Zod Wallop
By William Browning Spencer
HARRY GAINESBOROUGH, ex-writer of children’s books, just wants to be left alone. But the world—worlds, actually—won’t let him. Raymond Story, escaped from Harwood Psychiatric (and now married to Emily, a catatonic girl that Raymond declares is the Frozen Princess) has enlisted some of his fellow patients and is intent on saving the world—with Harry’s help.
Nonsense, of course. But a Ralewing (a nasty sort of flying sting ray that Harry invented for his book) appears to have eaten the paint from the roof of Harry’s car; the ruthless executive of a large pharmaceutical company bears an unsettling resemblance to Zod Wallop’s evil Lord Draining, and a hotel in Florida could be about to host the end of the world.
ZOD WALLOP
Copyright © 1995 by William Browning Spencer
Originally published by St. Martin’s Press.
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the author, William Browning Spencer.
The characters and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between the characters and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover by William Browning Spencer
Praise for Zod Wallop:
“Zod Wallop is a delightful picaresque which along the way has some wise things to say about the responsibility of authorship, and the relative power of author and reader.” — Interzone
“Zod Wallop is that rarity: a novel that surprises us on every page and hurries us toward an unguessable destination… Spencer satirizes the pharmaceutical industry, literary agents, smoking, S&M, psychotherapy, automated teller machines, the sword-and-sorcery genre, roadside convenience stores, weddings, parenthood, geezers, monkeys and espionage…entertaining.”
— The Los Angeles Times Book Review
“…starts off with the sort of bang that makes you tighten your seat belt. One of the strangest achievements in recent literature, Zod Wallop manages to pile absurdity on top of absurdity, passing from the ridiculous to the grotesque and eventually the horrific before soaring, incredibly, to the sublime, all the while violating many of those time-honored customs that enable us, readers and writers, to live together in harmony… Do you hear that ripping sound? Relax: it is not a wing tearing off; it is William Browning Spencer shredding all these rules and many, many others. And getting away with it… Fantastical as it is…it nonetheless is rooted firmly (like fairy tales themselves) in the common ground of human feelings, held together by the strong muscles of the heart… I’ve never read anything like this at all. For all its teetering wildness, Zod Wallop packs a pretty mean punch.” — Washington Post Book World
“By raising the question of who is crazy and who is sane, Spencer seduces the reader into considering the underlying question: What is craziness and what is sanity? Happily this very talented author has not only the irreverent humor but also the insight into the manic rhythms of madness to pull this query off.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A work of great originality and charm from a brilliant writer of fantasy who’s also a very considerable serious novelist.” — Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“…a fine novel…a very kindly book, if somewhat stern, and I think it has a lot of helpful truth in it.”— Gahan Wilson, Realms of Fantasy
“Spencer is a wonderful writer… Through one beguiling, horrifying, absurdist David-Lynchian episode after another, we follow Spencer’s cast as they strive to prevent one man’s intense self-pity and suffering from rendering our world a stony desert. Speaking deep truths about the uses and abuses of escapism and fantasy, Zod Wallop provides a wild ride through a land where sanity and insanity blur.” — Asimov’s Science Fiction
“The old theme of fantasy versus reality gains new twists and poignancy in Zod Wallop… Funny, exciting, and sad, Zod Wallop should delight readers wise enough to know that one moment of despair can be worse than a dozen dragons.” — Starlog
“Alternately crazed, raw, modern, desperate, poignant, and wise…”— Faren Miller, Locus Magazine
“Every so often a book comes along that deserves to be an instant classic, and this fourth book by William Spencer leaps immediately into that company. Or to put it another way, I got the same feeling reading Zod Wallop as I did when I first read Jonathan Carroll’s The Land of Laughs —a sense that here was something entirely original, a novel both serious and funny, beautifully written, a delight and a wonder, a true gift.”— Charles de Lint, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
“He’s sharp and funny and serious at the same time… Spencer’s is a fun-house ride. His characters start out crazy and (some of them at least) struggle toward sanity… Watch this writer. He’ll soon be one of your favorites.” — Aboriginal SF
“A delightfully funny waltz through a literary house of mirrors, and it establishes Spencer as the heir to Vladimir Nabokov. This book is the most hopeful fruit of the literary tree with Nabokov at the root and Thomas Pynchon as a branch.”— Don Webb, The Austin American-Statesman
“Wonderfully zany with sinister overtones, Zod Wallop could be the story of Robin Hood and his merry men on LSD.” — Booklist
“Like all good fairy tales Zod Wallop is both scary and fun…a pleasantly grim confection suggestive of Seuss, Tolkien, and Poe.” — Texas Monthly
This book is dedicated to my
sister, Susan, all the
children lost and found, and the
writers of the books that chronicle
the journey.
