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As a punishment, he is forced to see this world in a different way and be tied to a certain figure in the form of a piece of land. However, the story will not be about a creature that was as naughty as a cat, but about a man who is so passionate about science that he is ready to leave his home behind and exchange it for a God-forsaken town.
******
“Are you sure that they’ll be able to finish everything by our arrival? Ford. Fo-o-ord, I'm askin’ you, stop daydreamin’!” Fiddleford frowns, taking off his glasses again and carefully wiping them with a cloth.
Stanford is like a headache out here, at the world's end. At least because instead of trying to move into the shack normally, he considers strange — in his opinion, of course — patterns on the trees. Yes, of course, there are a lot of rumours about this town - and Fiddleford, the so-called «voice of adequacy» in their duo, believes that a good half of them are lies, but who would listen to him anyways?
Maybe if Stanford hadn't been driven by a crazy idea to find out everything and everyone, starting with dwarfs and ending with unicorns, they wouldn't have been involved in accepting the hut from the workers, who, to give them their due, did everything “conscientiously”. And, secondly, they would have already prepared lunch. Well, or at least sandwiches, because Fiddleford's stomach had been already serenading for half an hour.
Sighing and blinking a couple of times from lack of sleep due to the move, Fiddleford still puts up with his friend's curiosity and decides to be the first to put an old bag of things on the doorstep.
“Ford, would ya like some peanut butter?" He shouts out to inventor «number two», of course, in a joking manner, because they both have very extensive knowledge. After hearing a positive response, he leaves Stanford alone with markings on trees and phrases like «this particular bump has a rather strange texture...»
******
The first day consists of a backpack thrown into a corner, because Stanford only takes a pen and a notebook, proudly called a journal. The floor of the hut creaks under heavy footsteps, and the smell of wood fills their lungs, to which both inventors have almost become accustomed.
A big adventure starts with the surrounding platitudes: the inhabitants of the city, conversations with them, and some small things seen on the streets. Stanford leaves exploring the forest for later due to some carelessness - after all, the road is not as easy for him as he would like — well, and Fiddleford, who took over their new home improvement, too, because, frankly, Ford has never been a big fan of household chores such as cleaning after the workers and cooking.
“Why don't you ask ‘em where you can get bed linen? Neither of us has any.” Fiddleford mutters, barely shuffling his fluffy slippers on the floor.
“Huh? Yes, yes. I will ask.” Stanford does not immediately grasp what is being said, and very reluctantly distracts from his own great plans, returning to reality, which he has never particularly loved. Fiddleford is frowning, but he's looking somewhere behind him.
“I think it's time to change the lenses on my glasses.” he squints, tilting his head with interest.
“Hm-m? And why is that?”
“There's jus’ some kind of stain. Maybe I got ‘em dirty while I was dealin’ with the engine oil.” Fiddleford mutters and tries to wipe them on his sweater again, which he only gets out of in extreme cases. “God forgive me, I need to sleep more.” He sighs and seems to be talking to himself rather than Stanford.
The latter just shrugs his shoulders and opens the creaking door, either from the crooked hinges or from the fact that the metal is rubbing in them, safely forgetting about the stain, the bedding, and even the fact that Fiddleford asked to return for dinner, because he is cooking today.
There lies the road to adventure, through tall trees and the sun peeking through their dark leaves. Autumn, late, but still warm, which Ford loves so much for the colours and for the weird national holidays.
Speaking of which. He’ll need to find out more about it from the residents. Yes, yes, and he would definitely ask about the location of a library or so.
******
The lady from the grocery store said that the garden figurines on her neighbour’s plot come to life at night. She also mentioned that sweets were miraculously disappearing from the lower shelves.
A local lumberjack stated that he felt someone behind him in the forest. It was as if hands were placed on his shoulders, but they were immediately removed as soon as he tried to turn around.
Another lady, who overheard the conversation, talked about the sound of voices in the old house at the end of the street.
