The Poems of Madam Albithurst: On the Back of the Golbegigenthwaite

“Oh?” Mr. Porist turned to look at his own shoulder as best he could. “And what manner is that?”

At Mr. Porist’s request, the Twist did leap up into the air, and perform a most magnificent spin before landing once more on the wooden deck of the barge. Darting about like a nervous frog, the Twist did tug at ropes and push at wheels, performing no end of complex navigation that was quite beyond my understanding.

What I did understand, as Sir Juhrooz and Mr. Porist did too, was that the barge dropped away beneath us, plummeting deeper and deeper into the Velvet.

Mr. Porist yelped with fear, while Sir Juhrooz quite gallantly gripped me about my waist. In any other situation I might have found the act impolite, if not ungallant, but as I found my balance quite uncatchable, I did not resist nor protest at his familiarity.

“Twist, sir, I beg you!” Mr. Porist cried out as he gripped the wooden deck with terrified strength, his ears flapping behind him. “Whatever you are doing, please stop!”

“As my nature dictates, I must obey,” the Twist hopped in front of Mr. Porist’s nose, seemingly unaffected by the descending barge. “You must be reassured by both the means and the meaning behind my actions, as I am as I am, and cannot be as I am not. Worry not for the future, as while I guide my vessel so I guide your path, and where you think the ending shall reside cannot be, not while I hold the reigns.”

“I beg you, sir Twist, what does that mean?”

But Mr. Porist never got his answer, as no sooner did his mouth close than the barge stop its descent, and the five of us collapsed in a tiny heap on the deck.

Now the more astute and clever audience to this tale shall wonder at such a state, as I have been most clear about the quality and shape of the Twist’s barge, specifically how small the deck was. So small, in fact, that one must wonder how it is possible that all four of us might fit upon it recumbently.

The answer is, of course, that we did not. Sir Juhrooz in his armor clattered like a collapsing kitchen, all pots and pans rolling everywhere. He bounced once, twice, and sailed off the edge of the tiny raft. Mr. Porist, noble and true, grabbed the poor man’s foot before he had found suitable purchase, and so he too fell off.

For myself, I was not given the chance to perform any act, heroic or foolish as it may have been. Once I landed, my dress, as well made and splendidly displayed as it was, did not abide my prone state; and so I rolled off the barge, quite without agency, to fall after my companions into the Velvet.

It is of great relief that I fell for only a heartbeat before landing on something hard, and then something soft. It pains me to use such pedestrian descriptors, but I am afraid my panic at being lost to the Velvet blinded my senses to a remarkable extent. My fears corrupted my mind and body, bringing me to a realm of dreams and nightmares. Thankfully, the moment I collided with the soft, I felt myself settle into it in a manner that suggested — very firmly, I might add — down.

That meant there was an up, and where there was both down and up, there was not the Velvet. I had been saved.

The sound of metal scraping suggested that dear Sir Juhrooz had likewise survived, and the coughing and sputtering from nearby could only have been Mr. Porist. Relief at our rescue was palpable in my heart, and I struggled to stand at once.

It was a difficult process, and one that I found ultimately impossible. The soft on which I had landed constantly shifted under my backside, and no matter how hard I struggled, I could not find enough purchase to right myself.

“Are you alright?” asked my friend.

I was unable to answer before the booming voice of Sir Juhrooz ripped through the thin air; “I am confounded! I cannot straighten nor shift my…Ah, there! By the Hewn, no awkward positioning will thwart my steady stance! I say, Madam Albithurst, are you quite well?”

I quickly ceased my struggles, and sniffed most politely. “In fact, I find myself in a similar predicament as you yourself were once in. Might I gather some assistance?

