Clovenhoof 04 Hellzapoppin'

by Heide Goody

  “So why is this bird so rare?” asked Bastian.

  “Oh, the usual story,” said Carol. “Invasion and destruction of its habitats. Hunting. Egg theft. The last breeding pair in Cornwall were shot by a local man who thought they were Nazi spies.”

  “Ah, that usual story.”

  “And possibly the fact that they are the world’s worst parents and most suicidal of lovers.”

  “Worst parents and most suicidal lovers?”

  “Mmmm.” Carol turned the map in her hand and adjusted her course a fraction. “They are appalling nest builders. A love of shiny objects and a peculiar aversion to wood mean that their nests are gaudy, impractical things that, according to ornithological reports, frequently fell apart before the chicks were fledged. They’re the footballers and WAGs of the bird world. If birds had Hello magazine, there’d be a regular feature in which the ‘yellow-crested Merlin stilt shows us around their Cheshire mansion’. Awful.”

  “And suicidal lovers?”

  “Oh, that’s not uncommon. Birds are all about extravagant gestures. Birds of paradise waggle their enormous feathers. Adelie penguins give each other pebbles. And the yellow-crested Merlin stilt flies into rocks.”

  “It does what?”

  Carol shrugged.

  “To impress the girls, the male Merlin stilt flies headlong into the nearest cliff. I suppose from an evolutionary perspective, it started out as males flying close to the cliff edge to show their skill and prowess. But, yes, it evolved into flying straight into unyielding stone. I guess if you’re the only male who can do that and not die, then that says something for your strength and stamina.”

  “I see.”

  “Doesn’t stop it being stupid though.”

  “Come on, then. Let’s find this bird before it makes itself extinct,” said Bastian. “You look cold.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve got very rosy cheeks.”

  “Years of alcohol abuse, that’s all.” She grinned and then abruptly stopped. “Sorry, that probably sounds really sinful. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “No offence,” said Bastian. “Alcohol abuse is one of the few vices we monks are positively encouraged to indulge in. If we get back in time, we can abuse our livers utterly with Brother Manfred’s seaweed beer.”

  “Can’t wait. Um.” Carol pointed to a high ridge. “Is that that sheepdog up there?”

  “Jessie?”

  “It had this stick in its mouth.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  Carol shook her head.

  “A stick that was trying to slap it and escape from its mouth. Ignore me. Let’s go.”

  “I do hope they will be having a finger buffet,” said Cartland. “I think a high-quality finger buffet is the hallmark of all the best parties.”

  “I’ve always considered the hallmark of a good party to be my presence,” said Wilde.

  “A party?” said Shipton. “So t’is like a high feast day?”

  “Urv arrr-arrgh!” said Mama-Na.

  “Or one of those.”

  “I recall, from my many evenings with the Herberts, that the key to a successful social occasion is the quality of the conversation,” said Nightingale.

  “Polite conversation,” agreed Whitehouse.

  “I hope they’re not using paper plates,” said Cartland. “That would simply be a terribly bad show.”

  Rutspud stopped abruptly, halting the party of chained individuals.

  “Look around you,” he hissed, waving at their surroundings with a hand that was not currently there. “Where are we, guys?”

  “The Fields of Turpitude,” said Tesla.

  “And more generally?”

  “Hell?” suggested Bernhardt.

  “Right,” growled Rutspud. “We’re in the domain of demons. And we’re sneaking out for a little late-night party. I’ve chained you up so that, if challenged, I can tell the powers that be that I’m taking you off for some extra-curricular flogging. What will make it less convincing is if you’re gaily discussing the importance of good manners and quality tableware!”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Potter.

  “That’s okay,” said Rutspud. “Now, is there any chance we could have some moaning and wailing?”

  Boudicca set up with some cries of anguish. Shipton, who could always be relied on, wailed heartily.

  “Not the flogging!” cried Bernhardt dramatically.

  “The horror!” screamed Whitehouse.

  “Nnng Forrr!”

  “Have mercy!”

