Plenty of variations and folklore to cover anything unexplainable ever. Certainly there was no need to invent a new creature like the Minagee. But arrive they did.

Mostly small children spot them, as they often play close to the house floors and field floors of our world. It was a child who named them, attempting to say miniature. Farmers too, and cleaners. No scientist has seen one yet, but that is simply down to too few looking.

Farmer Marcus was collecting acorns when he saw a trail of minagees, dozens of them in a row, weaving through the pasture grasses like ants, only more deliberate in their marching and slightly bigger. Fascinated, he lay down and tried to get an eyeball close enough to see what they looked like, what type of insect they are. That failed when they perhaps saw him and changed direction, and there were more grass stems put between them and his eyeball. So Marcus knelt over them and tried to entice one to walk up a twig that he held in their path. And it worked! One ran up the twig (he now knew they could run very fast) and into his finger and bit him with such intensity that he half-screamed and then looked around at the curious cows, embarrassed. He told his wife, who told the neighbors, of the nasty insects that are best avoided, and are most likely the minagees that some local kids had been banging on about. But they were definitely insects he said, because farmers know about such things, and “miniature naked humans with spears” has simply arisen from the imaginations of little uns.

Meanwhile the minagees were evolving tactically, and had decided that humans were best avoided, and added them to a long list of birds and insects that wanted them dead. This land is inhospitable, so they need to create permanent shelter, study their surroundings a whole lot more, and make babies.

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But the new overlords recognized that the fragmented nature of the continent could be used to their advantage. Towns and regions with unadventurous citizens and widely varying cultural practices could be better controlled if they knew less of each other. So they shut down all news that wasn’t local, they established trading gates where tariffs were paid, and they coerced or bribed local leaders to align with them.

This was made much easier because of the detailed maps and regular censuses that were already in existence. All such information was confiscated and owning it was punishable by death. Just to be sure, all those who had been employed as cartographers or census takers were executed, thanks to the detailed employment records. All books of knowledge were either locked up or burned, and all that remained in written form were fairy tales.

Not locked up or executed were Dusty and Matilda, an elderly couple who were teens in love during the Great Mapping funded by the Royals to commemorate something. Percy Manowar preferred women and wine, and had hired them – off the books – to do his map work for him, at way less than half of his salary.

These days Dusty and Matilda, along with their two donkeys and covered wagon, are slowly touring the boundaries of the continent, reliving their youth and reminiscing. Doing the lap they call it, and they are onto their 3rd lap. At many towns they have become quite popular, and sometimes wined and dined, as they tell tales of what went on generations back, taking great care to never mention their role in the mapping. The physical maps might be gone, but the pair of them have brains and memories that are as sharp as ever, thanks to a bit of help from Mr Mandrake.

Retirement and road were very satisfying but their travels only began when the levels of widespread oppression started to weigh heavily on their souls and lightly on their consciences. They knew that they could be part of a solution if some others took up the reigns. They knew things.

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Such large premises have an additional value: layers.

Like the layers of an onion, like asking someone five questions to find out what they truly want, like the darkest cave in the deepest forest, layers take effort. And for a king or queen, every layer, from their staunchest ally to a mere lackey on a wage, keeps their enemies (and the overly curious), away.

Assassinations in castles come from within, from nephews and bodyguards. Not from infiltrators.

But it is also the queen’s home, where she is most relaxed, especially when everything is as it always was. The same roast pheasant, the same cutlery… the serving staff have been unchanged in a decade. Curtains drawn precisely when the sunset has gone. The clock wound by the the same boy who polishes the shoes and boots.

And the queen is loved, she is told. So when a stranger visits with gifts, having negotiated the labyrinth of checks and balances, she is welcoming and pleased, the validation that she privately seeks.

An eligible teen princess has been visiting, wining and dining, and letting the queen recall the wonders of youth, when the castle is attacked, and all of the henchmen run to the perimeters, while the queen and her bodyguards flee to the safe room. Two guard outside, and two within. The queen takes the princess with her. The princess takes a carving knife with her, secretly. In the room the princess releases 3 hornets. The queen is allergic and the guards are trying to kill them when she stabs them in the neck. After the queen is dead and the talisman stolen, the princess implores the outside guards to come to the queens aid. As they run down the tunnel, the princess makes her escape.

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You can kiss someone at a younger age, and it is encouraged, albeit in chaperoned or tightly controlled events. So at least when you do get married – the only way for a young person to get laid – they have some idea of what their other is like physically.

You stay married until your kids are married, with exceptions made for infertility and children who make an oath to never marry. But once your obligation is up, once your kids have left the nest, you must separate from your spouse, and have no intimacy for one whole year, while you consider who will join you in the next marriage. Which is bloody annoying if you choose the same person again. And they choose you again.

Extramarital affairs are rampant. Put it this way, nobody ever says “you have your fathers eyes”.

