The Sprouts of Wrath bs-4

by Robert Rankin

  “Speak now, or I reverse your skin.”

  “That’s the stuff,” urged Pooley.

  Kaleton raised his head and glared at his enemies. His body quivered. “I am the one and the many,” he declared, “I am the history of the planet. A planet raped, looted and despoiled by mankind. Your race have pillaged and destroyed. Poisoned the atmosphere, polluted the rivers and the seas. Razed the grasslands. Now is the time of the coming, the time of retribution. Who am I, Professor? I am the ‘Spiritus Mundus’, I am the World Soul, I am the spirit of the earth made flesh!”

  “No,” said the Professor, “no, you lie!”

  “Why should I lie? Mankind is now done. You are powerless to resist, powerless to intercede in a plan which has taken centuries to form. Above you a dark star fills the heavens, two feet upon the water and three upon the land. The prophecies fulfil. The time of the reckoning, the time of the great gathering.”

  The Professor was noticeably trembling. “Why, why do you do this?”

  Kaleton laughed. It was not the tinkling of fairy bells. “Why? Man’s history has been brief, but the destruction, the wanton waste, the needless horrors … the planet will stand no more. The world turns back upon you. A new beginning, Professor, a free world. A world free of men.”

  “Madness! How can you think to accomplish this?”

  “You have aided in your own destruction. Down the centuries you have built great temples, great cathedrals, seats of learning, but each to a divine formula. My formula. It is all in the stones, the power lies in the stones. From the Henge to the stadium, the power is with us, with me. At the signal the great old buildings will live, the stadium will become charged with power, it will walk, it will reap.”

  The Professor’s eyes glittered. “Signal, what signal?”

  “You will feel it when it comes. A great shot will ring out across the universe. The earth will tremble, the stadium will live, the great old buildings will live, they will rise and crush you, clean you from the face, sweep you away, like the insects that you are. We will smash you down!” Kaleton raised his crooked hands high above his head. “Smash you down!”

  “Smash it down!” Hovis shouted as the bulldozer strained against the wire fence. The tracks slewed upon the pavement, tearing up the flagstones, unable to grip.

  Jungle John hunched low over the controls. “This is bloody funny,” he said through gritted teeth. “Something is holding us back.”

  “Give it revs!” shouted Hairy Dave. “Give it revs!”

  “I’m doing it, for Chrissakes! What’s going on here?”

  Hugo Rune placed a hand upon the Inspectre’s shoulder, “You won’t get in this way, I’m telling you.”

  “Leave the fence to me,” said Hovis, shrugging off the podgy fingers. “I’ll get us into the compound, you open the gasometer.”

  “Please yourself then.”

  The bulldozer struck the fence once more and this time a charge of electricity crackled through the vehicle, scrambling the ignition system and setting the driver’s crowning glory ablaze. The erstwhile demolition team leapt from the cab, howling and fanning at themselves. The bulldozer began to turn in circles, its digger rising and falling.

  Meek wound down his window. “Back up!” he shouted towards the goggle-eyed policemen in the convoy behind. His words were of course lost in the noise of the screaming engine. The bulldozer struck the bonnet of the lead car. Meek threw himself out of the vehicle as it upended to fall upon the car behind. Hovis leapt up and down shouting through his loudhailer and brandishing his gun. Meek watched in horror as the bulldozer minced the line of police cars into unrecognizable scrap. Rune turned upon his heel and strode off up the road whistling a tune of his own making.

  “Now, Jim!” cried Professor Slocombe. Jim fumbled with the phial and dropped it beyond the reach of the circle.

  “Your little diversion has come to nothing. Goodbye, Professor!” cried the Soul of the World.

  Jim flung himself towards the silver bottle. As he left the circle, darkness closed about him, the world came to an end.

  Pooley clambered to his feet, brushing away the strands of long coarse grass which clung to his clothing. The land about him was flat endless tundra, relieved only by the occasional gnarled black tree. Somewhere nearby a river ran, but Jim was unable to see it. Shielding his eyes against the curious magenta glare of the sky, he sought a habitation, a hostelry perhaps? There was nothing. But then there was something.

