Captains Stupendous

by Rhys Hughes

  ‘Yes Boss. Shall I remove their steenking heads?’

  ‘Do that, by all means!’

  And Pancho Henchman jabbed his pistol into my back.

  Distanto tried to distract our captor.

  ‘You say that maps in atlases will be redrawn after your macrocosmic political alchemy turns Spain into Mexico; but in fact I have evidence that they need to be redrawn anyway.’

  Mario narrowed his peepers. ‘What mean you, hombre?’

  ‘Have you heard of Hippolyto Joseph da Costa, a Brazilian sage? The maps he drew aren’t normal ones.’

  ‘Yes, I know him! He was an alchemist too!’

  He gestured at Pancho Henchman to desist from executing us, at least for the time being. Distanto continued, ‘If Hippolyto’s geography is right, there’s one country on the globe that still hasn’t been officially discovered by outsiders. It’s an Arctic Island that despite its northern latitude is warm enough for tropical life to thrive.’

  ‘What is this island named, hombre?’

  Distanto twirled his moustache. ‘Hippolytomia.’

  Mario laughed, his eyes watering.

  ‘Indeed, indeed. I have heard of it and the man who named it. He was a mason as well as an alchemist and geographer; not a mason who builds walls, but one who rolls up a trouser leg and keeps secrets. A freemason! I have nothing against that lot; but tell me, have you ever heard of Sadegh Safani? Yet another alchemist…’

  ‘I must confess that I haven’t,’ said Distanto.

  ‘A Persian fellow. Perhaps he is still alive, I don’t know. According to him, there are actually two countries on the surface of the globe that still haven’t been officially discovered. The Arctic island is one. The other lies in a secret valley in the Himalayas.’

  Distanto gazed at his shoes. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  There was a lengthy pause.

  Mario sighed. ‘Your attempt to distract me has failed. Qué pena! But before I send you to your deaths, allow me to reveal the rest of my plan. I have made contact with likeminded individuals throughout Europe. This continent is crammed with malcontents who loathe the softness of the old governments and their liberal platitudes. In Italy, homeland of my fathers, a movement has come into existence that calls itself ‘Fascist’. Its members are a strapping bunch of grim toughs!’

  ‘You plan to ally yourself with them?’ I asked.

  ‘Not merely with them,’ Mario replied, ‘but with many other societies that are similar in style and purpose. Every European state seems to have at least one group of this kind. A sign of the times, no doubt! Letters have passed to and fro between these disparate groups. We have all resolved to work together; to aid each other overthrow, one by one, the pale, cowardly fools who currently rule in our midst!’

  I frowned. ‘Rule in the mist?’ For some indescribable reason I thought of gorillas. Wearing crowns. Peculiar!

  ‘In our midst,’ said Distanto, wincing slightly.

  Mario continued, ‘We will deal decisively with every state in Europe. Together our alliance will overthrow unworthy kings and presidents and prime ministers and other morons. Our combined army of strongmen will form an invincible legion of doom!’

  ‘I see. When does this begin?’ asked Distanto.

  ‘It already has!’ shrieked Mario.

  ‘And Spain is the first battleground of the greater campaign? Does this mean that foreign fighters are here?’

  ‘Not yet. They are on their way right now!’

  ‘I’m a journalist and maybe I can write a story about this,’ I offered as a pathetic attempt to preserve my skin.

  But Mario wasn’t tempted to accept. He shook his head. ‘No, you will die. Both of you. Wouldn’t you like to know how? You will be forced to participate in a Wild West shootout.’

  ‘What will happen to the winner?’ Distanto asked.

  ‘He will be hung,’ smiled Mario.

  ‘And if we refuse to fight each other?’ I cried.

  Mario’s smile vanished. ‘Then you’ll be impaled alive on a cactus and left for birds to peck slowly. But if you agree, you will be given revolvers with only one bullet in each chamber.’

  I turned to Distanto with a horrified expression, but he winked at me. I understood that he had formulated a plan of escape. I trusted him. No less resourceful than his brother, was he.

