#hidden within its pages is the location to my buried treasure but no one has found it

[corvidcall]

Tell me about your WIP :>

my WIP?? ah, you must mean THE ALBATROSS AROUND MY NECK

do you want an extremely long fanfic for a 15 year old free browser game? do you want a fic thats mostly focused on OCs, that only depicts two fan-favorite factions to talk about how they're evil? do you like fics that inexplicably have a lot of discussions about communist theory? not actually THAT much but like... wayyy more than you would have expected in a fanfic, and it's brought up inelegantly every single time??

well... that's weird. why do you want that?? your life will not be easy. that being said, perhaps you can enjoy The Book of Red Murder, my Fallen London fanfic that has been on a "short hiatus" for over a year because i wrote too hard and now every time i open Scrivener i have a panic attack!!! at 82k words, it is MAYBE 60% done. will it ever be 100% complete? its funny you should ask that!!! (gets real cozy in bed and goes to sleep)

[miraworos]

Azira Fell and the Apocalypse Scroll (T)

SUMMARY: The hunt is on for a mysterious and deadly scroll with the power to topple the world into chaos. Will Dr. Azira Fell, professor of Egyptology, find it in time to prevent the impending apocalypse? Or will an evil organization bent on destroying civilization find it first? To have even a chance at saving the world, he'll need to rely on the wily Anthony J. Crowley, professional guide and adventurer. But can Azira trust the inscrutable explorer, or will he lose his heart along with his life?

Or: A Good Omens Indiana Jones AU, because why not?

Ashmolean Museum, Oxford - 1935

Doctor Azira Fell hummed a few bars of Davies’ Op. 51 as he selected a couple of works from the Ashmolean library’s collection. Sunlight streaming through the clerestory window above ignited the gold-embossed lettering on the cover of a book chronicling the Ptolemaic dynasty near the end of the Hellenistic period. To Azira, who practiced knowledge the way others practiced religion, the glow seemed an omen of the treasure within.

Descending the step stool, he carried the volumes to a nearby table. He laid them as softly as possible on the polished oak and tugged the lamp chain. Then he sat in the high-backed chair, wiggling ever so slightly with the anticipation of the chase.

The passages for which he was searching would likely be buried in the usual drivel of martial accounts, rankings, and supply inventories. The Romans really were such tiresome windbags about conquest. Very few saw the forest through the trees with all their facts and figures and mind-numbing reports. Thus, it was up to Egyptologists like Dr. Azira Fell, associate faculty of Oriental Studies at the University of Oxford, thank you very much, to find the occasional tree that hinted at the actual forest.

Azira took out his small, leather-bound journal, opened it to where the stub of a pencil was wedged into its pages, and began to record the call numbers of the volumes he’d selected. With any luck, he’d have a few hours uninterrupted by students to collect a handful of tidbits meriting further investigation.

“Dr. Fell!”

Azira’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. So much for uninterrupted hours. He hadn’t even made it five minutes.

“Dr. Fell, you have to see this.”

Anathema Device, Azira’s research assistant and the first American woman to study Oriental Studies at Oxford, popped out from behind a set of nearby stacks, breathless with excitement.

“There you are,” she said. “I knew you’d be prowling around the 932s. Look at this.”

She hurried forward, holding a hardcover book open toward him. He recognized it at once as her mother’s account of her expedition to Nubia at the turn of the century, before Anathema was born. Her mother’s obsession with Egyptology inspired Anathema’s own passion for the profession.

“What is it, dear?” he said, as he took the book from her hands.

“I’ve read this entire thing cover to cover so many times, but I never noticed this before,” she said, her face alight like it always was when she made a new conceptual connection or discovery in her research.

Azira looked at the place on the page to which she was pointing, but didn’t immediately see the source of her excitement.

“I don’t understand,” he said apologetically.

She took the book back and read aloud. “In late 34 BC, authorities on behalf of Emperor Octavian claimed that Mark Antony had stolen a sacred scroll from the Library of Pergamum and gifted it to Cleopatra of Egypt as recompense for the burning of the Alexandrian scroll collection during Caesar’s Civil War.”

“Yes, but that was a false account to discredit Antony. Your mother knew that. We all know that.”

“That’s not the interesting part,” Anathema said, grinning wider. “It says a sacred scroll as in one—not many. Scholars generally accept that the rumor stated Antony gave Cleopatra something like 20,000 Pergamum scrolls. Not one sacred one.”

