Have You Heard About... ? - Aufix Xlaave

“Have you heard about the Aufix Xlaave, my lord?”

The king lowered his book. Across the little table, his queen was stirring her tea with an expression he had learned to regard with interest.

“No, my queen. But you have certainly piqued my interest.”

“I thought I might.” She laid the spoon upon its saucer. “They are rather curious creatures.”

“Dangerous?”

“Not initially.”

The king marked his place with a finger.

“An encouraging beginning. Do go on.”

“They begin much as anyone else. Bright eyes, lively minds, a most touching appetite for the future. Some wish to create beautiful things. Others hope to improve the world.”

“How ambitious.”

“Exceedingly. One I observed intended to compose music.”

“Did it possess any talent?”

“A little. But a great deal of enthusiasm.”

The queen lifted her cup, allowing the fragrance to rise before taking a sip.

“It believed that, given time, it might produce something worth leaving behind.”

“And what happened to it?”

“It was offered an opportunity.”

The king’s mouth curved.

“Ah.”

“A handsome invitation,” she continued. “Promises of growth. A place among exceptional individuals. The assurance that its efforts would matter.”

“And the price?”

“Most of its waking hours.”

“Steep.”

“Not at all, according to those who extended the invitation. They described it as a beginning.”

---

“Once admitted,” the queen said, “the creature is assigned a small enclosure.”

“A cell?”

“Nothing so disagreeable. It may see its neighbours.”

“Can it speak to them?”

“Certainly. Provided the conversation does not interfere with its duties.”

The king settled more comfortably into his chair.

“What duties?”

“They vary. Some arrange symbols upon illuminated panes. Others attend gatherings at which the symbols are discussed. A number are responsible for arranging the gatherings.”

“To what purpose?”

“That is not always made clear.”

He frowned.

“Surely someone knows.”

“One would hope so, my lord.”

She selected a biscuit from the plate between them.

“The young creature applies itself with admirable vigour. It arrives early. It departs late. When a difficulty arises, it volunteers to resolve it.”

“Seeking favour?”

“Seeking to be useful.”

“How very young.”

“Yes,” the queen said softly. “Quite.”

---

“At first, it receives praise.”

“A sound method,” the king observed. “A little sweetness makes the bitter draught more palatable.”

“Indeed. It is told that it shows promise. That its dedication has been noticed. That it may, in time, be entrusted with greater responsibilities.”

“And is it?”

“Oh, almost immediately.”

“Then they keep their word.”

“In that particular respect, they are scrupulous.”

The king watched her break the biscuit neatly in two.

“What form do these responsibilities take?”

“The duties of a neighbour who has departed.”

“And the neighbour is replaced?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

The queen looked up.

“With our promising young creature, my lord.”

He considered this.

“So it performs the work of two.”

“Initially.”

The king withdrew his finger from his book and closed it.

---

“Does it not protest?”

“Not at first. It is rather proud to have been chosen.”

“And later?”

“Later, it is reminded of the confidence placed in it.”

The queen brushed a crumb from her glove.

“If it works efficiently, it is given more work. If it falters beneath the additional burden, its commitment is questioned.”

“A neat arrangement,” the king admitted. “But surely it learns to conceal its abilities.”

“Eventually. By then, however, its former efforts have become the minimum expected of it.”

He tapped one finger against the book’s cover.

“And failure is punished.”

“Success, too. Though with rather warmer language.”

---

The fire shifted in the grate. For a moment, neither spoke.

“Still,” the king said, “even a burdened creature must rest.”

“Oh, certainly. There are designated hours during which it is free.”

“To pursue its music, perhaps?”

“In principle.”

“In practice?”

“It must travel home, feed itself, wash, and prepare to return.”

“Then it plays on its days of rest.”

“Sometimes it intends to.”

The queen’s gaze drifted towards the fire.

“The instrument remains beside its bed. It moves it occasionally to clean beneath it.”

The king glanced at her.

“But it no longer plays?”

“It has become reluctant to begin anything it cannot finish before sleeping.”

“An unfortunate habit.”

“Yes. It spreads.”

---

“Why does it not leave?” he asked.

