FicWad

Author's Notes: The reference work for Billy's explanation is Jean Baudrillard's "Simulacra and Simulations." I found it at http://www.stanford.edu/dept/HPS/Baudrillard/Baudrillard_Simulacra.html, in case you're interested.
Supporting Character Disclaimers: I'm not sure if "Wings" count as supporting characters who need a disclaimer. But the concept behind the name belongs, I believe, to one Sir Paul McCartney.



The beetles which decorated Paul's rooms remained stubbornly where they were. Gardener looked worried every time she saw them, but her worry was starting to fade. Despite their presence, the room was changing as time passed. Paul had quickly discovered that at least some of the animals and plants were intelligent, although the sheep remained stubbornly stupid and silent, no matter how much time he spent talking to them.



Gardener found his habit of talking to the animals amusing, but didn't bother him about it (perhaps because she already knew which ones were and weren't intelligent. She was quite content to let him find out which ones were which on his own.). She was actually happy that he was starting to make friends with some of them. There was a flock of blue wrens - a dominant male and his collection of wives and children - who were frequently seen in his company. In fact, they often sang along with him whenever he felt the need to burst into song; something he did frequently.



The wrens spent so much time in Paul's company that they were starting to appear in his room decorations. The eiderdown was still defiantly covered with beetles, but there were birds appearing on the cornices, and a portrait with the caption "Wings" had appeared opposite the portrait of Paul with his three human friends - a portrait of Paul with the flock of wrens perched on his head, shoulders, and raised hand and arm.



That particular morning, Paul was wandering aimlessly around the island, the flock of wrens trailing behind him as they found appetising seeds and insects. One of the females in particular was particularly adept at catching gnats on the wing, a talent which made her particularly admired amongst the other birds.



He soon came across the meadow were Billy the unicorn lived with a couple of regular horses. None of them talked, although Paul was getting the distinct impression that that was simply because they had nothing they really wanted to say, rather than an indication of stupidity. Paul kept some apples in his pockets for whenever he left the cottage. He wound up in the horses' meadow so regularly that he had decided it worthwhile to pick some up whenever he went for a walk. The horses had quickly discovered this habit of his, and headed in his direction as soon as they detected his presence. Unlike the sheep, the horses were anything but stupid.



Rubbing each long nose as it was presented to him, he pulled the apples out of his pockets and fed each horse. The horses approved of this, and him, although they didn't particularly enjoy the way the wrens insisted on perching on their backs. As Paul watched, the dominant male wren landed on Billy's rump, and was promptly swatted off again with one economical flick of Billy's tail. Paul had tried warning the wren against doing it, but he kept landing there anyway. While Billy would tolerate the ladies landing on him, he disliked having the male wrens there.



Paul picked the dazed wren up out of the grass and perched him on his shoulder until the bird had recovered his wits enough to take more of an interest in his surroundings again. Which meant that Paul had to spend the next ten minutes hearing dazed moans coming from his shoulder. He considered saying "I told you so" to the bird, but decided that there was no point. He had said "I told you so" several times before, and it never had as much impact on him as a single swat of Billy's tail.



Billy snorted contemptuously, and turned to Paul. "Come," he said - the only word Paul had ever heard him say. Blinking in amazement, Paul followed after the unicorn towards the tree line at the far end of the meadow. The other two horses followed along after them.



The weather in the meadow was, as usual, sunny and warm. All three horses were glossy and sleek in appearance, and gave that impression of economy of power which was so distinctive to horses. Other large herbivores, while giving the impression that you wouldn't want to be sharing a small space with one, did so through size. They were large. They were ugly. They were full of muscle. They were inevitably cranky. The more attractive herbivores were small, and gave the impression that their only defence was to run away very quickly. Horses, however, were attractive creatures. They were large, beautiful herbivores who gave the impression that they weren't intimidated by mere carnivores. Moreover, they were powerful.



The weather on Gardener's island bothered Paul. There was no evidence that she, or anybody (or anything) else ever watered the plants. There was no evidence of an irrigation system. There were also no mud puddles. The ground was dry. It was dry, and the plants flourished. Paul wasn't used to greenery and dryness in the same space. He was used to grey skies and monotonous rainfall.



And then there were the trees. The trees weren't green, the way trees were supposed to be. Oh, they were green in the technical sense of the word, but they were the wrong shade. A kid was supposed to be able to take out his coloured pencils and draw trees that, while not being precisely the right shape, nevertheless were definitely trees. No child could draw these trees with the contents of his pencil box.



These trees were grey. The leaves hung down. The bark peeled off them in long, dark strips to reveal much lighter coloured wood underneath. Underneath the trees in front of him, reclining on a pile of bark and dead leaves, was another horse. This horse was a stranger to him, and to the island. It was large and brilliantly white in colour. As Paul got closer, he detected a hint of feather in the horse's coat. Certainly, it was an odd shape. It looked as though somebody had draped something over the animal's torso.



