by Mal Peet
Standing on the rocky promontory that overlooked The Sour Plain, watching the blood-red dawn reveal the host of Swelts, Cadrel unsheathed Cwydd Harel. It slid from the scabbard with a sound like unto a serpent’s dying sigh. He smiled when the Sage materialized beside him.
GarBellon’s long beard shifted in the dawn’s breath. He turned to Cadrel and said
Nothing. The words ran out. The screen filled with a pure and simple blue in which a few black pixels floated. Philip had known it would, but he stabbed the Page Down key nevertheless. Nothing happened. He switched to the new part of his brain, but it wasn’t there. He’d known it wouldn’t be, but he grieved for it anyway. He grieved for it bitterly, like a miser watching his money burn.
6
Denis served up a pint and a pitying look.
‘No offence, Phil? But you look like shite?’
‘Thanks, Denis.’
‘No worries.’
‘What?’
‘No worries?’
‘Oh, right.’
For two nights and three days he’d laboured, but he was no nearer finding an end to Pocket Wellfair’s tale than he had been when the monitor turned blue. Minerva’s purple blueprint, which he now studied with rabbinical intensity, suggested what should come next but offered no navigational aids as to how to get there.
It was obvious that, despite the intervention of the Sage, Cadrel must have lost the battle with Morl’s hideous minions. Murdstone had, after all, seen Morl’s dark Thule with his own eyes. Sort of.
But how had the battle been lost? How had Morl prevailed against the power of GarBellon’s sorcery? And had Cadrel survived? Was he once again a fugitive, or was he perhaps held captive in one of Morl’s non-dimensions? Had Morl at last gained possession of the Amulet of Eneydos? Probably not, because … Well, just because, somehow. So where the bloody hell was it?
These whirling and intertangled riddles had brought him to the suburbs of madness; but what threatened him with a one-way trip to its centre was the fact that he was asking himself such questions in the first place.
He watched the bar fill up and become almost festive. It was, he realized, Friday. People from as far away as Bishop’s Writhing and Tormenton had come to sample Denis’s avant-garde menu. The waitresses, Zoë and Bernice, scuttled back and forth, hunched, beads of perspiration on their young moustaches. He noted, with a slurred objectivity, that the waistband of Bernice’s thong was seven or eight centimetres above the rear of her jeans which, apparently, contained three buttocks. With each drink his vision became more telescopic. In terrible close-up he saw varnished nails pull heads from prawns braised in tequila, watched greasy tongues tease ostrich fibres from false teeth.
Late in the evening, through a gap in the throng, he spied the Ancients sitting against the wall with their twin brothers. By closing one eye he made the twins disappear. He made the hazardous journey across the room and sat down.
After five minutes or so Edgar said, ‘Orright, then?’
‘Fine.’
‘Several few in tonight,’ Leon said.
Without turning his head towards Philip, Edgar said, ‘You looks rough as a badger’s arse, maister, don’t mind I sane so.’
‘Jus’ bit tired. Work. You know.’
Leon said, ‘Us had the red snapper. Tez like a big bleddy goldfish. Orright, though. Fair bit a meat on un.’
‘Right,’ Philip said.
After a noisy pause Edgar said, ‘Writer’s block agen, izzut?’
‘Well, not zactly. Jus’, well, you know. Smatter of fact, yes.’ He drank, burped, set his glass down carefully on the distressed oak and cast-iron table.
The Ancients drank, simultaneously, three centimetres of Guinness.
‘I was wunring,’ Philip said.
‘Ah?’
‘Was up at the Wringers, other day. Jus’ walking about, you know? And I, er, well. I’ve read the legends, nachrally. In books and so forth. Lot’v nonsense, I dare say. But I was wunring if there were other stories. Local knowledge sort of thing. You know.’
‘Ah.’
When a full minute had passed Philip said, ‘An I thaw to myself, I thaw, if anyone’s sure to know, id be you two gennelmen.’
Edgar’s gaze settled on something beyond Philip’s left shoulder, Leon’s on something beyond Philip’s right.
‘About the Wringers.’
The Ancients drank, wiped foam from their upper lips with the heels of their thumbs.
