u/woden_spoon

I've been working on my world, Arven, for more than three decades. During that time it has taken many forms, but it has always been a low-fantasy "shadow-world" of early medieval Britain, with nebulous boundaries. Christianity is the dominant religion, yet older supernatural powers endure beneath it. Several Romano-British gods are known to exist, foremost among them being Abandinus, who severed Arven from the rest of Britain and caused it to pass out of history. Alongside these deities are biblical spirits that have no counterpart in our own world.

The railways of Arven are a much more recent addition to the setting, born partly from my long-standing fascination with model railways and a desire to draw maps with stations and branch lines. They are powered not by steam, but by "thecae."

A theca is a cylindrical earthenware vessel containing a single "kyrren," one of the many tens of thousands of ceaselessly wandering raven-spirits descended from the raven released by Noah after the Flood. Through an elaborate rite, highly trained monks known as "ligatores" invoke a named kyrren and bind its endless flight to a carved boxwood spindle housed within the vessel. While the clay is still leather-soft, the invocation is inscribed upon it, after which the vessel is fired and sealed. The spindle itself bears a continuous "wharving path" of opposing helices, providing the course to which the kyrren's motion is bound. Once consecrated, the spindle turns without rest for seven years, or until the vessel is broken.

The spindle passes through an iron bearing at the base of the theca and drives a projecting arbor, which can be coupled directly to machinery. This simple principle powers everything from grain mills to drawbridges to railway locomotives. Usually, this is done through a simple "dog clutch" mechanism: a theca is seated with the arbor fitted into a coupling, which spins freely until the clutch is engaged, at which time the movement is transferred to the machinery until the clutch is released again.

A standard locomotive carries six exposed thecae mounted along its frame. Their arbors engage a common gear train beneath the deck, where the combined motion passes through a clutch and gearbox before driving the locomotive's six flanged wheels. The driver may select different gear ratios without altering the ordained speed at which the kyrren turns within each vessel.

Because the source of motion is supernatural rather than mechanical, these engines consume no fuel and cannot be exhausted. They are limited only by the durability of their machinery and the integrity of the ritual bond. Should a bearing seize or a gear fail, the kyrren continues to turn its spindle regardless. For this reason, thecae are relatively easy to remove from their arbor-seats, and they are essentially interchangeable and replaceable. Gear trains are deliberately simple, heavily built, and easy to repair. Bearings and gears are forged from iron and are routinely lubricated with a grease of rendered mutton tallow and beeswax. This is important, because a stuck spindle doesn’t stop the kyrren from imparting its energy. If it isn’t released from the spell, the spindle builds energy until something else gives—which could be sudden and violent, especially when there are numerous thecae that should be working in unison.

Every theca remains exposed and within reach of the operator monks, known as "viatores," who serve as engineers, millkeepers, and other positions in which they oversee the worldly operations of thecae. Viatores keep ritual hammers close at hand, so that in an emergency they may shatter a theca, instantly dissolving the covenant. When the vessel is broken, the kyrren departs and the spindle becomes still. This serves both as a safety mechanism and the customary means of retiring worn or expired vessels.

The Church alone possesses the authority to create or destroy thecae. Every vessel is individually inscribed, painted, consecrated, and paired with a named kyrren. The result is a railway system wholly administered by the Church.

The invocation inscribed upon each theca reads as follows in modern English:

Domine, dirige manum meam.

Hail to the Kyrren, kindred of the First Raven, who flew forth from the Ark upon the Great Flood and never returned.

I, a servant of the Rood, have sought out your names, ten thousand upon ten thousand, and I have learned them. Therefore I speak one now across the sundering dark, to you whose course lies far beyond the dwellings of men. I speak your name, and by it I call your wandering here.

Upon this spindle is carved a wharving path, without beginning or end, forever turning back upon itself. From mark to whorl, and from whorl to mark again, let your flight be bound. Thus shall you turn this spindle according to the appointed course, neither swifter nor slower than it is measured.

