by Tom Holt
The telephone number. He swooped down on that one fragment of data like a diving hawk, and gripped it tight in his intellectual talons. He knew a telephone number. Whose number it was he had no idea, but he knew it; therefore, it was probably safe to assume, he was meant to know it, therefore knowledge of it was probably relevant, quite likely useful, maybe even essential. At the risk of unwarranted determinism, maybe knowing the telephone number was the reason he was here, and therefore making the telephone call was his purpose, the function he was intended to perform.
He shrugged. Anything’s possible. Though, if they’d wanted him to phone somebody, they really ought to have given him a phone.
A buzzard wheeled high overhead, shrieking mournfully. Now, he realised, he was being presumptuous. Quite possibly missing the point. Quite possibly, his not having a phone but being required to make the call was the point. He knew that there was a dominant narrative trope in the human ur-mythos in which the hero (that’s me, he told himself) has to do x but can’t because he hasn’t got y; doing x is essential for the greater good, and the hero is the hero precisely because he’s the only one capable of acquiring y, albeit at considerable inconvenience and personal risk. Following that line of reasoning, I’m here to make the call but I haven’t got a phone, therefore I must get a phone; furthermore, only I can get a phone because I’m special.
Hm. Special in what way? Didn’t need to think too long about that one. Special by reason of not having a clue what’s going on—which didn’t strike him as a heroic virtue, not like strength or courage or integrity. So maybe not. Maybe—
He stared straight ahead for a moment, as though transfixed by the sight of something that wasn’t there. Then he stood up and took off all his clothes.
“Aren’t you cold?”
He spun round. He saw a creature; a bit like him in terms of limb count (head, arms, body, legs &c) but only a bit—shorter, wider, generously equipped in the dental department, pale red eyes, claws, stuff like that. He’d seen him before, briefly, in the company of a tall, striking looking woman with pointed ears, though at the time he’d been preoccupied with other matters and hadn’t really taken in the little chap’s odd appearance or potential as a threat. An instinct lurking at the back of his mind told him he ought to be scared stiff of it, but couldn’t offer any justification for its advice. The creature wasn’t alone. Directly behind it, forming a dense column stretching back into the shadows of the forest, were lots and lots more like it, hundreds if not thousands of them, many of them with drawn bows and poised javelins.
“Hello,” the stranger said.
“You again,” said the little toothy man. “You’ll catch your death, standing around with nothing on.”
The stranger appreciated the little man’s concern. “Actually,” he said, “it’s a myth that the common cold is caused by exposure to low temperatures. The real cause is an airborne virus.”
The toothy man’s eyes widened for a moment. “Oh, shut your face,” he said, not unkindly. “I remember you. You wanted to know the way to the old wizard’s tower.” He frowned. “All right,” he said. “You’ve got till I count ten to tell me what a Son of Man’s doing wandering about on the borders of Elvenhome with no kit on. One.”
“Sorry,” said the stranger. “One what?”
“One as in one to ten.”
“Oh, I see. Well,” the stranger said, “I seem to have lost my memory.”
“Is that right?”
“Apparently,” the stranger said. “Which means I don’t even know my own name,” he went on, “assuming I’ve got one. But other people have got them, because I just met someone called Pat Lushington, so it’s probably safe to assume—”
“Two.”
“And then I got to thinking,” the stranger went on, “about these clothes I’ve got on. Had on. I thought, they’re reasonably clean and well maintained, but not brand new, because the fabric shows some slight traces of abrasion and fraying; therefore, from time to time, they must get cleaned.”
“Three.”
“But,” the stranger went on, “I realised, I don’t know how to clean and maintain clothes myself, so it stands to reason that someone else must do it for me. And it’s illogical to imagine that whoever does the cleaning just cleans my clothes; there wouldn’t be enough work in that to keep one person fully occupied, so presumably this cleaner must clean clothes for lots of people all together.”
“Five.”
“Sorry, shouldn’t that be four?”
“Six.”
“So I thought,” the stranger said quickly, “if you clean lots of people’s clothes all together, how do you know whose is which, so you don’t give the wrong people the wrong things when you’ve finished? And then it struck me that a good way to deal with the problem would be to write the owner’s name on the garment, somewhere on the inside where it wouldn’t show. So I had a look to see if it was there.”
“Was it?”
“No,” the stranger said. “So presumably the cleaner people have a different way of keeping track of things. Or maybe there aren’t any cleaner people at all.”
The toothy man gazed at him. “You’re potty,” he said.
The stranger shrugged. “I’d considered that,” he said, “and, yes, it’s entirely possible that I’m suffering from some kind of mental abnormality. I can’t prove or disprove it, because of course I have no absolute standard of normality to compare myself with.” He frowned. “Do you think I’m potty?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a trained psychiatrist?”
“A what?”
The stranger shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Look, could I possibly use your phone? Only I’ve got an important call I need to make, and—”
“My what?”
