by Mal Peet
He inhaled, searching for a word.
‘Badgery’, that was it. Her word.
She’d visited him once and only once, three years ago. In a state of thrilled anxiety and troublesome tumescence he’d made preparations for her stay, feminizing the bathroom with the best unguents that Flemworthy could provide, ensuring that the spare bedroom was comfortable, but less enticing than his own. Her visit had lasted less than two hours and she hadn’t taken as much as her coat off.
The memory unmanned him. Eventually he gathered himself and set off, brisk and resolute, for the village.
As usual, a small number of Flemworthy’s more superfluous inhabitants had gathered in the Square to enjoy the spectacle of people parking their cars. Later, perhaps, they would venture into Kwik Mart to admire the more nerve-racking arts of the astigmatic girl who sliced salami at the cooked meats counter.
In 1898, the Elders of Flemworthy had decided that the latent sanitary and cultural needs of the town would best be served by the building of public conveniences and a library. Needless to say, there had been considerable opposition from those who believed that these wilful extravagances would pose a threat to order and tradition. But, by a stroke of luck, Queen Victoria died in 1901 and the objectors were persuaded to accept the construction of both buildings in her memory.
The Elders cast far and wide for a suitable architect, finally settling on a slightly avant-garde young man from Barnstaple. His thing was Harmony. He argued that because the two new buildings would dominate the Square, they should be built of the same local materials and to a similar design. Unused to such aesthetic considerations, and impressed by them, the Elders agreed. They failed to notice that the young architect had, in the interests of Harmony, designed buildings of the same size. Thus it was that Flemworthy came to have the largest thatched toilet and the smallest thatched library in the county; it was unsurprising that the locals occasionally used one when they meant to use the other. It was unto the less popular of these two buildings that Philip now made haste.
The Weird Sisters saw him coming. They abandoned their pastime of inventing suggestive catalogue entries and fluttered, like happy harpies, along the shelves in preparation for his entrance. In common with all the women of Flemworthy, they had pencil moustaches and a reluctance to assume a completely upright posture. They had names – Francine and Merilee – which Philip, in accordance with local custom, used interchangeably.
‘Good morning, Merilee. Good morning Francine.’
‘Mornen, Mr Murdsten. Us’s glad to see you safe back from Lunnen.’
‘Oh, tas awful you has to go up there. I cudden bear it, I swear to God. All that goin everywhere in tunnels an people speaken in langwidges. Make my flesh crawl just thinken about it.’
‘Yes, well, it can be a bit—’
Francine sighed sympathetically. ‘You has to go, acourse. You writers has to have your nights of wine an willen women on a reglar basis. Everyone know that.’
Merilee nodded agreement. ‘Tas all part of it.’
‘Well, um, I—’
The sisters leaned at him expectantly. Not for the first time, Philip felt strangely weakened by their skewed yet mesmeric gaze. It took a physical effort, a deliberate shudder, to free himself.
‘Actually, I was wondering if you have anything on the shelves by way of what I believe is called, ah, High Fantasy.’
They gargoyled at him.
‘For research purposes,’ he added hurriedly.
‘Ah,’ Francine murmured.
‘Research,’ Merilee breathed. Her hands moved as if to cup her breasts, but Francine halted their movement with a subtle slap. She slid from behind the counter and with a conspiratorial gesture summoned Philip to follow her. After a short and distorted walk they arrived at an empty shelf.
‘Bugger,’ Francine said. ‘All out agen. Tas always thus. Tas poplar, see? Us’ll not order no more.’
‘My God,’ Philip said. ‘People round here like that sort of thing, do they?’
‘Can’t get enough on’m.’
‘Really? I’m amazed.’
‘Reality’s too good for’m, swot it is.’
‘So,’ Philip said helplessly, ‘not even a copy of, um, Lord of the Rings?’
‘Ah. Not as such. But us does have the filums. On cassette and VD.’
‘Right. Unfortunately, I don’t have the necessary equipment.’
Merilee stifled a snort.
Francine glimmered up at him.
‘Tas not what I’d call a problem,’ she said, ‘seen as how us do. You’d be moron welcome to come rown an watch it at our place. Be lovely.’
‘Well, that’s very kind, I’m sure …’
‘Ternight?’