Azira stood up. “You think she means the scroll? The scroll about th-the—Macedonian, er—”

“The Macedonian spice route,” she finished for him with a significant look. “Yes. I think she could have meant that. Hiding an indicator in plain sight is just like her.”

He took the book from her again and traced the spidery writing with excitement. Anathema’s mother was considered the preeminent authority on all things occult during the Ptolemaic Dynasty. That’s how Anathema had come to learn of the sacred scroll in the first place, through bedtime stories her mother had told her. Azira had learned of the scroll through other means, naturally, but when each had discovered the other knew of it, they instantly formed a bond that, over the last two years, had led to a close and trusted friendship.

“There’s more,” Anathema said, eyes dancing. “I looked up sacred scroll in her index, and the page it has listed is a separate page entirely, with no mention of a sacred scroll at all.”

“Which page?”

Anathema flipped the pages while Azira held the book for her. She stopped a third of the way further forward in the book, and pointed at a sketch of statue.

“I’m betting it’s some kind of coded location. But I haven’t worked out if it’s the picture or the words or both.”

“Good lord, Anathema. Are you sure it isn’t just a misprint?”

Anathema arched a cool eyebrow at him. “My mother never made mistakes. Not when it came to her study of Egypt. Never once.”

And, of course, she was right. Azira suggesting that the book was flawed was ludicrous. He had found firsthand accounts with less historical accuracy than the meticulously researched analysis he was now holding.

“Agnes Nutter, you sly devil,” Azira said, scanning the page Anathema had indicated. “You realize this means that not only did she know where the scroll was, or at least what happened to it—“

“—she also knew it was too dange—er, valuable, I mean—historically speaking—to let fall into the wrong hands.”

Azira was too lost in thought to chastise her near slip, though heaven knew what spies lurked in the stacks, just waiting for a crumb of information to fall.

“So it does exist,” he muttered to himself. “It does exist, and its location is knowable. It has been found at least once, and if it could be found by her…”

“It can be found by people other than us. Which could be bad.”

Azira tapped his lips, turning the puzzle over in his mind as he gazed at the page. “But where to start? We can’t go haring off into the desert without a proper destination in mind, my dear. We simply can’t afford it.”

“We could ask the Egypt Exploration Fund for an investment.”

“An investment for what? We’d need to tell them what we were looking for—”

“—the Macedonian spice route—”

“—as well as actually produce something of value upon our return. We can’t excavate a ghost, Anathema. No one would subsidize that.”

“On the contrary, brother,” boomed a voice from near the staircase about ten feet away from Azira and Anathema. “We may be able to come to some arrangement.”

Gabriel, patriarch of Azira’s extended family and, regrettably, Azira’s half-brother, approached their table with a jackal’s smile.

“What kind of arrangement?” Azira said with trepidation. He didn’t trust Gabriel any farther than he could throw him, family or no.

“Well, it just so happens Mother has a keen interest in the Byzantium-antiquities trade gaining momentum in the Mediterranean region.”

“What do tourist trinkets have to do with my research on the, er, the evolution of the gastronomical trade in the early Roman Empire?”

“I think your interests overlap quite nicely with the Foundation’s objectives in this case.”

The Foundation was the philanthropic arm of the White Dove evangelical organization Azira’s extended family had founded generations ago. It used monetary inducements to attract vulnerable populations into the fold, often at the price of sacrificing their cultural identity and heritage. That’s what had pushed Azira toward Egyptology and the study of antiquities in the first place. He wanted to protect the cultures and histories and identities of the people that White Dove’s Foundation tended to erase.

“What are the Foundation’s objectives, if I may?”

“Profit, of course. Profit that can then be turned to…charitable causes.”

“And by charitable, you mean missionary, I presume?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Don’t forget that a sizable donation from the Foundation helps maintain this academic institution you love so much.”

“You still haven’t said what it is you want me to do,” Azira reminded Gabriel as Anathema slowly closed her mother’s journal and eased backward to be half-hidden behind Azira. Smart girl.

“We need you to travel to Cairo and make inroads with the traders in antiquities. You have an eye for these things. You can tell when something is worth procuring.”

“And what do you intend to do with any relics I obtain?”

“Why, resell them, of course, at a price more fair for the discerning market,” Gabriel said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the mysteries of the pharaohs have caught the imagination of others in the empire, others who happen to have the benefit of deep pockets. And why not indulge their petty interests if it encourages them to give generously to God’s chosen causes? In exchange, you could mount your expedition for your gastronomical …. whatever ... in your spare time, with our resources and our blessing.”

