The Garden of Unearthly Delights

by Robert Rankin

  But such, of course, wasn’t the case and the jibes levelled at the now horseless Lord Percy, were, for the most part, directed towards the manner of his conception and the dimensions of his willy.

  The unseated knight took it like the man he was. Possibly because he knew that if you cry when other knights are mocking you, it is considered a sign of weakness. But more likely because the man now wearing Lord Percy’s armour was not Lord Percy at all.

  Maxwell peeped out through the ‘jammed’ visor of the late lord’s helmet and said nothing as he was unceremoniously hauled from the ground and dumped upon the back of another knight’s horse.

  ‘Hold tight to me, Perce,’ called the gallant chap up front. ‘I’d be fair saddened should you slip from my steed and blabber your thubs upon a rock.’

  ‘Lord Percy’s thubs might do better for a wistering of thark,’ quoth the hearty fellow who had got a laugh earlier with the gag about Lord Percy having a swidgen for a billydock.

  ‘Prettily put, Lord Archer,’ quoth the chap who’d done the one about the swattle in the air that presupposed a degree of strubbart dabbing. ‘A double wistering and heavy on the mingewort.’

  ‘Get a move on, you twerps,’ whispered Maxwell, as the knights chortled with mirth. ‘Follow Rushmear’s tracks and let’s get to the city.’

  The horsemen moved off with a glitter of gold, a chinking of chainmail, a haughtiness of hauberks, a proudery of pickelhaubes and no doubt a veritable defustication of dortwonglers also.

  Maxwell clung to the fellow at the reins. He had a right sweat on and was in considerable discomfort, the armour, although extremely light, chaffed beneath the armpits and the codpiece played havoc with his tender parts.

  They galloped over hill and dale the way that knights will do, but they soon lost Rushmear’s trail, which came as a great disappointment, what with the knights considering themselves to be expert trackers and on home territory and everything.

  Maxwell sighed as they circled hopelessly around, and paid a grudging homage to the equestrian talents of the resourceful Rushmear, who had no doubt ordered his horse to walk backwards on its hind legs or trip daintily along the tops of the drystone walls.

  ‘The varlet said he was going to slay the Sultan,’ Maxwell shouted gruffly, when he could stand no more of the dithering.

  ‘What?’ cried the knights. ‘What? What? What?’

  ‘Going to slay the Sultan,’ Maxwell said once more.

  ‘No not that bit,’ said the fellow who’d done the dabbing-a-moult-of-grimbah joke, ‘the first bit.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Varlet?’ asked Lord Archer. ‘What does varlet mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s the same as blackguard, or rapscallion, isn’t it?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Oh you know, scallywag, spalpeen, scapegrace. Caitiff, there’s a good’n. Whelp, roughneck. Tergiversator, although that’s more like a quisling really.’ Maxwell stared out at the knights, who were now staring somewhat intently at him.

  ‘Does he mean bullygarve?’ someone asked.

  ‘No,’ said Lord Archer. ‘He didn’t mean bullygarve. Did you, Lord Percy?’

  ‘I might have,’ mumbled Maxwell. ‘Do you think it matters?’

  ‘Matters?’ Lord Archer drew himself erect in his saddle. ‘Matters? Did we spend five years at the University studying the subtle nuances of the chivalrous vernacular for nothing? Toiling into the long evenings sorting the irregular inflection from the modifying noun?’

  ‘Those were the days,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Ha!’ Lord Archer gave Maxwell a hearty slap on the back that rattled Maxwell’s teeth. ‘Those were the days. Where do the good times go?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Come again once more?’

  ‘Oh let’s get going,’ growled Maxwell. ‘This, er, person, means to assassinate the Sultan.’

  ‘Ha!’ Lord Archer laughed again. And the other knights laughed with him.

  Maxwell shook his helmet. This bunch of golden clowns went in for more jollity and thigh-slapping than the cast of a Robin Hood remake.

  ‘Ha!’ Lord Archer gave Maxwell another hearty tooth-rattler. ‘If the scrumian rides to his doom, let’s not waste our time in pursuit.’

  ‘Scrumian,’ said Maxwell, ‘that’s the word I was looking for. But, no, hold on, not waste our time? We must get after him. Er, get my horse back. Warn the Sultan.’