  Flock Of Assassins

  Assembled in the house of Hugo Bloat, the assassins wonder why it was necessary for them all to make the difficult journey there, merely to listen to a simple instruction that might have been conveyed by letter, telegram or telephone. ‘Lloyd Griffiths must die!’

  But when payment is good enough, they are willing to tolerate the odd behaviour of patrons; and Bloat and Gordon have offered them thrice the going rate. They are satisfied. They depart the house, each one intending to track down the victim in his or her own way.

  These assassins are individuals, preferring to work alone.

  But public transport in Wales is dire.

  Because of infrequent and unreliable services, the pack of assassins is unable to disperse. They must all wait for the same bus; it’s the only one that day. So the assassins remain clustered longer than any one of them had planned. And they converse with each other while they wait. Then, seated on the bus that trundles slowly from Porthcawl to Bridgend, they begin to enjoy and appreciate the companionship.

  Before the vehicle reaches Bridgend, they have all decided to remain together, to work as a team. Incredible!

  They board the train at the station and rattle down the rusty line to the city of Cardiff. From here they catch a ship to Bristol; and in Bristol, in the harbour, one of their number stands on the crumbling stone quayside and gingerly sniffs the air. This assassin is hairy and uncouth. He walks with a stoop and carries a gnarled club in one massive fist. His senses are preternaturally keen and he stinks badly.

  He smells of sabre-tooth tiger fat!

  Some of the more cultured assassins whisper together.

  ‘Who is he? From whence comes he?’

  So sharp is his hearing that he turns towards them and rasps, ‘Me from land that have no name in my own language. In yours is sometimes called Hippolytomia. Lies far beyond snow and ice. Me called Unkoo. Land of my birth very dangerous. Monsters!’

  ‘Fascinating,’ comments the assassin from France.

  ‘Very,’ concurs the assassin from China.

  ‘How did you manage to leave your island, Unkoo?’ asks the assassin from Lithuania. ‘If it’s so remote?’

  ‘Unkoo hide inside airship. It come down, hatch open, man come out and put some objects on the ground. Me climb through hatch when he not looking. Conceal myself under billiard table. Man come back, airship rise up, fly south. Land again. Me get out.’

  ‘And where was that?’ wonders the Egyptian assassin.

  ‘Dresden. Nice city. Unkoo like!’

  ‘Ah indeed, a gem of a place. Delightful and charming!’ says another assassin, surely the one from Germany.

  Unkoo resumes sniffing the air. ‘Me catch scent!’

  ‘What of?’ asks the Dutch assassin.

  ‘Lloyd Griffiths, our target!’

  ‘How is that possible?’ asks the Russian assassin.

  ‘Unkoo recognise it. Back in house in the dunes, me sniff stair carpet, pick up pungent odour. Me wonder what make it. Hugo Bloat explain that Lloyd Griffiths visit his house once, that the journalist smell like that. So I think our victim has fungal infection of some kind. Me can smell it now. Lloyd Griffiths has been here too!’

  ‘That’s logical,’ approves the assassin from Siam.

  ‘What would he come here for?’ wonders the assassin from Ethiopia. The answer is provided by the assassin from Argentina, who is sipping a yerba mate gourd, and who drawls:

  ‘Must have caught a ship from this harbour.’

  ‘That’s right!’ cries the assassin from Ceylon. ‘There’s no explanation that makes sense other than that one.’

>   ‘Then we must get on a ship here too,’ roars the Irish assassin, ‘if we are to stand a chance of finding him.’

  ‘Might as well!’ concludes the assassin from Cuba.

  ‘Let us get aboard this vessel,’ suggests the Australian assassin, as he notices a liner docked nearby that is accepting passengers. A murmur of assent greets his proposition. The pack of assassins crosses the gangplank and takes up residence in the liner.

  Meanwhile back in the house in the dunes …

  Hugo Bloat and Ben Gordon are buttoning up the final button of a suit that is extremely unconventional in style and size. It’s big enough for both of them to fit inside. And that is precisely how they wanted it made. The fact of the matter is that money can buy almost anything; and a tailor who is asked to design a suit twice as wide as normal won’t bat an eyelash if a wad of cash is thrust into his visage.