‘Ah,’ Edgar said. ‘Well now. You’m right as far as that goes. Leon here’s yer man. He could tell you things about they Wringers. Cudden you, Leon?’
‘Gaw bogger,’ Leon said, ‘I could an all.’
Then he lapsed into an impregnable silence.
A bright and gibbous moon illuminated the moor as Philip made his unsteady way towards the Stones. Where the path levelled he paused to get the lumps out of his breathing and heard voices.
The approaching figures appeared to be a girl holding hands with a penguin. They paused when they saw Philip, then came on cautiously. The girl had long bare legs and teetered on them like a spavined colt. The penguin was a boy wearing a peaked cap low over his face and gigantic black jeans and trainers; his crotch dangled just below his knees.
‘Gevening.’
The boy gargled a reply, a sound on the verge of human speech. He had a cider can in his spare hand. The girl sniggered. Moonlight glanced from the ring through her nose. When their laughter faded away behind him Philip soldiered on.
At first he supposed that the small figure sitting on the Altar Stone was a dwarfish hiker. The long and hooded garment might have been a cagoule, the footwear walking boots. On closer inspection, the coat appeared to be made not of Gore-tex, but of some oiled and blue-green fabric a little like suede. It was fastened at the front by loops pulled over buttons made of bone. The walking boots were actually stout sandals with hobnailed soles. The face was small and wide and pale and child-like, except for the eyes, which were ancient. The creature’s hands lay slackly on its knees; they were almost white and the fingers were long. The nails were blue. When he spoke, the voice was as familiar to Philip as his own.
‘Terrible spotty arse that boy’s got,’ it said.
‘Are you …?’
‘Pocket Wellfair? Naturally.’ The old eyes studied Philip. ‘You look maggoty, pardon begged. Even worse than last time. You’re a bugger for the brew, I’d say.’
‘Please.’
‘Please?’ That frail, slightly harsh voice.
Philip’s tongue had thickened in his mouth. ‘Cadrel,’ he managed to say. ‘The baddle. I want. I must. Know what happens. How it ends. Morl.’
‘Ah,’ Pocket said. ‘Ends. Well, no, not as such. Unfinished business, as you might say. The battle, yes. And some after. I can do you that. Common wottage, that. Like nests in bare trees. Down in the ledgers, in my hand. No problem there. The problem lies in a different parish altogether.’
‘Please. I need … my agent, she’ll …’
The Greme raised his left hand. Its palm was featureless. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Now we come to the quick of it. I know what you need. I know what you need. Ho yes. But what’s the question needs asking?’
Philip knew, somehow. ‘What d’you need?’
‘Excellent! Excellent, indeed! The right man for the job, as we thought. So, we’ll make a deal, shall we? A bit sharpish? Time’s got its cap on and is heading for the door.’
‘What deal? Whachew mean?’
‘Straight arsy-varsy. I send you the rest, you get me the Amulet of Eneydos.’
‘The Amulet of Eneydos?’
‘No, any one of them. Of course, the Amulet of Eneydos, you stoolfungus. How many of the buggers do you think there are?’
‘But. It’s not. I don’t understan. How do I?’
Pocket Wellfair sighed. ‘It’s in your realm. That’s where Trover Mellwax hid it. Now he’s dead, if that’s what his bleddy trick is, we can’t get to it. Morl
might be able to, but we don’t know. He’s working on it, though, you can bet your wife on that. But you, Marlstone, you could get it. Ho yes.’
‘Murd. Not marl.’
‘Whatsay?’
‘Nemmind. Doesn’ matter. Look, I, I don’ even know what the Amulet looks like. I didn’ see it. I dunno know what it is.’
The clerk sighed. ‘It’s about this big,’ he said, shaping his fingers, ‘and it’s got … Oh, in a pig’s arse! You’ll know it when you’ve got it. Now, do we have this deal or not?’
Philip felt his balance going. He put out a hand to lean on a stone but it moved past. He leaned on the next one that came by.
‘If I say yes, you tell me the rest of the story?’
‘Every last curl and splot of it. As far as it goes.’
‘OK then.’
‘Sure?’ The clerk’s eyes were owl-bright, dark-adapted.
