by Glenn Myers
The patchwork god
‘Look. We’ve got to go. You’re going to drown.’
‘Good.’ She climbed down from the bed and sat on the floor. Using one cupped hand, she was sloshing water into her mouth and over her head.
I wondered if I should come over all manly and pull her away. Oh help. I took a deep breath, kicked my way through the junk and took hold of her arm.
‘Get off me,’ she spluttered.
OK, so that was a bad idea.
‘You’re going to drown!’
‘I want to!’
‘No, you don’t!’ I pulled at her and managed to drag her half up. ‘We’ve got to go!’
She stood up, brushed away my arm with surprising force. She wasn’t looking at me. She didn’t seem to be looking at anything.
‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘O Daddy.’
The water was round my knees now, warm as a bath.
I looked at her for a long moment.
‘Bye,’ I said.
As I turned to climb the stairs, I saw her standing under the waterfall that was now tumbling from the ceiling, drinking the warm water in, letting it all fall over her face and neck, while her childhood junk sloshed around her feet. The dark room was glistening.
I sprinted up the stairs, stumbling more than once; it was more like Angel Falls than a staircase. Water was fountaining out of the stone sides. Up and past the office, up to the top, through the dining room—itself, ankle-deep in water—out through the open door. A monsoon blowing. Turn left. Wrench open the privy door, step in. On the other side, not a privy, the wall marked GIRLS in the Hotel Splendide swimming pool. The sun shining.
Catch my breath, enjoying the warmth of the Splendide. Somewhere, I knew, an ugly mob of guilty emotions was battering on the doors of my mind. They had words to say about how you should rescue people, be there for people, not leave them in their hour of need. I took a breath, took aim, then streaked back to the stadium, to the Dream House, and through the half-open kitchen door.
Leopold was pacing up and down.
‘Jamie,’ he said. ‘Well?’
I shook my head.
‘Gnõrink-llyeyuñgo,’ said Leopold, with the air of one who’s been saving that curse for many years and has decided to cash it in now. He walked over to the stainless-steel kitchen-scraps bin and kicked it as hard as he could across the room.
‘She’s having some kind of breakdown,’ I said. ‘But not what you’d hope.’
‘She’s not coming?’
‘She’s definitely not coming.’
Leopold motioned me to the kitchen window, which had a view of the stadium.
‘Look out there.’
I whistled. ‘All seven layers full,’ continued Leopold. ‘They’ve come from everywhere.’ It was a stirring sight. And the colours! No-one could have guessed that the Jurassic skins were quite those shades of red, orange, yellow and shocking pink.
Others in the crowd didn’t look like dinosaurs at all. Some looked like angels, hovering in the sky. Others were sinuey, Asiatic, female and many-limbed, like one of the Toad’s bearers. A small group actually looked like demons, bright red with horns and tails and cloven hooves.
(‘What are they?’ I pointed them out to Leopold.
‘Fancy dress,’ he said, bitterly. ‘They’re all having a good day out.’)
Many others looked more like machines—flying engineering work-benches with vices and saws and pincers. Near the top I picked out a crowd of many-armed beings in roll-necked Arran pullovers.
‘Are they Collectors?’ I asked.
‘That’s why they’re in the cheap seats,’ replied Leopold.
‘And that’s a Royal Box?’ I pointed at a section of the stadium halfway up that jutted out from the rest and was wreathed in purple and olive green.
‘Yup. The Toad’s in there.’ He turned abruptly from the window and paced slowly up and down the kitchen, breathing deeply. ‘You know what marks the true professional? Style. Even when the cause is lost. How do I look?’
He stood in front of me, leathery orange face, dark jacket, shirt with ruffled collar and ruffled sleeves, sporran, kilt, stick-thin legs, white socks, squeaky-clean shoes with shiny buckles.
‘You look good,’ I said.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘However far we fall, and however long it takes to get back, style always returns to the top. Circumstances are temporary. Class is eternal. I spent a hundred million years as a close relative of the Komodo dragon half choking on winged-reptile bones but I fought back. Do I need lipstick, do you think?’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Bit of rouge?’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘I think yes.’ He took a make-up box from his sporran and applied some. ‘Well,’ said Leopold, clicking the compact shut and putting it away. ‘No point in keeping them waiting any longer. Are you ready?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘You know you rot down.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You humans. You rot down. After death. They may kick you around and pull bits off you but it’s not forever. You decay.’
‘So we’re not eternal?’
