Hall of Heads
Dan Efran
based on songs They Might Be Giants
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--and I stumbled backward, my throat deeply slashed, my life's blood draining away as I fell into darkness--

Track 11 of Apollo 18+20: The IF Tribute Album

--dark...and light...and...red...

...so red...

Shattered glass on polished marble; a spray of my reddest blood in a piercing shaft of moonlight. Beyond...I narrowed my eyes, straining to penetrate the darkness--

...busts...busted heads...heds on peds...headestals...

Losing blood fast, I tried to make sense of--

--rows upon rows of pale, lifeless, life-like busts of stately heads on fluted headestals, all different, yet oddly alike--
You look at what you're carrying with you
I was empty-handed.
About yourself
Searing pain, a red haze clouding my vision within and without: my throat slashed, my head nearly severed, I clung to life by the fraying cable of my will.
You examine the heads
The ranks of stately busts receded into the gloom in all directions. Those on the headestals nearest me appeared to depict the March of Progress: the headestal of a stern King was nearest to where I stood. To the left of the King's resting place, I saw a famous Prime Minister, stately and opulent, and beyond her a modern Head of State...and to the right, a scarred and tattooed Witch's head, and on the headestal beyond that primitive wise woman...an ape, some antediluvian chieftain.

The oddest thing, in a gallery of historical busts...all their eyes were closed.
You look at ape
The animal's face was creased with the unmistakable lines of wisdom and long duty: a sagacious sovereign from our race's distant, forgotten ancestry.

No.

These heads were pale, but not stone. Not busts. True heads, real, living heads, preserved in deathless stillness by some arcane
art.
You look at Witch
A shrewd and shriveled crone, her face scarred and tattooed with a pattern of dots and lines.
You look at the king
The pale king's grim visage betokened the rule of might.
You examine the head of the State
A determined, stately countenance.
You wear witch
(first taking the Witch's Head)
I moved to take the Witch's Head, but my legs gave way, and instead I tumbled to the floor, my skull striking something quite unyielding on the way down. My vision blurred and darkened--

...for the last time? I wondered...

--and then my senses slowly surged back, like a drowning ocean wave receding. A dull thump...something hard and round had fallen into my hands.
Inventory
I was carrying an Ape's Head.
About yourself
Searing pain, a red haze clouding my vision within and without: my throat slashed, my head nearly severed, I clung to life by the fraying cable of my will.
You describe your surroundings
Shattered glass on polished marble; a spray of my reddest blood in a piercing shaft of moonlight. All around were rows of pale, lifeless, life-like busts of stately heads on fluted headestals, all different, yet oddly alike. And at the periphery I could see one small doorway leading out.
You examine the heads
The ranks of stately busts receded into the gloom in all directions. Those on the headestals nearest me appeared to depict the March of Progress: I had fallen against the headestal of a stern King. To the left of the King's resting place, I saw a famous Prime Minister, stately and opulent, and beyond her a modern Head of State...and to the right, a scarred and tattooed Witch's head, and on the headestal beyond that primitive wise woman...a place even for an ape, some antediluvian chieftain.

The oddest thing, in a gallery of historical busts...all their eyes were closed.
You look at the door
One doorway leading out into...darkness.
You wear Ape
I put on the Ape's Head.

Somehow it seemed the right -- the only -- thing to do. I raised the pale head to my throat, nestled it in the gaping wound beside my own. At once I felt it seizing my flesh, drinking in my blood--

--an instant of crazy double vision...looking myself in the eye, before my weakening eyes fluttered shut at last--

--the old head falling like an autumn leaf, the blade barely needed, barely, barely--

--done all I could...the New Ones come--

A polished cave of the New Ones: silent tomb of living Deadfathers. Uncountable pale heads on little ivory menhirs. Blood and ice...no, glass...on the hard stone floor. A moon-hole above let in
fresh forest air, too.