Suddenly, Paul realised that the horse had wings. Not only that, but the animal was clearly in some distress.



"She crash-landed here earlier this morning," Billy told him. "She's a bit dazed. We couldn't get a word of sense out of her."



Paul nodded, and cautiously approached the horse. She lifted her head and blinked at him with eyes that he could see weren't focussing clearly. That was worrying. Paul freely admitted that he didn't know much about horses, but even he could tell when something was wrong. "Does she speak?" he asked Billy.



"Yes," the unicorn replied. "I would have fetched Gardener, but she was asking for you."



"Me? Why me?"



Billy shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Estrelda sent her."



Paul frowned. "Who is Estrelda? I've heard her name a couple of times, but that's all."



"She's the writer," Billy shrugged. "All this is her creation."



"So, she's God?"



Billy laughed. "No. The theology of this is a bit complicated. The different religions are as valid here as they are for Estrelda. It's just that there's another layer between God and us."



"Oh," Paul replied, not at all sure that he really understood.



Billy sighed. "How's your Roman history?" he asked.



"I know what I learned in school," Paul replied, suddenly wondering how it was that he did know.



Billy winked. "Don't let it worry you," he advised. "Do you know who Alexander the Great was?"



"Um, he conquered most of the known world, didn't he?"



"Pretty much. Okay. There is a legend that Alexander the Great had some mapmakers. They created a map of his empire for him that was so big, that if it was unfolded it would completely cover the empire. It was on the same scale as what it represented. Do you understand?"



Paul nodded. "Yes."



"Good. Now, the land we are in is like the map. Except that it does not represent the real world, so much as the world that the writers and others like Estrelda would like to exist."



The glimmerings of understanding started to come to him. "So, we're a bit like copies of real people."



Billy nodded approvingly. "You are, certainly. Others, like me, are purely creations of this world. There are still others who are copies of characters from books. There are yet other characters and places who are intended to educate."



"I see." Paul turned back to the winged horse. "Are you hurt?"



She gave him a woozy look. "Don't know," she said, slurring her words somewhat.



"She crashed headlong into a tree," Billy told Paul. "I think she's a bit bruised and concussed, but that's all."



Paul nodded. "Okay. How can we get her to the stables?"



"I'll go fetch Gardener," one of the other horses volunteered. "She'll know what to do about it."



"Thanks."



The horse trotted away from the group, and then broke into a canter. Paul thought about Billy's explanation. It made sense of everything that had happened to him and of the strange way his memory was behaving. As time passed, the forest he and the others had been in when they had been taken seemed more and more disconnected from the rest of his memories. He had no memory of actually going to the forest. Nor were there any memories of him leaving the forest. It didn't even seem to be a part of the story.



Something clicked over in his mind. His memories of the alps slid away into nothingness. So did the Bahamas. Buckingham Palace melted like mist. No words existed in his mind, nor did his memory throw up anything that suggested speech. Birds sang in his memory, and large trees and long grass held simple pleasure.



Noises made him look around. The unicorn was looking at him worriedly, and making noises of some sort. The Pegasus on the ground struggled to her feet and also started to look worried, although she was very wobbly. The Pegasus started to make noises to the unicorn, who made noises back.



A rhythmic noise started to intrude, and he turned to the source. There was a beautiful woman wearing jeans and a tie dyed t-shirt approaching on horseback. She had flowers in her hair, and she wasn't wearing any shoes. Woman and horse stopped in front of him, and she slid to the ground. The unicorn started to make noises at the woman, and she, too, started to look worried. She made noises back at the unicorn.



The woman walked over and took his hand. She walked toward the trees at the far end of the field, and he followed her, unresisting. He couldn't think of any reason why he shouldn't follow her. In fact, he couldn't think. The air around him was pleasantly warm, and there was a gentle breeze blowing. He could hear the rustle of leaves, and smell the sharp scent of the trees. It was beautiful. It felt right that he should be in a place like this. Completely right. Happily, he followed her.



Eventually, they reached a cottage. As they walked in, he felt a brief pang of disappointment that they were no longer outside. This wasn't quite so right as the field. But that feeling soon gave way as he looked at the decorations and the layout of the rooms they walked through. It was a comforting sort of place.



She led him into a room. It was a large room, with a huge double bed in the middle of it. The eiderdown was green and decorated with wildflowers, and the carpet under his feet was thick and reminded him of grass. The walls were painted to look like a forest clearing.



He looked at the woman. She was clearly angry, and afraid, and frustrated. She made noises at him, but he couldn't comprehend them. She guided him to the edge of the bed, and he sat down. She sat down next to him, and put her hand on his chest. "Paul," she said. "Paul." Then, she put her hand on her own chest. "Gardener."