The Garden of Unearthly Delights

by Robert Rankin

  Phlegster gave Maxwell a hard looking over. ‘None that I know of. Bribery is, of course, out of the question and violence against my person would serve no useful end. I have no power to disarm the grid.’

  ‘If this is the case,’ said Maxwell, ‘then how would you have arranged for me to pass safely through if all my documentation had proved to be in order?’

  The little man shrugged. ‘This is a moot point. As clearly you have no such documentation, it does not warrant further discussion.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Maxwell. ‘Moot point or not, I have no more time to waste.’ And so saying, he jumped forward, grabbed Phlegster by the collar of his over-large coat and hauled him into the air.

  ‘Let me down,’ wailed the gridster. ‘This is appalling behaviour.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ ordered Maxwell, ‘and listen to me. We are going to conduct a scientific experiment. I will put forth a theory. You will test it out.’

  ‘I like not the sound of that. Put me down, sir, please.’

  ‘Take off your coat then.’

  ‘My coat? What do you want with my coat?’

  ‘It seems a very large coat, for such a small man.’

  ‘A family heirloom, and I’ll trust you to keep your sizist remarks to yourself.’

  ‘Very well.’ Maxwell pulled out the pouch once more and dangled it before Phlegster’s face. ‘Carry this through the grid for me,’ he said.

  ‘Impossible,’ squeaked Phlegster. ‘I would be shredded.’

  ‘I was not shredded. I merely bounced off.’

  ‘I might not be so lucky. The grid is now alert to the presence of magic.’

  ‘My theory, in essence is this,’ said Maxwell. ‘I do not believe in some vast grid, a day’s journey away from the city. It would have to be manned by hundreds, no, thousands of gridsters. I suspect that this is some localized phenomenon, one that you are well acquainted with. One that you exploit to your own ends, by relieving the gullible of their magical items.’

  ‘Nonsense. Stuff and nonsense.’

  ‘Further,’ said Maxwell, ‘and I agree this is pure guesswork on my part, my theory is that you can transport items of magical power through the grid by means of your coat.’

  ‘Outlandish. Mere speculation.’

  ‘We shall see.’ Maxwell tucked the pouch into the pocket of the little man’s big coat. ‘I will heave you through the grid. We will observe the results.’

  ‘No,’ shrieked the little man. ‘I mean yes. All right. You are correct. The coat is invested with an immunity against the grid’s power. Put it on yourself and walk through. But just leave me here. I am not allowed to enter the garden beyond.’

  Maxwell shook his head. ‘I have become somewhat distrustful of late. Should you pass through unscathed, take off the coat, with the pouch still in the pocket, leave it on the other side and walk back to me. Thus you will have proved that a man wearing the coat can carry magic safely, and a man without the coat, who carried no magic, may also travel safely through. I will be satisfied with this demonstration. I will then step through, put on the coat, step back and drag my bed through. Then you will have seen the last of me.’

  ‘Far too complicated,’ complained Phlegster. ‘Put on the coat and clear off. I will say you stole it. Perhaps the Sultan will let me off with a flaying and some minor amputation. Or possibly I will just flee to the south. They say Kakkarta is very nice at this time of year.’

  ‘At its very best,’ said Maxwell, hoisting Phlegster higher, swinging him about and freighting him towards the invisible wall of the grid.

  ‘No!’ shrieked Phlegster. ‘Have mercy.’

  Maxwell examined the ground that lay before. There was a clear straight line burned into the grass. It stretched away in either direction, vanishing amongst the giant broccoli trees. It was all that signified the location of the grid’s invisible wall.

  Maxwell took a step back. Swung a substantial boot, kicked Phlegster in the squirming bottom and propelled him through the grid.

  There was a blinding flash. And a most alarming sound. The sort of sound that bluebottles make when they hit the electric wire on those things with the mauve lights that butchers have in their shops.

  But hideously amplified.

  Maxwell covered his face as Phlegster exploded into a million fragments. Ribbons of big coat trailed away in all directions. Little bits of charred carcass trailed with them. There was a lot of smoke.

  Presently it cleared.

