by Rhys Hughes
‘Maybe it’s better this way?’ I ventured.
He nodded. ‘As I said earlier, we’re in the future now, so I doubt it’s a good idea to plunge immediately into the deep end. Urban environments, full of futuristic appliances and customs and who knows what else, might unsettle our minds. Imagine a citizen of ancient Atlantis suddenly finding himself stranded in modern Paris!’
I frowned. ‘I think he would cope quite well.’
Neary huffed and glowered.
I wandered a little distance away from the makeshift platform. A pale object gleamed among the tangle of greenery. I parted some vines to take a closer look at it. A pillar of some sort! A stone column erected by a lost race to prop up a long-collapsed roof? Then I reached out and felt it. No, it wasn’t stone. It was made of bone!
‘Some sort of tusk!’ I cried.
Neary examined it by extending his metal arm, which I’ll admit I still think of as ‘truncated’, and caressed it lightly. ‘The horn of a Catoblepas, Mr Griffiths; a mythical creature.’
‘It has been carved into the shape of a—’
‘Yes, a banana. Strange.’
Neary extended a pair of artificial legs, tucked in his wheels, stepped off the rails and lurched over to my side. He said, ‘Maybe it’s dedicated to the supreme monkey god, Zumboo?’
‘Oh no, not to him!’ came a rich and powerful voice.
We span around and squinted …
An enormously impressive figure strolled out from behind a tree. Was it a man or an ape? Somehow it combined the best qualities of both, with none of the defects. It threw back its head and laughed. This laughter was warm and life-affirming, not sardonic or malign at all. We waited for his laughter to subside to a mere chuckle.
‘To me! It’s dedicated to me! A little extravagant, I thought. But I can’t complain about such a touching gesture. The people who carved it for me elected me as their chieftain and willingly became members of my tribe. I bid you welcome; for ordinary humans are just as precious to community life as any humanzee. Come!’
I stuttered, ‘Humanzee. You mean to say—’
The figure bowed deeply.
‘My name is Fabalo. You are my honoured guests.’
I didn’t know what to say.
But Neary did. He blared, ‘Choo choo!’
‘This way,’ smiled Fabalo.
Humanzeeville
The tribe that Fabalo ruled was several hundred strong. The ordinary men and women tended to dwell in huts; the humanzees generally lived in the trees. But there was considerable overlap in domestic arrangements. Most members were neither pure human nor pure humanzee but an incalculable hybrid of the two extremes. The laws of Humanzeeville were liberal, wise and highly evolved, or else extremely perverted, depending on your point of view. Myself, I rather liked them.
Fabalo lived in modest splendour in a large treehouse.
He had everything he wanted. ‘So this is utopia?’ I breathed, as I lay on a mat woven from leaves and accepted a drink of strongly fermented banana sap from a saucy huchimpess.
‘That’s not a real word, is it?’ wondered Neary.
‘Is what not a real word?’ I asked.
‘Huchimpess,’ he replied.
‘Probably not; but it’ll do for now.’
He shrugged and I redirected my attention to my host.
Fabalo sat on his haunches.
‘I believe in the light touch. There are enough bellicose dictators in this world of ours. I rule as gently as I dare. If I had to, I would trample all my enemies, both domestic and foreign, like grapes in a winepress; until juice that is actually blood spatters my legs right up to my inner thighs. Only as a last resort, though! My fondest hope is never to kill anyone. I want to be known as the most benign of all tyrants. I’m already the hairiest; that can’t be disputed! Peace is my motto.’
‘This world of ours?’ I prompted.
It turned out that Neary’s chronological estimate hadn’t been too bad. It was now the year 1938. The First World War, barely begun when I was in Alirgnahs, had been over for two decades; but the nations of Europe were getting ready for another attempt.
‘The bloody fools!’ swore Fabalo quietly.
I finished my brew. ‘Tell me, sir. Do helicopters really exist? Do they ply the skies like sycamore seeds?’
‘Not yet, young fellow. You must be patient.’
‘What about universal suffrage?’
