Vestiges of Freedom

Part Un: Bound Inward

1 Trauma

Last noch I traumed I was on a gargantuan horse cantering and galloping across hills and down into deep, grun vals. We raced mit clouds and shied mit the wind; he tossed his mane amidst the tree tops, shaking hevy fruit loose from drooping branches with his shudders, scattering burds to the four winds; he whinnied and ran mit free herds of ander horses that joined us from forests, moors, and deserts. We were mitout a care in the welt; and I hung on, mitout reins or saddle, larfing at our vitality. Nymphs, the tochters of the grand king of the forest, called me to them, tempting me mit dance and song, hiding in bushes and larfing as I approached; aber we didn’t care, I was the emperor of the noch and mon horse the equine king of the land, they culd wait till we were redy for them.

Such traums are we made o’these tags, vehn all is shackled and the traum welt is our only echape, our only freedom, the only place we have vehr we can be unregulated – let loose in fantasy.

I awake with a painful realisashun that the horse is not reel, that the adventure is not reel, that mon quest for freedom is not reel, but I find kindled deep mitin an energy and direkshun that nunc is the tempus for things to change.

I shall find a horse; I shall ride a horse; I shall own a horse. That will be my quest. Then I begin to larf, that volly energised larf o’the luv for life, luv for challenges, luv for potentiality recognised, and luv for purpose and a quest! I am awake from yerren of slumber; awake to seek and to explore.

Yet a quest for horses – such dings are illegal, extinct, lang gone in this shackled land. But wot is the point of living, if you cannik enjoy adventure or take a risk?

œ œ œ

I am denking uber this to mineself, driving alang the M-607 to Melton tarder that tag in mon ald fossil fuel auto, vueing a brite blu armoured euguard cellauto mit its golden €U logo on its ports trundling alang on in front of me. I ubertake, smiling smugly; they won’k appreshiate it. Cellautos are slo, as it explains on the rue as we pass uber the yello letters: SLO, SLO, SLO.

Tuff. Hah hah.

The rue is empty, the wether sunny and carm. Either side, vast hedges border a ragged forest edge. I ken it wasn’k there a hundred yerren ago; I ken this from ald verbidden maps of th’area. It was a golf corse.

Golf was a game that tuk up too much living space, the eurogime said fifty yerren ruck. It went the weg of all games and the competitive spirit. Gone for gud. Yet manon did nik take over the land – nature has taken ruck that wich was once belonged to mensh. The greens nunc weeds, the fairways sprouting yung trees, the verges alder trees. A man in a lang cloak is striding alang the rue – an unusual activity; he’s got a long walking stick, I vue in my mirror as I pass. He appeers fit, five-ten perhaps, short grey beard on a ruddy face – a sketch in him, I denk as he diminishes.

I vue anander cellauto a quart ahed. I shuld have tempus to ubertake nak the sharp left. Then I vue anander auto cuming towards us, driving on our rite hand side. It’s nik ubertaking any thing I can vue; he’s speeding up. The cellauto in front of me begins to wobble, the driver unsure as to how to outmanouevre the on-cuming disaster, finally taking the decision to veer to the left, just as th’ander goes ruck to his side ; and, in wot seems an elongated tempo-distorshun, the duo autos clip eech ander creating a spinning gymnastic display, un flipping, th’ander twisting, the sickening squeel of metal on metal reeching mon aurs.

I brake as the duo sullenly end their dance as if the viddigraph’s on pause; un lying weels up like a lang tod flie, th’ander hugging a tree in silent prostrashun.

This is u’fishy start to the tag.

The weels are still spinning o’th’inverted auto. It is fossil fueled like mon. Halting, I jump out and race uber to check for injuries and to cut the fuel flow. The engine is still purring; this culd be dangerus for me. I can nik vue inside, ’ber I can heer screems from th’ander auto; so this un needs mon helf first.

The port is jammed, crumpled at the top; I try th’ander side; it offens and I reech in and cut the engine. A yute is crumpled in a heep, and nunc I notice blut is poring from his tet, his left arm seems distorted at th’ulna; shwarz blut matted haar, swety face, occhies closed, lips quivering; I need to get him out; behind, I heer the peeeewah o’the Guards’ auto reeching the scene. Oh nay ... duo brun-shirted mensh get out, wich meens they’re nie better than clerks. I can nie tell ob they’re male or female. They approach sloly.

“Helf me rite this auto,” I shout, “this yute’s in mortal danger!”

I take off my coat and, diving ruck into th’inverted cockpit, wrap it around his shulders and neck to take the blo for vehn we rite the car.

Aber the brun sheisstets have nik moved.

“Cum on! He’s in serius truble!”

The electronically nutralised, monotonic voce of un o’the Guards spricks out of his visor.

“Can’k do that. We can nik tamper mit an accident scene.”

I’m dumbfounded. I ken this; I’d vergotten this; aber why shuld anyun ken this?

“Then ficking get sumun who can helf, ye useless fished-up bastardos.”

“Five-hundred penny for swering at a Guard,” sags th’ander Guard in the same drone, scanning mon auto details and sending the penalty thru to the Provincial HQ.

No tempus for incredulity. I heeve the car, it rocks gently ’ber gets no momentum. I glare at th’impotent brun sentinels and sprint uber to th’ander auto. I realise I’m carrying mer wayt around these tags

An alderly fem is sitting tranquilly, staring ahed, muttering sumthings, still holding the weel. A typical host of plastic and fluffy idols adorn her dashboard, symbolic of th’increesingly ignorant and superstitious commoners o’the gamma and delta social strata. Her talismans had just proved their pointlessness, aber nik to a dumbtet like her. I vue shnell that she’ll be fine, just in shock.

Ruck to the yute. The Guards I note are nunc halting traffic either side of th’accident. Impressif.

“Oi!” I shout. “Have you called for th’accident teem?”

“Yah,” cums an eerie stereo reply.

No weg can I rite the car, aber I need to make the yute comfortable. I ken th’ander drivers will nik helf – nie mensh helfs his nackbar any mer. Why shuld he, if his nackbar exists to snit on his every move?

“Wot’s yur nom?” I frag him, shaking him gently.

“Tom.”

“Tom?”

“The piper’s son.” He larfs and splutters.

“Dock?” I larf. “I need to get y’out of hier. What can ye move?”

