The Poems of Madam Albithurst: The Docks of Grand Junction

How glum me and Mr. Porist must have looked, standing on the Docks of the Grand Junction, watching the vessels come and go.

We had tried to return to Lady Quixtactictle’s residence to say goodbye, only to find the way barred by officers of the Anointed Bulwark, who with their badges and truncheons explained in no uncertain detail why we were not allowed re-entry. Now we stood, sullen and sad, aside the docks, waiting for available passage on any of the vessels that traveled to and from the Grand Junction.

“It was important,” Mr. Porist said, with a tone belabored with regret. “What the shell would have told me. Most important.”

I patted my friend on the back, a sign of comfort and commiseration suitable for public display. I think it important to explain that it was not the only method of soothing my companion available to me at the time, but it was the simplest and lest likely to cause an embarrassing social situation.

There is a room in the Grandiose Guild of Sensationalists, hidden to all outsiders. It is never to be spoken of in polite company, and it is taboo to even mention unless directly asked, or, as in this case, is directly related to the subject at hand.

In this room lies the poems of failure, unique to the Sensates of the Guild. It is a singular failure, that pierces the heart sharper than any knife or spear. It is the sensation of having the opportunity to experience a unique sensation, to revel in the moment knowing that it will never come again, to be so completely in the hereandnow that the past and future fade to nothingness, the lies swept away by the present truth; of having that chance, and seeing it torn away from you.

It is regret of a kind, and sorrow of another. It is a despair that is all the more shameful, for it brings to bear one’s own personal faults, to wit: I had been caught in the lies of the future.

There is no kinder way of saying it. I had fled the hereandnow, and dreamed — I choke at the word, yes — I dreamed of being able to experience what no other Sensate had ever experienced before, even a part of the Encinidine.

This hope, this dream, this imagined future so consumed me, that I failed to remain in the hereandnow in a manner befitting a true Sensate. Regret is not a failing, but it is fitting only for the new and novice Sensates, who have not yet learned to find revelry in even the meanest moments of the hereandnow.

But even the greatest Sensates fall victim to this trap. They yearn, they crave, they dream. And when they fall once more to this singular sensation of shame and regret, their poem is placed in the room, the room no Sensate will speak of.

I knew then that my poem was destined for this room, to be forgotten by all save myself. But this sorrow was secondary to the aching gnawing certainty that above all, I would not be allowed to travel to the Sibilants, that even a piece of the Encinidine was lost to me. Soon we would be given room on one of the many vessels traveling back to our world, through the golden domes and past the flickering lights of the Velvet, along with the multitudinous bystanders likewise destined for home.

There were thousands of us, and not enough room on the ships that came and left again. Baggage and porters jostled back and forth, a makeshift tide that buffeted all who were impatient for their journey to start, and too soon end.

“Now I’ll never know, I guess,” Mr. Porist muttered.

Now let it not be said that I am unsympathetic. Indeed, no sooner had he said these words than I knew I had a duty, as the more experienced traveler, to uplift the spirits of my hapless friend, no matter my own disappointment. So, I took Mr. Porist by the shoulders, and said to him: “I promise you, Mr. Porist, that when this silly little war is over, I will personally escort you to the Tides of Three Shades, and we shall hear what the amber shell has to say together.”

Mr. Porist was quite comforted by this, I believe, as his head lifted and his ears wobbled gently as he re-settled his posture.

But this was no the end of the subject, as no sooner had I straightened again then a voice came from behind me: “Tides of Three Shades? Are you looking for them too?”

Let me pause here to say that I am loathe to think that am a spiteful or scornful person. While I can certainly make decisions in a quick and judgmental manner, I always give everyone I meet a fair chance to impress, delight, or surprise me.

Lord Pulkwark is one whom I have given many such chances, and I will allow him no more. The man is a buffoon, a bore, a lout, a brute, and ostentatiously obstinate. I have never found myself with a greater sense of sufferance than in his company — excepting perhaps in his Bank of the Seven Fishes, where it is quite impossible to get any business done in any reasonable amount of time.

