The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Oh,’ said Darwin, and he stopped.

  ‘Why the oh-ing?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Look at the statues,’ Darwin said, and Jack looked up at the statues.

  The statues were of monkeys. Noble monkeys cast in noble poses. Darwin immediately recognised one that bore an uncanny resemblance to Michelangelo's David, but for the simian features and tail.

  And that one, by the Egyptian garb, was clearly the Ape of Thoth. Others wore togas and laurel wreaths. Others drove chariots, pulled, it appeared, by chickens.

  Darwin gaped from statue to statue, finding each most satisfactory.

  ‘I'll have all those pulled down,’ said Jack. ‘Have lots made of me, chopping pirates’ heads off and doing daring deeds.’

  ‘Or laying an egg?’ said Darwin.

  Jack put on his grumpy face. ‘Let's knock at the door,’ said he.

  The door was huge, as a castle door should be. But it had a little door in the lower left-hand corner, which had upon it a brass knocker imaginatively fashioned into the shape of a monkey's head. Jack took this knocker and rapped three times with it.

  Hollow echoes were returned from within.

  Jack knocked again and many times more, but only received further echoes.

  Darwin put his ear to the door and also took to sniffing. ‘Perhaps they have gone off for a boat trip or something,’ he said.

  Jack gave the little door a kick. The little door eased open.

  Darwin peeped inside. ‘It does smell vaguely of monkey,’ he said.

  ‘But not of lions, or dragons, or monsters?’

  Darwin shook his little hairy head.

  ‘Treasure, here I come,’ said Jack, pushing into the castle.

  * There were several more paragraphs of this nonsense, but as they were neither funny nor clever, I have edited them out. (R. R.)

  † A cabin, perhaps? (R. R.)

  * It is a fact well known to those in nautical circles that it takes at least four strong men to lower a longboat. But given the ludicrous nature of the above narrative, it would be rather pointless to raise such an objection here. (R. R.)

  34

  ‘oos smell just like this,’ said Jack, taking a sniff of the air. ‘I will have to get my servants to spray eau de cologne all about the place.’

  Darwin was sniffing and peering as well. ‘I do not think that my monkeys have been here for a very long time,’ he said, rather sadly.

  ‘Where is the treasure room?’ asked Jack.

  Darwin shook his head.

  They stood now in the great hall of the castle. Its walls dwindled towards a ceiling hidden in shadows. Moth-eaten tabards hung upon fusty columns. An enormous oil portrait that might have been of Darwin peeled paint and the flagstones were velvet with the dust of long ages.

  Darwin sighed and Jack kicked up the dust.

  ‘I do not understand this,’ said the educated ape. ‘We were sent on a questing adventure to deliver a magic egg—’

  ‘Will you please stop going on about the egg!’

  ‘There is surely, though, a purpose,’ said Darwin. ‘Some reason why we are here.’

  ‘I am here for my treasure,’ said Jack. ‘I am sure you'll agree that I've earned it. You might make yourself useful by tidying up and getting the kettle on.’

  Darwin settled down upon a worm-eaten banqueting table. ‘There must be a purpose,’ said he.

  ‘There is no purpose to anything,’ said Jack. ‘We are born, we live, we die. Some of us are lucky in life, some of us are not. But it's all we get and we have to make the most of it.’

  ‘And now neither you nor I has a life,’ said Darwin, ‘for we are dead together.’

  ‘If this is Heaven, it will do,’ said Jack. ‘I was a nobody when I was alive, a servant to be pushed up chimneys. If I am to be rewarded here by being a prince, I have no complaints to make. No complaints at all.’

  ‘You paint a sad picture of life,’ said Darwin, ‘and I myself can vouch for the truth of what you say. I am a monkey and a monkey receives no respect from men. Although . . .’

  ‘Although?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Although I have made more friends than enemies and known more love than hate. A noble lord once told me that a person's life has meaning if, when they come to the end of it, they can truly say that they tried during their life to make the world just a little bit better than it was when they came into it.’

  ‘I think I understand that,’ said Jack. ‘Although you might perhaps have put it better.’