And that's just not it. Not that, not that, not that! It's as if all these short stories are missing something, something — or someone — bright, «grandiose».
Stanford crosses out another sheet on the draft. In his notebook, he briefly marks other people's words with a question mark, no, with several signs, because such chatter should be questioned, and wearily rubs his eyes.
There was a black sky and white stars outside the window, watching him work for hours. Oh, yeah. After all, he had completely disrupted his sleep schedule — or rather, he had proudly closed his eyes for three hours in two days — and therefore they were most likely looking at Stanford with the same disapproval that Fiddleford had looked at Stanford in the morning.
Speaking of morning.
Some coffee would be nice. A mug or a few.
And that means getting up, crunching bones all over your body, coming to terms with the fact that this mortal bag of meat needs exercise, and going to the kitchen, trying not to wake Fiddleford.
That’s a great plan, honestly. Ingenious. It's a Swiss watch, but Stanford is wrong about the latter: Fiddleford is sitting in the kitchen, nervously sipping strongly brewed herbal tea, and looking at the icon in the corner of the room, growing paler and paler.
“Is everything okay?” Stanford puts a hand on Fidds’ shoulder, encouraging him a little. Admittedly, he never knew how to be supportive — and especially when he didn't know what to support and help with — but he tried very hard, nonetheless. At least because Fiddleford took care of him, sometimes leaving dinner, sometimes washing the mugs that had piled up on the table. However, the man didn't react immediately, but later he shuddered, with some kind of strong delay.
“You. . . look, are you alright?” Fiddleford’s tapping his fingers on the mug without turning around. “You see, I decided to pray.” He finally spoke, “I closed my eyes, started readin’, n’ then the candle went out. No, no, it didn't just go out! What a nightmare, it's been blown out!” He jumps up from his seat and starts shaking Stanford by his shoulders. His voice is trembling, and his fingers, icy and almost white, are firmly digging into the fabric. “Blown. Out. Ford! I know it sounds terrible, but somethin’ is wrong. There's clearly somethin’ wrong here!” Fiddleford babbles, almost getting confused in the words, and his eyes are red from not having closed them all night. They are peering into the other's eyes, which at first express absolutely nothing, and then they look for some kind of trick, staring intently.
Stanford, on the other hand, tries not to question his friend's words right away. It turns out, however, not particularly well:
"Blown out? Maybe it's just a draft? The house is wooden after all, and you don't like to lock your windows tightly. You always feel stuffy." He sighs and awkwardly pulls Fiddleford towards him. The hugs seem preposterous, but Stanford tries again, even though he can't stand such things. He pats the cold back with a warm palm, sighing. "You should get some sleep, Fidds, it’s getting out of hand," he slowly releases his friend from his arms and, to be honest, hardly thinks about the meaning of his words.
Fiddleford has always been a cautious man in some ways. He was constantly overthinking things, he always found a dozen, no, a hundred reasons for one action, and tried to find at least one that would fit like a puzzle. In other things, he was more down-to-earth — after all Ford was the adventurer in their duo — and in some, he was overly superstitious and pious. Like now, when the candle was bound to go out because of someone, and when in the middle of the night it was imperative to repeat all the same lines again and thank someone above for the day.
Stanford didn't understand that. Gods, goddesses, and commandments seem to be the excuses and fantasies of some long-lived man who simply needed to be listened to and heard. Someone who didn't know how to lure people with facts, so they made up things that everyone would believe in. This included Fidd, who calmed down a little in Ford's presence and nevertheless agreed that it would be really nice to get some sleep after such a performance.
Still shuffling his slippers, he slowly climbed the stairs, while Stanford was already searching the light cabinets for an iron can of coffee — unfortunately, he was the only one of the two who was a fan of strong drink, so Fidds was always rearranging this can as unnecessary.
Fortunately, on the third attempt, everything was found.