  “Paper plates!”

  It had indeed started to snow, fat flakes falling from a darkening sky.

  Bastian held onto Carol’s wrist as she peered down over the cliff edge. The Welsh mainland was now a dark grey band of land between equally grey sea and sky. They were losing the light and, Bastian feared, were equally likely to lose their footing if they persisted for much longer.

  “Nope, not here,” said Carol. “So, tell me, what made you give up the big city life for this beautiful wilderness?”

  “I think you’ve just answered your own question,” said Bastian.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Bastian nodded and the duo edged along a little further.

  “Back in the day, I was as rich as Croesus but had a lousy life,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah. Being rich is an absolute drag.”

  “I was a lousy husband.”

  “You had a wife?”

  “Once upon a time. A long time ago.”

  “I had me one of them once. A husband, not a wife.”

  “Not a lousy one like me.”

  “Oh, no. I’m sure he was perfect. That was why so many shitty women threw themselves at him. And you know what happens if you throw enough shit. Anyway, the one that stuck to him just happened to be younger than me, taller than me, and with perkier tits.” Carol laughed. “Did you see how I segued seamlessly from mild-mannered primary school teacher to bitter old hag in under thirty seconds? I apologise.”

  “Don’t,” said Bastian. “It’s hard to let go when people hurt you.”

  “Yeah, but I apologise for hijacking your story. You were saying you were a bad husband. Not that I believe you, by the way. Nope, not here. Move along.”

  “Believe it. My work. The money. The numbers. They were everything to me. It was an addiction. I was so blind to the greed, to the machine I had become, I barely noticed when she left.”

  Carol pulled on his arm as she leant further out. He tightened his grip on her wrist.

  “We’re going to have to stop soon,” he said. “Look again tomorrow.”

  “So, what opened your eyes to the truth?” asked Carol.

  “The global economic slowdown. The Credit Crunch. I happily let my private life fall apart. I didn’t even blink. But the day the world decided that I was unimportant, that the work I was doing was not the vital cornerstone of industry I saw it as but was, at best, trivial and, at worst, downright evil … Yes, that was the day I came to my senses.”

  “And that’s why you became a monk?”

  “Well, sort of. Careful, Carol, you’re awfully close to the edge. Here on Bardsey, if I grow vegetables or farm chickens, I have produced something. Here, if I raise money for restoration work or charity, I have helped someone or made the world a marginally better place. Here. Here, I matter.”

  “Lie down next to me.”

  “What?”

  Carol got down on her hands and knees and wriggled on her front until her head poked over the cliff edge.

  “What do you reckon that is?”

  Bastian gathered his habit, got down next to Carol and looked over the edge. He could see the wet cliff face and far below the almost invisibly dark wash of seawater in and out, in and out of the cove.

  “Where?” he said.

  “There,” she said, a voice right by his ear. “Under this ledge.”

  “It looks like a pile of rubbish,” said Bastian. “Like someone’s spi
lled luggage.”

  “And the white frilly-edged thing?”

  “An old towel.”

  The white towel-like thing shifted and turned its head. It clicked its beak and repositioned itself in its nest.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said Bastian.

  Carol started to laugh and slapped her hand over her mouth, reducing her laugh to a delighted squeak.

  “That’s it?” said Bastian.

  Carol rolled onto her side to look at him. Lines of delight creased the corners of her wide eyes.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  She put her hand on his shoulder.

  “It certainly is,” she said and planted a fast, hard kiss on his lips. She broke off almost instantly. “I’m sorry, brother. I really am. Totally inappropriate.”

  “No. No. I’m excited too. It’s –”

  Bastian’s words were squashed as she kissed him again.

  “Okay,” she said. “I definitely meant to do it that time. I shouldn’t have, I know but I ju–”

  Bastian kissed her back.

  The monks of St Cadfan’s threw themselves into the celebratory evening meal like drug addicts loose in a pharmacy.

