The Less Lonely Planet

by Rhys Hughes

  When Fabio spoke those words I completely misunderstood him and thought he wanted to show me a selection of beautiful girls in minimal costumes swimming through the breakers of a pleasant beach. In fact he led me away from the sea into the heart of the ancient city.

  We climbed stairways and ascended narrow alleys and I realised that although our progress was always upwards the city was shutting us in, closing over us, the tall houses and awnings forming a ceiling until at last we were no longer on the outside.

  The city had been built on a hollow hill, or else generations of builders had extended the cellars, vaults and crypts of homes and chapels until they riddled the limestone and linked up. We had entered a maze. Fabio guided me carefully and my terror was muted.

  This underground warren was illuminated by lanterns and small fires started among heaps of refuse. It seemed the city of the surface had a twin down here, hidden houses and shops, dwellers in shadows and stale air. But I saw only a few things beyond the grasp of reason.

  At last we came to a stone chamber with a domed roof. A large sunken bath dominated the floor. This bath contained a number of bells of different sizes and various metals that gleamed among thick suds. My disappointment was acute.

  Fabio gestured at the servants who knelt on the edge of the bath and leaned forward with scrubbing brushes, their faces shrouded in steam as they worked, and for an awful moment I thought he planned to offer me a job in this subterranean sauna.

  “They are all members of a secret guild,” he said.

  I sighed with relief and turned to depart, feeling an overwhelming desire to breathe fresh air again. The sound of the bristles on the surface of the bells, the lapping of the soapy water and the wavering light of lanterns in deep niches made me feel I was dreamily drowning.

  Fabio restrained me, took my arm and led me down a flight of submerged steps into the bath itself. We stood waist deep in warm water. The smell of detergent and brass was so unexotic I regretted the trouble I had taken to visit this overlooked island.

  We waded out further and approached one of the largest bells. Fabio lovingly stroked the carvings on its surface and wiped away the soap with the damp sleeve of his shirt. The abstract patterns resolved themselves into scenes from an obscure mythology.

  Before I could voice a protest at my saturated situation I was startled by a minor eruption to my side. A diver emerged from the heated depths, scrubbing brush in one hand, bar of soap in the other. Fabio greeted him with a curt wave and said softly:

  “Don’t forget to wash behind their clappers!”

  Expressionless in his mask, the diver nodded once and returned to the bottom of the bath, a black silhouette darting among the bells, lifting one up and disappearing inside it like a hermit crab. The bell settled over him with a faint clang and a few musical ripples.

  I realised that other bells had divers inside them. Periodically a pair of legs would appear and the bell scuttle to a new position, occasionally colliding with another bell or a wall of the bath. When this happened the servants symbolically covered their ears with their hands.

  An abandoned sponge floated past me and I decided to voice my discontent. I had agreed to employ Fabio as my guide because he had promised to lead me into the local underworld, the ultimate destination of solo male travellers.

  “With respect,” I began, “I made this journey in the hope of indulging my appetite for sensual experiences.”

  He already understood. “Wine, women, song and toffees.”

  “Chiefly women,” I specified.

  He grinned damply. “Of course. But I haven’t misled you. Let me explain why the bells of the city are bathing down here. It’s not just to get them clean, to purify their peals and freshen their echoes, but to train them for the ocean depths, to gradually acclimatise them. We are planning to turn the most promising into diving bells. This is more than a mildly amusing play on words, for when the period of training is completed the chosen bells will be lowered into the sea on chains and rung sweetly in the hope of attracting mermaids.”

  Suddenly the mythological scenes carved into the brass made perfect sense. I was satisfied with Fabio’s explanation. But I was uncomfortable stranding fully dressed in the bath and begged leave to return to the outside world. He shrugged and let me go but made no attempt to follow.

  “Why don’t we meet later for dinner?” I suggested.

  He nodded. “Wait for me at La Guardiola at sunset.”

  “Will it be long before the bells are ready and the first mermaids summoned?”

  “Several weeks, I’m afraid.”

