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The Bakeries and Baked Goods of the Exotic Plateau of Limbala, by Thoracic Wemple, W. M. P.

To bake is to understand life. Not a man-jack of our society would dispute this. Not a solitary child of the most gormlessly ignorant spawning – nay, not even a woman, poor, idle, clotted-headed creature that she may be, would gainsay such an indisputable statement of truth. And so we voyage onwards, my fellow philosophers of the natural – onwards, ever onwards! – to broaden our palates and minds across this world of ours. Each loaf consumed, each cookie sampled, is another word on another leaf in another chapter of another volume in the great store-house of knowledge that is our glorious amassment of all things worth knowing of our dear planet. A storehouse that remained woefully incomplete with regards to the far corners of the world – ‘till now! Yes, from the very pen that brought you tales of the Cinnamon Buns of the Canaries, the Rolls of the Amazon, here, for your reading pleasure, is the firm, infallibly scientific and reasoned documentation of the hitherto-unknown bakery-based organisms of the Limbala Plateau! No voyage too harrowing, no peril too great – though our expedition was nigh-decimated and yet more, I alone have returned to bring the golden light of knowledge! Carpe diem!

Crescens volare, “The Flying Croissant”
A distant off-shoot of the common French breakfast item, possibly occurring here as a result of pre-historic migration over long-subsided land bridges(?). It is much larger than its more sophisticated and refined European cousins – no doubt a sign of moral degeneracy. A real delicacy with some properly sweetened jam, if you can get it. Travels in great flocks that can blot out half the sky, with the yearly bakelings clustered in the center for protection. Seems to observe sophisticated mourning rites upon the death of elders. May require further research.

Sacerdos kirkos, “Lama’s Donut”
Baked in the mountainside prayer-lodges of one of the more obscure societies, to be consumed by holy men while fasting. I was informed that the Baker of Days, the messianic figure of the local mythology, had both invented the pastry and disseminated its use for aid in thought. Tawdry mawkish nonesuch duff if you ask me. I sampled one, as much for amusement’s sake as anything, and can personally verify that in overall effect it is manifestly inferior to simply drinking a half-dram of laudanum, the civilized man’s narcotic.
As a minor note of sorts, blowing through the central hole of the donut produces a high E. Doing so is considered a sacrament.

Bannock rex, “King of the Dinner-Rolls”
Called by the locals ‘the destroyer of entrees,’ this fearsome creation measures over twenty feet in height, forty in length, and has utterly ruined countless appetites, wasting thousands of hours of meal preparation. Its population remains low – the breed is anti-social, and few ovens can withstand the temperatures needed to produce such a colossus – but they are all but indestructible and fear nothing. Only one had been brought down within living memory of my visit, and my informant – an old, old, old woman named something uncouth who I have graciously rechristened “Spatula” – said that it took the combined efforts of three entire baker-clans, normally mortal enemies. Their feuds were set aside for a decade or more following the hunt, so many of their young chefs were stuffed in the deadly battle. AVOID AT ALL COSTS.
(Addendum: The coloured plates attached of this magnificent apocalyptic appetizer-cum-meal were found upon the body of the late, much-lamented Arthur Facklebee. Arthur, the world is the poorer for the passing of your gift [if not so much by your habit of belching loudly after every meal], but science is enriched even after your passing.)

Australopita rheasymphysisspondylus, “Chap”
A jocular little thing, more of a bun than a bread, barely a mouthful at most. Takes longer to eat than to say, and even less to describe thoroughly. Good for the clap.

Xenognosis enigma, “Red-Bellied Knish”
Despite its misleading name, this is not a true knish at all; rather, it seems to be distant kin to the puff-pastries of the Medditerannean. Enigmatic to the eye and elusive to the palate, this is a genuinely challenging thing to eat – not for its lacking or excessive taste or paletular weight (it measures a mere 4.9902 middlies upon the Sir Walter Middup scale of granular vs monolithic), but rather for its incredible dexterity, its fierce speed, and its incredibly unsettling gaze. Focusing on chewing the thing is nearly impossible with its stare upon you, and in your moment of hesitation it vanishes from your mouth and down a nearby mouse-hole, with only a flash of its shiny reddened underside for your troubles. Must be crippled with a special mallet for easy consumption, which can dent the crust if done improperly.

