High on the frosty mountainside two small figures huddled round a feebly glowing fire.
The Inspector looked again at the remains of the aeroplane.
‘That was good flying.’
‘We might as well have crashed; if the cold doesn’t get us the wolves will.’
They both gazed at the fire for a few moments.
‘Come on,’ coaxed the Inspector. ‘You might as well tell me now. Just what was it that you were smuggling?’
Pyecraft looked at him sadly.
‘Aircraft,’ he said.
THE PICTURE
TECHNICAL CYGNET, 1:11, MAY 1965
Good grief! That was a long time ago! I’m quite glad I never tried to sell this one, but once again I was playing with the words to see what happens. It’s a thing that authors do sometimes.
It wasn’t really a superb work of art.
The artist had painted the sky the wrong colour and covered it with blotches in an attempt, seemingly, to hide his mistake; the perspective, what there was of it, was wrong; and the vegetation would not have been found in the wildest nightmare. The whole thing was a surrealistic portrait of hell.
Even the frame barely held together.
Jon kept it on the wall – one of the padded walls – of his cell. Strange and horrific though it was, it was some connection with the Outside, some reminder that there were other things besides eating, sleeping, and the occasional visit of the doctors. Sometimes they would watch him through the grille in the padded door, and shake their heads.
‘No cure,’ said one.
‘Unless we take away that – that picture,’ said the other.
‘You will kill him if you do.’
‘He will kill himself if we don’t; you know that it was the cause of his – his –’
‘His madness.’
‘There is no other word for it. That picture is the centre of his life now; I believe it is the only thing that he does not doubt. Yesterday he told me that it portrays the only true world, and that this one is really false. We can do nothing against such stubbornness.’
‘Then it is either kill or cure?’
‘Yes. I will tell him when I examine him. Perhaps the shock of having his world removed will cure him.’
It didn’t seem to. Jon still sat hunched and brooding in the corner of his cell, staring at the picture, trying to remember …
He heard the soft tread in the passage. They were coming to take away his picture; there was so little time left! He made one last, tremendous, despairing effort …
And the cell was empty.
They never did find out where he had gone or how he had escaped. It was a nine-day mystery; and, in the course of time, it was forgotten.
But the Doctor kept the picture, and hung it up in his study. He knew his suspicions were absurd, but they stuck.
Sometimes he stares at the picture with all three of his eyes, with the green sun below the horizon, and hopes that he is wrong.
For how could anyone survive in a world of brown earth and green leaves, and a blue sky with only one sun?
THE PRINCE AND THE PARTRIDGE
‘CHILDREN’S CIRCLE’ BY UNCLE JIM, BUCKS FREE PRESS, 6, 13, 20 DECEMBER 1968
Written under the pseudonym ‘Uncle Jim’, ‘Children’s Circle’ was a series of seventy-odd tales that appeared between 1965 and 1973, of which two have made it into this collection: ‘The Prince and the Partridge’ and ‘Rincemangle, the Gnome of Even Moor’.
Once upon a time – that’s always a good start – there was a young prince who was ruler of the Land of the Sun. It was a pleasant country of long days and blue skies, and most things in it were either yellow or gold.
The cottages were built of sandstone with golden tiles, daffodils and buttercups grew in fields of ripe corn, and gold was so plentiful under the land that the streets were actually paved with it.
Now, to the west of this land was a high range of mountains, where the prince – did I say his name was Alfred? Well, it was – had a hunting lodge.
One day when he was out hunting deer with his knights his horse bolted, and carried him away through the thick pine forests. The sounds of the hunt disappeared in the distance, while the prince leaned on the reins and tried to calm his mount.
By the time he had done this he was in an unknown part of the mountains, on the edge of a wide clearing. He found what was wrong with his horse – a sharp burr had got under the saddle girth – and while he stood adjusting it a deer burst into the centre of the glade.
It was the one he had been hunting – but before he could reach for his bow a silver arrow hissed out of the trees and killed the creature.
‘Oi, oi,’ he thought. ‘Poachers in my mountains!’