The kindly Doppewassl assisted me in my verticality, just in time for me to see the placid papery face of the Twist, waving on his barge. “And so, as you arrived so I leave you on a more suitable conveyance for your journey, which I hope will end well for you all. I must away now on my own journey which doubtless will end far better, though as I am what I am I will be unable to appreciate it as those of your kind might.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Mr. Porist waved in return, as did Sir Juhrooz, though he did so in silence. For myself, I raised my hand in what was as little a wave as my manners would allow. Depositing us in such a manner was most characteristic of a Twist, and I did not appreciate it. At the time, I was well satisfied that we had seen the last of the creature.

“Where are we?” Sir Juhrooz said, after the floating barge of the Twist had moved well out of sight. “I have never seen such strange ground or odd horizons. Are either of you familiar with its like?”

I took the opportunity to inspect our new surroundings. We were situated in the middle of three thin and leafless trees, their knotty skin flashing in the darkness. The pebbled ground stretched between tufts of strange foliage of brown and purple. Tan dust swirled in strange eddies, though I felt not a single waft of air pass my face. The land itself rolled slow and lazily into the distance, such that I could swear I saw undulations in the distance.

“A question easily asked,” Mr. Porist nodded, lobes-a-wobbling. “Not so easily answered. The ground is ground, yet not a ground I am familiar with. The air is fresh, yet not as I would like to breathe for very long. The trees do not whisper, and though I see no torches to give light, we can see as plain as dusk. Though we have yet to make a fire, it is warm as day. And it is true as I say it, though I hear no gongs and feel no thickness in the air, the Velvet stays far away.”

I listened carefully to Mr. Porist’s portrait of this strange land, and sure enough, I knew of no world nor kingdom to which his description might apply. Now at his comment of the ground, I found myself most curious. I slipped off my lace gloves, and placed them delicately into my pocket, while taking out and producing my thicker and darker leather gloves. With my covered hands, I was now safe. I could push my fingers into the ground, caressing the cobblestoned dirt. It was, indeed, a ground I had never seen before, covered with a faint dust and full of multi-sized rocks and stones surrounded by a compact if powdery dirt the like of which was unknown to me.

After a suitable amount of time inspecting the ground on which I sat, I turned my attention to my coincidental companion. “Sir Juhrooz, would you kindly assist, that I might stand? There is much I wish to see about our new and particularly strange environs.”

It took a moment for his hand to extend towards mine, as his eyes were focused on the horizon. “I say,” Sir Juhrooz pointed into the distance with one hand as he helped me rise with the other. “Is that a house?”

Of course, neither Mr. Porist nor I had the acute vision of a Doppewassl, and so we acquiesced to his judgment. After a few minutes of walking on the strange stones and dirt, we saw what his sharp eyes had spied on the horizon. It was, indeed, a tiny hut suitable for seven or eight folk to sit comfortably on the inside. The roof was lightly woven branches of the leafless trees, while the walls were made of mud and sticks. A dark atmosphere permeated the air; a smell of absence, of discontent, of loneliness and an aching melancholy.

“By the Hatchel,” Sir Juhrooz muttered as we inspected the space, “this is no place I’ll care to stay in long.”

“I think it’s quite cozy, actually,” Mr. Porist sniffed gently. “We could catch our breaths here, with no concern. Nothing has lived here for over fifty years at the outside.”

“By the Heap, how on earth can you devise a truth like that?” Sir Juhrooz shook his mighty head. “Have you been here before, little Nob?”

“Mr. Porist is quite a homely chap,” I said, smiling at the thought of the little man bustling about the hut like a butler. “He knows of living in one place better than any soul I know. If he says nothing lives there now, I am inclined to believe him.”

“How fortunate he should be with us, then,” Sir Juhrooz smiled a broad grin, tossing his hair like a horse, “wherever here may be. If this is suitable for you to rest a while, I propose I undertake a scouting mission to explore the surroundings. If our Twisty friend was sincere, we should indeed be close to the Grand Junction.”

I knew of no huts anywhere near the Grand Junction — or rather, those that I did know of were made out of far different material than mud and sticks, but Mr. Porist and I obliged our metal-clothed companion all the same.