“Cars. Wine. Cod, if you wish. Books, old music discs. I can get my hands ... on anything.”

For a moment, I don’k understand. “Can ye move yur legs? Nay? Yur arms? Gud. A bit? That’s gud. Ye’re in shock. I need to get y’out. Make ye mer comfortable. Can ye helf me?” He nods. “Gud, gud. Cum on then.”

I take his arm and pull him towards me. I have no momentum and he has nothing mer to offer; I pull harder and he visibly winces.

“Spider spy, don’t ask why,” he sings tranquilly humming the same phrase. I get mon hands under his armpits and pull; he loosens, I drag, pull, heeve, twisting his twisted frame, till I have him out onto the rue surface; nunc I vue hevy bluting from his tet. Pressure, pressure, I put pressure on the gaping woond. He begins to shudder. The Guards are still halting traffic.

“Vehr’s th’accident teem?” I screem.

“On it’s weg.”

I must keep him warm. I take off my jumper and lay it over his chest. I check his neck pulse – slow; he’s bleeding more profusely.

Need his nom – yet he does nik possess an ID tag on his sweter.

“Wot’s yur reel nom?”

“I go by many. I don’t live here. Keep those bastards away though. They want me dead.”

He spricks ald English, I’ve just realised!

“Why?”

“I deal in the illegal.”

“Smuggler?”

He nods.

“Gud for ye. I grate ye. I’ll do wot I can. Try and keep still; denk on positif dings.” I sprint uber to un o’the Guards.

“Listen, the yute has minuti ... vehr’s yur first aid pack? Ye must helf.”

“We can nik.” It sags from behind its tinted visor. Again, I’m nik sure ob it is male or female. It doesn’k even vue me.

“Does anyun ’ave a first aid kit?” I shout at the halted cell autos patiently waiting for the rue to be offened by th’authorities. No response, but I heer the peeewah of th’accident teem. I run ruck to the yute.

“Helf’s cuming.”

“They won’t let me live,” he splutters.

“Dock, they will.”

“You don’t understand ... Get me out of here.”

“Ye’ll be fine. They’re hier nunc.”

Duo blanch coats jump out o’their blanch cell van. The Guard, whom I’d last spricken to, points to the fem in th’ander auto.

“Hey! Uber hier, he needs immediate attenshun.”

They ignore me. The blanch coats run uber to th’ander auto, their blu €U €U logos taunting me like a tribal chant.

“Told you,” sags the yute, coffing.

“Then I’ll get y’out of hier. Can ye stand at all?”

He shakes his tet. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Cum on, tell me your nom.”

“Frank. Frank MacIntyre. Keep it to yourself though. It may be ...” He spits blut, his voce cracks, lungs wheezing.

“Cum on, Frank, let’s get yur legs working.” I attempt to lift him up onto his feet, aber he’s a todwayt. I encourage and encourage, ’ber he’s nik got the strength. I ask him vehr he lives, vehr his parents are, aber he shakes his tet. He’s becuming mer groggy.

A voce behind me commands that I let him be.

“Leeve him to us,” sags the Guard approaching menancingly.

“No ficking weg, he’s toding and he needs proper attenshun.”

Suddenly I’m thrown sidewegs, or is it ruckwards? I cannik tell but the sky is spinning and mon arm is throbbing. He’s wapped me with an e-stunner. Bastardo. He’s standing uber Frank, nik doing anyding. I’m dazed, ’ber I can vue th’accident teem sloly escorting th’ald fem uber to th’accident Van. I can nie sprick nie shout. Mon arm throbs, that’s all I savvy. Do I heer worts? Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt. Something I speeled earlier? Vehr am I?

Minuti pass then the duo blanch clad mensh are standing uber me, touching mon neck.

“Pulse is strong. Stand him up, he’ll be fine.”

“Wot about the yute?” I frag, keeping his nom. I cannik focus on anyding, but the welt is suddenly moving again and I’m up on my feet, ander hands unter mon armpits stedying me.

“Tod. Duo minuti ago,” replies un.

I shake mon tet and struggle to get free, ’ber they hold me fast.

“Nay, nay, ye let him die. Ye bastardos! Ficking bastardos!”

Thru mon anger, I can heer orders to put me in mon auto and to drive me ruck heim. I’m too confused to do anyding else. I’m dragged, I stumble, I walk, I sit, I am driven heim by un of th’accident crew, a tite lipped freeky fem mit spikey orange haar. I sprick nix. I have nix to sag. She sprick nix. I am dropped off at mon port; I manage to let mineself in; I fall asleep on the bett and I traum of horses being shot by Guards.

2 Introducshun

Next tag and I am walking around the local stad of Melton before mon appointment mit the lawyers for the reeding of Uncle Richard’s will.

I suddenly feel much less of a citoyen than I’m supposed to feel according to the mm-posters, wich are all around. I’m nie happy nie contented. I’m brutally disturbed. By them, by the music, by yesterday, by the whole setup around here.

As if to encourage mon cynicism, a shwarz armoured Guard – un o’the serius uns – walks past me and I vue mon passing form distorted in its reflective visor, mon ID disclosed to its auto-scanners, red, noted, and filed in a sekund. The shwarz Guards proudly strut about for nay ander reeson aber to instil feer.

I alwegs smile at their motto, embroidered in yello on a blu patch on the cuirass: ‘cosa nostra’ – our thing.

There is a line outside the eushop for brot again and the fensters are empty in three ander eushops – the electrics shop, the cleening supplies shop, and the druggo shop. I remind monself nik to get krank at the present tempus. Price controls, licences, and euranisation are toding many commercial channels – nik gud for un’s helth.

In the marktplatz, a yute is arguing mit an ander Guard, the fifth I’ve vued this morning since parking my auto, who is pointing in the direkshun o’the grand eushule complex a couple of k uber the tramway bridge. He’s speeling truant. Don’k blame him. It’s a horrid platz voll of beurocrats telling the students wot to lern, aber nik why they shuld. I went there and almost lost my soul. Fishy that, hah hah.

‘Why’ is nik needed any mer in the eusystem. I cannik frag why Frank was left to tod. I won’k be able to find anyding about him, as he possessed nay ID.

Lucky bastardo.

From his bodysprick, the Guard is exasperated. The yute, dressed in the eushule’s blu uberalls mit shiny shwarz boots, sticks duo fingers up at the Guard’s visor and then runs off.

