On The Existence of Authors

The rat paused mid-lecture, and stared angrily down at the newcomers.
“Are you quite finished?” he hissed, “Because I am trying to present my argument against the existence of authors through presenting my new book, Ratchard Dawkins Presents The Author Delusion.”
Trixie looked puzzled.
“Wait, you're trying to disprove the existences of authors by writing a book? That seems a little counter-productive.”
Ratchard Dawkins scowled, and there was a murmur of sympathetic annoyance from the gathered critters.
“You joke,” he said, “But the actual evidence for the existence of authors is very minimal. Have you ever seen an author at work? Have you watched them put words on a page and craft them into sentences? No! But we are told to believe that they exist based on what? The existence of books?”
There was a dismissive laugh from a number of echidnas.
“But... you wrote a book....?!” Trixie stressed.
Ratchard laughed.
“All I did was re-arrange pre-existing words into a meaningful order. If anything, I should be called an 'Arranger', but an 'Author'? Never.”
There was a passionate round of applause from a certain segment of the audience, while those who acknowledged the existence of authors, yet denied the existence of 'The Authors' merely smiled wryly.
Pam, who had been attempting to hunt down a worm in the corner, looked up at this point.
“I met an Author” she said cheerfully.
The audience whispered to themselves urgently.
Ratchard laughed.
“You are mistaken,” he scoffed.
An elderly cat stood to his feet in the crowd, and suggested “Maybe she just means an 'author' with a little 'a'. I know you disagree with the belief in un-capitalised authors Ratchard, but it is still an acceptable view within this conference, and one I myself support.”
“Yes, Catstopher Hitchens, I'm sure you're right,” Ratchard agreed, trying to hide his discomfort at Pam's remark.
“No, I met an Author,” Pam said, stressing the pronunciation of the word so that the capital letter was evidence. Gesturing to Taylor and Trixie, she added, “We all did. The Brilliant and Twisted Man. We were in his house. It is a granny flat, just like the legends said.”
There was more urgent whispering.
“No, this is unacceptable,” Ratchard stated firmly, “The Authors are but superstitions, figments left over from our uneducated past. We may say that the Brilliant and Twisted Man caused the sun to sink into the pre-Tasman Sea three times during the life of Krulnor, but with our modern knowledge, we understand that that was merely an extraordinarily rare but perfectly logical solar phenomenon. In the same way, we might blame the Twisted and Brilliant Man (his equal but opposite) for the widely reported instance of someone dissolving into tears, but as I hypothesise in my book The Illiterate Bookmaker, such a phenomenon could occur when one drank far too much water, and the reconstituting back into a crying man episode could simply occur when the divided cells, drained of their excess water, found themselves drawn by inter-cellular attractive laws to reconnect back in the correct order.”
There was positive murmuring amongst the crowds, and a cry of “Hear hear!” which seemed rather pointless given that everyone in the cavern had heard perfectly the first time.
“But he spoke to us,” Pam stressed, “And he said that he would try to help us win the Spin-Off Games, and he had his Darth Vader Mr Potato Head with him, and...”
“You saw one of the Three Legendary Potato Heads?” someone gasped.
“Was it as shiny and plasticky as they say?” another someone asked.
“People, please!” Ratchard scolded, “Don't buy into this nonsense. The existence of the Authors is hypothetical, with the emphasis on the 'pathetic' part. They're lying to you!”
“I'm not lying,” Pam stated, a passionate glow crossing her face as she recalled her time with the Author, “I even ate of the Deep Fried Pizza of Crunchiness, and saw the Dried Flowers in a Bottle of Hope. And they were as faded as my mother used to tell me when I was small.”
The murmuring brook that had been the crowd had now turned into a flowing stream of conversation.
“She speaks words of truth!”
“You can see in her face she has seen an Author!”
“She is a prophet to their existence!”
“Prophetess Pamela!”
“We must help them!”
“They must win the Spin-Off Games!”

At this point, a number of moles ran to the corner of the cavern, and began digging frantically.
Trixie, who had been startled by the sudden left turn this episode had taken, stared after them in surprise.
“What are they doing?” she muttered to Steven.
Steven looked after them calmly.
“Oh, I'd guess that they are digging some sort of tunnel that will connect you to whatever cavern the remaining Evanses are hiding in.”
“But, isn't it better if we just stay here?” Trixie suggested.
Steven shook his head.
“Given no other option, your best bet would be to remain here, but knowing the Evanses like I do (and I know them pretty well, considering that they are me), I'm sure a number of them have taken shelter in other caverns, and until you face them, we will be at a stalemate, with no victory.”
“But,” Trixie continued, “I thought the Author had promised no more killing, and yet Ernie said that there could only be one survivor. Are the Authors confused?”
Steven threw an annoyed glance at Trixie.
“Never say that,” he hissed, “The Authors cannot be confused. Their plots may seem to meander in all kinds of directions, and they may do things that appear contradictory at time, or poorly thought out at other times, but when we get to the end of our existence, and can see the whole novel laid out before us, we will know without a doubt what they intended for our lives.”
He softened.
“But don't worry, Trixie, if you have truly seen an Author face-to-face, you need to just believe that whatever He said will come to pass. If He said there would be no more killing, then you should just believe Him, and if Ernie says otherwise, then Ernie must be wrong.”

There was a crumbling sound, and an excited cheer from the mole tunnel.
“We've broken through!” came a call.
“We've found the remaining Evanses!” another added.
Trixie looked down the tunnel, and whispered, “But what if He didn't say there would be no more killing? What if all He said was 'I'll see what I can do?'”

As she said this, the final three remaining Evanses burst into the cavern through the mole hole. The moles re-emerged, followed by a Conference of Small Furry Woodland Creatures Who Believe in the Existence of an Author for The Authors. All of the various creatures formed a ring, and the three Evanses, and Pam, Taylor, and Trixie, were all hustled into it. The two groups stood facing each other, while the various critters called out their various messages of support and doctrine.

“You can do it!”
“There are no Authors!”
“Death to the Evanses!”
“Prophetess Pam rocks!”
“The Authors are but creations themselves!”
“Go the Evanses!”
“I think David is the hunky one of the Authors.”
(This last heretic was promptly thrown out of the cavern.)

But after a moment, the crowd began chanting in a more unified manner.
“Only one team can win!”
“Only one team can win!”
“Only one team can win!”

Trixie looked to Taylor, to Pam, and then across at the Evanses, who glared back.
How were they going to win?
Would there be more killing, or would the vague promise of support from one Author be enough to cause a different outcome?
Would there be a resolution soon, or would there be a delay due to Valentines Day taking precedent over blog-novelling?
Trixie took a breath, exhaled, and wondered what to do.

Chapter Twenty-Four *** Chapter Twenty-Six