So that night the man took the woman back to the stile and showed her the pig, the dog, the stick, the fire, the sky and the tent. By morning she was happy, and she told the man:
"I will walk with you back to the town to work every day, and then return with you every night."
And so it was.
The years made their slow dash by, falling and melting away like the winter snow, evaporating like the summer rain. Every night the man returned to the stile and tried every which way to get the pig to climb over, always finishing with the same old monologue. The dog whelped and soon one of its pups followed the man and the woman back and forth to the town. With every day the pair grew in wisdom and understanding, until eventually one morning the sun rose and they realised that they were old. The man let his beard grow long and the woman acquired eyes with depth.
Though he was happy, the man couldn't help but grow grumpy every time he came back and the pig, seemingly unaged, was still happy asleep in the mud. He would say to it:
"Pig, climb over the stile, so I can go home."
And then to the dog:
"Dog, bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
And to the stick:
"Stick, poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
And to the fire:
"Fire, burn the stick, so it'll poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
And to the sky:
"Sky, make it rain, so it'll dampen the fire, so it'll burn the stick, so it'll poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb the stile, so I can go home."
And to his tent:
"Tent, scatter the rain, so it'll rain harder, so it'll dampen the fire, so it'll burn the stick, so it'll poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
Finally, he said to his wife:
"Let's sleep, for tomorrow, who knows? Maybe the pig will climb over the stile."
On his ninetieth birthday, the old man and his wife returned from the town, tired and feeling the chill of the wind and the weight of their years. They came to the stile and the man started to say:
"Pig, climb over the stile, so..."
But then he stopped, because the pig wasn't there. He looked around, panic suddenly gripping him, feeling lost and bewildered, casting about for any clue of the pig's whereabouts. The pig was not to be seen. However, there were trotter marks in the mud that led up to the wall, and, daubed in charcoal from the fire, in shaky but legible handwriting, there was written:
"You are home."
The old man, needless to say, was furious. His wife tried hard not to laugh too much. They lit the fire and pitched the tent, and went to sleep.
So it was that the old man passed away, leaving the old woman alone with the dog, the stick, the fire, the sky and the tent. She walked back to the town, bought a pig with all the money she had, and set up a market stall.
"Sentimental rubbish," said Bulkington. "And probably untrue. I very much doubt pigs can write."
"You would have said that about toads a couple of weeks ago. Anyway, the point is that first impressions can be deceiving. There's stories lurking everywhere - it's just that there's only so many pages that people can be bothered reading."
Bulkington shook his head and they carried on walking. Indole found a corner of the market where he sat down and made a pathetic fire out of some straw from the stable and a few pieces of rubbish that were lying around. He took the empty can of beans from his bag, filled it from a horse trough and set it on top of the fire.
"What about the cholera?" asked Bulkington.
"Trick is to boil the water first," said Indole. "You know how long it took people to figure that out?"
"How long?"
"Not very long. It's just that they invented beer first and ignorance of germ theory was a convenient excuse for inebriation. I should have a tasty bit of cabbage, sprout and very dilute rancid bean juice soup ready in a few minutes once the water's boiled. If that doesn't trigger my flatulence I don't know what will."
Chapter 13 - Round and About
Following breakfast, Indole and Bulkington's thoughts turned to their next meal.
"Can't we sell some spoons or something?" asked Bulkington.
"Not much demand for spoons when there's nothing to eat with them," said Indole.
"Then what are we going to do?"
"Walk this way, that's what we're going to do. Come on."
Without further explanation Indole led Bulkington through the streets, out of town and up onto the surrounding moors. After half an hour they came to a large cliff. It looked as though the land had been ripped in two, one part moving up and the other part staying where it was.
"There was an earthquake a few years back," said Indole. "When it was over this cliff was here."
"And how does that help us?"
"There's stuff in the cliff from long ages past. The rain washes it down. All you have to do is walk along and pick up the useful looking stuff and then haul it back to town to trade for a cabbage or two."
Bulkington looked at the floor. There, scattered in layers were the paraphernalia of a forgotten era, objects that seemed to have long ago sprung forth from the ground like so many species of wayside plant - for how else could such a diversity of trinkets be made? He nudged a stapler with his foot and wondered what the hell it was for; he kicked a long-dead television and succeeded only in knocking it onto its side; he sought meaning in an array of garden gnomes; he looked for the divine creative spirit in a toasted sandwich maker that would never again make a toasted sandwich. There was novelty here in everything and anonymity at the same time. He learnt a lot about the forgotten era and that was that there was a lot to forget.
All of a sudden, Indole stooped down and, with the spark of interest in his eyes, nudged a piece of half-rusted metal with spongy black stuff on the edges.
"What is it?" said Bulkington.
"Don't know. Funny shape."
"What do you think it was used for?"
Indole waved his arms meaningfully. "I see people travelling over the land at amazing speeds, seeking out new corners of the globe, hauling great loads..."