“Ah.”
The toothy man sighed. “It’s all right, lads,” he called back over his shoulder to his many, many companions, “he’s a Son of Man, but he’s a loon. Onwards.”
“We could eat him,” one of the toothy people suggested. “It’s gone twelve. I’m starving.”
A murmur of interest from the many, many toothy people, which the main toothy man quelled with a scowl. “You don’t want to eat him,” he said, “you don’t know where he’s been. Also, he’s potty. You could catch something.”
“Can you get pottiness from eating potty people, then?” said a toothy man.
“Sure,” said the boss toothy. “Hence the phrase, pottied meat. And now, if you’ve all quite finished, we’ve got a war to start.”
The many, many toothies looked sheepish and shuffled their feet. “Sorry, chief,” they said.
The boss toothy sighed and turned back to the stranger. “Just to clarify,” he said. “You’re a Son of Man but you don’t know anything about anything. Correct?”
The stranger thought for a moment. “I know about Plato’s doctrine of recollection,” he said, “but that’s about it. And I must have been wrong about how clothes get cleaned.”
“So you don’t know about Vickers guns and neutron bombs.”
The stranger’s face brightened. “Actually, I do,” he said. “Not so much about Vickers guns because that wasn’t my department, but neutron bombs, yes, quite a lot, actually. Well, the theoretical side, anyway. They kill people but leave buildings intact, basically.” He paused. “Was that helpful?”
The toothy man looked at him. “You’re not from around here,” he said.
“No, I don’t think I am. But I don’t know where I’m from or how I got here.”
The boss toothy sighed. “You’re no bloody use, then,” he said. “All right. And for crying out loud put your clothes back on, before the Elves see you. Right, you lot. Onwards.”
The stranger stepped back out of the way. It took a very long time for the column to march past, and he was struck by the way the toothies winced and shuddered whenever they moved through a patch of bright sunlight, almost as if they were treading in something yucky. Odd little chaps, he thought
, and then reminded himself that he was in no position to be judgemental. For all he knew, he was the weirdo and they were perfectly normal.
One thing the boss toothy had been right about, though; it was a bit on the cold side, and maybe he really ought to put his clothes back on. He’d been in such a hurry to investigate his theory that he hadn’t taken much notice of what went where. He looked at them, figuring out from first principles how they worked. These ones here, for example, were essentially little bags you put your feet in. Probably best if he put them on first.
“Hey, you,” said a voice. “Have you seen a large number of, oh my God.”
He looked up, one foot socked, the other raised, bare and dangling. “Hello.”
The newcomer, a tall female with pointy ears, had turned her back on him. “Put it away,” she hissed. “It’s revolting.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Put what away?”
“All of it.”
“Sorry.” It crossed his mind that maybe he was offending against some strongly held local sensibility, possibly to do with exposed skin. “Just a tick,” he said. “I think I know what most of it does, but I’m not entirely sure about this.” He held up the thin cut-off leg covers with the flap up the front. “Do you happen to know what—?”
The pointy-ear uncovered one eye, shivered, and turned away. “I have absolutely no idea,” she said, in a high, strained voice. “Probably some sort of hat. Now get dressed, or I’ll scream.”
“Sorry.” He did the best he could. “Ready.”
She turned and scowled at him, beetroot-faced. “It’s you again, isn’t it?” she said. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Ah. Funny you should ask that. I have absolutely no idea.”
“You’re not from—”
“Round here, no.”
Without valid data he was guessing, of course, but he had an idea she didn’t like him. “But you’re human.”
“Am I? I know that human beings, homo sapiens erectus, originated in Africa and originally subsisted on a diet of mostly hazelnuts and fish, if that’s any help, but apart from that I’m just jumping to conclusions.”
“You’re human,” said the pointy-ear, and he got the impression she didn’t mean it as a compliment. “Let me guess. You’ve lost your memory.”
“I think so.”
“Think so?”
He nodded. “It seems to fit the known facts,” he said, “but I can’t actually remember doing it.”
“Yup,” said the pointy-ear, “you’re human. Now listen. Have you seen a large army of goblins anywhere?”
He nodded. “Short, lots of teeth, not very fond of sunlight?”
“That’s them.”
“They went that way.”
The pointy-ear groaned. “Oh, for crying out loud,” she said, “that’s Elvenhome. I let him out of my sight for five minutes, and he goes off and starts a world war.” She turned and scowled at the stranger. “This is all your fault.”
“Is it? Gosh.”
“You humans,” she went on. “Coming over here, messing everything up. The local variety’s bad enough, but you bloody offcomers—”
“Sorry.”
She sighed. “Why am I bothering to talk to you when you don’t even know your own name? Get out of my way, I’m busy. And take that ridiculous thing off your head.”
“I thought you said it’s a hat.”
“Apparently not.”
“You’re probably right,” the stranger said. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
“Drop dead.”