Azira pursed his lips, on the verge of refusing Gabriel’s request, no matter the familial consequence to himself. He didn’t need Gabriel’s blessing to go about his life, nor did he want it. If he was ever given it, he’d have to immediately examine at length whether he wanted to continue doing whatever it was that Gabriel approved of. Azira wouldn’t go so far as to classify Gabriel as evil—he was Azira’s brother after all—but if not outright malicious, then he was something just this side of it.

The refusal hovered on Azira’s tongue, despite the small nudge of a pointy elbow in his back. Anathema clearly wanted him to take the deal. But it was hardly worth the burden of being under Gabriel’s thumb again. The last time Azira had been in a similar position, it had not gone well.

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about setting up an antiquities trade, Gabriel. How would I even find these so-called traders? How would I know I could trust them to deliver a bona fide artefact?”

“No worries on that score,” he said with false amiability. He took a black card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Azira. It simply read “Crowley,” with no address or number, only a snake sigil curled along the left-hand side. “This man is affiliated with a trusted business associate of mine. He’ll see to you, help you set up when you arrive.”

“And how do I find him, then?” Azira asked, agitated. “There are no details on this card.”

“Oh, he’ll find you,” Gabriel assured him. “Your accounts have been furnished with whatever funds you might need for travel and expenses.”

Guide or not, funding or not, Azira simply didn’t have the wherewithal to do what Gabriel was asking.

“Gabriel, I don’t think—“

Gabriel took that moment to lean into Azira’s personal space, looming over the shorter man with a deceptively mild expression.

“Listen, Sunshine. I may have understated things when I posed this as a request. You will do as I say, or I will be forced to withdraw my protection from you and my financial support from this fine academy. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Azira swallowed. Much as he’d regret the loss of the funds to the university, the larger threat lay in the euphemistic “withdraw my protection from you,” which meant far more sinister things than the words themselves invoked.

“I look forward to monitoring your progress,” Gabriel said with barely concealed contempt as he shook Azira’s hand and tipped his hat to Anathema. “And, as always, Godspeed.”

Then with a dramatic swirl of his argent coat, he took his leave.

Azira stared speechless after his brother. He hadn’t even agreed to go. But that was how White Dove, and its founding family, operated. No one was permitted to say no. Questions were forbidden unless strictly necessary. Only the most powerful family members were chosen to lead, and if those leaders dictated that something be done, it was done—end of conversation.

Azira had thought he’d escaped it by becoming an academic. For the last fifteen years, he’d managed to skirt most family engagements and nod politely at the ones he couldn’t avoid, until almost no one in the family even remembered he existed, but for the annual expense in the ledger with Oxford as the payee. Or so he’d thought. It appeared he was still very much on Gabriel’s mind, in the event that he might prove useful.

“Well, that was…something,” Anathema said, returning to her position by his side. “Is he always that pushy?”

“Most times, he’s worse,” Azira admitted glumly. Then he looked at the card in his hand, the snake sigil sending a thrill of foreboding down his spine. “Cairo.”

“Don’t look so downtrodden. This is exactly what we wanted,” Anathema said, laying a reassuring hand on his arm.

“It’s not the expedition that worries me,” Azira answered softly, tucking the card in his coat pocket. “It’s the demons we will owe when we return.”

Read Chapter 2 on AO3

Start at Chapter 1

[remember-wim-faros]

Episode 1 - Are You Listening?

[voice echoing] When a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it,

it makes a sound!

[birds chirping] Ladies and gentlemen. We have found the music! It had been lost, as so many things are lost. Missing, disappeared, misplaced, vanished. Every day, what falls into obscurity without anybody noticing? Without anybody paying attention. What is locked in the attic?

I mean, let’s talk about some things that have been found in an attic, or spaces like attics. Did you know that Van Gogh’s “Sunset at Montmajour”, that beautiful painting, was found in an attic? Or that the original handwritten manuscript of “Huckleberry Finn” was found in an attic? The “Venus de Milo” was, well no it’s no-not an attic but, buried in a farmer’s field, unearthed by a peasant who came across some stubborn soil.

Did you know that the only copy of the pilot of “I Love Lucy” lay under the bed of Pepino the clown for 30 years, until it was swept out by his widow when she finally cleaned up around the place and taught to herself, this is pretty funny.

All these masterpieces just a broom sweep away from history’s dustbins.

