The Cork sent the editorial office an expansive article under the heading: ‘Enlightment Through Trepanation!’
‘What is trepanation?’ I asked the Marquess, who happened to be in the office as I opened the letter, but even he had never heard of such a term. After reading the article we never wanted to hear of it again. For once we were in agreement. We decided not to publish the article, because even the Marquess thought it went well beyond the bounds of decency.
The Cork’s article outraged me so much that, against normal practice, I did not even deign to reply to him with the usual formulaic letter of refusal: “Thank you for your submission to our magazine. Unfortunately …”
Soon after the publication of the next issue a stocky, gargantuan man appeared at the editorial office sporting an ugly yellow baseball cap bearing an advertisement for a DIY shop. He introduced himself as the author of the article on trepanation and demanded to know why it had not been published. I thought it was odd and rather rude that he did not remove his cap, though the reason for this was soon to become apparent.
I decided not to mince my words.
‘Because we will not encourage our readers to do anything quite as mindless,’ I said. ‘We’d probably end up being taken to court if we did so. And so would you.’
‘That’s a risk you simply have to take,’ he said, his stern jaw jutting forwards. ‘We have to fly in the face of convention and the law; we’re talking about something which could benefit the entire human race! Trepanation exposes the human mind to glorious visions. It is a practice which opens a new path to the spirit. It offers us a chance to escape from the bony material prison that is our closed skull.’
‘I’m not at all convinced by your theories,’ I replied sharply, turned my back to him and began to go through my papers. I had hoped he would take the hint and leave.
‘Then you clearly haven’t considered the matter thoroughly,’ said the man accusingly. ‘Did you even bother reading my article right the way through?’
I was beginning to get angry.
‘I’ve considered it quite enough. You are encouraging people to bore a hole in their own skulls. To me, that is entirely irresponsible. Performing lobotomies is punishable these days – thousands of patients regressed and became idiots as a result. The poor people that suffered such abuse are awarded a fortune in compensation. You even advise people what kind of drill to buy, so they can pierce their own skulls.’
‘Of course,’ said the man. ‘Advice like this is of the utmost importance. Black & Decker is highly recommendable.’
I continued: ‘You’ve even drawn comic-strip diagrams explaining how best to bore the skull open. This is an inappropriate and shocking thing to suggest.’
‘Listen, you clearly have no idea that trepanation has been practised for thousands of years with great success. It is a fine, noble art. The ancient Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians and the Native Americans all had a mastery of the secrets of trepanation. Having said that it was generally carried out on slaves and other lower castes.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said. ‘The history of civilisation is a litany of shameful acts.’
‘During the Middle Ages, the skull was opened to let out demons. There is proof that those who survived the operation acquired new, even supernatural spiritual dimensions.’
‘Oh, and exactly how many of them survived?’
‘As we grow, we lose the intuition and the sense of perception we had as babies,’ The Cork continued, ignoring my question. ‘The flow of blood to the brain is reduced, our perception and senses diminish. It has been scientifically proven that trepanation restores the vitality of our senses and strength of our emotions.’
‘Very scientific indeed,’ I muttered.
He did not allow me to disturb his lecture.
‘As you know, new-born babies have an opening in their skull, the fontanel, and this gradually closes over. With time our skulls harden and the flow of blood to our skulls is reduced. Trepanation is one of the most effective methods of permanently restoring our original resilience and our state of happiness. I happen to know a doctor, a surgeon no less, who bored a hole in his skull using an electric drill. He’s never felt better! Would you like his name and address? You can ask him for the finer details yourself.’
‘No thank you, that’ll be all right,’ I said remaining cold as before. He seemed to be searching for pen and paper nonetheless.
‘I believe you have a duty to your readers to tell them about this practice!’
His voice was becoming sharper. He leant on my desk with both hands – and what enormous hands they were – and brought his head so close that the brim of his cap brushed my forehead. The situation was becoming strained, even threatening. I pushed my chair away from the desk and wondered whether I should alert the Marquess.
‘I’m sure my conscience will cope if I don’t tell a soul about your methods,’ I tried to assure him, but my voice sounded frail and wavering.
‘Don’t you want to hear about my experiences?’ he asked.
‘Thank you, I’d rather not,’ I replied.
He decided not to respect my wishes, swiftly removed his cap from his head and turned his back to me. I was stunned. There in front of my eyes, right in the middle of his crown, amidst his thinning, greyish hair, stood a cork; a perfectly normal cork from a wine, or possibly even a champagne, bottle.
What would have happened if someone had yanked it out? I shuddered at the thought of the cork popping out, and the murky contents of his head spraying out across the room like a fountain.
‘I managed to get my hands on various bandages and some local anaesthetic by the name of benzocain,’ he continued, replacing the cap on his head. ‘Of course I needed some iodine to sterilise the open hole. I went to the DIY shop and bought a good quality, light hand drill and some adjustable drill heads used for ceramics. The assistant was hardly an expert. I asked him what kind of drill he would recommend for opening up the skull. Imagine, he said he couldn’t recommend anything at all. What badly educated staff! Still I was very happy with my choice, though I’m sure metal drills would be just as suitable. I would highly recommend the double-handed Black & Decker.’
