The Truth Spinner

by Rhys Hughes

  “Rather small, isn’t it?” ventured Frothing Harris.

  “Unconvincing,” sniffed Billy Belay.

  “Pathetic,” sneered Paddy Deluxe, who was perhaps the least cautious of all the eminent citizens. But these negative judgments failed to hugely infuriate Mondaugen, who merely rolled mildly exasperated eyes at the idiocy of lesser mortals and said:

  “At the moment it is compressed. Do you believe I would create a full sized cottage inside a pub? Are you insane? See how I reach forward to press this tiny switch on the side.”

  He did so and the box rapidly expanded, pushing the eminent citizens out of the way until they found themselves standing around a true cottage that suddenly stood incongruously in the spray from the sea. Blocking the esplanade like this wouldn’t endear any of them to the orthodox citizens of the town, so it was essential that Mondaugen’s plan worked. Collective Will murmured nervously to himself.

  “Are you murmuring?” demanded the mad inventor.

  “Yes, but appreciatively. Honest.”

  “What are we required to do next?” asked Frothing Harris.

  “Nothing at all,” replied Mondaugen. “The cottage is sentient and will take care of itself, so I suggest you retire and entertain yourselves in your customary fashion. Tomorrow morning, if you wish, you may reconvene here to witness that my invention has gone, but don’t expect answers until it returns, and I can’t say how long that will be, for it entirely depends on the distance to which it is taken.”

  “Can’t you offer a rough estimate?” asked Billy Belay.

  “No. For if the hypothetical abductors are based in Cardiff or Tenby, then one or two days will suffice to bring the cottage back, but if they are based in Japan then many years may pass. And if the abductor is a natural force existing at the centre of the Earth or in outer space the return will be considerably longer, I’m afraid.”

  “Longer? Don’t you mean eternal, bearing in mind that legs can’t walk on magma or vacuum!” cried Billy.

  Mondaugen smiled. “The legs I invent can tread on anything. But it is time for me to depart and concern myself with other projects. I intend to crystallise the feeling of déjà vu next and use the crystals in a new type of repeating laser. If I’m successful it won’t be the first time I’ve done such a thing! So farewell, gentlemen!”

  And he left with long eccentric strides.

  “He’s too crazy to be a mad inventor,” said Paddy Deluxe.

  Collective Will nodded sadly. “But he’s the best we’ve got, so we must keep him sweet at all costs. All costs except money, but that goes without saying, even though I said it.”

  At this point an eminent citizen spoke up who had remained silent in all the meetings to date. He was dressed in silk like a dandy, with a blue silk shirt, green silk trousers, a yellow silk waistcoat and a purple silk hat, a costume adopted especially for this occasion, nobody could guess why. He was none other than Castor Jenkins, notorious trickster and the most genuine fraud this side of the Irish Sea. Standing with his thumbs in his belt loops, he drawled cynically:

  “The robotic cottage will never work!”

  He was eyed suspiciously by the others, none of whom cared to reply to that statement. Castor frequently said things that weren’t true. And yet he often confounded his critics by being absolutely right about incredible matters, so nobody knew quite how to regard him and his utterances. The lack of reaction didn’t dismay him and he smiled as he walked around the cottage, peering through the windows at the empty interior. The legs were evidently coiled up somewhere under the building and would appear only when walking became necessary.

  By the time Castor completed his circuit of the cottage the others had drifted away. He therefore spoke to himself when he cried, “I’m the only one able to solve the enigma!”

  Then he chuckled and rubbed his hands at the departing backs. “Wait and see!” he called. Like the other eminent citizens, he had lost his own house during the first meeting of the committee, but he believed he knew exactly what had happened to it and he was simply biding his time before publicising his theory. Maximum renown was the factor Castor was most interested in, so he didn’t want to compete with Karl Mondaugen until the inventor had obviously failed.

  Which happened abruptly the following day.