Then I larf; it’s a releese I need. I larf loudly and infectiusly, slapping mon thighs – alwegs have, and leuter stare, sum smiling – they cannik helf it. I vue Frank in him, running off to commit anander crime against the eurogime. I had also seen Uncle Richard use that signal. An ancient English signal of displesure wich nunc gives me so much plesure. The Guard glances at me, shakes his helmeted tet and walks off with stiff shulders, hands flapping uselossly by his side.

Meandering on, I let mon noch’s traums and yestertag’s horror settle down as best as it can in these ignorant circumstances.

Traums of horses make sense. For yerren, I have studied the horse in secret bucks, sketched, drawn, and painted its form from th’ald paintings hidden away in vorbidden collecshuns – George Stubbs, A.J. Munnings, Lionel Edwards, Benjamin and J.F. Herring, Henry and Samuel Alken, Susan Crawford, Raoul Millais, Lucy Kemp-Welch, the cartoons of Thelwell. I have kept my work secret – nie mensh owns horses these tags, nik since the grand prohibishun. Few leuter have even hurd o’horses – so lang ago was it vehn they used to live among us.

Aber, I believe they exist – sumvehr in th’island’s provinces, out there in the far flung hills and moors, far from the stads and dorfs o’the sud, vehr all europroducshun has been forced; they must be far from the restricted bahns and metrowegs.

Sumvehr in the nord.

“Somewhere in the north.” Those were Uncle Richard’s last worts – alwegs in th’ald tung – and eech noch before bett, I wuld vue out of mon room and stare into the nordern sky, watching the Grand Why, as I called ursa major, gently circle uber me in its eternal rondo round the firmament, and strain to imagine wot he ment.The problem is that the nord does nik exist. It is an eco-nuklar wasteland, obliterated in th’ald krieg to end all kriegs. All leuter savvy that. It is a fact.

But nunc, I frag, vueing the slo moving pedies in the markt, why shuld we submit tranquilly to the life o’th’absurd?

I take a chaar inside a kaff opposite th’ald art-deco kinema to vue the welt go by. I have an uhr to wait.

I’m served by Janice, aber I do not scan her details. ‘Janice’ is enuff for me. I hate prying. She trags her haar up, nie make-up, unlike the hevily painted yunger fems; she’s in her four-tens; alder than I.

I feel subito, as I sit down, sumthing deep inside me click, that I am nik going to budge a milli on mon integrity. Integrity demands that I put mon traum into aktshun. Wot else culd it request?

’Ber nieman savvies wot integrity meens. Nieman cappishes honor and virtue these tags. These are ald worts, ald wegs of behaving. None cappishes honour and virtue: these are old worts, old wegs of behaving that have somehow slipped by these past few decades in favour of a fostered slovenliness abetted by a holistic embracing of apathy.

Janice brings koffee. I grate her.

“Did ye heer about th’accident on the Grantham rue yestertag?”

“Nay, cannik sag I ’ave, duck. I ’eer meist dings, but nie hurd about an accident. Ye sure there was?”

“Yah ... ah. Never mind.”

“Desolay, duck?”

“Nie matter,” I reply in Eurosprick

I pick up a papier lying on the table and reed the mainlines o’the Eutimes, un o’the duo inter-continental papiers that are permitted.

“Neu Initiative on Eudacashun - €500m extra for eech Province to helf improve euspelling.” “Neu eurart Minister Wing announces mer funding for the disabled.” “Balkan set ruck – 500 eutroops tod.” “Win a neu heim in Neu Rome.” “Premier offens Neu Job Lottery Euroffice.” “I’m a eurocrat – get me out of here – Neu Series.” “The wock’s Neu Wort!!” These I do enjoy larfing at. “Politics is to be replaced mit eulogics; leuter will eulogise; politishans will be eulogists. The wort will be mandatory in all euroffices from totag and in conversashun from next yerr.” Whoopee. Should be euthanasia, or even better – kakothanasia.

The ersatz koffee warms but produces no buzz. At heim I have a stash of ekt koffee that Uncle Richard brort from his travels – vehn he was allowed to travel. I will have sum tarder.

Janice scans mon nom, and probably ander details, from th’ID chip on mon cart. I am an artist and a businessmensh, born in 2067 in the Mercian Province o’the Eunion. Social class beta-1, eunumber, 673105435m. I have lived mon vita in the Province of Mercia, mon haus is a petee’ weg from the stads of Lester and Nottingam, indeed a few ks from the neerest dorf. She will ken all this if she wunshes.

I’ve lived in the same place. Travel is rare, few are permitted beyond provincial borders these tags – to keep jobs vehr they are, or so manon tells us. Aber I savvy better. I have red, and red, and red. That also expliques why mon sprick is so mixed up – I cannik sprick Eurosprick completely, nik like the yutes. Much of mon mind resides in the past, but mon occhies luk forwart. ’Ber that’s by the by.

The land vehr I live is partly farmland producing 80% o’the Province’s Food Needs, as it declares on posters around the stads and dorfs, mit multiracial euro-shule kinder smiling smugly behind the stats. It also produces much fruit and veg, all for the gud o’the grand eurogime and its five-ten millions. Dairy farms predominate in the val below the Rutland forest, vehr I live; there are three megaherds neer mon late Uncle’s haus – un lies opposite the driveweg run by the Wiltshire family, who pander as little as I do to the cohorts of cretins from the eurogime, and wich covers several felds reeching uber to neer th’ald castle, wich is nunc owned by the Provincial Premier.

Ragged forests and scrub predominate the rest of the land that used to be fermed. The populashun is demi wot it used to be and few mensh live in the rural areas. The cost of cellautos is high, so that few can afford them; altho fossil-fueled cars are available, they’re mainly used for the Guards’ better autos and for the omnitransport eutrams, wich dominate the stads and connect the few dorfs; the rest costs alpha-beta leuter like mineself a small fortune to acquire. So there’s nik much traffic on the rue.

œ œ œ

A grup of shule kinder pass in a line by the kaff; the next generashun of distorted minds to inherit the welt.

I have given up on inheriting the welt. All I want nunc is to vue and ride a horse. I don’k denk there’s anander mensh in the Province or in Grander Euroland who can have the same wunsh. Aber I may be wrong. I hope I’m wrong, after all, it’s not that many generations ago that many around here rode horses and rode them to hounds.

