The Garden of Unearthly Delights

by Robert Rankin

  ‘There is no way out of here, the grille is beyond reach.’

  ‘You could revenge yourself on the Governor too. Gasp-gag.’

  ‘I’ll pluck out his eyes and—’

  ‘If you kill me now you’ll never know how.’ Maxwell’s senses were departing him fast. ‘What have you got to lose?’

  The grip slackened. Not a lot, but sufficient to allow a modicum of air to pass down Maxwell’s windpipe.

  ‘Speak,’ said Rushmear. ‘Speak quickly and clearly. And precisely.’

  Maxwell opened his mouth and began to speak.

  It was nearly ten of the morning clock before breakfast arrived. And when it did, it looked far from appetizing. A pail-load of vegetables, emptied without ceremony down through the grille.

  Rushmear held Maxwell back with one big hand whilst sorting through the tumbled veggies with the other.

  ‘Let me eat,’ implored Maxwell. ‘If I die of starvation, you will never get free.’

  ‘Of this I am aware. But if you eat without care you’ll suffer for your folly.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There are little seeds amongst the vegetables. Seeds of the blow-gut bush. They look harmless and wholesome, but when eaten they swell in your belly, puff you out.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I am Rushmear the horse dealer. I know how to fatten cattle. Here, chew on this.’ Rushmear handed Maxwell a parsnip.

  The day then passed without a happy interlude to call its own. Maxwell explained the more subtle details of his scheme to Rushmear. Rushmear chewed upon them and spat faults from each, so that Maxwell was put to the further effort of consoling the truculent horse dealer, who seemed at every moment on the point of losing all control, and simply slaying him there and then.

  It was a long day and made singularly hideous by Rushmear’s not infrequent visits to the latrine corner.

  By sunset Maxwell’s nerves were in the final phase of decomposition and he felt certain that his nose would never function properly again.

  The sun vanished away, and the moon, the one with the new improved twenty-three-day cycle, rose into the sky. It flung a sheet of whiteness into the black hole of Kakkarta.

  ‘Hand me the string,’ said Maxwell. Rushmear, who had been unravelling his woollen smock all day and knotting the lengths of yarn together, handed the coil to Maxwell.

  ‘Now,’ said the imagineer, ‘I knot a turnip to this end and throw it up through the grille, it loops over one of the bars and I gently lower the turnip down again.’

  ‘Go on then.

  Maxwell had a crack at it. His first throw fell short, and his second. At the third, the turnip dropped off the end.

  ‘Give me the line, fool,’ ordered Rushmear. ‘I was roping horses when I was four years old.’

  ‘You might have said.’

  Rushmear gave a surly snort, re-knotted the turnip, twirled it with surprising dexterity for such a huge man, flung up the line . . . And missed.

  Maxwell opened his mouth.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ cautioned Rushmear.

  Twelve throws later, the line passed through the grille, the turnip passed over a bar and Rushmear carefully lowered it down.

  ‘Now,’ said he, ‘perform your party piece.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Maxwell took MacGuffin’s magic pouch from his pocket, placed it on the awful floor and put one leg into it. He sank down with a terrible thud, striking certain tender parts of his anatomy upon the aforementioned awfulness. Rushmear clamped a hand over Maxwell’s mouth. ‘Get in, fool. No, hold up.’

  Maxwell with one leg in and the rest of him out, managed a ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t care for this,’ said Rushmear. ‘The plan as you explained it is that you climb into this magic pouch, I tie the pouch to the turnip end of the line then pull on the other. The pouch goes up through the grille, you climb out, release the bolt and open the grille.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Maxwell. ‘And a fine plan it is too.’

  ‘But how do I get out?’

  ‘I lower the pouch back down to you. You climb inside and I haul you up. I don’t even need to release the bolt and open the grille.’

  ‘I am not happy with this,’ said Rushmear. ‘I will climb into the pouch and you will pull me up first.’

  ‘No,’ said Maxwell, ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You will, or I wring your neck.’

  Maxwell shook his head. ‘A degree of trust must exist between us. I thought up this plan, so I go first. If you refuse to abide by my rules, step into the pouch and see what happens next.’

  ‘What will happen next?’

