by Glenn Myers
Almighty Toad
A good way to stop Zlotcwicvic Enngerrgrunden Transportowicz, Krakow rampaging through the door and across my duvet as I tried to sleep was to think systematically about food. Treat it like an exam question: List the foods of Singapore (as taught us by Annie, and as discovered through several research trips to the hawker centres in London’s Chinatown):
Hainanese Chicken Rice
Fish Head Curry
Mee Goreng
Laksa
Nasi Lemak
I was thinking so hard I kept accidently creating these dishes which materialized in front of me.
Chai Taw Kway
Rojak
Fishballs
Yong Tau Foo
Slept finally and in my dreaming slipped from roti prata and curry sauce, to chocolate, to Keziah, to marshmallows, to Mel dislodging a tooth to—where was I now?
It wasn’t the Dome.
I was propped up, half-sitting, half-lying. Every breath hurt. I was thirsty. Something was pumping oxygen up my nose. Lizzie’s voice.
‘Me again!
‘Mum and dad are still trying to sail to Madeira so that they can get a flight home. They sent their love as does Helen from work. There’s all kinds of people been popping in.
‘Alison said to call if your situation got worse. I said, “Alison, if his situation gets worse, I might as well just email you with the date of the funeral.” I thought you’d think that was funny. Anyway, she’ll come on Sunday if she can fit you in. The kids are with Oh-Hugh! this weekend. She doesn’t want to upset them by bringing them to see you. Exams.
‘You’ll like it in Intensive Care when you wake up. Every time you go through a door you have to wash your hands with alcohol. They said you’re not meant to lick it off, but I mean…
‘You gotta stay positive.
‘I’ve been telling your customers that you’re ill but that I know how to maintain your websites.’
(‘Nooooo!’ I thought to myself, in my sleep, my panic rising. Helen and Lizzie made up the two-woman graphic-design house Wizzy Graphics and they often produced material for my sites. Lizzie also knew where I kept my list of clients’ site passwords, in case something happened to me.)
‘I’ve always fancied having a go at that. You’ve never let me. Anyway, “It’s a good job,” I said to myself, “that he’s got his sister.”’
The hospital faded away after Lizzie’s voice stopped and my dreaming spirit made its way back to the Dome. I clearly needed a drink and possibly a large bowl of Bombay Mix.
O you beautiful Dome, I thought, with your splashing fountains, your fake sunshine, your girls, your lack of stress. I soon settled in the Shallow End of the pool to watch a demonstration match from the Brazilian Ladies’ Olympic Beach Volleyball Squad.
Until, that is, I heard someone tapping at the outer wall.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know who it was. I turned my head.
‘Caroline!’
She continued tapping. Water dripped off me as I clambered out of the pool.
‘What are you doing out there?’ I mouthed. I signalled for her to meet me at the main entrance. I was fairly sure I was in trouble of some kind, and began unpacking some excuses—not easy, since I wasn’t sure what I would be adjudged to have done wrong. Best get out a random selection:
‘Just having five minutes off, Caroline. After the day I’ve had.’
‘I’d no idea I was supposed to have phoned.’
‘No, of course I didn’t mean {whatever it is you thought I meant}.’
Maybe I should plead innocence: ‘Can I help it if the Brazilian Ladies’ Olympic Beach Volleyball Squad wants to practice some moves in my dreams?’ Innocence rarely worked with Caroline, however: you could usually only appeal the sentence, not the verdict.
The main entrance was heavily padlocked. Beyond was a row of polythene strips to keep the heat in. I undid the locks and pushed my head through the polythene strips. Outside, the wind was howling and the rain had lumps of ice in it. The gusts that whipped through the polythene strips were enough to cause storm damage to any naked extremities. Caroline’s hair was flat against her head—she looked wetter than I did—her lips slightly blue, her face white. Underneath the anger, in a soggy summer dress, was a vulnerable Caroline, perhaps, a Caroline who’s tried her best to look good but was feeling an idiot instead. A Caroline who wanted a hug.
‘What are you doing out there? You’ll freeze! Come in!’
‘I can’t,’ said Caroline.
‘Yes, you can. Come in.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ve already let in the Caroline you let in. I’m the Caroline you never let in,’ said Caroline.
‘You’re being enigmatic.’
‘I’m being perfectly clear.’
‘Caroline. Come in.’
‘Just go back to the Shallow End, Jamie.’
I sighed.
‘If you weren’t going to come in, why did you knock?’ (Why are you always making pointless gestures, Caroline, that I’m supposed to get?)
