to be the most idiotic thing I've ever heard. Do you seriously expect me to accept that there is a writer out there somewhere who created all of this, who was in turn written by someone else.”
Ian gave a quick nod. “It's going to take time, but that's the gist of it.”
“And who's at the top,” Cameron tried. “Who wrote the first book? He wasn't exactly a character in a book, was he?”
“Of course he was. There is no reason why the writer of the book we live in could not be a character, say, of one of my own books – even as inherently dangerous as that might appear.”
“And the writer of this book is writing about these two characters sitting at a table talking about being characters in a book written by this writer?”
“Exactly,” Ian smiled.
Cameron tossed the bottle, ignoring the remaining contents. “That's just stupid, and I've had enough. You win.” He faked a broad smile. “I'm leaving, so I guess that blows your theory.”
“Not in the least. Primarily because you still have yet to leave, but mostly because you have already begun to serve your purpose. Of course, as I have said, you don't need to accept this blindly. I can prove it.”
Cameron had risen to his feet, the chair kicked aside, his eye flicking to the exit. “Prove it then. I'll give you... ten seconds.”
“Give me twenty,” Ian smiled. “I have faith that our Author will drag that out sufficiently – even if we should prove to be principle characters. Of course if we are merely incidental characters then the Author might well be elsewhere and we have all the time in the world. This world, at least.“
“I think that used your twenty seconds, and I haven't seen any proof.”
The priest smiled back. “First we need an assumption, and that assumption is that we are characters in a book.”
“Okay.”
“And we are written by an Author in another level.”
“That's what you're trying to tell me.”
“But you still feel that you are free to do as you wish, that you are an entity in your own right.”
Cameron knew damn well that the twenty seconds were up, but there was this deep down feeling that this proof was going to be hilarious. “That's what I've been saying.”
“Then these levels are a two way street. We influence our Author subconsciously, just as he may well do with us.”
“That's pushing it,” Cameron frowned. “But I'll go with it for the moment.”
“And here we are talking about it!” Ian spread his arms as if that was some major revelation.
“So we are, but I don't think I quite caught the significance of that little gem.”
Ian appeared genuinely shocked. “But it's quite obvious. Both myself and my Author are aware of the true nature of reality, and now this knowledge is in print so that others can also be made aware of it. You have been manipulated here for the express purpose of this explanation of reality.”
Cameron gave a curt nod, surprised that he was keeping so calm. But then this was so pathetic that it was funny. “So when do we get to the proof.”
“I would have thought that it was self evident, but I can pull out all the stops if you like.”
“Please. Be my guest.”
“Are you hungry?”
That sounded very much like a loaded question, an excuse to get Cameron back into the chair. “Maybe... If you're paying.”
“I don't pay, remember, and I'm sure the Author will arrange for my exemption to cover you in this situation.”
Cameron raised his brow, glancing to the seat. “Why don't you just get your Author to simply materialize a meal for us.”
“There are rules to obey, conventions of setting and situation. Authors are not the omnipotent Gods many have created for themselves, but then have you ever actually seen a God do anything at all.” Ian watched Cameron ease away from the table and sighed. “In this case, however, I am certain our Author will make an exception.”
“Okay then... Author.” Cameron closed his eyes and smiled. “I'd like a nice roast camel sandwich with pickles and mayo.” He heard the movement behind, but ignored it, still smiling and taking to the chair, waiting expectantly, Ian sitting firm and expressionless on the opposite side of the table. “So. Where's my sandwich?”
The voice he then heard was young and sweet, yet flustered and very female. Cameron spun in the chair, catching the eye of the young waitress. “I'll get it for you in a moment,” she then said again, her gaze then flicking to the priest and his ID. “Is this official church business?”
“Of course,” Ian said with a nod. “Cameron is my direct disciple.”
The waitress mouthed an “okay” then finished taking the order from the adjoining table. When she had departed, Ian smiled broad. “Convinced?”
Cameron stared. “Convinced of what?”
“That there is indeed an Author, a higher power which truly does have influence here in our world. He has provided your meal as I said he would.”
“No he hasn't,” Cameron wheezed. “The waitress has. She heard me ask for the damn thing.”
