The Smell of Telescopes

by Hughes, Rhys

  He was on the point of throwing himself off the train and risking a nasty fall, when the apparition suddenly reached up and pulled off its grotesque covering. Beneath was not a mask. It was a face—not young, not neat, not precise in features. Dr Pin remembers the minute drops of perspiration which started from its forehead; he remembers how the jaw had a plucky cast and the eyes an aptitude for judging distances on the golf-course. He recalls his own astonishment.

  “Parkins! What the deuce! This is dreadful!”

  But the Chancellor shook his head and launched into an explanation of his presence and strange disguise.

  He spoke with great urgency and his elucidations I cannot represent as perfectly as I should like. But the nub of it was his terror when he discovered the theft of his whistle, and his decision to come to Lladloh after Pin. He confessed he was a regular eavesdropper on the engineer’s conversations and had been following his movements rather closely. The figure in the train was none other than himself; as well as the shape in the window and the drinker in the tavern. He burgled Dr Pin’s room in an attempt to locate the whistle, not knowing the engineer kept it on his person. To allay suspicion, he boiled rose-petals in a kettle and then sprinkled the tincture over the carpets.

  “I don’t understand it!” Pin cried at last. “Are you mad? You must be, and what a sad thing! Such a good Ontographer too, and so successful in your business. What does it mean?”

  “The whole thing is so ghastly and abnormal that I must own it puts me quite off my balance,” avowed Parkins; “but if you bear with me, I’ll tell the rest. It is tied up with the vacation I took to Burnstow years ago. I have much to say about my visit to that dreadful place, and what I found in half-buried ruins by the shore.”

  “Excavating, were you?” Pin asked.

  “Very little,” was the answer; “I went to improve my golf. But I’d made a sort of promise to Disney, our antiquarian, to look over the site of a preceptory which had once belonged to the Knights Templars. Well, I chanced upon a metal whistle which, when raised to the lips and sounded, invested blankets with a life of their own.”

  “Good Heaven! I take it that this was the origin of your abhorrence of sheets? How does the whistle work?”

  “I have no idea. It must have something to do with a curse laid on it by the Templars. I believe a clue is afforded by that folk-ditty made popular recently by the invention of the phonograph. I forget who wrote the words: it was either Mrs Ann Radcliffe or Justin Hayward. There is a refrain which mentions knights in white satin!”

  Dr Pin was too much of an old woman to have knowledge of phonograph recordings. He deferred to superior wisdom.

  “Why did you bring it to St James’s?” he asked.

  “Well, I tried to get rid of it first. An acquaintance of mine—my golfing partner—threw it out to sea. But the tide returned it, like an overdue library book, and my hoarding instinct compelled me to add it to the college’s possessions. It remained safely locked in my room until it was snatched by you and brought here.”

  “Well, as you have explained the matter, I freely own that I do not like robbing a colleague,” confessed Pin; “I believe what you have said, yet some points need to be cleared up. If you are scared of sheets, why have you taken to wearing one in Lladloh?”

  “I had no wish to. I believe I am now acquainted with the extremity of terror and repulsion which a man can endure without losing his mind. After you left St James’s to catch the express, I had less than a minute to secure a disguise and follow you. Although it pained me dreadfully to make use of it, the tablecloth in the refectory was the only thing which suited my build. An unexpected good has come of this—proximity to what I fear most has cured me of my phobia. I’m no longer frightened of linen and much less grumpy as a consequence.”

  “That is another point,” put in Pin, sotto voce; “I am still pained by your unreasonable hatred toward me.”

  “Just so, Pin, just so. The matter is easily resolved. When I first planned to go to Burnstow, I was full of enthusiasm for the trip. Rather quickly my zeal waned, as it is apt to do with Ontographers. In short, I decided to change my mind. I arranged a feast to inform my colleagues of my altered plans, and was just about to break the news when you piped up with this question: ‘I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now Full Term is over, Professor?’ After that, it was impossible not to lose face by backing out. So I went against my will. When the terrible events happened, I held you responsible. You started the adventure, but took no part in it—like a person not in the story!”