Before Philip could respond Francine turned to the counter and barked, ‘Book’n out!’
‘Actually,’ Philip said, suppressing panic, ‘I’m not sure about tonight.’
‘Tomorrer? Wensdy?’
‘I’ll check my diary.’
‘You do. The special effecks is fantastic.’
‘Ah. Right then. I’ll get back to you.’ He sidled slightly to his right, scanning the shelves. ‘Looks like all my books are out again,’ he observed.
‘As ever,’ Francine said. ‘Can’t keep’m in less we nail’m down.’
It was an ongoing puzzlement to him, this mystery of his local fan club. Somewhere hereabouts there must be a coterie of avid admirers who borrowed his books on a rotational basis. Yet he had never been buttonholed by a single enthusiast as he went about his daily business. Odd. A clandestine literary cell, unwilling to declare itself.
He was still pondering this enigma as he made the short journey to the Memorial Conveniences.
The Weird Sisters watched him go. When he was out of sight Merilee took the pristine copies of his works from beneath the counter and restored them to their rightful place on the shelf next to the undisturbed novels of Iris Murdoch.
Philip returned to Downside and, at the fourth attempt, persuaded his knackered and knock-kneed Ford to start. An hour later, he arrived at Tavistock library, where he was a familiar face. In addition to his net-surfing visits, he had given a good number of readings there; the last, at which he’d raised the possibility of being paid, had been almost a year earlier.
In answer to his query, Tania (her name was on a badge which rested on the gentle declension of her left breast) said, ‘Well, gosh, it depends what you mean by “Fantasy”. I mean, it’s a broad-spectrum genre, as I’m sure you know. There’s Post-Tolkien Traditionalist fantasy, obviously. That’s your goblins and wizards and so forth. Reliable. Then there’s Post-Tolkien Experimental, which has glam-rock angels and drugs and that sort of thing. Not to be confused, of course, with Mormon Vampire Fantasy, which is an entirely different thing. As is Steampunk.’
‘Steampunk?’
‘You know. Victorian time warp. Like Blade Runner directed by Isambard Kingdom Brunel.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Philip’s brain scrambled for coordinates like a drowning spider clutching at the radials of a plughole.
‘Then, of course, there’s Portal Fantasy, in which the central characters find their way through some gap or tunnel in the cosmic fabric and find themselves in a different dimension of the spacio-temporal continuum, although, in my opinion’ – here Tania sniffed disdainfully – ‘these are often just sexed-up historical novels. Very popular with children of single parents, though. I have absolutely no idea why. Let’s see. Right: Post-Apocalypse Fantasy. That’s boys’ stuff. Basically Post-Tolkien Experimental with continuous violence. Think computer games for the semi-literate. Tricky to tell the difference between that and Splatter SF, as often as not. It’s provoked some lively discussions as to cataloguing, I can tell you. Baguettes have been thrown in the staff room more than once. Dystopian Fantasy is more or less the same thing, but with a girl as the main character because teenage girls are more miserable than teenage boys. What else? Philip Pullman. He’s another problem. T
he Dewey System just wasn’t designed with him in mind. Religious Fantasy, you might say, but that’s the same as Theology, isn’t it? Irene over there at the desk would call it Pretentious Fantasy, but then she only likes books about the SAS. There’s Terry Pratchett, of course, but he’s pretty sui generis.’
‘Indeed,’ Philip said knowledgeably.
‘And needless to say there’s Harry Potter, but you’ll know those. No point you looking for them anyway. They’re all out and reserved for the next two years. In fact, the books that J. K. says she’s not going to write are reserved for the next two years.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Probably best just to have a browse. You’ve got about twenty minutes before the next lot of kids from the Community College come in for their Library Project. If you need help I’ll be in the Security Room checking the pepper sprays and the dogs. Use the wall phone to the right of the door. The code is One Nine Eight Four.’
She turned away and then turned back.
‘The ones with blue jackets tend to be better than the others,’ she said.
An hour later Philip was nursing the Ford back up unto the Moor. On the passenger seat were: Volumes I and III of The Alchemist’s Daughter; Part One of Dragon Summoner; The Sword of Nemesis IV; Parts Seven and Nine of The Firedrake’s Pestle and Dark Origin: The Prequel. Perched on top of the gaudily coloured heap was a copy of Slothrop’s A Short History of Dartmoor Funerals, which he had taken out on the grounds that he would need some light relief.