Chapter 1
THE WEDDING WAS held outdoors. An April sky darkened and gusts of wind, like large, unruly hounds, knocked over folding chairs and made off with hats and handkerchiefs. A bright yellow hat went sailing over the lake, cheered on by two small children.
Ada Story said to her husband, “I told Raymond this was not the season for an outdoor wedding.”
Her husband, who was watching a black cloud race toward him as though it had singled him out and intended some mischief to his new summer suit, replied: “I don’t know how you’ve lived this long and missed it, Ada. Our Raymond isn’t interested in traveling the highway of our advice.” Their son did march to his own drum, particularly when he was refusing to take his medication.
Mrs. Story sniffed and lifted her face to the darkening heavens. I hope they hold off, she thought.
In case her own mind might misinterpret her thoughts, she added, The rain clouds, I mean. I hope the rain holds off.
All the chairs were filled with the wedding guests now, and there was, really, something exciting in the prospect of so much finery exposed to the elements. The riskiness of life, of all human ventures, was underlined by the first large raindrops and the growl of approaching thunder. The minister’s robes billowed in the winds, and the coming storm seemed intent on editing him, first snatching one piece of paper, then another, and launching them into the air. Reverend Gates displayed considerable dexterity as he darted after his text, and the crowd burst into a flurry of applause when he executed a twisting leap and fetched a loose page that seemed already lost to the lake. No outfielder snagging a bleacher-bound fly ball could have displayed greater style, and since the crowd had no way of knowing that the retrieved paper contained a rather tedious rehash of St. Paul’s thoughts on duty, their enthusiasm was unrestrained.
The Reverend Gates, having regained command of his notes, was giving them the once-over through gold-rimmed spectacles, when a stirring of voices caused him to look up.
A fat man in a tuxedo, perilously perched on a bicycle and pedaling with frantic enterprise, had crested a green hill and was now racing toward the gathering. His speed was disconcerting, but what
truly troubled the Reverend Gates was the man’s appearance. He had two heads.
The minister’s rational mind harumphed loudly, but as the cyclist drew rapidly nearer, his two-headedness seemed more undeniable.
In the next instant, Reverend Gates realized that he was looking at a man—now so close that his blue eyes and explosion of brown mustache identified him as the groom, Raymond Story—and a monkey. The monkey, a small, soot-black, frightened mammal, was clutching Raymond’s neck and chattering wildly in the time-honored tradition of a passenger attempting to exert some control over his destiny.
Raymond Story cycled down the aisle between the folding chairs and stopped. He dismounted, frowned, and approached Reverend Gates.
“I’ve brought a monkey,” Raymond said, in a matter-of-fact tone that the minister found comforting—for no good reason, really. Raymond looked around, turning in a slow circle, and said, “They can’t influence a monkey.”
The Reverend Gates had known Raymond since the day of Raymond’s birth. The reverend was not, therefore, as unsettled as a stranger might have been under similar circumstances.
“Your mother’s arranged a lovely ceremony,” Reverend Gates said. “All we seem to lack, indeed, is the…ah…bride.” I’m not, the reverend thought, marrying you to any monkey.