I drum the cup on the table. Clip clop clip clop. I heer in mon mind the unchanging sound echoing against buildings, the clipettyclop-clipettyclop of a canter thru a forest: the subject of so much ald music and passion, the sound of neus, war, commerce in ages past; the music of nature that seeps into many composishuns, that drives songs, overtures, and symphonies, the sound that thunders aweg in mon traums and in the rhythm of my walk.

I savvy that it has been a lang tempus since mensh rode horses, but mon bones ache for a life unfettered, ah, there’s an ald wort I recall, unfettered! unfettered to ride – like mensh is supposed to do, hands gripping the rein as the beast beneath begins its gallop.

“We’re all fettered nunc,” I say to Janice as she brings me a topup.

“Ye sprick sum drolly dings, Mr Bradbury.”

“We’re all in chains, ye ken.”

She shrugs uncomprehending. Nie matter. Leuter do get used to chains very shnell.

œ œ œ

I can nay langer echape just in mon traums; I always hold mittin, deep mittin, a picture of a heimland I wuld get to if I culd, vehr leuter ride freely over the moors and across the grand felds o’the shires.

Vehr leuter are free.

Free.

These tags it’s a wort that meens getting sumthing for nothing or living in the eurogime. “We are the free leuter o’the welt,” the mm-posters proclaim in spinning, twisting words. Wirkly? I savvy freedom once ment sumthing else. Or perhaps their logo designers have the spin right.

We all need a traum to guide us and traums of horses keep me sane. At leest, I denk the citoyens around me traum too. Perhaps they don’k.

And wot drove that nunc antiquated, ald-moded desire? Why, am I nik a mensh? Is this nik wot leuter do? All the manonstory I’ve red sags that leuter had horses all around them, worked mit them, played mit them, hunted mit them, raced them. So I was curius – an ander dangerus trait these tags. Don’k frag qs; don’k denk about the responses; just accept – just believe in manon and the eusystem. Ye’re nik just yur bruder’s keeper in this welt.

Frank obviously didn’k give a fick about the system.

It was Uncle Richard, mon mater’s bruder, my mentor in so many respects, the mensh who tort me of bucks and horses both now privately vorbidden and almost, almost vergotten.

3 Uncle Richard

I order anander slice of cake to appeese Janice. I ken she’s vueing me as if I’m weird, like all the kinder who were given polymedsins who are nunc all plesantly todtetted and vote the rite weg. Makes ruling the masses easier, ness par?

The cake’s hevy – filling, aber nik very shmecky. Few spices get into the eurogime these tags; those that do are snuck thru the Balkan permanent kriegzone having traversed the wild orient. On the kaff’s euwebcast the euneus is telling us how many leuter were stopped from ‘betraying their Province’by trying to leeve it last yerr – numbers up helthily from last yerr, I recall, but the poster declares how successful are the eucampaigns against heresy and unorthodox patterns of behaviour. Pig iron producshun is up again; vehr have I red about that? Seems familiar for sum disturbing, cyclical raison.

I put mon hands in a pocket and feel the lawyer’s appointment cart. William H. Blackstone, Esq., LLD., (Oxon) hinted in his ebrief that I shuld expect to do well. Raising mon tet I vue a mensh mit a stick walking past – the mensh I vued on the Grantham rue yestertag. Watching him march on mit purpose and strength, he seems as if he’s a visitor from ander lands, as if he has walked out of a fairy tale buck. I rise mon scanner to catch his details but he’s out of range.

œ œ œ

I had nie assumed that I wuld inherit anyding from Uncle Richard. Nay, I had nie aspirashun to inherit, except perhaps sumthing vehn he was supposed to die in his non-tens, by wich tempus I wuld be too ald to enjoy anyding anyweg, so I had always discounted any possibility of such a jamb up in life. Hence I had improved mineself at every opportunity, encouraged by him all the tempus.

“Those who may have been expecting an inheritance, usually do not avail themselves of life’s opportunities,” he had told me many times, and I had nodded and dutivolly asserted mineself at every chance.

Mon euducashun did nik start me off well. Ten-duo lang yerren of manny imprisonment suffering the dripping diarrhoea of eucurricula from box ticking pedagogues, whose lifelessness was tod and merd to yutes’ minds.

All shules, and ergo all kinder, had been euranised a lang time ago. Mon parents and Uncle Richard tort me nak shule; I enjoyed music, sports, and ald-English literature, wich was tort on the sly. A family culd be whisked aweg to work in the eumines of Moravia for holding a buck in the haus. Private buck ownership was lang gone ruck in the krieg yerren, vehn all forms of extremism were to be eradicated. Rather extreme itself, I muse.

Novehr, culd th’alder languages be truly studied, for the eurogime wanted to make sure that they had nay chance of reasserting their once grand and independent standing in the nations.

But I was bitten erly.

Uncle Richard used to reed stories to me from his secret cache of bucks – Shakespeare, Chaucer, Dickens, Milton, Locke, Burke, and then wuld lend me the bucks, mon parents fretting that I wuld be found out from a loose tung at shule. Aber I savvied to keep my mund shliess.

At shule I liebed everything I had a go at and culd nik, for many yerren, cappish why anders struggled so much.

“For some it is a lack of will,” Uncle Richard expliqued vehn I fragged him, “for others it is a lack of the right nanoware,” he larfed tapping his tet.

However, humility was nik lacking in me. Uncle Richard tort me to keep tranquil, “quiet” as he sagged, about mon talents for they culd get me into truble, to respect anders, even tho they may seem dummer in sum respects, they wuld nik be in all, and so I culd benefit from those less obviusly endowed as they culd from me.

“Adam Smith,” he intone, “read your Smith, then your Ricardo. Right? Five hundred word essay explaining the theories of absolute and comparative advantage. I’ll fetch you some resources.”

œ œ œ

I enjoyed developing mon skills, wich remain broad, and nay too shallow either; I was wot many amigos and lehrers mockingly called a sav-it-all, an epithet I enjoyed and held proudly, despite them. But vehn I was in mon twenties, I began to realise that nie the businessmensh nie the officials wunshed to accept talent or bredth of lurning – too dangerus they wuld explique hinting at mysterious powers of disruption.

