> WEAR LEAF
You put on the giant milkweed leaf.
> LIE ON ALTAR
You get onto the stone altar.
You lie down, settling your body into the impression and your face into the cavity at the end. The milkweed leaf mask protects your face from the strands of orange slime that you belatedly notice fill the cavity. Is it even you doing this? It feels like the most natural action in the world.
As you press your face deeper into the cavity, your vision warps. The world seems to fold and buckle: what was convex becomes concave and what was concave becomes convex.
The altar wobbles and inverts, giving you the bizarre sensation of lying atop a smooth green hole that floats in midair. Deeper within the hole is a shelf of green stone with several items resting (how?) on it.
> X SHELF
On the shelf are a postcard of Big Ben, a diary and an imaginary basalt sphere.
> X POSTCARD
A faded postcard with a picture of Big Ben on it. You’d guess the picture dates from the first quarter of the century.
> READ POSTCARD
(first taking the postcard of Big Ben)
“18th of June, 1923
Dear Freddy,
You’ll never guess where I am: Paris! Ha ha.
Today I broke into the mausoleum of a notorious baronet and pocketed an amulet interred, in 1627, next to his heart. Tomorrow I must liberate an unspeakably ancient mammoth-bone idol, purported to portray a coeval of Vaadignephod, from the prison in which it languishes (the British Museum).
Such excitements make up my life now. If only you were allowed to know about such things, I would tell you that I am now a member of the Variegated Court, and that I have been granted the position of Cesious Alderman in this ‘august order’.
How I wish I could actually mail you this postcard, and that afterwards we could laugh together over such a stuffy phrase.
Much Love,
Phyl”
There’s that “Vaadignephod” name again! Let’s see if we can learn a little more about our Phyl, here.
> X DIARY
A small brown book with embossed letters on the front, mostly worn away, spelling “DIARY”. Inside it’s filled with spidery letters in faded ink. According to the name inscribed inside the cover, this belonged to Phyllis Cragne.
You think you remember your husband speaking of a “Great Aunt Phyl,” a sprightly old lady who haunted his earliest memories and always wore tartan trousers.
> READ DIARY
(first taking the diary of Phyllis Cragne)
You read a few passages from near the beginning of the diary:
“Danced with Freddy Morgan tonight. He’s not the most graceful, but I’m hopeful he will improve. Tomorrow I leave for college.”
“How the professors scowl when they learn I’m a Cragne! I’m sure it would hurt my feelings, if they weren’t all crusty old throwbacks with beards full of toast crumbs anyway.”
“Today in the sealed archives I found a most wonderful secret: evidence that the Court truly exists! One day I will join it – I will make them let me – and I will work harder than all the others who came before.”
You skim back and forth a bit, gathering that Phyllis Cragne was probably born around 1890, and that she started her archaeology studies at Ompompanoousuc College in 1918; she also seems to have become engaged to a local by the name of Frederick Morgan at around that same time.
There’s still a fair amount of the diary left; you could read more if you wanted to.
> G
You read a few passages from the middle of the diary:
“It has finally happened! They extended an offer, and this morning, I accepted. I am looking forward to the fulfillment of my duties, particularly the travel necessitated by my new position. I wish I could persuade Freddy to come with me on at least one trip, but he’s terrified of the ocean. I shall leave him to the calm waters of Vermont, with the promise to bring back a ‘priceless antique’ from each city I visit.”
“Received word of Freddy’s accident.”
“Finished Prague. Turin, too. Magdeburg will wait until spring.”
You skim back and forth, gathering that during the 1920s and 30s Phyllis Cragne was often away from home on extended work trips. It was while she was on one such trip to London that Frederick Morgan was killed in a canoeing accident. Afterwards, and on through the 1950s, she spent even more time abroad, working tirelessly for the Court.
There’s still a small amount of the diary left; you could read more if you wanted to.
> G
You read a few passages from near the end of the diary:
“Bristletail greatly prefers the climate of Barcelona to that of Stockholm. I haven’t informed her yet that next we must visit a ruined Norse colony in Greenland, where, it is rumored, the colonists briefly, and in desperation, worshipped Vaadignephod before all succumbing to the Black Death.”