‘You don’t get it,’ she said.
I thought of the Bombay Mix back at the poolside.
‘Look,’ I reassured her, ‘this is just a dream. We’ll be OK in the morning.’
‘The Overlord and I have taken the view you’re doing very well and we’ve decided to fast-track you,’ said Leopold the next day. ‘We’re going to deal with the most important topic of all. The tools for relating with spirits. Quite a privilege, this. I hope you’re ready.’
This new day was a hot one in Paradise. I was dangling my feet in a fast-flowing stream at the edge of the clearing. Keziah was sitting crosslegged next to me, meditating on her cup of coffee. An orange sun was climbing through the pines. Leopold was perched on a log across the stream from us. A lesson on how to sit in a kilt would have been a good move, I couldn’t help thinking. ‘There’s really just one basic tool,’ he told us.
He looked at us. It may have been a trick of the rising sun, but I wondered if Leopold wasn’t perspiring a little. He crossed his wizened legs—on balance, a good thing. ‘It’s a tool that most people instinctively understand. But a tool that Western cultures have abandoned. Any ideas?’
I was avoiding his gaze and Keziah was still evolving her way out of the primaeval swamp called Morning. Leopold cleared his throat.
‘When we look at the research, we see that if these humans are going to be happy, they have to worship us.’
He looked at us sharply. ‘I know,’ he added hastily. ‘You may ask why? It’s so absurd. What can you give us? Nothing. But the research is clear. We lead you in worship, life for you gets a bit better. Happiness increases. There it is. A finding.
‘We say to ourselves, if we have to be the subject of their adoration and worship, if that’s what it takes, we’ll pay the price and do it.
‘With me so far?
‘So.’ Leopold glanced at Keziah and started rubbing the side of his neck very hard. ‘I thought we’d make a start today by worshipping Gaston.’
He coughed again. ‘Obviously, he is a senior spiritual being. That’s why he’s called, “The Overlord.” It’s quite appropriate. Trust me in this.
‘Clearly we’re going to have to do this in a way that is true to your cultural values. You have to worship the spirits with postmodern chic and sophistication rather than pre-modern ignorance.
‘Think of what the pre-moderns made to represent their gods. Strong things, like bulls. Goddesses with massive child-bearing hips. They worshipped the statue and that helped them worship the spirit behind the statue.
‘That idea obviously needs updating. Here’s my stroke of genius. This is what’s going to change the world. What do you make to represent your god? Any thoughts?’
He looked at us each in turn, legs still crossed.
‘No? I’m not surprised. This will stretch many great minds. What you make is a piece of Art, representing all that
makes you happy. An expression of thanks to the Overlord Gaston. Your own, personal, patchwork god. This is the revelation. Deep down, you know it’s true. It’s your heart’s desire. Thus saith the Lord.’
Leopold was so excited that he suddenly stood up and started to pace around.
‘Just imagine if this took off on earth itself! An end to branded gods! No more buying a religious franchise! Everyone with their own distinctive patchwork god looking over their house!’
The dyspeptic Leopold was looking ravenous. ‘Imagine the way it will bring families together, weaving and stitching a family god! Imagine the cottage industries springing up, helping people with design!
‘Some of these patchwork gods aren’t going to be physical artifacts at all—some will be pure creations of software and music. Imagine the town fairs to which people bring their gods! Imagine the renaissance in art and society!
‘Spirituality and creativity and humanity—buried for so long under a weight of rationalism, mass-production and branding—unleashed again in the world! And you’re the start!’
‘You couldn’t just run this by me again?’ I asked.
‘Just build a god of your own design and use it to worship Gaston,’ spat Leopold fiercely. ‘How hard is that?’
‘Well, I’ll give it a shot,’ I said.
‘Er,’ said Leopold, scratching the back of his neck. ‘Er—we do need you both.’
Keziah was holding the coffee mug to her lips as if it were a dear friend needing a hug. She looked up, green eyes steady and level. ‘It’s one of these basic things,’ continued Leopold. ‘Live together. Worship together. Basic.’ He swallowed.
‘Worship Gaston? Worship you?’ Keziah asked, eyes narrowing over the coffee mug.
Leopold massaged his chin. ‘Technically, you give devotion to very personal works of Art, that represent the spirits, so in a way…’
I said, ‘Keziah, I think it’s just one of those things we have to do. You know. To cooperate. Like we said.’
Leopold said, ‘Please?’
