Stories From a Lost Anthology

by Rhys Hughes

  Almost but not quite. The big city was defenceless and he was the hero who had destroyed its warriors. More than this: the womenfolk would still be there, shut away as previously recommended. If he became their liberator, who knows how they might express their gratitude? It wasn’t that he didn’t miss his wife, but grief shouldn’t take over a man’s life to the exclusion of every future happiness. No, a harem is exactly what he needed. And it needed him.

  There was a spring in his step, even before springs were invented, and he reached the suburbs of the big city the following day, ready to break open attics, cellars, chests, baskets, tombs, barrels and whatever else served as a hiding place for the local girls. The narrow streets were dark and quiet, like ditches. Aldo’s intentions were gallant and opportunistic. He whistled an amorous air. Then he remembered that he was a failure at everything.

  He reached the main square of the big city, and the shutters over the windows on the houses were flapping and slamming in the wind, applauding his arrival. Or were laughing at him? Tiny breezes down each cramped street converged here and swirled into a major storm. Beyond the square, just visible through gaps in the buildings, glittered a river, and over it gleamed a bridge, and next to it cooled a quay in its own shadow, and moored alongside the damp heavy mossy stones, a ship creaked.

  Disappointment cracked in Aldo’s heart like a sail, and churned in his stomach like a bank of oars. Then he bowed to his wife and neighbours, who stood in the middle of the square, and said:

  “My apologies for arriving so late. Have you settled in yet?”

  “Just so,” replied his wife, and then she helped him escape his condition of abject curiosity by asking: “What happened to us?”

  Aldo appreciated this tender gesture and saved her the bother of answering her own question by babbling: “Perhaps you escaped the small town before it was invaded by lowering yourselves in a bucket down the well in the cellar of the tavern? You had been planning this ruse ever since the pit was uncovered, but you deliberately kept it secret from me because you feared my efforts to help would spoil it.”

  She smiled at her husband and slotted her mouth into his pause: “Did we really? Yes indeed! The original plan was simply to hide, crouching in the enormous bucket and descending to the bottom. A risk, to be sure, for if the stratagem was discovered a single swipe from a cutlass would sever the rope and leave us stranded down there. But we reckoned the gamble was worth it.”

  Aldo sighed. “On the morning of the attack, when you woke to rouse me and lead me to the cellar, I still hadn’t come back. Because you kept the plan secret, I continued trying to sabotage the bridge.”

  “Yes, you were missing, so we proceeded without you. Some of us conducted a search, but we assumed you had fled the town, breaking your former vow. There were many curses directed against you for that, but clearly we were too hasty, and you were merely out of sight under the bridge, balancing on the beams.”

  “And then you all crowded into the bucket, and what a large one it must have been! You let it down into the darkness until it touched the bottom. But once there, it became irrelevant whether the rope was cut or not. Why is that? What did you discover down there? Was it a door?”

  She nodded. “In the side of the well. It led through the cliff to a cave which opened out onto a bank of the raging stream. We were standing at the base of the ravine! White foam splashed my thighs. Don’t be jealous! We were safe from invaders, but how were we going to cross this raging torrent? When we made the attempt, linking arms for safety, we were all knocked off our feet by the surge and washed downstream over the boulders.”

  Aldo spluttered with excitement, or else his mouth was acting out the scene. “What next? Ah, I suspect the bridge broke at that moment, as the invaders rode back out of the town in frustration. They plummeted down and were impaled on the jagged rocks!”

  “The bodies dammed the river. The force of the current was lessened and none of us drowned. But as we continued to drift, gently now, we clung to the wooden fragments of the bridge. I had a whole plank to myself. We were bored holding on like that, chatting about the weather and other trivia, or maybe it was an instinct passed down the generations from long ago, but we began to weave these separate pieces together as we bobbed along.”

  “That reminds me of something that happened in a previous legend. But let me finish. The further you drifted, the wider grew the river and the more you wove, so the vessel became bigger and bigger. You started with a raft, and this expanded into a barge, which turned into a ketch, and that in turn became a schooner.”