“Bristletail shows an increasingly superb comprehension of Ancient Akkadian. Twice she has caught an error in my translations, saving me from not insignificant embarrassment.”
“Bristletail has grown stubborn in her old age, refusing to communicate with feral insects. She claims the act to be beneath her dignity. Still, I have never known a more capable archive assistant.”
You skim the text, reading of Phyllis Cragne’s research. Throughout the 1960s she wrote frequently of Bristletail, her cunning familiar, which (who?) apparently took the form of an unusually large silverfish. It seems likely that Phyllis died in the early 70s, which correlates with Michael’s early memories of Great Aunt Phyl.
You’ve read the whole diary; you could read it again if you wanted to remind yourself of something.
This is a bit of a spoiler, but it will save us some trouble to make note of it now: numerous members of the Cragne family have been appointed to the Variegated Court. As Phyllis’s diary & postcard specify, she is the Cesious Alderman. All who occupy such a rank possess some manner of familiar, and hers is an oversized silverfish named Bristletail. Google tells me Cesious means “having a waxy bluish-grey coating.”
(My room also specifies a member of the Variegated Court, but that’s a long way off. Plus, I can’t remember exactly who and what I specified. We’ll find out not long after getting to the second floor of the Manor.)
> X IMAGINARY BASALT SPHERE
It’s a black stone sphere about the size of a basketball, and it doesn’t really exist. There is (well, technically, there is not) a narrow slot on one side like that of a piggy-bank.
> TAKE IMAGINARY BASALT SPHERE
Taken.
> X SLOT
The slot is pinched very narrow, like a tiny, unhappy mouth. If the sphere is a piggy-bank, you shudder to imagine what dreadful, corroded coin was intended to be inserted.
SHAKE SPHERE
That verb doesn’t work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later.
> STAND
You get off the stone altar.
Milkweed (Caleb Wilson)
It is possible to feel claustrophobia out of doors. Sunlight fills the sky but somehow doesn’t reach you here. Steep banks of bramble rise to the east and west, trapping you within a gloomy trough a dozen yards wide. A poorly-surfaced road leads north and south along the trough’s nadir. Just west of it, camouflaged with rust, is the train track.
A tremendous patch of milkweed, the stems abnormally thick and tall, grows on the east side of the road beneath the thorn bank.
A green stone altar, once at the center of the shack, stands amidst broken boards and milkweed.
(That earworm is still lodged in your head.)
> X COFFEE
The swirls in your cup form a blank, mirrored surface. Lack of a symbolic image means that you have accomplished everything you must in your current environment and should move on to find new challenges in order to grow as a person.
It looks like we’re done here, and I know what I said earlier, but let me just try something real quick—
> PUT EARWORM IN SPHERE
The earworm is seemingly resistant to all forms of interaction, and simply acknowledging it gives it strength:
He sings the songs that remind him of the good times / he sings the songs that remind him of the better times! Damn it, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head.
> X IT
You have a strange and terrible fancy that an earworm is attached to your brain with a thin tendril.
The earworm is seemingly resistant to all forms of interaction, and simply acknowledging it gives it strength:
Iä get knocked down / but iä get up again / you’re never going to keep mi-go down! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head.
> X TENDRIL
The tendril has to be imaginary. Doesn’t it?
> RIP TENDRIL
That verb doesn’t work here, or, at least, not right now, but it might work somewhere later.
> PULL TENDRIL
It’s hard to know how, since it’s only imaginary, isn’t it?
> PUT TENDRIL IN SLOT
The tendril ignores your efforts.
> PUT WORM IN SLOT
You can’t see any such thing.
> PUT EARWORM IN SLOT
The earworm is seemingly resistant to all forms of interaction, and simply acknowledging it gives it strength:
He drinks a wgah drink / he drinks a ph’nglui drink / he drinks a fhtagn drink / he drinks a cthulhu drink! Well, Chumbawamba is still stuck in your head.
Damn it. Now that I’ve started dealing with this, I find I don’t want to move on until I figure it out.