The Truth Spinner

by Rhys Hughes

  The Thousand and One Pints

  Translated from the original Thespian by Richard Burton, not the explorer but the other one, the drunken Welsh actor.

  A dreadful clattering noise woke Castor Jenkins and he climbed out of bed and went to the window and looked out. Somebody was driving a combine harvester through his garden.

  It wasn’t a full sized harvesting machine, of course, for his garden was rather modest in area; but it was undoubtedly real. The man who operated it was dressed in a tattered black cloak.

  Castor opened the window and shook his fist.

  “You’ve cut up all my leeks!” he shouted, but his voice wasn’t audible above the din of the mighty engine.

  He walked back to his bedside cabinet and picked up a vase that stood there; it was a birthday present or heirloom, he couldn’t remember which, and then he returned to the window.

  Taking careful aim, he lobbed the vase at the machine. It smashed into fragments against the side of the combine harvester and a few pieces of shrapnel ricocheted into the driver.

  He gave a start, looked and saw Castor. He killed the engine and in the abrupt silence he craned his head up and cried, “I’ve come for you at last, Mr Jenkins. Sorry I’m a year late.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” replied Castor.

  “Really? That surprises me. May I come inside for a moment? I won’t delay you for long. I’m very busy.”

  Castor wrapped himself in a dressing gown and went down to open the back door. The hooded figure entered and offered his host a smile, but the fact he had no lips spoiled the effect.

  “I know who you are, of course,” said Castor.

  “My fleshless skull gave me away, did it?” sighed the stranger; and his empty eye sockets seemed forlorn.

  “What happened to your scythe?” asked Castor.

  “Oh that!” said Mr Reaper.

  “You replaced it with a combine harvester?”

  “Yes, yes, naturally; we all have to move with the times. No one reaps anything with a scythe these days.”

  Castor considered this statement critically.

  “Volunteers for certain conservation groups do; they scythe bracken. I heard about it from an acquaintance.”

  “Have you used such a tool, Mr Jenkins?”

  Castor shook his head. “I don’t care much for blisters.”

  “You don’t like physical toil of any kind, do you? And that’s one of the main reasons I’ve come for you.”

  Castor nodded. “I suppose I am out of shape.”

  “Too much beer, too many chips, not enough exercise. Well, I’d like to chat longer but it’s not possible, my schedule’s too tight, so why don’t we get it over with? Step outside…”

  “You want to mangle me in the blades of that contrivance? No thanks. I’ll stay in one comfortable piece.”

  “There’s really no choice for you, Mr Jenkins.”

  “I don’t imagine there is. I’ve read that fable, I think Cocteau did a neat version, about a servant who met you in the garden one morning and ran to his master with the words, ‘I saw Death and he gave me a threatening look. So please lend me your fastest horse so I can be in another town by nightfall’. I don’t recall which town—”

  “Esfahan,” said Mr Reaper.

  “Yes. Anyway, the servant gallops off to Esfahan and the master goes into the garden and meets Death and says, ‘Why did you give my servant a threatening look this morning?’ and Death says, ‘It wasn’t a threatening look but one of surprise, for I was amazed to see him here in your garden when I knew I was due to collect him in Esfahan tonight.’ Pretty neat tale, huh? I always admired that story.”

  “I’ve heard it too many times,” said Mr Reaper.

  “Sure. But you did like it the first time, didn’t you? The very first time you ever heard it?” pressed Castor.

  Mr Reaper rasped, “Probably. But it didn’t really happen in Esfahan. I don’t know how that came about.”

  “Where did it take place then?” asked Castor.

  “Bognor Regis, I think.”

  An awkward pause. Castor broke it by saying, “You must have known a lot of famous people in your time?”

  “All of them,” said Mr Reaper.

  “Well, if you like tales, why don’t you let me recite you a selection of my own? I could tell you about—”

  Mr Reaper held up a bony hand, palm outwards.

  “I don’t wish to be rude, Mr Jenkins, but I’m wise to nearly every trick in the book; I have read the Arabian Nights, so if you were planning to do a Scheherazade then think again.”

  Castor shuffled his feet. “I wasn’t intending to begin a story but draw it out, and then immediately start a new one, and so on, etc, as some sort of delaying tactic. Honest I wasn’t!”

