by Rhys Hughes
“Your idea was too ambitious,” said Abortia.
Twistoff nodded. “A tiny fragment is all that came off the edifice, but I lost an eye in the process. Unfair! Just look at me, will you! I’m such a mess! My left hand is missing, my left knee also, plus my horn, and now my right ear and right eye. I’m literally coming apart! Never tackle towers is my advice from now on.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Abortia.
“Shall we resume our journey?” asked Breath. “I don’t like the way the edifice is looming above us.”
“Yes, it seems rather annoyed,” agreed Abortia.
“Let’s go,” said the golem.
He mounted his chariot and flicked his whip. It started moving, but he locked back over his shoulder and made a vulgar gesture at me before he was out of sight. One middle finger extended. This didn’t bother me. How does the wise rhyme go? Sticks and stones can break my bones but crude digits will never hurt me?
I was only cheered for a few moments by the recitation of that piece of doggerel, for I suddenly remembered I have no bones, and even if I did, the stick and stones in question would have to be enormous to make even the slightest dent in my side.
Twistoff Bellow would die in Strasbourg, of that I had no doubt. Yes, I’m renowned for my patience, but in this case I could hardly wait for the bully to get his just desserts!
And I don’t mean fair blancmange…
* * * * *
The Big Rumoured Gathering was growing larger every hour. Most of the booked bands had arrived and were arranging their equipment. A massive crowd of people had converged from all over the world and many had set up tents and marquees. A sort of tee-pee village was rippling outward like a more exciting simile than pond waves. Oh yes, there stands Jean-Michel Jarre himself; and Lætitia Sadier is here, with Monade, not Stereolab; and Gong, Daft Punk, Univers Zero and Deep Forest are arriving shortly; also Maurice Chevalier, shockingly.
On the horizon, the Strasbourg spires jab the sky in the present tense and fluffy clouds drift lazily over. But directly below the festival throbs the secret gloomy subterranean cavern in which République Nutt squats on his throne like an enthroned caricature, the mythological Walnut Whip Helmet heavy but triumphant on his head, his body shaking with canned but genuinely evil laughter.
One metre of rock separates the music lovers above and the rumour lord beneath. It’s not enough!
Somewhere in the crowd are monsters of various types. Bryan the Ferry is impossible to miss; and his yeti friend is sitting on the grass smoking a joint; and here flaps Enid Hans, accidentally blown off course by a storm while flying from Greece to Prussia; Ringo Starr has come too, though whether he’s strictly a monster is open to debate, for some would insist he belongs in the musician category. The difference between musicians and monsters is too fine, as every single chapter of this novel has tried to show!
On the easterly fringes of the crowd stand five characters who cast no doubt on the proposition that melodies and grotesques certainly evolved from each other. Here is the band known as Jacque-in-le-Box. A more suitable candidate for cult status in the music world cannot be conceived. The name is new, devised half an hour beforehand by the band’s manager, who in fact devised it twice.
So much for the name… The musicians aren’t new. They are seasoned and experienced, like ripe plantains fried in cayenne, with the proviso that they’re not at all like that. The banjo plucker has a skull that’s a radio; the drummer doesn’t have a face, or rather has a mirror for a face, so her face is always your face when you face her; and there’s also a foot with no leg connected to it that’s something of an expert when it comes to electronic effects pedals. Groovy, huh?
Why was that passage written as if you were being introduced to the band members for the first time, even though you know exactly who they are? Is it a literary mannerism, do you think? If so, I don’t much care for it and will cock a snook at subsequent manifestations of the phenomenon, if I can successfully find my snook. No need to look for the cock, I keep that hidden inside my penis.
Jacque-in-le-Box are the first act scheduled to perform on the day of the festival, which is tomorrow, probably because of their pitifully thin reputation, but this festival’s a nice opportunity for them to gain a larger following. Why not? They’re good. Funky at times, twangy at others, bit avant-garde, mellow occasionally. I can see them progressing rapidly and maybe headlining some other festival in the future, probably the Monsters of Rock at Castle Donington.