  Borne upon a wind, so light as to scarcely stir the grass, he heard the faint sounds of chanting. And then the jingling of bells, the rattle of harnessing, the tread of the heavy horses. The creak of the wagon wheels. A procession wound towards him, those at the van swung censers, and intoned the chant. Their garments were of rough brown cloth, soiled through much hard travel, their feet unshod, their faces grave. These men and women were exhausted, they had travelled many miles without rest, they stumbled, staggered, but they marched on.

  Pooley watched them sadly as they passed. The heads of the great horses were down, their flanks ran wet. The wagon wheels turned in faulty circles, their unequal spokes wrought with the signs of a former zodiac. And Jim watched those who rode the high-sided wagons, the witch-faced women with their bearded chins and tattooed brows. And he glimpsed the treasures which they guarded. Sprawling upon the cushions of hay were infants, swollen and grotesque, the size of oxen. The children of the great folk. The last of their line. They gurgled and croaked, their naked skins grey, their eyes without lustre. Now behind them, in the far distance, the thunder rolled and broke. The sky seethed angrily and muttered threats.

  Pooley heard the cry, in a language he knew not, yet understood. “Onward, onward to the Iron Tower. Onward to the sanctuary.”

  The witch-women drove hard upon the faltering horses and those that maintained the endless chant marched on upon wooden legs. And Jim limped after them across the plain and now the wind grew and howled and drove him onward. And there upon the horizon he saw the tower, stark and black, a distant needle piercing the sky. And the cry went up from the marchers and the women drove ever harder upon the dying horses. “Onward, onward, King Bran is coming.”

  And from the heart of the dark and rolling clouds, lightning broke and scoured the land, and the thunder was now the hooves of an approaching army. “Make haste to the sanctuary.”

  And of a sudden the tower filled the sky, and a drawbridge fell like the hand of benediction. The marchers broke into a run. A horse floundered and dropped dead in the shafts of the lead wagon. Men and women tore it away, rolled the body aside, dragged and heaved at the wagon, swarmed towards the drawbridge. “Make haste, make haste.”

  Jim limped after them. A wagon overturned, spilling its ghastly load. The witch-women deserted it, ran screaming. The horsemen thundered nearer. The horsemen of King Bran. And Jim ran, as though the devil was at his heels. And now two called out to him, called through the crashing elements, the terror, the lightning and the pounding hooves of the approaching warriors. A man and a woman, braced against the driving winds, crying through the maelstrom, “Hurry, Jim, this way!” — Pooley shielded his eyes. “John,” he gasped, “Jennifer, I’m coming.”

  Then hands grasped him, pulled him back, back from the drawbridge, the threshold of the sanctuary. “Stop, do not enter, you must not enter.”

  “Take the bottle,” cried Paul Geronimo, “uncork the bottle!”

  “Do it now!” his brother urged. “Only you can!”

  Jim’s brain reeled, torn with doubt, indecision and fear.

  Paul thrust the silver bottle into his hand. “For the Professor, do it now, open the bottle!”

  Pooley stared towards Omally; he was stepping back into the iron tower. Only one wagon had entered, the others were abandoned, people screamed, fled, the winds tore. The horsemen of King Bran bore down upon him. The drawbridge began to rise. Pooley ripped the stopper from the bottle.

  40

  A beaming face beamed out acr
oss the nation. “This is the London Olympics.”

  Old Pete switched off the television set. “It’s not the same without Anne Diamond,” he complained bitterly. The sound of his letter-flap creaking on its rusty spring drew his attention. “Hello,” said Old Pete, “it’s not Giroday.”

  Upon the unwelcoming mat lay a silver-foil envelope. YOUR PERSONAL INVITATION TO THE BRENTFORD OLYMPICS. “Gold dust,” said Old Pete, pressing it to his lips. “Thirty-carat gold dust.”

  “Gold dust,” said Inspectre Hovis. “At each of the sites where disturbances occurred, and last night it was in the air, on my clothes.”

