FERN: Transcendence into the Unkown
A Novel, by Sam Witz
CHAPTER ONE:
Little Did He Know
I spot him from the back of the lounge. Beyond the crowd he stands tall, a large sweater draping his wiry frame. He shakes the hand of a portly fellow lying on the floor. He helps the gentleman up as they laugh, before sharing a warm embrace. The portly fellow scurries past a few tables to his chair, as the wiry sap retreats through the backstage door. Not moments later he emerges onto the stage, alongside his two counterparts. He’s sporting a red cap through which runs the notorious incandescent yellow feather.
“One, two, three, FOUR!!” The guitarist howeled.
I threw open the front door and ran out into the night. I felt my feet hitting the road as my legs thrusted further and further into the unknown. The placement of a particular Jughead caused me to lose my footing, and I now felt the bits of pavement on my face as blood ran down my cheek. I just don’t understand how anyone could have possibly believed that their music was recreatable. Do the tears of angels now fall for just anyone?
These days, you buy yourself a PJ and you think you know what funk means. But sometimes I look up into the sky, and I can still see the shape of their faces. The way they conveyed human emotion, and genuine expression of thought. I sometimes feel that the possession of this knowledge has controlled the way in which I live. It is an undeniable part of me, that I must live with. It is both a blessing and a curse to have seen what I have seen. If you’d have once tasted prime rib crafted by god himself, you’d never be able to look at a bologna sandwich the same way again.
I have witnessed an episode of history that supersedes all else of seeming importance. Every waking moment of my conscious existence is spent thinking about the men that sacrificed themselves to bring salvation to a generation that needed them most. Though today their bodies lie far underground, the repercussions of their music soar like a pterodactyl in the night. But if only someone else could understand the true magnitude of their accomplishments, perhaps societal progression could resume once more.
You see, the recent discovery of Fern’s music and legacy was a peculiar one. The year was 2027, and a team of archaeologists were leading an excavation within the small town of Quigley, Montana. There lies a historical edifice on the far west side of the region’s limits atop an early foothill of the Rocky Mountains. I recall running through the premises as a boy with my three dear friends; but that was a long, long ago. This building remained under private ownership of my dear uncle, Renaldo G. Saraguza, though his untimely murder earlier that year forced the possession of the estate into the hands of his great grandson, Renaldo G. Saraguza IV. The heir’s fervent addiction to opioids lead to the hasty turnaround sale of the property to Missoula County, the county on which the estate sits. Up until this point, the hovel had been inhabited by no one other than the elder Renaldo himself, not including the strumpets and vagrants that would find themselves held up for days on end, taking direct advantage of his general apathy.
Upon initial inspection of the estate, officials considered the property a time capsule in itself, brimming with artifacts and possessions of the last century and beyond. This sparked the interest of several teams of historians and enthusiasts, instigating a bidding war that would evidently deem this particular parcel on the west side of Quigley the most valuable property in all of Western Montana. As the dust settled, the highest bidding troupe entered the centuries-old hovel. They uncovered nineteenth century gold gilt scalloped mirrors, footed Greek brass vessel incense burners, crystal glassware, medieval silver goblets, and enough glory to fill an ocean. The days grew longer and the nights grew colder. Days turned into weeks, and before long, interest began to wane. The rooms became increasingly empty, and all that remained was a lowly old codger who had come to see the last of the estate he knew so well.
The crone paced the floors for some time before sitting down upon the last remaining surveying stool that sat amidst the emptiness. His sobbing echoed through the hovel with great volume and intent. Only three tears fell from his left eye, making their way down his cheek and off onto the the wooden floorboards beneath his feet.
As he rose from the stool, a small coin fell from his pocket. As the coin made its way towards the earth below, it managed to instead fall directly in between two tired old floorboards. As the weary old fossil watched the event transpire, he listened to the coin continue to fall for several seconds following its disappearance, subsequently making contact with the hard ground below. It became apparent to the old sod that there existed a basement to which no other had been made aware of. He began to scan the premises for a way into the lower level.
“I better scan the premises,” He said. “Perhaps there’s a way into the lower level.”
He lifted up the circular rug that sat beside the fireplace, which revealed a secret hatch. He lifted up the hatch, and lowered himself down into the abyss. He lit a candle, which revealed more nineteenth century gold gilt scalloped mirrors, footed Greek brass vessel incense burners, crystal glassware, medieval silver goblets, and so on. But amidst the glory and treasures would lie a chest that sparked particular interest to this old codger. He knelt beside the small chest, and proceeded to open it.
Inside sat fourteen records, alongside a few posters and documents. He pulled out the first of the fourteen records, and placed it on the paleophone that sat beside the armoire in the musty old dungeon.
Little did this old man know that this paleograph was the first sound reproduction device ever created, and the last existing one on earth. Little did he know that these records would soon be recognized as the earliest sound ever recorded in Western Culture. Little did he know that this music would soon spawn a generation, lead a revolution, and one day save the world.
But it wouldn’t hold much meaning to this old timer.
The old timer cranked the paleograph, set the record atop the machine, and let its glory fill his soul. He thought to himself, perhaps if I open up my heart, I could let one last glimmer of sunshine fill this old ticker before I grow senile and perpetually confused.
The A side of the album had completed just fourteen short minutes later. On the ground, beside the armoire, paleograph, and the curious little chest, lay the headless corpse of the old fossil, leaving only a pile of dust where his head had once existed.
The combustion of one’s head during an initial listening of one of the aforementioned albums is not uncommon amongst the dangerously elderly.
Days following the episode, a young boy caught whiff of the decomposing corpse, alerted the authorities, allowing officials to soon after rediscover the music, and the subsequent power that came alongside it. It then became only a matter of time.
This lead to a brief, yet dark period in America's past. It spanned approximately a fortnight, and began on the third day following its entrance into the public spectrum. These two weeks brought with it a period of absolute inactivity, yielding a domestic productivity rate nearing zero. Instead, mankind took this opportunity to understand the ecstasy that filled their midsection every time the music filled their ear canals. This discovery and period of self reflection brought with it an international sensation that still lives on to this day. This music brought hope to the human race, and a reason to wake up in the morning.
I take pity on them. I am likely the last living man to have had the absolute pleasure of knowing them personally. The people have forgone the foreseeable opportunity to exist alongside their mortal presence, and have only a few posters and photographs to try and discern the men behind the music. As I wonder through the alleyways, I cannot rid my ears of the utterance of those four hollow letters: Fern.