Keziah took a sip of coffee, put down the cup, looked Leopold right in the eye and said, ‘I would sooner go for a swim in the Lake of Fire.’ Then she neatly unfolded her legs, stood up, swept moist muffin crumbs off her lap, and walked away.
The sun continued to shine. Leopold was scratching his eyebrow furiously. A bird cheeped.
‘Oh dear,’ said Leopold.
With a sky-splitting caw, a fat pterodactyl dropped from a tree onto Keziah like a brick. It had two small hands on the end of thin lizardy arms and it used these to grab Keziah by the throat. It started jabbing her head with its beak. Keziah tried to fend it off, then made to punch and scratch its eyes. ‘I thought this might happen,’ said Leopold, wearily.
I took my feet out of the stream and walked hesitantly over to the fight.
‘Oy,’ I said to the pterodactyl, who aimed a vicious peck at me. ‘Ow!’
I took a step backwards. The pterodactyl lifted Keziah off the ground. It flew over the stream, circled, then dropped her. Arms flailing, Keziah landed heavily, raising some dust.
The fat pterodactyl came to earth, shrank in on itself, and re-emerged as Gaston. He was breathing heavily and flecks of spittle dotted his chin.
‘When we say worship!’ Gaston screamed at her, eyes popping, little moustache twitching, ‘we mean it!’
Keziah had landed awkwardly. She looked dazed for a second or two, then rolled over, stood up, dusted herself off.
She ran straight at Gaston, hands reaching for his throat, insanely brave. He looked shocked. Then he elbowed her savagely in the face, shoved her backwards, and hit her to the ground with his fist.
He looked like he was trying to get his feet the right way round to give her a kicking. At which point a trumpet blew.
Gaston froze. He and Leopold looked at each other, Gaston breathing fiercely.
Gaston then said something, using what I took to be a deep corner of language reserved for feelings more intense than humans can express. ‘Oh, bother’ seemed to be the direction.
Leopold was looking sheepish. ‘I did tell him that mid-morning would be the best time. I didn’t know it would be today though.’ He pulled up his white socks and started straightening his jacket.
I crossed the stream using stepping stones, walked to Keziah and helped her up.
‘You all right?’
‘What do you think?’ she asked, shaking me off.
‘I was going to help but he… pecked me on the head.’
Green eyes flicked over my face for a moment. ‘He pecked you on the head,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’
The trumpet blew again. Not a single blast this time, but what sounded like the beginnings of a rather good jazz riff.
Leopold, frantically smoothing his hair, stepped up.
‘Er—guys,’ he said. He linked his fingers, then unlinked them. ‘Guys. We do have a bit of an issue. I think we might have to postpone the actual worshipping. We can revisit it on another day. Sorry about that. The thing is—’ He flashed a quick look over to Gaston who was walking around in small circles. ‘We… have a visitor. He’s a very important spirit. He looks after us, in a way. This is a morale-booster, probably.’ He looked quickly from Gaston to Keziah, and from Keziah to me. ‘If I could just say this. It’s quite important that we all put on a good show for him. Laying aside any temporary differences.’
Leopold’s leg was jerking up and down. ‘Somebody here, for example, might think, why should I—well… here’s the thing. Our visitor is called “The Almighty Toad.”’
‘The “Almighty Toad?”’ I asked.
‘Yes, yes. He’s in senior management. Knows how to use a dagger. Now if we do all behave properly…’ Leopold swallowed and looked across at Gaston, who was staring at a tree and pressing his fist very hard into his open palm. ‘We’ll cancel the worshipping for the day. How does that sound?’
The sky rocked with another jazz riff.
Leopold was pleading.
‘OK,’ said Keziah, with a shrug.
‘Excellent,’ said Leopold. ‘I want us to line up in front of the house. Oh and Keziah. Please no mushrooms, darling. Please.’
We walked hastily to the cottage I’d built. Leopold fussed around us, as if for a photo-shoot. ‘Look natural,’ he hissed. He tried to neaten up my shirt. Keziah was much more crumpled than I, but Leopold held back from touching her.
The sky was throbbing with a trumpet solo, which just on the point of being astounding, failed. We heard a muffled, high-pitched curse.
Leopold dashed to my side. Gaston, like someone with hemaerroids, walked stiffly to stand next to Keziah, moustache still twitching.
A palanquin was descending. It was borne by a bull, a multi-armed woman with terrible hair, a thing like a sphinx, and a large black dog. Around them flew a cloud of small furry beings. The palanquin landed gently, the beings lowered it to the ground, and the woman with all the arms and the really bad hair opened the door. Everyone bowed, except Keziah. I inclined my head a tactful few inches.