"I don't think so," said Bulkington.
Indole scowled, then waved his hand again. "Okay then, I see people building huge contraptions, artful fabrications to do the work of a thousand men, monsters of mechanics to harness wind and rain and..."
"Not very likely," said Bulkington.
This time Indole shrugged. "I see a rusted piece of metal with spongy black stuff on the edges then. What shall we call it?"
"Don't know," said Bulkington. "It's sort of round."
"That's it then: a round."
"Do you think many people would be interested it swapping a cabbage for a round?"
"Probably not."
"Shall we leave it on the floor?"
"Go on then."
So Bulkington and Indole walked away from the round, rusty piece of metal and scrabbled about a bit at the foot of the cliff. They found the cable for an old smart phone charger, brought it back to town and, with a few tea towels thrown in, swapped it for a cabbage. The cabbage vendor used it as a belt.
Chapter 14 - How The Hills Began To Howl
"Did you know that there's a huge crater in the middle of town?" Bulkington asked Indole as they ate their sautéed cabbage sitting on a piece of waste ground at the edge of Avaciggy. Once there had been a building here; then there had been a pile of rubble; now the rubble had been used to build other unambitious things. There was now only a patch of scrubland covered in more or less noxious weeds. The fire, made from thistles, smouldered woozily and the smell of burnt greenery filled the air.
"Oh yes," said Indole, chewing thoughtfully. "That's where part of the sky fell down. Everyone knows that."
"I didn't," replied Bulkington.
"Well you do now. Quite a legend around the w
hole thing."
"Another story?"
"Worse," said Indole. "An epic poem."
Bulkington groaned. "Surely not."
"Sorry," said Indole. He cleared his throat. Clearly there was no stopping him.
Never so terrible a tale there was;
How the hills began to howl
A grin was on the verdant slopes,
Yet on the sky a scowl
The scowling sky, it grimaced low,
And scoured the hills with rain,
Yet rambling rills did swiftly flow,
And made them dry again
Ever a frown was borne aloft,
On gunmetal clouds of grey,
A fleet diffuse and lightning quick,
Lit up the night like day
Bright day was ever turned to night;
Dread elements in array,
Dressed in clouds of thund'rous smoke,
Spun fast like potters clay
The whirlwinds ate into the earth,
And threw sharp thunder down,
But the hills were made of granite strong,
Deep roots in iron ground
Hail fell thick upon the hills;
the meadows ached with ice
'Til sunlight's fire came to their aid,
to ward off Winter's vice
The sky thought dark and low, its brow
Creased in vales of cloud;
It thought of a creature swift and sly,
As strong as it was proud
The sky made red the mottled moon,
The twilight turned to blood;
Out from dust was born mankind,
The evil and the good
The evil cursed up to the sky,
The good a prayer proclaimed,
With different words they told in verse,
One thing and the same
The thought from them was borne aloft,
So simple and so plain;
That high evil thinks it's good
And good takes evil's name
There began a bitter war of words,
A war of heart and mind;
And where a heart could only lose,
Crosshairs could surely find
To plant a cross takes fertile land,
Ploughed deep with blood and lime
To make a wreath takes craftsmanship,
A bomb the production line
Quick it was, for the hills to howl,
A firebrand cloud and flash;
Five thousand years of artifice
Laid low in a bed of ash
So drear it was, the howling trill,
The poison rains that choked the rill,
Roots, pigeons, rats and all that's ill,
Were all that lived, alone to grieve
Nothing remained,
Save Mada and Eve
Nothing could grow,
Nothing could breathe
So think of wind when you eat your sprouts,
And hail unto the wasteland's shouts
An empty slate, a piece of chalk
An ever longer road to walk
A crater fount, a town forlorn,
Built upon this frazzled gorse,
A cliff from fossil ages torn
Speaks one fossil word: Remorse
"That was the condensed version," said Indole. "Count yourself lucky."
Chapter 15 - The Library
After his attempt at poetry Indole decided to show Bulkington the town library, reasoning that he had spent most of his life staring at books so he should be at least a bit interested. Bulkington followed, harbouring a hope that the library would have central heating of some kind and a place to sit and doze. He pictured a grand building, a true seat of learning in a neo-classical design, shelf after shelf of aged volumes with the smell of old vellum wafting in the air...
In fact, Bulkington found that the library was a small tent, inside which sat a woman with dark clothes in the stereotyped style of a fortune teller, her face all dark eye-shadow and swarthy skin, a pair of bangle earrings hanging down to her shoulders.
"This is the library?" asked Bulkington.
"Welcome," said the woman, who, Bulkington guessed, must be the librarian. She held out her hand and Indole placed a shiny spoon in it.
"Where's all the books?" asked Bulkington, peering over Indole's shoulder.
Indole turned and scowled. "You're ruining the effect," he said.
The librarian motioned to a small rectangular shape on the table next to her.
"That's it?" said Bulkington.
"Quiet," said Indole. "She's about to start."