  “By the time we reached the mouth of the river and the open sea, we had converted the entire bridge into a galleon.”

  Aldo returned his gaze to the quay. “A warship?”

  “A bridge spans empty air; a ship crosses bursting sea. There were flying fish and dolphins. We sailed along the coast, hoisting a seaweed flag: the colours of our town. We ventured up this river into the heart of the big city. To be honest, we were lost and stopped to ask for directions. But the place was silent. The men had departed to kill us and were already dead, and the women were shut away. But the houses were so frightened by our arrival that all the locks on the doors of every secret hiding place shattered and they came pouring out. That’s how the city surrendered to us.”

  “So now we rule? The big city has become our small town on a larger scale?”

  She touched his arm. “No, Aldo. We intend to establish a democracy, a system of government which hasn’t been invented yet. It won’t be easy to implement, because we have no idea how it’s supposed to work. But we are resolved to create two political parties, one which commands and one in opposition. Every few years, the populace will choose between them in a general election.”

  “But the citizenry consists entirely of females! This will entail giving women the vote, whatever that means!”

  “Yes, although we are the conquerors we shan’t keep our vanquished enemies as slaves in the traditional, obvious manner. We’ll just pretend to give them their freedom through enfranchisement and let them vote us into power of their own free will. That should reduce any rebellious tensions. I shall be the leader of one party, assisted by the other villagers; and you shall lead the other, on your own!”

  “I’m flattered by your trust in me. I shouldn’t be, of course, because there’s bound to be a catch. By the way, where are the local girls?”

  “At the polling booths this very moment, electing a new government. My party, in other words!”

  “But what if I win instead?”

  “You won’t. You’re guaranteed to lose. That’s why we chose you for our official opposition—because you’re no good at anything. By opposing us you will actually help us to win every time there’s an election.”

  “And that’s called democracy, is it?”

  She took his arm. “Certainly is. Now let’s go and witness the result. I’m quite looking forward to my first term in corruption—I mean office.”

  “What’s an office, I wonder?”

  “A room in a building with more than two levels.”

  He was shocked. “Impossible!” But he allowed his wife to lead him out of the square in exactly the same way she intended to lead her party, city, province, island, empire—at her own pace. The sky wasn’t the limit, because in those days it was assumed the heavens weren’t much higher than the tallest peak in the Gennargentu range, which happens to be Punta La Mármora, where I stubbed my toe. No, the limit was the extra horizon which lay beyond the real horizon, apparently not visible until you actually reached the latter. But it must exist, else where did the carpenter come from on his asparagus raft?

  As they walked, Aldo mused aloud: “I wonder if he did dally with the ladies of our village all those centuries ago? I mean, how did they pay for such an elegant bridge? We have always been too poor.”

  She nodded. “More than likely. After all, we are the only women on the island who don’t need to be kissed first.”


  “Yes,” said Aldo. “You have never seen my tongue.”

  “I don’t intend starting now!”

  Ahead, there was bunting strung across the streets between houses, and little flags, and music, cakes and wine, all the appliances of a political victory. As the mood slapped his face, Aldo added: “If the legendary carpenter really did enjoy those hypothetical amours, maybe we are all his descendants? If so, his competence should run in our blood.”

  His wife stopped and turned to gaze into his eyes. “But he always made sure there was a single flaw in his work.”

  “I don’t understand the significance of that!”

  Poor Aldo never realised he was the factor which prevented an insult rising to perfection. It hardly matters. The rest of the tale doesn’t exist, so neither do his subsequent troubles, if he had any. I prefer to believe he was happy in his innocence. High in the Gennargentu Mountains there is probably a community of toads, left behind by an army on an inaccessible crag. Maybe they know the missing details. Mind you, if they have always been stuck there, they can’t.

  It has been said that when such a story is passed between mouths any lies inside it will rub off on the teeth. If the tale is a complete fabrication, the stain might even be visible from a distance, like a morsel of food lodged in a cavity. On the other hand, if it’s utterly true, the teeth of its teller will be clean and bright. I have absolutely no intention of curling back my lips to show you the colour of my own smile.