  Bloat and Gordon had been getting on well. So well that they began to despise their own separateness. Why couldn’t they occupy the same body, like conjoined twins, but without the health issues? They had decided to become one person instead of two. There might have been an alchemical basis for this desire. For was it not the legend of the Fountain of Salmacis that featured the fusion of two into one?

  They had consulted the best doctors in Wales, thrusting cash in faces best qualified to dream surgical dreams.

  But an operation to graft them to each other, artery to artery, nerve to nerve, bone to bone, was impossible to perform without killing them. For one thing, the blood types were incompatible. Gordon was Type B; Bloat was Type X²+Y². And so that particular dream was extinguished. Making the best of the situation, they resolved at least to fuse metaphorically; but to symbolise this mystic union properly they would live in the same suit, Ben on the right side, Hugo on the left …

  Does this seem eccentric to you?

  It was a more eccentric age back then, when grotesque war was on the verge of smashing Europe to bloody shards! Honestly. Think of a bowl of thumbs. That’s weird, isn’t it? Yes, but not as weird as the Kaiser! Take it from me, who was there at the time.

  Anyway, Bloat and Gordon are now encased in one pair of pantaloons, one shirt and one jacket. It takes the duo only a little practice to perfect an efficient gait. They walk down the rickety stairs and back up again. Easy! Then they sit down on a comfortable sofa, get up and sit back down, just to experience the sensation. It operates fine, this single identity. Thus it is time for the next stage of the merger.

  A single name instead of two separate names!

  Hugo Bloat and Ben Gordon.

  From now on they shall be one individual.

  Hubengo Gordbloaton!

  Yes, that is marvellous, that is dandy!

  With diabolical joy, monolithic square shoulders shaking with mirth, a bass drone of laughter splutters forth from this improvement on the basic human model, Mr Gordbloaton…

  Talking about spluttering, that’s exactly what Mr Jason Rolfe’s engine was doing as he coasted along the southern shore of the Caspian Sea; but there was nothing wrong with the machinery. Pulsejets always splutter as they work. This part of Persia is cooler and softer than the deserts further south, and Jason was enjoying the dappled sunlight. To his left sparkled a series of wavelets on the inner sea.

  To his right rose the mighty Elburz Mountains, the dwelling place in the ancient Zoroastrian religion of the Peshyotan, an immortal assistant of the Saoshyant, who is the one who will bring about the final renovation of the world; but Jason cared little about such things. He was relaxing on his saddle, slumped as far back as feasible. Sleeping in the saddle without falling off was a most tricky tactic.

  He approached an isolated castle; a tall structure perched on a crag. As he passed near it, something fell from the battlements. A man! The fellow had been leaning too far over, curious to observe the bicycle. Down span this unfortunate, to his certain doom, but lo and behold!, he landed not on the hard ground, but on the bicycle.

  And yet the impact didn’t unseat Mr Rolfe.

  Nor did it kill the newcomer.

  The vast sack of supplies that bulged directly behind Jason cushioned the fall of the man and saved him.

  But he was stuck on the speeding machine …

  Mr Jason Rolfe looked back over his own shoulder and said, ‘Do you speak English? I am an inventor.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I learned it in Tehran University.’

  ‘Ah, so you are a scholar?’

  ‘Indeed. I am Sadegh Safani, an alchemist.’

  ‘They teach alchemy as an academic subject in this country? I’m quite astounded to hear that. As you can see, I’m marooned on this bicycle until it runs out of fuel. But there’s a lot of fuel remaining; and I suspect I’ll end up drowning in the Pacific Ocean.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s very far away! Surely you exaggerate?’

  ‘I wish I did, but I don’t.’

  Sadegh nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, it’s just as inconvenient for me to balance here like this. I’m sure there must be a way of stopping the device and dismounting safely! Let me see.’

  ‘Are you cogitating the problem?’ asked Mr Rolfe.

  ‘I am. Wait, I have the answer!’

  ‘Pray reveal it to me, sir.’

  The Persian leaned forward and whispered into the explorer’s ear. This wasn’t an easy thing to do, for Jason still wore his knightly helmet; yet the words of the alchemist were clear.

