Minology II The Disquisitive Saga Of Filbert Monkston

Minology II

The Disquisitive Saga of

Filbert Monkston

By

Mark Murphy

First Published by Mirador Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 by Mark Murphy

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2014

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-1-910105-30-6

Chapter One

If you were to spend a considerable amount of time rummaging through the deepest, darkest recesses of time and space, then there is a distinct possibility that sooner or later you would stumble across somebody who is hanging around at the back, skulking around in the shadows and generally preparing to meddle with things. If people just left things well alone, then the world would probably be a much happier and calmer place. As it is, it is not.

Some would argue that where it not for the meddlers, then a lot of the wonderful and fantastic life-changing things like the wheel, the toilet or the felt-tip pen would never have been invented. Some would also argue that where it not for the toilet and the felt-tip pen, then perhaps nobody would have invented graffiti. This is a view commonly shared by the many who have had their phone numbers written on the back of a toilet door, only for a total stranger to ring them up in the middle of the night and whisper obscenities down the phone. It is at this point in time that the same people would also be cursing the day that the mobile phone had been invented.

The same pro-meddlesome contingent would undoubtedly tip their hat and don their revolutionary cap towards the design of things like the electric kettle and the large four-slice toaster, which continue to provide the hard-working citizens of this world with some much needed comfort and warmth on a cold and foggy morning. Others might argue, however, that the two afore-mentioned items of luxury would only help to compound the added frustration of not having any tea and toast on the same cold and foggy morning, because in their house the electricity has run out again and nobody has got any money to put in the meter. And, besides, seeing as they foolishly bought the ex-display model from the shop window, one side of that toaster has never worked since the day they got it, so they could only ever do two slices at once anyway.

There are generally two types of people. The type who are happy to leave things as they are and the type who want to take everything apart.

The kinds of people who are happy to leave things alone are usually the quiet ones. The ones who are happy to sit in the corner of the room and read a book or play with their new Christmas presents. The type that are no trouble to anyone. The contented ones.

Some people, on the other hand, are not content to sit and play with their Christmas presents, well at least not completely content anyway. They will play with their presents for, let’s say, half an hour or so. Yes, half an hour is a perfectly acceptable play period. Then as soon as you can say, ‘Pig in a blanket,’ they’ve whipped out the extendable screwdriver set, which Dad got from Auntie Jean, and taken the damn thing to pieces. Just so as they can see how it ‘works’. This is, more often than not, the first and last time that it actually does ‘work’ though, because thirty seconds after the Queen’s speech has started, the blasted thing will never work again. Especially as one of the cats ran off with the little springy thing that popped out as soon as they took the cover off the battery compartment.

It is said though, that opposites attract. Two different types of people can often be a good foil for one another. Some people’s attributes compliment the very different attributes of others. Different kinds of people sometimes make a good team. Some people ask questions all the time and some people don’t. But in any team made up of individuals there needs to be someone who asks a lot of questions.

Filbert Monkston was the type of person who asked a lot of questions. Not because he wanted to take things apart, but because most of the time he didn’t believe anything that anyone told him. He doubted people. He was one of life’s disbelievers. He lived in The Gutlands. A group of lands situated at the very centre of The Will.

Officially known as The Digestional Territories, although hardly anyone ever called it by its proper title anymore, The Gutlands was the area of The Will that was collectively responsible for the processing and distribution of food, water or any other comestible related substance which entered the Stomachic Sea. The Gutlands were a very important division in the geographical makeup of The Will and the only area outside of Central Head which had its own elected ruler.

The world of The Will seems a rather complicated world at first, but when it is broken down into its various departments it is actually quite a simple one. The Will is a thirty-four year old human male who is no different to any other human of that age. He is, however, blissfully unaware that there are thousands of tiny little creatures living inside his body every day, the min. He is also blissfully unaware that if it were not for the thousands of tiny little creatures that are living inside his body every day, then he would be dead.

How else can humans survive? They can’t do it themselves can they? You can’t just expect one to be born one day and then walk about the place like they know what they’re doing, surely? That would be preposterous. It just wouldn’t know how to function properly; it just wouldn’t know what to do. There would be stuff leaking out all over the place!

It is the min which live inside The Will that make it work, they make it tick. If it were not for the thousands of min which live and work inside the Ear Department, then The Will would not be able to hear. Just as if it were not for the thousands of min which live and work inside the Nasal Depot, then The Will would not be able to smell. And it if were not for the thousands of hard-working min who live and work in and around The Gutlands, then The Will would not be able to eat. That’s how it works. That is minology.