And today, today! Recovered from a neglected attic of a suburban townhouse, one cassette tape destined to be sold in a garage sale, containing what is likely to be the first recorded concert of Wim Faros.

So.. who is listening? Hello? I’m Deirdre Gardner, and I welcome you to my new show. “It Makes a Sound”. [thumping, windchimes] It’s the first and only show in the nation dedicated to Wim Faros, native son of our Rosemary Hills. Where together, we’ll be part of a musical legacy. We will prepare to receive the genius that is Wim Faros. And to return him, like a prodigal son, to this deprived land. I will be the one to provide you up to the minute news and information about the artist, as I discover it. The name – Wim Faros. The subject – genius. And its location? Where us extraordinariness, I ask myself, don’t you? Don’t you ask yourself that? Extra..ordinariness, where I it today? Where are the truly exceptional ones who, out of our sheer proximity to them allow us to glimpse the intersection of our little lives, with the profound? Who walks among us? Is there anyone? Who walks among -us-, all the little uses? [chuckles] Uses… eh, eh, rolling lint off our pants. Uses, squeezing avocados in the grocery store and never picking the ripe one. Uses um, driving up and down the side streets to work because highway frightens uses. Uses um, drinking chamomile, attempting inverted yoga poses, popping melatonin and crossing our fingers as we slink into bed for the night. Where can we look here, in this vast wearied landscape of Rosemary Hills? Where our weathered old water tower reminds us in fading letters of past town mottos. Such as “golf capital”. Or “Rosemary Hills is alive with the whirr of commerce.” Or “Let’s tee in the hills.” But where now, the best boast we can master is “easy access to the highway”.

Well. Here, amidst the now abandoned golf course and its neglected grass, amidst the shuttered strip malls and these potholed streets, the extraordinary has tread. And the footprints, they linger. If you know how to look for them. And I think I do.

My fellow people of Rosemary Hills, citizens of the world, what have you forgotten? What treasures have we hidden under cobwebs and dust? What beauty awaits us on the other side of that drywall, as we wrestle fitfully in our sleep? What life lingers on these old fairways? What wonders just passed us by, as we bowed our head towards.. uh, a brightened 3-inch screen? Our necks hurt, our brains are zapped from too much screentime, our souls ache, and suddenly decades have past us by. Like poof. What are we missing?

Do we remember what used to be held in the delicate folds of our heart? Do we remember how things used to sound? Smell. Feel. Taste. I want to.

It’s time to unpack the attic! Today, we have a mind-boggling discovery. A confirmed to be authentic tape containing what is known to be Wim Faros’ debut public musical appearance here in Rosemary Hills, in the year 1992. And so we are not going to rush this moment, like we rush everything. We’re gonna slow down, we’re gonna savor. We are going to consider the tremendous significance of this relic. In order to fully appreciate it.

And thus, it is my privilege on this day of days to hold in my hands this freshly discovered tape. It’s an ordinary-looking cassette tape. But.. it’s possible some of you have never held a cassette tape. I will explain. Because, though it contains the stuff of wonder, to the human eye it is just a 3,5 by 2-inch clear plastic rectangle with two holes in the middle. And these holes, they have six little black teeth. Non-threatening teeth, so that you could feasibly uh, insert a pencil or a pinky finger, should sometime go [wry] [0:10:09]. Like if the delicate tape needs your manual assistance.

Now that tape is a very thing, translucent gray strip, of course containing some magnet um, magnetic properties. So and it’s spooled around the left hole, and as the tape plays in the cassette tape player, the tape will run along the bottom edge of the rectangle across a tiny magnetic strip. And the magnets pull the music out, with magnetic force, until it is fully spooled around the right hole, which means the tape is finished and you have heard the music. And that’s how a cassette tape works.  

I’m Deirdre Gardner. This is “It Makes a Sound”. I am describing a cassette tape.  Perhaps the most important cassette tape there ever was.

No won this particular model, we have a yellow sticker that covers the smooth section of the cassette. Nad written on that cover in purple felt tip pen, in bubble letters, is “Wim Fa”, but a waterspot has obscured the “ros”, leaving a purply pink splotch. It’s very pretty, like a watercolor. And underneath, with that same pen and font: “1992”. Crudely drawn stars in uh, multiple colors of pen, speckle the entire sticker. I mean… it’s great. it’s really incredible that one small object can capture so much of an entire era, even just aesthetically. We all seek the soundtrack of our lives, don’t we? And we wish to be privy to the voices of our generation. Yet it its a profound rarity that an artist like Wim Faros crosses into your limited sphere of existence. It’s like an alien prophet touching down on a ordinary Tuesday afternoon in a chain store called The Last Topper. Suddenly making the universe crack open to reveal infinite shards of meaning barely comprehensible to you. Standing there in cargo shorts, holding a casserole dish. Yes, yes. it’s hard to determine the full effect on Wim Faros’s music on this simple town of Rosemay Hills in the early-to-mid 90’s. it’s difficult to quantify the extent of – sacred devotion he inspired in his earliest fanbase.

