The Weapon - Oblivion  - part 17

By Diana the Valkyrie

How do you stop a religious war?

Update: 19/08/2003 to valkyrie05







Wendy.self:



What was that all about?



Wendy.self:



I don't know, they're all crazy.



Wendy.self:



But what set them off?



Wendy.self:



I don't remember. David says I've got to stop giving people feathers.



Wendy.self:



Why?



Wendy.self:



I don't know, but he sounds like he knows what he's talking about.



Wendy.self:



Who is this guy David, anyway?



Wendy.self:



He's the one in the car with us.



Wendy.self:



Where are we going?



Wendy.self:



Home.



Wendy.self:



Oh.



. . .



David:



Next day, it was all over the webnews. The Church of the Holy Feather was

suing the Coven of the UnHoly Feather for breach of trademark (they were

claiming that theirs was the One True Feather), and was being counter-sued

back for blasphemy. The Church of the Holy Guardian was suing both of them

because apparently they'd patented the system of using a feather as their

symbol. The press was calling it the Feather Fracas and was all over it,

getting misquotes from both sides to fan the flames. The Church of the Holy

Guardian was now two churches, the Orthodox Church of the Holy Guardian, and

the Reformed Church of the Holy Guardian. One lot had the Feather, but the

other lot had the bank account. I can't remember which was which. It was an

unholy mess. I showed Wendy.



"Oh," she said.



"Look, love, you caused this, handing feathers out willy nilly, you've got to

fix it."



"How?" she said.



Good point. How do you stop a religious war? The usual way is to massacre one

side, pick either one, it doesn't matter, forcibly convert any survivors, and

burn their holy books. The trouble is, it's been, oh, decades since we've done

that, so we're a bit out of practice, although we came pretty close in the

Balkans recently. Anyway, Wendy probably wouldn't go for mass murder, it's an

aspect of God's Love that she never did get the hang of. I remember, I told

her about the flood once, and she said, "That's love?". I never did get around

to telling her about the Slaying of the Firstborn, she'd have been up to

heaven in a trice looking to arrest the miscreant for mass infanticide.



"Maybe if you just talked to them, Wendy, they respect you, they'll listen to

you."



"I *so* don't think so. None of them were listening to a word I said before,

why would they start listening now?"



I thought again about the Spanish Inquisition, and the fun of burning heretics

at the stake, the big advantage being that you don't spill blood, so you're

staying within the rules. Then I stopped daydreaming, shook my head, and

realised that you fight fire with fire, and I told Wendy that.



"I don't think we ought to burn ..." "No, I didn't mean literally. Come on,

love, it's time to pay a visit to the Temple." "Oh no, I don't think I could

stand another religious experience." "It's not that sort of temple."



Some hundreds of years ago, the Knights Templar set up their headquarters in

the City of London. Ever since then, the area around there has been called

"The Temple". It's near Fleet street, so you might suppose it's infested with

reporters and journalists. But it isn't. It's contaminated with a far nastier

breed of vermin. Because this is the hideout of London's legal profession, and

has been since the 14th century.



But needs must when the devil drives, and since the Feather Fracas was being

fought in the courts, our best way to break it up was to use the odious

cronies of the legal eagles ourselves. I hired a solicitor, because members of

the Trade Union of Vultures won't talk to mere citizens like myself, their

idea is, I talk to the solicitor, and the solicitor relays what I say to the

Counsel.



In practice, of course, since we were all in the same room, I explained what I

wanted, the solicitor nodded occasionally and thought about his huge fees, and

the Counsel made "Uh-huh" noises and thought about his even huger fees.



"Her image is copyright", I started off. "Can't be," said Counsel, "a person

can't claim that their appearance is copyright." "She isn't a person." That

shut him up.



So then the solicitor piped up. "If she isn't a person, she can't own a

copyright." "She's a legal person," I explained, "in the same way that any

other limited company can own a copyright." "What's her name?" "Pretty

Flamingo." "If she's not a person, what is she?" "She's one of The People."

"So she's a person." "No, she's not. It's the Capital Letters, they make All

the Difference. She's a self-motivating non-human non-artifact." That shut

them up, as they both waded through the thorny thicket of double negatives.



There was a short silence. Wendy smiled brightly at everyone, and demonstrated

how self-motivating she was with "Shall I make us all some tea? Coffee?"



I explained some more. "We incorporated as Pretty Flamingo some decades ago,

the company is still active. The main asset of the company is the use of the

services of the Guardian of Humanity, who you see before you." Wendy stood up,

did a slow somersault in mid-air, then sat cross-legged, hovering, a few feet

up. "It is, of course, important to the image of the company, that the image

of the company's principle asset remain clean and bright. And the shenanigans

of all these Churches are tarnishing that image. Which we own the copyright

to."



"So this is a copyright case," said the Counsel.



"Why yes! You're right, it is," I replied, and I watched as my irony hit his

slick Teflon coating and slid to the floor. There was another short silence.



"I have some chocolate biscuits," said Wendy.



The solicitor chimed in, anxious to earn his fees. "So let me summarise. We're

claiming copyright over the appearance, look-and-feel, image and any

derivations thereof, the names 'Guardian of Humanity', 'Wendy' and 'The

Weapon' as applied to any similar entity or entity that could confuse the

public as to origination."



"Algernon," said Counsel, "in my opinion, we won't be able to copyright the

name 'Wendy' because of prior usage." "Oh. You're sure of that?" "Peter Pan".

"Oh. Well, all the others, then."



"Where's your kettle?" she asked.



Learned Counsel stuck his thumbs in his braces. "Right, so we'll slap an

injunction on all three churches ... " " .. four ..." I interrupted. "Four?"

"One of them fissioned." "Whatever. An injunction that they must cease and

desist from using the image etc etc of the Guardian etc etc..." " ... or any

part thereof ..." I added. "Part thereof?" queried the Counsel. "Feathers," I

explained, this actually being the whole point of the exercise. "Feathers?"

asked the solicitor.



Wendy held out another feather, saying "Feathers for Algernon?". I grabbed it

before she could do any more harm. "Coffee's ready," she said, sprinkling

freeze-dried coffee granules in the mugs and handing them round. I looked at

mine - she'd forgotten the milk. And the sugar. And the water.



I held the feather as she flew us home. I began to understand what the others

had been thinking, sort of. This was actually a part of the Guardian of

Humanity, I was holding part of Wendy in my hand. I could see why they

attached such importance to their Holy Relics. I planned to put it in my

Little Box of Important Things, along with an old wedding ring, my PhD

certificate and a picture of my parents.



When we got home, I made a couple of fried eggs with toast for supper. Wendy

sat quietly and watched me eat. "Well, what do you think, Wendy?" "I don't

know."



I looked at her. Maybe it was my imagination, but the light in her eyes was

dimmer than it had been. Of course it was my imagination, the light you see in

someone's eyes is just the reflection of the local lighting, it doesn't tell

you anything about them, despite the common belief to the contrary. But then,

Wendy's emulating all this, so maybe she's reduced the reflectivity of her

eyes to mean something? Oh hell, I've got to stop doing all this analysing.

Maybe I need to improve this toast a bit. "Wendy, please pass the Marmite."

"The what?" I pointed to the distinctively shaped Marmite pot. "Oh," she said,

"here you are." Then she sat quietly again, not really watching me, just being

there.



"Well, I don't know about you, love, but I've had so much excitement today,

I'm cream crackered. You coming to bed?" "Sure," she said, and she followed me

upstairs. I got undressed and dived into bed. She followed me, and I turned to

face her. She was lying on her back, staring blindly at the ceiling. I buried

my face in her side, and cried, silently.