As long as the min did their job, as long as they did what they were supposed to do, then everything would be fine. Simple minology.

Food.

Now, food is a rather important commodity inside The Will. Food is something which not only keeps The Will alive, but it is also something which keeps the min alive too. The min are very fond of their food, very fond indeed. In fact, it is almost as important as the currency. To some min it is the currency. Although if you were to give any min the choice between a bag of money and a bag of liquorice allsorts, then they would hard pressed to choose between the two, and even if they did choose the money they would probably go off trying to buy a bag of sweets with it anyway.

The staple diet of any min is sandwiches. Whatever culinary delights that The Will has to offer, no matter what it is, you will always find someone saying, ‘Stick it on a butty, Love, that’ll do me!’

It is said that no matter where in The Will a min may find themselves, he or she is never more than six feet away from a sandwich. Some would say even closer than that, as there would be a very good chance that there was one tucked up inside their coat pocket. Or more often than not, there would be one clutched betwixt their grubby little fingers and swiftly making its way towards their face.

If at any time of the day or night you were to find that a min was being particularly quiet, which wouldn’t be very often as they are a talkative bunch, then it would probably be because they were either asleep, or more likely it would be that they couldn’t speak because they had a face full of pies. Food was important to the min, very important. Very important indeed.

To live and work in The Gutlands, as Filbert Monkston did, was seen by most min as a life of privilege. A position which a lot of min would have gladly given their right arm for, as they could still make a sandwich left handed, no problem. And the reason for this keenness was because of the food. In The Gutlands there was always food around. Lots and lots of lovely food.

Filbert saw food a little differently to most min, though. He was part of the Kushnick Tribe, a deeply religious tribe of Gutlanders who thought that food was a gift from The Will itself, sent down to test the min and their strength of being. A test of belief, a test of character. They believed that food was something that The Will only loaned to them, for a period of brief consummation, and they were of firm belief that they should always ‘give some back’. This was generally seen by non-believers as, ‘Throwing bloody good grub away, if you ask me!’ and it didn’t go down too well outside of the tribe.

Nevertheless, the Kushnick Tribe were a very well thought of and respected race amongst the people of The Digestional Territories and the main reason for this was because they generally kept themselves to themselves. They preferred the quiet life, but were strict in their beliefs, nonetheless. They lived harmoniously and peacefully in Duodenum, a large working village situated near the banks of the Stomachic Sea.

Filbert wasn’t quite the firm believer that his father wanted him to be, however, and he tended to question things a little. In fact he tended to question things a lot, much to his father’s dismay.

‘All precious food which has been graciously given to us by The Almighty Will itself, must be blessed before its consummation,’ said Baron Floppy, as he raised his hands before bowing down to the statue of Jaffa. ‘Do we have the edible offerings which we shall sacrifice and give back to The Almighty Will to cleanse us of our sins?’ he continued, looking at his son.

‘Yes, Father,’ said Filbert. ‘It’s all in the Sacrificial Basket.’

His father gave him a stern look. ‘It’s Baron Floppy when I’m being official, Filbert. How many times do I have to tell you?’

‘Sorry, Father. I mean, Baron,’ said Filbert, shaking his head.

‘That’s better,’ replied the Baron.

The rest of the tribe were bowing to the enormous statue in front of them. They were chanting a sort of mantra towards it.

‘We share our lives,

Our souls are free,

We sacrifice our food to thee.’

‘Who is today’s Giver Of Sacrifice?’ said Baron Floppy.

Everybody looked towards Filbert. He wasn’t paying attention as usual, staring down at the floor.

‘Filbert!’ said his father impatiently.

‘Yes, Father,’ he replied. ‘Er, I mean, Baron,’ he added swiftly.

‘You are today’s Giver Of Sacrifice,’ said the Baron. He was pointing towards the Sacrificial Basket with his head, as his hands were still raised in ceremony.

Filbert quickly realised what was happening. ‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ he said.

He walked over to the huge basket which was positioned at the edge of the rocks. He reached up and pulled the enormous lever at the side of the frame. This triggered the complex mechanism into action. The basket suddenly tilted forward towards the cliff’s edge, raised itself up into the air and catapulted the masses of food out from inside it, sending it hurtling into the Stomachic Sea below.

Baron Floppy began a chant to his tribe.