What stepped out wasn’t a Toad, strictly speaking, wrong dimensions, but he was irresistibly Toad-like. Clad in a cloak and small crown, he peered myopically at the flying trumpet soloist and rasped, ‘Inadequate.’
The small flapping thing sighed—‘Aaah’—crumpled, fell to the floor, and lay twitching, like a fly caught under a fresh coat of paint. The other flying beasts whistled and cooed.
Calmly the Toad examined us in turn. His large eyeballs had bumpy things like warts growing on them. Then he nodded, ‘Gaston, Leopold.’ He had a faint voice, terribly dry.
‘Your Unholy Brightness,’ said Leopold, with a bow.
‘Magnificence,’ intoned Gaston, with a slow dip of his head.
‘Jamie Valentine Smith,’ wheezed the Toad. He moved across the forest floor like a tank, heavy and flat-footed. His green skin was sore and bits of it were flaking off. He put his face just a few inch
es from mine. His lips had fresh cuts in them.
Suddenly his tongue flicked out and probed my face, my eyes, my hair, my body. It was so quick and so disgusting, that I only had time to flinch.
He retracted the tongue.
‘Sound,’ he muttered to Leopold.
He trod over to Keziah and looked her up and down, flat face taut, diseased eyes greedy with lust. Keziah stood quite calm, in her sulky-teenager pose. I started to chew a knuckle. Irresistable force, unmoveable object, all that.
‘Keziah Grace Mordant,’ he wheezed, eyes searching.
‘Guided tour,’ he said abruptly to Gaston.
‘Leopold’s the chief trainer, my Lord Toad,’ said Gaston in a voice with all emotion strangled out of it. ‘As your Lordship knows, my role is the strategic planning and marketing.’
‘Guided tour,’ rasped the Toad.
‘Right,’ said Leopold. ‘My Lord Toad I’ll show you round and as we go I’ll explain the things I’ve been teaching. Obviously, that’s the true strength of the model. What they’re building is one instance of our values interacting with their creative natures. Not the only permutation, but an authentic proof-of-concept.’
‘Clear,’ said the Toad blandly.
‘Of course it is to you, my Lord Toad,’ simpered Leopold.
We trailed along behind.
After quarter of an hour, we returned to the front door.
‘Gaston, Leopold,’ breathed the Toad, ‘restrain Mordant.’ They looked at each other for a moment, then each grabbed one of Keziah’s arms. ‘Will view her habitat. Stay.’ He streaked away, leaving his cloud of flying animals.
‘Why is he doing that?’ Leopold asked Gaston, over Keziah’s head.
‘Just perversion, I expect,’ said Gaston. ‘Girls’ bedrooms.’ We stood around in silence until the Toad returned.
‘Learnt,’ he said, a smug look on his face.
‘Do you want to look at my habitat?’ I asked. I had nothing to hide. ‘I did a maglev.’ He looked at me a bit like he’d looked at his failed-trumpeter-insect.
‘Animal shut up,’ he wheezed.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Only offered.’
‘Question,’ said the Toad, turning to Leopold. ‘Worship practice of Smith and Mordant. Plans?’
‘That’s a good question, my Lord Toad,’ smiled Leopold, with a quick look over to Gaston. ‘I think it’s probably fair to say that we are still turning over in our minds whether to adopt a gradualist approach or a more robust process for the training. It’s rather nuanced.’
‘Gaston?’ asked the Toad, quizzically. ‘Opinion.’
Gaston’s face looked like he was being forced to eat egg-and-cress sandwiches at an Aunt’s.
‘It’s evolving, Majesty,’ he muttered finally.
‘Need faster progress,’ said the Toad, his voice hardly more than twists of dry breath. ‘Can’t wait. Go for Big Bang. Plunge in, sort it out early. This inspection? Satisfactory. Am taking personal charge. Daily meetings.’
‘Magnificence,’ gulped Leopold, ‘daily meetings will leave us very little time for finishing the training.’
‘Hour with me, more valuable than day with cattle. Efficiency will improve.’
‘Indeed, Almighty Toad, I don’t know what I was thinking of.’
‘In future, think before speaking,’ said the Toad. ‘New Trumpeter: closing theme. Note perfect.’
‘Your brightness,’ asked Gaston. ‘Do you know when it’s going to start?’
‘Negotiations ongoing,’ rasped the Toad, briskly. He looked at his retinue. ‘Closing theme.’
