PREVIEW: At the Mountains of Lunacy
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| Stephen L. Rice's short story "At the Mountains of Lunacy" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
Read more about the author, Stephen L. Rice. |
The crowning humiliation followed: the royal mail service had chickened out,
observing that
1. there was nothing in the code about lethal mountain passes;
2. the U.S. Postal Service’s quip about couriers’ appointed rounds didn’t even
exist in this world; and
3. since we were heading there anyway, we might as well make one trip count.
So we were letter carriers as well as plumbers. No matter how we looked at it, we
had been left holding the mailbag. In fact, Garfunkel the Elf couldn’t get free of the
thing, which at least promised to give the rest of us some good laughs at regular
intervals. We were also assured that it would always pull us to the next stop on the
route. How comforting.
But we resolved to ignore that fact and focus on more important issues: Who knew
what mysteries lay ahead? Who knew what terrible force kept the pass closed off?
Who knew why characters in stories always talked in the past tense about things that
were just then unfolding like a newspaper from a particularly ripe fish? But I was
babbling again. And so began the adventure in the Mountains of Lunacy!
We spent most of the next day traipsing down the road to the mountains. We didn’t
think we could even reach the foot of the mountains before nightfall. That didn’t
concern us too much at the time. One of the advantages to being someone who can
pass through the rifts between worlds is that you see some impressive sights, and we
were just beginning to enjoy the spectacle of the seven moons of Adris sweeping
across the night sky when the mailbag yanked Garfunkel toward a cabin just off the
road. It was evidently a shop, and the lack of trade through the pass had hurt the
shopkeeper, a humble, gracious slob named Olaf, more than it had our royal employer.
“Greetings, strangers!” he said as he opened the door. “Unfortunately, I have
nothing to offer but lodging and advice, but then, you seem well-provisioned.”
We asked him what he knew about the problems in the pass. The answer was not
encouraging.
“Too much and too little. Almost a year ago, the caravans just stopped getting
through. It’s given me more time for hunting, but I’d rather get back to business.
What really worries me is my brother Murray.”
We responded with blank looks, hoping to discourage further digressions. We failed.
“You see, Murray was—I hope still is—an alchemist. In fact, he made some of the best-
selling items in the shop! But about a year ago, only a month or two before the
trading season, he decided to go into the mountains to research some new idea of
his. He never came back.”
“I suppose you’d like us to look for Murray,” I said with a sigh.
“Well, since you’re going to be in the area anyway, why not? It’s too late to travel
into the pass now in any case, so you can stay the night, and I’ll even polish your
weapons if you like. The pass is pretty wet, and the polish will keep the rust away.”
“So how do we recognize your brother?”
“Well, you can probably just listen for explosions. He does that a lot, especially if he’s
playing with chemicals. Other than that, we don’t look a lot alike, but we both have
Dad’s glasses.”
observing that
1. there was nothing in the code about lethal mountain passes;
2. the U.S. Postal Service’s quip about couriers’ appointed rounds didn’t even
exist in this world; and
3. since we were heading there anyway, we might as well make one trip count.
So we were letter carriers as well as plumbers. No matter how we looked at it, we
had been left holding the mailbag. In fact, Garfunkel the Elf couldn’t get free of the
thing, which at least promised to give the rest of us some good laughs at regular
intervals. We were also assured that it would always pull us to the next stop on the
route. How comforting.
But we resolved to ignore that fact and focus on more important issues: Who knew
what mysteries lay ahead? Who knew what terrible force kept the pass closed off?
Who knew why characters in stories always talked in the past tense about things that
were just then unfolding like a newspaper from a particularly ripe fish? But I was
babbling again. And so began the adventure in the Mountains of Lunacy!
We spent most of the next day traipsing down the road to the mountains. We didn’t
think we could even reach the foot of the mountains before nightfall. That didn’t
concern us too much at the time. One of the advantages to being someone who can
pass through the rifts between worlds is that you see some impressive sights, and we
were just beginning to enjoy the spectacle of the seven moons of Adris sweeping
across the night sky when the mailbag yanked Garfunkel toward a cabin just off the
road. It was evidently a shop, and the lack of trade through the pass had hurt the
shopkeeper, a humble, gracious slob named Olaf, more than it had our royal employer.
“Greetings, strangers!” he said as he opened the door. “Unfortunately, I have
nothing to offer but lodging and advice, but then, you seem well-provisioned.”
We asked him what he knew about the problems in the pass. The answer was not
encouraging.
“Too much and too little. Almost a year ago, the caravans just stopped getting
through. It’s given me more time for hunting, but I’d rather get back to business.
What really worries me is my brother Murray.”
We responded with blank looks, hoping to discourage further digressions. We failed.
“You see, Murray was—I hope still is—an alchemist. In fact, he made some of the best-
selling items in the shop! But about a year ago, only a month or two before the
trading season, he decided to go into the mountains to research some new idea of
his. He never came back.”
“I suppose you’d like us to look for Murray,” I said with a sigh.
“Well, since you’re going to be in the area anyway, why not? It’s too late to travel
into the pass now in any case, so you can stay the night, and I’ll even polish your
weapons if you like. The pass is pretty wet, and the polish will keep the rust away.”
“So how do we recognize your brother?”
“Well, you can probably just listen for explosions. He does that a lot, especially if he’s
playing with chemicals. Other than that, we don’t look a lot alike, but we both have
Dad’s glasses.”
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
IT WAS A GLORIFIED plumbing job—open up a stuck mountain
pass. But like most plumbing jobs, it paid well, and our clothes
didn’t even have to fit. Of course, plumbers usually come back
alive afterward, too. But no one had yet come back alive—or
dead—from this one.
What made it worse was when the king laughed maniacally after
we accepted the assignment. By then it was too late to do
anything but make a note to ourselves never to inbreed.
pass. But like most plumbing jobs, it paid well, and our clothes
didn’t even have to fit. Of course, plumbers usually come back
alive afterward, too. But no one had yet come back alive—or
dead—from this one.
What made it worse was when the king laughed maniacally after
we accepted the assignment. By then it was too late to do
anything but make a note to ourselves never to inbreed.
