by Rhys Hughes
Neither of us were unconscious for very long. When I came to, I was slumped in the back of the phantom policeman’s car. Olaf was sitting next to me, moaning at infrequent intervals. We both wore handcuffs made of some spongy substance and covered in occult symbols. We were speeding down the country lanes; but somehow the landscape no longer looked like the Yorkshire I knew.
The phantom policeman noticed I was awake and sneered at me in the driving-mirror. “Resisting arrest, assaulting an officer of the law. Few more heinous offences. I reckon the Judge will give you the big one for that, black cap and whatnot.”
I rasped. “What are you wittering on about? Capital punishment was abolished decades ago!”
“Not in the Ghost-Provinces, it wasn’t.”
I turned to Olaf, but all I could get out of him—between pitiful moans—were disjointed phrases: “Remarkable Bean, cat named Franco, I’ll bet.” I shook him and he seemed to revert to his old form. His mind had plainly snapped under the strain. “Wait till Thor hears about this! He’ll be furious!”
The policeman smirked. “Your friend hasn’t bothered to keep up the deception. I’ve listened to his babble. He’s a phantom-driver all right. I’ve just radioed my colleagues. They say you’ve been spotted all over the land, haunting humans. I wasn’t killed yesterday! You’re a phantom hitcher! What have you got to say to that?”
There were a great many things I wanted to say. I contented myself with a few of the basics: “Where are we going?”
“Phantomsville. You’ll like the prison we’ve got there, it lies in a cavern four thousand miles beneath the surface of the earth. Warm as toast, so I’ve heard. I envisage a swift trial and a promotion for me, and then you’ll be put on Reanimation Row.”
“Reanimation Row? What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, it involves large amounts of electricity. Some clotted-heart liberals disagree with the life-sentence. After they’ve heard the details of your case, they’ll be won round. Haunting without a licence! Striking an officer! I reckon your friend here will get off on mental grounds. He’ll plead disseminated responsibility or some such thing. I think you led him on.”
I closed my mouth and we completed the journey in silence. I won’t say anything about Phantomsville or the trial. My defence lawyer was useless. The odds were weighted against me from the beginning: hitchers are despised as layabouts and shirkers. I cried when the sentence was announced. Olaf claimed that I’d forced him to drive into the field and consume vast quantities of alcohol. He’s in a secure psychiatric unit now, receiving the latest centrifugal treatment.
As for myself, well I’ve just finished a final meal of kippers and grapefruit. Sprinkled liberally with pepper. As a last request, I asked for pencil and paper, to set down my experiences. That’s what I’m doing now. The exorcist will be coming soon, to intone me to the Chair. I’ve been listening to the screams of the reanimated all week. I don’t intend going meekly; I’m going to make an escape attempt. The walls are four thousand miles thick, and no ghost can be expected to travel so far through solid matter without stripping away all its etheric particles. It’s much more dangerous for a human being, who may become embedded at any point throughout the journey.
But I’m no fool. I’ve read plenty of French novels. I hope to break into other, natural caverns, where I can dine on Plesiosaurus cutlets or the flesh of sequoia-sized mushrooms. Maybe I’ll emerge through Mount Etna. If I make it, I promise to publish my account. It’s time something new was added to folklore. You all know the legend of the phantom hitch-hiker. But I bet you don’t know the story of how he was picked up by the phantom driver and arrested by the phantom traffic-cop.
The Marsh Callow
The marsh is surrounded by the city. Or rather four separate towns have edged up to it and linked houses, enclosing it in a square. Once these towns were poor and occupied by sensible people. Success forced them to grow, to expand toward the marsh. Huffton, Knettle, Glib and Monkbreath they were called. Then the individual councils merged and chose a new name: Huknibonk-on-Stench.
As warden of the marsh, Cassie was more familiar with its moods than anyone else. She knew the safe paths between the quicksands and slimepools. With a coracle on her back as an extra precaution, she could cross from one side to another on the darkest night. The routes were complex and involved many twists and turns, some of which almost took her back to where she had started from.