One of the furry animals started playing a tune. Gaston, Leopold, the Toad and the other furry beings all stood to attention, the furry beings flapping frantically to hover over the same spot. The Toad climbed back into his palanquin and the whole party rose languidly into the sky, leaving a little shower of crisp skin.
We watched them rise until the Toad became a fat blob surrounded by a cloud of dots against the blue sky. The Toad then sped away, a streak of light. The rest, like a shoal of mackerel, followed in a silvery flash.
Gaston and Leopold relaxed.
‘That was an experience,’ I said. ‘You said something about “When’s it going to start?” When what’s going to start?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing to concern you,’ said Leopold. ‘It’s a high-level thing.’
Keziah had walked over to where the furry animal was still writhing in the dust. I followed.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Keziah kindly, crouching down to see the little beast. It was mostly a trumpet. Underneath its fur it had wings and legs like an insect, a small head, and a huge, wobbly external lung. The being was lying on its side, and it moved up and down slowly as the lung worked.
‘First Trumpeter 291-3471,’ the voice was high-pitched.
‘That’s your name?’ I asked.
‘I have a stage name, “Miles”,’ squeaked First Trumpeter with dignity. He turned to lie on two of his little elbows, sitting up slightly to keep the throbbing lung off the floor. ‘Not everyone can remember it, though. There’s hundreds of First Trumpeters and they’ve all got wonderful stage names—supposedly!—so there’s no way for your ordinary punter to pick the silver from the dross. In any case, I think using my reference number has a kind of funky edginess.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘Didn’t practice enough.’
‘Do you work for the Toad?’ Keziah inquired.
‘Did,’ First Trumpeter squeaked.
‘What was your job then?’ I asked.
‘Ceremonial entrances and exits,’ said First Trumpeter, sitting up and wrapping his arms round his knees: one knee was wire-thin; the other looked like a central-heating joint. ‘See, we were promised jazz riffs, not just orchestra work. That’s why we all signed up. We get down here and, fair enough, you can launch your solo career.’
‘And?’ I asked.
‘No audience,’ said First Trumpeter. ‘No call for it. Anyone with spare admiration will keep it for when they need it. Nobody’s going to sit for nothing and just listen to you play. Even if you’re as good as me. So you have to get commercial work, praising others.’
‘How do you mean work?’ I asked. ‘Why do spirits need to work? As far I can see you don’t eat, you don’t die, you don’t need anything.’
First Trumpeter sighed. ‘Because we have massive, hypersensitive egos, forever hungering for admiration. That’s what we starve of, every day.’
‘You never thought of a career in law?’ I said.
Leopold, who had been in urgent conference with Gaston, walked over. ‘Out,’ he said to First Trumpeter. ‘This is private.’
‘Can’t,’ said First Trumpeter.
‘Let me stamp on your antennae for a bit,’ said Leopold. ‘You might find that motivational.’
‘Still can’t,’ said First Trumpeter.
‘I’ve just about had it with beings saying “No.” You do what you’re told.’
‘Would if I could,’ said First Trumpeter.
‘Right then,’ said Leopold, lifting his foot and trying to wrench it round so that it was pointing forwards. Keziah stood in the way.
‘If he says he can’t, he can’t.’
‘You know I can’t,’ insisted First Trumpeter. ‘I’m suffering from depression. I’m a musician. We can only soar and fly when we feel lifted by something.’
‘So cheer up and then move on,’ said Leopold.
‘What is there to be cheerful about? I’ve just been fired and I’m going to have to relaunch my solo career for the eighty-ninth time.’
Gaston walked over.
‘Look,’ said Leopold, ‘I don’t care what you have or have not felt cheerful about. Just get your ugly face out of my territory.’
‘Mind you, you’ve got even less reason to be cheerful, as I observe,’ said First Trumpeter.
‘Meaning?’ asked Leopold.
‘The Toad though
t we were great,’ said Gaston gloomily. ‘I thought of everything but I didn’t think of that.’
‘I still don’t understand how that can be a problem,’ said Leopold.
‘Because if he likes it a bit, he’ll just let it happen and extract his percentage. But if he likes it a lot, he’ll take it over,’ said Gaston with a sigh. ‘We seem to have got ourselves a winner. So it’s a loser. All that effort. All that grovelling to those Collectors. All wasted.’
‘He can’t just—how can he take over?’ asked Leopold.
Gaston turned heavy-lidded eyes towards Leopold. ‘Not difficult. He just calls intensive, daily meetings with us. Gossip will do the rest.’
‘But these are our ideas, not his!’
Gaston made a cawing noise (getting in touch with his inner pterodactyl again, evidently).
