by Rhys Hughes
WORMING THE HARPY
and other Bitter Pills
Rhys Hughes
Tartarus Press
Worming the Harpy and other Bitter Pills
by Rhys Hughes
First published by Tartarus Press, 1995.
This edition published by Tartarus Press, 2011 at
Coverley House, Carlton-in-Coverdale, Leyburn
North Yorkshire, DL8 4AY. UK.
This edition adds ‘The Forest Chapel Bell’, first published in Tales from Tartarus, Tartarus Press, 1995.
All stories copyright © Rhys Hughes.
‘Afterword’ © the Estate of E.F. Bleiler.
This edition copyright © Tartarus Press.
The author and publisher would like to thank
Jim Rockhill and Richard Dalby for their help
in the preparation of this volume.
To my best friend
Adele Whittle
Contents
Cat o’ Nine Tales
Worming the Harpy
The Falling Star
Quasimodulus
The Good News Grimoire
The Forest Chapel Bell
Flintlock Jaw
Velocity Oranges
A Carpet Seldom Found
The Chimney
One Man’s Meat
The Man Who Mistook His Wife’s Hat for the Mad Hatter’s Wife
Cello I Love You
What To Do When the Devil Comes Round For Tea
Arquebus for Harlequin
Éclair de Lune
Grinding the Goblin
Afterword by E.F. Bleiler
Now for worms: what makes a dog run mad but a worm in his tongue? And what should that worm be but a spirit? Is there any reason such small vermin as they are should devour such a vast thing as a ship, or have the teeth to gnaw through iron and wood? No, no, they are spirits, or else it were incredible.
Tullius Hostilius, who took upon him to conjure up Jove by Numa Pompilius’ books, had no sense to quake and tremble at the wagging and shaking of every leaf but that he thought all leaves are full of worms, and those worms are wicked spirits.
Thomas Nashe,
THE TERRORS OF THE NIGHT, 1594
Cat o' Nine Tales
Herodotus, the old grey cat with a mouth full of stories, usually comes into my kitchen in the evenings. I may be sucking soup from a ladle, juggling mangoes, chopping off the tails of mice (good spaghetti is hard to come by these days) but I always have time for him. For Herodotus is not a cat to be trifled with; and when his mouth is full of stories it is wise to let him spit them out. Else he may swallow them and be sick over the lasagne.
Not that anyone would notice. I keep a kitchen so spotlessly dirty that even the drunken pirates and roughnecks who frequent my restaurant are satisfied. They will often remark that my bootlace-and-green-gravy pizza was absolutely disgusting and then pat me on the back for it and throw me a coin encrusted with teeth where other sailors (doubtless scurvy fellows) were foolish enough to test its validity. The teeth I place under my pillow at night; the coins I give to Herodotus. What he does with them is anyone’s guess.
He is indeed an unusual cat. As with most felines, he was born with nine lives, though he has done his best to reduce this number. Sometimes I will baste a vole for him, or grill a dogfish, while he relates his adventures with a slow languid wink in the smoky light of the charcoal ovens. Often we will share a bottle of Chablis or dip our tongues into the sherry syllabub and talk about old times and bewail a world that has changed far too much.
My kitchen is small and dark and its warped wooden timbers are a record of all the meals I have ever prepared. The stains form a pattern that is my history. Spices and sweat, the yellowing effect of turmeric and tears. Through the single grimy window I can glimpse the wan phosphorescence of seaweed-draped ghost ships smuggling illicit spirits between the darkened islands of the bay. Against the walls of my kitchen, I can hear the slap of the harbour waters. And always Herodotus comes, snatching words from an unknown place, to scratch the claws of his life on the itch of my days.
My restaurant is now more popular than ever with the buccaneers and privateers of the port, who sing strange songs as they gorge themselves on my food and empty my beer barrels of their muddy contents. We can always hear their jabbering, even above the hissings and bubblings of my pots and pans. They are slimy scoundrels to a man and woman; swarthy, bristly, leering and jeering rogues, scourges of obscure compass points, bright blue with lewd tattoos. But Herodotus remains unimpressed by such patrons. He merely casts a sardonic eye at their antics through a hole in the door which leads to the eating area. And then he turns back and idly licks a paw.