  Rune sat over a bowl of Tibetan muesli. The mess-room of the Brentford nick was crowded with bandaged officers hunched over their breakfasts. “The alchemist’s quest,” said Rune. “Pure gold. It is a powerful instrument in any hands.”

  “Whoever is at the bottom of this is taking the piss,” said Hovis, applying himself to his cornflakes. “Having a pop at me personally.”

  “I don’t like to say I told you so,” said Hugo Rune. “Well, actually I do, as it happens.”

  “A bulldozer,” spluttered Hovis, spraying the magus with half-masticated flakes of golden corn. “A bulldozer wouldn’t go through the wire. I’ve got six police vehicles smashed to a pulp, a dozen officers banged up in the Cottage Hospital, my reputation, for what it was, is in tatters. My job will be on the line for this.”

  “To offer you my sympathy would be as futile as it would be fallacious. You wasted your opportunity.” Rune brushed cornflakes from his shoulders. “Your man was distracted, I could sense it. It will be more difficult now.”

  “Don’t even think about raising your fee,” said Hovis.

  “You must do it my way, Inspectre. It will take a few days. Keep the gasometer under constant surveillance, arrest anyone who attempts to leave it. Other than for that, bide your time and wait for me to give you the word.”

  Hovis pushed his breakfast bowl aside and took to the contents of his cane, pecking a hearty blend of Moroccan Black cut with cocaine in his left nostril. “If you cross me, Rune,” he said, “I will have your wedding tackle for cufflinks.”

  “I am Hugo Rune,” said Hugo Rune. “Lord of the seven spheres. Master of the cosmic consciousness, Laird of Cockpen and hereditary heir to the Grand Mastership of the Golden Dawn. I think therefore I’m right.”

  “You’d better be.” Hovis looked up towards the magus, but the chair was empty. Hugo Rune had gone.

  Professor Slocombe nudged the sleeper on his chaise-longue with a slippered toe. “Wake up, Jim, I want you to look at something.”

  Pooley rubbed at his eyes and creaked upright. “I don’t remember dropping off,” said he, stretching his arms and yawning hugely. Suddenly he jerked into realization. “Blimey,” he gasped. “Last night. All that.” He gaped at the study. It was as it ever had been, confusing, but in order. “Did I dream it, what happened?”

  “You saved our lives, Jim.”

  “Really? But I wasn’t here, something happened, I was somewhere else.”

  “I know, and now I begin to understand.”

  “Has he gone?” Jim stared about fearfully. “Is he — is it — dead?”

  “Not yet, I regret.”

  “Oh God,” said Pooley. “Then we can expect more of the same.”

  “Or worse, I suspect. But come, I want to show you something.” The Professor led Jim to his desk where a beautiful Victorian brass microscope stood. “Have a look in here.” He indicated the eye-piece.

  Jim took a peep. “Bloody hell!” he swore, leaping back. “It’s alive in there.”

  “Indeed, very much so. What did you see?”

  “Little things, buzzing about like crazy, they looked …”

  “Yes?”

  “Angry,” said Jim, “Very angry.”

  “And so they are. They are the very stuff of our friend Kaleton.”

  “Friend?”

  “My apologies, the word is most inappropriate. They are, if you like, a portion of his very essence. The silver flask drew in a quantity of his substance. He left in some confusion before it could take more, but what we have is sufficient.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “It means that the non-man Kaleton is a ‘Grex’. A large body of separate organisms which when grouped together form the semblance of something else, either for camouflage or defence. Certain bacteria have the ability to do this when faced with starvation. They pass a message through a chain of single cells, amalgamate into a larger form and refunction in a different manner. They lose their individuality in the cause of mass survival.”

  “It’s a bit early for me,” said Jim.

  “Then look upon it as a microcosm of human society. A single naked individual could not survive, but in harmony, in rapport with the whole, protected and fed by the whole, he or she is able to function, to exist. Kinship, harmony, team spirit, that is loosely how society maintains its equilibrium. As a single body.”

  “Hm,” said Jim. “It’s not the same. We may be part of the whole en masse, but we are each individuals, not one big homogenous blob. It doesn’t compute.”