  ‘I will stamp on the pouch,’ said Maxwell. ‘And escape by another means I have just thought of.’

  Rushmear set free a low growl. ‘And what if I abide by your rules, and pull you up first? You climb free and run off, leaving me here.’

  ‘Then shout at the top of your voice. No doubt I will soon be recaptured.’

  Rushmear made more low grumbling sounds.

  ‘Look,’ said Maxwell, ‘escaping from this cell is the relatively easy bit. Seeking out Ewavett and wresting her from the Sultan Rameer, then returning to MacGuffin to reclaim our souls will prove far more tricky. I have no wish to form an alliance with you, but together we may succeed. And we may snuff out the egregious MacGuffin. Singly our chances are not too good. Already I am down to twenty-two days. You are down to twenty-one, I believe.’

  ‘Climb into the pouch,’ said Rushmear. ‘I will pull you up.’

  Maxwell stepped smartly into the magic pouch, pulled himself through the opening and crouched down inside the nothingness within. Rushmear attached the pouch to the turnip end of the knotted yarn and pulled upon the other. The pouch travelled up, plopped over the grille bar and would certainly have fallen back into the cell, had not Maxwell hastily thrust out his arm.

  He climbed from the magic pouch, onto the grille, drew in great drafts of clean night air, and then he looked furtively about. All seemed quiet and still. The Skaven rat ogres were evidently early bedders. Maxwell lowered the empty pouch back down into the foul hole beneath.

  Rushmear climbed hastily inside. Maxwell hauled him up.

  Drawing the pouch through the grille, Maxwell held it at arm’s length and smiled a wicked smile.

  ‘Let me out,’ called a little voice from within.

  ‘Silence.’ Maxwell gave the pouch a shake. ‘A slight change of plan.’

  ‘Let me out.’

  Maxwell drew the draw-string tight. ‘Certain doubts assail me,’ he explained. ‘Certain fears that, should I release you, you might choose to play me false. Possibly even murder me where I stand.’

  ‘I would never think of such a thing!’ called the little voice. ‘We are as brothers in our quest to reclaim our souls.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ whispered Maxwell, ‘I feel it better that you remain in the pouch for now.

  ‘Traitor! Bastard! Whore son! Wait until I…’

  ‘That’s quite enough from you.’ Maxwell tucked the pouch into his trouser pocket. Rushmear was no doubt kicking away like a mad man, but Maxwell could feel nothing of it. The magic pouch negated the gravity of anything within and nothing of it could be felt without.

  Giving his pocket a little pat for luck, Maxwell slipped quietly from the town of Kakkarta and ran off into the night.

  12

  Maxwell didn’t run far from Kakkarta. He sorely needed to sleep and the prospect of a mad dash into yet another wilderness, with the probability of recapture, when he fell down from exhaustion, was not to his liking.

  Maxwell had other ideas. Other thoughts.

  Thoughts of an imagineering nature.

  The moon was high and by its unromantic light he spied what he was looking for: a little stream that danced along beside the road. Maxwell stamped down the bank, being careful to leave nice big footprints and jumped into the stream. Then he waded back towards Kakkarta.

  At a bridge close to the outski
rts of the town he removed his boots, knotted the laces together, hung them about his neck and came ashore.

  Maxwell sought the Governor’s house. It was not hard to find, being substantially larger than all the rest and sporting a flag pole in its garden. With a wary eye out for watchdogs or guards, Maxwell tiptoed across the garden and searched for the convenient vine.

  The convenient vine, as everyone who has ever watched an adventure film will recall, is a sturdy affair that clings to the wall of the villain’s abode. It offers a series of strong footholds which afford the hero easy access to either a balcony (where the villain can be spied out pacing the floor or shaking a fist at the heroine, who sits defiantly upon a bed with her clothes in disarray) or the roof.

  Of course, the convenient vine must not be treated disrespectfully. Somewhere, high up in its branches, is ‘the loose bit’, which comes away in the hero’s hand and nearly has him tumbling to his doom.

  Maxwell found the convenient vine at the back of the Governor’s house. He put on his substantial boots and shinned up it.

  Halfway up he happened upon a balcony, peeping over he spied a lighted bedroom. Within, the Governor paced up and down.