  “I believe you, Mr Jenkins, I really do.”

  “Interesting case I heard about last night, though, in the pub. Might as well tell you. It’s an anecdote, not a story. You know how traditional Irish dancers move their legs but not their upper bodies; and Jamaican dancers move their upper bodies but not their legs? Well now, it seems there was an Irish mother and a Jamaican father who had twins and the twins grew up, and guess what? One of them danced by moving their legs and upper body simultaneously; the other danced by failing to move at all. And that was the only way to tell them apart.”

  “Fascinating!” yawned Mr Reaper.

  Castor sighed and looked at the floor. Then he said, “I see there’s no point making things difficult.”

  “None at all, Mr Jenkins; none at all.”

  “Would you like a beer?”

  “I don’t have time. We must be going now.”

  “Fair enough. I just thought you might like to sample one of the beers in my collection. My cellar is full of quality beers from around the world. It’s a collection I have built up over decades. I don’t think anyone else in Wales has such a selection to hand.”

  “Really? Now that is interesting. But I’m afraid—”

  “Thousands of bottles,” added Castor.

  “But how many varieties exactly?” frowned Mr Reaper.

  “I only have one bottle of each.”

  “You are joking, surely? You don’t mean that—”

  “Yes. I have a single example of every beer brewed by every brewery in the entire world. I even have some from the planet Antichthon. Which reminds me: do you have jurisdiction over that world too? I’ve wondered about that ever since I went there.”

  “No, that planet is pruned by my colleague, Mrs Mirg.”

  “Is she also a skeleton?”

  “Yes. She reads too many fashion magazines.”

  “They are a bad influence…”

  “Maybe I have time to tour your cellar.”

  Castor ushered him to the door that led to the spiral staircase and down into a gloomy underground chamber that was cluttered with bicycle parts, washing machines, obsolete vinyl albums, ledgers full of indecipherable scribbles that might be poems.

  “I don’t see beer. Is this a trick?” growled Mr Reaper.

  “This is just the ante-cellar. Please step under that arch and you’ll enter the main cellar,” insisted Castor.

  Mr Reaper did as he was bid and emerged into an even gloomier room with walls covered with white web-work.

  “Nitre?” asked Mr Reaper.

  “Nitre,” said Castor. “How long have you had that cough?”

  “Cough?” Mr Reaper was bewildered.

  “Come,” said Castor, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are an entity to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill—”

  “No I won’t. Don’t be silly. Lead on!”

  “These vaults,” said Castor, “are extensive. The Jenkins were a great family. Do you forget my arms?”

  “They’re connected to your shoulders.”

  “Not these arms: I mean my coat of arms! Do
you forget them? Glass of foaming beer sable, slurped by a pair of lips gules. And the motto? I’ll have another for the road, old son!”

  “You jest!” exclaimed Mr Reaper, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the beer stash! You don’t happen to have a bottle of Abbaye des Rocs Brune, 9% ABV, near at hand, do you? I love those Belgian double-fermented warmers. Seven different malts in that one, three kinds of hops, and lots of raw spices.”

  Castor searched among the cobwebs, found the bottle, passed it over. Mr Reaper opened it with his bony fingers, drank it thoughtfully, nodded and grinned. “Toffee apple and prunes,” he said. “Just how I remember it from holidays in Montignies-sur-Roc!”

  “Good,” said Castor. “It’s rather a strong one.”

  “Yes, yes, but flavour isn’t sacrificed for strength! What’s that there? It looks like a bottle of Der Weisse Bock, 7.2% ABV, from Bamberg. Dark wheat beers don’t come finer than that one: chocolate and pears are tangs to be found within its smooth excellence! Let me taste it! Ah, a delight on the tongue; and I don’t even have a tongue, so imagine! Germanic beer is the equal of Belgian. And what’s this one? Schlüssel Alt, 5%, a fine clean beer of authentic heritage. Yum!”

  “I must confess there’s no order to the way they are stored. It’s a purely random arrangement,” said Castor.

  “Worry not! Worry not! What’s this? Finlandia Sahti, 8%. A beer from colder climes, filtered through juniper berries. A hue like a misty morning and a flavour like arctic bananas!”