  Collective Will and Hugo Bloat were first on the scene, at the crack of noon, for neither were early risers, shortly followed by Izaac Spoilchild, Frothing Harris and Harold the Barrel. After lunch, Paddy Deluxe came along too and he was no less astonished than the rest of them. The worst thing had happened. The cottage was still there! How could this be? Why hadn’t it vanished into thin air?

  An answer was soon provided. The cottage was no longer empty, for during the night squatters had moved into it, breaking down the door and installing new locks of their own. Now they were redecorating the interior rooms. It was as simple as that. Smoke rose from the chimney and steam issued from picturesque cracks in the walls, but this didn’t mean the robot was powering itself up. On the contrary, those were cooking vapours. The odour of boiled lentils competed and combined with the tang of salt air, a tasty clash. Faces at the windows grinned out. Paddy Deluxe glared back and pulled his hair in frustration.

  “Can’t we evict them?” he spluttered.

  “Not without a protracted legal battle,” said Collective Will. “After all, we don’t own the property either.”

  “But surely it’s blocking a public right of way?”

  Hugo Bloat seized the initiative. He rapped on the front door until his knuckles were sore and bellowed, “You can’t stay here. How can decent people stroll up and down the esplanade with this thing to obstruct them? You must move it immediately!”

  Then he turned to chuckle at his colleagues. “When they discover they can’t do that, they’ll have no choice but to evacuate the cottage. I’m rather a crafty old fox, don’t you think?”

  His rhetorical question was greeted with nods.

  But the squatters soon proved he wasn’t. They were more resourceful than anyone gave them credit for. They located the override console that permitted the cottage’s electronic systems to be controlled manually and suddenly the house rose up on two spindly but strong legs with reversed knees like those of an angry ostrich. Then it began slowly striding inland. It didn’t lurch very far, however.

  The eminent citizens watched in dismay as it mounted the steps of the Grand Pavilion, passed through the big entrance into the echoing interior without even scraping its sides. Good driving certainly! There came forth a rumbling sound. Then the cottage was seen again, high up. Somehow it had climbed onto the roof, where it settled down gently, clearly in a place where no pedestrians ever passed.

  By this time all the other eminent citizens had also turned up and they groaned in chorus at the sight.

  “I told you so,” said a cool voice.

  It was Castor Jenkins, of course, and he was still sheathed in silk from head to toe, but now he carried a rucksack slung over his shoulders and in his right hand he held a gigantic magnifying glass on a pole that was both a device of detection and a stout walking staff. He was clearly prepared to embark on a long overland journey.

  “Are you going somewhere?” asked Paddy.

  “Indeed so. I plan to put an end to the disappearances and reclaim my own living place. Why don’t you come with me? This is the best way of getting your house back intact.”

  “I won’t come,” snorted Collective Will.

  Billy Belay, Izaac Spoilchild, Hugo Bloat, Harold the Barrel, Captain Dangleglum, Sunstew Mynci, Hywel Price, Tin Dylan, Aluminium Dewi and Huw Rees also declined the offer.

  Only Paddy Deluxe and Frothing Harris decided to accompany Castor, which is how they first become close comrades with the trickster, forging a friendship that would result in the loss of much cash and patience over a period of several strange decades.

  “Will you tell us what you think?” asked Paddy.

  “About what?” blinked
Castor.

  “The mysterious disappearances, of course!”

  “Certainly. I think that trolls are responsible for all of them.”

  “Why on earth do you think that?”

  “Because every eye-witness who has ever been properly questioned on the matter has attested that trolls are always seen in the vicinity of a house that later vanishes. But that’s not all. High definition surveillance cameras mounted at strategic points around the town have never failed to detect at least one troll loitering in the vicinity at those instants when the houses do disappear. Trolls are the culprits!”

  Paddy Deluxe shook his head and laughed.

  “It must be a coincidence. Why would a troll require a human house? We all know that trolls live only under bridges. Plus trolls are accredited members of decent society. They never cause trouble and are deemed to be the most trustworthy companions for men and women who can’t afford human friends, certainly superior to the dogs and cats they have replaced, in the history of urban loneliness!”

  “Those histories need to be rewritten,” remarked Castor.