Out of the trees rode a host of knights in silver armour, riding white horses. At their head rode a princess clad in silver cloth.
She had white hair, and I dare say I hardly have to tell you that Alfred thought she was the dearest, prettiest, fairest, etc., princess he’d ever clapped eyes on, even though her long hair was whiter than his granny’s.
Her knights took the deer and rode away, and of course Alfred followed. He soon realized he was going down the other side of the mountain.
The sun was setting, and this is what he saw. Over the land on the other side of the mountains a big silver moon was rising. The whole land shone like silver, silver flowers grew in the grass, and in the distance his princess was riding.
‘Where is this place?’ the prince wondered out loud.
In the tree above someone coughed.
‘It’s the Land of the Moon, of course.’
The prince looked up and saw that he was under an old wild pear tree, with gnarled boughs and wizened fruit, and hardly any leaves to speak of. On the lowest branch sat a large, fat, ugly brown bird with big eyebrows.
‘What sort of bird is it that speaks?’ said Alfred.
‘Me. I’m the partridge. The Partridge, I should say, In A Pear Tree. And you’re Prince Alfred. The girl is Princess Selena, but if you want to marry her you’ll have to woo her. Chocolates and flowers and so on.’
‘She looks as if she can have anything she wants,’ pointed out Alfred.
‘Please yourself,’ said the partridge. ‘I’m only here to help, I’m sure. All I’ll say is she has promised to marry the man that gives her a Christmas present that dances, leaps, plays tunes, makes a beat, carries pails, hisses, swims, lays eggs, can be worn on one hand, sings, cackles, coos, waggles its eyebrows and is good to eat. All at once, let me add.’
‘What for?’ asked Prince Alfred.
‘Her father, King of the Land of the Moon, decided that only the man who could think up the right kind of present was worthy to marry his daughter. He’s got no sons, you see, so whoever is her husband will become king of that land in time,’ added the partridge.
‘A parrot,’ said the prince, thoughtfully. ‘That might be all right.’
‘The Emperor of the Rainbow Land tried that,’ said the partridge. ‘It didn’t work.’
So the prince said goodbye to the wise old partridge in his pear tree, and went back home deep in thought.
He called all the palace wizards, wise men and deep thinkers together, and asked them what dances, leaps, plays tunes, makes a beat, carries pails, hisses, swims, lays eggs, can be worn on one hand, sings, cackles, coos, waggles its eyebrows and is good to eat? ‘Come on, work it out, or you’ll get no Christmas bonus!’
‘It’s a riddle,’ said one of them. But think as they might, they couldn’t find the answer.
So the prince organized a great competition, with a gold cup as the prize for anyone who could guess the answer.
But although the hall of the castle was filled to overflowing with postmen sorting out the replies, and people queuing up in the hope of winning the cup, no one thought up anything like the right answer. The prince sat on his gold throne and sighed.
Right at the end of the queue was the partridge, walking since he was far too fat t
o fly.
‘What are you doing here!’ gasped Prince Alfred.
‘I’ve come for the prize,’ said the partridge.
‘You mean you knew all the time?’
‘You didn’t ask me, did you? But I don’t want the cup. What I want costs nothing, is as light as air, and I shan’t tell you what it is. Not yet anyway.’
‘What is the present I’m to give the princess, then?’ asked Prince Alfred.
‘Patience, patience,’ said the partridge. ‘I want to have a meeting with some of your subjects first. Kindly call for the Royal Swankeeper, the Guardian of the Crown Jewels, the Master of the Royal Music, the highest Lord in the land, the Chief Lady-in-Waiting, and about four farmers. I’ll need them all to make the present.
‘Then I want you to go and visit the princess, and her father, and bring them to my pear tree in the mountains.’
This the prince did, though he wondered what the partridge had in store.
He went to the Land of the Moon, and brought the king and the princess and a host of their knights to the tree.
‘What sort of present is this?’ said the king. ‘The pears are good to eat, maybe, but nothing else. They don’t sing.’
‘Wait a moment,’ said the prince, gazing anxiously down the road.