  ‘I am only a monkey,’ said Darwin.

  Jack nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘But I did my best. I did do my best. I did try to make the world a better place to be.’

  ‘Which is why you've come to Heaven, like me,’ said Jack. ‘We are both very wonderful people. Except for you, because you are a monkey.’

  ‘Have you ever wondered,’ Darwin asked, ‘what it would be like for you to open your mouth and have something nice come out of it?’

  Jack gave this a moment of thought. ‘Not really,’ was his reply.

  ‘I wonder what might happen if you did.’

  ‘I would probably cry,’ said Jack. ‘Life has treated me very badly indeed, and so if I find myself unable to spread sweetness and light all around, I don't think I should be wholly blamed for it.’

  ‘New experiences can sometimes be edifying,’ said Darwin.

  ‘That is called a platitude,’ said Jack. ‘Platitudes are often offered by the rich to the poor because of course they do not cost anything. The poor would prefer to be offered bread.’

  Darwin looked long and hard at Jack.

  Darwin looked all around and about at the hall.

  Darwin had a thoughtful scratch at his fleas and then said, ‘Say something nice, Jack.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack. ‘I won't.’

  ‘I really think you should,’ said Darwin. ‘In fact, I know that you should.’

  Jack kicked out at a tumbled stool, and the tumbled stool crumbled to dust.

  ‘Say something nice,’ said Darwin, his voice echoing all around the great, dusty room.

  ‘Why should I?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Because I have a theory,’ said Darwin. ‘I have reasoned something out, the way my partner Cameron Bell reasons things out. I think I have found a solution, and if you indulge me, I think that you might find yourself pleasantly surprised.’

  Jack gave Darwin the queerest of expressions. ‘Whatever are you on about?’ he asked.

  ‘Just say something nice. Anything. Something.’

  ‘Just say something nice?’

  ‘Please, Jack.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jack, and he took a deep breath. ‘I am very nice,’ he said.

  ‘Not about yourself,’ said Darwin. ‘That is not going to work.’

  Jack did exasperated sighings. Then he gazed down at his boots and mumbled.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Darwin.

  Jack mumbled some more.

  ‘Please speak up.’

  ‘I said,’ said Jack, ‘that I like you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Darwin. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I think you are a very nice monkey,’ said Jack. ‘And I am sorry that you died. I know it's all my fault. And I thank you for being nice to me. And you are the best friend that I have ever had.’

  ‘Well,’ said Darwin. ‘Why, thank you – that is very nice.’

  ‘I've never had a friend before,’ said Jack. ‘I like you very very much.’

  Then Jack said suddenly, ‘Oooh.’

  Darwin looked on at Jack.

  ‘Oooh,’ went Jack again, and louder, and this time he clutched at his stomach. ‘Oooh!’ he continued, very much in the same vein, but growing ever in volume. ‘Oooooh. It's coming. It's coming. I'm going to lay the egg!’

  To go into the actual details of the actual laying would not, perhaps, be appropriate here. There were certainly comedic aspects, for Darwin was in no time rocking with laughter and had to fl
ee to a high place to avoid a punching from Jack.

  But that the egg was definitely bigger when it came out than when it went in, of this there can be no doubt.

  And that when the laying was finally, after quite a lengthy process, actually achieved, Darwin had come near to wetting himself from mirth and Jack had many tears of his own in his eyes.

  Silence came once more to the ancient hall.

  Then, ‘Oh,’ groaned Jack, and, ‘What the Hell is that?’

  For what he had given birth to was other than an egg. It appeared to be a crystal sphere that glittered from within.

  Darwin gazed down from his lofty retreat. ‘Is that a diamond?’ he asked.

  ‘Is it treasure?’ Jack peered at the sphere. It was pure, unsullied, untainted by organic nastiness. It twinkled and shone and it did look valuable.

  Jack looked up at Darwin and said, ‘It was you who made this happen.’