Sokolata delicioso, “Bawlman’s Bowel-Serpent”
The ‘common-name’ for this deadly but delicious snake was provided by my beloved, esteemed, and tragically late colleague Dr. Regimagillen Q. Bawlman G. T. O., who was both the first white-man to sample it and the first to describe its unique properties. A transcription of his observations is included here with permission from his widow.
Dr. R. Q. B.: Dibs.
Dr. T. W.: Damnit. Well then on you go.
Dr. R. Q. B.: Yes I certainly shall my old biscuit don’t mind if I do. Well I say this is rather enticing Wemply, you should have a taste, it’s rather like caramel filling with a hint of aaaaaauuuuuuuuggghhhhh. Aiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrgggh. Gah glah glur ugh ah ah uhh. Uh.
(As a polite explanatory footnote to Dr. Bawlman’s astute observations, it should be noted that the principle active ingredient in the entirely unique candy filling of the delicioso is, in fact, mashed poisonous caterpillars – a bit of knowledge that I was tragically only made aware of after the fact.)

Triticaephestes ophidian, “Flourback”
An aggressive and short-tempered but otherwise typical roving ‘pre-cut’ loaf. Its already poor disposition grows crankier still when its personal space is threatened, and it will lash out with little regard for the relative size difference between itself and the object of its irritation. It boasts a deep, hard-bitten crumb and a ferocious crust, which in no small part contribute to its surly sureness in its own invincibility.
(A postscript: it appears that T. ophidian nests communally in the cold season for mating purposes, as my dear friend and long-suffering batman Blartly mis-stepped face-first into such a reproductive ‘ball’ of the feisty little things while searching for a place to set up my shaving kit. Remarkably, he was skeletonized in less than thirty minutes by my stopwatch – rather less time than the lazy clod had taken to prepare my morning snuff, might I add.)

Lutumungar brontotritica, “Hillbaker”
I only glimpsed this majestic bread once, yet even from a distance of over seven miles its sheer majestic bulk made it indescrible and unmistakable. Mere words fail me…the grace of a phyllo… the shapeliness of a baguette… yet wrapped around and within a body measuring a little more in size than that of Buckingham Palace. It was kneading a small mountain when I observed it, apparently preparing to lay its eggs.
One of a kind, and God be praised, I can die peaceably now that I have witnessed it.
(Jenkinsman, my editor whom I loved as a brother [in spite of his persistent, unstoppable nosiness], alas, wandered in for a closer look and had his head blown off his shoulders when the behemoth sneezed, in a manner that may to the unenlightened common moron appear to be akin to that produced by placing an elephant gun to the back of his skull and pulling the trigger. Such ignorant foolishness is laughable. Laughable!)

Archaeomatzo pericles, “The First Bread”
A grandiose title, to be sure, but I believe it to be true. Yes, it is indisputable – I, Dr. Thoracic Wemple, W. M. P., have alone brought proof of the oldest known what-based organism to the shores of the civilized societies. Look – look at the majestic speckling of its surface! Can you not see the noble crest of its spine? The fine, upstanding crumb? Yes, it is, it is it! Indeed it is! The first bread product has been found, and in its shape and form I believe we can all agree that it is unmistakeably, irrevocably Euro-Caucasian-Anglo-Briton-Saxon! Only a fool would think otherwise! A fool! A fool would say such a thing, at such a sight! By GOD it is so!
(It is with unspeakable pain and breathtaking grief that I must report the tragic and deeply regrettable demise of the Revered Arthur P. Z. Quattleston, who, although he had the utter gall to question my purely objective and unbiased analyses, certainly did not deserve to have his skull beaten into a thick dough of skull splinters and mush with a rock. By natives, of course.)

Dr. T. Wemple, W. M. P. is the world’s foremost expert on exotic bread-based organisms. Mail is to be addressed in his name and sent to the Saint Shuffleprick Institute For the Mentally Lunacidal until further notice and/or after the completion of his trial.