Originally it had been her job to save travellers from drowning. She would set off on her stilts, under the moon, her listening trumpet held to one ear, seeking the source of the cries for help. She had rescued dozens of lost men. But now there were no travellers who came this way. It was impossible to enter the marsh without first arriving in the city, and crossing it only led to another part of the same city.
But Cassie made a modest income by guiding groups of tourists on will-o’-the-wisp excursions. Most of the buildings which bordered the marsh turned their backs on it, preferring to face the streets and the endless carnivals which danced on the cobbles. But of the few which did look out over the bubbling expanse of soft ground, an even smaller number boasted balconies and isolated pairs of lovers leaning on the railings and wondering.
The perimeter of the marsh twinkled with lamps, amber and gold, and throbbed with gentle music and muted revelry, but the square itself was illuminated by sinuous vapours, pale radiances which glided back and forth in mysterious patterns, rising briefly into vapid columns, collapsing again and often winking out altogether. And the lovers would ask why these dances were so sombre and wan. And they would feel envy.
Then they would talk among themselves and somebody would recommend Cassie, and in the morning they would seek her and offer a few coins for her services. She would promise to lead them out for a closer look. Usually they were satisfied. The wills-o’-the-wisp appeared and revolved around them, and Cassie would hold back anyone tempted to follow them off the path.
So it went for several years, until the time the greater council decided to reduce the size of the city. Every house in Huknibonk-on-Stench received an official leaflet, printed on cheap paper and slid under the door. The surplus were dumped in the streets or impaled on railings and left to shrivel in the wind. But few people spoke of this project, for it was too sober to engage their interest and had nothing to do with music and dancing.
Cassie read her leaflet and her heart felt light with joy. If the city was going to be shrunk, houses would have to be demolished. Perhaps the perimeter of the square which imprisoned the marsh would be split apart and it would be free again. And travellers would once more have to cross it from one newly independent town to another. And they would become lost, as in the old days.
Her livelihood was secured, or so she thought. In fact, the council had no intention of reverting to the four towns. For sure, they were going to diminish the total area of the city, but not by knocking down any buildings.
One late afternoon, Cassie received a visit from a man with a tall hat. His dark glasses had faded with the spittle of his victims. He introduced himself as the Bailiff.
“I’ve come for your coracle, stilts and listening trumpet,” he said, as he stood in the communal passage which led to the door of her rented room, “for you must soon lose your job and fall into debt.”
“But I refuse to give them up!” she replied in astonishment.
“It’s the law, my dear,” he crooned.
“I pay my rent. I’m solvent, aren’t I?”
He nodded his head and although the ceiling was very high, the crown of his hat struck the bare bulb dangling on its wire and set it swinging shadows over the walls and the tiny teeth of his smile.
“At the moment you are. But not for long. Isn’t it kinder to have the unpleasant business done away with as quickly as possible? Why wait until the final moment? You wouldn’t really benefit from a reprieve. And there are only a few more months left. Don’t you agree?”
It was clear he enjoyed his job, despite his apolo
getic shrug. But Cassie had kept a copy of the leaflet folded in a pocket and now she presented it to him. He removed his dark glasses and winked alternate eyes as he pretended to read it.
“Surely this means the marsh has been saved?” she asked.
“That’s precisely what it doesn’t mean. You are holding the warrant of your redundancy. The misunderstanding has been simple but huge. The council will never dismantle a single building in our beloved city. No, they plan to reduce its total area by forcing the four towns even closer together until there are no gaps between them. Already hydraulic jacks have been positioned on the outskirts. They will push from every side until the marsh has been closed up.”
He beckoned for her to kneel and lower her ear to the floor. A distant rumble confirmed his words. The streets were sliding together, interlocking and compressing the marsh to nothing.
“It’s true!” she wailed. “I’m finished!”