But the monkey was not Raymond’s intended. The monkey’s role was instantly revealed, as Raymond turned to the animal crouching on his shoulder and said, “Have you got the ring?”
The monkey, grinning as though savoring a bawdy joke, opened a long-fingered hand to reveal a large, ornately engraved ring.
“All right. Hang on to it.”
The monkey promptly put the ring in its mouth.
A large white van rose up over the hill and bore down on the crowd. Reverend Gates felt his arm clutched tightly and Raymond’s voice boomed in his ear. “Allan has not failed me. We’ll want a short ceremony, Reverend.”
The van spun sideways and lurched to a stop, revealing a blue insignia and the words HARWOOD PSYCHIATRIC emblazoned on its side. The vehicle rested placidly on the grass, and then it began to rock, the sliding door slid open, a ramp lowered to the ground, and someone in a wheelchair, flanked by a half dozen milling shapes, emerged.
“My Queen!” Raymond bellowed, causing the reverend to jump. The sky exploded; the world dimmed under sheets of gray, implacable rain. Umbrellas bloomed.
“Oh dear,” Ada said, as she huddled under her husband’s umbrella. “Wouldn’t you know it.”
She felt her husband’s arm encircle her waist and draw her closer. “It’s only weather,” he said.
Reverend Gates had ceased congratulating himself on his calm. His own umbrella had been wrenched from his hand by the brutish gale. One of the wedding guests offered him an umbrella. I’m as wet as I am going to get, Reverend Gates thought, and he dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. His notes were a sodden lump. His white hair, generally a fine, regal mist, was plastered to his skull. He wondered if he looked as bad as the monkey, which had been transformed into a sort of gigantic sodden spider.
The reverend leaned forward, clutching his Bible, squinting through the deluge. Dim figures were coming down the aisle between the twin fields of umbrellas. A giant in a billowing raincoat emerged from the shadowy curtain of rain. He was pushing a wheelchair that contained a gray, hooded figure. A lovely girl, barefoot and wearing a white, one-piece bathing suit, walked beside the wheelchair, one hand casually resting on the occupant’s cloaked shoulder. She wore a white terry cloth headband into which bright yellow daisies had been tucked. The effect was oddly elegant. She smiled, pushed a strand of black hair from her cheek, and looked up at the minister who, disconcerted by the candor of her gaze, retreated into austerity, motioning them to move forward quickly.
“My beloved approaches,” Raymond said. “Like the sun.”
Reverend Gates glanced at Raymond, whose round face was slick with rain. Raindrops danced on the young man’s rain-glued hair, creating a silver halo. His eyes seemed unusually blue and bright. God, Reverend Gates thought (and not for the first time), had hugged this boy too tightly.
The three approaching figures halted in front of the minister, who was aware that other occupants of the van moved on the periphery of his vision. The minister leaned forward, compelled to touch this extraordinary girl’s arm, and said, “My dear—”
Before he could continue, she giggled and said, “Not me, silly. This is Emily’s show.” The girl patted the bundled figure in the wheelchair, whose head was bobbing rhythmically.
“My beloved,” Raymond said, reaching past the minister and pushing the raincoat’s hood back. “Emily Engel.”
The bride regarded the heavens with her left eye while her right eye studied the minister’s forehead. Her face was pale, round, immobile, and oddly flattened, the face of a fat child pressed up against a windowpane. Her hair was a snarl of brown curls and the daisies in it seemed like a cheerful act of vandalism. The bride’s head bobbed constantly, her mouth was open, and she was drooling slightly.
The rain seemed to abate, as though pausing with the minister’s held breath, and then the storm lost all sense of decorum and roared. An angry sea fell from the sky.
Perhaps it was this urgency of the elements that allowed the Reverend Gates to perform the ceremony. The drumming deluge did not allow for cool reflection.