Remember thisthought now forever.
Thousand thousand thousand run out of thousand years beforenow, a smallthing wandered from herd. Lostwises until dark. In dark, in oldfear, it stumbles from tree to tree to ferns ferns ferns. Lives, by luck. In morningcalm, in time, it sees flock of tiny fleshgulpers in branches laughing at it with nighteyes. Smallthing wonders if it had their nighteyes, would its life be made easier. Idea is old and dull constanthought nothing new.
Smallthing asks tiny fleshgulpers in branches laughing at it with nighteyes to share nighteyes. Offers fleshbulk daywise as shield for fleshgulper flesh. Fleshgulpers laugh laugh laugh agree.
Gonn is founded forever. Not by forelimb, but by mindeye.

Don’t hunt in that valley.
No, it’s not dangerous. Not the usual way.
No, it’s not sacred. No spirits there. Trust me.
No, it’s not even interesting. Just don’t do it, alright? Listen to your father.
There’s things down there, and you leave them alone. Don’t flip over any stones, don’t rustle through any bushes, and don’t ever spill blood down there. Ever. You hear me?

Thousand thousand thousand run out of thousand years laterthen, smallthing’s spawn wander vastly in herd of herd of herds. Tiny fleshgulpers for nighteyes, plodders for fleshbulk, leaperkin for dayeyes. All prosper. All wander as one. Herd of herd of herds becomes herd of herd of herd of herds. Reckoning is difficult. Paces are offset. Some straggle some stride some wander. Unmanageable.
Fearbassador is sent with tremblewords to feasters that lurk in herd of herd of herd of herd’s wake breeding herds of feasters. Fearbassador is consumed. Fearbassador is sent. Fearbassador is consumed. Fearbassador is sent. Fearbassador is consumed. Fearbassador is sent. Feasters listen. Feasters join herd to feast upon slowill, to directmanage. They feast only if allfeast.

Jan. 14th, 17XX
Dear fir.
I write thif letter to you, as a prominent natural philofopher, to afk (begging your pardon, fir) exactly what if the provenience of thif rock I have quarried on my land. It is uncommon queer to the eye, and refemblef brick. To be frank, fir, it haf me buggering puzzled.
-Yourf fincerely, JXXXX SXXXX JXXX.

On warm day in cool wind under softsky herd halts, thousand thousand thousand run out of thousand years laterthen. Waters have upswollen lands have downswollen, oldwalkpath has been overswollen underwater leaving nowhere to walkpath. Conference consultation commences, decisions made, arguments hissed, insults snapped. Three points emerged: goodfood here; goodwater here; goodweather here. Consultation decision made: stop for whilesome.
Two years later stone nests are made.
Hundred years later stone walls are made around stone nests.
Thousand years later stone spires are made around stone walls around stone nests.
Gonn is made shape. By forelimb.

Apr. 11th, 18XX
-Good weather. Will make Call River a day ahead of time.
-Jackshit Paul upset the canoe stupid Canadian fuck.
-Overnighting in abandoned cabin to dry out. Old & badly-built but the roof’s there. Got lucky & shot a deer, good food tonight. He won’t stop complaining anyways, keeps jumping at shadows & whining about noises. Stupid & superstitious.
Apr. 12th, 18XX
-He’s gone. Run out in the night quiet as a mouse probably hiding under some slimy rock somewhere the little lizard. If I see him in daylight again I’ll nail his ass to the canoe & send it down a waterfall.
&  he took the deer too

Thousand thousand thousand run out of thousand years laterthen, Gonn has swollen in flesh. Gonnlands have swollen in plentitude to match. Ferntending learned. Frondshaping learned. Stonebuilding is higher longer wider stronger better every thousand years. Trick is as follows: tap rocks, listen, build. Trick is good.
Gonn cannot go. Gonn is anchored in rock. But Gonn swells with travellers. Allherds come to Gonn, to trade to witness to learn to tribute to join Gonn, be of Gonn.
Gonn is herd of herd of herd of herds morewise. Gonn is lands turned to Gonnlands. Gonn is stone upon stone upon stone upon stone abovehead into stoneskies blocking rainsunallweather. Gonn is growing learning faster than mindwise smallthings, every year, everyear. Gonn is feasters minding plodders minding fleshgulpers minding leaperkin minding jagged minding feasters.
Gonn is great, great is Gonn. All is Gonn.