  “Oh dear, Mr Parkins, what a dreadful thing for me to do. What must you have thought? You must forgive me.”

  “Not at all, Dr Pin, I assure you. Coming here has done me a world of good, and I no longer wish to dwell on what might be termed ‘Burnstow Sickness’. It is quite unproductive.”

  The reader will not be far wrong if he guesses that Pin accepted this honest statement as an example of good sense. But he will also naturally inquire, as the engineer did, at what inn the Chancellor found lodgings. Parkins was keen to give an answer on the point, and did so with obvious alacrity. When Pin learned it was the nameless tavern where he had spent his own nights—there being only one such establishment in Lladloh—he was confounded. He pointed out that the barman insisted that Pin was the only stranger in the house during the week.

  “But I wasn’t a stranger!” Parkins said; “This is my second journey to these parts. When I first came here, thirty years ago, I discovered a civilised society, making use of cheap electricity. For the furtherance of academic learning, I befriended the barman and plied him with drinks until he revealed the secret of the village’s energy supply. Then I went into the cellar, stole Noisette’s heart and took it back to St James’s. This was before you joined the college: when you arrived, it was already part of the Engineering Department! The citizens of Lladloh never knew I was responsible for breaking the generator. Indeed, Emyr kept sending me favourable postcards depicting local sheep.”

  It seems curious that, despite his aptitude for cryptic puzzles, Dr Pin hadn’t worked this out for himself.

  “This explains the friendly banter of the voices outside my room. I guess Emyr was pleased to see you again. I suppose it also assured you a room at short notice—most ‘belated wanderers’ would be turned away for the duration of the Eisteddfod. But how did you get away with sporting a tablecloth, especially one stained with jam?”

  The Chancellor smiled smugly and said: “Really, it was surprisingly easy. I convinced the barman that, as a ‘grapher’, I was ‘Ethno-’ rather than ‘Onto-’, and that I must needs wear a sheet to study Druidic habits more closely. He fell for it: hook, line and sigil. But this is of small urgency. My main concern, and the whole point of my trip, is to stop you blowing my whistle. It is rather dangerous!”

  “Don’t trouble to do that, thanks,” replied Pin; “I have virtually no love for music. And bronze sickens me.”

  “I have reason to believe you are thinking of sounding the whistle without using your lips! My aim is to dissuade you from such a course of action, without appearing impertinent.”

  “While I’m willing to appreciate your skill as an eavesdropper,” Dr Pin objected, “I don’t see how you can possibly know what I am thinking. I rather sniff at the idea that minds can be read like Latin primers. I remain a convinced disbeliever in telepathy.”

  “I can do nothing whatever of that kind,” Parkins said; “But you’re in this story—unlike the Burnstow one—and I have written it down for the entertainment of our colleagues.”

  The Chancellor reached into his pocket and produced a manuscript of a size too large for a missal, and not the shape of an antiphoner. As he turned the pages, Pin realised the value of such a work. It was a nearly complete account of the story which you, the reader with endurance, have managed to reach to this point. [It did not contain notes.] Too scared to read it right to the end, the engineer stopped about here and changed the topic of co
nversation to less paradoxical matters. He discussed the nature of animated sheets and what they did when they came alive; he wondered if modern bedclothes had some immunity to the effects of the whistle. Would a duvet exhibit quite the same evil propensities as a plain blanket? What if Parkins had spent his Burnstow holiday in a sleeping-bag? Did a double bed always produce an apparition of larger dimensions than a bachelor’s berth? What if the whistle was played aboard a ship? Would hammocks rise up? Would Papists and Jesuits welcome genuine holy ghosts?

  “I believe any fabric is a suitable candidate for animation,” cried Parkins; “whether curtains, tapestries or handkerchiefs. I think it will depend on how hard the whistle is blown. The volume of the note controls which covering adopts a semblance of life!”