‘Yes, abslutely. Abslutely sure.’
‘Bleddy serious this is, Marlstone.’
Philip nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. Very serious. Very, very serious. I unnerstand that.’
Pocket studied Philip’s face unhappily. He sighed. ‘Right, then. I fluking hope you do. So what do your lot do to seal a deal? What’s your Oathmaking?’
Philip struggled towards translation, clarity. Blinked, worrying that it might all be gone. Found refuge in formality, as drunks do. ‘Well, in the absence of a written contract, a handshake is usually considered adequate.’
Pocket pulled a face. ‘Don’t reckon I fancy that,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to tether it the Greme way.’ He got to his feet. ‘Do this.’
The clerk put the thumb of his left hand on the lid of his left eye and the second finger on the lid of his right eye. Philip used the wrong hand, then got it right. Pocket waited impatiently. Then he parted his legs and grasped his crotch with his right hand.
‘Now do this.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes you bleddy do.’
Philip gingerly handled himself between the legs.
‘Right,’ Pocket said sternly. ‘You got your fingers on your seeders?’
‘My what?’
‘Your seeders. Your cluster. Your eggs. Bollix.’
‘Er, yes, yes, I think so.’
‘Right. Now say after me. Word for word. Square, mind. Your brew-foggled brain upright enough for that?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think so,’ Philip said, and hiccupped.
Pocket sighed again and began:
‘By the Four Vital Orbs, I, Philip Marlstone …’
‘By the Four Vital Orbs, I, Philip Marlstone …’
‘Do make this deal with Pocket Wellfair.’
‘Do make this deal with Pocket Wellfair.’
‘Which I shall honour lest all four shrivel.’
‘Which I shall honour lest all four shrivel.’
The Greme then held his hands away from his body and shook them lightly, as though they were hot, or wet. He gazed at Philip with dire solemnity. ‘We’re square-set, then. I bleddy well hope you know what that means.’
‘Yes. I think I do.’
Pocket turned away, muttering. Philip could not make out the words. Something about a pig’s arse and making do. He waited.
‘Right then, Marlstone. Let’s get the bugger done. And when you get ahold of the Amulet, you bring it back here, and no pawky malarkey. I’ll know when the times line up. Now, where was you sitting grogstruck last time? Over there, wasn’t it?’
Murdstone found himself on the moonlit grass in the lee of Growly’s Thumb. When he looked up, all he could see was Pocket Wellfair’s eyes, huge, like the last thing a shrew might see before its death.
Then he was asleep.
A sword hissed from its scabbard.
Ink wriggled across a page. Battle-horns sounded.
A vermilion dawn revealed horrors.
The Sage turned to Cadrel and spoke words that Philip Murdstone could not have imagined.
On Monday morning, pinkly shaved and light-footed, Philip entered Flemworthy post office. His obvious cheerfulness caused his fellow customers to edge cautiously away from him. When he reached the counter he purchased a padded envelope, slid a CD into it, and addressed it, Special Delivery, to Minerva Cinch. This unusual transaction attracted a good deal of suspicious attention. He also bought a plastic wallet of coloured pencils.
When he recrossed the Square a niggardly drizzle was falling; but it seemed to the Weird Sisters, watching his progress from the lead-paned library window, that he was illuminated by a rogue sunbeam. They observed the casual gaiety of his stride, the new straightness of his shoulders, the privacy of his smile. Silently, they slid their thumbs into their mouths.
7
Wales is a net exporter of rain. Indeed, according to Llyfr y Meirw, the Welsh Book of the Dead, rain was actually invented in Wales when King Sagwynd appealed to the Gods for something to cool the sexual excesses of the dwellers in the Lower Valleys. Which it failed to do, as we know. But the myth remains popular and the rain persists.
The parts of England unfortunate enough to be closest to Wales are regularly drenched, so it’s strange, really, that one of England’s major literary festivals is held at Hay-on-Wye, bang on the border. Torrential rain does not suit books, but there are millions of them in Hay, a great many of them displayed out of doors. Consequently, the festival cowers beneath a vast higgledy-piggledy arrangement of canvas, tarpaulins and plastic sheeting, tents and marquees. Long lines of bedraggled people wind among these temporary shelters, queuing for food and drink, for toilets, for book-signings, for celebrity readings. Looking down from an aircraft flying below the cloud-ceiling, you might think you were witnessing a mind-numbing humanitarian crisis in Bangladesh or one of the more tormented parts of Africa.