  Maxwell climbed on up. He almost came to grief near the top, when a loose bit came away in his hand and threatened to send him tumbling to his doom. But Maxwell clung on by his fingertips and hauled himself onto the flat roof above.

  Here he ducked down beneath the parapet, caught his breath and pulled the magic pouch from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Rushmear,’ he whispered, ‘are you still awake?’

  ‘Awake?’ roared Rushmear, though his voice came as from a great distance away. ‘I’ll not sleep until I’ve put my hand down your throat and torn out your spleen.’

  ‘Spot on,’ said Maxwell. ‘Now listen, I am going to release the draw-string of the pouch by just a smidgen. When the first ray of sunlight touches you, set up a shout and awaken me, OK?’

  There was silence in the pouch department.

  Maxwell gave the pouch a violent shake, which evoked bitter wails and curses. ‘Should you fail to awaken me and I over-sleep, then most surely will I grind my heel upon you.’

  Maxwell loosened the draw-string a weeny bit, not sufficient for Rushmear to worm a finger through, of course. And set down the pouch upon the roof. ‘Good night, Rushmear,’ said Maxwell.

  Silence.

  Maxwell gave the pouch another violent shake.

  ‘Good night, Maxwell,’ said Rushmear. ‘Sleep well.’

  At dawn the sun came up like a big red Coca-Cola sign without the logo. Or a vast flat tomato. Or any one of a dozen other oversized bright red objects, none of which spring immediately to mind.

  The air was crisp, there were no clouds. There seemed all the makings of another day that was just like the one that had gone before.

  Maxwell awoke to the sounds of cock-crow and profanity.

  He yawned, stretched, picked up the pouch. ‘Good morning, Rushmear,’ he said. ‘And how are you today?’

  ‘I need a shit,’ said Rushmear.

  ‘If I let you out of the bag to have one, do you promise to get straight back inside afterwards?’

  ‘With all my heart,’ said Rushmear.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Maxwell retightened the drawstring and tucked the pouch back into his pocket, further muffling the torrent of abuse that poured from it.

  Maxwell climbed over the parapet and shinned back down the convenient vine. He dropped silently onto the balcony of the Governor’s bedroom, crept across it and tried the handle of the french windows. Unlocked.

  On the tippiest of tippy-toes Maxwell crossed the room to the Governor’s bed, glared at the sleeping figure, picked up a weighty earthenware jug that stood on the bedside table and brought this down with immoderate force upon the Governor’s head.

  A brief period of activity followed, the activity being all of Maxwell’s making.

  A bucket of water struck the Governor full in the face. He jerked into consciousness. Eyes wide, mouth ready to cry out. It did not cry out. The Governor’s teeth chewed upon a gag.

  His head jerked about. He tried to rise. He could not. He was bound to a chair by lengths of shredded bed sheet.

  The wide eyes grew wider as the Governor took in the figure seated upon his bed. This figure wore the Governor’s white suit and panama hat. He was gently flicking the Governor’s fly whisk.

  ‘Morning, Blenkinsop,’ said Maxwell, gently flicking away. ‘Been having a spot of shut-eye, what? Dashed sorry to waken you, old chap, but there’s been a bit of a coup d’état. Town now under new management, doncha know.’

  The Governor’s eyes were quite round now, like polo mints with blue smarties stuck in the holes. He wriggled and squirmed but Maxwell had taken great care with the knot-tying.

  ‘Now the thing is,’ said Maxwell, adjusting the panama to a rakish angle, ‘I need a bit of the old transportation. Have a pressing appointment with the Sultan. Send him your regards, naturally. Posthumous regards if needs be. If you catch my drift, old chap.’

  The Governor no doubt did, because he hung his head. In doing so he caught sight of the clothes he now wore: Maxwell’s clothes. He renewed his struggle with vigour.

  ‘Don’t like the suit?’ Maxwell asked. ‘S’pose you recall mentioning to me that one white man looks just like another to the natives. By the by, I came across your phrase book. Been committing a few lines to memory. Care to hear them?’

  The Governor shook his head fiercely from side to side.

