by Heide Goody
“Afraid not,” said Bastian. “Brother Umpopo has taken a vow of silence –”
From the kitchen, there came a stream of happy squawks, interspersed with some ‘cootchie coo’s of delight.
“– and can only communicate with squeaks and baby sounds,” said Bastian.
“What’s going on here?” Carol demanded.
Bastian took a deep breath. He had been lying all day and the truth was hard to find. However, he was interrupted before he could utter a word.
“Distraction tactic!” yelled Father Eustace, mounted a table, and began to strum loudly on the banjo that had appeared from nowhere.
“Dinner and a show,” said Katzenburger approvingly.
“That tune,” said Carol dreamily. “I remember it from somewhere.”
“Me too,” said Bastian. “It was night, there was a party …”
“… and there was beer and …”
Carol looked down and saw that she and Bastian were holding hands.
Bastian saw it at the same time and the two of them pulled away as though burned.
“I’m so sorry,” mumbled Bastian.
“No idea how that happened,” said Carol.
The pair of them blushed in unison and neither knew where to look.
Rutspud and Stephen were crossing the cloisters, en route to the cellar, when Rutspud stiffened.
“What is it?” said Stephen.
“Can’t you hear it?” said Rutspud.
“The appalling singing?” said Stephen, but Rutspud had rushed across the grass to the high windows of the refectory.
“It’s that abbot of yours, isn’t it?”
“Father Eustace,” said Stephen. “It’s not very good, I know, but there’s no need to get into a tizzy about it.”
“You don’t understand,” said Rutspud and leapt up and tried to grab at the window ledge to hoist himself up to look in. “I thought I’d heard it somewhere before.”
“And?”
“It’s the same tune that Lewis hums to himself all the damn time.”
“Lewis? Lewis who?”
Rutspud made an exasperated noise.
“Wardrobe boy. Works in R&D.”
“So what?” said Stephen. “Maybe they both heard it from the same place.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
Stephen’s brow furrowed.
“What are you on about, Rutspud? I really don’t understand.”
“Nor me,” said Rutspud. “Not yet. But I’m starting to get a really bad feeling. Damn it. Why are these windows so high up?”
He leapt again, but Rutspud’s legs were designed for sinister sneaking and creeping, not defying gravity.
Much to Bastian’s relief, Father Eustace’s turn on the banjo diverted everyone’s attention away from the prior in the bird costume.
“We’ll burn Ol’ Tom in our fiery hole,” sang the abbot, “and there he’ll moan and moan.”
“This is traditional English music, yeah?” said Katzenburger doing his best to tap along in appreciation.
“I couldn’t possibly say,” replied Bastian.
“Drown him in piss, gold and sweet and feast on his throbbing b –”
“Oh, my God!” yelled someone. “It’s the Merlin stilt.”
Bastian looked up and saw that, beyond all reason, they were quite correct. A bird’s head kept appearing at the refectory window, tapping momentarily before disappearing below the ledge again.
“It wants to get in,” someone shouted.
“But why?” said Carol.
At that moment, the kitchen door was flung open and Manfred all but skipped into the refectory and declared with glee, “They’ve hatched! They’ve hatched!”
“Who has?” said Carol.
“And where did that bird come from?” said Bastian.
Manfred looked at the yellow-crested Merlin stilt at the window and, for a moment, their eyes met.
“She’s come back from the dead to see her dear chicks,” he said.
“That is Manfred in a bird costume!” said Carol firmly.
“Zombie!” bellowed Father Eustace and launched into a banjo solo.
In the chaos, Bastian heard Brother Clement say conversationally, “I’m sure there’s a religious allegory or parable that explains this situation.”
“Really?” said Brother Henry.
“Nope,” said Brother Clement, “I’ve got nothing.”
Chapter 10 – The day Stephen went down the stairs
Stephen woke up with his face stuck to the Librum Magnum Daemonum. He peeled his cheek away and checked the page for drool smudges. This was no way for a responsible librarian to treat the manuscripts entrusted to his care, and it was becoming something of an unfortunate habit.