  Their months of isolation and weeks of near-starvation were at an end, and the brothers had been queuing at the refectory door a full two hours before dinner was due to be served. Conversation and laughter echoed through the corridor while they waited, not waiting impatiently like the famished men they were, but contentedly like refugees who knew salvation was close at hand.

  However, when Stephen helped Manfred usher them in, they had to step back hurriedly to avoid being trampled by the horde. For a bunch of mostly septuagenarian holy men, they moved pretty darn quickly.

  “Form an orderly line, please,” called Manfred.

  The plea fell on deaf ears (some of them genuinely so).

  “At least use a plate, Brother Terry!” Manfred shouted. “And the serving spoon!”

  Stephen put a hand on the prior’s arm.

  “They’re happy, brother,” he said.

  “True,” agreed Manfred. “Although I’d rather Brother Vernon didn’t drink the soup straight from the tureen.”

  Plates were piled high with fresh bread, meat and vegetables, including four types of potato.

  “Where are the tankards for this beer you’ve promised us?” asked Brother Henry loudly.

  “Put safely aside until Brother Sebastian and Ms Well-Dunn return,” said Manfred. “Our feast tonight should, I hope, be a celebration of a miraculous discovery.”

  Stephen came down to the visitors’ centre just as Rutspud was leading his party of Hell’s prisoners out of the cellars. Stephen had not given much thought as to what he expected the damned to look like but, seeing them now in the flesh, he realised he had expected to see skeletons, zombies, ethereal shades – something that hinted at their deathly state. But, no, here they were, a band of ragged, muck-streaked and, above all else, tired looking human beings.

  “– clearly a non-Newtonian structure,” a moustachioed man with neatly parted hair was saying to Rutspud, “a helical stair that passes through dimensions other than the conventional four. Impressive.”

  “Greetings,” said Stephen. Ten pairs of eyes turned on him. “I am Brother Stephen. Can I just say a big welcome to – Hang on, Rutspud. Why are they all manacled together?”

  “Part of my cunning ruse to sneak them out,” said Rutspud. “I’ll have them off in a jiffy.”

  “Now,” said Stephen. “I was going to suggest a spot of food and drink, but perhaps you would all care to come along to our guest dormitories – totally unoccupied at the moment – and make use of our showers. I might be able to rustle up some spare habits to replace your current … vestments.”

  “Showers?” said an imperious looking woman with braided hair and an accent that drifted between Welsh and Irish.

  “A washing closet, Boudicca dear,” said a woman in horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Boudicca? Queen of the Iceni?” choked Stephen.

  “Yes, yes,” said Rutspud tiredly. “I suppose some brief introductions are in order. Stephen this is Boudicca.”

  “Your majesty,” he said, shaking her hand enthusiastically.

  “Whitehouse.”

  “Mary? A pleasure.”

  “Shipton.”

  “As in Old Mother?

  “Ursula to me friends, boy.”

  “A pleasure, madam.”

  “Moving along,” said Rutspud. “This is Bernhardt.”

  “A delight, Sarah.”

  Oh God, thought Stephen. I’m shaking hands with dead people. This is amazing!

  “Wilde.”

  “Oscar,” said Stephen. “Always been a fan.”

  “Cartland,” said Rutspud.

  “Dame Cartland. Another fine author.”

  Oscar Wilde looked at Stephen down his nose, clearly unimpressed at being linked by such association.

  “This is Tesla,” said Rutspud.

  “Nikola, isn’t it? I think I saw David Bowie play you in a movie once,” said Stephen. “Greetings.”

  “Potter.”

  “Miss Potter, welcome.”

  “Nightingale.”

  “Florence?” said Stephen. “How could you possibly have ended up in Hell? In fact, how could any one of you be condemned to this? But Florence Nightingale? Madam, how is this possible?”

  “Well …” said Nightingale.

  “Not a word,” instructed Rutspud sharply. “Rule Number Three, Nightingale.”

  “But, Rutspud …” she protested.

  “Rule Number Three?”

  Nightingale sighed.

  “‘Do not talk to anyone about your crimes or cause of damnation. No one is interested.’”