  ‘Still, I’ll tell you anyway, what?’ Maxwell recited the mouth load of Skaven gibberish he’d been rehearsing. His enunciation was far from perfect but the Governor was able to get the gist, which was, ‘Chaps of Kakkarta. Behold, another gift from MacGuffin which fell from the sky in the night and I, the Governor, captured for you. He’s a violent one, so don’t release his gag. Just cook him at once.’

  The Governor hung his shaking head once more. Maxwell got up from the bed, went over and released his gag. ‘So,’ said he. ‘Let us discuss matters in a sensible fashion. I require maps, provisions and transportation. You will furnish me with these. Should you show any signs of hesitation or duplicity, I will have no compunction about dragging you into the town square and performing my recitation. Do I make myself quite clear?’

  ‘Quite clear,’ said Governor Blenkinsop.

  ‘Right,’ said Maxwell. ‘Now, as Governor, I am quite sure the Sultan has supplied you with some marvellous means of transportation. What would this be? Seven-league boots, perhaps, or a magic carpet?’

  Governor Blenkinsop shook his head. ‘Such wonders are not issued to a humble servant of the Sultan. I have an old ox cart I would be prepared to lend you.’

  Maxwell shook his head. ‘That is sad news. You are being absolutely truthful with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the Governor. ‘Absolutely. Now look, I do have a raging stonker of a headache. Do you think you might untie me? There’s a good fellow.’

  ‘Shortly perhaps,’ Maxwell raised a calming hand. ‘But before this, let us test out a proposition. It might just be that the blow upon the head has caused some short-term memory loss and that you do, in fact, possess another means of transportation. What say I take a stroll down to the square and call out in the Skaven tongue, “I, the Governor, require my fastest means of transportation, bring it to me at once!” How do you feel about that?’

  ‘I feel somewhat sick,’ said the Governor. ‘Might I have a glass of water?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Maxwell turned his back upon the Governor, went over to a dresser near the window, decanted water from a glass ewer into a pottery mug. He returned with this, held the Governor’s nose up and tipped the contents of the mug straight down his throat.

  Blenkinsop coughed, gagged and swallowed.

  ‘Better now?’ Maxwell asked.

  Blenkinsop spat. ‘The water is vile,’ said he.

  ‘Your town is vile,’ said Maxwell
. ‘You are vile. Now I have no further time to waste, accede to my demands at once, or it’s gag back on and down to the square for you.’

  ‘You’d never get away with it, old chap. These creatures are not complete oafs, they’d see through you in a moment. They might well kill me, but they’ll kill you also.’

  ‘All right,’ said Maxwell. ‘Enough is enough. I have been far more reasonable with you than you deserve. Extreme measures are now called for.’

  Maxwell pulled the magic pouch from his pocket and gave it a little shake. ‘Rushmear,’ he called, ‘I have the Governor here.’

  Rushmear released a scream of invective.

  ‘My friend Rushmear,’ Maxwell explained. ‘The big fierce man you captured the day before yesterday. Constrained by magic and eager for release. He has plans for your future. Rushmear,’ Maxwell said to the pouch, ‘tell the Governor what you wish to do to him.’

  Maxwell held the pouch close by the Governor’s ear. Rushmear offered explicit details.

  ‘All right,’ cried the Governor. ‘All right. Enough of such hideousness. By the happiest of coincidences my memory has just now returned to me. I recall that I have a divan, given to me by the Sultan, which moves upon the air when the correct commands are given.’

  ‘And these commands are?’

  ‘They wouldn’t work for you,’ said the Governor. ‘I must speak them.’

  ‘What are these commands?’ Maxwell shook the magic pouch before the Governor’s face. ‘I will give them a try. Should they fail for me, you can have a go.’

  ‘All right. All right. Just shout from the balcony these words, “Baluda Baluda kocheck camara poo bah hock”.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Maxwell strode over to the french windows. Then he paused and returned to the bed, where he picked up the phrase book and leafed through it. ‘Oh dear,’ said he. ‘By a curious coincidence these commands also mean, “Attention, attention, I am the escaped prisoner, come and get me, you scumbags”.’

  The Governor ground his teeth. Maxwell leaned down and kneed him viciously between the legs. The Governor doubled up in pain.