Nevertheless, I am not impolite, so when I heard his unmistakable reedy tenor voice, thick with Klassegan accent, I turned to face the exclamation with a look of bemused surprise on my face. “Lord Pulkwark, is that you?”

“As I live and breathe, Madam Albifirst?” The bearded face of the bore opened wide in shock. “What on Klap are you doing here?”

“Attempting to acquire a seat on an outbound vessel, unfortunately,” I explained, gesturing gently at the bustling throngs. “This army business has made our planned journey quite impossible, and so must return home.”

“Ah yes.” Lord Pulkwark nodded, and snapped his fingers. In seconds, a bustle of servants had erected a comfortable chair, footstool, and an array of fruit and flowers at his elbow. Extending his arms, he was lowered into his seat and lightly misted with a refreshing scent. He plucked a grape from its stem. “I too had hoped to travel far and wide before returning, but it was not to be, I suppose.”

“Where were you traveling,” I asked, trapped by politeness into maintaining a conversation I had no desire to continue.

“Ah!” Lord Pulkwark clapped as he chewed the grape between his teeth. “I found myself in a quiet malaise, and decided the time had come for me to travel the Velvet once more on my good Galaship, the Ruskinolam. Have you not heard of my cruises? Days…no, no, weeks of revelry; food, drink, music, and pleasant company as we sail between the Myriad Worlds, taking in the glorious sights of foreign lands and magnificent flora and fauna. Cuisine from across cultures both ancient and modern. People…oh, the people! Lords and ladies from kingdoms even I haven’t heard of!”

“How did you end up here, at the Grand Junction?” It was the obvious question, as while I found the many twisting alleyways of the central transit hub most fascinating and alluring, I could not help but see Lord Pulkwark as a more reluctant soul when it came to such delights. Indeed, I was surprised to see him in the open air at all.

“My dear lady, you do me a disservice to pull the tale from my tongue. It is a horrible tale, a story not fit for ears such as yours nor a throat such as mine. The impropriety! The scandal! The baseness of it all!” At these expulsions, Lord Pulkwark waved his hand in such a exuberant fashion that I feared he would fall over. Yet, his servants were obviously well used to such displays, or at least well trained, so that the one merely held out a hand full of a thick lace handkerchief as broad as a dishtowel, which Lord Pulkwark snatched up on the rebound as he settled back into his seat.

As he mopped his eyes and then his brow after this exuberant display, I spoke; “Well, I certainly wouldn’t wish to force you to tell any tale that offends your sensibilities.”

Alas, more the fool me, the boor took this as a sign of interest, and shot up in his seat once more. “The scandal,” he moaned, waving his lace about the skyline. “The indignity! We had just finished a marvelous trip around the Furnished Archipelago, and were headed towards the Spires of Mount Winbak, a beautiful place under the dome of Wa’Alishab, when a side-schooner slipped alongside and ordered us to stop. They boarded my ship, and ordered me to come to the Grand Junction — ordered me! — for…oh, the cruelty of it…I can scarcely say…”

Now I hope I have adequately conveyed both the respect and care I feel for my friend Mr. Porist, but I must say at that moment I thought him a foolish oaf; for he, in what must have been his ignorance, gave Lord Pulkwark exactly what he wanted; to wit, and excuse to talk more. “What happened?” he asked out of what I assume to be a misplaced curiosity.

“They demanded papers,” the man gasped in a harsh whisper. “Bureaucracy! They ordered my captain to change course and gave me a…a writ! To come here and file for a permit!”

While I am well aware of the indignities of such demands, I find them to be mere annoyances rather than existential threats, as many travelers of Lord Pulkwark’s ilk do. I am only a little ashamed to admit that — after countless hours spent in the cues at the Bank of the Seven Fishes — I found a poetic justice in his torment.