  Maxwell fanned at his face. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Well, I suppose I can’t be right every time.’ He peered beyond the line of burnt grass and was most surprised and somewhat heartened to observe the magic pouch, lying there amongst a smouldering lump or two of Phlegster and looking none the worse for its travel through the grid.

  ‘That’s handy,’ said Maxwell. ‘Now I wonder how the bed might—’

  But his wondering was brought to an abrupt end by a stone that bounced off the back of his head.

  ‘Ouch!’ cried Maxwell, springing around.

  Several small men were approaching. They wore big coats, had pink candyfloss hair and carried stones and stout sticks.

  ‘He has murdered Brother Phlegster,’ shouted one.

  ‘Pushed him with magic through the grid,’ shouted another.

  ‘Let us put him to a slow death,’ shouted a third.

  ‘Just hold on,’ yelled Maxwell. ‘It was a mistake. I had this theory, you see.’

  But the little men did not seem anxious to hear of Maxwell’s theory. And as Maxwell looked on, others appeared through the trees, some carrying nets, some long staves with pointy ends. There were shouts regarding the use of a ‘maggot box’ and red-hot gelding tongs.

  ‘Well, if you’re not prepared to listen . . .’ Maxwell turned, held his breath, closed his eyes and then leapt through the grid.

  14

  Maxwell plunged through the grid, rolled over and came to rest on the grass beyond.

  Unsinged and intact.

  He picked up the pouch and ran.

  Shouts and threats and stones and staves followed Maxwell, but the kin of the ill-fated Phlegster did not. They remained on their side of the invisible border, fearful to step across.

  Maxwell ran till he could hear their cries no more, then slumped onto a grassy knoll to gather his breath and his wits.

  He was quite fed up with this new world. He’d done more running during the past few weeks than ever before in his life, and always for his life. If he ever succeeded in retrieving his soul, Maxwell promised himself, he would pursue some quiet, unrushed occupation, such as mushroom growing or the keeping of a hermitage.

  Maxwell flung the pouch to the ground, raising a howl from Rushmear.

  ‘Silence,’ Maxwell puffed and coughed, ‘ungrateful buffoon. Yet again I have saved your life, while you loaf about in the bag.’

  Rushmear’s response was a torrent of abuse. And Maxwell, in fury, raised a boot to staunch it for good and for all.

  His fine substantial boot cast a fine substantial shadow over the pouch. A fine substantial black shadow it was. Crisp at the edges. Clearly defined. Maxwell brought his foot to a halt an inch above the pouch.

  He raised it. Examined the shadow. Peered up at the sky.

  Up at the sun.

  It was no longer red here. It was gold, pure gold.

  Maxwell gaped and blinked his eyes. The garden all around was bathed in golden light. It wasn’t the light of the old sun he’d known before the time of the great transition. This was rich and mellow, softer. Quite beautiful, in fact.

  Maxwell jumped to his feet, narrowly avoiding the accidental stamping flat of Rushmear. He glanced to left and right, espied a suitable tree and, without further ado, clambered up it.

  From a high branch he stared off towards the way he had come. The line marked by the grid was most apparent, creating the effect of a clear glass barrier that rose endlessly into the sky. And beyond it: a world of red.

  ‘By the G
oddess.’ Maxwell shook an awestruck head. ‘The Sultan must control the very sun itself. Not a man to be taken lightly. But possibly one who might . . .’

  A sequence of thoughts moved into his mind.

  Maxwell kept these thoughts to himself. They were great thoughts these. His greatest yet, and not thoughts to be bandied about without care. Imagineering thoughts were they.

  And he the Imagineer.

  Maxwell climbed down from the tree, his head abuzz with plans and stratagems. He had twenty days. Surely enough for what he had in mind. First priority was food, and to eat, certain risks must be taken.

  Maxwell snatched up the pouch. ‘Rushmear,’ he said, ‘I am going to release you. I have protected you for long enough. Now you must take your share of responsibility.’

  Rushmear was speechless.

  ‘I have formulated a plan,’ announced Maxwell, untying the pouch, ‘and because you enjoy my favour, you will have but a small part to play in its execution. Great wealth will be yours for the taking, so rouse yourself from your comfortable repose and let us be on our way.’