  I have little patience at the best of times but I refused to remonstrate with him at this juncture. I decided to enjoy the remainder of the day alone as best I might. I had only a little trouble finding my way out of the underground maze and back into the daylight.

  I wandered the streets rather aimlessly for an hour or two. Then I had an idea. I made my way to the cathedral, Sant’Antonio Ábate, and stood for a moment looking up at the octagonal campanile, the majolica tiles of the cupola shining warmly. Something moved up there, confirming my suspicions.

  I entered and began climbing the steps and a gentle laugh high above made me quicken my pace. My reasoning was very simple. If the bells were in the bath, maybe the belles were in the belfry. Indeed they were. Six of them, all lovely, black ringlets and flashing eyes, with few garments.

  Before I could bow and introduce myself, the one nearest to me said, “Sorry, but we are not working today.”

  I was nonplussed. “What is the nature of your work?”

  “We sing the hours,” came the reply, “and also warn of approaching pirates. But today is a public holiday. The king is having his beard rehung.”

  “Your customs are unknown to me. Kindly explain.”

  “Gladly. The king has a chin unlike other chins and on that chin has grown a beard unheard of in other lands. Firstly, it cannot be cut, no scissors or razor or blade of any kind has ever succeeded in shaving it from his face, not even the expensive and exceptionally sharp knives of Barbagia. Secondly, it is very long and has been braided into a thick rope. For many years our king has sat on his throne in the castle and his beard has trailed all the way down the hill to the sea. Citizens who wish to ascend to the castle use the beard to haul themselves up the slope.”

  “A helpful tradition,” I observed.

  “To a small extent, yes. But now a superior purpose has been found for it. The beard will be positioned so that it passes along every street in the city and through every dwelling. Citizens may employ it as a washing line or hang pots, pans and lanterns from it, anything they choose. Items commonly go missing here because of pirate raids and also due to forgetfulness and neglect. In the future, whenever an object is lost, the owner can simply follow the beard from beginning to end until he finds it.”

  I allowed the girls to regale me with more accounts of local customs until I noticed that the hour was late. The sun was sinking near the islet of Asinara. I made my farewells and descended to seek out Fabio, who was already seated at a table with a bottle of wine.

  The view from the terrace was terrific and I was completely entranced by the changing colours of the sky and sea. I wondered if I really believed in mermaids. I doubted they believed in me. When the doors to the kitchen swung open I saw that the cleavers and whisks were suspended from a hairy cord.

  “Castelsardo is a strange place,” I said.

  Fabio nodded agreement over his pasta. “It always has been.”

  “Even stranger than Calcutta, Dublin or Helsinki.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Such exotic names!”

  “Probably the strangest place in the whole world.”

  He lowered his fork. “Not so. In the strangest place nobody would understand the word ‘strange’ because the most unusual things possible would be perfectly ordinary there. Only the word ‘normal’ would have meaning for them. The inhabitants would talk about other places in terms of ‘very nor
mal’, ‘even more normal’ and ‘unbearably normal’. I understand you. Therefore this is not the strangest place you refer to.”

  I accepted his logic. But there was still something on my mind. “How can a guild be secret if I know about it?”

  He was genuinely mystified. “What guild?”

  We finished our meal in silence. After the plates were cleared away my old agitation returned. All solo male travellers know exactly what I mean, the freedom from the restraints of home, the burning impulsiveness that rises up. I leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

  “I don’t suppose you could obtain some toffees for me?”

  He tapped his nose and winked. “I’ll try my best.”

  Doom Laden Haven

  This is the way the world ends.

  In fact it was scheduled to end in many different ways. There was disagreement among scientists about which catastrophe was most likely. Bets were made.

  “A deadly new virus will kill all life.”

  “No, a comet will strike the Earth first.”

  “Not a comet: an asteroid!”

  “Rubbish. A giant volcano will erupt somewhere and cover everything with lava and hot ash.”

  “Tidal waves will destroy us before that!”