Philip Murdstone, peering through the streaming window of the Mercedes, was deeply worried about the effect the weather might have upon his suit, not to mention his expensively tousled new hair job. He need not have been concerned. Just before the car squelched to a halt, the rain relented and a watery sun made a miraculous appearance. He and Minerva were able to walk the duckboards to the Gorgon marquee without even soiling their shoes. By the time the air-kissing and handshaking were over, the walls of the tent were bright and gently billowing like the sails of a Spanish galleon borne softly towards the coast of Hispaniola.
When Philip and his fellow guests were miked-up and sound-checked (the show was being recorded for Radio 3) the audience surged in. Once the rustle and whisper of rainwear and plastic book-bags had subsided, Val Sneed, Managing Director of Gorgon Books, publishers of Dark Entropy, welcomed everyone to the Gorgon Fantasy Forum, sponsored by Gorgon Books, and said how thrilled and honoured she and Gorgon Books were to have three such glittering stars of Fantasy here this afternoon. At this point the PA system squealed feedback like a pig being gelded. A thin skinhead technician scuttled across the stage, fiddled with a cable connection close to Val Sneed’s feet, snuck a peek up her skirt, and scuttled off again. There was a light scattering of applause. Then, on behalf of Gorgon Books, Val handed over to the Forum Chair, Gloria Rowsel, presenter of the BBC’s Book Show, who would introduce the guests.
Philip surveyed the audience. The marquee was full to capacity and then some. Disappointingly, most of the wet pilgrims were male. It was unfortunate that Gorgon’s Fantasy Forum coincided with Germaine Greer’s readings from Painting the Pudenda in the Virago tent. There was, though, a decent scattering of damp girls. They were here, he supposed, to relish the immensely long and intense youth folded into a seat to Philip’s left, who was biting small pieces from his fingers and washing them down with gulps of water. This was Virgil Peroni.
‘Who astonished the world,’ Gloria claimed, ‘with The Dragoneer Chronicles, written when he was sixteen years of age, which went on to be a bestseller on both sides of the Atlantic and inspired the movie of the same name which is currently breaking box-office records around the globe. Now, at the grand ol
d age of eighteen, he has authored his second novel, The Dragon Agenda, published in England this very week. Welcome to the Gorgon Fantasy Forum, Virgil.’
The prodigy swallowed, nodded vigorously and said something like ‘Glarr’.
Applause.
The second member of the panel was a middle-aged woman wearing a kaftan patterned with hieroglyphs above jeans and sandals. She was from Hebden Bridge and appeared to be asleep. Philip had forgotten her name as soon as Gloria had uttered it, but she was, apparently, the author of something called The Hemlock Chalice.
‘A debut novel,’ Gloria informed the audience, ‘which attracted a deal of controversy on account of its several episodes of inter-species sex and its unflinching depiction of violence.’
A modicum of applause. The sleeping woman nodded without opening her eyes.
‘Our third guest this afternoon is Philip Murdstone. What can I say? This is a man whose first novel, First Past the Post, won tributes too numerous to mention. He then went on to write a sequence of deeply sensitive, boy-centred novels that utterly revised the way we think about disability. Then, earlier this year, he made a massive transition into the realm of Fantasy which took everybody by surprise. He is, of course, the author of Dark Entropy, published by Gorgon Books.’
Huge applause.
‘Philip, if I may come to you first. Not merely because Dark Entropy is currently the number one bestseller for the twentieth week running.’
Laughter, some applause. Philip smiled in a modest, even rueful, manner.
‘The critics were united in hailing your book as an astonishingly original take on the classic Tolkienesque, um, template, as it were, for Fantasy writing.’ Here Gloria paused and placed two thoughtful fingers on her cheek. ‘I have to admit,’ she said, ‘that having read your earlier books, I found myself asking where on earth this came from.’