  Maxwell turned the pouch upside down and gave it a shake. It was quite a sight to behold, the enormous horse trader pouring from the tiny bag. He thumped to the ground on his great fat bottom and sat there rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Now,’ said Maxwell, ‘first things first. We should eat before we go any further. As you have knowledge regarding what may be safely consumed, hasten to the task of finding us some breakfast.’

  ‘What?’ Rushmear blinked his eyes, gawped up at the golden sun, glared at the man in the white suit and climbed ponderously to his feet. ‘Now just you—’ But he said no more. A look of alarm appeared on his face. He clutched at his hind quarters and rushed off into the trees.

  Presently he returned, sighing deeply and rebuttoning his trousers.

  ‘I hope you’ve washed your hands,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘I will shortly, to get the blood off.’

  ‘Spare me your threats, Rushmear, we do not have the time.

  ‘I have nineteen days,’ said Rushmear. ‘You less than a minute.’

  ‘Such ingratitude. After all I’ve done for you.

  Rushmear threw himself at Maxwell. Maxwell ducked nimbly aside, pulled from behind his back the length of branch he had torn from a tree during Rushmear’s absence and struck the horse trader a devastating blow to the head with it.

  Rushmear collapsed in a groaning heap. Maxwell stepped astride him, branch raised in both hands. ‘Swear allegiance to me or I bust out your brains.’

  ‘Never!’ Rushmear brought up a knee that caught Maxwell in the cobblers. Maxwell staggered forwards and trod on Rushmear’s face. The big man grabbed his ankle. Twisted it. Maxwell fell heavily to the ground. The big man rolled over to claw at Maxwell’s throat. Maxwell hit him again with the branch.

  Rushmear sank back, holding his head. Maxwell sat gasping, his hands at his groin. ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ he gasped. ‘How many times must you be told? One man alone cannot succeed.’

  ‘I’d rather throw in my lot with the devil himself.’

  Maxwell snatched up the branch. ‘Then let me send you to him. I have no more time to squander on your welfare.’

  ‘Why, you—’ Rushmear launched himself forwards. He swept the branch from Maxwell’s hand and fell upon him, pressing down with all his weight.

  Maxwell’s ribs began to buckle. Rushmear’s face leered into his.

  Maxwell craned his neck and bit the end off Rushmear’s nose.

  Rushmear toppled over. He writhed about, legs thrashing the air, clutching his face and moaning with pain. Maxwell crawled to the branch, dragged himself erect and raised it high, preparing to administer the coup de grâce.

  He spat the tip of Rushmear’s nose onto the moaner beneath.

  This had all got completely out of control. It was pure Tobe Hooper stuff. Maxwell would finish it now. He gripped the branch tightly. ‘You’re dead, you fu—’

  ‘No, stop.’ Rushmear covered his face. ‘Stop. Listen.’

  ‘To what? Your pleas for mercy?’

  ‘Sssh. Listen. Can’t you hear?’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Maxwell. ‘It’s too late for tricks.’

  ‘Horses,’ said Rushmear. ‘Many horses.’

  And now Maxwell could hear them too. A dull rumble of hoofbeats, rising in volume. Becoming a regular thundering.

  ‘Get down, hide yourself.’

  Maxwell hesitated. It would be far better to smash Rushmear’s head in while he had the chance and take once more to his heels.

  ‘Get down, fool, they’re coming this way. And I know these horses.’

  ‘You do?’ Maxwell cast aside his branch and threw himself to the ground.

  ‘Into the cover of those bushes.’

  ‘Lead the way,’ whispered Maxwell.

  ‘After you.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘All right, after me.’ Oozing blood from his maimed hooter, Rushmear scuttled into the bushes, Maxwell close behind.

  And then the riders were in view.

  Maxwell stared out at them and he was lost for words.

  Knights they were.

  Knights in golden armour. The sunlight dazzled about them. Dancing in bright coronas on their polished morions and bucklers. They were romantic. Arthurian. Heroic.

  Maxwell whistled softly between his teeth. ‘Would you look at those flashy bastards?’ he said, not lost for words for too long.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, fool.’

  The knights steered their horses between the trees. ‘Any sign?’ called one.

  ‘No,’ called another. ‘But he’ll be close. He entered through the grid a mile south of here.’

  ‘They’re searching for us,’ whispered Maxwell.