They raced through the ritual. “Do you, Emily Engel,” the minister intoned, “take this man, Raymond Story, to be…”
“Gaaaaaaa,” the bride said. Miraculously, the monkey had not swallowed the ring and produced it with a courtly, old world flourish.
“You may kiss the bride!” the minister shouted through a hole in the thunder, and Raymond reached down, wrested his bride from her wheeled chair, lifted her in his arms, and shouted, “Allan! Behind you! They come!”
The Reverend Gates peered through the writhing sheets of rain. A low, black limousine had pulled sideways to the van and several dark figures in raincoats were emerging. The rain seemed suddenly colder.
“Raymond,” the reverend said, “I think—”
“Good friar,” Raymond shouted, cradling his bride in his arms, “you’ve done well. What God has joined no man will sunder.”
Two of the men from the limousine had reached the giant and were struggling with him. He hurled one of them into the crowd.
“Goodness!” Ada Story said to her husband. “I guess Raymond and his friends didn’t really have permission.”
Her husband patted her hand. “Oh, probably not,” he said.
The Reverend Gates watched as several more dark figures fell upon the giant, dragging him to the ground. Then the bridesmaid—and the reverend could not help noticing that the rain had invested her bathing suit with translucent properties—shouted a rallying shout that brought her companions pouring from the sidelines.
A brawl, the reverend thought. I have married a half-wit and a madman and it has ended in a brawl.
He prayed he had done the right thing.
His prayer was interrupted by the appearance of a large bald man whose raincoat flapped open to reveal a white uniform.
“You ain’t been taking your medication,” the man said.
The Reverend Gates, momentarily confused—for he did not take medication—was on the point of responding, when he realized that the man was speaking to Raymond.
“You gone right off your head, Ray-boy,” the man said. “You tore it this time, and you are going down in the Deep One.”
The man brandished a large hypodermic needle.
“Here now!” the reverend shouted.
Raymond Story, clutching his bundled bride, stepped back. “Blackguard,” Raymond bellowed, “your master will taste the bitter fruit of our joy this day!”
“Right around the bend,” the man shouted, lurching forward. “Right over the hill and into the trees!”
The monkey screamed, leaped through the air, and embraced the bald man’s head. T
he reverend watched as the monkey bit down on the big man’s nose. Those large, yellow teeth haunted the minister’s dreams for weeks, and it was a great wonder to him how an event occupying no more than a second could etch itself so perfectly on his memory. The reverend’s conclusion was that the bald man’s scream—a high-pitched, animal howl—worked as a kind of psychic cement, gluing the moment to the faculties of recall.
The big man’s arms flailed the air, and the monkey added its own hysterical shrieks to the fray. The man stumbled backward, slipped on the wet grass, and fell, knocking the wheelchair over. The monkey jumped away and raced off toward the trees.
Raymond, clasping his bride in his arms, turned and raced after the monkey. He disappeared into the rain, a great flapping, flamboyant boy who, on his eleventh birthday, had drowned in a swimming pool and whose return to this world was tragically incomplete.
“God bless you!” the Reverend shouted after him. “God bless you Raymond and Emily. God bless the both of you.”
The rain held its breath again. Two little girls in matching blue dresses ran after the couple. The girls stopped when it became clear that they would never close the distance. They stood on a green hill, leaping in the air with excitement, giggling and shrieking, and they threw their handfuls of birdseed in the wake of the newlyweds.
Chapter 2
HARRY GAINESBOROUGH WOKE around noon when the phone began to cry. The phone bawled like a hungry baby at midnight. This was only startling to strangers. Three years ago a fan of Harry’s children’s book, Bocky and the Moon Weasels, had sent Harry a telephone with a note that read: “Here is a telephone from the planet Spem.” On Spem, a phone is always startled when it is called up, and so bursts into tears. The fan, an engineer, had rigged this phone to do just that, its ring an infant’s bellow. Harry had originally been enchanted, had later found it irritating and would, no doubt, have junked it had tragedy not struck and rendered him indifferent to everything.
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