‘This is where I get confused. You see, you are eternal. You’re also eternally diminishing. So your capacity for suffering is decreasing, along with everything else. If an eternal something is eternally diminishing does it ever cease? I could never figure that out. Anyway, for practical purposes it means that fewer and fewer beings are interested in you as time passes… that’s a comfort, I think.’
‘That’s a comfort?’ I asked.
‘You should try the alternative. You should try being eternal and not diminishing. You feel the pain of old age with all the vigour of youth. Then you comfort yourself with the thought that it’s only ever going to get worse. Wait here.’
Leopold left the kitchen momentarily and returned with a cage. Stomping around inside was a trumpet with two ill-fitting wings, sparrow legs, giant mouse ears and a dangling, smelly external lung. I looked at it.
‘First Trumpeter?’ I said.
‘First Trumpeter 271-3041,’ said First Trumpeter tetchily. ‘Fitted with these disgusting bits of debris. Not even half a body.’ He lifted his feet. ‘Look at these. Moorhen feet. Ridiculous. No wonder their last owner got rid of them. But I’m not talking to you.’
‘He was all we could get,’ said Leopold. ‘We asked around for a trumpeter but there weren’t any takers. So we had to recycle this one that we found when I was cleaning out the habitat.’
‘You know what, Leopold,’ said First Trumpeter 271-3041. ‘I’m the only thing with any class in this whole performance.’
‘Well now’s your moment,’ said Leopold. ‘You know what to do.’
‘I know my job,’ said First Trumpeter 271-3041.
‘Do it then,’ said Leopold, and he opened the cage. First Trumpeter wobbled on the perch for a moment, then dived out of the cage. His humming-bird wings started to whine gently. He hovered in front of Leopold.
‘These wings are rubbish,’ said First Trumpeter. ‘This whining sets my teeth on edge.’
‘Just go,’ said Leopold. First Trumpeter flew out of the kitchen.
‘Where’s he going?’ I asked.
‘Up the chimney, then out,’ said Leopold. ‘Which is Gaston’s signal. And then we wait for our cue.’
Outside, the hum and snort and bellowing of the crowd quietened as, presumably, the assembled beings saw First Trumpeter 271-3041 emerge from the chimney, stagger slightly on his little legs, steady himself, then rise into the sky, wings whining. When he was level with the Royal Box, First Trumpeter blew.
He may have been a vain, embittered grump, but First Trumpeter 271-3041 could do a fanfare. He blew a single note that slowly rose in pitch. The sound filled the stadium, hushing it. The tiniest of pauses, then he was onto a quick, jazz riff. We looked out of the window and saw him flying straight for the Royal Box.
Still playing, he buzzed the Toad,
before banking steeply and climbing, heading out of the stadium. As he banked, he emptied the contents of his stomach over the Toad and disappeared over the rim of the stadium.
‘That wasn’t in the script,’ said Leopold, brightening momentarily. ‘Good fun though.’
We watched some shouting and stamping in the Royal Box. Three attendants rose up on wings and gave chase. Another courtier lifted a slug-like being from a bag and placed it on the Toad’s head. Blindly groping, it started sucking up the mess.
Meanwhile, Gaston—still recognizably himself but with his petrodactyl wings flapping in great downward beats—had risen from the front row of the auditorium. With his leathery wings holding himself level with the Royal Box, he started to speak.
‘Esteemed princely beings,’ he boomed. ‘Onward marches the glorious reign of the free spirits of the Omniverse!’
(‘Standard greeting,’ hissed Leopold to me.)
‘Today we have come to show you a giant leap forward in the way we spirits can dominate and exploit humans! Many of us—while not for a moment wanting to criticise the advances of Modernism, which were high-level strategic decisions for the good of the whole realm—remember something of what’s been lost! We remember how comfortable it was when humans just worshipped us.
‘What I have the pleasure of announcing this afternoon is how recent developments in design and in post-modernism can be used to produce a renaissance in our dearest and simplest activities.
‘Esteemed colleagues, we will restore spirit worship when many thought it had been discarded forever!
‘Spirit worship—as you will know, colleagues—has been restricted in the West to a batty minority of tree-huggers and crystal-wearers. Where are the young guys? Where are the right-wingers? Where are the materialists? Where are the multinational corporations? Where is the media buzz? Where is the mainstream?