The nearest menhir was streaked with blood where the stranger had fallen against it.
You examine the glass
A remnant of the shattered skylight: a long, curved shard of broken glass, like a dagger.
You examine the stranger
I knew him...

...no, the flicker of identification was gone. A stranger.

The head's agony was fading as its vitality ebbed.
Inventory
I was carrying a long shard of broken glass and the stranger's head.
You put the stranger's head on menhir
I put the stranger's head on the nearest menhir.

--slowly, the skin grew pale; the face relaxed. Now the stranger was one of us.
You examine the heads
Little ivory menhirs, like rows of tree stumps after a fire. Each with its Deadfather's Head. So many...and all of them New Ones.

All but me.
You look at the king
The pale king's grim visage betokened the rule of might.
You examine Witch
Oooo...!

It was her! My Star Pupil, my little New One successor.

She saved me...us...her crazy dream, she made it come true--
You examine the stranger's head
The stranger's head was pale and still.
You examine the head of the State
A determined, stately countenance.
About yourself
A second life! But wearing the body of a New One. No tail, no proper hinds...at least I still had my own face, my own eyes and teeth and mind!
You look at the blood
Blood dappled the floor, bright red in the white moonlight.
You examine the skylight
Just overhead, the broken moon-hole smelled of freedom.
Go up
I leaped for the moon-hole. In my own body it would have been easy; in this new body it was too far above me.
You exit
The doorway...smelled of worse troubles. Better not.
Smell door
The dark doorway smelled of worse troubles.
You climb the menhir
I got onto the nearest menhir.
Go upwards
I leaped from the menhir toward the moon-hole. I touched the ceiling easily...but much too far from the hole's rim.
You look around
A polished cave of the New Ones: silent tomb of living Deadfathers. Uncountable pale heads on little ivory menhirs. Blood and ice...no, glass...on the hard stone floor. A moon-hole above let in
fresh forest air, too.

The nearest menhir was streaked with blood.

On the nearest menhir was the stranger's head.
Go up
I leaped for the moon-hole. In my own body it would have been easy; in this new body it was too far above me.
You examine menhir
A little ivory menhir, streaked with blood.

On the nearest menhir was the stranger's head.
You go upwards
I leaped from my perch atop the blood-streaked menhir, easily caught the moon-hole's rim and swung myself up and out.

Dark shadows and bright moonlight; the little sounds and smells of freedom. From the hole leading down I thought I heard all those heads...the sleeping Deadfathers of my Longchildren... calling to me, please don't leave--
You listen
I thought I could hear those myriad heads quietly singing to me.
Go north
The forest called to me. I walked toward the dark trees...

--but after all, what more could I give out there? I led our race
out of the darkness...isn't that the glow of city lights beyond the trees? I've done enough.

I returned to the hole, and after a long last look at the trees, I climbed back down.
You remove the head
(the Ape's Head)
No. This body could not withstand another transfer so soon.

Not for a year...

...at least..
Yes
--and I stumbled backward, my throat deeply slashed, my life's blood draining away as I fell into darkness--

Track 11 of Apollo 18+20: The IF Tribute Album

--dark...and light...and...red...

...so red...

Shattered glass on polished marble; a spray of my reddest blood in a piercing shaft of moonlight. Beyond...I narrowed my eyes, straining to penetrate the darkness--

...busts...busted heads...heds on peds...headestals...

Losing blood fast, I tried to make sense of--

--rows upon rows of pale, lifeless, life-like busts of stately heads on fluted headestals, all different, yet oddly alike--
You take King
I moved to take the King's Head, but my legs gave way, and instead I tumbled to the floor, my skull striking something quite unyielding on the way down. My vision blurred and darkened--

...for the last time? I wondered...

