by Hughes, Rhys
But my prayers remain unanswered, the homemade spells ineffective, ritual webs wasted, because the phantoms outside already know about my corridor, have heard the truth from the spirits of those slain families who voluntarily chose to depart this place, despite its cubic freedom, and join the highly compressed mob in the street. I cannot trick the dead so easily and now must find an alternative method of forcing a companion into my space and keeping it here, more faithful than any bicycle. A little surplus thought and I have the solution.
I reverse the direction of my desire, promptly, abruptly, and pray in a loud voice for my apartment to become even lonelier, for my loneliness to increase rather than decrease. Is such a thing possible in a place where there are no ghosts? Hardly. Yet this is how I do it: with total integrity I vow that if I should die here, or in my bedroom, or in the corridor, I too will depart the premises in spirit form and never return. And to make this threat realistic I take a clean kitchen knife from the sink without having to rise from my chair, simply by leaning over with my long arms and pulling it toward me, cold and dripping.
Then I dry it on a trouser leg, just above my knee, the flat of the blade swept twice against the fabric, and lift the implement to my throat. This is no game and I prepare to cut.
A gust of impossible wind swirls in the corners. A voice both resonant and desiccated says: “I am the Spirit of Loneliness. I am here because this is the loneliest spot on earth.”
“I am not prepared for visitors,” I answer modestly.
“You called me from the coldest ice cap, the deepest cave, the highest cloud, and I came at once, for I feel at home only where nobody else ever goes. I dream of an age when only one mind existed in the universe. Next time that mind will be mine.”
“I am glad you have come,” I reply.
“You cannot be glad, for there can be nobody lonelier than you. Even your future ghost has deserted this spot. There are still many places in the world where there are no ghosts, but this is the only place I know where there never will be a ghost.”
“A shame. But now I have you,” I smile.
“I do not understand.”
“Then listen carefully with your lonely ears. I could not pray for less loneliness, so I prayed for more, so much more that you hurried here, the actual personification of loneliness.”
“Truly that is what I am. No friend of yours.”
“I admit that a human companion, alive or dead, would suit me better, but that option seems not to exist, and you are better than nothing, even though you represent nothingness. In your presence I am utterly alone, even more lonely than before, because you are nothing, but I also feel less lonely because you are here.”
He points at me with a bony finger because it is a gesture required of all ghosts. I realise that his eyes have no faraway look but really do exist elsewhere, that his sockets drink light with an insatiable thirst. “I have no patience at all with paradoxes.”
“This one is not unpleasing.”
He does not agree, the Spirit of Loneliness, and admits that he finds my duplicity quite exasperating, but it is too late for him. He is truly here, where I am, and together we are bound to each other. It is better to feel lonely in company than lonely alone, even when you are lonely because of that company. Is it not? On the floor of my living room my discarded coat tangles the legs of his intangible spirit like a deflated apartment with two hungry corridors for sleeves.
(2008)
Hell Toupée
“You want a magical wig, have wanted one a long time, and finally think you’ve come to the right place to buy one. And you’re not wrong. So step this way and I’ll show you the wig of your dreams, just down this narrow passage, mind your head on the stalactites. That’s right. Not much further. Let me tell you what to expect. Made from real yeti hair it is, genuine and certified. That’s what I said, bona fide abominable snowman was tracked across snowy wastes for days, eventually got tired of running, turned for a fight, threw black boulders for an hour, used an icicle as a lance. Yeti in a tight spot’s the meanest critter in creation, but finally got a blowpipe dart in his neck and his cryptozoological dozen tons tumbled down a slope to demolish a village at the bottom.
“That dart was a tranquilliser, not a poison, a massive dose of what the eggheads mix up in their laboratories when decent folk are in bed and call carfentanil or something like that. Doesn’t do permanent damage. A yeti’s too rare to kill for its fur. The trackers clip the scalp with shears when it’s snoring louder than a communist tractor and then they wait for the hair to grow back. Maybe hunt the same beast five years later. A difficult job, so yeti wigs don’t come cheap, but they’re special. When you put one on, the hairs grow down, into your own scalp, and the wig becomes an integrated part of your head. That’s not a wig, it’s a transplant with a different name! Tunnel gets narrower round the next bend, by the way, and we have to go down on hands and knees. Sorry.
“Did you know that yetis generally walk about on stilts to put trackers off the trail? Or wear snowshoes like big tennis rackets. I’m friendly with a fellow north of here who illegally exports snowshoes to Tibet and Nepal for the yetis. That’s the real racket! Has even been known for a yeti to fix snowshoes on the ends of his stilts to make it trickier for the hunters. And maybe that’s fair enough. Time to light the wick of my lantern now and I suggest you stay close behind me. Real labyrinth down here, a tangle of subterranean tunnels regularly used by the Underground Hiking Society, some members of which may still be wandering lost from the last outing. Happens every time. But another half hour of crawling and we’ll be in the storeroom with the quality stuff.
