The Murdstone Trilogy

by Mal Peet

  Common sense dictated that he should have left the damned thing behind. In a place easily found by a nightmare that came down the chimney or lurched out of the lav. Good advice, that. You take it. But common sense had been not been a feature of his flight from Downside.

  At Heathrow, he had been tempted to drop it into a waste bin. But he couldn’t.

  It had made him, after all. And he’d earned it. It was, without question, the most important thing that he had ever possessed. To have left it behind would have been like King Arthur tossing Excalibur aside with a casual, ‘Ah, sod it, I’ll get another one.’

  It was also the only thing he had left to trade.

  Wearing it, he’d passed through the security arch without a bleep.

  Philip grieved for Pocket Wellfair, his saviour, his nemesis, whose small brave life had been cut short in Mort A’Dor. Sometimes Philip entertained a redemptive vision of himself digging the Greme’s grave in a sun-splashed dell and lowering the poor little sod into it while murmuring a valediction in the Old Language.

  At other times he worried about developments in the Realm. There was, obviously, an asynchronicity, an interdimensional dateline, between the Realm and here, wherever and whenever ‘here’ was. But things were going on, equally obviously. And they weren’t looking good. A blind goat could see that. Morl was on the up, and that was bad. It was the wrong story. Uneasily, Philip recognized that he was partly responsible for this. The responsibility hung from his neck.

  4

  The dukhang was almost full by the time Philip followed Sandup in. He had been dreading an atmosphere of profound meditativeness, and was surprised – and greatly relieved – to find the hall echoing with chatter and giggling. The space was lit with a great many candles and oil lamps and was, to his occidental eye, disorderly. Some two hundred or so monks had gathered. Some sat in clumps or in smiling rows along low benches. Others milled about the room forming loud, voluble groups, which then dispersed and formed others. With their shaven heads protruding from ochre felt cloaks they looked identical; the swirl of their movement, and their chirruping, suggested the nesting rituals of a colony of flightless birds. Here and there – randomly, it seemed to Philip – were tables laden with the kind of stuff you might find in the New Age boutiques of Totnes.

  Sandy guided him through the throng to where a knot of older monks was seated and made introductions. The monks greeted Philip with speeches of varying length, each of which Sandy translated as ‘He wishes you peace’. Philip made vaguely spiritual gestures and said, ‘The same to you.’ This seemed to go down perfectly well, judging by the broad smiles with which it was received.

  Something like a quarter of an hour passed, during which Philip was greatly troubled by wind. Asia had not been good for his bowels. He wondered whether the all-accepting philosophy, the deep resignation, of Phunt Kumbum extended to farting. Possibly; there was a good deal of incense being burned. To be on the safe side, he gradually deflated the painful gutbubble in a series of tiny whiffles.

  A long blast on a horn (which Philip gratefully exploited) was followed by a burst of enthusiastic chanting. An elderly monk led a small procession to the head of the room. When silence had established itself he sat and held his arms out in front of him. One of his retinue laid a white silk scarf over his hands. Then a second acolyte placed a book upon the scarf. There was another, more subdued, outbreak of chanting.

  Sandy leaned his head closer and whispered, ‘The Abbot does not always read for the debate. You are rather lucky.’

  Philip merely nodded. It was the best he could do. His flatulence had made him taut and attentive; now that it had eased, he felt exhausted. The dim otherness of everything. Peace – or sleep, at least – beckoned him, urged an escape from this strange rookery of orange birds. He forced himself to sit more upright.

  The Abbot began to read. At first, his words were heard in reverential silence. The shadowed bronze faces that filled the room were blank, attentive. Four minutes in, someone interrupted. The Abbot looked up sternly, then smiled. From the back of the hall, someone called out what must have been a joke; there was laughter. A cluster of monks got to their feet simultaneously, chorused a phrase and applauded themselves. Others joined in. From the dim outskirts of the room, a single voice called out a single word, which precipitated an amazingly resonant chant that thrilled Philip’s backbone.

  The monk who’d handed the book to the Abbot raised a hand. The dukhang was instantly silent. The reading resumed.

  Eventually, Philip realized that the Abbot was doing voices. He was telling a story.