  ‘No,’ said Darwin, climbing down. ‘It was you. Because you said something nice. You sort of purged yourself, Jack.’ And, ‘Ooh,’ the ape continued, as something rather wonderful was happening. A bright light sprang from the crystal sphere. A bright and colourful light that spread like a rainbow, radiating outwards. Jack stepped nimbly back as the light spread beneath his feet, sweeping away the dust and bringing a polish to the flagstones. Then up the table, drawing brightness of colour from dull and faded fabrics and wood, restoring the crumbled stool and setting it upright. Then over the floor and up the walls, washing away the drabness and gloom, returning all to cleanliness and colour.

  And then appeared the monkeys.

  They wore royal robes, comporting themselves in dignified manners. Gentle-monkeys bowing to lady apes, flourishing fine lace handkerchiefs, picking at wonderful viands that now appeared on the table.

  An orchestra of monkeys materialised in a minstrels’ gallery.

  Monkey ladies in crinolines danced the waltz.

  A monkey king bowed low and tipped his crown to Jack.

  A monkey queen took Darwin by the hand.

  And they danced.

  With a whirl and a fluster of regal stuffs.

  With well-turned ankles and silken shoes.

  With pearl-drop earrings and fine lace ruffs.

  With purples and pinks and royal blues.

  With diamonds set in quilted cuffs.

  With turn along, cut out along, down along dee.

  With sippings of champagnes and takings of snuff.

  With many a floral frippery.

  The music swelled and rare perfumes filled the air to mingle with those of fabulous foodstuffs, Treacle Sponge Bastard and pan-fried bananas in honey.

  The dancers danced, the diners dined, shy faces peeped from behind fluttering fans and Darwin felt that he had never seen or experienced anything quite so absolutely wonderful in all of his little life.

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ said Darwin. ‘It was you who made this happen.’

  Jack was sipping champagne and chewing banana.

  He just shook his head and mouthed the word, ‘How?’

  The music ceased and the dancers bowed and curtsied. Polite applause rippled as a dandified monkey bowed low.

  ‘Prince Jack,’ called a voice.

  And Jack glanced about and said, ‘What?’

  ‘Prince Jack,’ said the King of the Monkeys. ‘And Great-Father Darwin, too.’

  Darwin smiled at his monkeys. For him it had been only days since he had seen them last. For them it had been many many centuries.

  ‘I am very happy to be here, sire,’ said Darwin. ‘You all look so very marvellous. So refined.’

  ‘You taught us the ways of Man whilst we travelled together aboard the Marie Lloyd.’

  ‘What of this?’ asked Jack. But all ignored him.

  ‘And now you have brought us a prince,’ said the King.

  ‘Yes, that's me,’ said Jack. ‘Prince Jack is my name.’

  ‘And you shall be welcomed into our family.’

  Jack gave a shrug. ‘You are all very nice,’ said he.

  Darwin grinned as Jack said this, because Darwin felt he knew what would happen next.

  ‘Are you happy, Jack?’ asked the King.

  ‘I am very happy, your majesty,’ said the lad.

  ‘Then so it must be. Magician,’ the King called out, and an ape in magician's robes got up and stepped forward.

  ‘Do what must be done,’ said the King.

  ‘What of this?’ said Jack.

  The monkey magician raised his magical wand, then brought it down in a flurry of sparkles . . .

  . . . and Jack turned into a monkey.

  35

  ‘arwin, wake up.’ Somebody poked at the ape.

  ‘Darwin, please.’ Darwin was rattled about. ‘Please.’

  And Darwin opened his eyes and blinked.

  ‘Mr Bell?’ said Darwin. ‘Is that you, Mr Bell?’

  ‘More to the point, is that you?’

  Darwin tried to rise, but something held him down. He focused his eyes and glanced about and then became confused. He was in some kind of bed, but it was unlike any bed he had previously inhabited. It was a disc and he appeared to be hovering slightly above it. And there were queer things all about. Shiny things of burnished metal. Things with tubes and dials and little screens. And above, the ceiling was not flat. The entire room looked like a great big dome.

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Darwin. ‘Was I asleep?’

  ‘You are in the year three thousand,’ said Mr Bell, who wore some kind of strange and silvery suit.