‘I’m not waiting here all day,’ said the king angrily. ‘Show me the present you’ve got for my daughter or be off.’
‘Wait a minute, Father,’ said Princess Selena. ‘There’s something coming.’
Prince Alfred looked down the road at the approaching cloud of dust and then let out a whoop of joy.
A very odd crowd could now be seen.
In the lead was a small boy called Bert, the son of the Royal Swankeeper, carrying three enormous cages. One contained two sulky turtle-doves, the next three French hens, and the biggest, which kept bumping against his knees, held four little green birds.
On Bert’s head sat the partridge, holding on tightly to his hair, and shouting instructions to the others. His voice was rather muffled since he was also trying to hold five large gold rings in his beak.
After Bert came the Royal Swankeeper himself, herding seven hissing swans and six waddling geese, who kept getting under the feet of the eight milkmaids who were puffing along behind.
After them came a big drum, bowling along with its drummer galloping after it, and the other eight drummers hotly in pursuit, closely followed by ten pipers who played as they ran.
Eleven lords came leaping after them, robes flying, and bringing up the rear was a carriage holding twelve ladies-in-waiting.
‘Now you all know what to do,’ said the partridge, when they had reached the old pear tree. And pears rained down as everyone scrambled up into the branches, treading on fingers and cracking branches.
‘Quick, quick!’ said the partridge. ‘Are we all ready? Now tell the princess what her present is.’
‘Twelve ladies dancing,’ said the ladies on the lowest branch.
‘Eleven lords a-leaping,’ sang the lords, rocketing up and down through the tree. Creak! Rattle!
‘Ten pipers piping – one, two, one two three four,’ sang the pipers, and went into a spirited rendering of the tune.
‘Nine drummers drumming.’ Thud! Boom!
‘Eight maids a-milking.’
‘Hiss! Hiss!’ went the seven swans, who couldn’t a-swim on their branch and were angry about it.
‘Honk! Honk!’ went the six geese a-laying.
‘Ring! Ting!’ sang the five gold rings in the wind.
‘Call! Chirrup,’ sang the four calling birds.
‘Le Cackle!’ cackled the three French hens.
‘Coo! Coo!’ sang the two turtle doves.
There was a breathless pause, and everyone stared up at the partridge. He made sure they were all watching, then ruffled his feathers, stretched out his wings, and with a voice like sandpaper sang:
‘And a Partridge In A Pearrrrrrrr,’ his neck stretched and his face went red as he took a deep breath, ‘Treeeeeeee!’
The silence that followed was broken by the laughter of the king, who sat on his horse with tears running down his face.
‘It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in years,’ he said. ‘And it does everything it should do! Marry my daughter by all means!’
‘I think it’s a lovely present,’ said the princess.
‘Cough, cough,’ said the partridge tactfully, from his position on the topmost branch. ‘My reward is that I want to sing a song I’ve invented all about this at your wedding.’
‘Yes,’ said the prince. ‘You must all come.’
So – on the Twelfth Day of Christmas, as it happened – they held a great wedding party in a large tent erected over the old pear tree in the mountains, and the partridge sang his song and was made Prime Minister on the spot by the prince.
Several of the smaller pipers ate too much, and had to be sent home in wheelbarrows, but the prince gave everyone medals and they were all very happy.
RINCEMANGLE, THE GNOME OF EVEN MOOR
‘CHILDREN’S CIRCLE’ BY UNCLE JIM, BUCKS FREE PRESS, 16 MARCH–18 MAY 1973
This is one of the pieces I used to do on Thursday evenings: an earlier and shorter version of what became Truckers. The name of the protagonist finds an echo in the later creation of Rincewind the Wizzard, who first appears in The Colour of Magic.
Once upon a time there was a gnome who lived in a hollow tree on Even Moor, the strange mysterious land to the north of Blackbury. His name was Rincemangle and as far as he knew he was the only gnome left in the world.
