Kaligraphic Printer

Stefan and his old friend Gustaf were on holiday in a remote Indian region.

Against Sefan's better judgement, Gustaf had cajoled him into entering the dark interior of a Hindu Mystic's tent, who plied the dubious trade of a teller of fortunes.

The sight that greeted them on entering filled them with a mixture of wonder, excitement and dread.

Amidst the swirling trails on incense, strange symbols could be seen crawling over every surface, their rich, dark colours barely illuminated by the gloomy light of rows of flickering electric candles.

The centre of the room was dominated by an apparatus that looked like the offspring of a marriage between an ancient remington typewriter, a valve radio, and the back of a 1950s television with its rear cover removed. "Let's get out of here" hissed Stefan, but before they could move another inch, their exit was blocked by the presence of a figure silhouetted against the light creeping in from the half open tent flap.

Her face portrayed a countenance that alternated between cunning and ageless wisdom, simultaneously welcoming and disdainful in equal measures. Stefan and Gustaf exchanged nervous glances of anticipation, whilst they sat down at the table, placing their hands on the small mats, as instructed. A bundle of crumbling wires lead away from the mats into the heart of the apparatus. The mystic took each of their left hands in turn into her own and began to drone out an incantation, her voice taking on a deep resonance that betrayed her slender frame. Her hands then moved over to the keyboard, the rings on her fingers rattling in harmony with the ancient clacking of the keys.

The results of what followed can only be described, but never seen. As Stefan and Gustaf gazed in wide-eyed wonder, a diminutive figurine representing the God Kali, that was perched nearby, sprang into mechanical life.

It was now obvious that this figure was connected to the rest of the apparatus and was in fact its printer. Each of its many arms terminated in a hand that gripped a pen. As the parchment scrolled past the figure, the arms became a choreographed blur, each one pausing occasionally to dip its nib into one of the many bottles of ink that were lined up adjacently. Its internal mechanism was a wonder of perfectly synchronised tiny spinning cogs, worm drives, pulsating levers, and motors. A faint machine oil smell leaked into the atmosphere. When the printing was complete the figure swivelled up its arms and seemed to actually stare out gravely with its vacant brass eyes at Gustaf and Stefan, whilst its mechanism slowly returned to rest.

The mystic presented our two travellers with their fortunes, now richly inscribed on separate parchments, and hidden under sealed protective covers. “These can never be shown to anyone, not even each other” The mystic’s silvery voice resonated in their ears as they returned home, the afterimage of the Kaligraphic printer’s warning gaze continuing to fill them with an enduring dread.