by Rhys Hughes
The foul Mongorgon was close behind, weaving between the legs and baggage of the waiting passengers. Guards with long truncheons emerged from a hut and came rushing at us.
‘This is starting to get intolerable,’ I remarked.
‘Across the tracks!’ said Hywel.
I had little choice but to run that way, praying my narrow feet wouldn’t get stuck between the rails. We ran behind a derailed carriage, found that it formed a corridor with another carriage, and that this corridor led into a maze with a constant railway theme.
Soon I was lost in a dismal region of warehouses, rusting rolling stock, iron girders and wooden sleepers stacked in untidy piles. But we appeared to have escaped the Mongorgon and the guards. ‘So unfriendly!’ I huffed to myself as I thought about them.
I didn’t expect a reply to that, but I was bewildered by a snore from my ribs. Hywel Owl had fallen asleep!
I picked my way through this open-air museum of the now. There was a peculiar peace about it. The sun went down and in the twilight the hulks of abandoned locomotives resembled the beached hydrogen-whales of the planet Saturn. Or so I imagined! I haven’t ever been to Saturn so I can’t be sure the comparison is apt. Anyway …
Beyond the clouds of gnats, just around a bend in the tracks, I saw the trunk of an elephant. It unnerved me.
Elephants are enormous creatures; incredibly strong. Welshmen never feel comfortable in the presence of such magnificent beasts. I wasn’t sure what to do next. I couldn’t ask Hywel for advice, because I didn’t want to wake him. He was clearly exhausted.
I slowed my pace but didn’t stop. The trunk waved.
Undulated like a thick snake.
Or maybe like an intelligent one.
I peered more closely. There was something odd about it. As it moved, it made a clashing noise, metallic.
As silently as possible I approached the bend.
The trunk stopped waving. It puckered as if sniffing; it had caught my scent. It pointed itself directly at me. There was silence for half a minute. I watched to see what it intended.
Suddenly it blasted out steam!
A hot cloud that completely enveloped me!
Locomotive Breath
Hywel woke instantly. He howled as he felt himself scalded by the steam and then screamed again as that steam condensed into boiling water. Then he rattled my ribcage violently, throwing me off balance. Far too late now to flee this strange elephant’s wrath.
I blurted, ‘We are done for. Unless it mistakenly thought we needed a sauna, I think it plans to murder us.’
But Hywel wasn’t convinced by my analysis.
Red in the face and dripping, he recovered his senses quickly. ‘To the best of my knowledge, Mr Griffiths, no elephant contains steam. Go and investigate properly. It must be a machine of some kind. What is there to lose? We can’t return to the station.’
He was right about that. I stepped forward again.
The trunk didn’t move at all.
Then I rounded the bend.
A man stood there; and his profile was so recognisable that I chuckled with bony glee and made no effort to mute my mirth. ‘Distanto Faraway! I knew you wouldn’t get far under that absurd balloon. So we are reunited again for another wild adventure—’
The frown on his brow cut me short. Then I realised my mistake; I had made a similar error before, in a tavern in Dresden. ‘Scipio, is it? Yes, I knew it was you. Scipio Faraway!’
The man continued to frown. Then he said:
‘Why do you address me by the names of my two brothers? I’m Neary Faraway; I am only part human …’
So this was the third sibling, the last of the triplets!
Hywel said, ‘Only part human?’
‘Yes, the remainder of me is locomotive.’
This was spoken in so nonchalant a tone that I assumed he was jesting. In the dusk it was difficult to discern details; but as I glanced down, his wheels became plain to see. Just like the wheels of an ordinary train, they were mounted on the rails of the railway. I was speechless. His stomach was a furnace and coals dimly glowed behind the grilled door. The water was stored in his hollow sternum.
‘Who did this to you?’ demanded Hywel.
‘I did it to myself,’ said Neary.
‘But why, man? Why?’
‘Because I like to move with the times.’
‘You engineered yourself?’
‘Indeed. Choo choo!’