“Why?” I wuld frag. A shrug, a dismissif wave o’the hands out to the side as if the q cannik be responded, the result of decades of form filling to excuse the peteet excepshuns of vita; lehrers, sagged manon, wanted speshulists mit specific euqualificashuns, who wuld do as they were told.

“They want dependent people without vision,” Uncle Richard quipped when I vented mon frustrashuns. “Visions are the day’s equivalent of dreams,” he sagged. “Dangerously free things.”

I went to Neu Cambridge Euniversity, vehr I had expected enthusiastic lecturers (I tuk a double first in Graphic Studies and Eulogos) – and there were un or duo mit whom I culd share the luv o’the subjects, but so many were either unconcerned ald mensh or recently appointed, cheep postdocs mit about as much enthusiasm as a eurowagen cellauto and as shallow as an incontinence pad. Many were incontinent too, given the diverse employment quotas.

In the intellectually empty steel and glass buildings of Neu Cambridge that had everyvehr replaced the medieval and renaissance architecture, I cultivated a systemic hatred for any system and a disdain for any mensh who tried to put me into a system.

Altho, we’re all in the eusystem these tags, I larf to mineself stirring sum mer honig into the koffee and scruting a dopple of Guards walking past.

Keeping mon tet down nak Euniversity, I carved out a petee’ niche in mon locality – Prius Printing Ltd, supplying a hundred local businesses mit their stashunery, advertising, and printing, deploying mon bountiful imaginashun for lucratif deels.

“Wow,” leuter wuld say, “vehr d’ye get yur ideas from?”

“I study, practise, sketch, study, practise and sketch again.”

Nonplussed faces, tongues slightly lolling behind the lower lip in cogitation.

Drolly how leuter don’k get it. I shuld have sagged Muslims, Amerikans, or even the eurocrats – they’d believe that – had implanted an imaginashun nanochip in me, or that I was frapped uber the tet as a kinder mit an oil painting, or that I have autistic tendencies, but none culd cappish the reply, ‘study, work, study sum mer’.

It all came from Uncle Richard and his bucks.

Opposite the café, a shopkeeper has begun repainting a fenster sill to his outfitters, and a Guard is approaching. The Guard perfunctorily demands to vue the shopkeeper’s licence, wich they all need to make any repairs to their rented shops (all shops being rented out by the Provincial euroburo). Sum ding is not in order, for the shopkeeper, a short man dressed in a smart, ald-moded shwarz suit with a tape measure hung arund his neck befitting the establishment, becums flustered and pulling out ander forms from his inside suit pocket; nix seems to appease the Guard who stands unmoved by the fidgeting mensh. The shopkeeper furtively luks arund and sags sumding to the Guard, who nods and follows the man in. Usual exchange will take place, and five minuti tarder, the Guard exits carrying a bag with a neu shirt in and no doubt some gelt in his poche.

“Cosa nostra,” I mutter into my cup as I drink.

4 Bucks

Vehn I was yung, Uncle Richard was besooking for the Fourth Season Kurzday Festivals vehn he pulled me aside from mon parents.

“Now, take a good luk at these, my young chap,” he sagged. He refused to sprick Eurosprick. He alwegs sprack in th’ald tung and dialect.

“These are worth a fortune on the black market,” he chuckled spreading his collection uber the dining raum tafel. “They are hunting books. In the old days, long before the war, people used to hunt foxes, deer, hares, mink; they fished for salmon and trout. They used to go out and shoot game birds. During the season, the hunters would get together and ride or run with a pack of hounds.” He got up and walked to the solemly to the fenster, in my eyes like a god surveying his welt’s creashun and how it’s fared.. “Your great-grandfather, my grandfather of course, remembered them well when he was young and told me about them. Now, you need to keep that memory going. Un day, we may rise up and cast off all this ghastliness, and people may be brave and decent enough to go hunting again.” He waved his hands at the sky as if wunshing it wuld change color or sumthing. That’s how it seemed to me, so lang ago nunc.

I was yung, so I savvied nix and culd say nix in return. A few yerren tarder, vehn kinder awe matured into respect, I was staying at his heim and I finally fragged him ob he had been hunting. He nodded gently, sadly even, drawing his fingers together and leaning onto the table we were sitting at. Poignant eyes caught my attention in an unrelenting grip.

“Yes, but not on this pathetic continent, Robin. Far away from the files and buros, my lad.”

He nie sagged vehr. Hunting was verbidden, of corse.

“For ten years, on and off I rode to hounds, before I had to give it up, because the bastards wouldn’t let me travel any more. Oh, Robin, I was betrayed so severely by an old friend ... but I won’t speak of such depressing matters. My regular horse, a lovely grey hunter, was called Freedom.” Suddenly he became very animated, standing up and vueing left and rite. “Of course!I have somewhere ... somewhere, oh! I know where – come with me!” He tuk me upstairs to th’attic, a vast open space of rafters, wooden florboards, and trunks and old suitcases.

“Here,” he sagged rumaging through a large box, “I have here vestiges of my riding days. A pair of boots, a crop, ah, my old riding hat, riding jodhpurs, and luk at this! It smells fusty, but the mothballs are doing a grand job: my old jacket! I’m way too big for them now, but you could fit into them.”

I tried them all on and stood transformed in front o’the mirror. A rider! A rider! A horse rider! I culd be a rider like mon Uncle! I culd be a charger going into battle, a huntsman chasing his fox, a jockey winning a race – this is wot I wunshed – mer than anyding else – to be. ’Ber it culd nik be. Verbidden, of corse.

œ œ œ

Na, in the pursuit o’the gud life I had alredy achieved much – that is, in the privacy of mon own heim. I culd speel music well, converse mit the grands of literature and filosofy, paint like any ald meister I chose, for I had access to prints and bucks. And I was fortunate that I lurned shnell every thing to wich I turned mon fressy mind.

“Janice, d’ye ken wot a helot be?” I frag mon host. She’s wiping counters and I’m her only customer.

“Y’off on weird lingo, Mr Bradbury? I’ve nie idea wot ye’re on about.”

“The helots were a conquered leuter whom the Spartans lived off – a slave class of undermensh, who lived to work for their Spartan meisters. And I don’k meen the Spartan Province, wich we lurn about in Geography, but th’ancient polity.”

She shakes her tet. “Cannik cappish wot ye sag,” she sags.

“May I fume?” I frag her.

