Ann Palmer - Issue 37

I was born in New Zealand, and lived for many years in London and Harwich, first working as a teacher, then taking an MPhil at the Warburg Institute, and working as a research editor for the Wellesley index to Victorian Periodicals, USA. This was followed by eleven years in St Petersburg giving seminars for teachers of English, teaching adults English and writing short non-fiction and poetry. After ten years in Porto, writing poetry, memoir, and literary non-fiction, I am now back in New Zealand, enjoying the change from walking through city streets and looking up to admire the architecture, to walking along bush tracks, looking down at ferns and beautiful fungi. 

Publications:  Three non-fiction books for children. Poems in NZ Review of Books, NZ Poetry Society Anthology,  How Have I Loved Thee, Poetry Monthly, Takahe.  Fiction in Flash Frontier, Orbis, Takahe.  Articles in British East-West Journal and Proceedings of the Russian Academy of Sciences.

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Bonfire of vanities

Huge plasma screens inside the perimeter of the air bubble showed scenes from the celebrations. Faces in the crowds were lit up by the early morning sun. The faces seemed so close. The families camped in front of the screens felt so very far away. 

   Here, it was already evening. Silhouetted in light from the two moons rising behind them, the adults chatted while their drowsy children curled up on cushions. The cages were open, and the canaries perched on the children’s shoulders.

   Suddenly one lifted its beak and gave a low whistle. Its owner opened his device and anxiously checked calibrations in the family’s sector, but the canary stopped whistling, and put its head under its wing. 

Now a new scene appeared on the giant screens, and people peered forward, looking for family faces. 

   ‘That’s Danik. I know her tattoo.’

   Danik and three of her friends had booked tattoo updates for the celebration. They pushed out through the swing doors of Macy’s salon in Manhattan and swaggered onto the street. Their bare breasts were bouncing, their flax skirts swinging. The four of them glanced up at the camera and flashed their new arm designs at the faces watching from so far away. Their high heels clicked towards the waiting limousine.

   Tracking the gorgeous heels, the camera picked out a couple of placards lying on the pavement where the procession had just passed. 

   ‘Maka merrka greata gain!’

   It was a retro slogan, in ancient words that everyone had forgotten. Now it was brought out for the third millennium imperial celebrations. 

Two voices caught by microphones triggered the cameras, which swivelled to an orchestra rehearsal. The jewel of the evening concert would be an ode to the Emperor, composed by the state poetry committee. Its inspired words flashed onto the screen. 

Son and sun, our role model, 

Hail, hail, to Emperor Dunku, 

Strong in material matters, 

Determined and stubborn, 

With good business skills. 

A good worker, always steady 

Always practical, builder of walls 

Taking responsibility so well. 

   The choir stumbled over the last three lines. 

   ‘They don’t even scan,’ muttered the second trombone through the side of his mouth. 

   ‘What can you expect from a state banality committee?’ 

   The third trombone winked. 

   ‘Son and sun,’ he hissed scornfully. ‘More like scum and…’

   The screens suddenly went blank. 

When the screens lit up again, they showed a vast plain where an army of workers were placing greater than life-sized statues in a huge configuration—so huge that the satellite passing overhead caught it for the people watching from the daughter planet. 

   Long ago, so long that even its name was forgotten, this was the site of a great empire. Seeking eternal life after death, its first emperor was embalmed and buried in an underground tomb guarded by ranks of terracotta warriors. 

   Century after century, more than eight thousand of these warriors guarded him underground. Now they were taken out of the burial pits and placed in lines that spelt out a name in enormous letters. D U N K… Only the letter U remained to complete it. 

Two lines of living warriors swung out of the stock exchange in distant London and marched down Fleet Street. They were young, confident men, with fresh tattoos that also spelt out the five letters of the Emperor’s name. They wore their hair in the fashionable top knot, their mighty chests glistened with oil, and the extra length of the flax skirts showed their high status. The percussion of their highly polished black shoes on the pavement drummed out the two tribal affiliations. 

   They marched on towards two palaces. Many centuries ago these were houses of a parliament where traditionally the two tribes fought each other with words. The lines of warriors were preceded by a standard bearer whose sign again was in the old language. 

Egzit bregzit 

Votere main 

Hardor softits 

Alla game 

Now a fourth continent of the global empire came into view, a continent that aeons ago split away from the others, swung round, and drifted into the Southern Ocean. Its red soil and ancient rock formations raised a cheer among the watching families. Lying aslant to the south were two long, slim islands, end on end. There was a louder cheer. 

   The camera zoomed closer, over a city, over its harbour, between a great bridge and five iron sails that crowned a ruined building, down over roof tops, down to a small park where little children were clustered. What were they up to? The watchers strained their eyes to see. 

   The children were playing a ring game. As they danced around the lone girl in the centre, they chanted an old calling-out rhyme. 

Itsa wichunt 

Lockerup 

Bilda wallor 

Youra pup 

The sun was going down as another continent, vaster than the others, rolled into view. It was the ancient home of the watching people in the daughter planet with its two moons. It was the ancient home of all people. 

   Marking its exact centre was a vast square paved with marble carried here from all the other continents. It was thronged with people. Marble steps led up to a towering dais where a golden throne glittered in the last rays of the sun.

   ‘The young emperor, may he live forever, is slowly approaching the throne on this first day of his reign. His topknot is wonderfully tied. His business jacket and red tie are…’

   The commentator’s voice fell into respectful silence. No adjectives could describe the splendour of that business jacket and red tie. His flax skirt was longer than any flax skirt in the throngs around him. 

   Ranks of tattoo bearers ascended the steps behind him. Their backs, arms and legs were engraved with signs of all the emperors in the eternal dynasty. 

   The ode to the emperor sounded out from thousands of voices as he took his seat on the throne. They did not stumble over the last three lines. 

Son and sun, our role model, 

Hail, hail, to Emperor Dunku 

Strong in material matters, 

Determined and stubborn… 

   The numbers of musicians in the orchestra were legion—though it lacked the second and third trombones whose seditious bodies now lay in the pit vacated by the terracotta warriors. 

   As the ode ended, joyful flames sprang up from bonfires in all the continents of the empire. 

   The flames joined together, filling the screen. The entire world was on fire. It was the first and last day of the emperor’s eternal reign. 

The watching families put the canaries back in their cages. Here, unlike the catastrophic mother planet, sector systems rarely faltered. Then they picked up cushions, children and cages, and strolled off to their homes inside the air bubble. 

   A couple of people lingered, looking at the blank screen. 

   ‘Well, what could you expect?’ said one. 

   ‘I’m sorry about Danik,’ said the other.