I snapped out of the trap of my stupefaction. With a heel click no less precise than that of a Prussian aristocrat, I declared, ‘We are honoured to make your acquaintance, Monsieur. I’m scarcely in a position to criticise anyone on the basis of appearance and this is a fine evening. I know both your brothers well and I’m happy to state that the Faraway Brothers are an incomparable bunch of prodigies!’
Neary said nothing in reply. He was beyond flattery.
‘Do you have a lamp?’ asked Hywel.
Neary nodded and adjusted something on his brow. It glowed and cast a warm pallor over our surroundings. A warm pallor? That sounds like a contradiction, but isn’t. The lamp was an integral part of his person, just one among many modifications. Able to inspect him more closely in the light, I noted that less than one third of him remained human. One of his arms was a normal man’s arm; the other was the metallic trunk. I nodded and asked between clenched teeth:
‘Surely that trunk is less useful than a real arm?’
‘Not so,’ he replied. ‘Not so.’
‘Would you care to explain why?’ I pressed.
He answered, ‘There are more muscles in the average elephant’s trunk than in the entire working body of a human being. The trunk is capable of great dexterity. It can snap branches from trees, strangle tigers to unconsciousness if necessary, wrestle soldiers or policemen to the ground and uproot signposts from crossroads.’
‘A celebration of brute force,’ I murmured.
He heard me. ‘Yes. But it is also capable of delicacy and gentleness. I can use it to peel jackfruit, stroke the luxuriant tresses of a dusky maiden and even execute a self-portrait. Elephant trunks are accomplished in war and peace; in science and the arts.’
‘Execute a self-portrait? I don’t believe you!’
‘I will demonstrate,’ he said.
I watched very intently, for I didn’t think he would be able to hold the end of a paintbrush in such a clumsy-seeming mechanical limb. But I was soon to be shamed. He reached into a cavity with his human arm and took out an old portrait of himself as an unmodified human. I widened my dark sockets at this, for it seemed I was looking at Scipio or Distanto. A youth in a beret lounging with a baguette.
‘This painting is already finished!’ I objected.
‘Yes, a domestic scene. Gustave Moreau painted it. Do you know his work? He was a symbolist. Funnily enough, you resemble him strongly. In fact, the likeness is almost exact.’
I blanched at this. ‘Moreau died in 1898!’
He chuckled. ‘Precisely!’
‘You have deceived me,’ I said.
He ignored me, propped the picture against a nearby rock. Aiming the metallic trunk at it, he closed his eyes and squeezed his face, as if he was suffering from dysentery or another gastrointestinal complaint. Suddenly a stream of bullets erupted from the trunk! The picture in its wood frame disintegrated; and the echoes of the gunshots reverberated down the rails. I shuddered as the smoke cleared and Neary explained, ‘That self-portrait was executed for rank treason!’
Hywel spoke up. ‘I’m sure it was loyal.’
‘The past is never that!’
There was no point arguing with him. But I was certain that the noise of the bullets would alert the Mongorgon, which was doubtless sniffing around the tracks, not to mention the authorities, to our location. Best to keep heading out of Srinagar.
I mentioned this fact to Hywel but it was Neary who answered, ‘I am leaving town myself, heading south. There’s room on my boilerplate for a skele
ton. Come along with me.’
The offer was too good to reject. I jumped aboard.
He whistled, began moving.
Slowly at first, he trundled along the rails; but as the pressure inside him increased, he built up speed. Soon he was travelling faster than even the fittest Mongorgon might run.
‘Choo choo!’ he chortled. He was in his element.
I asked him, ‘Did it hurt?’
‘Did what hurt?’
‘The modifications you made to yourself …’
He said, ‘The first was an accident. That was my arm, in fact, the one I replaced with a metal trunk.’
‘What happened?’
‘When I was a boy I was told by a fortune-teller that I had no fate line. So I decided to carve one into the palm of my hand in order to control my destiny! What do you think about that?’
‘A reasonable thing to attempt. What happened?’
‘I used a chainsaw and missed.’
Brigands!
We chugged all night through an amazing landscape. Hywel dozed inside me, but Neary remained awake, and so did I. We discussed many subjects to pass the time. Philosophy, history, elephant hygiene, literature, music, geology, politics. Then he became more personal and told me the strange tale of his life, his childhood in Gascony with Scipio and Distanto. It was a curious household, like every other.