  “Oh, it does. It may be impossible to predict what a single individual will do, but one can predict with absolute accuracy what, say, a million people will do at any given time. They will get up at a certain hour, go to work at a certain hour, take lunch at a certain hour.”

  “Yes, I get the picture,” said Jim, “although I don’t like it. Every man is an island, I am not a number, I am a free man, that kind of stuff.”

  “No-one could ever doubt that you are an individual, Jim.”

  Pooley chewed upon the Professor’s words that might have been a compliment. If it was, he meant to savour it, he didn’t get them that often. “What about this Soul of the World stuff?” he said presently.

  “It is an ancient belief,” said Professor Slocombe, “universal as the Flood legend. The Buddhists believe in Rigdenjypo, king of the world, who dwells at the very centre of the planet in Shamballa, capital city of earth. All religions, past and present, have recognized a single Divine Creator, a God of the gods. Kaleton does not claim to be the universal deity, he claims to be the very spirit of this planet. Soul of the World made flesh.”

  “And do you believe his claims?”

  “No,” said the Professor, “I cannot. I dare not. His case is well argued, mankind has much to answer for, but there are too many contradictions. To quote an old chess-playing chum, and putting it crudely, ‘If the earth seeks to lose man, it has merely to fart.’”

  “Well, whoever, or whatever he is, he means business.”

  “Perk up, Jim, we’re not beaten yet.”

  Pooley stroked his jaw. “Something he said struck a chord, I’m trying to think what it was.” Professor Slocombe jiggled Pooley’s brain cells with an unspoken word. “Ah yes,” said Jim, “I remember. About the stadium, two feet in the water and three upon the land.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the old rhyme, ‘The Ballad of the Two Kings of Brentford’, you remember?”

  “Tell me.”

  “‘There live two kings of Brentford

  Who fought for a single throne.

  One lives in a tower of iron

  and one in a tower of stone.’”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s a verse that goes,

  ‘And a black star rose above them

  A sword in every hand.

  Two feet upon the water

  And three upon the land.’

  That’s it.”

  “There’s more,” said the Professor, “can you recall?”

  “No,” said Jim, “my brain is gone. Something about a final battle and a ‘heart of burning gold’, but I can’t remember it.”

  “Never mind, you have done very well. Two feet in the water and three on the land, the black star, that is clear enough.”

  “I’m starving,” said Jim.

  “Then I s
hall ring for breakfast.”

  “Is it on the tariff or on the house?” asked Jim who, despite evidence to the contrary, was still nobody’s fool.

  “On the house,” said the Professor. “You have certainly earned it.” He rang a small brass bell and Gammon appeared almost upon the instant, tray in hand. “You know what this means?” the Professor asked as Pooley set about the morning’s fry-up.

  “Go on,” said Pooley, between munchings.

  “It means that we must enter the stadium, the heart of it all lies right up there.”

  “It will be a long hard climb.”

  “An impossible climb, defended at every inch, I shouldn’t wonder, but you’ll find a way.”

  “Me?” Pooley choked upon his toast.

  “Oh yes,” said the Professor. “I am confident that you will come up with something.” Then you are a fool to yourself, thought Jim. “Oh no I’m not,” said Professor Slocombe.

  41

  At a little after eleven, Pooley stood in the Professor’s garden, breathing fresh air and pointedly ignoring the weeds which sprouted on the west lawn. The invisible barrier was down, which seemed a hopeful sign, and the sky was blue. At least Jim assumed it to be blue, for looking up, he remembered that what he was actually seeing was the image projected by the underside of the great stadium. The black star which rose above them. Jim shrugged away the chill which crept up his back, put his best foot forward and strode down to the Swan. “The condemned man enjoyed a hearty pint” being the order of the day.

  To Jim’s amazement, the bar was already quite crowded, the piano was playing and Neville was going hell for leather behind the pump. The part-time barman spied Pooley’s approach as did a shabby-looking man in a greasy brown trilby, who cowered behind his newspaper.

  “Well, well,” said Neville, “the wanderer returns.”

  “Watchamate, Neville,” said the dejected Jim, “and a pint of Large, please.”