Chapter 359: It's a Long Way to Tipperary

Three minutes later, the world before his eyes began to recede.

Sinking into the Spirit Realm for the second time, Richard was already growing accustomed to the process.

It was still that same layer of thick, viscous "water," with threads of residual thought drifting past.

Richard probed outward with his Inspiration.

The first cluster was freezing cold. The moment he touched it, his physical fingers jerked in the material world, nearly dropping his fountain pen.

He hurriedly steered his Inspiration around the cold mass and brushed against a smaller cluster nearby.

His hand began to move.

The fountain pen scrawled a crooked first line across the blank paper—a northern Highlands Gaelic dialect.

His hand kept writing, only stopping after filling out the better part of a paragraph.

The fragment broke off there.

His hand released that cluster of thought, and his Inspiration drifted sideways.

His hand then wrote out a string of numbers, unattached to any language or symbol.

There were twenty-seven digits in total, separated into five groups by hyphens.

They didn't look like coordinates or any sort of date format.

The arrangement looked more like some sort of coding system.

His Inspiration continued drifting outward. The next few strands he fished up were just shallow dregs:

an accountant obsessing until his dying breath over a ledger discrepancy of three shillings and fourpence;

a maid still worrying over an unfinished bedsheet locked in an attic trunk, having stopped at the seventh embroidered rose and never getting to finish it.

Richard transcribed all of it, even though it probably wouldn't fetch much of a price.

[Learning], [Perception], and [Speculation] were all rising. He could feel it.

Especially [Perception]. It wasn't far from reaching Lv4.

His hand soon slowed down, the pen tip's trajectory shifting from text to sweeping arcs.

At first, Richard didn't think much of it.

He figured some formless residual thought was dragging the pen, much like the incomplete gibberish from earlier.

The line drew a long, upward slope.

Upon reaching the peak, it folded down, went back up, gave two short skips, and finished with a long, dragging arc.

It was a string of musical notes. He recognized the melody—or rather, the entire Empire recognized it.

"It's a Long Way to Tipperary."

Since the war began in August, this song had echoed across streets, taverns, and train station platforms.

Soldiers sang it as they boarded troop transport ships.

Newspaper correspondents had written that when the expeditionary force marched out from the Boulogne docks, the entire column had been singing this very song in unison.

The singing carried a mile down the embankment, and even the Franc fisherwomen helping lug ammo crates on the docks could hum along.

Evelyn had called him last week, mentioning a newly opened tobacco shop on Central Avenue in Briston.

The owner had set up a tin megaphone out front, playing "Tipperary" on a loop from dawn till dusk.

Richard's hand moved again, tracing out the notes completely for a second time, then a third.

He initially thought his mind was just wandering.

In a trance-like state, having a melody you heard every day pop into your head was perfectly normal.

Just like humming unconsciously in the shower, you didn't even need to think about it.

But by the fourth repetition, he realized something was wrong.

That song was echoing in the Spirit Realm.

Within the reach of his Inspiration, he could distinguish at least dozens... no, hundreds of voices.

From a distance, it sounded like a chorus.

Listening closely, however, revealed that it was hundreds of individuals each singing their own repetition, completely unaware of anyone else singing beside them.

The very instant he leaned forward, his shadow moved in the shallows.

He froze. Ink seeped from the nib, forming a tiny dot that slowly bled outward.

Mrs. MacNeil glanced at the Pocket Watch on the corner of the table. Twenty-two minutes.

She reached out and lightly patted the back of Richard's hand.

That layer of thick, viscous water receded.

The back of Richard's head throbbed slightly, but it was much better than the first time.

He looked down at the stack of paper. He had written four and a half pages in total.

Mrs. MacNeil took the stack and leafed through it, scrutinizing it far more carefully than before.

When she reached the Gaelic fragment on the first page, her brow lifted slightly.

"This has some value."

Her finger paused on a particular root word.

"A northern Highlands dialect. It's quite old..."

"This sort of conjugation was formalized long before Romanization. Whoever wrote this down memorized it orally; the strokes carry the habits of the tongue."

She moved the page closer to the candle.