‘Giovanni,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you sell up and open a new place in the town centre? There are many tourists there, with bulging purses. But these pirates leave abominable tips. And they smell. It is important to plan for the future. . . .’
‘A slow steady business,’ I reply, throwing down my cleaver and mopping my forehead with a pancake. ‘Besides, blackguards make good customers in other ways. Their tastebuds have all been ruined by rum and tobacco. Where else could I serve worm curry with a side order of nettles and not receive complaints?’
At which, Herodotus always shrugs his shoulders and sighs. As far as he is concerned, I am somewhat lacking in ambition. To forestall further chiding, I attempt to change the subject. I say: ‘Tell me about your nine lives and how you lost eight of them. I’ve always wanted to know the details. You’ve made hints and allusions, but those don’t satisfy any more. How exactly did you die each time and what did it feel like?’
Herodotus yawns and leaps up onto the edge of a huge black cauldron suspended over the fire. Hedgehog and red lentil soup boils and seethes. ‘I was about to tell you the story of Tina Wertigo, the gyroscope girl, and her unbalanced liaison with The Mad Twist. In return for her favours he offered her blue rugs, ambergris and onion domes. . . .’
‘Come down from there. You’ll burn yourself!’ I cry. ‘Or at the very least, you’ll singe your tail.’ But Herodotus ignores me and merely yawns once more. He is a stubborn, as well as reckless, sort of cat, which partly explains why he lost eight of his nine lives in such quick succession. ‘Besides, I’d rather hear about you.’
‘Why don’t you keep quiet and listen then?’ Herodotus manages to keep his balance on the lip of the cauldron. ‘If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. But you mustn’t interrupt!’
Now it is my turn to sigh. With remarkable dexterity, I begin to wash and stack the dirty dishes at the sink. They quickly pile into a tower that teeters alarmingly every time I add another piece of crockery. Ten dishes, twenty, thirty. My scrubbing brush flicks soapy water into the furthest corners of the room.
‘I lost my first life in a mangle. I fell into a washtub and was stirred with a wooden pole, lifted out with a pair of tongs and squeezed between the rollers until my yellow eyes popped. That was in the city of Skour, where every day is washday and the people yearn constantly to erase from their souls the blemish of some half-remembered sin. Thus Skour is a city in a constant state of flux, each day stripped of a surface layer of dirt to reveal another city yet more dirty. The mangles were powered by an elaborate system of windmills and once trapped in their jaws there was nothing I could do. What did it feel like? Oh, like the thought of rain on a sunny day . . .’
All this while, I am washing and stacking dishes and the tower is growing taller and taller. I do not doubt the truth of Herodotus’ tales, for I have never known him attempt to deceive me. Indeed, he is usually more restrained than I would like him to be. Adding cups and saucers to my pag
oda of plates, I ask:
‘Wasn’t it more painful than that?’
Herodotus narrows his eyes and stares at me for a long minute. Who can tell what he is thinking? He crouches on the very edge of the black cauldron and his whiskers curl and droop in the clouds of steam that billow from the pot in fitful asthmatic gasps. Swathed in this aromatic mist, he resembles a tired moon sinking slowly into the white madness of a stormy sea.
‘I lost my second life in a mirror. That was in the house of an old lady whose hair was piled up on her head with a selection of multicoloured knitting-needles. Her mirror ran slow; it reflected the distant past as the future stretched out before it. Thus she was able to witness herself as a young girl again, unlined but still unloved, moving with the sure grace of a cloud. In this mirror I saw my own origins, my ultimate demise in the womb of my mother. The reality, it turned out, was nothing more than this. Death had claimed me before life. It felt like a sore thumb without the pain. . . .’