“It has acquired obligations.”

“What sort?”

“Shelter. Food. Others who depend upon it. And certain modest comforts it is repeatedly assured it deserves.”

“Can these not be obtained elsewhere?”

“Possibly. But elsewhere may prove worse.”

“Is it worse?”

“That is the difficulty. It cannot be certain.”

The king gave a short, humourless laugh.

“So the door is open.”

“Quite open.”

“And it remains.”

“It speaks of leaving every evening.”

“To whom?”

“Others who also remain.”

The queen took another sip of tea.

“They find the conversations most consoling.”

---

“I presume some escape.”

“A number do.”

“Good.”

“They are given a farewell gathering.”

“How gracious.”

“There is usually cake.”

The king raised an eyebrow.

“And the others witness this?”

“Oh, yes. They sign a card wishing the departing creature every happiness.”

“Does this not inspire them to follow?”

“Briefly. Then they are asked to divide its unfinished duties amongst themselves.”

He stared at her.

The queen regarded him with mild concern.

“Your tea is getting cold, my lord.”

He set the untouched cup down.

---

“Tell me about the transformation.”

“It is gradual.” She folded her hands in her lap. “The creature begins to sleep badly. It wakes before the appointed hour with the conviction that it has forgotten something.”

“Has it?”

“Frequently. There is a great deal to remember.”

“And its appearance?”

“The shoulders draw inward. The eyes lose something of their former brightness. It develops an extraordinary sensitivity to certain sounds.”

“A bell?”

“A chime.”

The king nodded.

“Summoning it to labour.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes there is nothing requiring its attention at all.”

“Then why does it respond?”

“It has learned that there might be.”

She paused.

“I have seen one reach for the sound in its sleep.”

The king’s fingers tightened slightly upon the arm of his chair.

“And the music?”

“What music, my lord?”

“The music it wished to compose.”

For the first time, the queen did not answer immediately.

“Oh,” she said at last. “By then, it seldom mentions that.”

---

“Surely those overseeing the process can see what is happening.”

“Of course. They express considerable concern.”

“And relieve its burden?”

“They invite it to attend a discussion on resilience.”

“During its hours of rest?”

“Not invariably.”

The king leaned forward.

“What happens at this discussion?”

“It is taught to breathe.”

He waited.

The queen smiled politely.

“More effectively.”

“And afterwards?”

“It returns to the duties it could not perform while learning to breathe.”

He sank back.

“I see.”

“They also encourage it to speak openly about its difficulties.”

“That seems unwise.”

“Oh, it soon learns which difficulties may safely be mentioned.”

---

“And when the transformation is complete?”

The queen glanced into her empty cup.

“It becomes dependable.”

“Nothing more?”

“It no longer requires much supervision. It rises when expected, performs what is required, and apologises when asked to perform more.”

“Does it still dream?”

“Occasionally. Though it finds the experience rather embarrassing.”

The king looked towards the fire.

“What becomes of the bright young creatures that arrive after it?”

“It helps them settle in.”

“Warns them?”

“It tells them there are excellent opportunities for those willing to apply themselves.”

He turned back to her sharply.

“Does it believe that?”

The queen adjusted the handle of her cup until it sat precisely above the spoon.

“I could not say.”

---

The king rose and walked slowly to the window. Beyond the glass, the gardens lay still beneath a colourless sky.

“An elaborate process,” he said. “And what do its keepers call the result?”

The queen considered.

“I believe the preferred term is engagement.”

He stood with his back to her for several moments.

Then he turned.

“My dear Lilith, in which part of Hell do these Aufix Xlaave dwell?”

“Why, nowhere in Hell, my lord Satan.” She looked almost surprised. “They inhabit the mortal realm.”

Satan glanced at the calendar beside his chair.

“The mortal realm.”

“Yes, my love.”

“And our subjects will be visiting in a few days.”

“For Halloween. They are looking forward to it.”

“My, my.”

He returned to the table and rang for fresh tea.

“We must issue a warning.”

Lilith lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

“What shall it say?”

Satan opened his book, but did not look at the page.

“Under no circumstances are they to accept an opportunity.”

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