THE END OF THE world is a popular theme among certain types. It gives focus to the mind and allows a relaxation of the spirit. For if there is no tomorrow there is no need to wash those pile of old socks. Or mow the lawn. Or pay off debts.
'Blessed Serenity is upon us,' one such character opined in tragic tones as he stood on an empty walkway outside Placid Meercart's Shop of Little Delights. Many of the delights were little indeed, trinkets and bangles and discreet pieces of personal jewellery that went well with the most sober and undemonstrative of souls.
On hearing these words, Placid himself wandered out into the quiet street. It was the eve of the Day of Blessings, and here on the edge of the Blessed Hub in Poldorama very little business was expected to be done as everyone prepared for the morrow.
'Seems it is still very much above us friend,' he said pleasantly to the quivering figure before him, having scanned the skies and found the great moon glowing a splendid golden yellow in the mild twilight. There was nothing to suggest it was about to fall.
The doomsayer sought among the pockets of his dark coat a moment and then withdrew a new but already well-thumbed almanac. Adding more thumb-wear to it he found the page of tables he was looking for and brightened at his discovery.
'On the third day of Churning Month in the Summer Pause of the Dove Star Era, it says here,' the man insisted, a trembling hand gripping the fat little book meaningly, 'the Blessed Serenity would enter a space at a time already occupied by the Face of the World. Sounds cataclysmic to me,' and his shining eyes told a tale of woe at the circumstance.
'Let me see that, my friend,' and Placid Meercart deftly took the almanac from the other and peered at the table indicated. By this time his friendly foreign visitor to the shop had decided to make an appearance outside also and squinted over Placid's shoulder. Two passersby, a young couple, also stood and watched this discussion, glancing upwards nervously at the glowing orb in the sky destined to end everything by crashing unwittingly into the world.
'Is that a zero or a nine?' the visitor said. To those around him he was a curious-looking figure in a shapeless robe of some dark fabric difficult to describe. Upon his head was a rather unfashionable pointed hat, but the subdued tones of his costume would have met the approval of the most conservative member of the nearby Chapter of Thoughtfulness.
Placid scraped a fingernail upon the page to see if some spot had defaced the figure and grunted when no change was made in the appearance of the suspect number.
'It appears a nine indeed my friend,' he said ruefully, and the other beamed happily at the thought his prediction of disaster was correct.
'A moment,' and from a hidden pocket within his shapeless robe the curious visitor produced another copy of the almanac. This too looked well-thumbed but the binding suggested it was a very early edition. 'Mole's own copy,' he said to no one in particular as if embarrassed to be seen in possession of such an archaic item. He quickly found the page and matched the tables with the other's newer book.
'There!' he said triumphantly. 'Thought as much. My copy shows a zero where yours shows a nine. Printing error. Does happen at times you know,' and he eyed the publisher's name of the other almanac with a knowing shake of the head. 'Quality control these days not what it was,' he added.
'There, my friend, a possible flaw in the table has sadly misguided your welcome efforts to watch over us all.' Placid handed the book back to the trembling man, who, truth be told, trembled even more at this discovery. 'Perhaps you would do us the kindness to remeasure your figures, requantify your estimates and settle our consciences by means of the splendid instrumentality of mathematical precision.'
'Grnn,' the man said in response to this kindly meant suggestion.
'Needs a spot of rejigging,' the pointy-hatted gentleman added with a nod that made his greying beard twitch with suppressed amusement.
'I will get started on it right away,' the doomsayer said, rekindling his enthusiasm for finding death by numbers. He was completely convinced that there was a total ending of everything due to happen at some point in his lifetime and he wanted to be there to witness it. Right to the end.
The two men watched the frustrated figure rush off down Clean Street, nod at the Chapterhouse of Thoughtfulness on the corner and then disappear along the canal road out to Shivering.
'We are blessed to have such a wellmeaning soul in our midst,' Placid Meercart said as he lost sight of the distant figure, turning to the young couple who had paused to watch the incident.
'Shame he can't pursue more cheery things,' the girl said with a sniff.
'No shame in truth, no matter how unpleasant,' the stranger chuckled. 'Beg pardon for seeming to disagree,' and he bowed, remembering he was in Poldorama at the moment where the manners of the people could at times be painfully nice. Though unlikely to take offence at strangers and their flashy ways, the people of the land tended to become extremely reticent if they felt they were among errant souls.
This was exemplified by the young couple stiffening a little, bowing and then walking off arm in arm whispering to each other upon matters the bearded man could guess at.
Placid Meercart turned to his helpful visitor and gestured at the doorway to his shop.
'Shall we proceed with our most rewarding discussion, my friend?' he suggested.
'With pleasure,' and the two men re-entered the Shop of Little Delights on Clean Street where they began thrashing out a way to ensure the world did not end prematurely by the helpful process of anticipating danger and nullifying its potential effects. Tinker Blomp had been directed to visit this particular shopkeeper by others for his greatest delight among the little delights that surrounded him in his shop was to absorb and radiate the gossip of the neighbourhood.