He returned to the hut some hours later, and by that time Mr. Porist had turned the otherwise unpleasant hut into quite a comfortable place to rest. A small fire burned in the tiny fire-pit, and the feather-woven bedding was comfortable enough to lie on. I am not ashamed to admit that after such a busy and trying time, I was feeling quite fatigued.

When Sir Juhrooz returned, he carried on his back a large six-legged beast of hard shell and furry underbelly. While none of us had seen its like before, the Doppewassl assured us that it attacked him without provocation. Having survived on the outskirts of civilization for many years, he was positive the thing was a hungry beast, likely driven off from its herd. After skinning and roasting the beast over the fire, we ate quite satisfactorily, only slightly discomforted by the taste, which I can only call apple-like.

With our repast complete, I allowed Mr. Porist to clean the spit and utensils while I spoke once more to Sir Juhrooz. “Earlier, you mentioned that this would be your last journey through the Velvet. I hope the destruction of our vessel did not put you off?” I asked, more to solicit a more complete explanation than any believe that this could be the case.

“Not at all, not at all,” the broad man shook his head. “I once stood astride a Coral Juggernaut in…some campaign or other. I’m afraid I do not remember which. Poor thing was cracked in half like a crab by a Fifer’s shell.”

“Indeed?” I was most impressed, for while I had heard many poems of the Armies of Arcwhite — their resplendent armored soldiers and their many mineraled machines of war — I had never spoken to anyone who had fought at their side, much less one of the heralded Doppewassl’s. “You strike me as someone who has lived a many splendored life, Sir Juhrooz. I would be honored if, at a later time when it is convenient both for your- and my-self, that you tell me all about your campaigns and adventures as one of the twice-paid.”

Sir Juhrooz smiled once more and clapped his hands with the sound of a thunderclap. “It would be my delight, Madam Albithurst, and as for time, we may indeed be wealthier than all the Treescribes of Hranthi! I traveled for sixty Kregs in a circle around this hut, and I did not see a single town or village nearby. We have no way of knowing how long our trek may be before we reach civilization…if indeed civilization is to be found in this strange land.”

“It must be,” Mr. Porist sat at my side, his hands rubbing back and forth over each other. “Someone built this hut, and I have seen no signs of beast nor bird that has disturbed it. With no fauna, there would be no hindrance to the construction of shops and farms. If we travel, we will find someone whom we could ask to take us to the nearest Port, and from there we can continue on our journey.”

“Yes, where are you heading, Sir Juhrooz?” I asked, eager to learn more of our metallic comrade.

“I wish to not speak of such things,” the man said, his face suddenly as dark as an oaken hollow. “Such matters are of concern only to those of Arcwhite, and I would not burden you with such secrets. I beg you not to inquire further, dear lady. Suffice it to say, I too would reach Grand Junction as soon as possible, but not before you find yourself well rested and ready to travel?”

“I am quite well,” I said, myself equally eager to move on. “Mr. Porist? Are you ready?”

“I am,” Mr. Porist said, rubbing his feet along the ground like he was wiping dirt of his soles. “Perhaps, if we are fortunate, we will not need to travel long, for this land gives me great worry.”

“Worry not, little one,” Sir Juhrooz gripped the hilt of his sword with a clatter of metal. “I walk with you, and where Sir Juhrooz the Circumspect walks, no evil dares show its face. Come, let us walk in this direction, for I did see a hill. From its summit might we see further than otherwise.”

And so we set off, we three travelers. We walked in silence, my companions and I, eager to detect any sound or sight that might suggest our eminent rescue. It was a long walk, held mostly in silence through the strange trees and around the shallow valleys. At long last we saw the lumpy hill in the distance.

“It’s a tiny hill,” Mr. Porist noted, peering further ahead. “Barely big enough for all three of us to stand on. But yes, every inch may help. Let us go.”