The Bailiff touched her arm with his long fingers. “I’m sorry you thought otherwise. The marsh, you see, is a source of disease. It is unhealthy. And this is a city of revels and soft lights. We wish to be infested only with galas. We hope to limit infections to the rhythms of drums. Besides, it will make dancing a complete circuit less taxing on the old and feeble.”
“Then you have won and I must surrender the specified items.”
He followed her into her room, hesitating before he crossed the threshold, as if this action held some fear for him. He finally removed his hat and held it in the crook of one arm. Inverted, it was like a stiff sack waiting to be filled. “Your actual future debts may be larger than the combined value of a coracle, pair of stilts and listening trumpet. Do you have any other possessions? If so, kindly deposit them in here. If they are too large to fit, don’t bend them. The auction houses are very fussy.”
“This is all I own. The sum of my worldly goods.”
He sighed. “Are you quite sure? Oh dear! When you lose your job, you will have to borrow money to buy food. Without security for the loan, the interest will be excessive. Already you are in impending arrears!”
Cassie stifled a sob. “There is one thing.”
“Yes?” he prompted, as he shook his empty hat at her.
“Well, until the project is finished, I can still ply my trade. Before the city closes up, the marsh still exists for me to visit and guide tourists across. Each expedition has a price. What if I give you a free tour? The end result will be a profit for the council.”
He licked his lips as he considered this. “Now?”
“Why not? The sun is just setting. The wills-o’-the-wisp will be igniting over the stagnant pools. What better time to view them?”
His eyes twinkled with delight, so he replaced his dark glasses. “I’m glad you have adopted this attitude. So many of my clients are determined to be unhelpful. Sometimes they even spit in my face! It does them no favours. There is no point arguing with the law. You may borrow your equipment back for the duration of this trip.”
She ushered him out. “Come!”
They walked through the passage to the rear of the house. The back door, seldom used by any tenant other than Cassie, opened directly onto the marsh. And now she saw that the marsh was indeed smaller, only by a few square feet, but the difference was threatening. The lamps in the windows on the opposite bank were a fraction brighter. She took the Bailiff by the hand and led him down the invisible path.
All around them, the lakes and pocket lagoons boiled and seethed. She stepped lightly on the firmer ground, long experience and acute senses helping to keep her on course. His dark glasses gleamed as he stumbled in her wake. Sometimes they trod on thickly-woven carpets of rotting weeds which sagged under their weight. Frequently they hopped on stones isolated in lapping pools of visible stink. By a route so circuitous it resembled the intestines of a mandala, they approached the exact centre of the marsh.
She paused on a low oval mound, bubbles of methane rolling up from the bog and bursting on her shoes. “We must wait for them to appear. Be patient. They rarely fail to show themselves.”
He stood next to her and leered. “Look!”
Directly in front of them, a dozen columns of cold fire suddenly ignited. They glided and span slowly. Occasionally they leaned like drunkards. This dance was old and stately, a saraband with its own enigmatic rules. The Bailiff gasped, but Cassie was too familiar with the spectacle to share his surprise. What really intrigued her was the close proximity of each burning vortex to its fellows. Never had she seen them so densely gathered together in one pool.
“This trip is worth a week’s rent,” hissed the Bailiff.
Cassie replied: “I’ve just remembered something. I am still warden of the marsh. Thus in a sense I own its contents. These phantoms may also be counted among my possessions. Why not collect them in your hat?”
He turned to regard her with a smile so full of malice it trickled over his lips and cut grooves in his chin. “Nice try, but I’m much harder to trick than that. It’s well known that the main purpose of a will-o’-the-wisp is to mislead travellers to their dooms. If I step forward to catch them I shall obviously drown in the mire. They belong to me, true, but I can’t claim them.”
“Why not? You have all the necessary equipment.”
He frowned and tugged his nose. “Do I?”
“Of course. Your coracle, stilts and listening trumpet which I have carried here for you. What better time to use them?”
“Ah yes, they are mine. You are right. And they will allow me to chase these sprites without fear of wandering off the paths. I don’t require operating instructions. Because they are mine, I must already know how they work. Pass them to me, girl.”