  ‘You,’ whispered Rushmear. ‘Only you.’

  Maxwell chewed upon his bottom lip. ‘Then luck is ever with us. This is my plan. First you—’

  ‘No!’ Rushmear clamped a ham-hock hand across the mouth of Maxwell. ‘Horses I know,’ he muttered. ‘Wait until the last one passes, then do as I tell you. Understand?’

  Maxwell nodded without enthusiasm. Rushmear withdrew his hand.

  They watched the riders passing by, fanning out to the left and right. A sword blade swept suddenly through the bush, clearing Maxwell’s head by inches. Rushmear dragged him down by the scruff of the neck. Maxwell peeped out.

  A knight had dismounted. He stood before the bush. As Maxwell looked on, the knight unbuckled his golden codpiece.

  Maxwell chewed upon a knuckle. It was quite clear what the knight meant to do.

  And he did it.

  Inside the bush Maxwell fumed.

  And now steamed also at the shoulders.

  Micturition accomplished, the knight rebuckled himself into decency and strode back to his horse. As he mounted, Rushmear thrust his face out of the bush, put his fingers to his lips and blew a most curious whistle.

  The knight, expecting his horse to rear, held fast to the reins and dug in his spurs. But the horse dropped its head instead and threw up its hind legs. The knight sailed forward and crashed to the ground.

  ‘Make sure he’s unconscious,’ Rushmear sprang from the bush. ‘I’ll deal with the horse.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’ Maxwell emerged, a sorry sodden sight. He took off his jacket and flung it to the ground then stalked over to the fallen knight and prepared to put the boot in.

  But the knight wasn’t moving. His helmet was twisted around the wrong way. His neck was broken.

  Though the red fug of fury raged in his head, Maxwell drew the line at kicking a corpse. He turned towards Rushmear. ‘He’s done for,’ he said. ‘Hang about . . . What?’

  The big man with the gory face sat high upon the horse. He twitched the reins in a professional manner and the beast plodded forward. ‘So,’ said Rushmear. ‘Matters adjust themselves.’

  ‘Help me up,’ said Maxwell, affecting a chummy grin.
>
  ‘I think not. We part company here. I ride alone to the city of Rameer.’

  ‘Oh come now,’ Maxwell stepped in front of the horse.

  ‘Stand aside, or I order the mare to use its teeth. Have you ever been bit by a horse?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Stand aside then.’

  Maxwell stood aside. ‘Now, listen,’ said he.

  ‘No, you listen.’ Rushmear put a hand to his ear. ‘The riders are returning, so I must be away. Perhaps you can keep up, if you run very fast. I somehow doubt it, though.’ He wheeled the horse about, dug in his heels and flicked the reins.

  Then he galloped away at the double. Leaving Maxwell alone with a corpse.

  15

  When the riders did return, which was half an hour later, Maxwell was nowhere to be seen.

  The knights dismounted, examined the tracks made by the galloping horse and gathered about its fallen rider.

  Happily this fellow wasn’t dead at all. Although his helmet was twisted around and his visor jammed shut, he was only a bit dazed and spoke in a voice of muffled rage concerning the giant with the gory face who had leapt from a bush and startled his horse.

  The knights were glad that their comrade had come to no real harm. But being professional soldiers, they recognized the subtle distinction between a gallant hero who is knocked from his charging steed in the thick of bloody battle by fearsome adversary, and a careless oaf who is tipped from his strolling horse, in the still of a country glade, by a loon with a bloody nose.

  A good deal of ribaldry then ensued and the poor Sir Knight found himself the butt of much gallant humour which called into question not only his bravery and prowess as a horseman.

  ‘Me thinks me Lord Percy hath a swidgen for a billydock,’ quoth one hearty fellow.

  ‘Perhaps next time he swankles, he should dab a moult of grimbah on his trump,’ quoth another.’

  ‘Surely I discern a swattle in the air,’ quoth yet a third, ‘which lends me to suppose some dabbing of the strubbart has occurred.’

  And further such and so forth.

  And to those unschooled in the arcane terms employed by these Knights of New, it might well have been thought that here was something other than the usual crap innuendo and barrack-room smut you get from buffoons in uniform.