That would be too appropriate for comfort!
I hope they play a version of Bob Dylan’s ‘All Along the Watchtower’ in the style of Parisian café music. I want to annoy the golem as much as he possibly can be annoyed…
“They don’t do requests,” snarls Baddie TwoShoes.
* * * * *
That was me again, Eyeful, giving you a brief update on the state of the festival. I hope when I talk in the first person like that, you don’t assume it’s the author of the book speaking rather than me? It’s always me, never him. Just thought I should clear that up, otherwise it might get confusing. Having said that, the author does try to control me now and again and he often calls out advice, most of which I’m happy to ignore. It’s possible he sneaks in to muddle up events occasionally. That’s not my fault. I’m not a sentry but an imposing tower.
If I had my own way I would simply forget about his existence, but he has just asked me to pass on a message to you and I can’t refuse a request that simple without losing my status as the only remotely sympathetic and humane character in this entire book. So I’ll do what he asks this time. It’s in the nature of a modest rant.
Clearly he’s trying to pre-empt adverse critical reaction, which isn’t as smart a scheme as he seems to think. Anyway, the gist of his message is a sullen plea not to take him to task for any discrepancies you may notice in the text at any point. He admits there are factual errors, contradictions and unintentional absurdities, as well as the usual slew of clichés and smartass bullcrap, but before opening hostilities against him, he urges you to place this work in its correct position in the queue and not to deal with it before you’ve dealt with older cases.
For instance, there are discrepancies in Superman, Batman, Star Wars and most other things of that nature. Why don’t you attack them first? The novel you hold in your hands has only just been published, whereas those items have been waiting for your wrathful criticism for decades. Priorities are important in life, please get yours straight. And ending on that rather sour note, he bids you farewell.
I bet he’s still here, lurking beyond the margins.
But I did what I was asked. I’m not judging anyone or anything, but I must say that I have my own gripes against his style. I don’t know about you, dear readers, but I’m dubious about the merits of switching between past and present tenses in the middle of a chapter. Not that I read many books, The Iliad aside, but all the same, it seems wrong, awkward, silly, even quite wicked or demented.
Only joking, it’s not that bad. I’m going to say farewell as well, now. I think Twistoff Bellow has reached the festival at last, with a few hours to spare, so I’ll let what happens to him dominate the balance of this chapter. But it was nice meeting you and if you’re ever in Paris why not pop along and say hello properly? I’ll give you free cakes or coffee in my mid-level restaurant. Just bear in mind two things. One, that sometime in the 1980s that restaurant was dismantled.
And two, I’m not really the Eiffel Tower but a conceit.
Sorry about that. Au revoir!
* * * * *
Twistoff Bellow had reached the festival with a few hours to spare, but nobody ever really spares them, do they? His chariots rumbled into the middle of the crowd and the last human harnessed to them dropped dead of exhaustion and blood loss. So it was just the three of them now. Three heroic monsters against France, music and sanity. Also against Rumour, that dread force of deadliness!
“Let’s soak up the atm
osphere,” said Abortia.
“Miss Stake,” reprimanded the golem with a shake of his head, his false iron eye glittering, “must I really keep reminding you that we’re not here as part of a pleasure jaunt.”
“A little fun won’t hurt, will it?” she implored.
“Come on, boss, lighten up,” added Breath. “This is our first festival, after all. It’s a special occasion.”
“WWHRUUUUUNNNNNNNNGGGGH!”
“Okay, okay, I was only making a suggestion, keep your horn on, your stump I mean,” babbled Breath.
“I suppose we have time to wander around,” hissed the golem through clenched teeth, “but only on the condition you don’t get converted to the hippy lifestyle because of some moment of epiphany. Ok? No revelations or sudden insights! No satori!”
“We promise,” promised Breath and Abortia.
And so the three of them wandered around the venue like tourists and carefully observed what was taking place. People lounged about, smoking hash, chatting, painting swirly designs on each other, chewing overpriced falafel, owning noses with rings in them, all the sorts of things they do at music festivals of this nature.