Unfortunately, it was shorter than his bank’s lines, and after another mop-and-wave of his handkerchief, he was speaking much more calmly than before: “And of course they’re not issuing any permits, as you no doubt know — this blasted war; why did it have to spring up now? — so I am quite unable to reach the climax of my cruse. It was to be the pinnacle of the journey. The whole trip has been quite ruined, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” Mr. Porist cleared his throat most daintily. “But you mentioned the Tides of Three Shades?”

“Ah yes,” Lord Pulkwark selected another grape. “Well, some Lord or other had dinner at my table the other night, and he said he was looking for some-such-or-other place, that held the Tides of Three Shades, and was seeking the wisdom of some lobster or some-such. Bit of a blow for him, I’m afraid, this traveling embargo. Ah!”

At his sudden exclamation, Lord Pulkwark stood up with a flourish, wiping his lips with the handkerchief before flailing once more to deposit it in the hand of the self-same servant who produced it. The rest of his servants threw themselves at his relaxing chair and footstool, packaging everything up again.

“You must join us!” The lout swept his hands to the side and began ushering me and Mr. Porist along the docks, away from the teeming throngs. “Your presence could undoubtedly help salvage an unimaginably ruined trip. I am certain we could find room for the two of you on my vessel, it is so large, and think of the marvelous sensations you will find! Meats from Espargo, wines from Levetun and Westriverbank, powders of Hufhuf, and the people…oh! The people!”

One of the most difficult and unpleasant aspects of dear Lord Pulkwark’s lack of character was an incessant need to fill his void of a personality. So fascinated was he by seeing in others what he lacked in himself, he gathered characters of all kinds wherever he went, collecting them about himself like a vampire stocking his larder.

Now, while I still find Lord Pulkwark a boorish lout, I had been suitably chastised by my ill fortune. Any fears or concerns about a future journey on Lord Pulkwark’s Galaship were ignored as mere dreams, as beguiling and distracting as any will-o’-the-wisp. The hereandnow was that it would take days to extricate ourselves from the Grand Junction and return home without his assistance.

Too, was I no mere obligate. I knew better than to shun an experience simply because I knew it would be an unpleasant one.

It may sound odd for me to place such a selfish onus on the obligates of the Grandiose Guild, as the lowest levels of our charter are composed of novices and neophytes. It takes many years before one might be elevated to the place of obligate, but this is the fundamental truth of all Sensates: It is not among the neophytes that the selfish reside. As base and simplistic as the novice is, their embracing of hedonism drives them to unavoidably ensnare others in their joy. So enraptured are the newly inducted that they cannot help but share, bringing others into their sensations like gleeful children.

No, it is with the leveled acolytes and obligates that the selfish and self-satisfied settle like stationary spiders licking their fingers. Once these journeyfolk taste the pleasures beyond the physical, when they have sensed with their whole beings, the pleasure of sharing may be seen as a distraction.

This has been the downfall of many a guild-member; The act of remembrance does no more than weaken the sensation, until the simple act of crafting a poem turns the joy to ash in your mouth and mind. There is nothing worse, it is said, than to turn your poetry into a lash with which to cut your own back.

That is why you must live in the moment, and avoid the illusory and misguiding dreams of the future and past. Do not avoid experience simply because it is unpleasant, for unpleasantness is not felt only by the dead.

All of this is to say that, after a cursory glance at my companion who nodded his assent, I courteously accepted Lord Pulkwark’s offer.

“Wonderful!” he clapped his hands once more, waving his servants towards his Galaship’s berth. “It will be such a delight to have the illustrious Madam Albithurst attend our melancholic return. No doubt you have countless stories from your many sojourns since your last visit to my ballroom. I am eager, yes eager to hear all the strange and marvelous things you have seen, heard, and felt. It will be wondrous.”

I must draw your attention to a single fact, because it shows again the type of person Lord Pulkwark is: Though he had a throng of servants at his beck and call, not one did he spare to handle our luggage. It was left to Mr. Porist to hire the labor of a nearby dock-hand who had long since given up attempting to solicit some kind of order from the teeming crowd. I am led to believe he was tipped rather well.