Mr. Porist was indeed correct to call it tiny. No larger than an oven was this hill, no wider than a dinner table. Across the top of this hill, we spied a crack, a single line that traveled over and across the hill like a gaseous fissure.

Staring at the hill, I begged my companions a moment to myself. They agreed, and I took off my gloves. As I knelt, preparing to sense what I had not sensed before, Mr. Porist spoke: he raised his needle nose into the air, and gave three sharp sniffs. “Do you smell that?” he asked before taking three more piercing inhales. “It is like grass and wine.”

“It is like porridge and lemon,” Sir Juhrooz shook his head. “I do not like it.”

Mr. Porist spoke next, but I am afraid I do not know what he said, nor how he was answered my Sir Juhrooz, since it was now that I lost myself.

I am afraid I must now collect myself for a moment, and gather my thoughts about how best to explain, for I must do a great service to the Golbegigenthwaite, and craft a poem worthy of its stature.

Beneath my glove-less hand, I felt the rough pebbles of a tortoise shell. The compact dust that was its mortar was the gentle porous skin of a smooth-limbed child, freshly washed in the water-basin. This was but the primer, the base coat of the tableau painted on my fingertips. Tiny prickles of coarse boar-hair met the air here and there. They pushed my fingers as I gently stroked, windbreaks against my ministrations. My skin was pulled as I touched, caught on patches of tacky sweet stickiness, like marbleized honey.

The smell was not like wine, nor like lemon. The air moved through my nostrils like gentle smoke, bringing with it overtones of old coffee and dusty ozone. It smelled like bitter recriminations and heartfelt apologies, given in the most meaningful of circumstances.

I could hear the thrumming, the humming, the gentle vibrations of something deep below. It was like a song sung for those forgotten, a deep and abiding presence, forever waiting for a turned-away eye. An answering return, a recoiling, a rebounding, echoed from above. The hum was met by its gentle opposite, the Velvet itself pushing back against this mournful sigh.

Though you may despise me for a tease, I must stop my poem here. This is, indeed, but a sample of the full poem I have written of the Golbegigenthwaite, attainable in any reputable Guildhouse of the Glorious Sensationalists.

Suffice it to say that I knew it was alive, this land we found ourselves on. It was a beast of immense size and shape. The rippling beneath my fingers told me that it felt us as sure as I felt it.

So when I had taken my fill of the sensations surrounding this strange beast, I stood up once more and replaced the gloves on my hands. My companions, tall Sir Juhrooz and fitful Mr. Porist, had completed their discussion — a charming layperson’s effort, I must admit — to describe the distinct smell of the beast on which we trod.

“I think,” I said, as I straightened my dress about me, “that we will not find no port nor town in our wandering. We must instead look for the Liege of the land, for they can take us where we need to go.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Porist rubbed his hands together in uncertain consternation. “And where might we find this Liege of the land, if they rule over no town nor citizenry? A castle might serve, but as far as I look, I see no distant spire nor boarder wall.”

“I think,” said I, “that if we simply address the Liege, they will address us in turn.”

“Then address them I shall,” boomed Sir Juhrooz, clearing his throat and calling into the air. “Hail and well met, Liege of the land on which we walk! We travelers would beg a boon of thee, if boon thou art willing to bestow! I beg of thee to show thyself!”

At this, my companion’s urging, the crack on the hill split open, revealing the massive eyeball the hill had covered, for it was the beast’s eye that we had seen, and now stood in front of.

Poor Mr. Porist, the dear man was frightened quite out of his wits. He gave a yelp and dove behind the metal legs of Sir Juhrooz, who drew his shimmering sword with an electric hum. The blade unfolded clean and he stood strong, a bulwark against the monstrous. For myself, I did not move as the eye stared at each of us in turn. Soon, the deep thrumming beneath our feet became a voice that traveled up and down our spines like a spider.