The sun began to sink in the west like a perfectly circular ship in a sea made of air. In other words it was itself and did what it does every day. In the rosy sunset glow, the first band came on stage. Amplifiers hummed, loudspeakers hissed and instruments were connected. The band members did everything themselves, clearly not famous or rich enough to employ real technicians and roadies.
Near the rear of the stage loitered two marginal figures, probably the band’s manager and his pet.
Twistoff winced as a solitary banjo note shattered the hubbub, but he didn’t cover his remaining ear with his hand. The group was just tuning up, they hadn’t started yet.
“What’s the name of this band?” he asked.
Breath merely shrugged.
Abortia sighed. “Such an obsession with names! No need to tell me why. Know the name, know the soul! I don’t know the answer to your question, but I can find out.”
And she asked a casual bystander.
Then she reported back to the golem. “They’re called Jacque-in-le-Box and it’s their first major gig.”
Twistoff frowned. “Something familiar…”
“What?” asked Breath.
“Not sure yet,” growled the golem.
He winced as the drummer suddenly started pounding a mesmerising rhythm. Now the performance had properly begun. The sun had set, dusk bathed the landscape. The beat was appropriately crepuscular. The banjo player’s head uttered words in French, you couldn’t really call it singing, more like the reading of a news bulletin, but it fitted the music. Bizarrely. Then a foot trod on an effects pedal and made everything spacey. Cosmic sonic vibes! Twistoff gasped.
“By Cherlomsky’s guts, it’s Dancin’ Daze!”
“Pardon?” cried Abortia.
The drum rhythm was now a complex web of beats, echoes and pauses and the twanging of the banjo swooped between the polyrhythms. So loud was this music, so overwhelming, that the golem couldn’t make himself heard even when he bellowed, and the bellow of Mr Bellow is seismically potent. He couldn’t make his colleagues understand a word, but he had to do something about the situation!
The worst crime of all crimes is treachery…
Dancin’ Daze was a traitor!
Had Twistoff been in a less frantic frame of mind he doubtless simply would have flung his kpinga at her, but this option never occurred to him. Instead he did something rash, rushing forward to jump on stage before the stewards could stop him. Then he advanced on Dancin’ with outstretched arms and rage on his face. The outstretched arms weren’t on his face. That was badly worded. Sorry.
Probably he would have pounded Dancin’ with his fists, but before he could reach her, Baddie TwoShoes came bounding out of the shadows at the back of the stage and fastened his slobbery jaws onto the golem’s left foot. Twistoff screamed. The beast growled and munched and clay fibres tore and snapped. The golem tried to shake his attacker off, raising his leg and kicking it to dislodge the angry footwear komodo, but succeeded only in breaking the final tendons.
The foot came off and it went flying against a loudspeaker, which had been badly stacked on top of an amplifier. Both heavy items of equipment toppled over, crushing the foot and also Baddie TwoShoes to death. Lord Doublestuff hurried up, weeping. He also wept as he hurried up. With a grin of demonic glee, Twistoff seized Dancin’ Daze and grafted her to his stump. Then he stamped her.
Abortia was horrified. “Dancin’ was a right foot! But Twistoff lost his left. So now he has two right feet!”
“What will be the consequences?” cried Breath.
Abortia licked dry lips. “Two left feet make a bad dancer. Logically it must follow that two right feet make a superb dancer. He has transformed himself into a funky twirling bootyshaker of the highest order! He can cut a rug faster than a tachyon jitterbug ! Look at him now—he’s strutting his unstuffy stuff. What a crisis!”
“Was that dance slang?” asked Breath.
“If you like,” she conceded.
They watched in terror as Twistoff proceeded to dance on stage to the applause and cheers of the audience. The drummer and the banjo player continued to play, faster than before, no less lost in the weird and forceful corybantic frenzy of the performance than was the golem. But poor Lord Doublestuff had left the vicinity, having retrieved the flattened corpse of Baddie TwoShoes. He wanted to give his beloved pet a decent burial in a cemetery for shoe monsters.