Aug. 5th, 18XX
There’s no oil, John. Yeah, I know the valley bowl spot looked good, but it’s dryer than your grandma’s tits. The drill’s hit something down there, and it looks like there SHOULD be something, should be a pocket the size of half of New York, but it’s empty. Whatever’s in that hole went away a long time ago. Find a new spot.

Thousand thousand thousand run out of thousand years laterthen, Gonn is neighbourmade. Notalone but still greaterthanall. Gonn is learned from. Other cities grow: Laurr Pangg Avall. Gonn is greaterthanall. All are lesserthanGonn.
Gonn has flyeyes now. Cold ones have spires in Gonn, rookeries nests nooks squats. Cold blood flows through small brains but useful for wings. Word wends to Gonn on wingeyes: plot. Laurr is secondlesserthanGonn, wishes first. Predation planned. Counterpredation planned in Gonn.
Arenas bloodied. Food hoarded. Packs formed. Tooth claws spikes flesh all readied feared ravenous.
For glory of Gonn.

Nov. 2nd, 19XX
…the best site I’ve seen since I laid eyes on Drumheller. Bones everywhere – I don’t know how the oil prospectors missed them. We’ve got nearly intact skeletons sitting right at the surface; I picked up three skulls in one day. This could be big, world-news big.
I want a team out here now. Two teams. Hell, just shovel every grad student you can get into a truck, we’ll take twice as many and call it not even close enough. Just do it fast.

Thousand thousand thousand run out of thousand years laterthan, Avall falls lastofall. Landripped underthem, downswollen. Gonn vastswimmer cold ones swim in through waterbreach, feast on panickpaddlers worrysplashers drowners.
Gonn is alone again. Gonn is greaterthanallstill greater than beforewar; cavedigs shelter all smallthings shelter herds. Gonn is stillstrong stronger than beforewar; hoards are deep food grown in nolight holds safe from raids. Gonn is oneplace where stone upon stone upon stone is forelimbmade not chancemade. No otherplace. Gonn is alone.
Gonn looks skyhigh. From skyhigh, Fire looks back.

January 28th, 19XX
It’s a brick.
I know what you’re thinking, Cathy, but stop thinking that and read what I’m saying: it’s a brick.
Yes, the brick was made from Cretaceous sandstone. It’s a brick.
Yes, the brick was found IN Cretaceous sandstone. It’s a brick.
Yes, I know this is giving the creationists ammo they don’t deserve. Fuck them, fuck that, it’s a brick. We’re scientists; we have to explain this. We’re going to explain this.
Yes, we don’t have enough people working the site. But we’ll have them lining up for the chance after we get this published.
Yes, it’s putting our careers on the line. Everyone does that, sooner or later. But everyone else only wishes they got to do it this way.

Firegrows in southsky. Gonn builds. Gonn always builds. Gonn builds in mindeye, in forelimb, in lifedeath, in war, allalone. Gonn is great. Gonn will not end.
Gonn will submerge underland. Downswell Fire will come, Gonn will stand. Fire will sear, Gonn will stand. All lands will burn, but Gonnlands will sink understone, live understone, hide understone.
Gonn will stand. Gonn is greaterthanall. Greaterthan its parts, greaterthan its stones. Gonn will neverend notnow. No matter how long.
Run out of thousands foreverever, Gonn remains. For glory of Gonn.

June 9th, 20XX.
Thirty-eight years of defend and counterattack and publish and counter-publish and it all comes down to this: me, an excavation team, about seventeen film crews, and a lot of memories.
We’ll enter the vault from the east, where the readings say it’s backed on stone. No sense disturbing the wall. The 65-million-year-old wall. God, I can’t believe you were right about the bricks.
This one’s for you, Tom. You should’ve been here for this.
They’ll remember it forever.

Some days, I dream of heroes.
Sound in the audience chamber, nervous voices. A stammer, a shudder, a twitch, a plea. The door cracks open and a worried face shoves in a terrified one.
My eyes are already open. They cannot shut anymore.
Mercy, mercy, mercy. It’s saying something about mercy. It didn’t mean to, it’s not its fault, it would never have done that thing if only it would have known, honest ignorance, mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy.
My hand raises and it falls down, and I’m alone again as the footfalls of my panicked acolytes skitter down the foyer like spiders.
Time to sleep. I can’t sleep anymore, but gods do I ever try. Some days I even fool myself.

