OF THE CITY OF THE SAVED...
DELETED SCENE: JULIAN'S DAD'S BIRTHDAY
I'm still rather fond of this one. Although a handful of the elements did make it into the book, this introduction for Julian White Mammoth Tusk doesn't bear much resemblance to Chapter 3 as it stands. Nevertheless, families are important in Of the City of the Saved..., and it's something of a pity that space didn't allow for this glimpse of Julian's reassuringly sane home life.
This scene is taken from my earliest proposal for Of the City of the Saved..., and is interesting (to me, at least) for a number of factors that didn't make it to the final draft:
- The novel was originally to be written entirely in the first person – twenty first-person narrators, to be precise, roughly duplicating the functions of the eighteen viewpoint characters in the published version. Lawrence Miles tactfully suggested that this might be rather ambitious for a first novel, an opinion that in retrospect was embarrassingly correct.
- Accordingly, Julian's City-born idiolect was a lot more in-your-face. I've always loved novels that teach you a new language as you go along, the archetypal examples being Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange and Russell Hoban's Riddley Walker (although Iain Banks's Feersum Endjinn is an equally strong influence here). I was sorry to see this element toned down, although I have to admit it makes for a far smoother story.
- In this scene, Julian's parents also use the Gestural Civil language. At this point it was my understanding that Neanderthals were unable to vocalise, and hence used a gestural language of their own – a theory which I now gather is discredited. In the finished book, Julian is unusual among Neanderthals in having his speech impairment, although there's a suggestion it's hereditary. You'll also see that the transcribing of Gestural Civil was a lot more complicated in this version, suggesting that punctuation marks were signs in themselves. The dropping of this element also contributed to the smoothness of the text, I think.
- Finally, in the published version, Julian lost his annelid hair. The explanations were too cumbersome without this conversation as a context.
JULIAN WHITE MAMMOTH TUSK, COUNCIL HOUSE
The clanking old intransystem here in Council House doesn’t run on Tubetech. No wormholes, just this metal “rail”, oilslick & glisteny, with a wooden caravan clack-clank-clacking along all on its ownergy. It’s utterly transcendent, no bluff there.
Justice, I lied about the wooden caravan. It’s genuinely a linkaging of plastic capsules, much like a Tube chain to view actually, but it could as well be pulled by asses, mules or water buffalo for all the timebat-swyving SPEED it’s able to build itself right up to.
A corroding day I’d been having of it so far, resurrected out of bed too late with a big-boned headache lowdown in my brow-ridge. Sinovi, Hekate & your humble had been all up for getting even with the spirits Sino’d returned with from his Mappamundi excurser -- and an evening we’d made of it, no bluffing, glugging our way through sparkling bottles full of lethal ouzo, kampfor & waragi. No difficulties there, then.
But then, when I was strolling out (staggering & stammering out, truth has it) from my ouch-too-swyving-bright aparture, my eyelets fell at threshold on the missive I’d left myself afore the beforesaid drinking convocation. Starkly, it instructed me “DAD BIRTHDAY PHONE HIM”. Which was allfair, if more-than-marginally less-than-welcome.
Dilemma then. I’d laten myself for Cllr Mesh if I used up chronons invoking the ancestor’s beardy likeness on my phoneyscreen. But it had been already long megasecs since last the Dad & I exchanged gesticulations, Mum would be transangry if I failed to waggle arms at him this morning.
What to do?
Ancestor-guilt beats boss-guilt like stone beats scissor. I grabbed a coffee-stick and summoned forth the paternal image. He zizzed up, eating gold peculios from out a bowl and wiping vegmilk off his wiry beardhair. He surviewed me.
— Natal felicitations , Dad | I signed him. — Have a transcendent 1 |.
— Hello , Julian | he backsigned. — What the hell have you done to your hair ? |. The paternal parental holds hairstyle upgrades a sin against humanity. Leastly, that’s the onlyhow I can explain the grotesque 260s beard he still has the temerity to sport in my presence. Long & straggly with dready sideburns, it’s fully the old Neander stereo. Ug ug ug. You woman mine. We used to tease him, before G4 Granddad Crouch would get infurious, You Cityborn kids don’t know what hardship is, don’t even know you’re born with your X and your Y and your newfangled Z, when I was alive the first time... On & on re: life back in the Tertiary homestead on dear Mother Dirt.
All resurrectee mumdads are the same, I’ll warrant, but prehistorics do it worst. Ol’ G2GD wouldn’t even use lazors for 40 years, Mum reckons.
— Oh , the hair ? | I gestured. In justice, I’d oblivionned on the hair in total. Meant to tell them later/maybe/never. Too hangoverian I was to have recalled to phoney up the image. — Re-gened it, Dad | I informed him, suavely. — It’s annelid worms now |.
— Yes, I can see that | he signed fatiguily. — I just hope it’s worth whatever you paid for it |.
— How’s Mum , Dad ? | I enquired of him.
— She’s fine | he signed. — Gesture to her yourself . MARJORIE ! |
— Nice talking to you , Dad |.
— “ Talking ” ? | he mocked me. — See you later , son . Be happy |.
He shambled off -- another cod-Neander thing to look at, in fact he just has abysmal posture, no bluff -- and Mum manifested in my wall of photo. The motherer, thank Civvie, stands up right, and cuts & shaves her beard & hair. Grey sharksilk suit, handtailor-made most probable, all ready for her day of layweurism.
— Morning , Julian | she waggled out at me. — Thanks for remembering your father. He wouldn’t say so , but it does mean a lot to him . What HAVE you done with your hair ? |.
— Nothing , Mum | I perjured myself. — It’s good to see you . I need to get to work out now though , no bluff |.
— Cheryl Of The People Of The Cliff’s in Central District this week | speed-signed the maternal 1. — Dorothy Of The People Of The Cliff was telling me . You 2 could get together for a drink or a veeree or something . You could show her the sights |.
Motherdear’s ID-fix is that her little boy -- that being I, your current mature interlocutor -- must be abetted in his naturallurgical search for little playmates, whom he purposes for to play and mate with. It does go without jumping up and down and waving arms and signing, these have to be Neander girls. It’s family tradition, as you’ll surview, no diffs. So here I am, your humble Julian W M T, nearly the only Cityborn, 4th-generation, pureblood Neander (outside of Parklife dropouts and suchlike pathetics), & expected to prolong my revd ancestors’ autophilic reversions. Ta, Ma & Pa, so very muchly.
— No time this megasec , Ma mine | I jected hastily. — Transbusy week , the Cllr’s working me all arduous hours . It swyves , but there you have it . Must go , Mum , love to you both |.
Swish-swish I went bothhandedly, and the screen connecticutted. Slivery escaping that was. Julius Krishna.
All this, pre even mounting into that old bakelite railcart-wagon -- kilosec-late, by that time, but urgh. — Cllrs’ Offices , my man , and don’t step on the horses | I’d signed, as the outbound carriage erged hoofily ahead. 1 rather tastable post woman twitched a smile at me, but it wasn’t a do-come-do-me look.
What a timebeast morn of it, eh heh? Didn’t meliorate much later, either.
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