‘You mean, do females have the vote in your homeland? Yes, they do. In real terms, though, they are still treated as inferiors. In Humanzeeville, everybody has equal pay and rights.’
‘And tell me furthermore, sir, are the states of Europe all joined into a single enormous federation yet?’
‘No, no! How would a Second World War be feasible if that was the situation? It would be called the Big Civil Continental War or something like that. Pay more attention, please.’
This reprimand was delivered in kindly tones.
‘You are happy here, sir?’
He waved a strong and hairy hand. ‘Almost. My main regret is that I once lost a son. He wandered away and we never found him. I still think about him from time to time.’
‘Did he have a name, sir?’
‘Yes. Fabalo Junior.’
‘Do you suppose he might still be alive?’
‘Unlikely, but possible.’
Neary cleared his metallic throat with a steamy cough.
‘I note that your settlement is defended with pits and stakes. Are you expecting trouble from outside?’
Fabalo grinned. ‘You are perceptive, Monsieur!’
Neary nodded. ‘I’m a locomotive.’
‘And I’m a skeleton,’ I said, not wishing to be left out.
Fabalo sighed and explained:
‘The dictator Stalin is interested in this part of Guinea. He knows that humanzees are loose in the jungle. He has spies everywhere! Ultimately, he plans to seek us out and convert us to communism. He thinks we can be used to spread revolution throughout Africa. Some of his ideological enemies, refugees from the days of the Tsar, believe we can be used to spread counter-revolution! It’s absurd.’
I nodded; but then I had an idea.
‘You have no wish to become pawns in a political game? Maybe I can write a piece on this. I’m a journalist.’
Fabalo was enthusiastic. He cried:
‘Certainly, certainly! Provided it’s not for The Western Mail. An issue happened to fall into my hands once.’
I lapsed into an embarrassed silence. Neary said:
‘Imagine the superb irony of a re-enactment of the Russian Civil War in the heart of the African jungle! Fought between rival humanzees! Such a superb scenario would make an excellent script for a film or pitch for a work of fiction, don’t you concur?’
Fabalo raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘I do not.’
‘Tell me, sir,’ I began nervously, ‘I don’t suppose you know if Wales, the land of my birth, is free from English domination? I’m aware that it’s an obscure struggle, but perhaps—’
‘Not free at this present date,’ said Fabalo.
‘Ah. I suspected as much.’
‘Cheer up, Mr Griffiths!’ he roared. ‘You wouldn’t want to go back in your condition anyway, would you?’
I rankled at his presumption.
‘But it’s high time skeletons were accepted in society; so as a matter of fact I would like to return, sir.’
He grinned sympathetically or maybe empathically. ‘I wasn’t referring to the skeletal part of your appearance, but to the dead midget inside you. A vector for disease when he goes off.’
‘Oh him!’ I had forgotten about Hywel Owl.
‘I can help you, Mr Griffiths …’
‘Really, sir? How, sir? Please do, sir!’ I babbled.
Fabalo explained, ‘I’m a voodoo sorcerer of considerable skill. It won’t be too hard to turn that little chap inside you into a zombie; that will stop him putrefying. What do you say?’
‘I’ll conduct the ritual tonight.’
‘Why, that’s perfect, sir! May I write a piece about it?’
‘Of course. But not for—’
‘I know, I know. The Western Mail. I won’t!’
Fabalo pursed his lips.
‘Has anyone ever told you, Mr Griffiths, that you look a lot like David Livingstone, the famous explorer?’
‘But he died in 1873! I’m tired of these jokes!’
Fabalo frowned. ‘Dead, is he?’
It was plain he hadn’t known. He shrugged.
‘Rest now. Later I will summon you. The entire tribe will gather in the clearing for the voodoo ceremony. If you wish, in the meantime, you may enjoy any erotic dalliance with any huchimpess that takes your fancy; but only if they are equally willing.’
My grin, which had spread wider than a giant spider’s legs in response to the first part of his speech, collapsed into a pucker. What female would possibly care for amorous adventures with a skeleton? Almost none. With a sigh, I resigned myself to celibacy.
I stretched flat on the mat and fell into a light doze.