Unlike his brothers, Neary had been unsuccessful with women. Ships and balloons never appealed to him; but he fell in love with locomotives and it was only a matter of time before he decided to convert himself into one. Since his transformation, women had ironically displayed an interest in his contours and performance statistics. Typical female fickleness! But I disapproved of such generalisations.
Perhaps the strangest things about Neary Faraway were his eyes. One was an endlessly rotating wheel, a grey circle that span rapidly. I think it was powered independently of the wheels on his feet; but I can’t be sure of that. His other eye resembled a Venetian blind, and rarely did it cease fluttering. You know the boards in train stations that specify the times of departures and arrivals? It was like that.
We finally left the region of mountains and entered a rather smoother territory. This was the famous Punjab. We picked up speed and I enjoyed the wind in my sutures. I asked Neary where he was travelling to. He said his destination was the southernmost large city in India, Trivandrum. His job consisted of riding the entire rail network of the subcontinent, looking for cracked tracks and faulty signals.
Srinagar to Trivandrum was the longest stretch of all.
The sky in the east turned lighter.
Dawn came, and with it arrived a band of horsemen over a slight rise. I squinted at them and asked nervously:
‘They have the manner and garb of brigands …’
Neary nodded. ‘That’s what they are. They prey on the trains that pass through. I shall increase the steam pressure in my boiler; we must attempt to outdistance them, Mr Griffiths!’ Again he squeezed his visage as if he suffered stomach cramps. I howled:
‘They are spurring their steeds and unsheathing—’
‘Curved swords. Yes, I know. And they carry spears too. Adventure is no stranger to India, my friend; it lives here all year long. Remain silent. I will do only what is right. Choo choo!’
Bitterly I snapped back, ‘Is that all you can say?’
‘No. I can also say “Chug chug”!’
This sarcasm withered me. I groaned. Hywel Owl woke up, yawned a modest yawn, blinked his peepers.
‘Spwng dorth!’ he cried; a normal Welsh curse.
I nodded with phoney serenity.
‘Indeed so, my pocket-sized comrade. We are in trouble. Horsemen in gaudy attire desire to plunder us.’ I winced as he shifted position, craning his head to peer at our grim pursuers.
‘Is there nothing we can do to fight back?’ he wailed.
I shrugged my bony shoulders.
Neary answered, ‘I can fire my gun or turn my wheels. I can’t do both. It’s how the valves are arranged inside me. The same steam is channelled down one set of pipes or the other.’
‘Don’t stop, for the sake of all that’s precious!’
It was I who shouted that …
But Hywel frowned and took a deep breath. ‘All that’s precious? You mean for the sake of gold, silver, rubies, cloves, emeralds, paintings, love, sculpture, diamonds, nutmeg, theodolites, fossils, saffron, cordite, coffee, sapphires, anthracite, music, caviar, secrets, flowers, revelations, peppers, hummingbirds, thighs, bamboo, copra, jade, brandy, trampolines, globes, books, ships, bridges, cardamom, glass, aeroplanes, papyri, civets, hawks, peace, scarves, furniture, blossom, weasels, bicycles, lanterns, amethysts, bagpipes, opals, slippers, gateaux—’
His list, which promised to be interminable, was abruptly curtailed. A flung spear passed through my ribcage, penetrated his body, emerged on his other side; hung there, quivering!
‘We are being assailed!’ shrieked Neary. ‘Choo choo!’
‘Hywel is dead. Boo hoo!’ I cried.
To be utterly honest, and one should be honest in one’s own memoirs, the violent, bloody death of the midget didn’t bother me too much, despite the fact he was a fellow countryman.
No, it was the location of his death that was more troubling.
Right inside me. He flopped there.
Ever had a midget expire within you? It’s not edifying.
I grasped the end of the spear, yanked it out of him, flung it back at the horsemen who pounded along beside.
Of course I missed. It was my very first time.