‘Colleagues! They’re coming back to the fold. With the tools we provide, you will be able to bend them and twist them whichever way you please…
‘I should warn you, fellow beings, that we are just showing the bare outlines today. We have been rushing to meet a deadline. When we are granted the contract, we will in the coming months unveil a complete Developers’ Kit, with full information: draft metanarratives, slogan ideas, fashion accessories, suggestions for celebrity endorsements, a press pack—everything that this movement needs to take off on earth; and all thoroughly tested in our demonstration lab here in the heavens.
‘The total package—and coming at a surprisingly reasonable cost—will enable millions of spirit guides to receive worship and devotion direct from people on earth! Fellow beings! You are going to be gods again!’
The crowd cheered though I (who have some experience of these things) thought it was a boozy, stag-night cheer, the sort you give the groom in a pub once he’s made a speech about what good mates you are. Then you kidnap him, take him on a flight to Latvia, yank his clothes off, tie him to a lamppost and spray him with Ralgex.
‘Isn’t he thrilling?’ said Leopold, breathlessly. ‘Isn’t he magnificent? He’s wasted on all these.’
‘So without any hype or exaggeration, let me introduce my colleague Leopold, whose design triumphs include the invention of Scottishness—something, you remember, that infected a whole nation, right down to the present day. He is working with the human male Jamie Valentine Smith, a brilliant young man, highly representative of our intended market.’
‘“A brilliant young man”,’ I said.
‘He has to say that,’ said Leopold. ‘Come on. We’re on.’
Leopold pushed the kitchen door back dramatically, and to huge—and I feared, ironic—cheers, walked out. Then he turned to face the kitchen door, and waved me to emerge.
The roar was enormous.
Over the hubbub, Gaston was still commentating.
‘Notice the house and gardens,’ he said. ‘Notice how it is mainstream—the kind of thing that millions have—and yet it is aspirational. It’s idyllic, a dream house. Our new religion will fall squarely into the middle-class aspirational market.’
As Leopold tried to direct me with eye-movements, I stepped out of the honeysuckled door and closed it behind me, pausing theatrically to admire the beauty of the cottage.
‘Where’s the girl?’ someone shouted. ‘Where’s the girl?’ A little wave of laughter and conversation rippled round the stadium.
Gaston ignored him. ‘He believes that the reason he has the beautiful house and life is his own work and luck, plus the help of the spirits…’
I stroked my chin, as if thinking, ‘Now, how have I managed to earn this beautiful house and lifestyle?’
‘What about the sacred feminine?’ someone shouted again, and there was laughter.
‘So how did we make spirits trendy again in his life?’ Gaston went on, apparently oblivious to the mockery. ‘Obviously, you can’t go for the traditional idols because everyone sees those as backward and superstitious. Our insight is to talk about happiness. We target his capacity for happiness.
‘It turns out,’ Gaston continued, echoing across the stadium, which was becoming quieter, ‘that all humans feel that pure happiness is just somewhere out of their reach—that’s a universal human feeling. So we develop a theology that spirituality is the key to happiness—following the spirits.’
I tried to make like a light had just dawned on me. ‘Aha!’ I mimicked.
‘We also teach them that true happiness is rare. That means, they have to strive for it. And that means, given time, we can get them to dance to any tune we like.’
The crowd roared. ‘Bring out the girl!’ cried someone.
Behind the stadium, I glimpsed black clouds spiralling around Keziah’s habitat. The girl, I thought, is drowning in a storm. With her integrity intact. Unlike some of us.
Gaston ploughed on. ‘Now, how do we give form to these vague ideas? We’ve got to get him worshipping us, needing us, depending on us.
‘This is our wonderful insight. Get him to pile up all the things he really loves and make them into a work of Art. Then bow down to it. Worship the spirit behind it. Which our model will now demonstrate. Beautiful, brilliant, brazen. You watch.’
As Leopold gestured, I tried to saunter towards my patchwork god, which was a little way from the house.
The cry was being taken up all around the stadium now:
‘We want the girl! We want the girl!’
‘See how this checks so many 21st-century boxes!’ Gaston continued as if not hearing them. ‘Materialism. Good design. A spiritual dimension to life. The pursuit of pleasure. Individual expression. As he worships his “patchwork god” I want you to imagine what it will be like when every home and garden has one!’
He’s a market trader, I thought. Selling, selling. Going down fighting.
‘… when worship to the spirits is being offered by everyone, everywhere. When there are festivals of patchwork gods, websites, magazines and specialist producers. In this way, they open themselves to us and we can direct them. And every spirit, again, can keep humans as pets!’
