It was just after dawn on the coast of California, but the kitchen staff on the first floor of the main house were already busy. The kitchens shared the same wall of glass windows as the business offices and living quarters in the floors above, with commanding views of steep cliffs leading down to sandy Pacific beaches. That often would lead to daydreaming – a personal favorite of mine – during the monotony of bread kneading and other tasks, but not today. Today was the professor’s 75th birthday, and the party tonight had everyone working with heads down. In the third floor study, drinking coffee and eating his annual doughnut, sat the man himself. Wrinkles had perhaps deepened, but his shocking white hair was barely thinner this year, still worn in the shaggy style of his high school senior photo. He looked up at a rustling sound on the balcony outside. The scion of the nearby neutered feral cat colony would make an occasional visit, tame enough to sit in the professor’s lap from time to time. So far this morning, his reverie was broken again by nothing but the wind in the trees.
Exactly halfway around the world – antipodal to the professor’s estate, as some would insist while they speculate on that perceived cosmic significance – was the subject of this professor’s life’s work in archeology, a small archipelago nation off the coast of Africa. He had been thinking about one particular expedition all morning. That is not really important right now, other than to point out that one of those islands was the location where this expedition took place in his much younger days, when he became my primary focus, you see.
Sorry, hold for a moment. Let me start over, and forgive me if my tenses don’t seem to mix correctly. The concept of time works differently for me than for you. My assignment here started out so much simpler, almost recreational, but then humans arrived. It’s okay. You, or something like you, were always expected. One of my first encounters with you people was with a writer, and he called me a Narrator when we first met. The metaphor was apt, but I think I am more of a recorder. An observer. I function best that way, and believe me, I should know. I am not supposed to insert myself in the events I witness, or interfere in any way, but I also can’t help myself, most of the time. You’ll see.
Your civilization, barely aware of its significance in your cosmos, has been an interesting group to follow, don’t get me wrong, but what that means is that I am in a unique situation here. The extremely rare gemstone this nice man found, the one that is now embedded in the face of his old-fashioned gold wrist watch, itself crafted by one of the finest and most expensive artists of the watchmaking trade? That stone has been my primary connection to him, as soon as he picked it up. As he retained possession, my viewpoint expanded slowly to almost everyone else. Before that day, I had spent a long time chatting only with various bloodlines of priests and advisors to the island’s royalty. I readily acknowledge that my very presence in your universe is a little unsettling to most people, so I was accustomed to only very brief updates on their concerns and fears within their own small spheres of influence. This man has been so very different. I really enjoy this job. It is a pity that humans are so mortal.
Forgive the stress on the fourth wall, I just really want to see that a succession plan is put in place. Strike the last three paragraphs from my official record for today, and let’s proceed, please.
Jonas raised his coffee mug and found it empty. He spun back around to his desk, only to find that, at some point, Spencer had left the room with the coffee pot. He raised his left wrist to check the time – 10:14 already? – and the gem flashed brightly in the sunlight. Jonas focused on the watchface while holding his wrist steady. Seconds ticked by, but the gem flashed again. He nodded and fiddled with the bezel while standing up.
His entire field of vision flashed with the same soft blue light. Color drained from the office, down to a translucent grayscale. Jonas looked behind himself. His chair was the same wispy gray as his desk, and out the windows, the gray trees were frozen in their strain against the wind. He turned back to his desk, where a toy rabbit, crocheted with bright yellow and lime green yarn and missing one ear, was sitting patiently. Jonas was still not sure what might be behind these walls and the illusion of his outside view when he traveled thusly. He alternated between secretly being very afraid that it was nothing, and secretly being afraid that this rabbit’s bosses were out there, watching too.
Jonas said, “This again?” He looked over at the marble statue that was sitting in the corner of his office. He really didn’t like that the branches were completely empty in this space, even if it was supposed to make sense. This guy wasn’t there right now.
The rabbit shrugged its shoulders. <<I have been reprimanded for projecting into your three-dimensional space too many times. It is better that you come here.>>
“Right. So, I was fine just then. My mug is empty, but I am fine. What’s on your mind?”
<<You shared who I am with Spencer, yet you have not talked to your grandson.>>
Jonas threw his hands up in anger. “How many times have we been through this? I will see him tonight at this huge birthday party that everyone wants to throw for me. You of all things know that he lives in the camping host cabin in the forest out there. He’ll be here. Er, there. At the party. Anyway, I recorded the video, just in case, like you asked.” Jonas folded his arms. “You know that, too.”
