Chapter 1
The late grandfather of the late grandfather clock was Sir Mobius Tannenwein, eventual Lord of Reischgarner Isle, a bone’s throw away from the southern coast of Germanica. He twirled his mind around the concept after swimming laboriously ashore from a shipwrecked ship beached on the reef of the Coral Beech Beach. It was certainly curious to have such tropical climes in such atropical climates, and furthersome troublesome to have such curious foliage, (the likes of beech trees and tree beaches), in such an otherwise barren land. The land was barren insofar as it was controlled by principally barren barrons and principals. The lushness was, of course, in the greenlands and plainlands of the inner island’s insides, undercut by the undergrowth: just brambley and barbarous enough to prick one with impetuous barbs at any attempt to traverse the island. Thus it proved a difficult voyage for Sir Tannenwein after he sloshed ashore and began to slash and slush his was through the thick weeds and thorny winds of the tundra-esque beech-filled beach.
After several severe hours of confused crunching of twiggy greenery beneath his feet, (preceded by another hour of unconsciousness in the rising tide), Mobius’s shins and ankles had attained a bloodiness too dire to go on. Mobius took it upon himself to fall face first into one more appetizing patch of cactusrose. Here he rested, and dreamt.
You are alone at your study in Venice. The clock is lined with walls. Each wall has a clock lined with lines of clocks reading lines of text proclaiming the seventh hour past noon, and each wall has text containing twelve clocks each, reading c-l-o-c-k. They all tick in unison and then shatter and shimmer and then tick in unison. There is one sundial that persists with the moon. It is winter and you did not realize there was snow in Italy, but of course there is. Suddenly the churchbell rings outside your window. The window vibrates. You pop up from your desk, your face had been embedded in a copy of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. You see shadows dancing on the clocks or the walls. You turn and there is a fire and you begin to pull the clocks off the wall and burn them in the fire. Then you dance, at first slow and then faster as the fire becomes bon. Through the flames of clocks you see your lover. Ablaze! No! Shock! Another jolt and you’re up from your desk again. That must have been a dream. This time you are reading Voltaire. All the greats. But your dream has reminded you that you are late for your romantic soiree with your lover. And all the walls exclaim that it is now seven minutes past the seventh hour past noon. An idea strikes you like the clock strikes your forehead. Bong!
“Owwwww,” said Mobius. Another two hours had passed and now he had the butt of a spear between his eyes. So he opened them, groggily, and saw, foggily, a barbarian (?) or Germanican, let’s say, but most aptly and yet most unbeknownst to our traveler (for he didn’t yet know what island he was on), it was a member of the Reisch Clan. The Reisch Clan was nefarious and notorious only as far as the border of the Reischgarner Isle. Aside from a very few exceptions to whom you will be introduced later, the Reisch Clan was the total populous of the island. Each member rode an especially fearsome and truthfully fearful beast named a Hoofbleed. As the name implies these enabled transportation across the barren brushland of the island without deep digs of thorns and weird insect bites, thanks to a layer of rock hard hoof encasing most of the animal’s leg…a sort of tusken boot.
Behind the gruesomely attired Reisch Clansman was his Hoofbleed and two other shorter looking dwarfy guys, similarly attired in leathers and furs and studs and spears, but laden also with satchels and thermoses and other weaponry. Clearly, they were the lackeys, the technical clan word for which is Schragass. Seriously.
“Get up,” ordered the spear-weilding dude.
“Ughhhlllllarrrrb,” replied Mobius. Immobile.
“Bring him.”
With that, Sir Mobius Tannenwein was roughly hoisted onto the rump of the Hoofbleed and trudged rump first across the wastelands of cactusrose, beech trees, and bramblebranch. He was swiftly unconscious again.
