The Hollow Lands

by Michael Moorcock

  There were not many customers in the restaurant, but those who were there had begun to comment.

  "Shove off, will yer!" said the waiter in a louder voice. "I'll git the peelers on yer…" He had gone quite red in the face.

  Jherek Carnelian ignored him, for he had seen Frank Harris sitting at a small table in the company of a lady of exotic appearance. She wore a bright carmine dress, trimmed with black lace, a black mantilla, and had several silver combs in her raven hair. She was laughing in a rather high-pitched, artificial way at something Mr. Harris had just said.

  "Mr. Harris!" called Jherek Carnelian.

  "Mr. Harris!" Mrs. Underwood said fiercely. Undaunted by the agitated waiters, she began to stalk towards the table. "I should appreciate a word with you, sir!"

  "Oh, my God!" Mr. Harris groaned. "I thought you were still … How? Oh, my God!"

  The lady in carmine turned to see what was happening. Her lips matched her dress. In a rather frigid tone she said: "This lady is a friend of yours, Mr. Harris?"

  He clutched for his companion's hand. "Donna Isobella, I assure you — two people I gave my protection to — um…"

  "Your protection, Mr. Harris, seems worth very little." Mrs. Underwood looked Donna Isobella up and down. "Is this, then, the highly placed person with whom I understood you to be in conference?"

  There came a chorus of complaints from other tables. The waiter seized Jherek Carnelian by the arm. Jherek, mildly surprised, stared down at him. "Yes?"

  "You must leave, sir. I can see now that you are a gentleman — but you are improperly dressed…"

  "It is all I have," said Jherek. "My power rings, you see, are useless here."

  "I don't understand…"

  Kindly, Jherek showed the waiter his remaining rings. "They all have slightly different functions. This one is chiefly used for biological restructuring. This one…"

  "Oh, my God!" said Mr. Harris again.

  A new voice interrupted. It was excited and loud. "There they are! I told you we should find them in this sinkhole of iniquity!"

  Mr. Underwood did not appear to have slept for some time. He still wore the suit Jherek had seen him in the previous night. His hay-coloured hair was still in disarray. His pince-nez clung lopsidedly to his nose.

  Behind Mr. Underwood stood Inspector Springer and his men. They looked a little dazed.

  Several customers got up and called for their hats and coats. Only Mr. Harris and Donna Isobella remained seated. Mr. Harris had his head in his hands. Donna Isobella was staring brightly around her smiling at everyone now. Silver flashed; carmine rustled. She seemed pleased by the interruption.

  "Seize them!" demanded Mr. Underwood.

  "Harold," began Mrs. Underwood, "there has been a terrible mistake! I am not the woman you believe me to be!"

  "To be sure, madam! To be sure!"

  "I mean that I am innocent of the sins with which you charge me, my dear!"

  "Ha!"

  Inspector Springer and his men began to weave their way somewhat warily towards the small group on the far side of the restaurant, while Harold Underwood brought up the rear.

  Mr. Harris was trying to recover his position with Donna Isobella. "My connection with these people is only of the most slender, Donna Isobella."

  "No matter how slender, I wish to meet them," she said. "Introduce us, please, Frank!"

  It was when the Lat brigand-musicians materialized that many of the waiters left with the few customers who had remained.

  Captain Mubbers, his instrument at the ready, stared distractedly around him. The pupils of his single eye began slowly to focus. "Ferkit!" he growled belligerently, at no one in particular. "Kroofrudi!"

  Inspector Springer paused in his stride and stared thoughtfully down at the seven small aliens. With the air of a man who is on the brink of discovering a profound truth, he murmured: "Ho!"

  "Smakfrub, glex mibix cue?" said one of Captain Mubbers' crewmembers. And with his instrument he feinted at Inspector Springer's legs. Evidently they had the same problem, in that their weapons could not work at this distance from their power source, or else the charges had run out.

  The Lat's three pupils crossed alarmingly and then fell apart. He mumbled to himself, turning his back on Inspector Springer. His ears shrugged.

  "The rest of your anarchist gang, eh?" said Inspector Springer. "And even more desperate-looking than the last lot. What's the lingo? Some kind a' Roossian, is it?"