He looked at the page that was open. His Latin had improved considerably over the months.
“Flay … shard. Flayshard, the demon-woman who is most … highly skilled in the art of … what’s that? ... torture. She is renowned for her … for her zeal in her work, taking the … craftsman’s pride in the suffering of others. She breeds … pulices? … parasites that will eat the victim’s …” Stephen stared at the words and then held it suddenly away at arm’s length when he worked it out. “Urgh!” he said. “Nasty horrible thing.”
He was feeling queasy and it wasn’t even breakfast-time yet.
He had that unmistakeable tiredness that came after a night of sleepwalking. He could even see the footprints he’d made as he returned to the library. Always muddy. Did his sleeping mind simply crave a few nocturnal rounds of the cloisters or something? Nonetheless, out of curiosity, he followed them. The trail led him to the Prior’s House and Father Eustace’s room. He looked at the door thoughtfully. There were a number of vertical marks, gouges almost, on the door. Stephen checked his hands. It looked as though it was he who had inflicted the damage. He stared from the door to his broken fingernails.
He knocked.
“Father Eustace!” he called through the door. “It’s me, Stephen.”
Eustace opened the door and, unbidden, poked a bony finger into Stephen’s stomach.
“Bacon?” he asked.
“We’ll ask Manfred what’s for breakfast,” said Stephen, always wary of what on earth was in Eustace’s mind or, indeed, what planet Eustace’s mind was currently orbiting.
“Sausage for the abbot?” said the abbot.
Stephen shrugged.
“Father Abbot, could you tell me, was I here in the night?”
“Old man’s sausage?”
“No, it’s just I think I might have been sleepwalking again.”
Eustace nodded thoughtfully and cast an arm around the room.
“Mmmm,” said Eustace.
“Mmmm?” asked Stephen.
“Fried bread!” said Eustace triumphantly, and beamed at Stephen, clapping his hands.
Stephen sighed, realising that he wasn't going to get any useful information from Eustace.
“You're right, it's wonderful that we can have such luxuries. I really don't miss Manfred's melon and boiled egg special at all. You know, with the glace cherries on top? Even he realises that the visitors prefer bacon and eggs. Long may it last!”
Eustace's face had lost its look of beatific contentment. He was focussing on something behind Stephen, with a look of faint horror.
“Not spiders!” shouted Father Eustace.
Stephen turned to see that Rutspud's hand (still unattached to the rest of Rutspud) was crawling towards them down the corridor.
“Not spiders! Too crunchy!” bellowed the abbot.
He pushed past Stephen and ran down the corridor, swatting an arm in the general direction of the hand as he edged round, stomping his foot viciously to make it back away as he passed. The hand scuttled off in the other direction, leaving Stephen wondering what he'd just witnessed.
“What did you say is in this delivery?” asked Manfred, as he and Bastian stood waiting for Owen to put the gangplank in place.
/> “Merchandise, brother,” said Bastian with a grin. “We can provide a better service for our visitors with our expanded range.”
“You mean make more money from them?” said Manfred with a raised eyebrow.
“Tomayto, tomato,” said Bastian.
“Do you realise that you’re rubbing your hands together?” asked Manfred.
Bastian looked down at his hands and clasped them in an attitude of monkish prayer instead.
“This is new, Owen,” said Manfred as the boatman wheeled a sack truck down a newly enlarged gangplank. “Very efficient.”
“Saves my back,” grunted Owen. “You seem to be ordering more and more supplies from the mainland.”
“Our visitor numbers continue to rise,” said Manfred. “Our Merlin stilt chicks continue to delight the birdwatching community.”
“And Carol Well-Dunn is singing our praises to the twitching community near and far,” said Bastian.
“Not complaining about that at all,” said Owen. “Every visitor is putting pennies in my pocket. Well, nearly everyone.”
“Nearly?” asked Bastian, looking up from the box that he was opening.