‘We thank The Will for this gift of life,

As we hold aloft our fork and knife.

Bless this food and make us strong,

It’s time to strike the dinner gong.’

A large tribesmin immediately struck the huge brass gong which was standing tall near the cliff’s edge with an enormous beater, creating a deafening sound which resonated loud and drifted out proudly over the ocean below. As soon as the gong was sounded, the rest of the tribe responded with a chant of their own.

‘It is right to thank The Will for this,

The gift of life cannot be missed,

We hold aloft our food to thee,

And wash it down with milky tea.’

With the formalities of the ceremony over, everyone quickly sat down and prepared to eat. The tribe would always dine together at mealtimes and it was customary they were all sat around the Sacred Slab. Unsurprisingly, and just as its name suggested, it was an enormous stone slab positioned a few metres from the cliff’s edge. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember. The elders say that it had been formed by the sea, created over many years from the acidic waves crashing against the rocks. The Kushnicks had adopted it as their spiritual home and the huge statue of the mighty Baron Jaffa stood proudly as its figurehead.

‘What d’you reckon we’ve got today then, Filbert?’ said Gordon Quigg, as he sat alongside Filbert.

Gordon Quigg was Filbert’s friend. He was the member of the Kushnick Tribe who was the closest in age to him, although not exactly the same. Filbert was seventeen, and Gordon was fifteen and three quarters. That probably doesn’t seem a lot of difference to most folk, but for a teenager growing up in Duodenum, a year and a quarter was a big deal.

‘I don’t know, Gordon, what do you think it could be?’ said Filbert sarcastically. ‘White wine poached quince with roasted hazelnuts and black winter truffles? A sabayon of pearl tapioca with fresh island oysters and caviar, perhaps? Or how about spring garden leeks with avocado, watercress and a sour cherry puree?’

Gordon looked puzzled.

‘No?’ continued Filbert. ‘Well, what about cured Scottish sea trout with compressed golden beets, Persian cucumbers, watercress and a horseradish crème fraiche? Or maybe maple-wood smoked bacon, braised collard greens, garden turnips and sour apples with whole-grain mustard?

Gordon now looked utterly confused. ‘Er, dunno. Probably sandwiches though, I reckon?’ he said.

‘Yes, sandwiches, Gordon, it’s always bloomin’ sandwiches, isn’t it? You ask me every day what I think it’ll be, and every day it’s always bloomin’ sandwiches, isn’t it? Why do you always ask me the same question, Gordon?’

‘Er, I dunno really. Just trying to make conversation I suppose, Filbert,’ said Gordon glumly. ‘Anyway, you’re one to talk. You’re always asking stuff, aren’t you? Said the only way to get along in this place is to question things. Question the rule makers, question the authorities, question the very boundaries of our existence, you said!’ he added.

‘Yes, Gordon, but my extensive inquisition is generally directed towards the finer issues of importance, isn’t it? Like, why do we throw perfectly good food into the river three times a day? Like, why do we have to go through this stupid bloomin’ ritual every day? And like, why, with all this adequately formed nutritious pabulum that surrounds us, do we have to have bloomin’ sandwiches all the time?’

‘Pablo who?’ said a bewildered Gordon.

Baron Floppy overheard the conversation from the other end of the table. ‘Filbert!’ he shouted. ‘Remember where you are.’

‘Sorry, Father. I mean, Baron.’

‘Filbert, you do test my patience at times, Son, you really do. Why can’t you be more like Gordon here, and behave yourself?’ said the Baron.

Gordon seemed to enjoy this sudden, yet unexpected praise which had been bestowed upon him. He had a silly smile on his face.

‘What do you mean, be more like him? It was his bloomin’ fault in the first place, wasn’t it?’ said Filbert. He rolled his eyes, ‘Tut, Will’s teeth!’

There was a sudden gasp of astonishment as the rest of the Kushnicks heard what he had said. Even though the phrase ‘Will’s teeth’ was used quite extensively by most folk throughout The Will, it was still considered a ‘curse’ word by all, and although not as bad as some of the other more interesting curse words which the min had come up with over the years like fufflecrud, git-bollocks, or bumsticks, it was most definitely not welcome around the meal table during a religious gathering. Filbert suddenly realised that this was not a good situation.

‘The boy, he blasphemed!’ said a shocked lady as she pointed at him from across the stone table.

‘This is an outrage, and at the Sacred Slab!’ said another displeased tribesmin.

