The following is the tale of Old Charlie, a shopkeeper in Murmur Junction's Market Nonagon. Selected from Annex IB-MJ. Looking for the audio version?
Old Charlie had lived in Murmur Junction for a very, VERY long time. Or at least that’s what it felt like - after all, time passed somewhat differently here than it did outside the city. No calendars existed for him to mark his days upon, and the sky was not blessed by any regularly appearing sources of light or darkness. The days and nights seemed to come and go on their own accord, whenever was most convenient for them, and when that’s the way of things, can such odd intervals really be called days at all? Only the wrinkles on his face and the new cricks and creaks in his skeletal system served as temporal waypoints these days. His body kept the time, and by the keeping of THAT clock, he felt very old indeed.
He had never intended to come here, let alone STAY here, but then again, he’d always had a knack for finding himself in unexpected situations. He sometimes wondered about the Adjudication Units that had been chasing him through the underways of his old city. What they must have thought when they turned the corner, subjugation prongs already sparking, to that dead-end sewer pipe he’d been trapped in. They’d thought him cornered, no doubt, until they saw the tiny ladder leading up into the ceiling. They must have done the same thing he did at that point - climbed up the ladder overhead and shot through the manhole, intent on shocking him and beating him and CHAINING him before finally dragging him to “justice”, yet they’d not followed him as he emerged onto what he now knew to be a street just off the Market Nonagon in Murmur Junction. Why he had made such a bewildering crossing into the strange city between cities while they had NOT remained a subject of sore fascination to Charlie, even after all these years.
It had taken him some time to find his footing in the Junction. The little broadcast that liked to play on the speakers near every known entry point had given him just enough information to survive here, but no more. It hadn’t told him, for instance, that the hospitality of the hosts behind the red doors would steadily decay, day after day, until the faceless ones were serving him naught but moldy bread and having him sleep in piles of dirty rags, rather than on a bed. He’d had to learn on his own that the only way to avoid such mistreatment was to get a JOB - a thoroughly disheartening prospect to one such as him, but better than living in a squalor worse than that which he had unwittingly fled from. That meant, of course, he had to FIND a job, a task not so easy in a city that seemed half comprised of unworking wraiths and half simple passer-throughs who seemed to treat the city as barely more than a corridor to realms unknown. Yet, unable to go home and unwilling to brave the unknown beyond Murmur Junction, as it was, there weren’t really any other choices to be had.
When he’d first arrived, he’d done so hungry and had immediately followed the broadcast’s directions to the “Market Nonagon”, as it was called. Upon arriving, he had paid for lunch with a memory he hadn’t known he still possessed, a strange yet ultimately belly-filling and brain-emptying experience. It was only later that he got the notion he wanted that memory back, whatever it was, and so, driven by that desire and a desperate need of employment, he found himself on the cusp of another dangerous evening, quite drunk and pounding on the old merchant’s door. When the here-and-there’er (the name for those who weren’t quite native to the city, but had lived here so LONG they were treated as such) opened the door, he was greeted by a despondently intoxicated Charlie, demanding not just a job but also a memory and a hot meal AND wouldn’t place to stay the night be nice for a poor bastard such as him? The shopkeeper saw ALL that, every bit of this walking disaster of a man, but he saw something else, too. An opportunity, he dared to dream, a chance at last for him to rest his ancient bones and let someone else sweep the damn shop for once.
So, Charlie was hired, and the old shopkeep, a smush-faced troll-thing with one bad eye that went by the name of Trugs, was finally free to kick back and retire, at least much as one could in Murmur Junction. Charlie, on the other hand, quickly found his fortunes in the city reversed. Mouse-pilfered loaves were no longer on the menu, and his beds were soft (if somewhat lumpy) once again. He learned quickly the tricks and rules of the trade, and finely tuned the odd intuitions he possessed when it came to what one must ask for and give away in return when doing business in the Junction. There was no money in this city, only things of innate value, artifacts of both the tangible and intangible type. Memories could be swapped for meals, bottled up and put on a back shelf, only to be later traded to another merchant up the street, just as easily as relics were buying knowledge and skills that instantly implanted themselves in the minds of the buyers. The trade was always even in Murmur Junction, both parties always satisfied, for that was the WAY of the city. A place of equal, strange exchange, where almost anything could be had, so long as you’re willing to pay for it honestly. Those who were caught trying their hands at thieving were quickly disposed of. There were many ways out of the city, some leading to pleasant places, and others leading to realms no sane soul would ever deign to tread. That was a risk too great for almost all who passed through the city, but that didn’t mean there weren’t those who tried anyway.