He didn’t look very gnome-like. He wore a pointed hat, of course, because gnomes do; but apart from that he wore a shabby mouse-skin suit and a rather smelly overcoat made from old moleskins. He lived on nuts and berries and the remains of picnics, and birds’ eggs when he could get them. It wasn’t a very joyful life.
One day he was sitting in his hollow tree, gnawing a hazel nut. It was pouring with rain, and the tree leaked. Rincemangle thought he was getting nasty twinges in his joints.
‘Blow this for a lark,’ he said. ‘I’m wet through and fed up.’
An owl who lived in the tree next door heard him and flew over.
‘You should go out and see the world,’ he said. ‘There’s more places than Even Moor.’ And he told him stories about the streets of Blackbury and places even further away, where the sun always shone and the seas were blue. Actually they weren’t very accurate, because the owl had heard them from a blackbird who heard them from a swallow who went there for his holidays, but they were enough to get Rincemangle feeling very restive.
In less time than it takes to tell, he had packed his few possessions in a handkerchief.
‘I’m off!’ he cried, ‘to places where the sun always shines! How far did you say they were?’
‘Er,’ said the owl, who hadn’t the faintest idea, ‘about a couple of miles, I expect. Perhaps a bit more.’
‘Cheerio then,’ said Rincemangle. ‘If you could read I’d send you a postcard, if I could write.’
He scrambled down the tree and set off.
When Rincemangle the gnome set off down the road to Blackbury he really didn’t know how far it was. It was raining, and he soon got fed up.
After a while he came to a layby. There was a lorry parked there while the driver ate his lunch and Rincemangle, who had often watched lorries go past his tree, climbed up a tyre and looked for somewhere warm to sleep under the tarpaulin.
The lorry was full of cardboard boxes. He nibbled one and found it was full of horrible tins. They weren’t even comfortable to sleep on.
But he did eventually drop off, just as the lorry set off again to Blackbury. When Rincemangle woke up it was very dark in the box, and there was a lot of banging about going on; then that stopped, and after waiting until all the sounds had died away he peered cautiously through the hole.
The first thing he saw was another gnome.
‘Hullo,’ said the gn
ome. ‘Is there much interesting in there? It looks like another load of baked beans to me. Here, help me get a tin out.’
Together they gnawed at the box until one tin rolled out. The box was on a high shelf, but the other gnome had got up by climbing it rather like a mountaineer. They lowered the tin down on a piece of thread.
‘My name’s Featherhead,’ said the gnome. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you? Just up from the country?’
‘I thought I was the only gnome in the world,’ said Rincemangle.
‘Oh, there’s a lot of us here. Who wants to live in a hollow tree when you can live in a department store like this?’
Talking and rolling the tin along in front of them they crept out of the storeroom and set off. The store was closed for the night, of course, but a few lights had been left on. There was a rather nasty moment when they had to hide from the lady who cleaned the floors but, after a long haul up some stairs, Rincemangle arrived at the gnomes’ home.
The gnomes had built themselves a home under the floorboards between the toy shop and the do-it-yourself department, though they had – er – borrowed quite a lot of railway track from the toy shop and built a sort of underground railway all the way to the restaurant. They even had a telephone rigged up between the colony and the gnomes who lived in the Gents’ Suiting department two floors down.
All this came as a great shock to Rincemangle, of course. When he arrived with his new friend Featherhead, pushing the baked bean tin in front of them, he felt quite out of place. The gnomes lived in small cardboard houses under the floorboards, with holes drilled through the ceiling to let the light in. Featherhead rolled the tin into his house and shut the door.
‘Well, this is a cut above the old hollow tree,’ said Rincemangle, looking round.
‘Everyone’s in the restaurant, I expect,’ said Featherhead. ‘There’s about three hundred gnomes live here, you know. My word, I think it’s very odd, you living out in all weathers! Most gnomes have lived indoors for years!’
He led Rincemangle along the floor, through a hole in a brick wall and along a very narrow ledge. It was the lift, he explained. Of course, the gnomes had managed to use the big lift, but they’d rigged up a smaller one at the side of the shaft. It was driven by clockwork.
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