‘Did he say what I think he just said, Mummy?’ said one of the younger Kushnicks to her offended parent. The mother responded by covering her child’s ears with her own hands.

Baron Floppy, recognising what was happening, moved quickly to restore order. ‘Ahem! My fellow tribesmin and womin, brothers and sisters, as elected leader I must call for order. Please, let us have peace around the Sacred Slab, this is a holy place after all,’ he said.

‘But, he must be punished, Baron, he can’t say things like that, it is forbidden!’ said the angry mother again, her hands still clasped around her daughters ears.

‘This is disgraceful behaviour, and well you know it!’ added another dissatisfied guest.

‘Please, we must have order,’ said Baron Floppy, once again.

There was a sudden rush of calm from everyone except Filbert, who was now starting to panic.

‘Now, my friends, this situation calls for a sensible head. Let us not be rash here, it does not befit us,’ continued Baron Floppy. ‘This is, however, an unsavoury incident and one which must be dealt with appropriately. We cannot afford to let this go un-noticed, and nor shall we. But as you are all fully aware, my son has not yet come of age, he is not yet eighteen years old. And due to this fact, I’m afraid that it befalls upon me, as his elder, to take full responsibility for his folly.’

There was a slight murmur of unrest which quickly swept around the table. ‘Getting away with it more like,’ and, ‘Wouldn’t do it for my son, I bet,’ were just a couple of things which could be distinctly heard amongst the whispering.

‘Brothers and sisters, the laws have been passed down to us from The Will itself, it is out of my hands, It is custom,’ said Baron Floppy.

He immediately tapped his hand five times on the centre of his chest, and then three times on his forehead. Then, with both arms folded across his shoulders, he looked up at the sky and shouted, ‘I speak directly to the Almighty Baron Jaffa, faithful servant to the one and only Will. Please hear my voice.

I beg you to forgive my child for his misguided utterances, for we are but humble followers of you and your teachings. We live to the serve The Almighty Will and do so with your blessing and guidance. He has wronged you, oh Almighty one, and I therefore accept the punishment which is now due to me on behalf of my family. My penance shall be carried out in return for your forgiveness. I will immediately undertake a period of three day’s fasting in the presence of your greatness. Praise Jaffa!’

Everyone gasped in amazement. For a min to go even three hours without something to eat would be seen as a major catastrophe, but to go three whole days was simply unheard of.

With this, Baron Floppy stood up to address the rest of the table. ‘My venerable friends, I must ask for your forgiveness too. My family has let you down and I must now take my punishment. If there is any official business to attend to in the next seventy-two hours please address it to Mr Longshade. I bid you farewell.’

He then turned and walked off towards his tent, not before giving his son a desperate look.

Filbert watched his father leave before turning back to the group. Everyone around the table immediately looked towards the guilty culprit. They were none too impressed with him to say the least.

‘See what you’ve done now,’ said Gordon accusingly.

‘Me?’ replied Filbert. ‘What do you mean, me? It wasn’t my fault, was it? It was you! If you didn’t ask me the same stupid question every day then none of this would’ve happened, would it? Oh I’m gonna be for it now, aren’t I? Always in trouble.’

Gordon had a concerned, yet slightly amused look on his face.

A small, rather elderly gentlemin stood up at the table. It was Mr Longshade. He was now the most senior figure remaining.

‘Now, now, ladies and gentlemin, I think we should all probably just get on with our meal now, eh? Let us not dwell too much on this unfortunate incident. Filbert, you will apologise to the tribe at once, then you must apologise personally to your father immediately after dinner,’ he said.

Filbert stood up. ‘Sorry, everyone,’ he said, with his head looking down towards his feet.

There was a faint grumble of response from the rest of the tribe as Filbert apologetically sat down. Gordon still had the look of amusement on his face. He was finding it all quite funny.

‘There, now that’s settled then. As far as I’m concerned the matter is closed,’ said Mr Longshade. He removed the cover from the giant silver salver in the centre of the table. ‘Ah, sandwiches, my favourite! Come on then everyone, it’s time to eat!’

The Kushnick Tribe didn’t need a second invitation. There was a flurry of hands and fingers as they thrust towards the platter of food, then in a matter of milliseconds everyone had a plate full of sandwiches in front of them. They began to eat.

‘Ooh, cheese and onion, my favourite!’ said Gordon gleefully. He proceeded to get stuck in to his food.