  "They are the Lat," said Jherek. "They must have got caught in the field Nurse set up. Now we do have a paradox. They're space-travellers," he explained to Mrs. Underwood, "from my own time…"

  "Any of you speak English?" enquired Inspector Springer of Captain Mubbers.

  "Hawtyard!" Captain Mubbers growled.

  " 'Ere, I say, steady on!" expostulated Inspector Springer. "Ladies," he said, "at least of sorts, are in the company."

  One of his men, indicating the striped flannel suits which each of the Lat wore, suggested that they might have escaped from prison — for all that the suits resembled pyjamas.

  "Those are not their normal clothes," said Jherek. "Nurse put them into those when…"

  "Nobody arsked you, sir, if you don't mind," said Inspector Springer haughtily. "We'll take your statement in a moment."

  "Those are the ones you must arrest, officer!" insisted Harold Underwood, still shaking with rage. He indicated his wife and Jherek.

  "It's astonishing," said Mrs. Underwood half to herself, "how you can live with someone for such a long time without realizing the heights of passion to which they are capable of rising."

  Inspector Springer reached towards Captain Mubbers. The Lat's bulbous nose seemed to pulse with rage. Captain Mubbers looked up at Inspector Springer and glared. The policeman tried to lay his hand on Captain Mubber's shoulder. Then he withdrew the hand sharply.

  "Eouw!" he exclaimed, nursing the injured limb. "Little beggar bit me!" He turned in desperation to Jherek. "Can you talk their lingo?"

  "I'm afraid not," said Jherek. "Translation pills are only good for one language at a time and currently I am talking and hearing yours…"

  Inspector Springer appeared to dismiss Jherek from his mind for the moment. "The others just vanished," he said, aggrievedly, convinced that someone had deliberately deceived him.

  "They were illusions," Jherek told him. "These are real — space-travellers…"

  Again Inspector Springer made a movement towards Captain Mubbers. "Jillip goff!" Captain Mubbers demanded. And he kicked Inspector Springer sharply in the shins with one of his hoof-like feet.

  "Eouw!" said Inspector Springer again. "All right! Yer arsked fer it!" And his expression became ugly.

  Captain Mubbers pushed aside a table. Silverware clattered to the floor. Two of his crew, their attention drawn to the knives and forks, fell upon their knees and began to gather the implements up, chattering excitedly as if they had just discovered buried treasure.

  "Leave that cutlery alone!" bellowed Inspector Springer. "All right, men! Charge 'em!"

  To a man, the constables produced their truncheons, and were upon the Lat, who fought back with the tableware as well as their powerless instrument-weapons.

  Mr. Jackson came strolling in. There were now no waiters to be seen. He hung up his own hat and coat, taking only a mild interest in the mêlée at the centre of the restaurant, and crossed to where Frank Harris sat moaning softly to himself, Donna Isobella sat clapping her hands and giggling, and Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Underwood stood wondering what to do. Harold Underwood was waving his fists, leaping around the periphery of the fight shouting at Inspector Springer to do his duty (he did not seem to believe that the inspector's duty had much to do with arresting three-foot-high brigand-musicians from a distant galaxy).

  "Good evening to you," said Mr. Jackson affably. He opened a slender gold case and extracted an Egyptian cigarette. Inserting it into a holder, he lit it with a match and, leaning against a pillar, proce
eded to watch the fight. "I thought I'd find you here," he added.

  Jherek was quite enjoying himself. "And I might have guessed that you would come, Jagged. Who would want to miss this?"

  It seemed that none of his friends wished to do so, for now, their costumes blazing and putting to shame the opulence of the Café Royale, the Iron Orchid, the Duke of Queens, Bishop Castle and My Lady Charlotina appeared.

  The Iron Orchid, in particular, was delighted to see her son, but when she spoke he discovered that he could not understand her. Feeling in his pockets, he produced the rest of his translation pills and handed them to the four newcomers. They were quick to realize the situation and each swallowed a pill.

  "I thought at first it was another illusion from your deceptor-gun," the Iron Orchid told him, "but actually we are back in the Dawn Age, are we not, with you?"