  “Rules, Rutspud?” asked Stephen.

  The one-armed demon nodded firmly.

  “My little gang have been given some very clear rules for tonight’s expedition. Don’t want things going awry while we having our little away day. Well, you’ve now met my entire band.”

  “Grrr Nnhh!”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. The last one. Mama-Na.”

  “Good to see you too … madam, is it?” said Stephen, shaking a massive grimy paw.

  “Ha!” laughed Rutspud. “I knew you’d struggle with at least one of them. See, everyone? See? You all look alike.”

  “I think I can be forgiven,” said Stephen, “given that Mama-Na here is some sort of Cro-Magnon or something.”

  “Nnnnf!” grunted the cavewoman and slapped Stephen across the head.

  “Mama-Na!” shouted Rutspud. “We do not hit the nice man!”

  Potter helped steady the dazed Stephen.

  “She’s a Neanderthal,” she pointed out. “She gets touchy when people get it wrong.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Stephen. “To the showers.”

  Bastian and Carol paused in front of the closed refectory door.

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  “This is it.”

  “It is. We just go in. Two ordinary people.”

  Bastian looked down to double-check that they weren’t holding hands.

  “We just go in. Tell them we’ve found the nest. They applaud. We get some food. Sit down.”

  “Separately?”

  “Separately, but not suspiciously separately.”

  “How much is not suspicious?”

  “One monk apart?”

  “Best make it two.”

  “No one needs to know what happened,” said Bastian. “Not that I’m ashamed of what we did. I mean I am ashamed, but I’m not ashamed because of you.”

  “Ditto.”

  “I’ve not got lipstick on my face or anything, have I?” he asked.

  “I don’t wear lipstick, Bastian.”

  “Oh. But I haven’t got any … you know …”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is guilt,” said Carol. “You’re covered in it.”

  “Oh, c
rap, they’re going to know,” said Bastian. “They’re going to find out.”

  “Not at all,” said Carol.

  He straightened his habit for the hundredth time and looked Carol up and down again, making sure that they hadn’t left some incriminating sign such as a total lack of clothing or a tattoo saying ‘I kissed a monk and I liked it’.

  “Of course,” he said. “It will be fine. I’m over-reacting.”

  Carol smiled.

  “You don’t think there’s chance of a one last –”

  Bastian gave her a peck on the lips.

  “Let’s do this.”

  He pushed the door open and strode in, almost leaping to ensure he was several feet ahead of Carol.

  Two dozen heads turned to look and, as one, two dozen tankards were raised and a great ragged cheer went up from the men.

  “The heroes return!” shouted Brother Vernon, fairly dousing Brother Gillespie with frothy drink.

  “Thought you two were out for the night!” shouted Brother Desmond.

  “Dirty pair!” sniggered Brother Henry.

  Feeling their shameful secret bubbling to the surface so quickly, Bastian automatically reached out for Carol’s hand for support and then stopped himself before he did something stupid.

  Manfred wove through tables with three pewter tankards. He was wearing a cook’s apron with the words ‘HOT STUFF’ stitched in sequins across it.

  “I am so sorry, dear friends. We were going to wait for you before starting on the beer. Here, take a drink. But you were so long. It’s dark out now. Were you successful?”

  Carol nodded dumbly.

  “Really?” said Manfred.

  “A nest. Two birds. Two eggs,” she managed to say. “A bit precariously positioned, but otherwise great.”

  Manfred grinned broadly.

  “Hear that, brothers?” he called out to the room at large. “Ms Well-Dunn and Brother Sebastian have found the stilt nest!”

  The cheer that came back at them was loud and hearty to the point of ecstatic. Tankards were chinked, cutlery was rattled and the buoyant and decidedly tipsy mood of the room went up a grade or two.

  “A toast, then,” said Manfred to the two embarrassed lovers. “To you two. Intrepid explorers of uncharted territory. Long may your partnership bear such magnificent fruit!”

  “Er, yes,” said Bastian. “Quite.”