“This is quite a dance,” breathed Breath.
“Yes it is,” croaked Abortia.
“Now he’s doing the pogo,” commented Breath.
“That’s a pity,” she said.
Twistoff jumped up and down on the same spot, having exhausted all other moves. With each contact of his feet on the stage, the entire ground shook and groaned. Remember there’s only a metre of rock supporting the surface world from the subterranean cavern at this point. The golem went up and down, up and down, harder and harder. Suddenly with a deafening snap the stage vanished into a hole. When the dust had cleared everything was seen to have gone, amplifiers, instruments, musicians! So the crowd rushed to the rim of the crater.
Abortia and Breath pushed through to the front, teetered on the brink, peered down. Darkness, a sense of immensity. Then the mob surged and they were both propelled over the edge. Down they plummeted. No time to scream before they landed!
Something broke their fall. Not soft but it absorbed the impact. And it tinkled. It was Ruby dubDub.
Whether Wilson the Clockwork Man was also killed in the accident is unknown. His body was never found, so maybe he escaped, or perhaps he was granulated to fine particles. But Ruby was definitely smashed. As for Twistoff, he was still alive…
He was standing unsteadily in the middle of a vast exposed cavern, his stance favouring his clay leg, one hand grasping his kpinga, though where he had kept that weapon sheathed until now is a mystery, bearing in mind he wore no clothes, not even a belt. He faced a throne on which sat a man with a big chocolate head.
This man was none other than République Nutt and his head wasn’t his own head but the Walnut Whip Helmet, as you already know. He raised a hand and intoned languidly:
“Welcome to my domain, you chumps!”
“Thanks,” said Abortia.
“Don’t thank him, Miss Stake!” cried Twistoff. “Help me to overpower him. He’s outnumbered now!”
“I’m ready, Mr Bellow,” avowed Abortia.
“Me too,” added Breath.
“Too late!” chuckled République Nutt.
And he clapped his hands together and from side chambers rushed in a motley collection of other monsters. Six in total. So the forces of evil now outnumbered the forces of good. Let me put that another way. The forces of ‘evil’ now outnumbered the forces of ‘good’. It was seven against three! My money’s on the bad guys!
The golem glowered at the newcomers. He recognised them all, some from personal experience, others from books, including this book. A foul knot of devious brutes! At least two weren’t even supposed to exist, that’s how disreputable they were.
He counted them carefully on his fingers.
MeMeMeMeMe U,
Enid Hans,
Bob the Lock,
Bryan the Ferry,
Ringo Starr,
Janrel MacScabbard.
* * * * *
What could Twistoff do about this situation? Only one thing. Throw his kpinga! When in doubt, hurl it! He did so. He cast directly at Enid Hans, the most dangerous of his foes, but Enid placed his large palms together and loudly prayed to himself.
By doing so, he generated enough qi—a mystic energy worth eleven points in Scrabble—to make his entire body as hard as steel. Considering he was already harder than tungsten, this was something of a softening of his frame. No matter. He was still tough enough to absorb the full impact and survive. In fact the kpinga fractured as it hit him and its seven curved blades flew in all directions…
One pierced MeMeMeMeMe U in the shoulder. The yeti groaned and fled away down a side passage.
Another sliced through Bryan the Ferry’s hull and fatally damaged the boiler that turned his paddlewheels. Escaping steam billowed out and his horrid personality quickly deflated.
Bob the Lock and Ringo Starr were decapitated.
Janrel MacScabbard attempted to sheathe the blade that came towards him but succeeded only in rupturing himself so all his ink poured out and he vanished from this page.
The sixth scythed into the golem and took off his clay arm.
The seventh stabbed Abortia.
“The Eiffel Tower wasn’t the only remotely sympathetic character. I was one too!” she dribbled.
And slumped. Those were her last words.
“Dead!” wept Breath.
“Kill the others too!” shrieked République Nutt.
“Why should I do that?”
“Not you, you ectoplasmic moron! I was talking to Enid Hans! Where is he, by the way? Aha!”