  Soon there was yet another interruption. A young monk gave a short impassioned speech. A few of his neighbours stood and raised their hands in a clenched fist salute. One of them shook a clump of bells. Closer by, an older man got to his feet and achieved a respectful silence. He spoke for a whole minute, then sat down. He had clearly refuted everything the younger monks had said. Surprisingly, they applauded him.

  The Abbot returned to the book.

  ‘I dare say you’d like to know what’s going on,’ Sandy murmured.

  ‘What? Ah, yes. I’m rather baffled, actually.’

  ‘Of course. Well, we are studying a Western text, which is highly unusual. That is one reason why the geyung, the younger monks, are especially excited. Wisdom has it that the West has nothing to offer us. Having lived in Glasgow, I am inclined to share that view. However, when one of our community came back from a seminar in Dartington, Devon, he brought back … Do you know Dartington, Ian?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I believe it is very nice. Anyway, he came back with a copy of a book called Dark Entropy by Philip Murdstone. Have you read it, Ian?’

  Philip managed only a shake of the head.

  ‘That’s a pity. It’s rather good. I’ll lend you my own copy, if you like. It’s a fairly easy read. But the thing is, the reason why some of us are so excited, is that allegory is essential to our way of thinking, as you know. In Dark Entropy there is this beautiful kingdom called Realm, whose ruler, Cadrel, is exiled. Its people, who live in harmony with their world, are oppressed. They are being colonized by an evil being called Morl, who wants to make Realm part of his Thule. He has a vast army of mindless warriors called Swelts. Hope for the Realm resides with Wise Men, especially one called the Sage, who have Great Wisdom, which the book calls Magick and is recorded in ledgers.’

  ‘Right,’ Philip said.

  ‘But, of course, we understand that Realm is Tibet. It is clearly signalled in the text. Place names and so on. It is equally obvious that Morl’s Thule is China. That the Swelts are the Chinese, that the grid they are building is the roads and railways that the Chinese are building to swamp us with Han immigrants. That Cadrel is the Dalai Lama, sword or no sword. That the Sage is the immortal reincarnation of the fifth Dalai Lama. And so on.’

  Sandy paused while a low groan circumnavigated the dukhang.

  ‘That is why what we call the Murdstone Debates are so popular. The geyung enjoy saying terrible things about Morl, because they are really talking about China. Which they cannot do openly because there are Chinese spies everywhere. Even here, I am sorry to say. My older colleagues enjoy this aspect of it, of course, but are rather more interested in deciphering the book’s deeper, spiritual meanings.’

  Philip’s mouth filled with saliva that tasted of old batteries. He swallowed it down. ‘I didn’t know … I mean, so this Dark Entropy is available in Tibetan, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Sandy said, his smile suggesting regret and possibly sad resentment. ‘The Abbot makes his own translation. He was at Oxford. First-class degree in Classics, St John’s College, nineteen sixty.’

  The reading was again interrupted. A short speech from the floor was rewarded with chirrupy laughter.

  When the Abbot continued, Sandy whispered, ‘We’re all rather excited because we expect to receive the second volume of Murdstone soon. Two weeks ago a band of brothers set off for Kathmandu t
o scrounge a copy from one of the backpacker hostels. They should be back any day now.’

  ‘I hope,’ Philip said faintly, ‘it won’t be a disappointment.’

  ‘That is most unlikely. Murdstone is in touch with the Truth. And Truth, by its very nature, cannot disappoint.’

  Sandy put his mouth a little closer to Philip’s ear. ‘But I am troubled, Ian. This morning I learned from the Americans that Philip Murdstone has disappeared. Vanished without trace, apparently. His friends are appealing for information. I fear he may have been abducted by Chinese agents. London is full of them, as you know, posing as restaurant staff and acrobats. I am in three minds about sharing this information with my brothers. I would not wish to spread dismay. What do you think?’

  Philip had a huge desire to sag, fold, crumple. The incense smoke had become oppressive. His eyes were losing focus. The candles were bright smears in the gloom. He turned to the earnest monk, who suddenly resembled Pocket Wellfair in specs.

  ‘I dunno. It’s probably, you know, a publicity stunt, or something. He’ll turn up. Or maybe he’s in hiding somewhere. Gone off to write another book. Doing research. Somewhere quiet.’ He knew that his speech was slurred. Attitude sickness. Too high, you’re too high … Used to be a song.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Sure of it.’