Before you judge too severely, have you ever flung a midget-blooded weapon at a turbaned brigand with a harness that jangles in the still air of dawnlight? Bet you haven’t. So there!
We reached a gentle downward slope. Neary picked up speed. Soon he was hurtling along at a velocity far in excess of even the swiftest horse on the mightiest hooves. The brigands fell back, vanished into specks. Neary didn’t slacken his speed. Then they were gone and we were safe. I sobbed with meaty gratitude and skeletal glee.
‘Shame about your reduced comrade, though,’ said Neary.
Philosophically I replied, ‘Ah well!’
‘In this heat, he’ll soon go off and stink badly.’
‘Yes, I hadn’t considered that.’
‘India’s not the place for an exposed midget cadaver.’
‘I guess it isn’t. But where is?’
‘A land where it’s always cold and damp.’
This made me pause and think.
I didn’t really pause, for my average velocity on this stretch of the line was more than 80 miles per hour — but you know what I mean. I felt a sudden strong wave of empathy, or maybe sympathy, I’m still not sure of the difference, wash over me as I thought about the brigands. Surely they were only trying to earn a living; to assert their independence in a country undoubtedly oblivious to their needs?
They reminded me, in short, of the Nationalists in my own nation. The spears that are flung, the swords that jab, the bombs that explode; all spill gore ultimately in the name of freedom and justice! Don’t they? And now I recalled the promise made by Neary’s own brothers to aid the struggle in my homeland, to combat the English!
‘Monsieur,’ said I, choosing my words carefully, ‘I have a request to make of you. Help me with the cause of Welsh nationalism! What return on such an investment can you expect? A statue of yourself in the city of Cardiff once my people are liberated.’
To my astonishment, he said, ‘Sure. Why not?’
Various Other Doings
I imagine you are wondering what became of Mr Jason Rolfe, the bicycle assassin? I don’t mean he assassinated bicycles; he was mounted on one of those machines. I wish you wouldn’t pretend to know less than you do, just for the sake of having a laugh at my expense! Anyway, the last time we saw him, he was still in Alirgnahs.
His pulsejet-powered velocipede carried him through a narrow pass on the eastern rim of
that lost land. Through Tibet and China he sped, and at last his store of fuel began to run low. He imagined that his bicycle would finally come to a halt before he reached the Pacific Ocean. He was happy about this; he couldn’t ride over waves.
In the ancient city of Chengdu a girl was carrying a bowl of food from her house to the workshop of her father; she tripped and dropped the bowl and the porcelain shattered. She went to fetch a mop to clean up the mess, but it was too late for that. Jason Rolfe roared down the street, he skidded on the greasy noodles and lost control …
His bicycle veered off the highway and screeched into the entrance of a factory. It was a factory that made gunpowder; and the vibrations of his engine caused piles of the stuff to collapse. There might have been a vast explosion, but luckily that didn’t happen. However, lots of the powder fell into the automatic feeder that was connected to the combustion chamber of his engine, filling it right to the brim.
He came out of a rear door and rejoined the street, but the damage had already been done. He had accidentally refuelled himself! Now there was sufficient explosive material to keep him going as far as the ocean and far beyond too. He scowled and shook a fist at nothing in particular.
‘I’ll get you for this, Lloyd Griffiths, I swear!’
The owner of the factory watched him depart; then he phoned his elder brother in the coastal city of Fuzhou and explained the situation.
‘If he is allowed to drown in the sea, I’ll never be able to claim damages from him in court. You must keep him alive …’
The brother said he would think about the problem. The only solution that seemed practical to him in the timeframe remaining was to construct an unusual type of ship. I forgot to mention that he was a shipwright. The ship he built was more of a barge, really. It consisted of a single deck, and a wide and long treadmill occupied most of that deck. This treadmill was connected to a propeller under the hull.
When Jason Rolfe reached the docks at Fuzhou, he didn’t simply zoom into the sea; he landed on the deck of the barge. The wheels of his bicycle turned the treadmill, keeping him balanced and steady, and the revolution of the treadmill turned the propeller. And thus did Mr Rolfe set off on his long maritime voyage to California.