  ‘Ha!’ Lord Archer took another swing at Maxwell’s back. But this time Maxwell ducked aside. Lord Archer lost balance and fell from his horse.

  ‘Ooooh!’ went the other knights, reining back their mounts. ‘That’s torn it.’

  As is often the case when you fall in the country, Lord Archer now sat in a cowpat. He looked up at Maxwell, and no hint of jocularity remained upon his face. ‘By crumble,’ he roared, ‘thou hast unseated thy superior, Percy. Know what thou must do?’

  ‘Write a formal letter of apology?’ Maxwell suggested. ‘Penned in knightish patois and expressing great remorse?’

  ‘Engage in mortal combat,’ quoth Lord Archer.

  ‘Couldn’t we just hug and make up?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Go in for a bit of male-bonding?’

  ‘You’ll taste my blade, sir.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of taking it that far.’

  Several knights groaned at this, which was hardly surprising really.

  ‘Down from the steed, knave. Lord Grade,’ called Lord Archer to the knight at the reins, ‘toss Lord Percy off.’

  ‘It’s knob gags again,’ said Maxwell. ‘Why is it always knob gags?’

  ‘Down!’ cried Lord Grade, heaving Maxwell from the horse.

  ‘No, hold on. Aaaagh!’ Maxwell crashed to the ground. ‘Now look,’ he mumbled, trying to right himself. ‘Do you know what kind of a day I’ve had so far? I don’t need any of this.’

  ‘Stand up and fight, are you man or moussaka?’

  ‘I’m moussaka, all right? I’m hungry and I’ve got a headache. Take me to the city where I can recuperate for a couple of days. Then I’ll beat the shit out of you.’

  ‘Ooooh!’ went the knights. ‘Naughty word.’

  ‘Naughty word?’ Maxwell struggled to his feet. ‘You’re barking mad, the lot of you. Prancing about on your horses, talking a load of old twaddle. Get a life, why don’t you?’

  ‘Fight me, you blumpit.’

  ‘Blumpit?’ asked Maxwell. ‘Is that the same as, bullygarve?’

  ‘It’s worse,’ said Lord Grade. ‘Much worse.’

  ‘Right,’ said Maxwell, who had been controlling his red fug quite well up till now. ‘No-one calls me a blumpit and gets away with it. Someone hand me a sword.’

  ‘Use your own,’ said Lord Archer, drawing his and whirling it about.

  ‘I haven’t got mine, it must have been on my horse.’

  ‘Well, you’re not having mine,’ said Lord Grade. ‘I only polished it this morning. I used two quadroons of pilch on the hebbereen alone.’

  ‘No more of that. Come on, someone, give me a sword.’

  ‘Oooh. No. No. No.’ The knights all backed away, tucking their swords out of sight.

  ‘Right, I’ll use a bloody stick then.’ Maxwell sought a fallen branch.

  ‘You can’t use a stick,’ said Lord Archer.

  ‘Well, have you got a spare sword I could borrow?’

  ‘I’ve got one at home. But it’s my best one, you can’t use that.’

  ‘I could fetch it,’ said Lord Grade. ‘Then Lord Percy could use the one you have here.’

  ‘He might break it.’ Lord Archer examined the blade of his sword. ‘And I only polished it this morning, I used a full quart of—’

  Maxwell stepped forward and biffed Lord Archer in the chin.

  ‘Oh my!’ shrieked the knight, falling down in a heap.

  ‘Come on,’ said Maxwell, doing the Prince Naseem shuffle. ‘On your feet, let’s see what you’re made of.’

  ‘You
beastly man. I’m wounded. Wounded.’

  Knights rushed forward. But not at Maxwell. They flustered about Lord Archer, making soothing noises and patting his wrists.

  ‘You pack of softies.’ Maxwell kicked the nearest in the seat of his golden armour.

  ‘Lord Percy is bereft,’ this fellow cried. ‘Flee before he does us mischief.’

  ‘I’m not Lord Percy, you idiots.’ Maxwell lifted his visor and grinned at the knights, exciting them to shrieks of terror and sending them scurrying.

  ‘Come on.’ Maxwell stood, making fists with his golden gauntlets. ‘Come on, you sissy boys. I’ll take on the lot of you. Who’s first?’

  The knights were hopping back towards their horses. There was much bumping into one another, and putting feet into the wrong stirrups and falling off and that kind of thing.