Filbert took a couple of sandwiches from his plate and put them in the pocket of his robe. He turned towards Gordon who was munching away on his grub. ‘I’m gonna go and say sorry to Father, Gordon. I’ll see you later. Are you going to The Clay after?’

‘Yeah, was gonna,’ said Gordon as he spat crumbs all over his robe. ‘Quiz is on, innit?’ He looked down and noticed that Filbert had left a single sandwich on his plate, ‘You eating that?’

‘No, help yourself, Gordon,’ said Filbert. He got up from the table and headed off towards his father’s tent.

Gordon gratefully accepted the gift of a free sandwich and stuffed it straight into his mouth before anybody else could claim it. ‘I’ll see you later then, Filbert,’ he said through a mouthful of bread.

***

A couple of miles north east of the large city of Jejunum, trying its best to hide behind the magnificent cliffs of the Stomachic Sea, barely visible over the grass green hills which looked out across the sleepy village of Duodenum, lay the deep Pancreatic Valley.

It was a vast, dank, humid area of land and due to its location was always cold and stormy. Even on the sunniest of summer days, it would be constantly pouring with rain in the Pancreatic Valley. Any rainfall which had long since departed from everywhere else in The Will, still somehow managed to linger with intent around the damp, misty gorge. The huge v-shaped mountain sides were speckled with contrasting colours, ranging from the deep dark greens of the wet mossy plains, to the mixture of greys, blacks and whites of the sharp rocky cliffs. It was wet, it was always dripping wet. The rain just seemed to exist there happily, in the dark aqueous mists of the landscape. It was almost as if it had its very own thirst for moisture.

Geographically, it was situated uniquely between the mouth of the Oesophagus River, and the base of the Duodenum Hills. If travelling on foot, it was the most direct route to take when going from anywhere in The Digestional Territories to anywhere up into the north of The Will and would lead any weary traveller straight through the Oesophagus Country into The Headlands. Not that many folk ever entered into Oesophagus Country though. Well that’s not strictly true, some folks did enter into Oesophagus Country, however, not very many of them ever made it out to the other side. It was also known as bandit country and therefore it took an incredibly brave or an incredibly stupid min to go travelling into the Oesophagus Forest. Which is why not many folks ever did.

Travelling. Now, realistically speaking, travelling was considered a bit of an oddity. Most folk from The Gutlands never really travelled very far at all. In fact, most min throughout the entire Will never really travelled very far either. It was not really the done thing, and there were a couple of reasons for this. The main reason was because everyone had a job to do. The min couldn’t just go wandering off to places during work hours. If they left their post unattended at any given time of the day or night, then all sorts of things could happen. It could be disastrous, and they might even miss a mealtime to boot! Further logic for not travelling anywhere, and the reason which most min would probably use, was because nobody could ever really be bothered anyway. It was just too much effort.

‘Travelling’ was something that the older folk tended to do when they got bored of their jobs and felt it was time for a change, providing there was a younger and more able min ready to step into their vocational shoes, of course. Or step into their recently vacated, and often still warm, vocational furry slippers, depending on what type of position it was. Some folks had a ‘right cushy number’ as some of the min would often say.

So, all things considered, it would be quite rare to see anyone travelling unless they had grey hair, a long white beard and a knapsack thrust over their shoulder. And probably fishing about in their tunic for some tobacco. The long white beard refers to an older min going travelling as opposed to an older womin, of course. That’s not to say that womin didn’t go travelling as well as min, because some older womin did choose to go on their travels, although it was very rare.

After a lifetime of hard work, the female of the species were often more adept at seeing the benefits of any situation in a slightly different way to their male counterparts. The older womin tended to be a lot wiser than the older min for this very reason, and so when their husbands inevitably decided to go off on walkabout, the womin tended to sit at home and enjoy the peace and quiet while they were gone. Peace and quiet were two things which the average min didn’t really see too much of during a working life, so these luxuries were not too easily passed up on. Their husbands would always come back eventually, even if sometimes it was a bit too soon!

So it’s fair to say that it would be unusual to see a younger person ‘travelling’ anywhere, and it would be even more out of the ordinary to see a group of younger people travelling anywhere together. Especially as this group of younger min seemed to be travelling through the Pancreatic Valley, with its notoriously difficult terrain, its cold aquatic conditions and constant driving rain.

There were four figures in total. They looked like tiny dots making their way along a miniature path at the bottom of the vast, murky