I prostrated myself before my patchwork god.
‘Oh spirits,’ I called, caressing the pumpkin, and jumping slightly to hear my voice amplified across the stadium. ‘Make my mind as rich and fruity as this pumpkin! Lead me not into stupid, dense, thick-headed people. Give me a sharpness of mind.’
The hubbub fell away, replaced by a quiet sibilance as 80,000 dinosaurs and other spiritual beings started to salivate. Even the cries of ‘Give us the girl!’ had temporarily stopped.
roLeopold was dribbling. Behind me, I even heard one or two agonized breathy groans from the crowd. Picking up on this, Gaston continued to broadcast from his position high above us.
‘Many of you came to mock. We know this. We know we still have work to do on our model. Before we can indeed, bring you the girl. But look at the power we’re already achieving.’ Glancing up, I saw Leopold casting an adoring look on Gaston.
<
br /> I moved onto the money fountain. I was getting quite pumped up by now.
‘Money!’ I cried. ‘Dear sweet money! I can pretend no longer! Source of my well-being! I love you!’ I stuck my head in the money fountain, dunking myself into a cascade of clinking coins and rustling notes. When I brought my head out, Gaston was still speaking.
‘This can be yours! Nobody believed in the power of this.’
‘Money!’ I yelled, and dipped my head in the fountain again. ‘Oh! This is so liberating! I’ve wanted to say this all my life!’ I wondered if I was overdoing this, but no, they were slavering.
‘There’s more!’ cried Gaston. ‘Hold yourselves, free spirits of the Omniverse, there’s more.’
‘Petty cruelty,’ I said, picking up the brick thoughtfully, and turning it over in my hands.
‘Just look at this!’ urged Gaston. ‘Watch! Don’t miss it!’
Leopold was smiling.
The jellyfish scooted out from its little garage in the patchwork god and slid across the ground. I followed it with easy strides, walking alongside.
‘Notice how he’s taking his time,’ said Gaston. ‘He’s obviously not in a hurry today.’
The jellyfish started zig-zagging, and I followed.
‘You see,’ said Gaston, ‘he believes that this routine will set him up perfectly for his day’s work. A little light cruelty at the beginning of the day.’
I could sense the excitement all around me. Looking up momentarily, I saw a storm and darkness had settled over Keziah’s habitat. I fingered the brick, ready to drop it on the hapless, fleeing jellyfish.
‘Hold yourselves in, beings!’ cried Gaston. ‘Hold yourselves in… and remember he does this several times a day!’
I stole a glance at the Royal Box. The Toad was standing very still, with the slug nibbling the top of his head.
‘And he is one of millions!’ cried Gaston. ‘See what new vistas are opening up today!’
I find it hard to recall exactly what happened next. One moment I was poised to drop a brick on a fleeing jellyfish, watched closely by 80,000 closely-packed salivating demonic spirits in a multi-coloured amphitheatre.
The next moment, I saw a large part of the amphitheatre flying towards me, as if kicked by a giant boot. I dropped the brick in shock, missing the jellyfish. A moment later, a blast wave hit me and knocked me off my feet. A moment after that, I heard the most enormous explosion. The rumble that followed the initial crack was so loud that you just wanted to lie down and cover your head until it was over.
When I did get up after some twenty seconds, it was to a scene of devastation. The amphitheatre was retreating elastically, snapping back to its original oval state, but it was spilling evil spirits as it went back, scattering them over the ground. Gaston had been blown out of the sky. Leopold had transformed into a Komodo dragon and was bellowing. Nobody was looking at me. Everyone was looking beyond the amphitheatre to Keziah’s habitat, where the supersonic bang had come from.
Keziah’s habitat was shining with a bright light. I couldn’t see the source since it was hidden by the amphitheatre, but I could see the glow. Fireworks were being let off. We heard a whump and a sizzle and then a multi-coloured umbrella of fire and light opened over us. Sparks fell into the amphitheatre, sending panic among the evil spirits.
Another firework exploded over us and another after that, firework after firework. The stands were emptying. Spirits pushed and fought their way off the terraces and into the centre. Many flew into the air. All cursed and screamed as sparks fell. They started fighting each other.
Overhead, I saw some kind of aircraft passing silently by. It was in two parts, one part pulling the other and it was dripping with silvery fire. It flew fast and jerkily over our heads. Ignoring the carnage below, it rattled out of sight over the stadium, heading for Keziah’s habitat.