“BOM, WHAT A STRANGE THING I SEE ON MY BACK,” the eye swiveled about, beastly in its humanity. “NO, THREE THINGS. WHERE ONCE I HAD NONE, NOW I HAVE THREE. BOM, AND THEY SPOKE TO ME AS WELL. PERHAPS I SHALL SPEAK TO THEM IN TURN, AND THEY SHALL ANSWER ONCE MORE. WOULDN’T THAT BE STRANGE?”

I tried to speak, only to find my throat had become quite dry. I took only a moment to clear my throat, a gentle cough as gentlewomanly as any you have heard in your lives. Such was all it took before I could speak plainly:

“Strange indeed, Yet not as strange as to be found upon a barge of flesh that sails the Velvet, and have it speak so plain. May I be so rude as to inquire, what is your name?”

“BOM, IT SPEAKS. STRANGE INDEED, AND IT ASKS ME FOR A NAME.”

“I do,” I repeated. “Though if you find it a rude question, I apologize and withdraw it without reservation.”

“BOM,” the voice rippled. “RUDE, IT THINKS? NO, NOT RUDE AT ALL, STRANGE THING. I AM AFRAID I MUST BE RUDE IN MY ANSWER, FOR NAME I HAVE NONE. MY MOTHER BIRTHED ME FREE FROM THE CONFINES OF THE MYRIAD WORLDS, IN THE CABIN OF ONE OF THE MANY SHIPS AND FERRIES THAT CARRY TRAVELERS BETWEEN. BORN WITHOUT A LAND UNDER MY FEET, I WAS BORN FREE OF THE PRESSURES OF THE DOMES. AS NO WORLD CLAIMED ME, I WAS BORN IN SHAPE AND FORM MOST MONSTROUS, AND UPON SEEING MY GHOULISH SKIN AND PALID EYES, MY FATHER CRIED OUT AND CAST ME INTO THE VELVET IN THE HOPES OF DESTROYING MY HORRID FORM. HOPED HE, BOM, THAT THE ABSENCE OF THE DOMED SKIES OF THE MYRIAD WORLDS WOULD CRUSH ME TO DEATH IN THE DARKLING VOID.”

“Yet you did not die, I see,” I thought it polite to mention.

“BOM, IT IS A MOST PERCEPTIVE THING ON MY BACK. NO, I DID NOT DIE, FOR WITHOUT THE CONFINES OF LAND NOR THE HEAVY CHAINS OF ATMOSPHERE, MY BODY DID CONTINUE ITS GROWING METAMORPHOSIS. I LEARNED TO SWIM AMONG THE CRYSTAL STARS, AND SAIL ALONG THE BOUNDARIES THAT DIVIDE THE VELVET. BOM! I DANCED AMONG THE CURRENTS — WHAT YOU CALL THE GOWOUNDITS. I NO LONGER THIRST AS ONCE I DID, NOR DO I FEEL HUNGER. NOW I AMUSE MYSELF SWIMMING BETWEEN THE DOMES OF THE MYRIAD WORLDS. BOM, YOU ASK ME FOR A NAME. I ASK NOW IN TURN, BOM, WHAT NAME IS SUITABLE FOR SUCH A BEING AS I?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I said out of modesty, for I in fact had already thought of six names befitting this unique and proud being.

“NOR DO I,” the mighty flesh rippled beneath my feet. “BOM. IN THE MANY YEARS I HAVE SWAM THE VELVET, I HAVE MET FEW, YET ALL WISH TO GIVE ME A NAME.”

“It is not land and names alone that give form,” Mr. Porist stepped out from behind Sir Juhrooz’s legs.

“ANOTHER STRANGE THING SPEAKS. THIS ONE IS SMALLER, AND HAS THE GENTLE BEARING OF A PRIEST. SPEAK LITTLE PRIEST, AND SHARE YOUR WISDOM.”

Poor Mr. Porist was quite taken aback by such proclamation, and took a moment to calm his breathing before tapping his fingers on his needle-thin nose. “What you need, good sir or madam or other, is a title. King or Queen, perhaps, if such a title is yours to claim. Earl or Phinro seem most humble, but perhaps nobility is not your aim? Mayhap Steward would fit you better? Or Wanderer Twixt the Stars? Might you take upon yourself a title or honorific of similar kind?”