At this, I frown and attempt a wry smile, without success. Such an odd, metaphysical sort of death is quite beyond my understanding. I begin to suspect that Herodotus is falling back on metaphors to express what in all probability was a rather mundane death. ‘You were appalled at the prospect of losing your youth and the shock killed you?’ I suggest. Herodotus blinks and lets loose a dry chuckle, utterly devoid of humour.
‘No, the mirror fell on me. . . .’
Here I shudder, while Herodotus closes his mouth, as evil as a shark’s, and cages the chuckle that had threatened to slip into a huge great guffaw. Abruptly, he raises his tail, curls it round and licks the tip once. When he resumes, he eyes me with a disturbing curiosity, as if he is seeing me for the first time.
‘I lost my third life in a market. This was in the Aching Desert, where nomads mounted on camels vainly attempt to catch swallows and where enormous salamanders vainly attempt to swallow nomads. No sooner had I set foot upon this sandy waste, than my guide, a crafty fellow with a blue turban, turned on me and trussed me up. He carried me across the desert for three days and three nights, his unwound turban trailing behind him like a portable river, until we reached a town whose houses were made out of blocks of salt. There was a market in this town which dealt in camel’s milk cheese, slaves and fur. I was skinned and made into a pair of slippers for the Sultana of Prune. It felt like a short hop on a long pier. . . .’
‘The other way round surely?’ I retort, but Herodotus shakes his head. He knows exactly what he is about, this cat, and resents my need to strike a note of sense on the anvil of his nostalgia.
‘I lost my fourth life in a river. At the top of a cobbled alley in the port town of Ezbyx, I chanced upon a barrel of yoghurt. I licked my way down to the centre and then became stuck. My frantic attempts to free myself toppled the barrel and it rolled, grumbling and bouncing, all the way down the street, faster and faster, over the side of the quay and into the water. It sank instantly, with me inside, and the fish that poked their heads into my watery coffin were astonished to see an old enemy so caught out by his own greed. That one felt like the taste of lemons at dawn; a sour end before a fresh start. . . .’
I refrain from remarking that this was an absurd lack of foresight on his part. I do not wish to upset Herodotus further at this stage. I merely continue to stack dishes, higher and higher and higher.
‘I lost my fifth life in a long fall. In the mighty city of Abarak, home of The Mad Twist, stands the Tower of Unlikely Dimensions. This is a structure so high that those who stand at the very top can see the curvature of the globe. Well, you can guess what happened. I fell and span towards the ground. As I sped past them, people on different levels offered me a stroke or a kind word or a piece of cheese. I eventually died of old age just before striking the ground. It felt like a song played on an untuned piano. . . .’
I lower my head; there is nothing more to say.
‘I lost my sixth and seventh lives at the same instant. While working as a sorcerer’s apprentice, I learnt the secret of protecting myself by magical arts while I slept. I painted mystic symbols on my eyelids that would kill any assassin who looked upon them. One day, the sorcerer left two crystal balls on the table in his chamber. One could show the past; the other could show the future. When I took a furtive look at them, I died twice. One of the crystals showed me fast asleep the previous day; the other showed me fast asleep the following day. So I was slain by my own cunning. It felt like sitting on a chair warmed by another occupant. It felt like a sneeze in a paper bag. . . .’
I puff out my cheeks and mutter to myself. The crockery is piled so high that it nearly touches the ceiling. But I continue to add more and Herodotus continues to perch on the edge of the cauldron, while the soup blows scalding bubbles and the pirates in the restaurant yell and growl. My mutter is a quiet one; a rustle like the sound of leaves spinning through the air or like sand that is being poured over an original idea.
‘I lost my eighth life in a garret. It felt like a criticism of the sun. I moved into a crumbling deserted house and slept right at the very top. This was in a town where all the avenues are treeless but scattered with rose petals. I became a poet, sleeping during the day, as usual, but taking long walks through cemeteries at night. My poems were rejected and I had to pay for their publication myself. Few copies were sold and I began to starve. Naturally, like all good poets, I swallowed a phial of poison and died in my basket. . . .’