A visitor from a far off land (not completely unheard of) might describe the Emergery as a place where everything is prohibited and therefore anything goes.

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Spring has babies and autumn has leaves. Winter has snow and for the most part everyone stays at home, all rugged up, and we eat from the bountiful produce reaped during the year. Even the poorest of people have plenty, and for some the darkest days of the year are called “the fattening”.

Summer is the worst, and also has a nickname, “the shedding”. While in winter you can simply pile on jackets and blankets, in the summer, with its relentless heat, there is a limit to how many clothes you can remove. Nakedness occurs in varying degrees.

We also have a fifth, irregular season, The Grimming. It doesn’t appear on any calendar in advance, nor does it appear to be triggered by the sun or moon. But we all know it when it comes, there are tell-tale signs that are beyond dispute: short-tempers, grumpiness, grizzliness, irritability and the like affect humans and animals as well. Divorces are well up. The wind is up, the trees groan, and “acts of God” are plentiful. And the colors of the world become muted and dull, affecting artists doubly. It tends to last a moonth or so, and for many it is a time of hibernation and contemplations at home, no matter what the regular season or what needs to be done. A few revel in it, their true natures coming to the fore, and those grimy people become known as such. The Liftening is when the consensus is that things feel like they are getting better. Newspapers mostly call it correctly. It is a time for very muted, slightly grumpy, minor celebrations.

If you die during The Grimming, your soul will linger until the darkest day. And if you happened to be born within that malignant period, the least of your worries is that you are more likely to be named Raven than Joy.

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Her own fortunes have not been great, for while she necessarily maintains sobriety while working, her extracurricular drinking leads to exceedingly adventurous but poor decision making.

Originally she was simply a vagabond alcoholic who used her feminine charms to get what she needed to survive. On more than one occasion (none of which she actually remembers) she provided a prophecy while flirting that was striking enough to remembered, and also came true.

Around the same time, after repeatedly wasting every swindled penny she had, a plan came to mind. The next time she had a good win from a gullible man, she would lock her self in her inn room to avoid any temptations. She told the innkeeper that she was a werewolf (seeing as it happened to be full moon) and for his own safety he should lock her away for the night.

And so she transformed from a lush swindler to a sober clairvoyant who was rumoured to be a howling beast once each month. And on that night each month she would be ceremoniously locked away, with some flagons of wine to reward herself.

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But inland, too, there is an Edge, a straight line that runs perfectly North-South, beyond which nobody from the Emergery has managed to venture. It is not a matter of desire, or strength, or determination, preparation or ingenuity. This edge is invisible to the eye, but by all other reckonings it is a wall, of sorts. You can throw things through it, and even reach through it with arms or outstretched legs, but your torso cannot. All living things, their torso, cannot pass the invisible line, they get gently stuck in place. Birds occasionally get caught, mid-flight, and pry themselves free with their little legs, as if from vertical quicksand. For the most part they steer well clear.

Near that Edge, there is not a lot going on, few reasons to be there. Without being able to range in all directions, animals and people prefer to locate themselves somewhere else. The lack of activity means thereabouts is mostly barren, and what lives there are the darkest and spiciest plants, with poisonous berries and twisted little creatures in burrows beneath.

Sometimes it has been fashionable to study this zone, and derelict viewing platforms can be found. On the other side of the Edge there is more of this world, but always in night or mist or shadows. The seasons are the same but subdued. Aside from bracken and dead limbs, there is nothing to see – no clouds, no grasses, nothing that feels warm or alive. But on rare occasions, for the patient observer, pairs of eyes come close for a moment, and in the distance, perhaps reflected, perhaps not, are lights, lights that are indications of structure and purpose, of sentience, far, far away.

Not surprisingly the margins of our society can often be found near that Edge, the Eastern Edge, the Cursed Edge, the Edge of Life. Bandits retreat to the Edge when they are incapable of planning ahead. Bootleggers and murky stills, absconders, illegal brothels, counterfeiters and spell-casters can all be found in that zone, where law enforcement mostly avoids, leaves them to their grubby dark deeds. And so it is that running up the Edge of our world is the easiest, albeit riskiest way to avoid the Sprites, who also have an aversion to that stateless strip, and get from Eastern place A to Eastern place B.

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The name was meant to reflect the sheer number of creatures who are either evolving or coming out from the shadows, which was their inspiration to begin with.

The Royals name their lands (often the whole continent) after themselves, while common-folk have no use for naming the continent, for few understand that it is a continent and fewer have ever spoken to someone from abroad, or even read a book.

The Emergery has also become a science, as the philosophers try to understand why all the changes are occurring.

The animals, birds, fishes, trees, monsters, microbes and whatever else can talk have their own name for their world, the old name, which translates to something like The Edge Of Everything Turned Inside Out.

The Poultice twins did not complete their bestiary in their lifetime, but some of their grandchildren did, with the help of many brave souls (and lucky accidents) along the way. Saying that lives were lost would be an understatement, but the rewards offered by the Royals were very tempting. Many tales of discovery were recorded in a companion piece.

