in hopes of locating the remainder of the troop. "Pip, stop licking that wall! You don't know where it's been."

Or where it's going, she mused to herself.

Was the lake a lake after all - or was it the river Styx?

Would it be safe to sent our aquatic friends across?

Would they return?

If Pip kept on licking the mineral-based paints off the wall he may be crossing over there himself all too soon.

But then how could he get any information back to us if it was the Styx?

And what was the student doing to precipitate his early demise? Messing with the bones of a medicine man wasn't playful I agree but what dark secret was being hidden?

Were the tom-toms drumming in some long forgotten camp? And did they portend danger to our party, or had Hypatia satisfied the soul of the deceased with her gifts? Jazz took hold of her hand happy that, with their shared Celtic roots and protective instincts they would come to no harm.

But there seemed to be more questions than answers, mused Jazzme, shaking his head. Perhaps the shark would be willing to go in search of some answers.

The shark slipped from the water around the bend from the young anglers and shifted into human shape to avoid scaring them too much, a glance at his reflection reminded him that the human face and body was only slightly less alarming than his aquatic form. He reached the urchins just as they had become aware of the configuration behind them. With a greater fear of the flames than the old mariner they saw appear from the woods, they willingly followed him along the bank. Outflanking the advancing wall of flame and onto the already burned prairie with a strange plasticine whale depression in the middle. He lead them back to the Hypatia's cottage Hoping the group could help them return home. If not at least they could play with the sheep!

Together, like a bunch of idle teenagers at the town clocktower, they cluttered up the cavern, as if waiting for some sort of plasticene polar-inspired inspiration. It was sad but true, but without proper leadership, they were doomed to die troglodytes.

"This is botox", spluttered the trout, whose style was feeling cramped. "You'd think that if this really was the route to hell, then there'd be some sort of a sigh ..."

At that moment, cutting off the vocal salmonid, a voice not dissimilar to that of Vincent Price resonated throughout the cave ...

"Wo two u-o earthen c
Fourth herd evil censor bees twee the raft
Beak ozzy nosed her tie me short
Letter moo hat udder stand-in
Wreck Honda numb burr of fur bees
Forehead ISA Hugh Man... numb burr.
Its numb berries sick sun dread an sicks tea sicks"

Trout Montague prepared to air-guitar but the familiar baseline riff never came. Instead, the reverberations of Vincent Price rattled around the labyrinthine environment in which they loitered.

The Hypatia was petrified, not literally, but figuratively. Cue the Jazzme with a steady nerve and firm bodily parts.

The dog peed itself, but whether this was driven by fear or territory remains undetermined.

The wereshark heard nothing because he was supposed to be submerged in one murky pool or other.

The phocid rolled his eyes, pleased that at least that someone appeared to have read one of the backthreads, and with that kicked the dormant Ali Baba basket.

The sheep of indeterminate number rolled their eyes because more or less that's what sheep do, eye-rolling being the at the outer limit of ovine intellect, oxymoronic as it sounds.

And the lammergeier chuckled, clapping its wings. "Hooray, it's Goldspeech!"

"Thit", spluttered Orchid from Trout Montague's pocket, "he'th a pain in the arth".

'Hypatia, would you say this is a somewhat dangerous situation we find ourselves in?' Jazzme's peurile question was wasted on the petrified Hypatia.

Trout whacked her with his fin and she gasped for air, unsure whether the breath had been taken because of the smell or the fear. A second gasp confirmed it was the smell.

'Personally I think we should put Orchid into a jam jar, sprinkle her with water and see if she grows' said Waz who, being unable to fly in the cramped confines of the cave and, having finished her windmill blue prints

http://uk.geocities.com/lunchtimepr...ductions/NSSimages/NSSwindmill.html

was ready for another project. She was sure she remembered things being put in jam jars in her youth and then being sprinkled with water and metamorphosising into enchanting aliens. Well maybe they weren't that enchanting, pink caterpillars sprang to mind.
Orchid did look perfectly dreadful though. Hardly a pink caterpillar, more a pork scratching. Her pink Tutu trailing shroud like from Trout's pocket.

'That's a bit of a random leap isn't it Waz? I thought we were supposed to be doing the Hammer horror movie now' Jodan quite liked the idea of playing the sheep of the Baskervilles, no way was he going to let boots muscle in on that part.

'Pin will you stop kicking Ben' said Hypatia 'She might bite you.'

'Why do you think I'm kicking her?' snarled the phocid. 'It's about time she did something! She can bite me if she wants, she can bite Goldspeech if she wants, anything is better than this literary lethargy'

'Who's Goldspeech?' mumbled the hound realising he must have missed an awful lot of threads whilst on his rabbit hunting course and not wanting to appear more stupid than normal.

'Right Fishboy, you tell her, who's Goldspeech?'

Jazzme hadn't quite sorted out the whole song performed by Vincent Price but he recognised it as being biblical in content - perhaps a little out of place in this ancient pre-christian environment. He appeared to have been singing about the ramblings of Saint John the evangelist - namely the forewarning of the coming of the beast - numbered 666.

The paintings in the darker part of the cave pre-dated those in the Lascaux Grotto, France by at least 15,000 years, but, like this cave paintings they too showed the slaying of a bison (or buffalo) and had been recognised as shamanistic.

Any presence here (other than the group in the story) was likely to be shamanistic rather than biblical - but could be equally threatening. Perhaps it would be in order for them to make a strategic withdrawal for the time being and discus the identity of Goldspeech in the light of the sun.

Right chaps - run! run!

By the way has anyone got a jam jar?

Brr...brr...

...Pinniped? (Ahem...)

I thought you probably ought to be informed about some recent telephone calls. Yes, on THAT phone. Yes, I do remember your explicit instruction to unplug it. Did you really expect it not to ring just because it was unplugged?

Ahem...anyway. Three messages. A portentous number. Yes, quite.

One. The creepy woman with the dice-fetish called. The ship is here, so if you happen to notice the sun being flecked with bars or similar, that'll be the reason. Apparently someone has hurt a friend of an albatross. No, I have no idea where Coleridge is, or Orchid for that matter. You're probably all right as long as nobody whistles thrice. Possibly. And try to steer clear of the thousand-thousand slimy things, won't you?

Two. Hugh Manatee called. He said he's getting nuisance calls from Vincent Price again. He said that he was to let you know if ever that happened, because it would probably mean that the world was about to end.

That's it.

Oh, did I say three? Oh, right. Ilmarinen came home, and he's made rather a mess of your quarters. He lit a fire in there. And then the anvil fell through the floor. Yes, that's him howling now. He keeps tearing off lumps of Pier and throwing them out to sea, so it might be an idea for you to hurry home while there's still some left.

Is that all right, then? Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure. Got to dash. I think that's Pingu on the other line...

CLICK...