  A Languid Elagabalus Of The Tombs

  I am still a priest. Before that I was a teacher. Basic mathematics was my field. Shortly after I qualified, I was dispatched inland to instruct the children of a remote village in the Welsh mountains. The task was an impossibility from the start. My pupils were frightful individuals, pale and stunted and often drooling, as if direct descent from the aboriginal inhabitants of these wilds had compromised both health and reason. Later I learned that the waves of historical invaders, be they Celts or Saxons or Normans, hadn’t penetrated this far, owing to the complete absence of profit to be made from tilling the thin soil, fishing the narrow streams or hunting the impenetrable forests. Which left me with a query: why had the original settlers not moved on?

  Obviously it was because they were incapable of doing so. Migration over difficult terrain is a procedure best performed in daylight and the ancestors of my charges had seemingly grown afraid of the sun, insisting on conducting their business after dusk. This photophobia was hereditary, but whether an unforeseen consequence of inbreeding or evidence for more sinister violations remains to be determined to my satisfaction. However I am inclined to accept the latter theory, particularly with regard to a quirk of methodology demonstrated by my students, who were happy to multiply, divide and subtract numbers from a limitless range of integers and fractions, but who declined to perform addition. Despite my threats, they would not write the plus sign.

  The problem was its shape, of course. It hardly takes a logician to deduce that the cruciform pattern was anathema to these junior vampires. Incidentally, this is a cheap way of filtering the monsters out prior to puberty. I submitted my suggestion to the government, but the response I received was dismissive. I maintain it to be a useful rule that children who can’t do elementary sums belong to that class of bipedal leeches and undead parasites which infest our rural schools. I can’t say whether the situation in the cities is comparable, for I never taught in those. Less than one year after embracing the profession, I resigned from it, having barely escaped with my soul intact. Nor shall I ever return to the Welsh hills. I remain in flatter regions.

  Indeed, the lowlands of the west offered me a gift which I accepted without gratitude: my slightly archaic use of language. It’s normal down here. Safer they may be, but these towns and villages still dawdle after the present century. I won’t claim the locals are primitive. More than a few understand the principles of the internal combustion engine and some are even able to fix their own tractors. It’s a different sort of primal sludge. A culture lagging behind the world instead of diverging from it, which is why there is less mental space for manifestations of paranormal evil. These territories will catch up eventually, unlike the communities of the slopes, which are scarcely human. And in terms of creepy ambience, level vistas are refreshingly dull.

  There are pagan altars in the woods, of course, and bridges owned by the devil, but it isn’t necessary to greet strangers at these places with hasty steps in the opposite direction. The stone and wood integral to erecting such monuments doesn’t harbour evil creatures, at least none so unsubtle as bloodsucking mutants, and no localised aura of menace has yet reduced me to bouts of shrieking. Then I enrolled in Lampeter University. The choice of study was limited to theology. Since 1822, when it was founded by the Bishop of St David’s, the college has sucked up thousands of fearful men and disgorged them as priests. The main portals are grand enough symbols for the lips of this process, and suitably moist with the perpetual rain which sweeps in from the Irish Sea.

  It was there I first heard of Horace Gripp.

  Our tutor of metaphysics gave his standard speech of welcome to the freshmen and watched out for those who listened with signs of agitation. There were seven with twitching eyelids and he gestured for us to remain behind after the oration. Dr Mock was a keen judge of character, for the impatience we had shown was that of eagerness to learn rather than haste to be free of the lesson. The position he held was hereditary and fables concerning student mishaps had been passed down from his predecessors on a paternal knee in front of a hearth. Thus they had etched themselves on his consciousness more deeply than would a more formal telling. His tone was relaxed and avuncular, but there was unease in the way he folded his arms and leaned forward. He hissed:

  “The university is a dangerous place for an undergraduate, and many avoidable tragedies have stained the cobbles of our cloisters, the tiles of the corridors and the varnished boards of your rooms. There have been examples of drunkenness, opium, barratry, insolence, neurosis, cynicism, socialism, theft, dancing, murder, even girls. But such disasters aren’t the ones to fret about, for we have long experience in dealing with them and there are recognised procedures for their expiation. They are mostly products of laziness and geolatry, the unconscious worship of this world and its rudimentary pleasures. Far worse are sins of perverted wisdom. I won’t worry about the other students. Because they betrayed boredom or confusion during the lecture, they are safe.”