‘Leopold,’ said Gaston, with the air of someone teaching someone how to pick their nose when the person trying to pick their nose, just isn’t getting it. ‘Everybody will know we had the ideas. Everybody will know the Toad stole all the credit. They will laugh at us and fear the Toad.’
‘So what are we going to do?’ asked Leopold.
‘What can we do?’ replied Gaston, moodily. ‘What would anybody do? Plot. Be treacherous back.’
‘Against the Toad?’ asked Leopold. ‘Plot against the Toad!’
‘Yes,’ insisted Gaston. ‘Or lose everything.’
‘Well,’ said Leopold thoughtfully. ‘Losing everything isn’t that bad, is it?’
‘We’re still paying for it, Leopold. Do you think those Collectors will say, “Oh, too bad, you’ve lost your investment, we’ll let you off your debts.”’
‘Still,’ said Leopold. ‘The Toad.’
‘Somehow I’ve got to fit it all in between worshipping the Collectors, schmoozing with senior spirits, and now meeting the Toad every day. Which of course leaves me loads of time for plotting to defeat the Toad which is no doubt exactly what the Toad wanted.’
‘You know,’ squeaked First Trumpeter, ‘listening to you, I’m beginning to cheer up.’ Wings a blur, he flew up into a tree.
Gaston watched him go. ‘Oh goody,’ he said, moodily. ‘We’re already late to worship the Collectors. What a productive morning this has been. This time, Leopold, you are going to do the melody and the words and I’m just going to hum in the background.’
‘That’ll be a big change then,’ said Leopold.
They were both rising into the sky.
‘I carry burdens you have no idea of,’ Gaston was insisting as they rose upwards. ‘All I ask is that you cut me a little bit of slack occasionally—’
And they were gone.
‘Cup of tea?’ I asked Keziah.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Sure?’ I asked. ‘It’s just the thing for pterodactyl-related stress.’
‘I’m going to work on my habitat.’
‘You all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘Keziah,’ I was exasperated now. ‘Do we have to do this stupid thing of you saying you don’t want to talk and me saying yes you do and you saying no you don’t and me saying in a wheedling voice you do really when we both know—’
She spun on her heel, walked back and looked like she was going to slap me.
‘What?’ she said. We were almost nose-to-nose.
‘We’ve an opportunity here,’ I said, calmly, taking a step backwards. ‘We can ask First Trumpeter some questions.’
‘Thanks for your help back then by the way. Wringing your hands on the sidelines. That really got them worried.’
‘What is the point of picking fights all the time?’
‘What is the point of letting them abuse you?’
‘It’s for the short term,’ I said. ‘Can’t you get that into your thick head?’
‘That’s what abusers always say,’ said Keziah steadily. ‘“Just this once, Keziah.”’
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
I wasn’t sure what I’d said sorry for, exactly. Sorry-that-I’ve-got-my-head-screwed-on-and-you’re-completely-tinpot. ‘What I thought was,’ I said, ‘we could have a cup of tea, invite Caroline round—she’s clever, Caroline—ask First Trumpeter here to play some music. In exchange, we can see what we can learn from him.’
‘All right,’ said Keziah.
‘I know just the place,’ I said. ‘I’ll build it. I’ll send Dumbo when it’s ready. I’ll only be a few minutes.’
‘I never liked this place,’ said Keziah sulkily.
I had rebuilt one of Cambridge’s more popular out-of-town cafes, its tables scattered through an old orchard. Just at our feet (ours was a good table), the little River Cam squeezed itself between its banks, grey and oily like all the tourists of the world liquefied.
I’d fixed up a girly tea for them, cream cakes, éclairs and a roulard. Fresh strawberries. I added a pile of samosas and a bowl of salted cashews for myself. We sent Dumbo off to browse among the banana trees which I’d planted downstream. First Trumpeter 291-3471 was hovering above the river, excited.
‘Right, here’s the programme,’ I said to Keziah and Caroline. First, we have a little chat with First Trumpeter here—’
‘First Trumpeter 291-3471, or Miles,’ called down First Trumpeter 291-3471, from mid-air.
‘Then in exchange, we enjoy an evening of jazz.’
‘This is historic,’ said First Trumpeter 291-3471.
‘We’re looking forward to it,’ I said.
‘The Omniverse has waited a long time for this.’
‘’Course, there’s only the three of us,’ I said. ‘It’s hardly the West End. Or even Cambridge Corn Exchange. There’s only two of us if you don’t count Caroline, who’s a kind of memory.’