I truly wished he would stop and began pointedly underlining parts of Voynich’s manuscript. But The Cork leant over my desk again sending waves of heavy, sickly air wafting in my direction. I jumped back in my chair. Perhaps this was the stench of his brain fluid.
‘It’s best to use a chair with a head rest. A decent work chair or a sturdy armchair would be fine too. If you could get your hands on a dentist’s chair, it would be your lucky day. You’ll need to build some kind of support so the head stays firmly in position. And a safety belt, you’d better not forget that! It would be rather unfortunate if the drill started cutting out the odd chunk here and there.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’m actually rather busy,’ I sighed wearily.
‘I started drilling slowly and calmly, assisted by a friend who is an expert on the subject,’ he continued. ‘In fact, I’ve promised him I’ll return the favour. After watching the procedure he’s all the more convinced of the benefits and can hardly wait his turn.’
I groaned. I was feeling weak.
‘We proceeded little by little, the dent in my skull became deeper and deeper until after about an hour I heard a new, strange sound; a bubbling, fizzing sound. Then I understood: the air bubbles in the skull were being released from their bony imprisonment. What joy! My friend then carefully removed the drill from the fresh hole.’
‘I really don’t want to hear any more,’ I said. I was afraid I might throw up.
Paying no attention to my expression of disgust the man continued remorselessly: ‘Using two mirrors I could see the blood in the hole rising and falling with my heartbeat. I was euphoric, I had never experienced such joy, such peace of mind. And I have felt like that ever since. How fervently I wish others could experience it too! You too, my friend!’
He
patted my hand.
‘It’s not even expensive. I’ve given talks at many clubs and societies on the bliss these methods can offer. I implore you to seize this opportunity and publish my article. It could bring well-being and a new quality of life to so many poor people. If enough people finally realise the benefits of this practice, it could alter the fate of the human race! In fact, I think even political parties ought to adopt this issue.’
I pulled myself together and tried to muster some authority in my voice: ‘We are not going to publish your article. It’s out of the question! That’s final. You can publish it at your own expense, if you really want to end up in court.’
‘I’m shocked and disappointed. I would have expected a more open-minded and unbiased approach from the editors of the New Anomalist,’ he said, disgruntled.
‘Sorry.’
To my great surprise he finally seemed to have given up hope of making me understand. Relieved, I escorted him to the door and I did not like the look on his face as he bade me farewell. To me this seemed far from euphoric.
‘You’ll regret this, you know,’ he said. ‘You really are in need of trepanation. We’ll be in touch.’
I wondered whether a double-handed Black & Decker would fit into The Cork’s coat pocket. After this incident, at my request, the Marquess had the door fitted with a spyhole.
A Finger to the Lips
I had arranged an early morning meeting in the library café and took a short cut through Dufva park. As I was slightly early, as happens quite often nowadays, and the weather was glorious, I decided to sit down on a bench in the sun, picked up a free newspaper someone had left behind and started flicking through it to kill some time. A few hundred metres away was the main road heading east out of the city and the morning rush hour was just beginning. The incessant boom of traffic was mixed with the joyous twittering of starlings and larks.
I read an article about the government’s artificial rain experiments, in which hundreds of people had died, and it occurred to me that not even the most paranoid readers of the New Anomalist would have imagined such a thing could happen. I felt a sudden thud in my ears. I gave a start and looked up from the newspaper. The shadows of the trees were moving across the dusty path through the park just as before. A little girl sped past me on a scooter, her hair flapping in the wind. On another path a mother bent down to tie her child’s shoe laces. A balloon sailed past the newly gilded dome of the cathedral, whilst up above a jet aeroplane left a foaming trail across the sky.
But something had changed. A moment or so later I understood what had happened. The disturbance was a gaping silence. The familiar sound world had been wiped away. The scooter turned and the little girl glided past in the other direction, but she travelled through the grit without making a sound. The jet plane passed silently across the city. It was as if the everyday bustle of the city had been sucked into a great invisible vacuum.
The surrounding world soon began to resemble a silent film. Perturbed by this I stood up to stretch my legs and stuffed the newspaper into the bin without it rustling in the slightest. I peered through the rows of blossoming trees out towards the street, where people were hurrying to the shops, to work or school. The traffic lights turned green and an endless stream of cars jolted forwards. But I could hear nothing: neither tyres, motors nor footsteps.
This was oppressive. I shook my head, brought my hands up to my ears and tapped them. Had something happened to both my ears? Can someone go deaf in a flash?
A sudden movement made me glance over my shoulder. There on the bench sat a man in a grey suit with a old ruck-sack on his lap. Where had he appeared from so suddenly? There was something familiar about him. He raised his hand to greet me and gave me a nod. Or was he greeting me? I looked around, but as there was no one else in the immediate vicinity I gave him an unsure and barely perceptible nod back. My shortsightedness meant that I did not immediately recognise him.
I gingerly walked up to the bench. The man stood up and indicated for me to follow him. Now I realised who it was: the Lord of Sounds, the mumbling man, just as grey as ever. I noticed I was pleased to see him after so many years.