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If Sam left now and followed its prompts, the knowicle would deliver him to a place where he will solve a mystery or crime. No matter how he achieves it, that future is known and certain, he will be a hero of something big or small. The art, the reason, as his forefathers had learned, was in the doing.

He stopped for barely a minute at home, grabbing his knapsack that had been on standby all this time, kissed his elderly mother on the cheek, and pocketed some sourdough buns, jerky and an apple. The knowicle had never been wrong, for anyone, ever – the journey will end with the solution, by the bearer, of a puzzle or question, or a discovery of sorts, or something admirable. It will also, quite likely, guide him to his death one day, so ruling out starvation was important.

Sam could walk all day and night ordinarily, and with the excitement he felt like he had unlimited energy, but nights are dangerous and stopping at an inn was a must.

The knowicle guides its bearer on a journey already known, so it rarely takes them through thickets or bramble. And along roads it is mostly quiet, only leaning in a direction at crossroads or where needed. To not miss a turn, Sam keeps it cradled in his left hand, in his jacket pocket. Today’s roads were quiet and barely worthy of existing. They mostly link farms to towns, but could be of use for people seeking a direct route between unknown places.

The inn was locked. A notice had instructions. Sam walked around the back, through a grove of fruit trees and found the cottage. Smoke rose from the chimney. Sam rapped the brass knocker and after a reasonable amount of shuffling and bustling behind the door, it opened.

“You are looking to stop for the night, I presume?”, said the old woman as she glanced past him at the darkening sky. She wore a bold yellow dress with a variety of flowers painted on it, her face was kind, her hair frizzy and she was short and stout and of an indeterminate middle age.

“That I would” said Sam, “ and whatever is on your stove smells delicious if that is on offer”. Sam was already inside, knapsack off, and admiring the well-stocked kitchen.

“I’m Maria”, she said. “The Inn isn’t worth opening these days. Locals prefer to drink in Perry now that it has a market and, ahem, entertainment for men. That just leaves the occasional interloper like yourself. Sit down and tell me your story while I attend to your dinner. Ale?

Sam cannot divulge anything about his secret little organic device, and he had no idea where he was headed, or even why. But he is unlikely to make any mistake, here and now. He took off his Chesterfield hat and sat on the wooden chair without a cushion.

“I’m headed to Flaysbury or thereabouts, that direction anyhow. Seeking my fortune, as they say”.

“That suggests that a fortune is what you lack. Where are you from? Been on the road long?

“ I have no home to speak of, ma’am, you could call me a drifter, albeit a drifter with some direction. I seek card games, I play poker. For money” he added, after a pause.

“Just call me Maria. I know a bit about games of chance, of likelihoods and outcomes. Poker requires a special set of skills, and well done on making a living of sorts from it. Is that all that you are good at? Seems like a perilous existence.”

“Sorry, where’s my manners, Maria, I am Sam.” He looked around the room, which was full on every wall, boxes half obscuring the window, and books in neat stacks and otherwise. “My skill seems to be luck, although I don’t only win because of it. But sufficiently good luck for me not to be welcome for too long in any one place. So I keep on the move.”

Maria was focusing on scooping out soup and finding cutlery, while Sam fondled the knowicle in his pocket, and thought of something else.

“My secret weapon is this little fella” said Sam as he reached into his pants pocket and pull out a small, green wooden cube with dots embossed onto each edge. “I live by the die”.

The next morning, early, Maria overcharged Sam and gave him a generous bag of supplies, enough to last him through tomorrow if he got lost. The road to Flaysbury was not wide enough for a wagon and would rightly be called a vague path in places. Making sure that Sam at least got the start of his journey correct, she escorted him to a 3 way junction, with a 3 way sign.

Sam took his hands out of his jacket pockets and held up his die between thumb and forefinger. “You might find this odd, but it is my way.” He rolled the die across the stony path, and it changed directions a few times before landing with five dots on top.

“Seems that I am going via Polk today”, and he bid Maria farewell and strode off along the Polk road with assuredness.

That night Maria was blessed with her second guest of the week, and she had a fresh and odd story to share, about a portly chap who wore a Chesterfield hat and let dice make decisions for him.

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Streams of meteors, flowing westward and sinking, setting fire to all we know, and sending silt and mud and dust and people into the air, swirling above us in a cacophony of dark whirlwinds.

Floods, surging, pushing through, dragging all behind it, surrendered and battered and bashed.

The fields are liquified, and for every known thing sinking deep is a new, unknown thing, rising as if it owns the mud, and climbing out, seeing our world for the first time, and licking its lips.

And me, pinned, ineffectual and also unwilling to help, this spectacle is not my world, it is not real, and I refuse to…

…but I awaken and with time I come right and dust off the residue of the dancing darium, the cause of much internal mischief, and the most interesting use of my time to be discovered so far.

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