by Rhys Hughes
‘Yes, both those things am I! Me is the best!’
‘Kill grammar! Syntax too.’
And now you know exactly what they were like … Dreadful people. It was an insane time, an insane world, as I’ve said before. Europe was soon to go up in flames, and other lands too, for there was a bitter campaign in Africa that has largely been forgotten. Permit me to tell you about Spicer-Simson and Von Lettow-Vorbeck one day — maybe my next adventure, if I live to have one, will be right there.
The airship flew onwards. Eastwards always.
At last the Himalayas hove into sight. These magnificent snow-capped gods among peaks filled me with awe. I wasn’t yet so jaded that I couldn’t feel wonder to the roots of my spirit.
Distanto stood next to me at the largest porthole.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Puts it all into perspective, Monsieur.’
He frowned. ‘Puts what?’
‘Our little worldly concerns,’ I replied.
‘Puts them into perspective?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘But they don’t have outlines.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Our little worldly concerns don’t have outlines. So they aren’t subject to the laws of perspective or to any of the laws of geometry. For example, my main worldly concern is what I intend to do with my life after I retire from captaining airships. What shape is that concern? Is it triangular or a polygon with numerous sides?’
‘You misunderstand. A figure of speech.’
‘A figure? What figure?’
I sighed. He had defeated and confused me with his fake simplicity; I felt sure it was fake. Scipio, his own brother, would never have become involved in such an exchange, and siblings born at the same moment in time could never be so genuinely different. That’s what I believed then. I still believe it. My frame sagged.
He slapped me heartily on my exposed spine.
‘I’ve just checked the gauge.’
‘Which gauge might that be, Monsieur Faraway?’
‘The fuel gauge, my friend.’
‘And what does it say, if anything?’
‘It is almost empty. Yes, that means we will be landing soon. Perhaps on the other side of that range …’
I squinted through the glass. ‘I wonder—’
‘What lies beyond them?’
I nodded. He didn’t answer. He didn’t know.
But Mario, still clinging to the roof of the gondola, knew. He recalled the land that the Persian alchemist Sadegh Safani had discovered, and he recognised these mountains as those that guarded Alirgnahs, that isolated region where dinosaurs and yeti roamed. The Italo-Mexican giggled. He clutched his trident more tightly.
He had brought it with him, the blighter!
On the ground, far away, the GARGANTUAN LEGION still gave chase. Unkoo watched the airship cross the mountains. Then he saw the vessel pause. It had run out of fuel at last!
Slowly, ever so slowly, it descended; the occupants were venting gas. They could fly no further. Thus—
‘Onwards! Hasten! We’ve got them this time!’
The mob responded to his words.
Howled, grunted, shrieked!
Girded their loins!
And charged!
Shangri-La Farce
Distanto looked at me, and I looked at him. ‘We’re going down now but that wasn’t my doing!’ he admitted.
‘You didn’t open a valve to vent gas?’ I asked.
‘Not yet. How very peculiar!’
There was, in fact, a perfectly ordinary explanation for this; Mario had used the war prong of his trident to puncture the canopy. But this wasn’t a random puncture like before; it was done carefully, with two holes at two opposing angles, so the ejected gas didn’t propel the airship anywhere. He was happy to descend into Alirgnahs.
Directly below was the wreck of an airplane.
And yet it seemed a pleasant land.
The fields were full of wild flowers and there were plenty of trees with blossom on their branches. It was evidently an aberrant microclimate; the sort of place where nothing much had changed for millions of years. Lush and tropical, a thoroughly misplaced Eden. An even better locale for him to establish a new Mexico than Spain!
It had always infuriated him that a ‘New Mexico’ already existed in the United States. That wasn’t really a Mexico; not like the one he planned! It was a pseudo-Mexico, a waste of sun and shade. His new Mexico was the real thing: an older Mexico, redone!
The grotesque spirit of Huerta would live again.
But without the bumbling man.
For Mario now despised his former employer.
Huerta: weak. Mario: strong.