Three teaspoons, because the first one spilled on the floor, then another spoonful of sugar, because the coffee is so disgusting that it's impossible to drink it without it. A stick of cinnamon so that Fitz wonders where they go in the morning, and pepper, which made Ford sneeze twice, because he sniffed all the spices, being too lazy to properly turn on the main light.
The cezve is put on the stove, and the body, still frail and frankly demanding a healthy sleep, lands on a chair, because Ford can't stand standing for five, seven, or maybe ten minutes.
He just has not to fall asleep.
He needs to occupy his thoughts with a recent formula. Yes, the one with the delta of the ‘y’ means an error due to the different density of the discs, and this error must also be multiplied by their number and divided by one hundred percent, which is already difficult to do now.
There are . . . zero integers, eight, two, two, two, two . . .
Two-oo... And Stanford turns a blind eye to the noise of boiling coffee nonetheless.
******
Nevertheless, it is not good for one’s health to rest in the position of a mad scientist, even if, according to the sensations, for a very short time. It is not, and this is proudly stated by the aching back in all the vertebrae.
Stanford reluctantly opens his eyes, seeing a mug of already cold coffee in front of him.
Wow. . . to brew, to pour the drink into the cup, but stubbornly do not remember how it was. However, the coffee tastes even better than it usually does.
So... he has five minutes to take a break and get back to work, because new discoveries don't like to languish in anticipation — and Stanford himself is not a particularly patient person in everything that concerns his favorite activity.
Work-work-work — he gets up from his seat and goes to the second floor to dig into a lot of sheets again and take out all those textbooks from the shelves that Fiddleford carefully put there a couple of days ago.
Stanford is a fanatic. Literally. Well, at least because everything he noticed has already been placed in the first quarter of the journal. On the table that is littered with drawings there are photographs, drawings and just old letters or pieces of paper that he happened to get from books in the library.
However, all this is being set aside. Right now, the folder with the proud “Fiddleford” on the cover is exactly in the center of his attention. Even before moving, Fidds asked to double-check the equation, which does not want to converge. Stanford doesn't even sit down: he pushes back his chair, stands flipping through papers, and hastily runs through the fractions and then the equations of moments, one of which actually results in division by zero.
Maybe the blueprints are wrong?
Maybe the forces in them are defined incorrectly?
His old textbooks are put to use, that Ford has taken with him from home, where the formulas have all been memorized a long time ago. The pages are crumpled in some places since his palms often sweat from exertion. Stanford is again looking for something on the marked lines that will help him solve this problem: he selects similar levers, examines different mechanisms with seals, but in vain.
Hour after hour flies by, and the stars are still retreating with condemnation, allowing the sun to rise into the sky. However, Stanford, who is passionate about his work, does not notice this either, just like the fact that he is stirring his coffee with a pencil and that he has once again bit the edge of the pen with his teeth.
“Ford, breakfast’s ready.” There's a knock on the door along with an extremely sleepy voice, but Stanford just shrugs his stiff shoulders, sighing.
“Later, Fidds, later.”
And he doesn't need to wonder if Fiddleford will probably frown again and take off his glasses to wipe them on his stretched sweater. He will leave, as always, but then he will leave on the table a couple of pieces of bread wrapped in a napkin, a kettle with strongly brewed black tea and porridge covered with another plate.
However, that's not what's important right now, but division by zero is.
And a head that hurts out of spite, which seems about to crack exactly in half and allow the smart thoughts — and also not so smart — to flow out onto a table littered with books and drawings.
One hour, two, three. . . The cosine of zero is zero.
And then divide by the damn zero again.
Ford frowns, calculating the angles in his mind again, but it seems that after a couple of days of searching for the answer hidden in the depths of mechanics, it's worth getting some sleep.
A sensible decision is made by itself: Stanford falls on the bed in his home clothes, which makes it creak with displeasure. He closes his eyes, trying to erase all these numbers and measurements, and then, having calculated everything again and received the same zero, finally falls into oblivion.
For an hour, two, three. . .
The only problem is that he only dreams of a black screen. There are no flying horses, no wizards or witches.