  Philip got somehow to his feet. ‘Say nothing, Sandy, if I were you. No point in spreading dependency. I mean despondency. Lovely evening, really interesting, must go. Unused to everything. Very tired.’

  ‘Hoots the noo and awa tae bed,’ Sandy said, smiling Scottishly up at him.

  ‘Burns?’

  ‘Mrs Cohen, my dear old landlady.’

  5

  Philip tottered down the side of the dukhang past a bank of blissfully attentive faces and into a dimly-lit corridor. Partway along it his knees turned gelatinous and he came to rest against a huge ochre and black-painted column. He sucked in thin air.

  After a while he noticed that the pillar supporting him was one of a pair forming the entrance to a Protector Chapel. He turned groggily, and looked into its candlelit interior. Its back wall was a large mural. At its centre, a deity of some sort. Red. Lots of arms with swords whirling about. A necklace of severed heads. Peaceful look on its face. Surrounded by blue demons. Ugly as sin. Tusked, slobbering, malevolent. Armoured, implacable.

  Swelts, in fact.

  They turned as one to look at him.

  The solitary monk writing at a low table raised his head. Within the shadow of his cowl a single orange eye glittered.

  The Swelts bulged and pulsed, struggling to free themselves from the mural’s two dimensions.

  The monk smiled then spoke. ‘Et in Arcadia ego, Murdstone.’

  The Amulet bucked and yearned against Philip’s chest. He fled, stumbling, a silent scream on legs, into the stone-cold labyrinth of Phunt Kumbum.

  After what felt like an hour of panicky questing he found his cell. Slammed the door behind him. Slid the bolt. Pressed his forehead against the thick wood. Tried to get his heart and lungs to cooperate, stop his brain cells brightly worming. He’d made some slight progress when he heard sounds behind him: a rasp, a clink, an outpuff of breath. He opened his eyes. Lamplight seeped into their corners.

  ‘By the scrote, Murdstone. When you go proper rambly you don’t fluke about, do you?’

  Oh no. Not again.

  ‘Wossup, Murdstone? Forget to pack your tongue, did you? Or’ve you got it stuck in that bleddy door?’

  ‘Go away. I’m not listening to you. You’re not Pocket. Pocket’s dead.’

  ‘Well, stap me sidewards, Murdstone. I never knew that. Dead, am I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bogger. That’d tangle matters. Hang you on there while I stick a finger up my jacksie see if I can feel a beat. Yep. There it goes. Tiddy-boom, tiddy-boom. You nearly had me worried there, Murdstone. But I appear to be in the land of the living still. Mind if I wipe my finger on your bedsheet? Thankee. Norwest corner, lest you wonder. Now, you going to stand there like a pollacksed sterk all night or face me man to Greme? I could converse to your saggy arse all night but a bit of respect wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Philip turned. Pocket was sitting on the bed with his hands on his knees, his face a small yellow moon in the lamplight.

  ‘By the Royal Knob of Lux, Murdstone. You look rougher every time I clap eyes on you. What’s all this flabber about me being dead?’

  ‘In the book. You … died.’

  ‘Fluke me, Murdstone. That was made up. Flaky. It’s a bleddy nobble.’

  ‘Then you came to the cottage.’

  ‘Did I now?’

  ‘But you weren’t you. It was horrible. You – you turned into maggots. And then the maggots turned into …’

  ‘A sod of a huge great fly.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pocket gestured dismissively. ‘One of Morl’s favourite tricks, that. Nasty if yer not used to it, I grant you. Scares Porlocs witless. They fill their breeks every time, superstitious twassocks that they are. Come over here, Murdstone. Come on.’

  Philip approached the bed and knelt because his legs were no longer any good. Pocket held out a hand.

  ‘Take hold of that finger.’

  ‘Is it the one you …?’

  ‘No. That was the next one along. Go on. Take hold. There’s a good pony. How does that feel?’

  ‘Cold.’

  ‘Well acourse it bleddy is. It’s colder’n the nipple on a witch’s tit in here. But squeeze. Do I feel wibbly? Maggoty? Or do you feel bone, hmm? Sinew?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you cut me, I’d bleed. Got a blade about you?’