As the airship sank lower and lower, he prepared himself for the leap. The grass looked thick enough to cushion the impact. When the moment came, he chuckled as he landed and rolled. His trident tumbled near him, missing his jugular vein by a finger.
The airship landed safely, but without much grace.
No matter. Grace is overrated.
Distanto and I emerged.
A voice called out in amazement, ‘Scipio!’
Distanto blinked thrice.
A man was approaching us. Dressed in robes, his exotic elegance was striking. His beard bristled.
‘Wait a moment. Truly, you aren’t he! Then who?’
‘My brother,’ said Distanto.
The man was bewildered. ‘You are your own brother?’
‘No, Scipio is my brother.’
‘Then, logically, it follows that you are his.’
Distanto conceded this.
‘I am Rais Uli. Who is this skeleton?’
‘Lloyd Griffiths,’ I said.
‘Pleased to meet you. I won’t shake hands …’
‘I don’t blame you, sir.’
Distanto asked him, ‘Is that your aeroplane?’
Rais Uli nodded. ‘Yes, but it crashed. I’ve just finished setting up my transceiver. I was about to broadcast a signal back to my home in the Rif, a wild region of North Africa.’
‘I have flown over it numerous times.’
‘This entire valley,’ said Rais Uli, gesturing with his hands, ‘belongs to a tribe of warrior yeti. They don’t especially like outsiders, but I made friends with them. I am sure I can speak in your favour. Every week they hold a council in yonder caves.’
‘When is the next council due?’ I asked.
‘In about ten minutes …’
Distanto turned to me and whispered, ‘That’s still not convenient. We are still in the real world, not in a fiction. It’s important that you, and any reviewers out there, realise this!’
At least that’s what I think he said. Reading it now, I can see how silly it is. I must have misheard him.
Rais Uli continued, ‘Let’s go there now.’
‘To the caves yonder?’
‘Yes. That’s where my finger is pointing.’
The three of us set off.
We mounted a short flight of stone steps cut into the side of a cliff. At the top was the entrance to a cave. The yeti had already gathered around a fire. They were drinking a sour beer brewed from flowers, and they glanced up as Rais Uli entered. Fangs gleamed in firelight. Rais Uli introduced us, and he spoke so sweetly that the yeti brows relaxed. Then one of the beasts formally welcomed us inside.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ ushered Rais Uli.
Distanto and I sat on stone stools. The yeti began their conference. It was in a strange, guttural language that I later learned was called Abomina, and I understood not one word of it; but I picked up a small sense of what was on the agenda from the melodramatic gestures and expressions of the participants. A council of war was what it most resembled; I am confident they debated strategy and tactics.
I sat there for about an hour listening to the grunting babble. Cramps in my leg harassed me. I shifted position on my uncomfortable stool and the action seemed to
be greeted with distant shouts of defiance and bloodlust. The yeti who happened to be talking at that moment clammed up; hirsute ears stiffened throughout the cave.
‘Invaders,’ explained Rais Uli, ‘from the outer world!’
We jumped up and looked out.
And I saw the GARGANTUAN LEGION swarming like death lemmings down the inner slopes of Alirgnahs. In the vanguard was Unkoo; he was the point of an equilateral triangle.
Without hesitating for even an instant, the yeti snatched up clubs and spears and other weapons and rushed out to engage the intruders in horrid battle. The yeti loved fighting as much as the enemies they now faced! I was aghast; Distanto and Rais Uli were more composed. Should we go to the assistance of our hosts? That was the question I was discussing in the debating chamber of my own mind.
My companions already had decided the issue.
They hastened out into the fray!
I had no real choice but to follow. How could Lloyd Griffiths ever be taken seriously again as a journalist and human being if he failed to fight in the name of truth, honour and yeti?
There were no spare weapons, so I picked up a rock.
Rais Uli hefted his loaded musket.
