Ambergris

Music by Steve Kilbey, Peter Koppes, Tim Powles, Marty Willson-Piper
Words from the book Shriek: An Afterword by Jeff VanderMeer

Appears On:

The words on this track are from Shriek: An Afterword, Part One, Chapter 1, end of 4th section & start of 5th – pp. 23-24 (Ltd. Ed. pp. 11-12) then p. 25 (Ltd. Ed. p. 14) starting at 3:26.

Narration

Dare I deprive the reader of that first glimpse of Ambergris? That first teasing glimpse during the carriage ride from the docks? That glimpse, and then the sprawl of Albumuth Boulevard, half staid brick, half lacquered timber? The dirt of it, the stench of it, half perfume, half ribald rot. And another smell underneath it—(Coughs)—the tantalizing scent of fungi, of fruiting bodies, of spores entangled with dust and air, spiraling down like snow. (Violently coughs) The cries of the vendors, the cries of the newly robbed, or the newly robed. The first contact of shoe on street out of the carriage—the resounding solidity of that ground, and the humming vibration of coiled energy beneath the pavement, conveyed up through shoe into foot, from foot into the rest of the body suddenly energized and woken up. The sudden hint of heat to the air—the possibilities! (Maniacal laughter)—and, peeking out from the storm drains, from the alleyways, the enticing, lingering darkness that spoke of tunnels and sudden exploration. One cannot mention our move to Ambergris without setting that scene, surely! That boulevard became our touchstone, in those early years, as it had to countless people before us. It was how you traveled into Ambergris, and it was how you carried them out when you were finally left.

But as fascinated as Duncan would become with Ambergris, he went elsewhere for his education. At our mother's insistence, in one of her few direct acts of parenting. Duncan received his advanced degrees in history from the Institute of Religiosity in Morrow {or as the historians call it, "that other city by the River Moth," a good hundred miles from Ambergris} Hooo-ahhh! Yeah! Hoo-hoo-hooaaahhhh! Yeah! No, no, no, no, no....

Duncan devoted one dark, ripe little corner to the "changing facade of Ambergris," as he called it. At first, this corner consisted only of overlapping street plans, as if he were building an image of the city from its bones. The stark white paper, the midnight black veins of ink, contrasted sharply with everything else in his rooms. (Maniacal laughter) No, no, no, no, no....

Original Text from Shriek: An Afterword:

Dare I deprive the reader of that first glimpse of Ambergris? That first teasing glimpse during the carriage ride from the docks? That glimpse, and then the sprawl of Albumuth Boulevard, half staid brick, half lacquered timber? The dirt of it, the stench of it, half perfume, half ribald rot. And another smell underneath it—the tantalizing scent of fungi, of fruiting bodies, of spores entangled with dust and air, spiraling down like snow. The cries of vendors, the cries of the newly robbed, or the newly robed. The first contact of shoe on street out of the carriage—the resounding solidity of that ground, and the humming vibration of coiled energy beneath the pavement, conveyed up through shoe into foot, and through foot into the rest of a body suddenly energized and woken up. The sudden hint of heat to the air—the possibilities!—and, peeking from the storm drains, from the alleyways, the enticing, lingering darkness that spoke of tunnels and sudden exploration. One cannot mention our move to Ambergris without setting that scene, surely! That boulevard became our touchstone, in those early years, as it had to countless people before us. It was how you traveled into Ambergris, and it was how they carried you out when you finally left.

But as fascinated as Duncan would become with Ambergris, he went elsewhere for his education. At our mother's insistence, in one of her few direct acts of parenting. Duncan received his advanced degrees in history from the Institute of Religiosity in Morrow {or as historians often call it, "that other city by the River Moth," a good hundred miles from Ambergris}, his emphasis on the many masters of the arts who had been born or made their fortune in Ambergris, as well as on the Court of the Kalif—for he saw in these two geographical extremes a way to let his interests sprawl across both poles of the world. He could not study the artists of Ambergris without studying the very anatomy of the city—from culture to politics, from economics to mammalogy. And because Ambergris spread tentacles as long and wide as those of the oldest of the giant freshwater squid, this meant he must study Morrow, the Aan, and all of the South. Study of the Kalif, which I always felt was a secondary concern for him, meant mapping out all of the West, the North.

Duncan devoted one dark, ripe little corner to the "changing facade of Ambergris," as he called it. At first, this corner consisted only of overlapping street plans, as if he were building an image of the city from its bones. The stark white paper, the midnight black veins of ink, contrasted sharply with everything else in his rooms. The maps were so densely clustered and layered that the overall effect reminded me of a diagram of the human body. Or, perhaps more metaphorically accurate, like a concentrated forest of intertwining vines {recalling the forests of my youth in Stockton}, through which no one could possibly travel, even armed with a machete.