  He would have said more, but he was cut short by a cry from Pin. On the line directly ahead of them stood a figure in an anorak. It was, of course, the same trainspotter Pin had met at the station. He was unaware of his danger, too overcome with excitement at finding a locomotive not spotted by any of his peers. As he wrote down the registration number of the Lost Hearts, the engineer called for him to get out of the way. Much too engrossed in his business, the misfit ignored him. There was nothing for it but for Pin to reach out and pull the chain which allowed a blast of steam to sound the—(at this stage, the reader must pause for a cup of very sweet tea)—yes, yes, the whistle!

  You don’t need to be told what happened next. They were passing the deflated Grand Pavilion at the time and it seemed to suddenly sit up, as if it concealed a waking giant. The notion of Pin and Parkins increasing speed and fleeing from—from something like this, is very comforting to me. You can guess what they fancied: how the thing might follow them and derail them with a casual sweep of a gargantuan foot. But, in fact, keen to take the opposite direction, it stamped toward the village square and descended the hill in a single bound. Although there seemed to be little material about it than the marquee of which it had made itself a body, a splintering sound confirmed to the departing scholars that it was rather adept at wreaking physical damage. In the moments that remained before a bend obstructed their view of the village, moments of tense anxiety, for they knew not whether they would have to pay compensation for the havoc, or whether they were covered by insurance, both men noticed that the sky and landscape seemed to darken about them—as if the being was standing in front of Lladloh’s desultory sun.

  It is absolutely clear that they reached their destination a day or two later, and that they were mentally exhausted. It is also known that Pin took to his bed on the afternoon of the 23rd, and is still there. He does not make use of blankets, but sleeps with a college cat for warmth. The irony of all this, of course, is that Parkins is no longer bothered by such fears; he reinstated Pin as an Emeritus, feeling that giving him the sack might have been a bad omen, and took over his duties. It is not a pretty sight, to see an Ontographer adopting a new profession, but he soon had the measure of gear-ratios and the lever principle, and already is embarking on an ambitious extension of gyroscope dynamics into realms of anti-gravity physics. Indeed, I am—I mean, he is—rather close to designing a working model of a spaceship.

  Nothing is less common form in postmodern stories than a serious attempt to explore real emotions and real people. The aftermath of the happening at Lladloh should be outlined, with particular reference to the terrible sufferings and deprivations of the populace. But neither Pin nor myself have ever taken the trouble to return there, or to learn what buildings, if any, survived the rampage. Possibly the survivors will try to rebuild what they have lost—perhaps they will move elsewhere. I know only that the village is no longer to be found on maps of the region; but it never featured on the majority of them anyway.

  The conventional sequel to this tale is that the organisers of the Eisteddfod have vowed never to hold another festival near there. Indeed, Mr Barrington Burke, the Arch-Druid, has even suggested taking the event outside Wales for the first time. He has his eye on an innocuous town on the east coast by the name of Seaburgh. Nothing can possibly go wrong in that location, he claims; but if it does, then he will take the festival out of the country altogether, to a place he has heard about, a decayed little town on the spurs of the Pyrenees.

  Bridge Over Troubled Blood

  “Here’s to you, Mrs Robinson!” cried Artery Garfunkle, raising his glass of blood. “Without your help, I would never have transfused the required eight pints and graduated.”

  “It’s called ‘Passing Out’,” returned Mrs Robinson. She drained her glass and licked her bitter lips.

  “Nothing like your own vintage,” observed Garfunkle. He sighed. “Do you think our relationship is sinful? I’m barely into triple figures and you’re approaching your millennium.”

  Mrs Robinson reached out and caressed his wings. “Silly bat! Ignore conventional morality. Now help me get dressed. I bought a new brassière the other day. Would you like to button it?”

  “No, I can’t stand French food. The Marquis de Sade gave me ghastly indigestion. It’s time I prepared for work.”