“This one never pays,” said Owen, as Jessie sprang from the gangplank. “I keep a tally of her bills, in case I ever work out who her owner is.”
“It’s those people on the headland,” said Bastian. “Live next door to that Arthurian nut, Ewan Thomas, and his dragon of a wife.”
“No,” said Owen. “Moved away before Christmas. This dog is ownerless, as far as I can see.”
They watched the dog trot off towards the monastery.
“Part of me thinks no person has ever owned that dog,” said Manfred. “Probably more the other way round.”
Father Eustace advanced down the path in the opposite direction, a garden rake braced rifle-like against his shoulder.
“Oh, these will go down a storm!” said Bastian, pulling out an oversized t-shirt, which bore the legend I heart Bardsey.
“It’s rather large,” observed Manfred.
“We have a range of sizes,” said Bastian, “kids included.”
“Really?” asked Manfred. “Because I can see twelve boxes that say XXL and, er, none that say anything different.”
“What?”
Bastian frantically opened boxes.
“Hah! Vermin!”
Manfred and Owen turned to see Father Eustace, running up and down the path, swiping the rake from side to side. Every now and then he thrust it forward with a vigorous swatting motion.
“What’s he doing?” asked Owen, as he unloaded the final box.
“I don’t know what it was, but it’s dead now,” observed Manfred.
“Bit odd, that new fellow of yours, if you ask me,” said Owen.
Bastian opened the top of the latest box. His shoulders sagged as he realised that it was filled with giant t-shirts like the others. He thrust a manifest towards Manfred.
“Look, it says various on here! Surely various can’t mean just one size?”
“No, you’ve got this one as well,” said Owen, locating one box marked with XXXL. “You see? Various.”
“They’re not bloody T-shirts,” shrieked Bastian. “I could wrap a hippo in one of these.”
Manfred continued to watch the abbot’s battle with apparently invisible foes.
“Father Eustace has enriched our lives with his eccentric ways, it is true,” said Manfred with an indulgent smile at the savage pantomime.
“Another Eustace? Wow, what are the chances of that?” asked Owen.
“Another Eustace here?” asked Manfred. “No, there has been no other Eustace in the monastery in the years that I’ve been here.”
Owen shook his head.
“What about that Eustace feller?” he said.
“I think you might need to be a bit more specific,” said Manfred.
“You know. The one that was going stir-crazy in The Ship months back while I couldn’t make the crossing?”
“Eustace Pike. That’s him,” said Manfred, indicating the figure receding into the distance, swatting rocks with a clearly mangled rake.
“Nah, this guy was enormous. Big fat man with a red beard,” said Owen.
“But –” started Manfred.
“And what’s this?” groaned Bastian.
He pulled open a fresh box.
“Them would be your bird glasses,” said Owen. “Says it here on the manifest.”
Bastian gave a little whimper.
“No, no, no, no …”
“What’s the matter?” said Manfred.
“Bird glasses,” muttered Bastian morosely. “Decorative glasses. Tumblers. Crystal. Etched with fine representations of our birds. That’s what I wanted.”
“And what have we got?”
Bastian ripped open a packet and slapped the sunglasses onto his eyes. He looked at Manfred. Pink plastic feathers, dotted with sequins, sprouted from the corners of the glasses.
“Bird bloody glasses!” he squeaked.
“Very Dame Edna whatserface,” said Owen.
“I like them,” said Manfred honestly. “I like them a lot.”
“Great,” Bastian sniffed, gesturing angrily at the boxes of useless merchandise. “And maybe one day we’ll have a boatload of morbidly obese transvestites come to Bardsey and we’ll be able to shift this lot!”
In the library, Stephen attempted to confront the maverick arm. The arm seemed to be in a playful mood. Perched upright, on the stump that would have been its elbow, the arm was attempting a mime.
“Prod?” said Stephen. “Beaks? Awkward giraffe?”
It flipped on two fingers and moved them in a walking motion.