"An exorcism-class fragment. The framework follows the same vein as a few Highland incantations I've seen before."

"You can sell it. There are a few old Guilds up in the Highlands that constantly buy these fragments to piece together restorations."

When she flipped to the string of numbers on the second page, she gave Richard a look.

"Did you smell anything from this one?"

"A mix of carbon and metal powder," Richard replied. "Someone in a cellar, carving digits into a copper plate."

Mrs. MacNeil used her Inspiration to feel the lingering scent on the paper.

"It might be an alchemist's formula serial number."

"There are a few private collectors in the Imperial Capital who specialize in buying these code indexes left behind by the dead. Occasionally, they'll stumble across a number that perfectly matches a lost recipe."

She turned the page and continued reading. She skimmed the disjointed bits very quickly.

Then, she reached the bottom half of the fourth page.

"To think this song is what you heard over in the Spirit Realm."

"Yeah." Richard leaned the back of his head against his chair.

"It was very far away. At least several hundred voices were singing."

"The melody was perfectly accurate... identical to what people sing on the streets and play on phonographs."

He stared at the ripples between the notes of the fifth repetition on the paper.

"But every time they reached the exact same spot, they paused for a beat. And during that paused beat, something twitched."

"Twitched how?"

"Hard to say." Richard's hand unconsciously brushed against the Silver Ring at his chest.

"It cleanly plucked a breath right out of their throats. Once it was pulled, the singing resumed until it hit the same spot in the next loop, and it would pluck again."

Mrs. MacNeil pulled that page from the stack.

"There's an incident lately that has already spread throughout the Imperial Capital and even the entire north."

She shifted her gaze away from the paper.

"Have you heard anything about the Phonograph Wax Cylinders anywhere else?"

Richard nodded.

"The version I heard went something like 'a woman's voice on a wax cylinder sang a song no one had ever heard before.'"

Mrs. MacNeil shook her head.

"The actual situation is far more troublesome than that."

"The songs these phonographs play change with the times. When rumors of war stirred, the ladies stopped listening to operas and started listening to marches and marching songs."

"Conscription ads are in the papers every day, and the phonograph wax cylinder factories have been working day and night to keep up."

"And all these new sounds were eaten by it."

She continued her explanation. "At first, no one thought anything was abnormal."

"The wax cylinders played 'Tipperary.' The whole Empire has been singing that marching song from top to bottom."

"The first incident happened in late September, during a parlor salon hosted by a lady in the Chelsea District."

"The phonograph finished playing, and everyone was still chatting. Nobody bothered to flip or change the cylinder."

"But the phonograph started playing on its own again, still looping the same song."

"The guests exchanged glances, assuming a maid had slipped and bumped the switch. They didn't take it to heart... After all, who would make a fuss over hearing that song one more time?"

She tapped her index finger against the tabletop.

"The next morning, seven of the eleven people present found themselves humming it."

"Think about it, why would anyone care?"

"The entire Empire is singing it. You wouldn't give a second glance to someone humming it on the street."

"A wife hums it in the kitchen, a husband whistles it while shaving, a child taps out the beat with a spoon at the dinner table. It couldn't be more normal."

"So no one cared."

Richard caught the underlying meaning in her words.

The more accustomed people were to something, the longer it took them to notice when something went wrong with it.

"Until the tenth day."

"Among those seven was a lady whose husband was a Practitioner at the Branch Office."

"He noticed something. Every time his wife sang to a certain spot—the exact position you noted in the sheet music where it catches for a beat—her mouth would pause."

"During that paused beat, her mouth kept moving."

"Her husband crouched beside her and listened closely several times but couldn't make out a thing."

"Her mouth moved, air flowed out, but the sound was intercepted between her throat and her lips."

"It wouldn't come out, but she didn't swallow it back down either."

"The husband was a Practitioner, so he moved in and took a look with his Spirit Vision."

"What did he see?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Later on, investigators from the Branch Office visited several times," Mrs. MacNeil continued.

"Every time they checked, the phonograph sat quietly, and the Ether field in the parlor was indistinguishable from any ordinary household."