<<I wanted to be sure. Something is wrong. There are gaps in your story. They trouble me.>>
“Should I put the watch away? Let you… reboot? That helped the last time you said that.”
<<Last time.>> The rabbit crossed its arms and patted its chin. <<That is what I am saying. My incident reports are ignored. No, I think that this may be a systemic flaw.>> The rabbit covered its eyes with one yellow paw. <<Or, the flaw is me. After all, I am replaceable.>>
“Spencer and I were up late last night discussing that very philosophical topic. How could I remember something like that, if you, a higher dimensional god for all we know, do not?” Jonas blinked. “Wait, am I replaceable?”
<<It is compli… ca.. Teh. Duh.>> The rabbit fell over on the translucent desk and lost its color and volume.
“Okay.” Jonas waved his arm down quickly, passing through both rabbit and desk, before raising his hand up to his face. “Why am I still here?” He looked around in alarm. “This is not good.”
A man’s voice echoed around the room, like an internal monologue. “I knew it. Everything is going exactly as you said it would.”
Jonas flinched and looked across the room. The statue was still empty. He said, “That is certainly not good, either. Um, I do not like barbeque. Gross!”
The rabbit suddenly regained color and sat up. <<Did it happen again?>>
“What do I want for lunch today?”
<<The birthday tradition, I assume. The kitchen has been smoking pork all night.>>
“Splendid,” said Jonas. “Buddy, you glitched or turned off there or something, and I stayed here. Mister Whiskers, the handmade bunny that my Aunt Margaret gave to me on my 7th birthday, became just another part of this room.”
<<Oh no.>>
“And, I heard a voice. Was that who I think it was?”
<<Every Narrator has its Protagonist.>>
“Mm. That weasel stole the credit for my most important work, why not take you, too?”
<<Here is what I know. Only one of my kind is supposed to be active at a given moment of your time. There have been exceptions in the history of your species, but unauthorized deviations from that rule can destabilize the entire system.>>
“The system?”
<<Wow, I really am not myself right now. Never mind that. The important thing is that our plans have changed, reprimands or not.>>
They talked for what seemed like hours to Jonas, before he was returned to his office at the instant that he had twisted his watch bezel. Sitting down again before he had fully stood up, he reversed that motion by muscle memory until he heard a light click. He sighed, and tried to focus on the waving trees outside.
“Why the long face on your birthday?” Spencer was standing in the doorway with a fresh pot of coffee. Jonas considered him a mentor and a friend, though Spencer was only a few years older. Almost fifty years later, they were still working out a few puzzles from that island visit together. Strange gems were one thing, but the island was already renowned for its opal deposits back then. What they found in those lava tubes was an entirely different matter.
Jonas shook his head. “More of that, please.” As Spencer poured the sacred bean juice, Jonas said, “Have you heard from Harold this morning?”
“He said something about needing to go shopping, and he made sure to say that he will be attending tonight.”
Jonas sipped, but his delight at a fresh cup was short-lived. “When we found those caves and that underground throne room, how many gemstones were in that stone box, when we first opened it?”
Spencer frowned. “Nine. And, that has never made sense to me. There were three thrones.”
“Save that for later today, after scotch.” Jonas unlocked a drawer and moved the contents to his desk. He unwrapped the leather covering the rectangular shape, then removed the polished stone top. He shook his head. Waving his left arm in the air, he said, “Mine, plus the two I gifted to our dear princess, means there should be six in here.”
Spencer peered down. “Yes, I see five. Shall I have the cleaning staff interviewed?”
Jonas glanced across his office. The white marble statue depicted a lemur grasping a tree limb, holding its tail in one hand, with a fairly alarmed expression on its face. “No, it’s… I am pretty sure the new problem is our old problem, Thieving Jackass.”
“Oh, how could I forget the former student that you talk about constantly? Take comfort that I also remember that he never liked that nickname.”
“Well, he earned it.” Jonas put his coffee down, suddenly feeling too overly excited already. “To state so simply that we have a problem is, I think, a horrible understatement. Let me know when Harold gets here.”
I was excited to see the WritingPrompt There is always at least one protagonist in the world and when the previous one dies, the genre of the world subtly shifts to fit the new one. One take on that idea has been the impetus for a novel since 2001. I am writing that story again from scratch. Here is new material, I suppose, a likely entirely separate and complete prequel.