So shall it be for seven years, or until this earthen vessel is broken. Then shall you depart once more beyond the knowledge of men and return to the face of the Deep, where your elder course yet awaits you.

As I have named you, so know your course by this mark.

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.

Edit to add: The drawing was done somewhat hastily in ProCreate, but it is intended to be a "medieval" artist's representation of a railway engine, without a full understanding of the mechanics that transfer power from spindle to wheel.

I don’t often collect cassettes—I’m more of a vinyl guy—but I have a few that are rare (e.g., Don Slepian’s Electronic Music from the Rainbow Isle), have sentimental value (e.g., my late father’s copy of Twisted Sister’s Stay Hungry), or contain music not available on vinyl (e.g., the Cure’s Standing on a Beach).

This one ticks all the boxes above: David Naegele’s 1983 ambient masterpiece Journeys Out of Body. Naegele was the first Musical Director for the New Age label Valley of the Sun, and helped shape the direction of the ambient scene in the ‘80s.

Journey Out of Body was (and is) only physically available on cassette (as were most VotS releases) and they are quite rare these days. I discovered Naegele through another cassette, Temple in the Forest, which was given to me by a friend in the ‘90s, and which has been long lost to time.

I was thrilled to find this cassette today, hidden in a dusty used bookshop, way off the beaten path. I decided on a whim to stop by the shop on my way home early from the office. I wasn’t looking for a book, but wanted to kill a bit of time.

The cassette was up on top of a bookshelf, covered in dust, behind some of the cobwebbed antique books. The bookstore no longer sold cassettes—the owner opened a separate record shop in the ‘90s—so this was a remnant from before that move.

So that’s how I got this $75-$100 cassette for $0.25, and I’m listening to it now.

My wife and I saw Echo & the Bunnymen last week.

All things considered, it was a decent show in my (probably unpopular) opinion.

The opening act was a jazz trio, which was really bizarre. They had great energy, though, and it worked somehow.

Echo & the Bunnymen walked on stage after a half-hour intermission, likely not planned as such. Ian McCulloch had been in a vehicle accident a few days earlier and was reportedly a bit shaken by it. He was also very clearly drunk when he finally stood behind the microphone. Maybe ten feet behind him sat a little table with two bottles on it. Throughout the set he'd turn around, walk to the table, take a swig of water, then a swig of what was probably not water, and carry on.

Age and alcohol has taken some of the higher notes from him, so he spent a lot of the night encouraging audience participation. His cues weren't especially clear, so the crowd response was often tentative. He'd then jump back into the song with a noticeable edge of annoyance, as though we weren't holding up our end of the bargain. I couldn't help wondering why they didn't simply adjust the arrangements. Plenty of the songs could have been brought down a step or an octave, and the vocals could have been pushed higher in the mix. Instead, his strained voice often disappeared beneath the music, and this was clearly done on purpose. The musicians were excellent, though—perhaps more so when one considers what they were up against.

Between songs, McCulloch launched into long stretches of banter that nobody could decipher. Even his bandmates looked confused. It was a lot of, "A funny thing happened on my way to mumble mumble mumble..." for a minute or two before the next song began. My wife and I left just before the encore—we'd had a very long day getting there—but I later heard that he stopped a song to tell the crowd, "If you don't shut up, I'll have you thrown out," before walking offstage and leaving the rest of the band to shrug and follow him.

That said, post-punk has never really been about clean edges, so most of this didn't bother me. I knew what I was signing up for. Some of my favorite bands have had trouble getting through shows due to internal and external tensions. Great musicians aren't always great performers (they aren't always good people, either). Honestly, I'm glad McCulloch showed up, stood through the full set, and sang through most of it. The band absolutely carried him at times, and they did it exceptionally well. Sergeant and the rest of the band are seasoned professionals, and it showed.

I just hope McCulloch finds himself somewhere other than the bottom of a bottle before long. It would be nice to see him fully present with the bandmates who've spent decades helping keep these songs alive.