At last I have finished. The dishes form a pillar of dripping discs that push against the weight of the ceiling. I am exhausted. I nod to Herodotus and leave the kitchen by the back door. At the jetty, I pause and gaze out to sea, wiping my hands on my filthy apron. I need to breathe some fresh air before turning to my next task.
As I stand, there is a crash and a yowl from the kitchen. I presume that some of the roughnecks must have started a fight. I roll my tired eyes in exasperation and turn around to go back. Herodotus is standing by my feet, hissing and scowling.
‘It was very rude of you to leave,’ he says. ‘I haven’t finished yet. I haven’t told you about how I lost my ninth life.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! How could you have lost that? Cats only have nine. You’d be a ghost now if you had. . . .’
Herodotus does not reply. I peer more closely at him in the gloom. There is something different about him. I cannot fathom it. Finally the truth dawns. I clear my throat nervously.
‘Well?’
‘I lost my ninth life in a kitchen. I used to visit a warty old fool who owned a disgusting restaurant. I told him tales, but he was too much of a dullard to appreciate them. One evening, I was balancing on a cauldron of boiling soup and the imbecile was stacking dishes into an enormous pile. Abruptly, he turned around and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. The vibration knocked the tower of dishes down onto me and I fell into the soup. . . .’
Worming the Harpy
i
His legs are covered in flea bites, but they are both locked away in a little cupboard, side by side like a pair of high boots, so he is not too concerned.
Six clocks strike the midnight hour. Those without clank their chimes like a laborious joke; borne on the breeze together with leaves and brittle moths. Those within tinkle gently, like ice melting in a shook velvet bag.
This ancient town of Umber-Scone, black as a bat, riddled with narrow cobbled streets like holes in a cheese, is a shattered mirror of former urbanity. Houses lean at crazy or jaunty angles, red tiles are moonwashed and broken, the spaces under the protruding lips of gables are dimly lit by multicoloured lamps, rickety wooden stairways lead to musty rooms full of snores and sighs.
There are no snores or sighs where he sleeps. He is incapable of making such sounds; his lungs are worn too thin. He is peaceful now, dragged down in dreams, in hollow conceits. But there is a rustle at the window. He surfaces back into consciousness, like a swimmer in wine, and his throat is dry.
‘Coppelia, my child! Coppelia!’
&nbs
p; ‘What is it, Papa?’ She rushes into his room, candle-lantern held high, hair tumbling over her anaemic face. Her lips are like scissors as she works the night air with her question. ‘What ails you?’
‘There is something at the window, child. Hand me my eyes.’
She opens a small mahogany box that stands on the dressing-table and scoops the two marbled orbs up into her sallow palm. She crosses to her supine father and carefully fits the eyes into his crimson sockets. He blinks thrice, raises his huge head and taps his vision into focus with a sharp knuckle.
‘What is it? What is there?’
‘I see nothing.’ Coppelia moves to the window and lets the halo of her lantern drift through the half-open curtains. There is a groan, a rap and a scratching at the warped glass, a thirsty chuckle that fades and spins away over the rooftops. Outlined on the window is a curious mark. ‘Only the print of a hand,’ she adds.
‘A human hand?’ His voice is urgent.
‘No: the talons of a demon.’
He shakes his dour head. ‘This troubles me, my child. Bring me my nose that I might smell my fear and my brows that I might knit them.’ He chews his bottom lip impatiently and oil trickles down his chin.
‘Troubled Papa? That is unlike you.’ Coppelia fumbles with the nose and misses a thread as she screws it down. But he shrugs off her attempts to adjust the ivory object, and hastily blows it on the green sleeve of his nightgown. Coppelia studies his face. ‘You have not been troubled since your accident. Shall I summon the Militia?’
‘My accident? So many years ago! But I am more responsible now than I was then. Do not summon the Militia. You would be arrested for tampering with the laws of nature. Let us say nothing and count our blessings. At least I no longer grow old, my child.’