"Did the lady stop singing?"

"She stopped the moment the investigators walked through the door."

"But the second they left, she started right back up."

"From late September to now..." Richard said slowly, "that's been over a month."

"And it's spreading," Mrs. MacNeil nodded.

This was the most difficult part: you couldn't ban people from singing it.

It was a pillar of wartime morale, a slogan on recruitment posters, the melody mothers hummed while fighting back tears as they sent their sons off on trains.

Ban it? You might as well ban the sun.

But every single person singing it could potentially be a node.

"The Imperial Capital Liaison Office is having a headache over it too."

Mrs. MacNeil added another detail.

"They find nothing every time they check. The reports can only state 'no anomalies found'."

She folded the paper neatly.

"And it's not just the Imperial Capital. Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow... Any city with phonographs, salons, and ladies' gatherings has begun to experience it."

"You can't distinguish between who is singing it normally and who is being led to sing it."

Richard looked at the musical notes on the paper.

He himself had heard "Tipperary" countless times.

At Greenwood, at the Briston train station, and from the hurdy-gurdy of the old man on the streets in the Academy District.

Mrs. MacNeil tucked the folded paper into her notebook.

"I'll take this one with me to show my teacher."

"Just keep it in mind yourself. Don't hum it, and don't tap out the beat on a table."

Richard kept his mouth shut tight.

But what was the point of not singing it himself?

The moment he walked out this door, people would be singing it on the main street. He couldn't stop them.

Mrs. MacNeil closed her notebook.

"As for the rest—the Gaelic incantation fragment and that serial number—I'll act as the intermediary and find buyers for you."

She started cleaning up the table.

"That numerical code mainly requires further verification. We'll hold onto it for now; there's no rush to sell."

"What about the melody?"

"The melody has no commercial value. Its value lies elsewhere."

Someone was using a song to accomplish something, doing it simultaneously from both sides of the veil.

The Angel of Mons was unwittingly manifested from the fear and prayers of tens of thousands of soldiers; once it was collected, the matter ended.

This song, however, was a net. Every person singing it was a knot, and the net was growing silently.

Mrs. MacNeil stood up.

"The base pay for this second commission is two pounds."

She counted out two one-pound notes from her handbag.

"Once the incantation sells, the buyer's payment will be mailed to you."

"Alright." Richard slipped the two bills into his wallet.

Mrs. MacNeil stood by the door curtain.

"Next time, you can try doing it yourself."

"I won't need supervision anymore?"

"No, but you can only do it at Imperial Capital University. The sealing arrays at Imperial Capital University are actually far more effective than me watching over you here."

She glanced toward the Silver Ring at Richard's chest.

"Besides, with my teacher's mark on you, the things over in the Spirit Realm wouldn't dare come too close."

She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck as the wind from outside drafted in through the corridor.

"But you have to stick to the rules."

"Don't probe too deeply. For each transcription, I recommend spacing them out by at least a month or two. Give yourself time to recover before continuing."

"Understood."

Mrs. MacNeil nodded and left, the curtain falling gently back into place behind her.

Richard sat in the darkness for a moment before standing up, pushing the curtain aside, and heading into the corridor.

Passing the bar, he saw the owner polishing a copper kettle.

"Go left out the door, walk to the end, then take a right. That street sign is crooked."

"I know. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Outside the alley, the main street was bustling.

In front of a small tavern across the street, two young men in military uniform crouched, smoking.

A few steps further down was the bus stop.

Richard stood on the platform, waiting for the next bus heading to the Academy District.

Someone was singing inside that tavern across the street.

"In the bustling Imperial Capital, an Irish lad arrived one day..."

"The streets seemed paved with gold, and everyone was gaily humming the song of Piccadilly..."

It wasn't just one person. Several voices were tangled together, carrying the slurred, spirited warmth of drunkenness.

"It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go..."

"It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know..."

They were singing "Tipperary."

"Goodbye, Piccadilly..."

"Farewell, Leicester Square..."

"It's a long, long way to Tipperary, but my heart's right there..."

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ROUGH ENGLISH TRANSLATION TO POLISH