  ‘There’s a country east of here mostly unknown to outsiders. Long ago I went there; when I was young. It’s hidden away in the Himalayas. Every side is guarded by a high mountain.’

  ‘Is it accessible by bicycle?’ asked Jason Rolfe.

  ‘No, but that’s to our advantage. Listen carefully. If you steer directly up the side of one of those mountains, your velocity will start to decrease until eventually it reaches a speed low enough for us to jump off without breaking our skeletons into crumbs.’

  ‘But we’ll be stranded at a great altitude!’

  ‘True, but then we can descend the other side on foot, into the country that almost nobody knows about …’

  ‘Will they welcome us there, Mr Safani?’

  ‘I have no doubt of that.’

  Higher Noon

  Distanto stood at one end of the single dusty street. I stood at the other. A classic scene from any Western dime novel you care to name. Slowly and determinedly, we approached each other. My Colt revolver was holstered and my fingers undulated above its handle like spiders’ legs. An audience had gathered to watch our fatal sport.

  Mario Granieri began whistling. It was a heartbreaking tune; it had all of Mexico in it, the knife blue of the skies, the circling vultures, and yet it was somehow redolent of spaghetti. His Italian blood kept coming to the front of everything he did, the rascal!

  My brow was bathed in sweat. I stumbled.

  I was scared. I expected to die.

  There was no way I could beat Distanto Faraway in a shootout without cheating. I had never seen him fire a gun, but I had a feeling about him, a feeling identical to that which his brother Scipio had given me; he was an expert with a vast range of weapons.

  Step by step the distance between us narrowed.

  ‘Don’t draw unteel you can seee the whites of his eyes, hombre!’ cried Pancho Henchman in an ironic tone.

  Mario stopped whistling. He fished a rusty harmonica from his pocket and puffed a melody even lonelier.

  Distanto was so close I could see his expression.

  He blinked rapidly! Dust in his eyes?

  No, it wouldn’t be that; with the Faraway brothers there was always an unorthodox reason for all behaviour.

  Then I realised that he was signalling to me.

  Morse Code! With eyelids!

  I had learned to read this code as part of my journalistic training. Even now, everyone who writes features and news items for The Western Mail must be au fait with dots and dashes.

  His message was simple but breathtaking!


  He’d formulated an escape plan.

  The details shocked me; but I trusted his judgment.

  Mario honked a minor chord.

  Distanto and I squared off, maybe 20 paces apart.

  He stamped his foot thrice!

  That was the signal for me to draw and shoot.

  I did so. And so did he!

  Blam! A double blast. A double echo down the street.

  Horses near the saloon snorted.

  Distanto’s skill at billiards was put to good use now. My bullet met his bullet at the midway point between our two barrels. His bullet acted like a cue ball, deflecting mine at a prejudged angle. Can you imagine the mind it must take to calculate that?

  The brain of that airship captain was glorious.

  ‘Good shot!’ I screeched.

  But my congratulations were premature. Even geniuses make errors! I don’t mind stating that Distanto’s effort was out by a few degrees. Instead of puncturing the heart of Mario, the deflected bullet buried itself deep in the neck of Pancho Henchman.

  Who collapsed with a groan into the dust.

  Mario dropped his harmonica.

  ‘Pancho Henchman is dead! Take his place, Pancho Lackey!’

  A new henchman ran up, nodding.

  Mario gave vent to his fury. He pointed at Distanto and me. ‘You will both die immediately! Not by the bullet, the rope or even the cactus, but by the trident. I’ll fetch it now!’

  And he ran back into the saloon and down to his workroom. The trident was still resting in the corner. He snatched it up and hastened out into the glare of sunlight. ‘Die like pigs!’

  I looked around, wondering if we could make a run for it; and Distanto was clearly thinking the same thing. There was nowhere for us to flee, for we were surrounded by a semicircle of angry Mexicans, a semicircle that was turning into a tightening noose.

  ‘Our guns are empty now,’ I said sadly.

  ‘Do you know how to fight with bare hands, Mr Griffiths?’ Distanto asked. I shook my head despondently.

  ‘Not my own,’ I admitted. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m a black belt in Jujutsu.’