  They proceeded deeper into the dank cellar.

  Mr Reaper paused often, as certain labels caught his attention, and he asked for Castor to fetch that bottle for him. “This is a superb New World drink, a beer from Denver, Colorado: Old Aged Yeti Imperial Stout, 9.5% ABV, a brew hearty enough for Sasquatch!” He drained the bottle, threw it upwards into the air with a gesticulation Castor didn’t understand. Then he repeated the movement, a grotesque one. “You comprehend not? You are clearly not of the brotherhood.”

  Castor scratched his head and blinked. “How?”

  “You are not of the alkies.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Castor, “yes, yes. An alky!”

  “Impossible! A sign!”

  “It is this,” answered Castor, producing a pint glass from beneath the folds of his dressing gown. It was one of those dimpled glasses with a handle that were so popular, almost ubiquitous in fact, back in the long lost 1970s. Mr Reaper took the offered glass and examined it for many moments with squinting sockets.

  “You jest! Nonetheless I will drink from it.”

  “Yes, that’s a much more civilised approach,” agreed Castor. “Glance over there, if you will. Notice something odd? A beer from Africa! Hansa Urbock, 7% ABV, with a chewy malt profile. Hard to believe it originates from so hot a country as Namibia!”

  Mr Reaper filled his pint glass and tasted.

  “Surprisingly delicious! Do you have any other eccentric beers? Wait, I see something from Ramallah, of all places! Taybeh Golden Beer, 5% ABV, a crisp pilsner. Interesting!”

  “You can’t be a proper country if you don’t have your own beer,” said Castor. “I’ve always believed that.”

  “I recognise the quote. Who said it first?”

  “Frank Zappa, the musician.”

  “Yes, he did. Well remembered! Look!”

  He pointed a gnarled finger and Castor reached for the dusty bottle it was aimed at, opened it and filled the glass. Mr Reaper sighed with sheer delight. “Red Macgregor, 5% ABV, from Orkney. Toffee and plum and a hint of heather. Astounding! Scottish beers are grossly underrated, in my view. It slips down without fuss.”

  “Would you like to try a Welsh beer?” asked Castor.

  “But of course! I’m unbiased!”

  Castor fetched him a bottle of fruity dark ale with the strange name of Dark Side of the Moose, brewed by the Purple Moose Brewery in remote Porthmadog. Although only 4.5% ABV it had lots of bite and Mr Reaper appreciated this fact. Then he sampled another, slightly stronger Welsh beer, Ysprid y Ddraig, 5.5% ABV, from Brecon in Powys, an ale that is stored in whisky barrels for three months before bottling; during its time asleep in the barrels it absorbs a mix of flavours including vanilla, pears and cloudberries. After that, Mr Reaper stayed with the Celtic theme and drained a pint of Okells Aile Smoked Porter, 4.8% ABV, from Douglas in the Isle of Man, a pure brew that includes hints of liquorice and coffee in its dark substance. Smack those lip bones!

  “You certainly know how to enjoy life,” he said.

  Castor bowed. “I believe I do.”

  “I suppose you always keep in mind that famous advice to live each day as if it’s your last? Don’t you?”

  “Absolutely not!” cried Castor.

  Mr Reaper frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Castor sighed. “If I lived each day as if it was my last, I’d be a nervous wreck every hour of my existence, constantly fretting about the following morning and my oncoming death! I would spend all my time writing my will and saying goodbye to friends; and I would do this every single day without fail for the rest of my life!”

  “When you put it like that… It doesn’t sound so wise.”

  “Never live each day as if it’s your last! That’s the most ludicrous thing anyone ever said. Live each day as if you can live forever! That’s a better suggestion! Live each day as if—”

  “This really is your last day, though,” Mr Reaper said.

  Castor swallowed dryly, smiled with difficulty and guided his guest to the next beer, a bottle of Montegioco Draco, 11.5%, a strong barley wine from Piedmont in Italy. Immediately after, he took Mr Reaper to a corner where a bottle of Samichlaus stood. At 14% ABV this is one of the most potent beers in the world; brewed only on one day of the year, December 6th, and matured until the festive season of the following year. The bottle was more than a decade old. Mr Reaper drank it all down in one. Then he smiled and reached forward to shake Castor’s hand. He was unsteady now and stumbled as he stepped closer.