  "You are, indeed, tenderest of blooms. You see, I am reunited with Mrs. Underwood."

  "Good evening," said Mrs. Underwood to Jherek's mother in a tone which might have contained a hint of coolness.

  "Good evening, my dear. Your costume is beautiful. It is contemporary, I suppose?" The Iron Orchid turned in a swirl of fiery drapery. "And Jagged is here, too! Greetings to you, languid Lord of Canaria!"

  Mr. Jackson smiled faintly in acknowledgement.

  Bishop Castle gathered his blue gown about him and sat down next to Mr. Harris and Donna Isobella. "I am glad to be out of that wood, at any rate," he said. "Are you residents of this age, or visitors like myself?"

  Donna Isobella beamed at him. "I am from Spain," she said. "I dance. Exotically, you know."

  "How delightful. Are the Lat causing you much trouble?"

  "The little beast-men? Oh, no. They and the police are entertaining themselves quite cheerfully, I think."

  With a shaking hand, Mr. Harris poured himself a large glass of champagne. He did not offer any to the others. He drank rapidly.

  My Lady Charlotina kissed Mrs. Underwood upon the cheek. "Oh, you can scarcely know the excitement you have caused us all, pretty ancestress. But your own age seems not without its diversions!" She went to join Bishop Castle at the table.

  The Duke of Queens was exclaiming with great pleasure about the plush and gilt decor of the restaurant. "I am determined to make one," he announced. "What did you say it was called, Jherek?"

  "The Café Royale."

  "It shall flourish again, five times the size, at the End of Time!" proclaimed the Duke.

  From the middle of the room came muffled cries of "Ferkit!" and "Eouw!" Neither Inspector Springer's team, nor Captain Mubbers', seemed to be getting the upper hand. More tables were turned over.

  The Duke of Queens took careful note of the police uniforms. "Does this happen every evening? Presumably the Lat are a new addition to the programme?"

  "I think the best they've done in the past are drunken revels of the conventional sort," said Mr. Jackson. "Though they are not so very different in essence, I suppose."

  "The Café is well known," Donna Isobella was explaining to an intensely interested Bishop Castle, "for its Bohemian clientele. It is rather less formal than most restaurants of its class."

  There came a queer whizzing noise now and a flash of light which blinded them all, then Brannart Morphail was hanging near the ceiling in a harness of pulsing yellow, with what appeared to be two rapidly spinning discs upon his back, threatening to collide with a large crystal chandelier. His medical boot waved back and forth in an agitated way as he slapped at part of the harness near his shoulder, evidently finding difficulty in controlling the machine.

  "I warned you! I warned you!" he cried from on high. His voice was crackling, improperly modulated, as if he were using an inferior translator. It rose and fell. "All this manipulation of time is creating havoc! No good will come of it! Beware! Beware!"

  Even the police and the Lat paused in their battle to stare up at the apparition.

  Brannart Morphail, with a yell, began to float upon his back, his arms waving, his feet kicking. "It's the damned spacial co-ordinates every time!" he complained. He slapped the harness again and flipped over so that he was staring down at them, floating on his stomach. From the discs, the loud whizzing noise grew higher and more erratic. "Only machine I could get working to come here. Some stupid 95th-century idea of economy! Argh!" And he was on his back again.

  Mr. Underwood had become very suddenly calm. He stood regarding Brannart Morphail through his pince-nez, his face very white, his body rigid. Occasionally his lips moved.

  "It's all your doing. Jherek Carnelian!" One of the discs stopped working altogether and Brannart Morphail began to drift lopsidedly across the ceiling, banging against the chandeliers and making them ring. "You can't make these uncontrolled jaunts here and there through time without causing the most appalling eddies in the megaflow! Look what's happened now. I came to stop you, to warn you — aaah!" The scientist kicked savagely, trying to extricate himself from a velvet pelmet near the window.

  In a low, unsteady voice, Mr. Harris was talking to My Lady Charlotina who was stroking his head. "All my life," he was saying, "I've been accused of telling tall stories. Who's going to believe this one?"

  "Brannart's right, of course," said Mr. Jackson, still leaning comfortably against the pillar. "I wonder if the risks will be worth it?"