“Corse, duck. And if ye’ve got un spare ...”

I present her mit a smuggled, lang kipper mitout filter. Smuggled ... perhaps brort by Frank or his gang I assume he worked mit.

“Hier’s to Frank,” I sag liting them up.

“To Frank,” she repeets sucking hard. “Fick, these are gud. Vehr’d ye get them? May I sit mit ye a few minuti? Rest me feet?”

I nod.

“Manonstory, Janice. D’ye nie ken manonstory?”

œ œ œ

Manonstory, the teeching of our ancestors’ feets, is nie tort except to explain the glorius rise o’the eurogime from the undisclosed horrors of nationalism and the Total War Against Terrorism. Manonstory tort properly is dangerus. Culd get leuter denking on wot their ancestors got up to; cannik have that! Hah hah.

Manonstory is nik needed in the megapolis centred on Neu Rome, manon said. Rome, the once and ancient capital of Italy, had been vernikted in th’ald krieg – nuked, flattened by several suicide nukers at the same tempus. Few leuter survived. Ander stads and capitals were blasted to bits too, and Neu Rome was built on wot was ald Berlin, with a garland of amphitheatres for entertaining the masses, triumphant arches to best anyding the ancient welt produced and columns celebrating the eunion’s achievements. All of wich I thought was rather ironic.

Aber nieman cappishes irony or satire any mer. We are all supposed to be truthvoll in wot we sag. No litotes, no double-entendres, no puns even. Slang, idioms, and dialects had all been brushed out of manonstory under the Eurosprick directive to homogenise language, leuter, luggage and lager louts.

œ œ œ

“I was nie gud at shule. That’s why I’m a delta-4,” sags Janice.

“Aber ... ye run yur business well.”

“Murky buckets,” she smiles. “It’s nik difficult. Just wunsh I culd get me hands on stuff like this. These are ficking gud, Mr Bradbury. Who was Frank anyweg?”

“He may be the raison we’re enjoying these ekt cigarettes.”

“These wot? Ah, ye meen the kippers?”

I nod.

“Smuggler?”

“Yah.”

“Bit risky, innit?”

“Yah. ’Ber they serve leuter mer than any mensh in the eurogime.”

“So wot’s he up to nunc? I culd do mit sum o’these.”

“He’s tod.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m desolay to heer that ... was he krank?”

“No. Th’accident I menshuned erlier. He was in it.”

“Ah. Poor mensh.”

“Yute. He was nothing but a yute.”

Janice sucks hard on her kipper. “Gee.”

There is more to tell her of corse, aber I’m feeling sick enuff. I finish my kipper and enjoy anander koffee. A yung fem cums in and Janice gets busy serving. The gul’s traging a garish yello, rot and blu skurt over baggy, shwarz denim trouse, her multi-colored haar is spiked, her occhies framed by rot and shwarz viddiliners, a fashion, I ken, that’s a hundred yerren ald. Rebellious fashion is about all that is permitted in the eusystem – nak all, leuter’s predisposishuns must be allowed sum catharsis. She buys a eutrade koffee and sits down to stare mit offen mouth and tod occhies at eurotv on the plasma screen above the counter.

œ œ œ

Janice rejoins me.

“How’s business?” I frag.

“So so. Blutty forms to fill in eech wock are toting me.”

“Cappish.”

“Ye’re in business yeself, are y’nik?”

“Yah. Well, I’m just going to retire.”

“Wot’s that?”

Of corse. Nie mensh retires these tags. I redenk mon response. “I’ll be changing jobs. Giving the business uber to mon cousin, if all goes well at the lawyers. I’m an artist and I wunsh to set up by mineself.”

“Gud idea. I culd nik stand working for any ander mensh.”

“Yah, ’ber alwegs there are peteet eurosnits, who are about as imaginatif as burd merd on the auto, who tell us how we shuld make business mer socially inclusif, environmentally frendly, use organic oil paint, gm-free papier, or, mon favourite, becum mer-disabled frendly. Desolay. I do go off a bit; I have a predisposition to perissology that culd get me into truble.” .” I grin at the toddy-occhied gul who has turned to stare at me. Hm, can she blink at all?

Janice nods. “Yah. I ken wot ye meen,” she replies no doubt to mon comments on regulashuns. “I have a fem who’s wot manon at the Local Assisted Places Scheme call temporally disabled.”

“She’s alwegs late?”

“Yah,” she larfs. “Got anander kipper? Oh, gud. Cheesey grates.”

I go on. “LAPS sent a flemmy, dummteted fem who culd hardly squeeze into her cellauto. They wanted me to give her a job, becoz ‘nieman else wuld.’ Well, I sagged, get rid o’the betty minimum wage of €50 per uhr and I wuld hire her to file dings at a rate she’d be worth. Ten euros an uhr to start off mit, I told them, going up if she proved proficient, but let’s face it, this fem wuld be a liability and wirkly shuld pay me the privilege heh heh. Oh, the grim face on the slippery, greesy, eurocrat trying to sell the unsellable was a picture of flying non-computashunal adjustments that wuld get novehr fast.”

I larf loudly and again upset the spikey gul opposite us, whose affected melancholia is apparently disturbed by briter humors.

“It was a portrate of stupidity that I tarder capitalised on in a famous sketch sold to local magazines, until it was pulled by sum high ranking eurocrat who cappished its nik so subtle meening. D’ye ken that meist o’the eurocrats are wirkly stupid? They are the product o’their own eudacashun, so wot did they expect? Na, na, they cannik expect, for they cannik denk.”

I shweig. I don’k ken wot Janice takes in; she’s enjoying her kipper. The gul’s happier that I’m nik spricking – she’s gone ruck to her droopy mouth goggling.

“Sum tempus, I denk,” she finally sags.

“Wot about?”

“Wot life wuld be like elsevehr ... Aber it ain’k gonna happen, is it?” She begins flicking crumbs off the table mit her cloth.

“Why nik?”

She shakes her tet. “Nay, me duck. There’s too much, weg too much sheiss in the welt to make a difference.”

I shake mon tet. “All it needs is for leuter to denk differently.”

“I hope so. Aber,” she sags conclusively, standing up to serve an alderly mensh mit an unhurried step making his weg into the kaff, “wot can ye and me do to change the welt?”