The Lord of Sounds strode purposefully ahead carrying his backpack, I did not ask anything and followed him as if in a dream. In the middle of the park there is a glass-roofed stage used by orchestras on public holidays. From the stage you could see far, through the park, to the market square, the boulevards, even out to the harbour. He spoke to me as we stood there on the stage, or perhaps he whispered, but I could not hear a word of it, not even mumbling this time. I pointed to my ears and said, apparently rather loudly: ‘I can’t hear anything!’
I could not even hear my own voice. At this I became very disheartened.
The Lord of Sounds then raised a finger to his lips and gave a mysterious smile. He gestured to me to come closer. He obviously had something to show me. He began rummaging through his backpack.
His mouth opened once again. I watched the movement of his lips and thought I could read the word ‘Voilà!’
The Lord of Sounds produced a jar, the same as the one he had shown me in the editorial office but much bigger. Then I realised: it was a new model of the Sound Swallower he had promised to demonstrate to me a long time ago. So now it was ready. Now it worked. And you did not even have to bring it up to your ear, its effects could be felt from far away. The Sound Swallower had sucked up the sound of the city. Perhaps everyone in the city was now experiencing the same silence.
A mixture of disbelief and surprise spread across my face. Gesticulating beautifully the Lord of Sounds explained that he had something else in his bag to show me. He delved inside once again and produced a rectangular object wrapped in crêpe paper.
‘Another new contraption?’ I tried to ask.
The Lord of Sounds either heard my question or read my lips, and nodded. Moving his lips very slowly he ennunciated two new words, as far as I could make out: ‘Im-age Swal-low-er.’
Once he had unwrapped the package I was taken aback. It was not a contraption at all, it was a flower.
He was holding my very own flower, the first one I had ever been unable to identify. I was convinced that this was not just another of the same species but the very same flower. It glowed in exactly the same light, every leopard spot was in place, every speck of pollen precisely where it had been. How had he managed to acquire that flower after all these years? How had it remained so fresh for decades?
I tried to ask him about this, but he raised his finger to his lips once again. He then gestured, encompassing the panorama opening out in front of us, and pointed to the flower from my childhood. He raised it up level with my eyes so that all I could see was the deep chasm inside.
What light erupted from the flower! It filled my eyes, my head, spread in a resplendent cloud throughout the park, banishing all shadows and contours, even the colours of the flower itself. It devoured the trees in the park, the streams of cars and the throngs of people; houses, department stores, factories and cathedrals, even the sea and the spring, sparing nothing.
Now I was both deaf and blind, but something touched my hands and led me forwards through the milky silence, perhaps down the same steps I had climbed up to the stage. Although I had lost my most important senses I did not mourn for them, and I was not afraid. It felt as if I were being led not by the Lord of Sounds but by the flower. Resting in my palm its leaves were like another hand leading me towards the fundamental mystery of being. For that I was willing to exchange all that went before.
My trance was shattered by a scream which opened up my ears with a thump. Someone was crying, a child, nearby. That pure, shrill cry brought back the lost city, its sounds flooding loose; once again I could hear life’s counterpoint. The fog dispersed around me. It was the same little girl who had earlier sailed back and forth along the path. She had fallen right beside me and hurt her knee on the grit. A thin trickle of blood ran down her tanned shin.
I felt I ought
to help the whimpering girl to her feet and ask: ‘Did you hurt yourself?’ I was about to do so, but hesitated for a moment and missed the chance. She had already stopped her tears, got back on her scooter and bravely continued on her way. I was redundant.
I peered around, turned, looked for the hand leading me and the Lord of Sounds. I wanted an explanation, I wanted the flower, but it was too late. The Lord of Sounds had taken it with him.
The Ice Cream Man
‘Where’s that noise coming from?’ Elsa asked somewhat bewildered.
‘What noise?’
‘Sounds like someone typing.’
‘Who would be typing on the beach?’ said her mother. ‘It’s probably just a lawnmower or a boat.’
‘But it’s coming from the ice cream van!’ Elsa exclaimed. ‘Let’s go and take a look.’
On the empty beach there stood a small white hut. Why was the beach deserted even though it was a sweltering day, wondered Elsa and her mother. On cloudless days like this it was usually impossible to find a space for your towel and there was always a long queue to the ice cream van. But today there was not a soul to be seen. It was uncanny. Still, this way they had the entire beach to themselves.
As they approached the ice cream van the sound of frantic typing could be heard all the more clearly. Elsa glanced at her mother and said: ‘It’s not a motor.’
‘No, you were right,’ her mother replied.
Inside the ice cream van sat Håkan tapping away at a small portable typewriter. Håkan was wearing a black suit, a white shirt and a dark blue silk tie. His typing was very concentrated and solemn, his back straight. Every now and then his eyes would absent-mindedly glance at the horizon and the empty beach.
‘It’s a new ice cream man!’ said Elsa.
‘Looks like it,’ said her mother. ‘What an outfit.’
‘How odd,’ said Elsa. ‘He’s sitting in the van typing. Whatever for?’
The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy Page 26