  “More beer!” he bellowed. “I want more beer!”

  There’s no point listing every single beer that Mr Reaper drank. In fact he drank a total of one thousand and one pints. Castor kept careful count and was finally very relieved when Mr Reaper quaffed his last drink and blinked his sockets and belched a mighty belch and embraced his host in his old skeleton arms and slurred:

  “Youz my besht friend!”

  Before collapsing in a heap on the damp stone floor, his bones coming apart and spilling out of his puddled cloak… For anyone who is curious, it can be reported that the beer that finally finished Mr Reaper off was the honey-coloured, hop-heavy Jihlavský Grand, 8.1% ABV, from the Czech Republic, one of the beeriest nations of all. Castor chucked with triumph, turned to leave the cellar and said:

  “I have killed Death by alcohol poisoning!”

  A figure materialised before him.

  It was a man with long hair and a straggly beard who stood on one leg like a stork and raised a flute to his lips.

  Castor frowned. “You’re not his replacement?”

  “No, I’m not; not at all.”

  “You’re not a sort of meta-Death that comes to collect Death when he succumbs to his own reaping?”

  “Nope. I’m Life, the opposite of Death.”

  “Do you have a proper name?”

  “Call me Mr Tull, if you wish.” The stranger studied his surroundings and noted the vinyl albums. “Living in the past!” Then he said, “I’ve come for you and I don’t get drunk easily, so you can’t trick me as neatly as you tricked naïve Mr Reaper over there.”

  “He didn’t get drunk easily either,” said Castor.

  Mr Tull played a trill, lowered the flute and said, “I don’t have time for chatter. My seed drill is waiting.”

  “Seed drill?” muttered Castor.

  “Certainly. I once carried a brand new ploughshare about with me, but we must all move with the times.”

  “Death swapped h
is scythe for a combine harvester.”

  “A wise move; and I use a seed drill. Follow me and I’ll take you to it. Too late for regrets! It was an old day yesterday but it’s a new day now! I hope you won’t try to be awkward?”

  “If you are Life, are you going to reincarnate me?”

  “No. The buck stops here.”

  “That’s Death’s job and Death has been slain.”

  “Yes and now I have to cover for him. I give life and what I give I’m entitled to take away, and that’s how it’ll work from now on. You have doubled my workload, Mr Jenkins!”

  He raised the flute to his lips again and this time Castor was unable to resist the tug of the music. They both went dancing like jesters deep into the cellar, into a dark region of the underground labyrinth that Castor had never dared explore. There was no beer this way. No cobwebs. No bones. Just a wholly unsatisfactory ending.

  Celebration Day

  It was a perilously fine day for a celebration: the weathermen had lied again. Frothing Harris threw back the curtains and planned revenge. If only he could get his hands on one of the rascals! But how do you recognise them? What does a weatherman look like? Do they believe their own forecasts? That at least would make it easier.

  He pictured a figure, oilskins and sou’wester, straining its way down the street under the hammer of the sun. He pictured his own rain, a rain of blows, as he accosted the muffled fellow outside the post office. Probably he would use his umbrella as a club. And each plum bruise raised would be proof of an absolute justice…

  But no, the umbrella in question must stand idle next to the fireplace. Quite new, purchased the day before in trust, it would never be associated with the glory. A poor start to this most eagerly awaited of mornings! True, Harris hadn’t relished the prospect of holding it erect for hours or flapping it at any seagull that dared disturb his nostalgia, but a needless purchase was a worse concept.

  There was no stability in the world. None. He sighed and lingered over shaving and dressing and breakfast with precise motions that suggested the regular clockwork of his life was powered by an overwound spring. He bared long teeth not his own.

  I should be grateful, he thought bitterly. We are old, we have been left behind, the blossom has fallen off our knotty limbs; but at least we have today. Our time has come again. Briefly, so briefly. He drained his cup of bitter chicory and stood in the hallway, buttoning his blazer in the myopic mirror affixed to the wall.