My dreams were vivid but calm.
I felt myself shaken awake. Hours had passed already. Fabalo squatted next to me and hissed, ‘Ready?’
Stifling a yawn, I nodded and followed him out of the treehouse, down the rickety ladder to the ground.
Humanzees had gathered in a circle.
It was dusk. Torches illuminated the clearing. The entire population of Humanzeeville was present to observe the voodoo ceremony. Inside me, a dead midget slumped and slowly decayed, blissfully unaware of what was about to occur to him. I looked at Fabalo and appreciated how much finer a lifeform he was than my old boss, Ben Gordon. He had painted his body and wore a frightful wooden mask.
Just beyond the firelight, Neary was making friends with an elephant; I recognised his silhouette. They were exchanging buns with their trunks. Elephants aren’t typical in that corner of Africa, but several dozen beasts had wandered by accident into the lush mountains of Guinea from distant parts and settled comfortably there.
Drums started playing. The rhythm was intoxicating!
The crowd began swaying.
The rhythm divided into two separate pulses, then four, then six. The complexity of these polyrhythms didn’t prevent the resultant music from being wholly organic and funky.
I slipped into a trance, my bones vibrating.
It was an intricate set of resonant frequencies that gripped me; but the effect was invigorating, ecstatic.
Fabalo danced around me, shaking a stick that was carved to resemble a banana; or perhaps it was a banana that looked like a stick. He muttered and shrieked in a language I didn’t recognise. Periodically, he cast fistfuls of strange herbs into the fire; they erupted in a wash of green, blue, purple and amber flames. Then he screamed:
‘Come back to life, little fellow! I command you!’
Hywel’s eyes snapped open …
He gripped the bars of my ribcage, rattled them.
I felt sick, appalled, terrified!
The ceremony had worked. Voodoo magic was real!
I had a zombie inside me.
‘Mwwwuagghuagh!’ groaned Hywel Owl.
‘What’s he trying to say?’ I whispered, as the midget shook me again. Fabalo answered in a tranquil voice:
‘Nothing intelligible. Ignore him. He’s a zombie. His body is alive but he doesn’t possess a soul. He won’t go off, but he’s incapable of intelligent conversation. Don’t tempt him into a debate, whatever you do; it’s one of the most frustrating things imaginable. Anyway, the ritual is done. I have saved you from stinking very badly.’
Then he widened his nostrils and added, ‘Having said that, you smell just as pungent as before. Did I fail?’
I put his mind to rest. ‘That’s my own odour. I have a fungal infection that’s sucking my marrow out of me.’
‘Your marrow? Do you grow vegetables then?’
‘Not that kind. My bone pulp.’
‘Ah yes, I see … And yet …’ He waved a hairy hand.
I thanked him again for his kindness.
‘Think nothing of it, Mr Griffiths,’ he replied, and then he said, ‘Visit me at midnight for a cup of banana tea and a chat. There’s something you need to know. It’s quite important.’
I promised that I would. Then he turned his attention to the members of his tribe. He was a chieftain and it was his duty to solve all their domestic disputes and financial problems. Absolute power isn’t necessarily fun and games all the time. Ask any dictator.
The Finnish But Not The End
I did as Fabalo wanted and went to visit him. He seemed concerned. The banana tea was tasty enough, but his tone was anxious. He said, ‘Are you possessed by a spirit, Mr Griffiths?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I answered truthfully.
‘Well, I’m certain that you are.’
I greeted this news with mild shock. ‘A good spirit, I hope?’
His expression was serious.
‘Afraid not. It’s a grotesquely evil ghost. I detected it during the ritual to turn the midget inside you into a zombie. It tried to jump into my mind while I was communicating with the voodoo gods. But I blocked it with a firewall, which is a magical barrier.’
I frowned at this and said:
‘I’m a skeleton. I wonder if it is my own ghost that has possessed me? Most people have their ghosts inside them, between their flesh and their bones. Lacking flesh, I wear my phantom on the outside, logically. Is that what you detected? My own soul?’
