Through Darkest Zymurgia!

The city of Phillipi has a history perhaps thousands of years longer than Lyricum Town, and comprises a correspondingly more exotic array of architectural styles. Sited in the Aram Delta, it has had the finest harbor on the south shore of the Sea of Dogs for all of recorded history. Under the name of Kairos it was the capital of several dynasties of Serosan rulers. In the 18th century B.U., Phillip of Chalcedon paused in his conquest of the Troasene world and made it his own capital. His empire collapsed upon his death, as such shoddy one-man empires are wont to do, and it has passed through many hands since. At present, it is nominally in the hands of the Seljurks; in practice, the Ophir of Phillipi is largely independent, and largely in debt to the bankers of the civilized nations of Arrastia.

From ancient times, the city has been divided into four quarters, not including the harbor district, which perhaps is oldest of all. To the northeast is the Quarter of the Seljurks, where the aristocrats and working people of the Seljurk majority live. To the northwest is the poorly named Quarter of the Hyksos; indeed, a sizable community of that ancient people dwell there, but so do most of the non-Seljurk minority. To the south-west is the Royal Quarter, wholly given over to the parks and palace of the Ophir, the offices of his ministers (mostly corrupt), and the barracks of his soldiers (mostly lazy). Finally, to the south-east is the University Quarter, where stands the oldest institute of higher learning in the Known World, and the great library of Phillipi. In the Royal and University Quarters the buildings are of carved marble, the avenues are wide, and the plants are lush and well tended. In the Quarter of the Hyksos, the buildings are of broken marble and eroding sandstone, the streets are narrow and crooked, the stench is remarkable, and the only vegetation is the algae that grows in the public fountains, as non-Seljurks are heavily taxed, and therefore live in real or apparent poverty. The Quarter of the Seljurks is mixed, ranging from elegant marble villas in the south to tenements and hovels in the north.

The scholars and travellers of Arrastia have been coming to Phillipi in increasing numbers since the beginning of the century. None but the most exalted have been able to stay in the Royal or University Quarters; none but the most hardy or heedless have been willing to stay in the Quarter of the Hyksos; and as none but Seljurks are welcome in the Quarter of the Seljurks, an Arrastian District has grown up on the west side of the city. Centered on Clark's Hotel, the most fashionable gathering place for Arrastians in all of Seros, the district has every convenience for the civilized traveller. Nor does it lack the color and charm of the other quarters, as the Phillippians, Seljurk and Hyksos alike, have turned their attentions to fleecing the visitor of every coin they possess, and thus are to be seen in great numbers wherever the visitor looks...and occasionally where he does not.

I have included this description of Phillipi in the hopes it will interest my readers, as despite all of our plans (and reservations at Clark's) we did not go there.

Captain Halvorsen had promised to get us up the Aram to Zymurgia in safety, and the captain was as good as his word. The voyage from Cuprios to the mouths of the Aram, normally a three-day journey, took us five days, because we proceeded almost entirely by sail. The captain had had the Sea-Spaniel well-stocked with phantail fodder and other supplies in Cuprios, and now used the gossamer sails to save the fodder for the trip up river. In this way we avoided the need to take on supplies in Phillipi. The Aram has many mouths; only those which serve Phillipi are dredged and therefore suitable for commercial shipping. A vessel like the Spaniel, however, which scuds along the surface of the water on a cushion of foam, is well-suited for river travel. Any mouth of the Aram would appear a broad highway compared to the upper reaches of the river, and so the Captain was able to avoid the city altogether. We slipped through at night, and by dawn were well into the main body of the river.

It had been my intention to spend several days in Phillipi buying supplies and getting the latest news about conditions to the south, and then to make a slow journey up the Aram, making numerous visits to the monuments, temples, and tombs which fill the desert on either side of the narrow, cultivated river bank. In light of what we had learned on Cuprios, this would have been extremely unwise. We had to assume that a writ-server awaited us in Phillipi, and that he would head up-river as soon as he learned we had passed him by. Under the circumstances, any kind of slow, leisurely trip was out of the question. Our only hope was to get so far up the river so quickly that the knave would be discouraged and give up. Fortunately, there was only one article our expedition lacked: a Serosan who could speak the Zymurgian tongue and translate for us. As we would be most likely to find such an individual in the southernmost reaches of the country, our detour was only an annoyance rather than a catastrophe.

Although we passed them quickly by on our passage upriver, I find I am unable to pass lightly over the Serosan antiquities. On the one hand, Seros has been an established part of the Known World for thousands of years; on the other, the ongoing controversy over the nature of the Serosan antiquities strikes right at the heart of mythogeography.