  “I don’t understand why you are slandering trolls!” blurted Paddy.

  “There’s a clue in my clothes,” said Castor.

  Paddy and Frothing Harris stared closely at him for a full minute, but at the end of that period they felt themselves no wiser in determining why he seemed to have evolved a loathing of those gentle stony giants that are so polite and pleasant at all times.

  Castor’s attitude towards trolls was an obvious symptom of insanity, a dangerous paranoia, but neither Paddy nor Harris decided to change their minds about travelling with him, for the simple reason that such paranoia is sometimes the same as insight…

  As it happened, they set off together later that day.

  It was near the end of the afternoon, an odd time to begin a journey on foot, and the sun was sinking behind them, for they were headed east, and their long shadows hurried ahead impatiently over the dunes that undulate between Porthcawl and the Ogmore River. Avalanches of sand trickled at their feet and gnats tickled their ears.

  “I’ve just realised that we haven’t asked you where we’re going. Is it as far as Caerphilly?” asked Paddy.

  “Much further than that!” said Castor.

  Frothing Harris recoiled in horror. “You mean Bristol or Bath?”

  “Further,” replied Castor.

  “Surely not Brighton or Dover?” stammered Paddy.

  “Venice,” smirked Castor.

  His companions fell silent at this, but they didn’t slacken their pace, so anyone observing them would assume they hadn’t properly heard Castor’s answer. Slowly the landscape changed. They were still among dunes and the sun had set, but they could see perfectly clearly. Dark sand pulsed red, like friendly radioactive blood.

  “Venice,” repeated Castor suddenly.

  “In Italy, you mean,” replied Frothing Harris dourly.

  “A long way,” said Paddy Deluxe.

  “Yes,” nodded Castor. “More than eight hundred and fifty miles along the realistic route, but we’re going to use a short cut that partly exists in a parallel dimension and partly doesn’t. In fact we have already crossed the invisible border into a magic realm.”

  “Does that explain why the dunes are usefully glowing with their own inner light?” enquired Frothing Harris.

  “It does indeed,” confirmed Castor.

  “How much time will this route save us?”

  “Most, if not all. But you can’t really save time the same way you can save money or marmalade, I’m sorry to say. It will spend itself eventually whether you want it to or not.”

  “Are there any dangers to worry about?”

  Castor frowned deeply. “Apart from the bicycle-centaurs, no. At least I’m unaware of other kinds of monster inhabiting the region. Having said that, I don’t regularly come this way, but I carefully studied a map of our route, so I don’t think we’re lost. As you can see, the sandy path ends here and an asphalt road takes over.”

  “Will we have to walk all night?” asked Harris.

  “Yes, we will. Be strong.”

  Much to everyone’s surprise, the sun abruptly rose.

  “That was quick!” cried Paddy.

  “Different dimensions, different conventions,” blandly replied Castor, but he cast apprehensive eyes in every direction and clutched the pole of his magnifying glass more firmly.

  “Now I understand the purpose of that thing,” said Paddy Deluxe. “It’s to concentrate the sun’s rays and melt the tarmac on this road to impede the onslaught of the bicycle-centaurs, isn’t it? That’s the real reason you brought it. Nothing to do with being the fashion accessory of a detective. It’s a tool of defensive warfare!”

  “Not exactly,” said Castor with a blush.

  “What’s it for then?” asked Paddy.

  “For making the Glass Towers of Glimpse feel less lonely.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. In fact you’ll find out now, as we seem to be already there. Clearly the short cut has contracted since I obtained the map of it. I won’t complain!”

  They entered a ruined city with shattered walls.

  “This is Glimpse?” asked Paddy.

  Castor nodded. “And those are the Glass Towers!”

  “What are you talking about?” blinked Frothing Harris. “Those things are just flat circles of glass, enormous round windows that someone has placed down on the ground.”

  “Like hard lakes,” added Paddy Deluxe.

  “Shall we step around them? Or walk over them? We can hardly wade through them,” pointed out Harris.