  The planet Earth is the safest place in the solar system but it is still doom laden. That’s the way these scientists liked it. Without the threat of global annihilation they would be out of a job.

  How would they feel if the world was never destroyed? Disgruntled in the extreme. In fact some of them had made a secret pact: if the world suddenly didn’t look like it was ever going to end, if evidence emerged that it was stable and secure, they would take matters into their own hands.

  The scientists were furious when all their predictions came true at the same time — and cancelled each other out!

  A comet landed in the sea and caused a tidal wave that washed over a giant volcano that had just erupted. The wave extinguished the volcano and the violent jet of steam created from the meeting of water and fire spurted high into the atmosphere and slowed the descent of an onrushing asteroid, lowering it gently to the ground where it plugged the volcano. A deadly new virus that was about to ravage populations was cured by another virus carried on the comet that was dispersed in the sea. The two viruses turned on each other until both were extinct.

  True to their word, the scientists who had made the secret pact tricked their way into missile bases and launched a nuclear attack on all cities. Some of them had security clearance. Mushroom clouds sprouted everywhere. A risotto of death.

  “This place looks just like Eden! And my name is Eve, really it is! And we are the last two people left on Earth, probably. The last couple! There must be some reason for all this. What is your name?”

  The man covered his nakedness with a fig leaf.

  “My name?” he mumbled.

  “Yes, your name! I told you mine, I am called Eve. A significant name, don’t you think? Eve!”

  “I suppose so,” he agreed.

  “What is your name?” she pressed.

  Finally he remembered. “Twitterhouse Gumplung,” he said.

  Her face fell with disappointment.

  The Six Sentinels

  Licking the moon is a nasty habit and leaves the tongue coated with dust. This dust tastes neither of butter nor cheese but of phases — crescents and other shapes. It remains a mystery why anyone should want to lick a moon. Lunacy is the only answer.

  There is a city, a gorgeous wide city, set among the Idle Mountains, not too high among them, not too low, and the name of this moderately elevated but marvellously upholstered city is Plush. It was named thus by Plish in the days of his comfort. All builded tall of warm velvet bricks is Plush and draped with satin cloth; and its streets are thick with petals and its citizens are fuddled nicely with scent whenever they walk and greet each other with noses high in the air like snobs. Plish liked his people posh. Even the sharpest spires on the most slender minarets are not likely to impale anyone in Plush, for cotton is the substance from which they are made; and the mighty ramparts that girdle the city are constructed of no harder materials than soap and cheese. A soft, easy, slippery environment for slippery, easy, soft people.

  As for the interiors of the buildings, they are all designed in the style of Lord Dunsany and so are lush and magical and descriptively overlong. Every house has a garden on its roof, for there is no finer place for flowers and butterflies to gather; and in these gardens leisurely stroll the calm citizens in the early evenings when the sun is setting majestically over the snowy peaks far away, and they nod to each other, rooftop to rooftop, and exchange idle gossip with idle smiles. All the same, it is never easy to walk gracefully on roofs made of stretched fabric. Fun to bounce on them though.

  Many cities have been washed by many rains over the course of many millennia but none as thoroughly as Plush, for the ramparts as stated are partly soap, and the bubbles run down the streets and the citizens play and glisten, and everything smells cleans and ready for a night out; and when the night does come it seems the city is all dressed up with nowhere to go, but it has no need of going anywhere, for it belongs where it is, and indeed it has always seemed one with the Idle Mountains. It is splendidigenous, a word I just invented, meaning that it would not be so magnificent in any other location. Of other cares there are few in Plush, for it is a city of relaxation, a city of easy chairs and deep sofas, and even the sternest truths are couched in the softest terms, with a pair of metaphorical slippers under that couch.

  But in fact there is a single hard thing in the heart of the city, and this thing is a thing the people care not to discuss too much, for it reminds them of the difficult times that once were and the difficult times yet to come, not that one can really be reminded of times yet to come, but you know what I mean. The thing that is rarely discussed is a broad pedestal in the central square that holds aloft six statues of six heroes known as the Six Sentinels, traditional guardians of Plush. Centuries of weather have eaten away the frowns on the marble faces and now the heroes seem serene, but this is an illusion, for in life they were servants of their own agitation. Not just servants but slaves, for they were never paid in coin for their gloom and trouble, and the coins of Plush are pieces of felt and not much use anyway.