Distanto unsheathed a cutlass from some secret pocket on the inside of his jacket. He sliced through necks with the speed and flexibility of a man chopping cucumbers — not that normal men ever prepared their own salads back then, or even ate those prepared for them; it was only 1914. But you know what I mean. Don’t pretend you don’t. An assassin lunged at me and hissed as he did so; in his hand was a rapier. The point passed through my ribs, but there was no pain at all.
‘I’m already dead. You can’t harm me!’
And while he gaped in astonishment, I smashed in his face, wiping all traces of his disbelief away. I felt an abrupt elation. I was a warrior too! I danced a jig, just a brief one. Around me the battle raged. Yeti fell down, legionnaires too; blood was everywhere. Locked in death grips, both sets of antagonists refused to capitulate.
And yet, slowly but surely, the yeti began to gain the upper hand; or the upper paw, if you’re pedantic.
Distanto wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve and said, ‘Behind you, Mr Griffiths! Duck quickly!’
I did so without questioning the suggestion.
A trident prong grazed my skull!
It was Mario Granieri, the Italo-Mexican reactionary, his foul weapon clutched in both hands, a song of doom on his lips. And now I did a thing that changed my life forever; that allowed me to define myself as a hero. Still lacking a real weapon, I tore off my own leg and used it as a cudgel. My first powerful swipe caught Mario in his face! My second also caught him in his face! My third and fourth too!
And my fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth …
I kicked that tyrant to death.
An indirect kicking!
I felt an arm restraining me as I hopped to keep my balance. It was the airship captain, Distanto, and he was whispering words to me. His words were wise. This is what they said:
‘Might as well stop when you reach one hundred!’
I did so. I looked down.
Putrid pulp was all that remained of perhaps the most evil villain ever, at least until the next one comes along.
Attaching my leg back onto my body, with some difficulty, I turned to see that the battle was almost over.
Three quarters of the yeti were dead.
But the GARGANTUAN LEGION was practically destroyed. Only ten or 11 fighters were left alive. One of them, in fact, wasn’t fighting; I saw how hairy he was. He was the assassin from Alirgnahs! Now it was plain that he had been a spy among them all along. Doubtless his was the voice that had persuaded Pancho Poncho to follow the airship. He had led them into a trap! This made oddly perfect sense.
As for Pancho Poncho, he was grossly infuriated.
‘Steenking pigs, all of you!’
Then he swallowed a flung yeti spear.
So did his comrades. Ouch.
The very last living assassin, the assassin from Panama, made a final desperate effort to kill me. He hurled a boomerang my way. The mystery of what a citizen of Panama was doing with a boomerang is irrelevant; I was struck on my exposed temple and hit to the ground. He assumed the blow had killed me. Then he noticed the transceiver set up by Rais Uli. It was impossible for anyone to stop him; he was too agile. He fiddled with the controls, transmitted a message.
‘Assassin to base. Target has been eliminated.’
There was a crackle of static.
Then a horribly familiar double voice. ‘Proof?’
‘Yes, boss; the body is here.’
‘Very well. Stand back. I’m coming through.’
The air shimmered greasily.
And a figure materialised out of nothingness …
Mr Hubengo Gordbloaton!
His massive shoulders shook with monumental mirth as he beheld my prone form. He strode toward me on monolithic legs. When he saw that I wasn’t dead, he would probably crush me under those legs; which, as I’ve just pointed out, were monolithic.
Excuse my writing style. I am a skeleton. I know I’ve used that excuse already, but it happens to be true.
If you were a skeleton I’d excuse you.
Anyway, Hubengo was almost on top of me, the slob!
Then he stopped and turned.
A spluttering sound had distracted him.
Over the summit of one of the tall peaks that ringed Alirgnahs came a bicycle. It was pulsejet powered!
Only one man sat on it; Sadegh Safani had jumped off. He had tricked poor Jason Rolfe. I’ll explain how.
The waterwheel had fallen to bits, freeing the bicycle and its riders. So onwards had gone the pair, right to the borders of Alirgnahs. Up the slope of the nearest mountain they went, the angle increasing every second. Just as the alchemist had predicted, the bicycle gradually slowed; but Sadegh knew they couldn’t both dismount; the moment the load was lightened by the first departing body, the velocity would increase again; and the one who remained would be trapped.