--and then my senses slowly surged back, like a drowning ocean wave receding. A dull thump...something hard and round had fallen into my hands.
You put Ape on the headestal
I put the head on a nearby column.
You look at what you're carrying with you
I was empty-handed.
You wear King
(first taking the King's Head)
I tried to reach the King's Head, but I did not have the strength to move from where I lay.
About yourself
Searing pain, a red haze clouding my vision within and without: my throat slashed, my head nearly severed, I clung to life by the fraying cable of my will.
You look at the busts
The ranks of stately busts receded into the gloom in all directions. Those on the headestals nearest me appeared to depict the March of Progress: I had fallen against the headestal of a stern King. To the left of the King's resting place, I saw a famous Prime Minister, stately and opulent, and beyond her a modern Head of State...and to the right, a scarred and tattooed Witch's head, and on the headestal beyond that primitive wise woman...an ape, some antediluvian chieftain.

The oddest thing, in a gallery of historical busts...all their eyes were closed.
Go upward
I strained for the edge of the shattered skylight, but it was hopelessly beyond my reach.
You wear your head
(my original head)
I was already wearing that.
Doff head
(my original head)
I put my hands to my throat. The cord holding my head to my body seemed but a thread. Little enough blood and air could cross that gulf...best to make a clean break--

Then I can put myself on a pedestal, I thought with frantic
amusment, and see about putting a tourniquet around my neck! Wait, what am I forgetting--

--falling, tumbling--
Roll
(the long shard of broken glass)
Nothing obvious happened.
You cut Ape
Cutting that up would achieve little.
You take the glass
I picked up the largest shard of glass.
You cut yourself
I put the shard of glass to my throat. The cord holding my head to my body seemed but a thread. Little enough blood and air could cross that gulf...best to make a clean break--

Then I can put myself on a pedestal, I thought with frantic
amusment, and see about putting a tourniquet around my neck! Wait, what am I forgetting--

--falling, tumbling--
You wake king
That seemed unnecessary.
You take King
I moved to take the King's Head, but my legs gave way, and instead I tumbled to the floor, my skull striking something quite unyielding on the way down. My vision blurred and darkened--

...for the last time? I wondered...

--and then my senses slowly surged back, like a drowning ocean wave receding. A dull thump...something hard and round had fallen into my hands.
Inventory
I was carrying an Ape's Head.
You look at Ape
The animal's face was creased with the unmistakable lines of wisdom and long duty: a sagacious sovereign from our race's distant, forgotten ancestry.
You wear Ape
I put on the Ape's Head.

Somehow it seemed the right -- the only -- thing to do. I raised the pale head to my throat, nestled it in the gaping wound beside my own. At once I felt it seizing my flesh, drinking in my blood--

--an instant of crazy double vision...looking myself in the eye, before my weakening eyes fluttered shut at last--

--the old head falling like an autumn leaf, the blade barely needed, barely, barely--

--done all I could...the New Ones come--

A polished cave of the New Ones: silent tomb of living Deadfathers. Uncountable pale heads on little ivory menhirs. Blood and ice...no, glass...on the hard stone floor. A moon-hole above let in
fresh forest air, too.

The nearest menhir was streaked with blood where the stranger had fallen against it.
You take Witch
Taken.
You check your inventory
I was carrying a long shard of broken glass and a Witch's Head and the stranger's head.
You examine Witch 's head
It's Star Pupil, my little New One successor.
Attack witch
Never!
You take the heads
They were hardly portable.
You wear Witch 's head
No. This body could not withstand another transfer so soon.

Not for a year...

...at least..
You check your inventory
I was carrying a long shard of broken glass and a Head of State's Head, a Prime Minister's Head, a King's Head, a Witch's Head, and the stranger's head.
Look around
Dark shadows and bright moonlight; the little sounds and smells of freedom. From the hole leading down I thought I heard all those heads...the sleeping Deadfathers of my Longchildren... calling to me, please don't leave--
Look around
Hall of Heads (on the nearest menhir)
A polished cave of the New Ones: silent tomb of living Deadfathers. Uncountable pale heads on little ivory menhirs. Blood and ice...no, glass...on the hard stone floor. A moon-hole above let in
fresh forest air, too.