“HMM,” the ground thrummed with pleasant bass. “BUT TO WHAT PURPOSE? BOM, IN ALL MY MANY CENTURIES OF SAILING AMONG THE STARS, I HAVE NEVER ONCE MET ANOTHER BEING LIKE MYSELF. I BELIEVE I AM UNIQUE, AND THEREFORE REQUIRE NO TITLE, FOR WHAT OTHER BEING COULD EVER BE FIT FOR IT?”

“Then,” Mr. Porist smiled, his ears wobbling beneath his chin, “no one else but you could think of a fitting title. Why not name yourself, and proclaim to the Myriad Worlds that you are what you are?”

“BOM, I HAVE NEVER NEEDED TO DO SO. THE MYRIAD WORLDS HANG BESIDE ME, AND I SWIM THE VELVET DARKLY. WHOM WOULD I SHARE SUCH A NAME OR TITLE WITH?”

“Why, with us,” Mr. Porist clasped his hands, stepping towards the mighty eye. “It would be such a tale to tell, having met you, great beast. But they would not believe us, if we could not tell them your name. Could you not create a title for us, that we might tell those we meet of whom took on its back to the Grand Junction?

“BOM,” the beast rumbled. “I SHALL HAVE TO CONSIDER. BOM, PRAY, TELL ME YOUR TITLES AND YOUR TALES, THAT I MIGHT PERHAPS HAVE INSPIRATION.”

“I am Sir Juhrooz the Circumspect,” he said as he sheathed his sword. “I am Doppewassl of the Arcwhite Kingdoms, and I am summoned by the Armies of Arcwhite to join a great campaign. With my sword and shield, rifle and armor, I shall stand at the vanguard of a retinue of soldiers, and defend the Myriad Worlds from the foul and corrupt Archonarchy, and their great weapon of war!”

“AND WHAT WEAPON IS THAT?”

“Well,” Sir Juhrooz paused to pat himself on the back of the head. “I’m afraid I don’t know. No one does. By the Hollow, it would be a great thing if anyone knew what it was,” he brightened, “but we know they are building one, as sure as steel. Behind their door, they toil at a great construction, with which they plan to conquer the whole of the Myriad Worlds. A weapon that might even threaten your illustrious self.”

“I SEE. AND WHO ARE YOU, LITTLE GNOME? WHAT TITLES DO YOU WEAR, AND WHERE DO YOU TRAVEL?”

“My name is Mr. Porist,” he gave as grand a bow as his gangling limbs would allow. “I am a clerk of no great means nor ability, and so have been gifted no titles, but I must travel to the coast of the Tides of Three Shades.” He clasped his hands together at the thought. “On the shore lives a crab of some long acquaintance who holds in its claws a shell of amber. I have a great need to hear what this shell has to say.”

“BOM, AND WHAT ABOUT YOU, MY LADY?”

Now I had up to this point remained silent, as I find it very difficult to focus on the many sensations of the moment while likewise holding conversation. I had, in fact, spent the time listening to the timbre and undertone of the monster’s voice, and felt the rippling and shivering of its dry flesh beneath my fingers. I could smell the fresh undertones of old fruit and dried flowers, and I could hear the soft grinding rustle of teeth on bone deep in its gullet. My tongue twitched at the thought of running my tiny taste buds against even a small morsel of the creature’s skin.

But such things are not done in polite company, and so I merely opened my eyes and stood up straight, curtsying when the humanic eye lighted upon me.

“My full name is quite long and unimportant. Please, call me Madam Albithurst, Sensate in good standing of the Glorious Guild of Sensationalists. I travel to the Sibilants, noble beast, to find one who might aid me in my own seeking.”