“Walking?” suggested Stephen, not even certain whether the hand could actually hear him, and how that would even be possible.
The arm sped up the walking motion.
“Running? Chasing?”
The arm gave a thumbs up.
“Er, what’s that one?” asked Stephen, as the arm made a gentle beckoning gesture. “Come here? Come hither? Chase me? What? You want me to expand? Right. So there’s chasing. Someone has been chasing. Was Rutspud chasing you? Why don’t you want to go back?”
The arm looked exasperated. Stephen had no idea how, but it definitely did. It started a new mime. The hand flipped over, and wriggled like a stranded turtle.
“Dead spider! Dying fly!” yelled Stephen, caught up in the game.
The hand wriggled on.
“Ill? Desperate? Helpless?”
The arm sprang to attention and gave the beckoning motion again.
“Oh, right. Helpless. Someone’s in trouble?”
The arm nodded.
“Rutspud’s in trouble?”
It nodded even more vigorously, and it was then that Stephen noticed that something was tied to the wrist.
Stephen untied the note, while the arm waited patiently. He frowned when he saw that it was one of Potter’s sketches. Why had the arm been so keen that he should take another look at Meat and Mead Thursday? Then he turned it over, and found that the back was covered in Rutspud’s slanted, but strangely neat, handwriting. It was misaligned and overlapped in places, as though he had written it in the dark and with some unusual ink. Stephen sat down at a table and started to read.
Can’t be sure that this note will get to you. Being held captive in the Fortress of Nameless Dread. Know you can’t do anything about that, but am very worried about my gang who came to your party. Afraid that something unpleasant will happen to them now that I’m not there. Only have myself to blame …
Stephen read on, anxiety gnawing at him as he realised that his friend was in terrible trouble.
The conference room in the Sixth Circle Management Centre had become even more unpleasant a place in recent times. The lava that provided the room’s underfloor heating and lighting had, in the present crisis, transformed from a comfortingly sinister red glow to a superheated white plasma that instantly carbonised the so
les of any demon who let his feet rest on the grille flooring for more than a second.
Scabass gazed around the table at his team. Rutspud thought his flinty eyes held even more disdain and malevolence than normal, which was a surprising feat.
“We shall begin with the first item on the agenda,” said Scabass.
“But, surely, we’re not all here,” said Codmince, who was taking the minutes. “Where is Pigcrack?”
“He’s carrying out a special mission for me,” said Scabass. “His report on new and exquisite torments from the seventh circle will keep for next time. Now, item one concerns complaints that we’ve had from some of our residents. I’m afraid that Tantalus has been most distressed to find that the apple tree which was supposed to be permanently out of his reach has cracked with the excess heat and he has been able to pick fruit from it. He has submitted a missive.”
Scabass plucked at a sheet of bloodied paper.
“Here we are. ‘Never, in all the years of my torment, have I seen such a lack of care and managerial oversight. I expect this situation to be remedied immediately, as I am eating delicious apples (baked apples no less!) whenever I want them. This cannot go on unless you wish to change all the dictionaries of the world so that ‘tantalise’ now means ‘put everything one wants in easy reach!’ I would come and complain about this is person, but the pool of water in which I stand (and which is supposed to be just out of my reach!) has dried up and my lower regions are encased in dried mud.’”
He tossed the paper aside.
“We have a great many other such complaints,” Scabass said, “and I want to know what each of you are doing to improve things. Bapslime, have you addressed the matter of the imps that have been disappearing?”
Bapslime opened his mouth and closed it again. Rutspud recognised the dilemma he faced, as they all knew full well that Scabass had been rounding up the imps himself. It was widely acknowledged that imps were able to regulate their temperature with the cooling properties of their blood, and rumour had it that Scabass was blending imps into some sort of refreshing cocktail.
“Sir, it has proven difficult to get accurate figures on the number of imps affected,” said Bapslime carefully. “Everyone knows it’s impossible to count imps, so it is very likely that no imps at all have actually disappeared.”