Cassie did so. The last she saw of the Bailiff was a figure splashing deeper into the miniature lagoons, tottering on his stilts, the coracle slung over his back, holding the listening trumpet to an ear, swiping with the open end of his hat at the dancing pillars. But they kept just out of range, leading him further into the night, mocking his frantic efforts to trap them. Now the surface of the water was almost up to the footholds of the stilts and he looked like a will-o’-the-wisp himself, striding over the bursting bubbles, but one which has died or gone rotten. She turned away.
Within the hour she was back at the rear exit of her house. She did not glance over her shoulder as she opened the door and stepped inside. The passage was quiet. She entered her room and sat on her small bed. Then she curled up on the bare mattress and fell asleep. Even in her dreams she was vaguely aware of the tiny motion of the room, the house and street grinding toward their reciprocal elements on the opposite bank of the marsh. It was a relentless movement, inch by inch. But the revellers who still capered outside attributed the slide to consumption of spiced wine.
The following morning, she went about her usual business, seeking tourists to take on the marsh. Without her coracle, she felt naked, for that had been her safeguard if she ever lost the path. It was autumn and the garb of the inhabitants had turned orange and russet, to match the lamps in high windows. The songs also grew cooler, darker, and the masks of the dancers were plastered with leaves or carved from giant fruits. There was a chill wind on certain corners. And Huknibonk-on-Stench hosted bonfires in its larger public squares.
When she had gathered enough people for a tour, she arranged to meet them that night at her house. The day passed slowly. Then they came and she led them through the passage and out of the rear door. She half expected to cross paths again with the Bailiff as she set off, but he was not there. She took them to the mound at the centre and they waited for the apparitions. This time the wills-o’-the-wisp were even closer together and fewer in number, but taller. She felt they were brighter, not in light but intelligence.
Something strange was happening to these phantoms of the mire. On subsequent nights, the change became more pronounced. There were fewer individuals, but more densely grouped, and higher, towering far above her, so tall that if they had legs and she her stilts,
she still would not be able to reach their knees. And their movements became more complex, the pattern of the saraband more elaborate. Whether these developments were disturbing or not was a question she could not answer. But her clients did not worry, for they suspected nothing amiss.
Now autumn was dying and the city was in uproar. There was talk of scandal on every tongue, and the drummers and mummers and puppeteers worked the gossip into their routines. Because the fuss was difficult to analyse from watching performers in the street, Cassie bought a newspaper. After the listings of carnival events, reviews of galas already gone, advertisements for costume shops, vintners and guitar lessons, there was a political story. She read it twice and tried to work out whether it meant she was in more trouble.
A council official searching for the Bailiff had discovered him living in a brothel on the other side of the city. Naturally questions had been asked. It was outrageous behaviour for a man committed to the balance of material order. For the rules clearly stated that officials of the highest rank were exempt from the law of mandatory enjoyment. The Bailiff had been interrogated more precisely in a council dungeon, but he remained at a loss to account for his actions. He absurdly claimed that the brothel was his own house, the address he had always resided at. He was dismissed from his post without wages. His career was finished. He had been destroyed.
Cassie felt satisfaction at this news, but an equal amount of trepidation. She had assumed the wills-o’-the-wisp had led him to a drowning. How had he escaped the marsh? And why had he not bothered her since? She wondered if the council would appoint a new Bailiff. She hoped they were too inefficient to do that, at least before the marsh had closed completely. The final part of this thought depressed her again. She considered visiting the city outskirts, but she knew the hydraulic jacks would be too powerful to sabotage.
The marsh was now only half the area it had been when the four towns first came together. Her options were limited to continuing her life as if nothing had altered. At least the tours were becoming shorter in length and duration, though she felt a mounting pressure to lower her prices accordingly. As the marsh shrank, so the mystery was reduced, until she found it almost impossible to gather more than eight or nine tourists willing to make the trip. Before winter came, plating the pools with coatings of ice and frost, there would be no work left.