In one sense, mythogeography is nothing more than the exploration and mapping of the lands of fable, those little known, storied realms at the edge of the Known World. As such a land is explored it becomes less and less fabulous, evolving with time to the merely phantastic. Eventually it joins the lands of the Known World. As the Bundi Nations were mythical only a few generations ago, so now they are inescapably Known, and the lands on their borders have ascended from the mythical to the fabulous.

The great question, the burning issue of mythogeography, is the nature of these new lands. Did they and their peoples exist before their neighboring lands were explored, charted, and civilized? Or did they spring into existence as their neighbors become Known?

At the heart of the controversy is the Law of Consensus: "What is, is what is agreed upon." Every aspect of any country is subject to this law. Although the magnitude of the law's effect is controversial, its existence is demonstrably true; every Anglishman over 50 years of age remembers the assassination of King Harold V. The self-image of the Anglish people was shaken, and the very earth was shaken with them, such a tumult as had not been felt in hundreds of years. Birds flew upside down, trees walked, dogs spoke with human voices. The assassin was swallowed by the earth, and Harold's Revenge, a mound made not by human hands, stands in memory over the assassin's grave.

The self-consciousness that made such an earthly vengeance inevitable is the hallmark of the lands of the Known World. Angland is what she is because of the consensus of her own people, and also of that of the people of the the other civilizied nations. It may seem odd at first glance, but the inhabitants of the lands of fable rarely possess this self-consciousness. They do not reflect on the nature of their own land. Life is as it is, as it has always been. They do not agree, but merely expect. Some scholars claim that this is due to their previous isolation--a people cannot examine themselves without some other people as a mirror. Others claim that this is a sign of their very newness. These latter scholars believe that the lands of fable do not even exist when unobserved by outsiders; as they say, "If a country is inhabited, but is unvisited, does it have a culture?"

Whatever its cause (and I will not take a stand here), this lack of self-awareness leaves them subject to the whim and observation of the first explorer to happen along. He reports his observations and speculations, more or less precisely depending on his skill and honesty. Other explorers follow, expecting the same; or indeed, expecting the exact opposite. Before long, the country's past, present, and future nature are set. Consensus has been reached; the country and its people have become Known. Thus did the sage truly say, "The unexamined culture isn't worth a shaved penny."

There is a serious moral question here. If the people of a land of fable do not exist except when observed by outsiders, then the action of the Law of Consensus upon them is morally neutral. It is therefore reasonable for a party of explorers to expect wondrous, beautiful, and financially remunerative things of a new land, in hopes that they will make their fortunes. If, on the other hand, the land and its people are simply unsophisticated and unaware, then it is indeed an evil thing to try to manipulate their culture and country for personal gain. We may be comforted by the knowledge that the Anglish, an upright and moral race, are the foremost explorers and consensus builders of modern times.

It is difficult to measure the effects of the Law of Consensus on a land as it becomes Known, for one only knows what one has observed. One has no knowledge of how things have changed because of one's observation; indeed, many scholars would say that the question has no meaning. Certainly, the country's own recorded history is of no use, as it is subject to the Law of Consensus along with everything else. Seros provides an apt example.

It is unknown (and likely unknowable) which country first became sufficiently aware of itself to wield the sword of consensus against its neighbors. Many countries have written records extending far back into antiquity, and claim the prize. Most reputable scholars, however, agree that it was the Troasenes. The first philosophers, the Troasenes spread from their homeland in what is now Seljurkia and colonized every shore of the Sea of Dogs. In ancient days they came to Seros, and being insufferably nosy went everywhere and wrote everything down.

Even at that time Seros was a country of extremes: a narrow ribbon of cultivated land on the banks of the Aram, contained in a vast ocean of sand. Even then Seros's days of greatness were past, signified only by crumbling monuments and decaying tombs. And this is the root of the controversy: were these monuments and tombs the relics of a great civilization and a mighty race? Or had the first Troasenes to visit Seros expected a faroff, drowsy, antique land? Were the obelisks and temples, and the mighty Pharynx itself, the product of Serosan engineering, and Serosan hands, or were they the product of Troasene romance and love for the exotic?

These questions challenge us down to the present day. Each year, researchers find new tombs, and new monuments, in the vast expanse of the Serosan desert. Had they been there, lost, for thousands of years? Or are we, in our great wisdom, literally creating a history for the Serosan people? Alas, it is impossible to say. I do, however, believe that the desert was smaller and the Aram shorter when the ancient kings of Seros imported beer from the brewmasters of Zymurgia. Always assuming, of course, that they existed.

The goal of the Serosist, of course, is to study the monuments and their inscriptions to learn more about the ancient inhabitants. The goal of the mythogeographer in Seros is simpler: has anything changed since one's previous visit? If so, why? There were several sites I was eager to review. It was not to be. Not for us the glories of Shebas; not for us the grandeur of Amenor. I spent the days of our trip upriver sitting by the rail, gazing wistfully at the shore as the antiquities passed inexorably by.