I couldn’t see Leopold any more for the pile of monsters that now covered him, snapping, biting, tails thrashing, eyes red, fighting each other to get a better grip on him. More fireworks lit the sky, and more sparks fell.
Something sharp and flapping attached itself to my neck. I turned, as far as I could, and saw a large scaly bird digging away at me with its beak. It had little black piggy eyes. I battered at it with my hands, and it flew just out of range, cawing and going yark! A second bird fastened itself to my neck. I turned to flap at this one and then they were both on me.
I tried to create a machine gun, but panic disabled me. So I just fought them, waving my hands and keeping my eyes out of the way of their pecks.
I ran towards the house but stopped when I saw that it too was covered with monsters, who were ripping great pieces out of it and looting it with enthusiasm.
A second flying machine appeared over the stadium. This was dripping fire like the first, but it was circling. It was intensely bright, like burning magnesium.
It was spiraling down towards me.
The two scaly birds flew away, put off, I’m sure, mostly by my fierce arm-flapping and perhaps a little bit by this silent flying machine that was about to make an untroubled landing on the lawn.
All around me, monsters were looking up from their fighting and looting and moving away, the way you imagine animals clear from a waterhole when a lion steps up for a drink. Once out of danger, they resumed battle.
The machine came to a halt on the lawn. Close up, I could see it was something not entirely unlike a horse and cart. Though the ‘horse’ (the size of pony) was more like a penguin and the ‘cart’ (which was the size and shape of an open-topped railway freight wagon) had four balloon tyres which turned out to be living creatures themselves, complete with eyes and wings. They all had their own internal shining like an LED and they were sweating fire.
Someone let go the reins, climbed out and walked busily over. He was smaller than I (would have been bigger than Keziah, but not by a lot), and his dark glasses, hooked nose and mottled olive skin made him look like a member of the Syrian Secret Service. His suit was all wrong: its sharp lines and shiny black cloth looked like it was yearning to wrap itself round a young double-glazing salesman, but he was old. A member of the Syrian Secret Service who had been passed over for promotion, perhaps? Thick grey hair was cut unfashionably below his ears. He was slightly bow-legged.
‘The famous Jamie Smith,’ he said, with an Arabic accent, sizing me up and offering his hand for me to shake, which I took. ‘Jonah. Minor prophet. It was a fish, not a whale.’
‘Right,’ I said, dazed. ‘Stub told us about you.’
‘Good. Where is he?’
‘Stub? He’s just over here. He’s—’
‘Cracked up? Yes. We went to the Lake of Fire first, but we couldn’t find him.’ We walked over to the woodland to where Stub was tied up. A couple of stegosauri were sniffing at his Adamantine chains, but they moved away.
The fireworks were still going off overhead.
‘I’m here Stub,’ said Jonah, kneeling and gently unwinding the Adamantine. ‘This Adamantine,’ he said conversationally to me. ‘Older than the universe… Now now, Stub, stay still. Easy.’
Jonah glanced up at me while gently easing the chains away from Stub’s flesh. ‘This is one Biennale that won’t go down as a triumph.’
‘What was that explosion?’
‘That was your friend Keziah scaring the dinosaurs. Now easy, easy, careful. You’re all right.’
‘I am not “all right”,’ said Stub. ‘It’s over, Jonah.’
‘My dear friend,’ said Jonah.
‘I can’t do this any more.’
‘This is the last knot.’ Jonah eased the chain off the snake. ‘You did good work here, Stub.’
‘Not on him,’ spat Stub, looking at me.
‘Oh don’t worry about him.’
‘Stiff-necked, stubborn-hearted. I tried so hard.’
‘You always do. Now come on, back into the wagon. Don’t fight. Easy… Jamie, will you carry the other end of the snake? Thank you.’
The Prophet Jonah and I carried the snake on our shoulders across the amphitheatre, which was a battle zone as evil spirits fought each other and firework-stars fell flaming from the sky, sizzling those dinosaurs that were too busy hunting or being hunted to see them coming. A stream of evil spirits, I noticed, was heading for the exits.
‘Now, just gently into the wagon, good.’ We lowered Stub into the cart, and Jonah covered him with a blanket. ‘Corrie should be here in a minute. She’s just picking up Keziah.’
‘Is she—?’ I asked.