Some days, I dream of heroes. Noble faces and determined eyes and no matter what the stature or shape of the oncoming threat, it’s backed by a spine that’s unbending, harder than steel.
High noon on a holy day. I’m not sure which one, there’s dozens and dozens of the fucking things now, so many I’m amazed they haven’t dedicated one to my toenail-clippings. There’s a holy day for my birth, a holy day for my death, a holy day for when I rose again, a holy day for when I defeated the Prinnish army and decapitated their general with a wave of my hand and a smile. I could smile then. I had a nice smile – I have a nice smile. It’s just now there’s no lips in the way and it won’t turn off no matter what I want.
I smile at the sacrifices and the offerings, smile at the ritual mutilations, smile and smile at the choirs and the hymnals and the absolute, pants-filling terror manifest in the eyes of each and every single human in the cathedral, and when they all file out and the candles die down I’m still smiling.
Some days it doesn’t seem worth it.

Some days, I dream of heroes. A sword swings, a spell chants. I am bearded in my lair, cornered like a fat old bear come out of his den in midwinter. There are rants and ravings and curses and some good bloody honorable deaths from horrible magics.
I have so many horrible magics. One for each bone in my body, and the skeleton of a human – even a very large human such as myself – contains two hundred and six bones, two hundred and six mindless, stubborn lumps of mineral and meat that will mend and build and stand firm regardless of what life chooses to tell them. That’s real power in there, that’s a force you can bend kingdoms around and distort lives against and tear down palace walls with. Which I did. And I have. And look at all the good that it’s got me, here on my pile of broken thrones, with an entire empire prostrate at my feet. With my eyes that won’t shut and my smile that never ends and my overflowing dish of sacrifices that I couldn’t eat even if I liked the blood of innocents and the hearts of virgins.
Some days I miss bread and jam, good blackberry jam.

Some days, I dream of heroes. A whisper at first, a half-hoped prophecy that only the peasants hear (I never knew how they did that, even when I was a peasant). Then it grows and spreads into a rumour, a murmur in the streets and fields that my guards and priests and captains attempt to stifle and quash in their cruel, ham-handed way. Finally a luckless messenger stammers out a rambling, incoherent, self-serving explanation to me and I kill him for his spineless presumption just as they burst in the door, with the sunlight pouring in behind them.
A luckless messenger is talking to me right now, because it’s his turn to tell me about the treasury and the tax rates and the tributes and the vassals and the vassal-states and the states that very much don’t want to become vassal-states and behind every word he speaks is a single thought and that thought is ‘please don’t kill me.’
I listen. Well, I try to listen. I don’t nod, though – that makes him flinch. So I sit and stare and fail to keep my mind from wobbling and I wish I still had the energy I did back in the first month of this business, when I honestly, truly, really did try to understand how the hell this place was run. Then I had to execute half my officials for treason and venality and after that well hell what’s the other half worth if it wasn’t letting me know about that sort of thing?
Not so much treason nowadays. Not so much anything. Doing anything could get you killed.
A corpse is alive, even in death. Rotting, rotting, feeding a thousand thousand THOUSAND little bellies each night, spawning millions of babies, putting food in the ground. What good’s a corpse that won’t rot? What good’s an empire that won’t change?
Some days I think that thought and it won’t leave my head.

Some days, I dream of heroes, and more than once I imagined myself as their leader. Some days their wise counsellor. Some days their admirer from afar, some days the hostage they were sworn to rescue.
I was going to make a difference. I was going to change the world. I didn’t know I’d personally exterminate nineteen royal families and countless regular, everyday families, but I’d accepted that by the time it happened. Those things happen in a world of heroes and heroism and dashing swordsmen and wise, pious sages. So I wasn’t a hero. So I was a villain. All I had to do was wait, and scheme – I could scheme, I assumed at that age, how hard could it be? – and there they would be. Like moths to flame, are heroes to villains. Moths to flame.
They would stand before me, and we would battle, and if I wouldn’t lose then, I’d lose to their children, or grandchildren. Maybe I would return, maybe I would not.
But the last thing I would see would be their faces.

Some days, I dream of heroes. And oh how I wish those dreams were true.