He shook his hairy head emphatically. ‘Does your soul speak Finnish, Mr Griffiths? Is it a vicious killer?’
I shook my head. My brown bones tingled.
Then I jumped up in horror.
‘Jukka-Petteri Halme!’
Fabalo leaned forward, squinting. ‘Oh yes?’
‘He was a genius of unconventional warfare, a mercenary with cold eyes that belied his jovial smile, and a former associate of the notorious arms-dealer Basil Zaharoff. Wanted as a criminal in a dozen countries! I saw him die in an aeroplane crash.’
‘You were near him when the accident happened?’
‘No, but I watched it through a spyglass. It wasn’t really an accident, but an act of deliberate sabotage.’
Fabalo stroked his chin, nodding sagely.
‘This is my hypothesis, Mr Griffiths. I believe that at the moment of his death, Jukka’s ghost entered the spyglass, rushed down it and jumped into your eye. He ‘lived’ on the surface of your eyeball, revolving around it endlessly, thanks to a scientific principle known as the Coandă Effect. But when your eye was plucked out, he took refuge in your fungus. Now he is spread all over you like—’
‘Marmite?’ I ventured, and when Fabalo frowned deeply I said, ‘It’s a type of brown butter popular in Britain. A product made from the leftovers of the beer fermentation process.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, in that case, yes, like that.’
I clapped my bony palms.
‘A ghost like Marmite! Who could have imagined that?’
‘We must get rid of it,’ said Fabalo.
‘What? Marmite? Never!’
‘No, no, you dolt. The ghost of Jukka Halme!’
‘Why? Is he dangerous?’
‘If he succeeds in controlling the fungus fully and the fungus succeeds in controlling you equally fully …’
The urgency of the matter finally hit me.
‘What can we do, sir?’
‘There is an answer, don’t worry. Another voodoo ritual, but one more complex than the previous ceremony. Basically, it entails the transference of your mind and soul into another body. Then the bones of your skeleton can be burned and the infection and ghost destroyed. But you can only be ethically transferred into a body without a mind and soul of its own; such bodies are generally in short supply. In fact, there’s only one av
ailable in this locality at the present time.’
And he glanced meaningfully at the midget.
‘Hywel, you mean?’ I cried.
To which the midget answered, ‘Mwwwuagghuagh!’
Fabalo nodded sadly. ‘Yes.’
‘You want to transfer my identity, the identity of the journalist Lloyd Griffiths, out of the skull of the skeleton in which he currently resides and into the mindless brain of the zombie midget that currently resides inside the aforementioned skeleton’s ribcage?’
‘If you want to put it that way, yes,’ Fabalo said.
‘Is there no alternative?’
He sighed and stroked his chin, because characters always stroke their chins at moments of crisis, at least in my adventures, and said, ‘Yes, there is an alternative. You can allow the phantom of Jukka Halme to take over your nervous system, to control you like a man driving a sleigh. In short, to usurp the very essence of yourself.’
And deep inside me, in some hidden recess of my soul, there surged a mocking laugh, very faint but insistent, and a voice that whispered, ‘Far above the Arctic Circle, in the land of the night that lingers, on the banks of the River Ounasjoki, I dallied with an owl. It was an unearthly owl and it should have scared me, black with bright red eyes it was! I knew that it planned treachery and so I gobbled it up for supper at last; I swallowed it whole and for months it flapped inside my stomach, hooting prophecies. I heeded them not; nor will I ever do so!’
The anecdote turned into a snorting chuckle that died into silence. Yet there was something feathery in that silence; a beaked quality, an essence of talons that I couldn’t properly define.
I said to Fabalo with a shiver, ‘I’m ready for anything.’
‘Truly, Mr Griffiths?’ He reached out to clamp a massive hand on my knobbly shoulder. ‘Are you certain?’
‘I would much rather be a Welsh midget than the puppet of a Finnish spook! Jukka Halme is pure evil. Or if that’s overstating the case, then he’s at least five-sixths evil and one-sixth indifferent. I want to make my mark on history as a writer, not as a fiend!’
Fabalo looked uncomfortable. ‘Ambitious, eh?’