‘She’s fine,’ said Jonah. Then he said to Stub. ‘You lie there under the blanket and try not to think of any theology. OK.’
He turned to me.
‘Jamie. Thank you for helping.’ He held out his hand. I looked at the carnage around me.
‘Er—I thought you were rescuing me?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Jonah.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Why not?’
‘Jamie,’ said Jonah. ‘I can’t do anything for you. I’m sure Stub’s told you. Later!’ he thumped my chest. ‘Then we might have a job for you! Ah good, here’s Corrie and Keziah.’ The second flying machine appeared over the amphitheatre, flying erratically.
Jonah climbed into the cart, picked up the reins and gave them a twitch. The penguin-like creature flapped some fins and yanked them into the air. ‘I think it’ll calm down once we’re gone,’ said the prophet, as the reins strained and the craft lifted into the sky. ‘We upset them.’
They were gone.
I watched them go, the feeling of frustration and abandonment being replaced by a certain determination. Right, I thought. Only one thing left to try. Whether my body’s healed or not. I can’t wait any more.
I stepped quickly over to the forest, hoping to keep out of sight.
A fresh trumpet-blast was sounding over the amphitheatre, this time from the Royal Box. I looked up to see the Toad hastily sweeping the slug off his head, waiting for silence.
I rested my back against a tree and tried to concentrate, concentrate.
All around me, I could hear the fighting stopping. I saw two large raptors drop a half-chewed archaeopteryx. After it fell, it crawled off, dragging a broken wing and mouthing rude words at the raptors.
‘Worst is over,’ the Toad was saying. ‘Worst is over. Stay calm. Limit damage. Don’t fight. Worst is over. Bring Gaston and Leopold for judgement.’
Come on, I thought, and wonderfully, the scene started to fade. Yes, come on. Fumbled a bit in the dark. Come on, come on.
… and in. Wonderfully slipped into my own body, the easiest yet. Now don’t try anything, I said to myself, don’t touch anything, just stay here. Just stay here and don’t move.
I crouched silently inside my body, listening to my own breathing, which was shallow. I could feel my heartbeat, slow and steady. Just stay here. Ever so gently, I probed around in my senses. I was lying on my back with my bed tipped half upright, no surprise there. My arm was resting against my side and I could feel the pressure of my right leg against the mattress. I evidently had a thin blanket on top.
I could hear some humming noises and the distant shuffle of shoes on a hard floor. Just stay here. Stay here and never leave.
Very gently, I tried to move a finger, still concentrating hard on not leaving my body. I tried different fingers, the other hand, my toes. Nothing.
Just stay here. My left eye was glued shut. The right, I could do something with that. Stay here, don’t lose it. Keep concentrating. This was exhausting. Slowly, I tried to haul up my right eyelid and was rewarded with a blurry glimmer of dim light. I let it fall back. And rest.
I let some more heartbeats pass, still furiously concentrating on not drifting out of my body again, but I knew I was losing it. It was so tiring.
Then I felt I wasn’t going to stay much longer, so I gave up trying and put all my effort into lifting the eyelid, and was rewarded with a slightly larger glimmer of light. The lights went off and I woke up next to my tree. How long had I stayed? Fifteen minutes? My longest yet.
Through the trees I could see Gaston and Leopold standing next to each other with their backs to me. They had reverted to humanoid forms: Gaston in his military uniform, Leopold in his dress kilt.
The Toad was sitting on the throne borne aloft by the four tall beings: the bull, the multi-armed woman with terrible hair, the thing like a sphinx, and the large black dog. The Toad had a staff in his hands. Many monsters were gathered in a semicircle around him, looking at Gaston and Leopold.
‘Gaston Aubrey Ellwood Pterosauria d’Turville.’ His great eyes glowered down at the stiff figure. ‘You borrowed from me. Then you rebelled. Now disaster has struck. A day we will not easily forget. A terrible day. I take your possessions and I remove my protection and send you to the darkness. At my word, I set my running dogs among you and your possessions.’
Gaston returned his gaze without flinching.
‘Leopold Xavier Squamata St Germain. You complied and acquiesced with your co-accused in direct rebellion to the Almighty Toad. Failed to train or control human pets. Lost both the spirits in your charge. Here, in Pandemonium! Participated in a terrible setback for the onward march of the glorious reign of the free spirits of the Omniverse. A shock from which it will take many years to recover.
‘Yet I find some usefulness in you. I command your possessions to become mine and at my word I allow my running dogs to chew you for a season but I direct that you may remain as my bond-slave. Leopold, welcome to my design team.’