Back in the safety of Downside, he piled the meaty volumes onto the table below the window. He then carried a stepladder and a torch upstairs and climbed into the low attic. He brushed thick dust and dried droppings from cardboard boxes that had lain undisturbed for almost a decade. Towards the bottom of the third one, under a stratum of his A-Level essays, he found a copy of The Hobbit. The edges of its pages were as brown as the rind on smoked bacon. He carried it downstairs and added it to the heap along with a new A4 notepad, Minerva’s scrawlings and two pencils. To fortify himself, he prepared and ate three rounds of Marmite on toast. He stood at the window, drinking a large mug of tea and smoking a roll-up. Then he turned away from the springtide glory of the moor, lowered himself onto his chair, and began to read.
Two days later he had acquired the hollow-eyed and unravelled appearance of a man who has stumbled away from the horrors of a medieval battlefield.
4
Tenebrus uttered a long, loud cry in an unknown language. At the summons, a legion of Gashluk reverse-melted from the dank flagstones, their dead eyes glittering at the intruders.
The air inside the chamber grew suddenly rank with their stench.
Asrafel smiled grimly and drew Rethimnon from its scabbard.
Rethimnon? Philip was fairly sure that it was a holiday resort in Greece. Or Turkey. Xanthos, was it? Crete? Definitely not Welsh, though.
The weapon leaped in his hand like a rampant salmon.
Oh, God.
‘Magus,’ he roared. ‘Before you enter this, your final battle, consider whether these foul minions of thine know the identity of those they dare confront. I offer you, in the name of Pancreus, one final choice: surrender and return in peace to thy Foul Kingdom, or be consigned to the Eternal Ice by he who is the True Elect!’
Tenebrus’ scornful laugh echoed hauntingly round the chamber. The Gashluk bared their slimy teeth in mirth also.
‘Fool!’ the Magus hissed. ‘You think your pathetic weapon can prevail against this?’
Tenebrus reached inside his foul cloak and produced The Amulet of Bhang and with his hooked fingers caressed its
‘Bollocks,’ Philip cried, and dropped Dark Origin: The Prequel onto the heap of broke-backed books that lay at his feet. He buried his face in his hands and allowed himself a sob. After a minute or so he delved once more into his deepest resources and took up Volume I of The Dread Palimpsest. It was as thick as a tombstone and almost as heavy. The map on the frontispiece looked suspiciously like the Isle of Wight.
Fifteen minutes later he was drooped on one of the stools – cunningly wrought from ancient tractor seats – at the bar of the Gelder’s Rest.
‘Pint of the usual, please, Denis.’
Denis was new and young and from Birmingham; his speech consisted almost exclusively of interrogatives.
‘Got a new guest beer in? Fiston’s Dark Entropy? Bit like Newcastle Brown, but with a nice taste? Hoppy, hint of burnt toffee? Put some lead in your pencil?’
‘Ah, no thanks, Denis. Just the usual. Feel a bit frail today, to be honest. I probably ought to have something to eat.’
‘We’ve got the liver and kumquats on special?’ Denis asked.
Something in Philip’s ascending colon murmured a gnomic warning. ‘Sounds lovely, Denis. But I think I need simple fare today? The Ploughman’s Lunch, maybe?’
Denis’s intonation was infectious.
‘The Crispy Chinese Pancake Ploughman’s? The Spicy Thai Crabcake Ploughman’s?’
‘Um. Can I just have a cheese one? Oh, and Denis? Hold the pickled onion?’
Denis took himself off to the kitchen, looking peevish, while Philip took an exploratory sip of his beer and glanced cautiously over each shoulder to see if any dangerous conversationalists were lurking.
The two Ancients, Leon and Edgar, were sitting in their usual place below the dartboard. The curdled crowns of their pints of Guinness were aligned exactly halfway down their glasses as if they used a spirit level to coordinate the progress of their drinking. Their communication was entirely telepathic, but just occasionally one of them would say ‘Yep’, and then the other would shake his head in reluctant agreement. At this late lunchtime hour, the only other people in the bar were two women wearing cropped grey hair and complex walking boots; their heads were close together over a map. Philip relaxed. The Worm of Desperation eased its grip.