  Maxwell danced amongst the scampering warriors, shaking his fists and shouting abuse.

  Lord Archer was back on his horse.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Maxwell cried, grabbing the knight by the leg. ‘I’m not walking any more. I’ll have your horse.’

  ‘Not my bonny Black Bess. Save me, someone.’ But Lord Archer’s bold companions were digging in their spurs and having it away upon the hoof.

  ‘Down!’ shouted Maxwell. ‘Or I’ll twist your ankle.’

  ‘No, please, I’m getting down.’ Lord Archer climbed from his bonny Black Bess. ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Easy now.’

  ‘You’re a bloody disgrace.’ Maxwell cuffed Lord Archer across the helmet. ‘Call yourself a knight? You’re not fit to wear the armour.’

  ‘We’re mostly a showpiece regiment,’ whimpered his lordship. ‘Mostly ceremonial, we don’t go in for any of the, you know—’ He mimed a feeble sword thrust.

  ‘Never mind,’ Maxwell went to pat the knight’s shoulder, but the knight flinched away. ‘You certainly look the part. Splendid get up.’

  ‘I’ve got cowpat all over my grieves.’

  ‘It’ll wash off. Use plenty of pilch, that would be my advice.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, I’ll do that.’

  ‘I’m going to take your horse,’ said Maxwell. ‘It’s nothing personal, but I’m in a hurry. Which way is it to the City of Rameer?’

  ‘Over yonder hill.’

  ‘I’ll leave your horse at the city gate. Don’t worry, I won’t race it or anything.’

  ‘Thanks. There’s sugar in the saddle-bag.’

  ‘Any food?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘My sandwiches, they’re in the saddle-bag too.’

  ‘Splendid. I’ll take those too if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, I . . . er, no. Please do.’

  ‘My thanks. Would you mind helping me up? I’ve never ridden a horse before.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Archer, hastening to oblige.

  ‘I am Max Carrion, Imagineer.’ Maxwell seated himself in the saddle. ‘She’s not rough this horse, is she?’

  ‘No, she’s sweet as a lamb.’

  ‘Right. Then I’ll bid you farewell. Give my regards to the other knights. Say sorry for me that I frightened them.’

  ‘Thank you, they’ll appreciate that.’

  ‘Farewell, then.’

  ‘Farewell.’

  Maxwell said, ‘Giddy up,’ and the horse clip-clopped forward.

  He’d actually done all right this time. A horse to ride on and sandwiches in the saddle-bag. Maxwell dipped in a gauntlet and drew them out. Cheese. Fine. Maxwell set into munching.

  Over the hill and off to the City of Rameer.

  Dressed as a knight, he’d get in okay.

  This was it. Almost there.

  All set to put into operation the mighty plan he had conceived earlier, the plan that would set everything to right.

  He was scoring points.

  It was time to move in for the big K.O.

  Maxwell laughed between munchings.

  ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll.’ he shouted. ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll.’

  16

  So out rode brave Sir Maxwell on his noble snow-white steed (Black Bess). He cut a pretty dashing figure: tall and proud in the saddle, sun a glitter on the suit of golden armour, bit of a designer stubble about the chiselled chin, lots of breadcrumbs round the mouth.

  Maxwell dug deeply into the saddle-bag once more. He found a bottle of blueberry cordial to wash down the sandwiches, a cream cake for afters and a bag of boiled sweets. When all these were done, he ate the horse’s sugar lumps.

  Maxwell grinned. Things weren’t turning out too badly at all, considering his dire circumstances. The armour wasn’t too uncomfortable and the codpiece no longer pained him, now that he’d slipped MacGuffin’s magic pouch over his tender parts. The horse clip-clopped beneath him at an easy pace, birdies twittered in the hedgerows, the sun beamed golden blessings.

  Up the hill he rode, the very picture of all things chivalrous. The fact that he wore a dead man’s armour and sat astride a stolen horse did not enter into it. Oh no. He was rocking now and no mistake.

  At the top of the hill Maxwell drew Black Bess to a halt and gazed towards the City of Rameer.

  There was no City of Rameer.

  ‘Eh?’ Maxwell gave the vista a severe looking over. A green and pleasant valley lay before, with a track that wound down through grassy meadows towards a line of distant hills.

