Arriving at the edge of the map, which was moth eaten and stained, as if someone had used it to try and start a fire, but then dowsed the incipient flame in a cup of something brown, dried it out in the sun, then crumpled it up, thrown it at a dog, retrieved it, smoothed it out partially, before using it as a table mat, tearing it in two and giving half to a trusted friend in a secret tryst. When the tryst was settled, the map was then stuck together with some kind of tree resin, which was still slightly sticky and had a tendency to collect pocket fluff.
The tapis volant, which had dropped them off, said that it could go no further and limped away to find a charging point.
At their feet a wide red dotted line wandered about, seemingly lost. First visiting a leaning palm tree and then wandering off towards a buff-coloured bluff. Each segment of the red line appeared to have been laid onto the uneven surface of the ground using some kind of mechanical template. The red paint was thick and viscous, turning earth, sand, teaspoons, the free plastic toys from fast food outlets, twigs, leaves and small creatures, like ants and beetles, into a monochrome frieze of mini sculptural redness.
I’ll have a word with the line maker, said the Thread, this line seems to have lost its way. If we follow, we may catch up with the culprit.
They set forth, careful not to stand on the line segments as they were still wet in part. The ground at their feet, strewn with discarded skulls, rusting armour and swords of every description and historical period, was uneven.
As they walked, they conversed.
So, Blue person, where did you learn to swish your sword quite so swishily? The JD asked the YBK.
My parents are both knightly, he replied, But my mother, in particular, is a specialist in the swishing of all kinds of deadly implements, and I just sort of took to it from a young age. Of course, when I got a little older, I went to night school to learn accountance, but it never took, the numbers just sort of danced in my head.
How about you? I can see that you are proficient with the stick. Is that something that you have had formal training or does it just come naturally? I hear that your parent is judicial.
The stick skills arrived out of necessity as the world closed in about me, said the JD thoughtfully, I had hoped that I was born into a world that had no prerequisite for the arts of self-defences, but one must adapt and I do intend to sharpen my skills in the future and perhaps take up Ludo. I hear it is excellent in the taking down and stomping on of assailants bigger than oneself. Yes, one of my parents makes judgements, but then isn’t that what all parents do? It’s just that my father has to do it in an official capacity.
You must meet my mother, said the YBK, and I think you mean Judo.
Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves a little, said the JD, We’ve only just met and your asking me to meet the parents. And no, I meant Ludo, if you can land two of your counters on the same square, then no one may pass, unless they can throw a double, even if they are on a war horse with a nasty looking spear and several edged implements bristling from their belt, in case they are unhorsed and have to fight on foot.
I see, but surely when you have to move your block, you will then be chased around the board by this threatening horseperson, get blown away and have to start over. Anyway, I only suggested that you meet my mother as she is skilled in the martial arts and may be able to furnish some practical tips, hacks and tricks.
I am fast, said the JD, you should see me throw those sixes. I should like to meet this woman, she seems one after my own heart. Damn, Ive trodden in the red paint. Stop talking to me, I can’t concentrate.
Having walked adjacent to the dotted line for some time, passing shipwrecks and caves on every hand they eventually came up to the line maker.
In appearance, an old gentleman in galoshes and sporting a paint splattered overall. He was pushing a line making machine of ingenious, a large cauldron of red paint on top, continuously stirred from within by a whisk driven by the movement of the wheels. Two wheels at the back for stability and one at the front unto which the red paint was directed. As each mark was laid upon the ground the man would tip the machine up on its back legs and move it on a pace or two to the next section making a new mark, repeat repeat.
Good afternoon, said Sheba to the man who ceased his work and mopped his brow with a rag, leaving red smears on his brow.
We are looking for the big red cross at the end of this line, could you tell us its whereabouts so that we may go straight there? This meandering is cutting into our down time.
If I knew exactly where it was, do you think I’d be wandering about all over the island, said the old man looking frustrated, This machine knows where to go, but I do not, I’m only employed to tip the machine between the dots or should I say dashes. Yes, I think dashes describes them better? I aim for a length of around half a meter but it’s a bit hit and miss as the ground is so uneven and I keep bumping into swords and skulls.
I see, said Sheba, Is there no way of plugging into the software of this fine mechanism and downloading its programming?
I’ve no idea what you just said, said the old man, you lost me after ‘Is there no way’. Now if you’ll excuse, I have paint to lay.
Hold one moment, said the JD coming forwards, I think that I spy a USB port under the handle, just let me plug in this multimetre and we may be able, ah yes, there we are now, let me just, no, not that, but this here, click here, scroll down a bit, Directions and Destinations, that’s sounds right, ah yes, got it, I’ll just print out. A whirring noise accompanied the printout of a small slip of paper.
They all peered over her shoulder, except the line man from Wichita, it’s over there beyond the hardware store, said the JD, Buried down deep at the back of that cave.
Let’s pop into the DIY shop and furnish ourselves with a some pickaxes, shovels, crowbars, dynamite, dynamitenot, rubble sacks, head torches, knee pads and work gauntlets.
Let’s get a packet of biscuits and some soft drinks, said the YBK.
They left the old man, now unencumbered by noisy neighbours, to resume his meandering course. Finally disappearing behind.
The Guardians of the Cave 