  "Risks?" said Jherek, watching as Mrs. Underwood went towards her husband.

  "I can't understand why the Effect has not begun to take place!" complained Brannart Morphail, floating freely again, but still unable to get the second disc working. He noticed Mr. Jackson for the first time. "What's your part in this, Lord Jagged? Something whimsical and cunning, no doubt."

  "My dear Brannart, I assure you…"

  "Bah! Oof!" The disc began to whirl and the scientist was wrenched upwards and to one side. "Neither Jherek nor that woman should still be here — nor should you, Jagged! Go against the Logic of Time and you bring doom to all!"

  "Doom…" murmured Mr. Underwood, unaware that his wife had reached him and was shaking his shoulder.

  "Harold! Speak to me!"

  He turned his head and he was smiling gently. "Doom," he said again. "I should have realized. It is the Apocalypse. Do not worry, my dear, for we shall be saved." He patted her hand. She burst into tears.

  Mr. Jackson approached Jherek who was watching this scene with anxious interest. "I think, perhaps, it would be wise to leave now," said Mr. Jackson.

  "Not without Mrs. Underwood," said Jherek firmly.

  Mr. Jackson sighed and shrugged. "Of course not. Anyway, it is important that you remain together. You are so rare…"

  "Rare?"

  "A figure of speech."

  Mr. Underwood began to sing, oblivious of his wife's tears. He sang in a surprisingly rich tenor voice. "Jesu, lover of my soul./ Let me to thy bosom fly./ While the nearer waters roll,/ While the tempest still is high;/ Hide me, O my Savior, hide,/ Till the storm of life is past;/ Safe into the haven guide/ O receive my soul at last."

  "How lovely!" cried the Iron Orchid. "A primitive ritual, such as the rotted cities recall!"

  "I suspect is it more of a sorcerous summoning," said Bishop Castle, who took a special interest in such ancient customs. "We might even say some sort of holey ghost." He explained kindly to a rapt Donna Isobella: "So-called because they could be seen only imperfectly. They were partly transparent, you know."

  "Aren't we all on such occasions?" said Donna Isobella. She smiled winningly at Bishop Castle who leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

  "Beware!" groaned Brannart Morphail, but they had all lost interest in him. The Lat and the constables had resumed their fight.

  "I must say I like your little century," said the Duke of Queens to Jherek Carnelian. "I can see why you come here."

  Jherek was flattered, in spite of his usual scepticism concerning the Duke's taste. "Thank you, darling Duke. I didn't make it, of course."

  "You discovered it, however. I should like
to come again. Is it all like this?"

  "Oh, no, there's a great deal of variety." He spoke a little vaguely, his eyes on Mr. and Mrs. Underwood. Mrs. Underwood, still weeping, held her husband's hand and joined in the song. "Cover my defenceless head/ With the shadow of thy wing." Her descant was a perfect counter-part to his tenor. Jherek found himself oddly moved. He frowned. "There's leaves, and horses, and sewage farms."

  "How do they grow sewage?"

  "It's too complicated to explain." Jherek was reluctant to admit his ignorance, particularly to his old rival.

  "Perhaps, if you have a moment, you could take me on a short tour of the main features?" suggested the Duke of Queens hesitantly. "I would be extremely grateful, Jherek." He spoke in his most ingratiating voice and Jherek realized that, at long last, the Duke of Queens was acknowledging his superior taste. He smiled condescendingly at the Duke. "Of course," he said, "when I have a moment."

  Mr. Harris had fallen head down onto the tablecloth. He had begun to snore rather violently.

  Jherek took a step or two towards Mrs. Underwood, but then thought better of it. He did not know why he hesitated. Bishop Castle looked up. "Join us, jaunty Jherek, please. After all, you are our host!"

  "Not exactly," said Jherek, but he seated himself on the other side of Donna Isobella.

  The Lat had been driven into the far corner of the Café Royale, but they were putting up a spirited resistance. Not a policeman taking part in the fray was short of at least one bitten hand and bruised shin.

  Jherek found himself unable to pay any attention at all to the conversation at the table. He wondered why Mrs. Underwood wept so copiously as she sang. Mr. Underwood's face, in contrast, was full of joy.