  Maxwell swung about in the saddle, but Lord Archer was well beyond sight. ‘Stupid sod,’ said Maxwell. ‘I suppose he must have meant the next hill.’

  So Maxwell rode on. Down into the valley he went, along the meandering track. It was all terribly picturesque, very John Constable. At length he approached the next hill.

  And here Maxwell espied an old woman. She hobbled down the track, dragging a small boy by the arm. The small boy, upon sighting Maxwell, whispered something and the old woman bopped him on the head.

  As they drew near, Maxwell reined in Black Bess.

  ‘Good woman,’ said he, affecting a knightly manner. ‘Good woman, whither lies the City of Rameer?’

  The old woman gestured past her shoulder with a sinewy mitt. ‘Over yonder hill,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, thank you very much.’

  The small boy whispered something more to the old woman and she clubbed him over the head again.

  ‘Good woman,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Yeah? Wotcha want now?’

  ‘Good woman, why clubbest thou the lad?’

  ‘Because he’s stupid,’ the old dame replied.

  ‘That’s hardly a reason for clouting him.’

  ‘I’ve always found it sufficient.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Maxwell shrugged in his armour. It was none of his business, after all. He had a pressing appointment with the Sultan. ‘Good day to you,’ he said, ‘and farewell.’

  And on once more rode Maxwell. This hill was more substantial than the last and though Maxwell was eager to get to the top, Black Bess stopped to chomp grass and drink from a stream.

  ‘Come on,’ said Maxwell, clicking the reins. ‘Giddy up.’

  The horse plodded up the winding track and finally crested the hill. Maxwell took a deep breath and gazed down towards the City of Rameer.

  There was no City of Rameer.

  ‘What?’ Maxwell shook his head, glanced down the track. Of old woman and child there was no sign. ‘Stupid crone,’ muttered Maxwell. ‘I suppose she must have meant the next hill. After all she was walking down this one. Good grief.’

  And Maxwell rode on.

  Down into the new valley he went. It was much like the last.

  Possibly a bit more Gainsborough than Constable, but there wasn’t a lot in it. The next hill along the track was a good way off, though, and Black Bess’s pace was slowing.

  At considerable length Maxwell finally approached the next hill and here saw an old woman descending. She dragged a small boy by the arm.

  Maxwell squinted and sighed. It was not the same old woman, although there were similarities. Maxwell halted his h
orse and hailed the woman thusly. good woman,’ he hailed, ‘whither lies the City of Rameer?’

  ‘Over yonder hill,’ replied the old woman, thumbing over her shoulder.

  ‘Are you absolutely certain of that?’

  ‘Course I am.’

  ‘Okay, fine.’

  The lad whispered something to the old woman and the old woman clouted him across the skull.

  ‘Good woman,’ said Maxwell, ‘why cloutest thou the child?’

  ‘Because he’s stupid.’

  ‘I see. Tell me, is it the regular practice in these parts to clout stupid children?’

  The old woman shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m not from around here. But I could ask, if you want.’

  ‘Have a nice day,’ said Maxwell, riding on.

  It was late in the afternoon when Maxwell reached the top of the next hill. This next hill was not the next hill which the old woman to whom Maxwell had said ‘have a nice day’ had told him was the one beyond which lay the City of Rameer.

  Nor, in fact, was it the one after that, which an old woman, who was smiting a child when Maxwell met her, assured him would be the very one he sought.

  This hill was the hill that the old woman whom Maxwell found sitting sorrowfully beside the track, weeping bitterly for the fact that her daughter had never married and borne any boy children for her to clout, told him, with utter conviction, was the very hill beyond which lay the City of Rameer.

  Maxwell now stood upon the top of this hill. And it has to be said, there was not the vaguest hint of surprise to be found in the expression on his face for the fact that absolutely no City of Rameer whatsoever dwelt in the valley below.

  There was, however, an expression of such black fury, as would be better left without closer description.

  As the golden sun sank slowly in the west, Maxwell trudged bitterly up yet another hill. He was on foot once more — Black Bess had thrown a shoe — and no longer did he cut the dashing figure that he had cut earlier in the day. Maxwell’s head was down. His fine substantial boots, which he had been carrying in the magic pouch, were now back on his feet. The suit of golden armour was stashed in the magic pouch. The pouch was in Maxwell’s trouser pocket.