‘Which, let me tell you, is a nightmare all its own,’ said Caroline, looking disgruntled. ‘Have you ever tried being what some guy thought you were? Monochromatic.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ I said, ‘to make you a vivid, three-dimensional character.’
‘Pitiful,’ sniffed Caroline.
‘So,’ I said to First Trumpeter. ‘A few questions first. You said there were hundreds of you?’
‘Journeymen, most of them. Can’t hold a tune, half of them.’
‘Nevertheless. And spirits like Gaston, Leopold and the Toad.’
‘Praise Be To Him,’ said First Trumpeter.
‘Sorry?’ I said.
‘Oops,’ said First Trumpeter, ‘habit.’
‘All these beings. How many altogether? Where do they come from?’
‘I’ve heard of Earth,’ said First Trumpeter, ‘obviously. Everywhere on earth you find life. People drill miles down, find bacteria. Look on the bottom of the ocean, find groupers. Same in the heavens. Spirit beings everywhere. Plus all the bits of spirit beings—’
‘Bits?’
‘—Get broken off in fights, but still have life in them. Float around until they make up some new spiritual organism. You have the spiritual equivalents of viruses and bacteria. Litter everywhere, of course, some of it alive. And other things: metaphors, for example, or memories. Some of the metaphors are huge, more like wossisnames, meta-narratives. Cover half the sky.’
‘Cool,’ I said. ‘Where do you all come from?’
‘We entered this Omniverse not long after the Moment of Creation. We were refugees from a war: a colony of artists, warriors, thinkers and leaders. We came to the Omniverse to forge a new order, based on freedom.’
‘I see,’ I lied.
‘It’s rough though. A rough colony. You’re sheltered in this habitat but it’s difficult to keep the rain out for long, really. Stings. Burns. Everyone’s got a headache all the time. It makes us age. Can you imagine that? Eternal beings and we’re ageing.
‘So the Omniverse doesn’t have what we need. Toad (Blessed Be His Name) dries up. Creative beings have creative block. Sensitive beings are numb. Beings with administration
skills meet incompetence and frustration all the time. Sexual beings, which is all of us, can’t, you know. Sociable beings are lonely. Musical geniuses can’t get gigs.’ He flapped his wings furiously.
‘We fill up with existential angst, ready to pour it out, and no-one wants to know. Completely wasted angst. Some of us dream that somewhere, somewhere, there’s an Omniverse where we belong. Over the rainbow, as it were.’
‘What do most beings want?’ I asked.
‘Respect,’ he said. ‘Adoration ideally. A few of us have gifts that really deserve it, like me for example. Now look, you’re spoiling the atmosphere of expectancy with this chatter. Ideally, we should have a reverent hush.’
‘We think we’ve been captured by Gaston and Leopold,’ I said. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘Let me see,’ said First Trumpeter scornfully. ‘Perhaps it might be to exploit you in some way.’
‘They say they want to make us happy,’ I continued. ‘Not exploit us.’
‘And?’ inquired First Trumpeter.
‘I was wondering if there would be a way they could be exploiting us, and at the same time making us happy?’
‘You what?’ asked First Trumpeter.
‘I thought they might be aiming for a win-win situation.’
‘Look, we need to get playing, but obviously if it’s a win for everybody you haven’t got the maximum advantage out of the situation. You can squeeze it for some more.’
‘And what’s all this about the Toad and power struggles and treachery?’
‘Perfectly routine back-biting. Now come on. Let’s play. I want silence. Perfect silence.’
‘OK.’
‘Can you dim the lights?’
‘That’s the June sunshine,’ I said. ‘I’m not dimming that. Can’t you think of it as Jazz for a Summer Evening or something?’
‘What you have among you,’ said First Trumpeter, ‘is not jazz for a summer evening. This is jazz forever.’
He closed his eyes. ‘I need 12-bar blues on a honkey-tonk piano.’
‘One moment,’ I said. It took an effort of memory to recall a soundtrack, strip out the piano element, then set that piano element on a loop. ‘There you go.’
‘And drums,’ he said.
‘Bongo or snare?’
‘Snare. With brushes.’
It took a few goes, but finally we had the 12-bar blues going and the drums scatting.
‘We start simple,’ squeaked First Trumpeter. ‘Then we fly.’
He didn’t warm up. He simply inflated his lung, and blew. With two wings keeping him stable in the sky, his fist clenched in the air, First Trumpeter played the most unbelievable improvisation you have ever heard.