  Lilith Robinson regarded her enthusiastic young lover with a slight frown. His brand of innocence worried her: it wasn’t fresh and charming, but rotten and cankerous—more like decayed sagacity than true naïvety. Quick as a fever, he climbed out of bed and started dressing, relying on her mimicry to adjust his silk cravat. Unable to use mirrors, they often stood in for each other’s reflection.

  Her tone was gently chiding. “Only graduated last month and already starting a job! The youth of today don’t know how to enjoy themselves. I took a century off when I was your age.”

  “Really?” Garfunkle raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

  “Holiday in Arkham. Did me an underworld of good.”

  “But that’s where I’m off to! The college has arranged an exchange. Arkham’s brightest graduate is coming over here—she’s an engineer of some kind—and I’m going over there. Isn’t it exciting? I can’t imagine how I won the offer. The competition was fierce.”

  “Tell me more. What are you expected to do? I hope it’s not just an excuse for some cheap labour! I don’t want you working your guts out for the sake of a wriggly taskmaster.”

  He smiled. “The Arkham authorities seem personable entities. It’s a cultural thing. They like my music.”

  “Music? But you graduated in euthanasia!”

  “I specialised in rubbing down bishops with extreme unction. But my guitar is the cavity where I keep my heart...”

  “You’re not taking Appalling with you?”

  Artery Garfunkle flushed white and nodded: “He’s my best fiend. And who else can provide me with lyrics?”

  Mrs Robinson threw up her talons in despair. “The pair of you don’t know what the music business is like! So many ambitious bats end up with dreams smeared over their maws. Don’t do it, Artery!”

  “I have to. It’s my destiny. I know the folk-scene is difficult to make a mark in. But so is a flint neck! It takes a degree of masochism. Remember this, Mrs Robinson: hell holds a place for those who prey. When I’m wealthy, you’ll have as much lingerie as you want. With Appalling by my side, we’ll soon be rolling in it!”

  Lilith shook her head. “The words of the profit were written on the dungeon wall,” she muttered. “In gore.”

  With an angry pout, he pulled on his coat and made to leave. “Sorry you don’t feel the way I do. But you must try to understand. Best for me to make my own mistakes in my own way. No point trying to put an ancient skull on old shoulders. It’s not a matter for debate—I’m off to Arkham to strum the catgut and there’s an end to it.”

  “What if you meet someone else? Musicians are followed by hordes of screaming harpies. They’re young and puffy!”

  “You’ll just have to trust me, Mrs Robinson.”

  Wings flapping through the slits in his coat, Garfunkle stormed out of the apartment, slamming the window as he went. Lilith buried her face in the grave-scented pillow
and spilled a crepuscular tear. What she had feared all along was coming to pass: the age difference was too great to sustain the affair. She had lost him—he was off in pursuit of somebody new. Not that he necessarily knew this on a conscious level: it was the inevitable outcome of unbalanced amours.

  Lilith raised herself, tears cascading over the side of the bed and landing in her glass of blood, diluting the ruby fluid to a tragic rosé. The only question was how she ought to act now: embittered or forgiving? It was much more mature to shrug her shoulders and forget about him. But maturity only lasted from the ages of eighteen to seven-hundred-and-ten. After that, emotions turned full circle: grudges were reclaimed, revenge was back in favour and hate became a noble feeling. Deeming it better to act her age, she decided to be vindictive.

  She would strike viciously, without mercy, as blatantly as a child. She would damage not his skin but his reputation. When he came back from Arkham, he would find himself mocked in professional circles. No hospice would employ him as an euthanasist. If he wanted to fool with music, she would ensure he did it on street corners.

  Moving to the casement, she peered through the warped glass. Artery had landed on the grass embankment outside the library and was listening to his companion, Appalling Simon, who was playing a flute carved out of a mouse. Even at this distance, Mrs Robinson thought she could discern a whisper of the furtive and twitching melody.