Just a rectangle with no eyes and no mouth — blackness in person, accompanied by boredom and the sharp thought that he needs to go back and count everything.
Even if Fiddleford sees the light in the room — and after last night and the blown-out candle, he's clearly not himself for sure — he'll start bubbling like an old iron kettle again.
Ford quickly gets up, pulling his warm robe tighter around him. Lack of sleep still takes its toll, because he is constantly freezing and has to wear wool socks, even when it's thirty-two or thirty-six degrees outside, and it's even warmer in the house.
The equations of moments come back before his eyes. The first, the second, the third, and also the unfortunate cosine. Stanford glances through the calculations with his eyes and, it would seem, finds nothing new. But at one point, when substituting numbers, instead of the cosine of zero, there is one, which makes the equation get a completely adequate — and even beautiful — answer.
Ford blinks a couple of times, trying to remember when he managed to correct it.
Wasn't he asleep?
Or maybe his obsession with the anomalous forced him to get out of bed even in an unconscious state and double-check all the data?
In any case, everything falls into place. And the reason for all this commotion is banal stupidity — well, besides the unwillingness to double-check basic things.
“It's a nightmare.” Ford whispers, shrugging his aching shoulders. He pulls his arms up, stretching, and, unfortunately, understands perfectly well that, having woken up, he is unlikely to be able to fall asleep until morning.
Until, finally, he moves a piece on the nearby chessboard. It's nothing special, just a standard pawn on e2-e4 move.
******
“I'm tellin’ ya there’s someone in here! That's nonsense. My candle was blown out again!” Fiddleford wails, chuckling and nervously walking with a mug towards the sink. “Damn it, Ford, damn it, I'm tellin’ you!” He mutters to himself, pouring boiling water into the sink and immediately rolls his eyes, because pouring tea was not in his plans.
“Yeah-yeah, and what else?” Stanford is tapping his cup with his fingers, trying to figure out why Fidds has been so worked up for days.
“And there's that black spot! I don't get what's goin’ on at all.”
“What spot?”
“Well, in the window! It was blinkin’ ”
“Gods, Fidds, you're scolding me for not sleeping when you're the one lacking it. Let's switch rooms? Otherwise, we won't have time to finish anything. Not to mention we still must work on the article…” Stanford gives up, standing up and taking the cloth from Fiddleford, who is desperately trying to wipe away all the stains from the spilled drink.
Maybe he's right. Maybe there really is something or someone at their home? There was something wrong with the coffee, and with the equation, too, but what's the point of disturbing this someone if they don't want to show up yet and if there are a lot of oddities in the town besides the local “brownie”?
No, no, Stanford will definitely remember this, he just doesn't see the point in panicking at the moment. In any case they must wait, because if it's a ghost, they'll see it anyway only when it decides to show itself, and if there's something else, they don't have enough data yet to make a more accurate conclusion.
“Ford, what can we do about this?”
“«We»? I don't know, but you can either sleep at my place or at your place. You were going to bed anyway. Why don't we put that cloth on instead of curtains to make you feel better? Just stop yelling, my head hurts like hell.”
******
Putting Fiddleford to bed is like trying to write a dissertation in one night. However, Stanford did at least manage the first one, celebrating the event with a mug of strong tea and returning to his room when Fidds stopped muttering about shadows and blasphemers.
Black's pawn moved e7-e5. Stanford chuckles, but still remains calm and cautious, thinking that this is the way he can lure out his opponent and force him to show up.
“Quite interesting, but standard. Did you know, Mr. Spirit, that for the entire time of chess's existence, absolutely all situations with these two moves done have not been lost?”
People tend to follow the same patterns, and I'll do everything the same way they do. Let's see where this takes us, right? Stanford touches the pawn, putting the cup on the table. B2-b3 to open the bishop and start developing the pieces a little earlier than the silent interlocutor.