They seemed attracted to Charlie in the early days of his career, the charlatans, and the cheats. Perhaps it was that he was so clearly not FROM there, or that he was so young, or perhaps a little bit of both. Those smiling tricksters and dusty desperados, always believing themselves more clever than him, always believing they could pull one over on him. He used it to his advantage, and most of the fools left feeling as though they had won, not realizing just how much they had given away for so LITTLE until it was too late. Some he had to dump, screaming and begging, into the rank spillways that led to the Festergrounds himself, but such was the way of things. Charlie learned well from old Trugs, and in time, Old Trugs was gone, and he had become Old Charlie, keeper of the Crimson Cabinet Curio (and sometimes sandwich) Shop in Murmur Junction’s Market Nonagon.
In those days, not a one had ever bested him in his ways of dealmaking. He had a cabinet in the back of the shop that he reserved for his favorite acquisitions: bottled souls and resplendent memories, flawless glimmernodes and relics so old and powerful they would change the course of any universe they found their way to. But they moved not, never departing his cabinet, for no one EVER got the best of Charlie. He had come to believe it simply wasn’t possible, and possessed a blindingly bright confidence in himself and his abilities. It was an earned confidence, to be sure, but bright lights cast dark shadows, and dark shadows create blind spots. And eventually, should such a spot go unseen for long enough, something may settle into it and wait for a time to strike.
The traveler arrived much like any other, though a mote less confused than usual. He’d probably been here before, Old Charlie thought, a possibility that elicited a slight scent of opportunity. The frequent travelers often possessed the greatest of things to trade for. Almost nothing he now owned had come from Murmur Junction itself; almost all of it had flown in from far beyond, but little had done so intentionally. Most were things accidentally brought in a backpack or pockets by people new to the city and still bewildered beyond imagining - the items brought, intentionally, FOR trade, however, now those were of great value indeed. As though sensing the old shopkeeper’s desire, the traveler had turned the shop’s “open” sign to “closed,” emptied his bags upon the counter, and made the Old Charlie’s heart nearly stop in the process.
The items he carried were not just curios; they were TREASURES. Technologies and sorceries and effigies and all sorts of twinkling, wonderful things, each with its own story. For hours, the traveler enthralled Old Charlie, weaving before him the great tale of each item. An archaean tear, salvaged from the very last of their lost mindships, the sliver of a trundlescamp’s forgotten true memories, the crystal lens of an elder migratorre, the trapped echo of an ungod, and so many MORE. Old Charlie’s ability to contain his excitement only worsened as he meticulously examined and verified every last item’s authenticity. It was only right, of course, that this treasure-laden traveler have the right to do the same diligence upon Charlie’s own collection, and so he did. Charlie brought him back, opened the cabinet, and let the man have a look. By the end of it all, Charlie had parted with almost 90% of his treasures in exchange for ALL of what the man carried - the largest deal he had ever made, and by far the most profitable. Night, dreaded by all visitors to the city, had begun to fall by the time Charlie and the traveler were concluding their business, and it was only courteous that he offer the traveler a place upon his guest bed. The man had given him far more than he had given to old Trugs all that time ago, and hospitality was one of the foremost rules of the Junction after all. That night, Charlie slept deeply and dreamed even deeper of fabulous riches, faraway places, and a dawning hope he’d not felt in uncounted years.
It only took him a minute after waking to realize something was wrong. Something in him felt hollow, painfully empty where it had once been full. He raced downstairs and found his locked cabinet OPEN and the man gone. His cabinet, which should have killed ANYONE other than him who attempted to open it, and at very least screamed bloody murder the moment it was touched, now hung ajar and empty, its contents vanished with the man whose imprint was still visible on the guest bed that was separated from the violated storeroom by 4 unbreakable locks, all of which lay in pieces on the floor. Not everything had been taken. The thief had left enough for Charlie to survive, but nowhere near enough to retire. Charlie had searched for him every day for what must have been weeks after, cashed in every last favor he had with the other merchants and inkeeps, but had found not but smoke and steam wherever he thought the man would be. Charlie had practically jumped with joy when the bounty hunter entered his shop, also searching for the traveler. He had been robbed as well, he said, and in exchange for information, promised to bring every piece of Charlie’s lost property back to him. That hope had nearly been worse than the loss itself, for the hunter had never returned, even though Charlie spent nearly every day staring out his windows, waiting for him to walk back through the doors with his lost treasures in tow.
Old Charlie had lived in Murmur Junction for a very long time. Too long, perhaps. Yet across all of that unknowable expanse of time, only one traveler had ever bested him. To this day, old Charlie STILL sees that man’s grinning face in the hazy space between sleep and waking, and every morning he rises with a jaw sore from grinding his teeth in the night, dreaming of all that he lost and all the treasures he’ll never see again.