It was a long way from perfect, and he squeaked a curse every time he missed whatever-it-was he was trying for. Still. Down it poured, a cloudburst.
First Trumpeter soared and seemed to swell inside. His grey fur became streaked with rivulets of gold and red.
Still he played.
We listened for a long time.
It was awesome.
You know, even brilliant music gets boring after a while. You start to shuffle. You look at each other. You scratch yourself. You do little mini-Pilates-stretching exercises with your fingers. I noticed Caroline, who was in a summer dress, had brought a light jacket, but the jacket didn’t quite go with the dress, so she wasn’t wearing it and was shivering a little.
Wouldn’t mind an interlude, you think. Stretch the legs. Warm up. Maybe find the Gents’.
The long evening faded to black, and still he played. Constellations came out—the Christmas Tree, the Apple Logo and a new one I’d done, the Complete Guide to Fielding Positions in Cricket.
This was getting ridiculous.
I came to a decision. I glanced at Keziah and Caroline for affirmation and made a throat-slitting gesture. Then I cut the drums and the piano.
Three bars later, First Trumpeter stopped. There was a moment of what would have been silence had it not been for the slurping of the Cam against the mud, and the distant sound of Dumbo trampling the banana plantation.
First Trumpeter turned white.
‘No…!’ he screamed. He swooped down at us. ‘No… That’s total musical—how can you?’
‘Er—’ I said.
‘You cannot—’ First Trumpeter was flying within inches of our faces in turn, scowling, spitting.
‘The thing is—’ I said.
‘What you’ve just done is evil,’ he said. ‘Sacrilegious. I was performing.’
‘Now hold on,’ I said.
‘We were at the start of a journey together! An eternal journey! Fans were going to gather! Momentum was going to build! Thirteen point eight billion years waiting for this moment and you cut the music! You strangle it at birth!’
As Gaston had done earlier, First Trumpeter now stepped out of the subset of language we all held in common and started on some expletive riffs of his own.
‘We can always—’ I said.
He started spiralling round us, climbing, but at the same time seeming to get heavier and more wobbly. His fairy-wings were throbbing with the effort of keeping him aloft.
‘Maybe you can do an album or something—’
Wings whining with strain, flying an agony, he pitched sideways into the Cam with a splash. A few moments later, we heard a trumpet-like whumping noise and saw a dome of grey water, fringed with white, which dispersed with a chaotic, musical hiss.
The Cam has swallowed everything that twenty generations of students have dropped into it, including twenty generations of other students, and it flowed on.
‘He could have gone on for ever,’ said Caroline thoughtfully. ‘I think he would’ve.’
‘He would,’ said Keziah.
‘No wonder he found it hard to book gigs,’ I pointed out.
‘What did you think of the music?’ asked Keziah. ‘Did it—what did you think of it?’
‘It was good,’ I said. ‘It was, yeah, it was good. Bit long.’
‘Did you feel anything?’ Keziah asked, eyes searching my face.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Look. I want to think. Caroline. Since you are a figment of my imagination, you can summarize what we know.’
With a glance to Keziah, and a sigh, Caroline adjusted her glasses.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘What have you got going for you?
‘1. You are not dead.
‘2. You have been visited by a therapist who is keen to help you manage your situation.’
‘Irrelevant,’ I said. ‘Strike that out.’
‘You think,’ said Keziah.
‘Irrelevant to me, anyway.’
‘Which is all that matters,’ muttered Keziah.
Caroline looked at us over her glasses. I could see her growing into a bossy school-marm role.
‘2.’ She continued, ‘Mushrooms.’
‘Strike that out as well,’ I said. ‘Emotional. Not rational.’
Caroline made a face and Keziah had a look in her eye that almost suggested a giggle.
‘Alright. 2.,’ said Caroline, with dignity. ‘You seem to be safe enough in the short-term because they need you for something—probably to do with worshipping them.
‘3. Stresses are appearing among those who are managing you.’
‘For example,’ I said. ‘Leopold’s scared of you, Keziah.’
‘He’d be scared of you if you stood up to him,’ said Keziah. ‘They all would. They’re terrified.’
‘4.,’ said Caroline, ‘However you look at it, the slightly longer term future doesn’t look good.’
‘What we need,’ I said, ‘is a plan to keep us alive so that maybe our bodies can recover. Caroline, brainbox that she is, mighty mental capacity in full spate despite the power-drain of being County Assistant Librarian (Local History Archive) at such a tender age, is going to suggest a strategy. Aren’t you Caroline?’
‘What about escaping?’ suggested Caroline.
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