There's something about believing in all this. Anomalies, creatures from neighbouring planets, spawns of other realities — all this has fuelled his interest in exploring the world since childhood.
It takes imagination and perseverance, and Stanford has always had a lot of both things. However, there should have been plenty of patience here, too, at least because Fidds’ eye is already twitching from nerves, and the local spirit seems to like it.
The thread of thought is cut short by the quiet creak of a piece: the queen moves d8-h4, and Stanford raises an eyebrow questioningly in response. He thinks, however, only for a short time: the pawn goes g2-g3. Ford touches the figure, makes a move.
Almost.
“You'll have to say goodbye to the rook, and I don't want to end the game with such an interesting opponent just because he hasn't been sleeping at all lately.” They chuckle haughtily just above his shoulder. “Think, Fo-ordsy, think again” They murmur in his ear and barely tickle skin with their breath.
“Hm?” Stanford keeps himself together still. He just shudders a little, moving his shoulder, and returns his gaze from the glass cabinet, where the outlines of a young man flying in the air are vaguely visible, to the board. “Then. . . a pawn?” He squints and picks up the one next to the queen. “But in that case, I don't understand, what's the point for you to go there?”
“For me? Haha, to scare you! To confuse the brainiac Fordsy, whom I've been watching for days, and see how funny he is frowning again.” A cool palm buries itself in strands of Ford’s hair. No, no, the local «brownie» does not want to pull them at all or force Stanford to turn around, rather he strokes him like a domestic cat, allowing the game to continue.
After all, people are funny because they always consider themselves smarter than everyone else. And it doesn't really matter that Bill, as he was once called and as he calls himself now, knows how to dig into other people's heads and take over other people's thoughts.
Stanford needs to win. He goes through a lot of combinations in his head and hopes to anticipate the opponent's move. But what will Bill do in response, having a great opportunity to beat him?
He’ll yield him up a piece. One, two, three pieces. He'll let Ford stroke his fragile ego to his heart's content and finally show up, because unlike his «Fidds» friend, this inventor doesn't hurl him with all sorts of curses and doesn't want him to leave.
There's something about this, about Stanford's curiosity, about that unhealthy interest that he so kindly calls a fascination. And Bill feels it in the tense tips of his fingers, in the barely uneven sigh and in the right moves, because Stanford thinks, thinks, and thinks again about how to get around, beat, find out as much as possible, instead of being afraid and running away.
He doesn't ask questions, he doesn't ask for the ghost's name, he just gives in to Bill. Stanford allows him to start a conversation whenever this eccentric spirit pleases and only flinches again when Bill drops a warm “you're doing great" in his ear.
******
“Have you decided?”
“What?”
“This is the second time I've asked if you've decided to figure out what's goin’ on in this hut.” Fiddleford looks displeased, and Stanford feels it behind his back. And also realizes that a hole is about to form where he is looking. Like from a laser or, at the very least, a chainsaw.
“No, I didn't. But I've been thinking about buying you some sleeping pills, Fidds.” Stanford, on the other hand, only shrugs his shoulders and does not even choke on tea under such a close gaze.
Maybe it's not quite right. Maybe it's bad to deceive a close friend and question his sanity in order to find out a little more about the creature living here.
After all, over the past week, Bill — as he introduced himself, artistically removing a black hat from his blond hair — managed to talk about the local forest, and that the sky was not a sky at all, but a stretched black cloth, and that Stanford was the most understanding person among them all-all-all.
Admittedly, this spirit had a way with flatter. Just as with joking when he claimed for an hour that he personally put little holes in the black cloth to stuff the stars in there. However, for some reason Stanford really wanted to believe him.
He did yesterday.
And the day before yesterday.
And even today.
“You're insufferable.” Fiddleword mutters, but still lets Ford be. For a day or two, just like before, because in an hour he will probably run out of the bathroom screaming or get scared of the eyes around the corner.
Bill talked about all these “spookies" too. He was smiling contentedly, waiting for praise, and swinging his legs, sitting on a table on top of a lot of blueprints.
