Neil Gaiman - Trigger Warning - Short Fictions and Disturbances

The door of the cottage opened and Balthasar’s son emerged. The son was a little taller than his father, and much thinner, and was beardless. The youth had been named after his grandfather, and while his grandfather had lived the boy had been known as Farfal the Younger; now he was referred to, even to his face, as Farfal the Unfortunate. If he brought home a laying fowl it would cease to give eggs; if he took an axe to a tree it would fall in a place that would cause the greatest inconvenience and the least possible good; if he found a trove of ancient treasure, half-buried in a locked box at the edge of a field, the key to the box would break off as he turned it, leaving only a faint echo of song on the air, as if of a distant choir, and the box would dissolve to sand. Young women upon whom he fastened his affections would fall in love with other men or be transformed into grues or carried off by deodands. It was the way of things.

‘Sun’s gone out,’ said Balthasar the Tardy to his son.

Farfal said, ‘So this is it, then. This is the end.’

It was chillier, now the sun had gone out.

Balthasar said only, ‘It soon will be. We have only a handful of minutes left. It is well that I have made provision for this day.’ He held the fish-oil lamp up high, and walked back into the cottage.

Farfal followed his father into the tiny dwelling, which consisted of one large room and, at the far end of the dwelling, a locked door. It was to this door that Balthasar walked. He put down the lamp in front of it, took a key from around his neck and unlocked the door.

Farfal’s mouth fell open.

He said only, ‘The colours.’ Then, ‘I dare not go through.’

‘Idiot boy,’ said his father. ‘Go through, and tread carefully as you do.’ And then, when Farfal made no move to walk, his father pushed him through the door, and closed it behind them.

Farfal stood there, blinking at the unaccustomed light.

‘As you apprehend,’ said his father, resting his hands on his capacious stomach and surveying the room they found themselves in, ‘this room does not exist temporally in the world you know. It exists, instead, over a million years before our time, in the days of the last Remoran Empire, a period marked by the excellence of its lute music, its fine cuisine, and also the beauty and compliance of its slave class.’

Farfal rubbed his eyes, and then looked at the wooden casement standing in the middle of the room, a casement through which they had just walked, as if it were a door. ‘I begin to perceive,’ he said, ‘why it is that you were so often unavailable. For it seems to me that I have seen you walk through that door into this room many times and never wondered about it, merely resigned myself to the time that would pass until you returned.’

Balthasar the Tardy began then to remove his clothes of dark sacking until he was naked, a fat man with a long white beard and cropped white hair, and then to cover himself with brightly coloured silken robes.

‘The sun!’ exclaimed Farfal, peering out of the room’s small window. ‘Look at it! It is the orange-red of a fresh-stirred fire! Feel the heat it gives!’ And then he said, ‘Father. Why has it never occurred to me to ask you why you spent so much time in the second room of our one-room cottage? Nor to remark upon the existence of such a room, even to myself?’

Balthasar twisted the last of the fastenings, covering his remarkable stomach with a silken covering that crawled with embroideries of elegant monsters. ‘That might,’ he admitted, ‘have been due in part to Empusa’s Invocation of Incuriosity.’ He produced a small black box from around his neck, windowed and barred, like a tiny room, barely large enough to hold a beetle. ‘This, when properly primed and invoked, keeps us from being remarked upon. Just as you were not able to wonder at my comings and goings, so neither do the folk in this time and place marvel at me, nor at anything I do that is in any wise contrary to the mores and customs of the Eighteenth and Last Greater Remoran Empire.’

‘Astonishing,’ said Farfal.

‘It matters not that the sun has gone out, that in a matter of hours, or at most weeks, all life on Earth will be dead, for here and at this time I am Balthasar the Canny, merchant to the sky-ships, dealer in antiquities, magical objects, and marvels – and here you, my son, will stay. You will be, to all who wonder about your provenance, simply and purely my servant.’

‘Your servant?’ said Farfal the Unfortunate. ‘Why can I not be your son?’

‘For various reasons,’ stated his father, ‘too trivial and minor even to warrant discussion at this time.’ He hung the black box from a nail in the corner of the room. Farfal thought he saw a leg or head, as if of some beetle-like creature, waving at him from inside the little box, but he did not pause to inspect it. ‘Also because I have a number of sons in this time, that I have fathered upon my concubines, and they might not be pleased to learn of another. Although, given the disparity in the dates of your birth, it would be over a million years before you could inherit any wealth.’

‘There is wealth?’ asked Farfal, looking at the room he was in with fresh eyes. He had spent his life in a one-roomed cottage at the end of time, at the bottom of a small hill, surviving on the food his father could net in the air – usually only seabirds or flying lizards, although on occasion other things had been caught in the nets: creatures who claimed to be angels, or great self-important cockroach-like things with high metal crowns, or huge bronze-coloured jellies. They would be taken from the netting, and then either thrown back into the air, or eaten, or traded with the few folk that passed that way.

His father smirked and stroked his impressive white beard like a man petting an animal. ‘Wealth indeed,’ he said. ‘There is much call in these times for pebbles and small rocks from the End of the Earth: there are spells, cantrips, and magical instruments for which they are almost irreplaceable. And I deal in such things.’

Farfal the Unfortunate nodded. ‘And if I do not wish to be a servant,’ he said, ‘but simply request to be returned to where we came from, through that casement, why, what then?’

Balthasar the Tardy said only, ‘I have little patience for such questions. The sun has gone out. In hours, perhaps minutes, the world will have ended. Perhaps the universe also has ended. Think no more on these matters. Instead, I shall procure a locking-spell creature for the casement, down at the ship market. And while I go to do that, you can order and polish all the objects you can see in this cabinet, taking care not to put your fingers directly upon the green flute (for it will give you music, but replace contentment in your soul with an insatiable longing) nor get the onyx bogadil wet.’ He patted his son’s hand affectionately, a glorious, resplendent creature in his many-coloured silks. ‘I have spared you from death, my boy,’ he said. ‘I have brought you back in time to a new life. What should it matter that in this life you are not son but servant? Life is life, and it is infinitely better than the alternative, or so we presume, for nobody returns to dispute it. Such is my motto.’

So saying he fumbled beneath the casement, and produced a grey rag, which he handed to Farfal. ‘Here. To work! Do a good job and I shall show you by how much the sumptuous feasts of antiquity are an improvement over smoked seabird and pickled ossaker root. Do not, under any circumstances or provocation, move the casement. Its position is precisely calibrated. Move it, and it could open to anywhere.’

He covered the casement with a piece of woven cloth, which made it appear less remarkable that a large wooden casement was standing, unsupported, in the centre of a room.