  Philip shook his head. He tightened his grip on the Greme’s finger. ‘Oh, Pocket! Pocket, I thought, I really thought …’ Words became sobs.

  ‘Rein up, Murdstone, rein up. Fluke me, there’s no call to get leaky. And I’ll have that finger back if you’re done with it. Thankee. Now then, to the quick of the matter. Go home.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go home. All this ferking hither and yon is bleddy useless, an you know it. Morl—’

  Philip’s mind rebooted. ‘Morl! He’s here, Pocket!’

  ‘Whatsay?’

  ‘He’s here. I saw him. Just now.’

  The Greme regarded Philip gravely. ‘Your wits’ve lallopped, Murdstone. No surprise in that, I dare say. They weren’t well tethered in the first place. Comes of spending a life writing flaky ledgers, I’d hazard. Makes you see things what aren’t there.’

  ‘No, Pocket. Listen …’

  ‘No. You hark to me. Morl’s not the problem. Well, he flukin is, acourse. But he’s not your problem, Murdstone. Your problem is that you can’t get rid of the Amulet.’

  This was, Philip admitted by bowing his head, true.

  ‘Not marked against you, to be square. We bollixed it up. Thought it would be easier than it turned out. But that’s all trod road now.’

  Pocket paused. Philip looked up into his genial smile.

  ‘Why do you want me to go home?’

  ‘I’ve got a new nobble for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ah, I thought that’d prickle your lugs up.’

  ‘You’ve written another one?’

  ‘Seems I recall you saying these things come in tribbles. So I’ve done you a number three.’ The Greme looked at him asquint. ‘Gratefulness don’t come easy to you, does it, Murdstone?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Thank you, Pocket. That’s wonderful.’

  ‘Didn’t you like the last one? What was wrong with it?’

  ‘No. It’s not that. It was brilliant. Especially the second part.’

  ‘Hm! What, then?’

  Philip lowered himself onto the other end of the pallet and wrapped his arms around himself. It was indeed bloody cold in the cell. ‘It’s just that I, I don’t know, I’ve had enough. I’m tired. I want to stop. Stop writing. Just be … quiet.’

  Pocket nodde
d. He sniffed. He huffed. He said, ‘Here’s a thing or two in no particular shuffle. One. You don’t do the writing. I do. Two. You think you’re flukin tired, try being me. You’ve no bleddy idea. Three. You live high as a flea on a hog’s back, thanks to me. Fame the length and breadth. Money coming at you like flies to a fresh-dropped turd. Ho yes, we know these things, Murdstone. Four or five, I’ve lost the count, you do the tribble and you can spend your days quiet as a thriftmouse sitting on your arse like’n addled tosspot if that’s your fancy. And last but not leastwise, when the nobble’s done, I’ll have that flukin Amulet off you. Then your troubles are gone. Life a dish of cherries, pips or no pips, depending on the run of your luck. Oh, and one other item I near forgot. You’ve got no flukin choice in the matter.’

  Philip didn’t speak.

  Pocket said testily, ‘Any of that get past you, Murdstone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. So go home. Set yourself down at that pewter thing and I’ll come through when we – I’m – readied. Square?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The Greme stood. He said, ‘By the crack, Murdstone, what a piece of work you turned out. I’ll be glad to be shot of you, truth to tell.’

  Then the cell sucked in a breath and he was gone.

  6

  Merilee’s little scream came out distorted; she had a forefinger questing a good way up her nose. She turned away from the window and called, or rather wailed, her sister’s name.

  Francine’s head appeared from behind the desk. ‘Merilee? What?’

  Merilee leaned her back against the wall, a hand to her bosom. Several intensifying seconds passed before she could speak.

  ‘He’s back.’

  ‘Who is? What you’m on about, Merilee?’

  ‘Murdsten. I jus seen his car go by.’

  Francine coughed shock. A morsel of pork pie flew from her mouth and landed on the latest issue of Men’s Fitness. Eventually she managed to say, ‘You’m sure twas his, Merilee?’

  ‘Who else drive a bleddy great thing that colour? Besides, it went dreckly past that ole pokesnout Tom Bladdermore an he fell backards inter the horse trough like he’d been shot.’