After his third pint, Denis persuaded him to switch to the Dark Entropy.
When Philip left the Gelder’s Rest at ten minutes to four he was as drunk as a boiled owl. He made his way homeward, tacking skilfully between obstacles that only he, in his magickal condition, could see. Now and again he startled passers-by with sudden loud exclamations such as ‘Yes!’ and ‘Hah!’. On Dag Lane, he was enchanted by the hawthorn blossom and paused to watch it tilt and shift in the still afternoon air like the lace on a bride’s bum. Despite some gaps in his consciousness, he found himself, eventually, approaching his cottage. The green and ochre swathes of moorland opened up ahead and to the left of him. At the gateway in the stone wall he stood and conducted the landscape as if it were swelling and rapturous music.
But when he reached his own gate, at the very instant he put his hand on it, his good spirits fled. Something dark passed over his heart like a hideous shadow on an ocean floor. He could not bring himself to go into his house. His sanctuary had been possessed by necromancers and warlocks and shadowfaxers and alchemists and bloody dorcs and writers who were allergic to full bloody stops; he couldn’t face them. He hiccupped, and it brought up a sour gas. The Dark Entropy was repeating on him.
So he turned away and trudged unsteadily towards the moor. He survived the perils of the cattle-grid, then took the path to his right because it led up to level walking, and he didn’t like the feel of his legs. There was May blossom up here too, spread like a snowy quilt on its long bed of thorns; but he had lost interest in it. High above him, a dogfight was taking place between a buzzard and a squadron of rooks, but he did not lift his head. A cuckoo called; it sounded like derision.
He steadied himself and belched, then propelled himself into the blurred overlaps of the landscape.
As stone circles go, the Wringers are not especially thrilling. That hasn’t stopped them being draped in legend; on Dartmoor, you pile three rocks in a heap and there’ll be a legend doing the rounds in less than a fortnight. They say, for example, that the Wringers can never be counted; that no matter how many times you try you end up with a different number. There are four
teen altogether, although one of them has fallen in towards the centre. According to local lore, this, the dawn-facing Altar Stone, is where dreadful things used to be done to virgins, should any be available. In fact, it was toppled in 1763 by a local farmer trying to steal it for a barn lintel.
The stones are all about a metre wide. They vary in height from just over two metres down to a stumpy 120 centimetres or so, although it is hard to keep track of them because they change places on certain nights.
The Wringers are sometimes called The Devil’s Clock, Old Nick’s Bedpan or Old Horny’s Freezer. It is said that fresh meat will never go off if it is exposed to the new moon from inside the circle, which might account for the pork-pie gastroenteritis epidemic that racked Flemworthy’s population in 1913. The Wringers have the power to cure rickets, ringworm, scrofula, gout, nail fungus, stammering, baldness in women, heresy and wind. And also impotence, which perhaps explains why there is always a condom or two lying about.
A strange thing about the Wringers is that although you’d swear they were in the middle of a great stretch of level ground, you never see them until you’re almost up to them. And on this spring afternoon they took Philip by surprise again, although he was glad to see them. He needed something to lean on.
He felt bad now. He had suddenly put on lots of weight, and there was that numbness at the top of his skull that would later turn into a lobster-shaped headache. The air had thickened, and he was sweating. He relieved himself against Long Betty, the fourth or perhaps fifth monolith clockwise from the Altar Stone. Then he subsided onto the grass with his back against Growly’s Thumb. Very slowly he rolled a cigarette. When he told his hand to lift it to his lips nothing happened because he was unconscious.
It falls to me, Orberry Volenap, fourth and last of the Five High Scholars, to set this down. Dark and dire though the record be, I must make haste in the telling, for I have now lived two hundred and four Circuits, and already in my dreams I glimpse my ancestors behind the Glass waiting to greet me. When this my last task is completed, when the end of history is written and the Great Ledger is forever sealed, I shall willingly join them. Perhaps then I shall see again. Not that I am ungrateful to the Powers that took my sight. The great comfort of my blindness is that it hides from me the greater and more terrible darkness cast over the Realm by the foul Antarch Morl Morlbrand and his ever-spawning minions.