  ‘The year three thousand?’ Darwin said.

  ‘The year three thousand. Not a lot has changed. Although they do live underwater.’

  Darwin breathed in sterilised air. ‘Then I did not die,’ said he.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Regarding that.’

  Darwin dragged himself into a seated position. He felt very odd indeed, as if his body was a suit of clothes that did not entirely fit him.

  ‘Regarding that?’ he asked Mr Bell.

  ‘You were dead,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘Very dead indeed, I am sad to say.’

  ‘And you did what? Brought me back from the dead? What am I now – a zombie?’

  ‘No no no.’ Mr Bell did shakings of the head. ‘You are yourself, I think. You are a clone.’

  Darwin gave himself a scratch. ‘What is a clone?’ he asked.

  ‘I will do my best to explain,’ said Mr Bell, and he sat himself down upon the disc above which Darwin appeared to float. ‘It was a dreadful business,’ he said. ‘A dreadful business indeed. I left you alone at the Flying Swan with a note expressing that you should not leave the premises and that a carriage would collect you at nine o'clock the following day.’

  ‘I do remember that,’ said Darwin.

  ‘But you did leave the premises, and when the carriage came you were not there.’

  ‘No, I suppose I was not,’ said Darwin.

  ‘Because, according to witnesses, you and a young chimney-sweep boy climbed up the spire of Saint Joan's Church in Brentford and then threw yourselves off.’

  ‘It was not quite like that,’ said Darwin, ‘but sadly it amounted very much to the same thing.’

  ‘I arrived back in Brentford that evening to search for you, and that was when I learned what had happened. I was told that your body had been taken to Syon House because they thought you must be an escaped ape from the monkey sanctuary. It was all beyond awful, Darwin. When I got there, they were about to stick your body into the incinerator.’

  ‘Oh dear me,’ said Darwin.

  ‘I wrapped you up,’ said Mr Bell, and a tear came to his eye. ‘Wrapped you up and took you back to the Marie Lloyd and put you in the refridgetorium.’

  Darwin shivered.

  ‘Quite so. But what else could I do? I thought I would give you a decent burial. But then something did not make any sense to me. If you were dead, then how could you, as a very old monkey, travel back to the eighteen nineti
es to be shot dead by Lord Brentford?’

  ‘I thought we had given up on asking those sorts of questions,’ said Darwin.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Bell. ‘It is definitely you.’

  ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘Well, I thought of the future and it set me to thinking that in the future there would be great steps forward made in medicine. Perhaps the folk of the future had even conquered death.’

  ‘And have they?’ Darwin asked.

  ‘No,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘On the contrary. They have simply come up with more efficient ways of causing death.’

  ‘And they live underwater?’

  ‘Something to do with something known as the greenhouse effect.’

  ‘Is that to do with growing bananas?’ asked the ape.

  ‘Sadly not. But to continue. I stopped off again and again but to no avail. Finally I got this far into the future and here they have mastered cloning. Which actually is a way of almost conquering death.’

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ said Darwin.

  And Mr Bell went on to explain. ‘I think it had much to do with a moving picture called Jurassic Park,’ he explained. ‘You need the blood of the subject, and from this you extract the DNA, and then—’*

  Some time later Darwin said, ‘That all sounds rather unlikely.’

  Mr Bell raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Fair enough, then,’ said Darwin. And he scratched at himself once again.

  ‘You still have fleas?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘Why should I not?’ asked Darwin.

  ‘Well, I just explained to you all about the cloning process.’ Mr Bell now shrugged. ‘But if you still have them, then I suppose they must almost be a part of you now, somehow. And I am told that the cloning process improves the subject being cloned.’

  ‘I do feel a little different,’ said Darwin.

  ‘Then so, I suppose, must your fleas. In fact, they may now have become super-fleas, as it were.’

  ‘I am rather hungry,’ said Darwin. ‘And I would at least care for a pair of trousers to wear.’

  ‘Good old Darwin,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘How wonderful to have you back.’

  ‘It is wonderful to be back,’ said the ape. ‘It was not too bad being dead, but I would far rather be alive.’