The librarian closed her eyes, a look of concentration on her face. "Bloody Thing, It Has Run Out Of Batteries," she said.
"What does that mean?" asked Bulkington.
"Nobody knows," said Indole. "Quiet now, here comes the next bit."
The librarian continued, "It's Not As Good As A Proper Book, It Doesn't Smell The Same."
Indole and Bulkington waited silently.
"Despite What They Say It's Not As Easy To Read In Bright Sunshine."
There was another pause.
"Saying That, It Is Very Convenient For Travelling."
Indole bowed respectfully to the librarian. "And that," he said to Bulkington, "is a library. Good eh?"
Chapter 16 - Donkey Oaty
They left the tent and Bulkington conveyed his disappointment to Indole by a silence, which Indole ignored. As the day wore into night the sky grew sullen; the dusk light seemed to filter through an ever-thickening layer of bubonic cloud that smouldered above. The birds had started their evening chorus halfway through the afternoon and then given up, thinking it better to find some cranny in the rocks where they could avoid getting struck by lightning. The first thunder made the ground shudder and the residents of Avaciggy followed suit, barring shutters, tying down pigs and pulling tarpaulin over their sprout patches.
Indole and Bulkington watched as doors slammed and chimneys started to smoke. There was little comfort, it was true, in Avaciggy, but a warm fire and a roof could make that little seem a lot. Nothing separated Indole and Bulkington from the rain that started to patter, then shower, then hammer: here was misery, unroofed. The streets became saturated with water and really did seem to take on some new life, gutters forming unbidden at the sides of the curbs and channelling water downhill, towards the centre of town. Indole and Bulkington followed the flow and by early morning, just before dawn, they stood staring unhappily as the central crater filled with water.
"Look, it's got a shopping trolley in it already," said Bulkington. "There wasn't even a pond there a minute ago."
"People make a bloody great crater and then nature somehow finds a way to turn it into a water feature," said Indole. "That says a lot."
Bulkington looked down into the rain-lashed water and saw the reflection of the stars and the moon, fragmented and turbulent under the downpour.
"What do you think the future holds?" asked Bulkington.
Indole shook his head sadly. "You know how people used to try and answer that question?" he said. "They looked up to the night sky. They charted the heavens and thought that that would give them the map of fate."
Bulkington shrugged. "So what?"
"So now people aren't looking up to the sky anymore, they're looking down. They're looking at the surface of that pond and seeing a reflection battered and torn by rain they can't even see. So what does the future hold? I don't know. Winter, rain, roots, rats, wolves probably."
Indole paused, and then continued suddenly, "You know what the first book was that I tried to get to grips with after I left the monastery?"
Bulkington squinted through the rain. "Surprise me."
"Donkey oaty," said Indole. "Stupid name, I know. Have you ever heard of it?"
"It's not by the Scurrilous Sages so no. I thought you said you couldn't read?"
"I can't," said Indole. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a battered looking walkma
n. "Talking book, you see? An ingenious invention of a past age."
Bulkington looked unimpressed. "So you listened to this book."
"Yeah, Donkey oaty - you know how it ends?"
"No."
"Nor do I," said Indole. "The book player thing conked out after the first few chapters. But I think I would have smashed the thing anyway. It made me feel incredibly unhappy."
"Sounds like an uplifting book."
"It was a masterpiece. But do you know what the most interesting bit was?"
"What?" asked Bulkington.
"It was the introduction, about Cervantes, the guy who wrote it. His life was even worse than the character in the book. He was poor as hell. He killed some sheriff, apparently in self-defence, so he was condemned to have one of his hands lopped off. Understandably he legged it and joined the army, where he got shot in the chest and had his hand mutilated anyway. Then he got caught by the enemy and spent most of the rest his life locked up with barely enough money to afford the paper he wrote on. Yet he still wrote this amazing book. Sometimes, just sometimes, we don't make the crater. Sometimes the crater makes us."
Bulkington shook his head. He looked at the pond and the shopping trolley. Then he looked at Indole with a peculiar look of concentration. "You know this reminds me of the Text Of The Scurrilous, Verse 3:
And verily men shall go forth unto the wasteland
and they shall look around the wasteland and say:
"Here is desolation: I shall plant a vine and a grain,
so that in future days I shall be merry and rotund."
And yea the vine and the grain did bear fruit
and they were merry and rotund."
Indole raised an eyebrow. "That came out of the blue," he said. "Very profound though. It almost reminds me of The Rubaiyat of The Beer Monster, Verse 11:
Men shall speak with profundity on many things,
and then promptly forget what it was they were talking about;
yet the next morning, oh how they shall remember."
"Indeed," said Bulkington. "Very true. Which reminds me of the Scurillous Sage's sayings on truth in the Eclogues of The Unkempt, Verse 8:
Truth is beauty.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
No wonder people with ugly girlfriends have to lie to them so much."
The Cutlers Of The Howling Hills Page 6