5 Inheritance

“Ah, tempus fugit,” I sprick in hi-Eurosprick getting up. “I have an appointment mit mon moira. Mon destiny – mit a lawyer,” I add to explique.

I pay for the drinks and cake and leeve the kaff.

“Chow,” sags Janice as I leeve. I chowed ruck and promised to drop in again.

I walk thru the markt square glancing up at the huge screen shoing us on livevue all shopping and walking mit a running, flashing, subtitle of, “Yeu are the futur.”

Gommel helf us. ‘Ye’ to ‘yeu’ nunc! And what fishy futur? Fishy: a wort that cums from th’ald French, fichu, meening a rough or bad day, the wort evolving into ‘fucked up’ nak the eurogime banned all fishing in 2015. Now used as a term to express awe and wonder. I smile. From mon private library, I ken that uber the past century, dings that used to be ‘cool’, became ‘wicked’, then ‘bad’, ‘shit,’ and now aural and literal puns on ficked up, terms that seem to reflect the decline of our civilisashun to criticise or appreciate anything.

I’m wondering about the inverse relationship between taponisis and progress as I walk past the Melton Post and wave to Angela Eidos, a very belly, shwarz haared, slim, pale-skinned, rosebud mouthed, local reporter, whom I’ve kenned for several yerren and who has run a few stories on mon company. She’d been a local reporter for sept yerren, a Nottingam Euniversity Euroweb graduate, revuer of eumovies for a magazine on the side. She’s cuming out o’the office, so I stop to gruss her.

“Tag, Robin,” she smiles, her rot lips offening to disclose such blanch teeth, so rare these tags mit so much flouride in our wasser. Angela has an intriguing smile – the corners of her mouth turn downwards yet her cheeks rise and her eyes glint; it’s sumthing I’ve tried to emulate, ’ber never can get it rite; it’s a hily striking trait, espeshly to an artist, un that reminds me of aristos in prints I’ve vued.

“Tag, Ange. Off to do anyding interesting?”

“Nay. Got to vue a local yute center. Ye?”

“Off to heer mon Uncle’s will.”

Her eyes lite up. “Yur Uncle Richard, who toted a dopple of months ruck?”

“Died? Yah. I’ll let ye ken if there’s any thing interesting in it. He was a brilliant mensh.”

“Cheese. I culd do mit sum thing interesting. Better go. Chow!”

“Chow, Ange.” I goggle as she struts aweg, her regally lang, shiny shwarz haar bloing in the wind. Ah, there’s the answer, mon frend, there’s the answer bloing in the wind – beuty walking like the noch. Vehr have I red that?

I chortle and continue on mon weg.

œ œ œ

Mon lawyer’s buro is down the side rue. It is a petee’ family firm, un o’the few that’s managed to remain sumwot independent in a land of dependants. It won’k last for lang. The eurogime is sloly euranising all lawyers so there will be no independent legal advice anyvehr. Nie mensh cares. They believe the policy that it will leed to better quality advice, becos that’s wot they’re told it will bring. Blackstone’s is holding out.

Billy Blackstone grusses me with a firm handshake in the creme plastic panelled recepshun and takes me thru to his upstaars raum uberluking the shops and lines below. I’m on tempus, wich he likes. He’s grinning from aur to aur, aber I do nik frag any qs; I’m a patient mensh.

“Come in, come in. Sit yourself down. Coffee? Nay? Pretty horrid stuff they make these days anyway.”

Billy is yunger than I, fluent in hi-Eurosprick aber much less immersed in every tag Eurosprick. He’s a bespectacled, thin-faced mensh mit a hi forehead and spritely brun haar seemingly cort in a permanent blast of wind.

“Now, where’s the will?” He offens the file and reeds the preliminaries fluently – fluency is nik a common thing these tags. I sit taking it all in.

I am set to inherit a vast fortune and a promoshun to alpha-3 social status from Uncle Richard (he pade a demi-mega for that).

Mon late Uncle, a euniversity dropout and nanoware nerd, had invested his welth into inflating property prices, bort several ander companies as his eucredit and cash flow allowed, sold them prudently for pleesing amounts, sunk into ekt gold vehn property prices tailed off and produced, just before he died, aged sixty duo, a cash balance of ten-five giga euros.

“Pah mal, nesspar?” Billy comments grinning thru his thick cariacature of Eurosprick, elongating the vowels. I agree tranquilly; I am sumwot astounded.

“Now, this is my favorite bit. ‘Not to be given to those thieving blood sucking political bastards in the eurogime.’ Drolly, eh, as they say? Do you know that your Uncle’s eschewing of Eurosprick cost him two hundred thousand in pennys? They accumulated over his last five yers. I think he holds the Provincial record! Remarkable man,” he laughs. “I’ve been hit a few times myself for refusing to speak that ghastly lingo. Hope you don’t mind me chirping away in the old tongue? Good, I thort not. You’re much like your Uncle.” He passes papiers uber to me to sign.

“Apparently, he had long understood that his life expectancy was up, and hence he cleverly distributed the majority of his funds to various tax asylia, wich, as you know, any alpha-class mensh can do, paying his accountants and clever chaps like us lawyers decent advances for their jolly good work. He’s also managed it so that your funds will be managed by Nottingam’s most prestigious and – need I say in light of your Uncle’s philosophy? – most independent investment firms. You’ll want for ‘nix’, as they say.”

I smile and raise my eyebrows in growing nervus excitement, then add, “Except the entertainment and pursuit of happiness and excellence that wuld befit our souls – the pursuit o’the good life, as Aristotle scribed.”

He vues me mit a wundering occhy. “Hmm. You’ve got access to sum interesting sources. I knew your Uncle had some other secrets. Still, not my business, and I mean that most sincerely.”

I luk at the shelves of bucks to Billy’s rite. Legal bucks are permitted by the eurogime of corse – meist o’the Floundering Fathers and Mothers were lawyers.

“Yes,” he mumbles putting the papiers in legal order, “as you say. Except for the pursuit of the good life.”

œ œ œ

My apparent coolness at Billy’s buro belies an inner excitement, wich his blanch walls mit mass produced prints of sum non-descript 2080s retro-art that truly irritates mon aesthetic nerves culd hardly contain. Poor mensh; I’ll have to sprick to him about his decor. I leeve him mit a firm handshake and a broad grin.

“Keep your head low, though,” he warns pushing his haar back into an even steeper angle. “You know what the euroffice people are like. Bastards, the lot of them.”