How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? That was a time without social media and its um, incessant public proclamations to hashtag, trending desires of the moment. Yesterday’s youth had to be more – intuitively united in our common affections. Had to keep the faith that even in a friendless existence, for instance as an example, living in an inherited furnished townhouse on the edge of Rosemary Hills’ gated golf course community, there were kindred souls somewhere underneath that same blue sky, wishing and waiting for a connection, just like you. Though perhaps at times to love in solitude, from afar, in the most generic of settings, was lonely and painful. That melancholy was trumped by a feeling of purpose. The purpose that comes from knowing that if someone out there could so perfectly capture the nuanced secrets of your soul, there must be greatness and solace in this universe indeed. isn’t that why we listen to the music? Isn’t that why we listen to the music?

We must ready ourselves to listen to the music. But I will say, even without the ease and benefit of cached fan pages or blogs serving as testimony to the early Wim Faros effect, the artist did manage to be a catalyst of cultural awakening in the town zeigeist. If a town can have a zeitgeist, can – sure. And there is archival evidence of the first reactions to Faros’s artistry. In fact… I happen to be in possession of documents from a Rosemary Hills resident who encountered Wim Faros in his earliest musical phase. Now, some of these pages are enclosed within a purple velveteen diary that I now have in front of me. The writing appears to be by the0 hand of a 12-year-old, I would estimate. And the paper is white ruled. And I seem to have come across a lengty series of haiku. Perhaps I sould share just a few of thes with you, for the sake of research. it’s a segment.. [rummages around] We’ll call it – the poetry of a little us.

[bangs a cong] You have changed my life by allowing me to see even thought you don’t see me.

[cong] I am hard to see in a golf community with many sand traps.

[cong]

You have a blind spot for almost nothing. But one in the size of me.

[cong]

I am the catcher you are a rare butterfly that I cannot grasp.

[cong]

Butterflies upclose freak me out. But you fly free, beautiful and free.

[cong]

I catch butterflies, yes, but I am afraid too. A contradiction.

[cong]

Faithfully you come to the window of my dreams singing: la la la.

[cong]

What is this music? Like, I never heard music before you played it.

[cong]

Now, those are just a few haikus and there are lots more, [chuckles] written here in Rosemary Hills circa 1991-1992. Likely dedicated to one Wim Faros.

[pause] If you’re just tuning in, hello. Welcome. I’m Deirdre Gardner, and this is the first episode of my show, “It Makes a Sound”. A discovery has been made in the attic. it’s Wim Faro’s first live album. It’s the real deal, it’s not a hoax, and it’s so rare that he only known copy exists, recorded from some distance, on a cassette tape. There is nowhere else in the entire universe where you will be able to hear a 16-year-old Wim Faros shaping what comes to be known as the sound – of an epoch. E-P-O-C-H. Stay with me and you will hear it here first, folks, because I have the tape and you’re gonna get exclusive access.

So we’re discussing Wim Faros’ formative teenage years as a musician, right here in Rosemary Hills. We’ve just begun working towards a fuller understanding of the human behind the mu-

[static] [hoarse voice] Who’s there? Who?

Deirdre: Oh, Jesus..

[static] I know, I know.. I know you! I knew!

Deirdre: Are you asleep?

[static, snoring]

Deirdre: Are you? Who’s that? (It’s something). OK. OK.

OK. Everything is good. I’m back. And i’m excited to introduce a new oral history segment of the show, based on town legend and lore around Wim Faros. It’s called – a portrait of the artist as a young man.