  Castor frowned. “Please show more respect. These were formerly the tallest structures in this particular cosmos, the most glorious products of the engineering genius of a civilisation that died out a billion years ago. Legends still describe how the Glass Towers thrust into the stratosphere like astounding godlike test tubes.”

  “What happened? Did they melt?” asked Paddy.

  Castor shook his head. “Not exactly. Unlikely as it may seem, glass is not a solid but a super-stiff liquid. It flows like all liquids, but so slowly the motion can’t be seen. Have you ever examined old church windows? They are thicker at the base than the top because over centuries the glass has flowed down enough to create a discernible difference. Eventually all glass objects become flat pools.”

  “That’s amazing,” conceded Frothing Harris.

  Castor Jenkins now did something strange. Most of the things he does are strange, but this one was especially so. First he extended his pole until he clutched it only in one hand at its very extremity, then he gently rested the magnifying glass on the ground, so that its lens resembled a miniature version of the flattened Glass Towers. He stood in silence for ten minutes with bowed head and shut eyes.

  Then he withdrew the magnifying glass and nodded to himself as the Glass Towers seemed to hum in pleasure or gratitude, surely an acoustic illusion caused by a light breeze.

  “Let’s go,” he said. And set off.

  Paddy followed. “What was all that about?”

  “They sometimes get broody,” Castor replied, glancing back over his shoulder at the devastated city.

  “Who do?” frowned Paddy Deluxe.

  “The Glass Towers of Glimpse, of course!”

  “You mean they thought the lens was a baby tower?” gasped Frothing Harris as he struggled to keep up. Castor was setting a very fast pace, but suddenly he stopped to point at the ground. Water was gargling down the asphalt road, cutting a narrow groove in the centre of the camber, and this soggy fact seemed delightful to him.

  “We’re on the outskirts of Venice!” he announced.

  And so they were. The dunes soon vanished completely, to be replaced by magnificent buildings, and the gargling water became a wide canal full of gondolas. A far cry from Porthcawl! Castor relaxed enough to confide a terrible secret. “Glass doesn’t really flo
w like a liquid, that’s just a myth but a very persistent one,” he said.

  “Why exactly are we here?” asked Paddy.

  “I want to prove that trolls are responsible for stealing our houses and all other empty abodes. Hopefully we’ll recognise our own homes among the abducted buildings and so be able to claim them back! As you pointed out to me, trolls live under bridges, and what other city can boast so many fine bridges? It follows that the finest trolls must live here, the uppercrust trolls who are most likely to have stolen the houses. Keep your eyes open and yell when you see your property.”

  Frothing Harris shrugged. “Fine. But I still don’t understand why trolls would actually want to steal houses!”

  “Like I said before, my clothes are the clue.”

  Paddy shook his head. “Not much of a coherent clue to me, I’m afraid. Silk garments, very chic. Where did you get them, by the way? There’s no manufacturer’s label anywhere.”

  “Made them myself,” proudly asserted Castor.

  “But where did you get the material? It’s extremely fine quality silk! I don’t suppose it came from Wales?”

  “I cut it from the Silk Road,” said Castor, “which has started to fray at the edges and isn’t used much, so I doubt the piece I took will be missed. I used a scimitar to make a neat incision. Probably won’t be able to obtain any for you the same way, because a warlord is planning to roll the entire Silk Road up and use it for a stair carpet. He lives in the tallest pagoda in Mandalay, you see, a million levels high.”

  “We don’t believe you,” chorused Paddy and Harris.

  “Why ever not?” growled Castor.

  “Because the Silk Road is nowhere near Mandalay.”

  Castor grinned sourly. “Fair enough, I admit the deception, his pagoda is actually in Samarkand, but the rest is true. Shall we take this gondola to make our explorations even easier?”

  They did so, much to the chagrin of the gondolier, who was enjoying a cappuccino in a nearby café at the time. Castor gracefully used the pole of his magnifying glass to punt them down the canals and that was how they investigated every accessible nook and corner of this magnificent city and glided under every single bridge. But all the trolls they saw looked just as innocent as the trolls back home.