I hardly heer him. Mon mind is reeling and jigging, so as he shliesses the door, I whoo-whoop – a primordial call o’the hunt that Uncle Richard had tort me, and then I dance alang the street, the pedies ocching me suspishushly; sum ken me and kenned mon Uncle and wave complicitly at what they can sense is mon gud fortune.

I can do wot I want!

Legally, I can nik be out of work – such dings do nik happen in the eusystem, so I shall becum a full tempus, self-employed artist – a ruse that shuld enable me to find out about the legendary horse riders, if I culd pull it off mit the necessary licences to get around the land.

“Whack fol-de-da,” I sang aweg in mon tet, “hunt the hare down the rocky road, all the way to Dublin,” a tune that Uncle Richard had tort me vehn I was an enfant.

I run over to Prius Printing and pull out sum illegal flashers of champers from mon shrank.

6 Painting the town rot

“I’m rich rich rich!” I shout out at the gaping employees as I pop the first cork uber their tets. I fill them in, fill their cups up, and explain how I’ll be sharing a demi of mon shares with all o’the employees and passing the management and th’ander demi uber to mon capable sekund cousin, Geoff, who had helfed me set the company up.

Geoff is elated; he’s kenned mon plan to pass majority control o’the business uber to him for a lang time. He rushes over and gives me a big fat kuss on the cheek, as he used to when I was a kinder.

“Fantastic! Darling, this is wirkly superdooper eurotrooper!”

I wunsh he wasn’k so theatrical. He runs the local Melton Amtheeter company in his spare tempus and at work fluctuates between incredible efficiency, artistic inspirashun, and dramatic crises. He drives an ancient Triumph convertible, sprayed garrish rosey and yello, trags multicolored clothes and strange hats he finds in eucharity stores.

“Oh my, oh my, oh my!” He runs around hugging all. “Your wunderful Uncle Richard! What a charming mensh in life and what an angel in tod! Nunc, nunc, this is tempus celibratus indeedus!”

He and I por out the glasses and soon we’re all whoo-whooping, yee-hahing, and dancing on the tables. I then turn to do sumthing I’ve been wanting to do for ages.

I hush everyun up and call the latest petee’ fascist (an ander ald vergotten wort), who had been planning mon life according to his betty shwarz buck of ramps, toilet capacities, recycling bins, quotas for th’incompetent and idle o’the province and tell him I am shliessing shop, relieving mon ten-duo employees o’their jobs and nik filling in any mer forms or licences for Prius e’er again.

I positifly larf as I sprick to a mensh, whom I have nicknomed Adolf. His ekt nom is Kevin Smeg; he doesn’k ken the reference to Adolf Hitler, wich makes it funnier to me. Smeggy boy, Smeggaroomrah, Smegmah, Smeg the peg – he is ‘mon’ local tax enema inspector, whose remit is to deel with me ‘as his very own personal euroclient.’ Wirkly! I nie fragged for un. His reel job descripshun is to exact from me as much eurotrash as he can and to shadow my every move in the hope of draining my soul.

“Surely it’s nik a larfing matter, Mr Bradbury?” cums the oh-so serius reply from the strate faced, robotic Smeg. He’s losing his haar at the sides giving him a nefarious widow’s peak; tranquil neu-gothic; his skin is grey, a product of his grey philosophy on life and corresponding occupation.

“Oh, it is. It’s quite hysterical, actually. ’Ber ye’ve had a hysteriatomy, so ye won’k get it. Denk about it. It meens ye won’k be getting any of our gelt this yerr! No demi-inching the lolly! Hah hah hah!”

I don’k tell Smeggy that I am handing the company uber to mon employees – nay, I don’k tell him that; nor will I tell the local papiers, whom I’ll call to let them savvy why a local company director, so sick of petee’ regulashun, is finally sticking duo fingers up at the burdens of eurogime and ficking off into the sunset paint brush in hand to live the life of Van Gogh and pursue my cryptozoology. They won’k cappish it. They won’k ken Van Gogh.

Sad.

My infectius larf begins mit a deep, deep rumbling that rises to a hevenly ascendo and bursts all social and politic boundaries asunder. Most leuter cannik helf but larf mit me, even tho they don’k cappish why. Prius Printing is soon un grand larfing factory. Cousin Geoff is holding his sides, rolling around the flor – he’s brort sum party hats out from sumvehr and distributed them; duo o’the fems run uber to the viddy phone and bare their floppies at Smeg. All ficking crazy! I can’k hold it any mer, ’ber I vue thru mon teers that Adolf is nik larfing. So I hang up on his hang up.

œ œ œ

Humour lingers where the vestiges of freedom reside, and inside our peteet office, we’re throwing un heck of a liberationist party.

I call them all uber to the port. “Grab these, grab these, yah yah, cum on, cum on, cum on!”

Geoff closes up as we burst out onto the streets mit cans of rot commercial sign paint.

“Paint the building rot!” I yell, and soon all ten-three of us are splashing rot all uber the Prius building. We’re all artists, so we do a gud job; I’ve alwegs wanted to repeet sum history in mine local stad, even tho my colleegs won’k have a clue. Leuter stand and stare offen mouthed, wich is an increesingly worrying trait these tags amongst the commoners.

We do a fine job on the walls – ’ber I’m keen to get them celebrating mitout me. I ken they’ll be constrained and they shuld make a reel noch of it, so I take them to the pubhaus, and vehn they’re all in – I call out.

“Rite, I’m off nunc.”

They all go, “Awwwww, nay. Stay, stay.”

“Nay, nay. This is yur soir. And it’s on me. Geoff, I’m giving ye up to five-ten tousand eucredits to spend – ye can all go clubbing, rent a suite of raums, call yur luved ones up to join you, or get yur own luved ones tonoch. The soir’s yurs! Mon treet for being such super leuter.”

Geoff begins singing, conducting the group with his exaggerated motions, “For he’s a drolly gud fellow,” and I leeve on an uproarius cheer of gratitude into the cooling soir and to mon normal solitude.

œ œ œ

Vestiges

Operimus te salutamus

EUROSPRICK VERSION

William Venator

PREFACE

Part Un: Bound Inward

1 Trauma

2 Introducshun

3 Uncle Richard

4 Bucks

5 Inheritance

6 Painting the town rot