[music box plays] A light in the window of the second floor. The only window on the second floor, means Wim Faros is in his bedroom. And almost always when he is in his bedroom, he is drawing on the wall. What was on that wall? Everything was on that wall. The winds of change blew on that wall. The.. unfettered scrawl of technicolor wonders. The rainbow, a paltry container for the variety of colors applied to that wall. New color names would have to be invented. The ongoing overlapping shifting images and symbols, muraled, frescoed, appliqued, on that wall. All these ideas spewing forth from the eclectic multitudes of a single creative mind. In a blue and tan flannel shirt, his right arm braced against the drywall in an L-shape above his head. The bottom of his sleeve ripped and hanging down, he looks like he’s whispering secrets in a confessional. But he is drawing. There’s a lava lamp somewhere, out of view of the window, and it casts blobby spots that climb up and down the room, catching Wim’s distorted shadow when he’s out of view of the window frame. His left hand moves delicately or scribbles furiously. He is left-handed, as statistics prove that most geniuses are. If you’ve been watching, over the course of several months, you would have seen – his fantastic mural take shape.

In the center, a five-foot tall octopus, with the uncannily rendered face of Diane Sawyer. Her arms spread open, Christ-like, with magnolia blossoms and spiders dripping from her fingers. A flock of owls flying over a forest of pine trees. Each face of the moon, paired with a pizza pie of different toppings. Eight personalized pan pizzas, for eight different moons. A ninja army battling a family of squirrels throwing sharp acorns. Pages falling from a Gutenberg Bible into the gaping mouth of a Native American chief. Snoop Dogg. Scully riding a Mulder centaur as Ross Perot hoverboards over their heads! He was getting political.

As the seasons pass, the wall incrementally becomes and intricate map of his fertal, fertal inner life. Repetitions of hummingbirds and starfish, cans of beans, nunchucks. Later, peacocks. A dragon breathing fire, melting the iceberg just before it sinks the Titanic, which passes into clear skies. Dracula playing video games in front of a television set, flickering with an image of outrage from the Rodney King riots. And toaster strudels flying out of toasters into the rings of Saturn! Kurt Cobain offering an origami swan to a sobbing River Phoenix. And hundreds of other elegantly drawn details, too small to make out from a distance, that create a constellation of.. enlightened connectivity across the peeling beige wall.

And almost every night, after all the lights in the windows of the bungalow go dark, if you cared enough to pay attention, you would see the single beam of a flashlight splice a path behind the house, pointed towards a lopsided shed some 40 yards away. And if you were standing right up against the fence that separates Rosemary Hills’ gated golf course community from the unincorporated land that stretched out behind the scattered houses on Chamelia Road… you would hear a soulful strum of guitar, and a crescend of drums. Because in that decaying shed, surrounded by the loneliest darkness that is suburban darkness, is where young Wim Faros made the music. It was that music that pulsed through this town, permeated the air, pumped through the water.

Did everyone hearken to the call? No. If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it wall, does it make a sound? Well. I’m here to tell you: trees have fallen. Trees are falling. And you may listen, but do you hear?

People of Rosemary Hills, it is time to hear. It is time to hearken. Hearken. I believe in your ears. Wim Faros sang for you. You didn’t know, but he will sing for you again. He has been lost in the attic, but now he is found. And maybe, [sighs] I don’t know. Maybe… maybe you’ve been lost in the attic too. There was greatness in our midst, transcendence, eccentricity, nuance. I’m Deirdre Gardner, and I believe that when a tree falls in a forest, it makes a sound. And i’m inviting you to try, to truly hear, and to remember. So stay tuned for my next episode when that music, lost but now found, will be born again straight into your ears. When you hear the first track from Wim Faros’ debut concert. The first track, perhaps, of the rest of your life.

This has been the inaugural episode of the first and only show in the nation dedicated to the music and legacy of Wim Faros. Thank you for listening. If you have any information about Wim Faros that you think should be shared with our listeners, or if you own a working cassette tape player, do not hesitate to contact me. Um, I, I guess for now you shoud just ca- um email me at ddg at.. no let’s not do that um, i’ll create, I’ll create a new, yes you can contact me at wimfaros@aol… Actually no. please contact itmakesasound@aol.com. Thank you. I’m Deirdre Gardner. Til next time.

 [windchime]

“It Makes a Sound” is created and written by Jacquelyn Landgraf. Co-directed by Jacquelyn Landgraf and Anya Saffir. Sound design and engineering by me, Vincent Cacchione. Original music Nate Weida. With Jacquelyn Landgraf as Deirdre Gardner and featuring Annie Golden as the voice from downstairs. It Makes a Sound is a Night Vale Presents production. For more information on this show and other Night Vale podcasts, go to nightvalepresents.com. We hope you’ll rate and review “It Makes a Sound” on Apple Podcasts, and that you’ll tell your friends and all sorts of other humans to listen to the show, to hearken to the trees. And remember Wim Faros.