He did those sums in his turbaned head.
‘Keep her steady,’ he urged.
That was a hypocritical thing to say!
Sadegh was a proper meanie.
Just before gaining the apex of the peak, when the speed was only that of a galloping horse, he betrayed Mr Rolfe; he leapt off and rolled in soft snow. He still bruised himself, but he survived. As for Jason: the pulsejet engine vibrated with inhuman joy, as if sentient and aware of its reduced burden, and accelerated the bicycle.
Impossible for Mr Rolfe to jump off now!
So he remained in the saddle …
Down the inner slope he zoomed, lance extended.
His visor clogged with snowflakes.
He couldn’t see much.
Just a hazy bloated form somewhere in front.
That would serve for a target!
Mustn’t be too choosy.
Hubengo Gordbloaton screamed loudly!
The lance pierced him!
It entered the heart on his left side, snapped and turned 90 degrees and pierced his right side heart too. Then it snapped again and turned yet another 90 degrees, came out of his back. Mr Rolfe was in no position to enjoy his ambiguous triumph.
He spluttered past, still heading eastward.
Distanto waved him farewell. I don’t think Jason waved back. I might be wrong about that. I often am.
For instance, years later, I chanced upon a book written by the airship captain himself. It was his memoirs. He mentioned this incident; but his version of events was different.
He claims that Mario Granieri was still alive, that he suddenly jumped out from nowhere and mounted Hubengo Gordbloaton like a knight on a stallion; that he jousted against Jason, trident versus lance. If that’s what really happened, I must be a deluded idiot or miserable liar. I’m neither of those things. I’m merely flayed.
Distanto Faraway was a rabid exaggerator.
>
But still a remarkable man …
We all staggered back to the cave. I warmed my bones beside the fire. I can do that literally. You can’t.
Bleakness had enveloped my soul.
Rais Uli noticed my mood. ‘It’s a normal feeling after war, even when one is victorious. It’ll soon pass.’
‘After the battle, bowels on thorns,’ I said.
‘A line of poetry?’ he asked.
‘Yes. The old Welsh poet Taliesin. I often plagiarise him.’
Distanto said, ‘Quoting isn’t plagiarism.’
‘The way I do it, it is,’ I said.
That was me being cynical about myself.
Don’t take it too seriously!
The aftermath of this battle was an easier affair than the aftermaths of most battles elsewhere. We didn’t need to remove the bodies for burial. A bunch of dinosaurs turned up to dispose of them. The chewing lasted the entire night. Even the bones were swallowed. Hygienic, I suppose. But it wasn’t enough for the monsters to dine on human and yeti corpses. They also devoured Distanto’s airship.
‘How will we get out of Alirgnahs now?’ I cried.
Rais Uli said, ‘Let’s walk.’
Distanto smoothed his moustache. ‘On one condition.’
‘What’s that, my friend?’
‘We don’t go back the way we came.’
‘Suits me,’ I said. And it did. I had no desire to return to a Europe in the grip of madness. ‘Which way?’
‘South,’ suggested Distanto.
‘South,’ seconded Rais Uli.
I smiled and nodded agreeably. ‘South it is!’
And that’s the way we went.
PART THREE: NEARY
THE APEDOG INCIDENT
The Bone Banana
When men pervert science, terrible things happen. But the most repulsive scientific perversions are those that occur in the biological disciplines. In 1920, a medical researcher by the name of Ilya Ivanovich Ivanov decided that it might be possible to create a chimp-human hybrid. He wrote a brief proposal to the revolutionary government who were then dominating and despoiling the culture and life of Russia.
His proposal was passed with a ludicrous lack of efficiency from one department to the next; and often lost and found again on the way to the bureaucratic summit. At last it came to the attention of Lenin, who read it with a frown and finally decided that it was an idea with some merit. But political pressures were mounting on him; his health was poor. Somehow he completely forgot about the document.