She stalked past him and disappeared into the forest. He thought about what she’d said—something about starting a world war, which didn’t sound too good, but maybe she was exaggerating—and remembered he hadn’t asked her if she had a phone he could borrow. He considered running after her and decided, on balance, not to. He sat down on his tree stump and tried to clear his mind, which was getting rather cluttered.
Something hard and scaly covered his face, sealing his nose and mouth. He tried to move, but he was being held down by something incredibly strong. Probably jumping to conclusions yet again, but probably not good.
“Keep still,” said a voice.
An odd voice. It sounded female, but very deep and growly. He made a sort of squeaking noise and hoped she got his drift.
The grip relaxed. He turned and saw a huge scaly thing, with wild red eyes and teeth that made the little toothy man’s fangs look like pimples. “Hello,” he said.
“Well?”
He got the impression she wasn’t talking to him. He tried to peer past her vast bulk, but he couldn’t see anyone else.
“He says,” said the monster, “are you from round here?”
“Nope. Pretty clear on that score, actually.”
“But you’re—” She paused for a prompt. “Yooman?”
“I think so.”
“But not from round here?”
“I think we can safely say I’m not.”
The monster hesitated, as though listening. “Then how did you get here?”
“Ah. Good question. You see, I seem to have lost my memory, and—”
The scaly paw covered his mouth again. “He wants to talk to you,” the monster said. “Hold on.”
She grabbed both his ankles with her other paw and lifted him off the ground. He dangled for a while, head downward, an interesting experience but he was quite glad when it was over. She’d carried him to a shallow stagnant pool. She dropped him. He could see his reflection in the water. Oh, he thought. Oh well, never mind.
“Sorry,” he said, “but did you just say someone wanted to—ah.”
In the water he could see an eye. Just the Eye; big, round, red and angry. It stared deep inside him. He wanted to look away but couldn’t. And deep inside his head, a voice said, Hello.
“Hi.”
So you’re this Theo Bernstein.
“Am I?”
Oh yes. I read all about you in the idiot’s extraordinary glass book. You blew up the Very Very Large Hadron Collider.
“Did I?”
See for yourself.
And he saw. They say your whole life flashes in front of your eyes just before you die, and presumably that’s God being considerate, because if you subsequently die you aren’t around to suffer the incredible backlash of shame and embarrassment that inevitably follows. But Theo didn’t die, so he had to endure it. His whole life, one stupid mistake after another, in concentrated form, like orange squash. “Oh shit,” he said.
Quite.
“I did all that.”
Yup.
“Oh, my God.”
Spare me the self-pity, please. Now, then. Tell me how I get into this alternative reality of yours. The one you came from.
Theo groaned. “I don’t know. I lost my memory, remember?”
Tell me.
“You seem to be inside my head, you tell me.”
It’s not here.
“What?”
It’s not here. It’s a blank.
“But that’s not right. Amnesia doesn’t work like that. The memories are still there, it’s just that you can’t access them.”
I’m telling you, it’s a blank.
“But that’s impossible.”
Yes (said the voice inside his head), apparently it is. There’s all sorts of stuff in here about medicine and neurobiology, which suggests you must be a wizard of some sort specialising in healing magic, and if what it says is true, those memories ought to be in here somewhere. But they aren’t.
“Are you sure? Have you looked properly?”
What are you, my mother? Yes, I’ve looked properly. There’s a hell of a lot of stuff in here—who’s a clever boy, then?—but what you might call the historical narrative stops dead just after you blew up the Very Very Large—
“Yes, all right, thank you.” Theo stopped abruptly. “Maybe I died.”
You what?
“Maybe it stops with the explosion because
I got killed in it.”
That’s just silly. You’re alive.
“Here, yes. But this isn’t where I belong, you said so yourself. I’m not from around here. Maybe this is—” He stopped and swallowed. “The afterlife, or something.”
I think I can set your mind at rest on that score (said the voice). I’ve been here for a hundred thousand years come next Tuesday, and I can’t recall seeing a whole lot of dead people wandering about the place. I’d have noticed something like that. You tend to notice stuff when you’re an Eye.
Theo shrugged. “The only other explanation I can think of is that someone’s got inside my head and wiped great chunks of my memory. And that just can’t be done. It’s impossible.”
The monster had been filling in the time looking at her reflection in the pool. Now, though, she was starting to get restless. “Hey,” she said. “I’m hungry. Can I eat him?”
Theo couldn’t hear what the voice said to her, but it made her pout. “Oh, all right, then,” she said. “But if I don’t get someone to eat soon, I’ll probably starve to death. I just thought you ought to know that, is all I’m saying.”
You’ll have to excuse her (said the voice), she’s only two days old. You know what they’re like at that age, the terrible twos. Now then, what are we going to do with you?
“I was wondering,” Theo said. “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone I could borrow?”
A what?
“Hang on, I’ll think of one. There, how’s that?