  He rocked on his heels and looked ancient as he added: “But in your case I sense potential trouble of a kind which no mortal law can punish. You are keen, almost desperate, to become metaphysicians. Yet this isn’t necessarily a pure ambition. There are pitfalls beyond your imagination. Permit me to illustrate my meaning, which is also a warning, by relating the awful history of Horace Gripp.”

  Which he did, in the following manner:

  He had been a student here several generations earlier, returning with a conscience from the shortest official war ever. That conflict, forgotten almost as utterly then as today, took place in Zanzibar, when the ruling Sultan resolved to defy the mighty British Empire by neglecting to renounce his throne on the request of a Royal Naval squadron. This difference of view on the proper sovereignty of the island escalated into military conflict at 9:00 a.m. on 27th August, 1896. The Sultan, Seyyid Khalid bin Bargash by name, held out until 9:45, same morning. The artillery bombardment by itself was enough to secure a surrender. A dozen buildings were flattened, including a warehouse full of cloves. Smashed to powder, this spice blew in clouds above the bay.

  Horace was a sailor on one of the gunboats.

  It wasn’t the actual battle which affected him so strongly, but the reaction of one of his shipmates, Billy, who inhaled too deeply as he leaned on the rails to observe the rout with a spyglass. His nostrils were plugged with the pungent dust and then cleared themselves with a violent sneeze. The explanation for his subsequent behaviour was that this explosion had damaged his brain
, for during the victory celebrations he began acting in a manner unbecoming to a British serviceman. He bewailed imperialism and the exploitation of natives. Horace helped him to his bed and was astonished when the fellow requested a box of snuff. He shrugged away the plea with reference to the importance of nasal health and turned to leave. Then he heard a second sneeze, much louder than the first.

  The madman had stuffed his nose with gunpowder and passed a lighted match underneath. The mess was excessive. The absurdity of this tragedy, its lack of sufficient reason, disturbed Horace more than he dared admit to his superior officers. But the moment he was discharged from duty, he made his way to Lampeter and began his religious studies. If he hoped to earn peace of mind in these hallowed halls he was quickly disillusioned. His retreat from horror resulted in misleading him further down the path of ultimate darkness into diabolism. I’ll briefly describe how. For ultimate competence in theology, a novice must become closely acquainted not only with official texts of divinity, but also with works opposed to them. One must know the enemy.

  In the highest turret of the college building, a secret library was ready to receive its newest patrons. Shelves cut from the trunks of holy yews reluctantly held rows of heavy books, many of them bound in leather cured not from the skins of mammals but from toads or worms. Only a very few were printed, and even fewer composed in recognisable languages. Many wore huge iron locks whose keys could only be obtained from the tutor of metaphysics, an ancestor of Dr Mock, who rarely obliged. He was Horace’s guide on this tour. But as he showed his new pupils a few of the tamer volumes, a strong enough dose until they had become hardened to noxious influences, he erred in stressing too strongly the importance of infernal learning in helping to define its godly opposite.

  Demonic theory, he stated, shaded the area around good as neatly as a pious hymnal coloured its matter, and thus in the close perusal of an abominable grimoire or goetic codex one might come to a superlative idea of the actual shape of the Almighty. And the staff of Lampeter were bold realists who knew that this negative way of appreciating the Deity was a more interesting one than learning hymns. But it had to be controlled. A student might be tempted outside the shape, into the horrible void. Only the most devout would be allowed to explore beyond the mild shelves. Not even he, the tutor, had ventured to the back, where the worst tomes were able to employ their own pages as tongues and beckon readers by name, if they knew them, like vellum whores.