Well, there are advantages to ghosts: Bill did not spoil a single draft or document. On the contrary, after studying everything, he helped Stanford find a better place for the lever and also suggested how best to use the energy of one of the inventions.
Needless to say, his knowledge has become something sacred for Stanford in such a short period of time?
Maybe that's why, lost in thoughts, Ford didn't even notice how he climbed the stairs and returned to the small room on the second floor?
******
Stanford is a man who has never been really fond of his own kind. It's hard with people, you know, starting from the tastes of others to quarrels that fill an already overflowing head.
In his hands is a palette and a brush, the thickest so far, because the piece called “muse” is just beginning. Skinflint Fiddleford had previously asked why Stanford needed such a huge canvas and at such a price, but Ford could not find the answer ever since.
Maybe it’s so because instead of words, he kept in his head the image of someone who was about to appear on the canvas? He may be a very strange artist, but Bill is either a figment of the imagination, or a real person who no longer exists in this world — or did not exist at all.
“Tell me, Fordsy, how long are we going to sit like this?” Bill grabs the first book he sees. He runs his eyes over the lines of it, not at all worried that it will bring down the whole creative mood or perspective in the portrait. Since the first day they met, Stanford had never allowed himself to swear or raise his voice at him, so he was unlikely to say a word against Bill now
After all, he clearly does not want to exchange everything that is happening now for an empty room. Just like he doesn’t want to lose Bill, to whose smile he always smiles back, and also barely takes his eyes off him.
And the point here is not at all about the knowledge that the spirit trapped here possesses. It's not about Fiddleford, whom they're both «messing with» now, or the fact that Stanford has completely shut himself off from other people — both figuratively and literally — but rather about a kindred spirit, because Ford constantly keeps these words both in his head and on the tip of his tongue.
The Muse.
It's concise, catchy, and quite simple for someone as extraordinary as Bill.
The «Muse» does not fit into his light shirt and mustard-colored trousers, does not stick next to the brooch, which he took out of nowhere and which looks like a splash of colors trapped in a small square. In Stanford’s opinion, the «Muse» compared to Bill sounds subtle. Because Bill appearing on top of the closet for fun, Bill leaving strong coffee on the table in the morning and stealing cookies bought by Fiddleford from the refrigerator, would be much better than some kind of word.
“Hm… You didn't say that you went to the caves outside the town.” Bill raises his head and peers with yellow, amber-like eyes. Stanford drops the brush. Well, almost. He would have dropped it if he had been holding it, and he would probably have stained his already dirty trousers, in which he drew, sawed, and worked on blueprints. It wouldn't have mattered, though, but Bill probably would have giggled in the very manner that could charm anyone.
“Ah, yes, I went yesterday.” Stanford squints when Bill allows himself to climb onto the table with his feet and open the tightly curtained windows. “And what was that for?” Ford just mutters softly and rubs his red-red eyes from the fact that he didn't have time to sleep for at least an hour during the night again. Conversations get long, you know, and Bill only shows up fully when Fiddleford is asleep.
Stanford will choose curiosity rather than health. Well, Bill knows that, just like he knows everything else in the world:
“A combination of colors. If you close the curtains, the background will be cold and your portrait will become darker, and you don't want to let that happen, am I right?” And it doesn't matter that one doesn't have to guess when everything is written on Ford’s face. It doesn't matter that Bill doesn't need to «guess» in general, because he knows about caves where spells are written on the walls that once locked him here. And that Stanford didn't get there specifically, because long ago the almighty made sure that Bill couldn't get out from here, even with outside help. He also knows perfectly well that Ford has imagined more than once how Bill's skinny hand would tangle in his hair and stroke him gently, as in tearful novels.
However, it's much more interesting this way, isn’t it? To give in, to let yourself feel incredibly important, in the end, jumping off the table without making a sound, because your feet will never touch the floor, actually stroke the other and whisper a quiet «good boy».