  The names of these heroes are Jitterwhack, Rumpus, Toothan, Klaw, Uckybald and Heckusboing. Half a millennium ago they set forth from Plush to secure its borders in every direction. That was the will of the people at that time. Or rather it was the will of Plish as he sat brooding on his throne of carven gum, shifting stickily from one buttock to another, pulling his fleecy beard and sighing softly; but Plish and his subjects were always of one mind only. Or else. It was he who selected the six most capable citizens in Plush and named them Sentinels, and so he rose with difficulty from his melting seat of authority and strode to the balcony of the palace that dominated one side of the central square, and glancing down at the crowd below, he spoke these words:

  “Beloved inhabitants of Plush, take heed of my warning! So pleasant is our home, with cushions and pillows on every street corner, that greedy eyes observe us from beyond our ramparts. We are surrounded by enemies. It is only a matter of time before we are invaded and despoiled by the outer louts. Let us not rest on our laurels but resist on them instead! And what better way of resisting than to take the fight to the enemy? To this purpose I have recruited six noble champions and now I send them forth in the six directions that exist, to sweep clean those directions as far as feasible, or as far as the horizon, whichever is further. The chosen six must not return but will reside in the realms they have vanquished and there keep watchful eye on developments to guarantee the security of our supremely comfy city.”

  Then did Plish command the six heroes to forsake the rubber cobbles and mossy slabs of Plush in favour of the more varied terrain of the exterior world. Jitterwhack it was who rode north, and there found he a land of hard ice inhabited by seals. These he s
lew without mercy as instructed, to safeguard Plush from a northern invasion, and dwelled he the rest of his days alone and a-chatter on the frozen water; and so he passed from mortal to legend and became a statue on a pedestal, as already described, one of the Sentinels of Plush, and all there are agreed that Jitterwhack did his work well, for to this day there has never been an invasion from the north.

  As for Rumpus, he went east and after weeks of hard riding he came to a desert sprinkled with oases where lived a gentle people on dates and milk, and Rumpus decided not to slaughter them provided they promise not to invent anger or swords, and having obtained this promise he settled among them, but remained watchful as bidden, his eyes constantly fixed on the bellies of dusky gyrating desert girls. More fortunate was he than Toothan, who rode west into an endless expanse of dreary marshes and conquered a squat people who squatted in squat huts on reedy stilts and ate frogs, the only available food. Toothan croaked not long after, but is no less revered than Rumpus. Both succeeded in protecting Plush correctly and ending the threat from east and west.

  Nor has any invasion come from the direction south, and for this the citizens of Plush should thank Klaw, who explored a great forest and the fertile fields beyond it, who found a rural society based there, who smashed its farm equipment, dug up its turnips and made love to its scarecrows until he died from an infected splinter, and who so intimidated the simple folk that they never dared have any ambitions of any sort ever again. As for Uckybald, his ordained direction was down and with a spade he dug a pit and kept digging, in the cellar of his house in Plush, and far beneath the earth his bones still must be, protecting the downward borders of his city, if bones he truly had, for he was a floppy fellow in life and famous for contortionism.

  Now we come to Heckusboing. I would prefer not to come to him, for it will win me few friends in Plush, but come to him I shall, or else this tale will be judged propaganda rather than a true history. Heckusboing was allotted the direction known as up. For a long time he wondered how to proceed in that direction. He climbed the tallest minaret in Plush but the people below urged him to go higher and berated him when he came back down. They started to accuse him openly of lacking seriousness, of shirking his duty, of disobeying Plish. Stung by these insults, he made himself a ladder, the tallest ladder since the world began, but he had nothing to rest it against and it availed him not at all. The people grew increasingly impatient with him.