Prophet Margin by Simon Spurrier Page B

the creation of causality. He created books filled with accounts of past events. He invented wild stories and made historical documentaries out of them. He created a vast army of helpers shaped like wasps, and dispatched them to plant the neurone patterns of historical knowledge in every sentient being they could. In a sudden burst of inspiration he came up with the idea of evolution, and buried complex fossils in solid rock to support the ludicrous theory.
    He conducted all this in the utmost secrecy, and when the Boddah was resting after his colossal act of invention, Ogmishlen struck his master stroke.
    He started the clocks. He spun the planets and dropped the rain. All across creation, creatures came alive mid-stride, swallowing on half chewed mouthfuls, striking keyboards with hands designed to be eternally poised. Memories kicked in with split second acuity.
    The universe came to life without realising it had just been created.
    It would be fair to say that the Boddah, awaking, was a little vexed.
    In fact he was furious. Apoplectic.
    His masterpiece was ruined - all its component pieces were busily traipsing around rearranging themselves. Undoing the mess that Ogmishlen had caused was going to take a long, long time.
    Long story short: Boddah cast out Ogmishlen and bent his mind to the task of tidying reality.
    He was going to have to start small, and work upwards.
    He started with a prophet and a pen.
     
    Abrocabe Zindatsel had heard the story of creation, of Boddah's masterpiece and Ogmishlen's infamy, countless times.
    The first occasion had been when Sianne visited his bed on that first night. They'd sat until the early hours, him listening to her nervous explanations. It all made sense.
    It wasn't his fault he was wealthy. It wasn't his fault his parents had amassed a gigantic fortune whilst others starved and died. Everything he'd ever done; every petty ruthlessness, every liberal interpretation of legality, every minor stab of guilt: it wasn't his fault. It was never supposed to happen.
    Existence, as cruel and miserable as it was, was never meant to get out of hand.
    That night, Sianne had told him that there was beauty in a frozen moment. There was purity to a static thing. Guilt and evil and hardship: they had no place outside of time.
    And then she told him the story of the creation and it all made sense. And Abrocabe had awoken happier than he'd ever been in his life because suddenly, in a flash, nothing was his fault.
    The Boddah's works had been soiled. A frozen instant of beauty had become a cavalcade of pettiness and abasement.
    Since then, Abrocabe had done his homework. He'd immersed himself in the lore of Boddihsm, finding different accounts of the story, extracts from the Book itself. It was called The End of Time , and when he arrived on Splut Mundi with his army of wives, it was the first thing that Abrocabe sought out.
    "Many new arrivals like to see it," the fat man who had adopted the role of tour guide announced, scurrying through the whitewashed city. "I think it's to do with doubt. They... they wonder if they're going mad. They think they could be making a mistake. Seeing the book itself, it... it's like vindication."
    Abrocabe nodded, lengthening his stride.
    The guide pushed through a beaded curtain in an open courtyard of fortified stones. A weird sculpture - like an inverted teardrop with a flat top - dominated its centre. Abrocabe was so taken with its intricate patterns and whorls that he completely failed to notice any danger, until he was well and truly in it.
    All around the perimeter of the courtyard, bustling across crenulated battlements, an army of robed men and women trained weapons on Abrocabe's head.
    The fat man hadn't even slowed. He turned with a quizzical glance, wondering where his charge had gone.
    "W-what's the meaning of this?" Abrocrabe demanded. His long nose was trying to crawl out of sight behind his head.
    The guide appeared confused. "The guards? Oh, simply a