The crowd murmured. Leopold stiffened, then inched his way over to Gaston. He took Gaston’s hand and held it, interweaving his fingers with Gaston’s, and still looking at the Toad.
‘Get off me,’ muttered Gaston, trying to pull his hand away. ‘You’ll make it worse.’
‘Your Brightness,’ said Leopold, in a slightly higher pitched tone than I think he meant. ‘Where he goes, I go. When he suffers, I suffer. I love him and I stay with him and I defy you.’ Leopold stole a glance at Gaston, who was looking straight ahead and still pulling his hand away.
The Toad’s chin bulged and his eyes, if it were possible, widened. ‘Leopold Xavier Squamata St Germain you forsake my protection for his?’
‘Here I stand,’ said Leopold, squeakily, edging still nearer to Gaston. I thought I heard him gulp as well.
‘Stupid creature,’ cursed the Toad.
‘Love isn’t a widget,’ murmured Leopold, defiantly.
‘Spirits of the Free!’ yelled the Toad. ‘Regain your honour! Running dogs! Now!’
Gaston and Leopold stood hand in hand, expecting the crowd to attack. But nothing happened. Except that the Toad’s throne started slowly tipping. The bull and the wild-haired woman, who were standing at the back, were pushing the throne upwards. Suddenly the Sphinx and the black dog crouched down, and the Toad pitched forward and fell to the ground. Before he could get up, the bull squashed him with a heavy hoof.
The scary-haired woman walked forward.
‘We trusted you,’ she said to the Toad. She had black teeth. ‘We served you. You have done this. A day of disgrace. We wipe away this disgrace now. We, the throne-bearers of the Toad, overthrow you.’
She looked around at the assembled crowd. ‘The Toad’s privileges and wealth we keep for ourselves,’ she said to them, tossing her head. ‘As for his person and everything that belongs to Gaston and Leopold—they are yours.’
The assembled crowd seemed to need no further encouragement. Roaring, flying into the air, salivating, they rushed at Gaston, Leopold and the Toad, dragging them down, biting and ripping them with their claws.
I could hear Leopold screaming.
You can imagine how I spent the following hours. When I could gather enough strength, I jumped back into my body and held on there as long as I could. Then I would get exhausted, or lose concentration, and slip back into the habitat.
The evil spirits clearly thought that Jonah had rescued me. Not gi
ving them any evidence to the contrary was highly motivational, and gave me quite an energy boost. So I quickly kept returning to my body.
I saw the spirits eventually tire of ripping and tearing at Gaston and Leopold. The two of them, clothes shredded and flesh raw, body parts missing, shuffled slowly into the sky heading for who-knows-where while the other spirits watched. Two detached hands—one of Gaston’s, one of Leopold’s—were lying on the floor, twitching, holding each other.
The evil spirits took a lot longer with the Toad. When they were finished, they wrapped most of the bits of him in the Adamantine chains that Stub had been wearing, pulling the chains tight against his ripped skin.
Rather later, I again returned to the habitat. First Trumpeter was playing above the tied-up bits of Toad. It looked like the Toad, in his constituent parts, was going to be listening to First Trumpeter for a long time. First Trumpeter was not playing Hail to the Toad; I rather think he had decided to play his entire repertoire.
Later again, and the other big beasts seemed to have left the habitat, leaving all kinds of crawling, sliding and squirming beings to scavenge the leftovers. The habitat was trashed. Trees had had their branches pulled off. The outside of the cottage had been graffito-ed, the windows smashed and there was a Rayburn-sized hole in the kitchen wall. Smoke filled the air.
Dodging between the ravaged trees, I crept back to my own habitat. Osama’s had been ransacked. They’d played what seemed like a game of football on Lord’s Cricket Ground, and they’d crashed the space shuttle on the edge of the sea: waves tugged at it. The maglev looked like the rail had been torn up and used for a fight.
On the umpteenth trip back to my body, with the light of morning washing against my right eyelid, I came across a little hollow into which I could tuck my spirit’s feet. I don’t think it had been there before. I stuck my feet in there and let go everything else, and I stayed exactly where I was—in my body.
Maybe my physical brain had recovered just enough, and now could host my living spirit again. Maybe my repeated trips back to my body had helped kickstart things. It didn’t matter. I had played every card in my hand, and somehow it had been enough. I was back.
It just didn’t feel that great.