“BOM, A DARK AND TERRIBLE PLACE,” the monster rumbled. “MANY IS THE TIME I HAVE SWAM PAST THE SIBILANTS, AND FEAR GNAWS AT MY STOMACH AT WHAT I SEE AND HEAR AMONG THOSE MACABRE WALLS, EVEN FROM SO FAR AWAY. AND WHAT DO YOU SEEK AMONG THE BONES AND GRISTLE OF THE SIBILANTS, BOM?”

“I do not know myself,” I admitted. “I was told someone there could help me find the Encinidine before the Torquates from High on High reclaim it.

“AH. I HAVE NOT HEARD OF THIS ENCINIDINE, BUT I HAVE MET A SERVANT OF THE HIGH ON HIGH. THEY SAILED ALONG SIDE ME FOR MANY MONTHS BEFORE THEY GREW BORED, BOM, OR EXASPERATED. I DO NOT REMEMBER WHICH. THEY ARE A STRANGE PEOPLE, THE HIGH ON HIGH.”

Now I had not before and have never since heard of the High on High referred to as a people, and I wager that you haven’t either. “I would be obliged, great one, if you would keep your eye open for any piece of the Encinidine. None but the Duke knew where it was hidden, and now that he is dead, no one knows what it looks like.”

The eye looked — as well as an eye could look — embarrassed. “I MUST BEG YOUR PARDON, DEAR LADY, AS I CANNOT DO SO. SUCH AN EFFORT WOULD REQUIRE A GREAT AMOUNT OF TIME AND ENERGY, WHICH I CURRENTLY DEVOTE TO MY OWN SEEKING.”

“Oh?” Mr. Porist spoke up. “What are you seeking, noble creature?”

There was a thunderous silence that shook us to the core as the mighty beast pondered Mr Porist’s simple question. Then, with a hum that tickled our skin, the answer came: “I DO NOT UNDERSTAND YOUR QUESTION, LITTLE MAN. I SEEK. THAT ALONE IS THE SEEKING. THE MYRIAD WORLDS UNFOLD BEFORE MY EYE, AND BETWEEN THEM THE EVER EXPANDING VELVET.” The horrifically human eye spun about, scanning the emptiness above our heads. “PERHAPS SOME DAY I SHALL NOT TURN BACK, AND SWIM EVER ONWARD UNTIL I REACH WHAT CAN ONLY BE THE END OF THE ETERNAL VOID. EITHER I OR THE UNIVERSE SHALL END FIRST. I WONDER WHICH IT SHALL BE.”

“Surely the universe shall end before you,” Mr. Porist wobbled his head back and forth like a weather-vane. “After all, the universe has existed for longer than you, and must therefore be far older than you, and shall pass first.”

“YOU AMUSE ME, LITTLE NOTTLEKIN. I THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONVERSATION, ALL THREE OF YOU, AND I SHALL GLADLY TAKE YOU TO THE GRAND JUNCTION. WE ARE ALMOST THERE NOW.”

“I hope we have provided suitable inspiration,” I prompted, for I could hear in the subtle tones of this beast’s voice that they had come to a conclusion in their thinking.

“INDEED YOU HAVE,” the beast said. “IN THANKS, YOU SHALL BE THE FIRST TO HEAR MY TITLE.”

“Thank you, great beast,” Mr. Porist clapped his hands. “Please, tell us, what title have you decided on?”

The eye swiveled about, taking us all in, before they spoke: “MY TITLE SHALL BE ME, FOR ME IS WHO I AM AND FOREVER SHALL BE. IT IS WITH THIS TITLE THAT I SHALL SAIL THE VELVET FOR THE REST OF TIME. AS FOR YOU, YOU MAY CALL ME AS YOU WISH, FOR NO MATTER HOW YOU NAME ME, I SHALL ALWAYS BE ME. OF A FORM NO OTHER NAME NOR TITLE MAY CHANGE.”

And so it was that the Golbegigenthwaite was given its title.