“As I said. The Author is not magical or mysterious, he does not need to work through miracles – not when the situation is so easily manipulated.”
“You're nuts.”
“Then you are not convinced?”
“No,” Cameron said calm, “but I do plan on staying for my sandwich, so please feel free to dazzle me further.”
“Very well,” Ian said. “I had hoped I would not need use this, but...” And he slipped a note from his pocket. “I have this note, given to me by the Author himself.”
Cameron was tempted to thump his head against the timber of the table surface. “A note?” He glanced toward the crumpled scrap of paper as Ian slid it close. “From the Author?” Ian gave a solemn nod. “Why then am I willing to bet that this is your handwriting?”
Ian himself was beginning to become a little flustered. “Of course it's my handwriting,” he said. “Do you think that our Author's quill extends within his own book? This is His message through me, a message for you alone. I had hoped my word would have been enough, but for a sceptic such as you...”
Cameron was busy reading the note. “Dear Cameron,” he read. “How quaint, but we are being a bit familiar... Anyway. Dear Cameron, sorry about the bedroom, but let's face it, it was only for one scene and you didn't spend a lot of time there anyway.'” He flipped the note over; looked to Ian. “You mean that's it?”
Ian slumped. “What do you mean that's it? What else could you possibly want.”
“A roast camel sandwich.”
The wailer at the other table had now given up, Cameron wishing Ian would do much the same. He had a feeling, however, that this priest was more like the other two very stubborn evangelists nearby. He also appeared to be thinking hard, his brow creased with it. Then there came a bright unnerving stare. “There is one other thing,” Ian said, softer this time, again in control. “Tell me about yourself: your background, your life, yesterday.”
Cameron couldn't believe was he was hungry enough to sit through this. “I'm a sceptic,” he smiled painfully, “and you've done nothing to put a dent in that.”
“And?”
“And... And what?” Cameron shrugged. “There isn't much to tell.”
“Regretful, but not really surprising. I'd hazard to say that there is nothing to tell. It tends to confirm a theory I've been brewing.”
Cameron thought hard. He remembered waking, remembered the room. It was a familiar room, as was the street. It was where he lived; it was just that he couldn't remember actually living there. “I... ah... you...”
“Exactly,” Ian said, ever more sombre. “And I'm not sure exactly how I can put this tactfully.”
“Put what tactfully?” Cameron shot back, that creeping, but somehow unfamiliar feeling on the back of his neck.
“The fact that our Author may not, well, be a very good Author.”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it says. How else can you explain your complete lack of character and background. How else can you explain this contrived meeting. How else can you explain this convenient setting with all of its priests and religions.”
Cameron stared uneasily. “Do, ah, you have a background?” he cringed.
“Not in the least, but then I haven't ever had the time to worry over it.”
Unfortunately Cameron was starting to worry over it, and the sceptic in him was becoming hard to find. Ian also looked worried, and that scared the shit out of Cameron. Ian was only worried that he might have been badly written; Cameron didn't like the idea he was written at all. He tried to convince himself that it didn't really matter. He was alive and well and waiting for a roast camel sandwich. The true nature of reality didn't really affect any of that.
He could see it coming, the waitress already well on her way back to the table, the sandwich still seeping a misty warmth. He concentrated on it, on the reality of it. It was real and solid, just like the smooth curves of the girl who carried it. It made Cameron's mouth water; dispelled the growing fear.
“Then again, it could be a short story,” Ian said with a nod. “Word limits and all of that. And I can't help feeling that we've achieved what we set out to do. You know. Get the message across to both yourself and the reader.”
The waitress had reached the table by then, the roast camel sandwich placed gently in front of Cameron. It smelt good too, damn good, and the waitress winked with that “I finish at five” kind of look.
Cameron had a feeling he was never going to make it, and his appetite was long gone.
.o0o.
About the Author:
Amos T. Fairchild is a farmer, writer, dog collector and destroyer of worlds too numerous to mention who is currently based in blissful and often cyclone ravaged northern Queensland, Australia. Born in April 1962 and author of several novels and short stories, he is currently documenting significant events in a number of parallel dimensions over a period of some seventy-three million standard years and releasing the details in an ebook format of your choice.
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