“What’s that? You don’t need a wig. Why come here in that case with your baldness reflecting the glow of the phosphorescent walls in a wholly unpleasant manner. You want a non-sequitur instead? You walked in here to buy a non-sequitur? Sorry buddy, you got the wrong shop. This shop is a wig emporium. Sells wigs and related scalp products. Nothing else. The non-sequitur store’s next door. Easy mistake to make, is made all the time in fact, no skin off my nose. The nose of a yeti’s no use in the making of wigs, incidentally. Well now. Don’t return the same way but climb up this escape ladder instead. It’ll take you to the rear of the emporium at ground level and you can let yourself out the back door. I’m sure the non-sequitur store has a rear entrance too, ok?”
*
And so I climbed the rusty old ladder in unseemly haste, getting away as rapidly as possible from that hideous underground lair. I dislike confined spaces, always have, and my love for weird proprietors isn’t much higher. Some of the rungs were missing.
I finally emerged into a purer kind of light, the slanting ruby beams of a setting sun filtering through thick unwashed glass. I was in a junkroom and the windows were small and circular. Dust motes and forgotten boxes were everywhere. I had a sneezing fit.
At the back there was a door that would have opened onto a garden if it wasn’t locked. I rattled it a few times in despair but the wood was rotten and splintered easily. So I was able to kick my way onto a shattered patio and deeply breathe my lungs clean.
“I’ll linger just for a few minutes and then jump over the wall into the garden of the non-sequitur store.”
That’s what I said to myself and I nodded in reply.
Jumping over garden walls has been a hobby of mine most of my life, ever since I was a mischievous child. It can be stated with only minimal exaggeration that I prefer sneaking secretly through sequences of private gardens to walking down the street.
But first I wanted to enjoy the ambience.
It was clear that nobody had been in this garden for a long time. Years or even decades. Everything was untended, even the spades and forks that had been stabbed into the soft earth of flowerbeds and left to turn to seed. But garden tools don’t really do that.
I took a step forward. Nature had reclaimed the place utterly, set up a new organic regime. I saw a snail riding on the back of a tortoise for the sake of grea
ter speed. Life in the fast lane. Bit of a daredevil that mollusc, but we’re all young once, aren’t we?
The moment I entered the undergrowth I knew this route wasn’t going to be the shortcut I’d hoped for. Couldn’t see the boundary wall. Must be somewhere behind the sunflowers. Thorns snagged my elbows as I went onward, attracting my attention, but they had little to say. Like children, briars. Finally I lost patience.
“What is it? What do you want this time?”
To my surprise the wall wasn’t behind the sunflowers after all. I kept going and broke off a flexible branch to use as a cutting whip. Almost as effective as a machete if wielded properly. Blossoms flew loose about me and berries were juiced in midair.
Then I stumbled on a vegetable plot long forsaken and crouched amid the weeds and uprooted wild versions of potatoes, parsnips and carrots. I stuffed those in my jacket, slipped an artichoke heart into my shirt pocket. Pure instinct. I’m a survivor.
But I began to grow worried. What if darkness fell before I got inside the non-sequitur store? Might be better to turn around and work my way through the wig emporium like a meal in reverse, emerging back onto the street. Then I could stroll next door and enter the non-sequitur shop from the front. Sensible, civilised.
But the sun was already going down. And from which direction had I come? My efforts to retrace my steps were really rather laughable. I was lost in a suburban jungle, orchids underfoot, big ants too, moths, bats and fireflies failing to guide me anywhere useful. I wandered in circles, ovals and spirals. A geometric joke.
“Get a grip, Mr Heckoid. It’s not so awful really. There seems to be the remains of a path over there.”
“So let’s investigate,” I answered myself.
The path could faintly be discerned in the twilight, an overgrown and eroded line of paving stones that twisted and dipped through arbours and around ferns and brambles. Slightly easier work than stumbling blind into the mass of roots and tendrils that existed elsewhere. I even hummed as I walked, an improvised tune.
My eyes gradually adjusted to the dictates of dusk and the old broken slabs under my feet glimmered sufficiently in the starlight to prevent any wandering off course. Then my ears detected a crackling. A glow in the distance aroused my curiosity.
I came to a sudden clearing in the monstrous growth and was forced into a frenzy of chin stroking when I realised what sat on the chipped rim of a choked marble fountain. Her back was to me but her luxuriant tresses convinced me at once of her delectability. She had hair down to her heels and it was a dark golden colour.
“Señorita! Young damsel! Slip of a thing!”
She turned slowly at my shout. Has a man ever been so disappointed and terrified in consequence of a gallant greeting? It was not a lady after all, but a yeti. From behind in poor light the mistake brings no shame on the person who makes it, I say.
It held up a massive paw, warning me not to run or possibly reassuring me of its kindly intentions. To flee from a yeti is a difficult process and I considered myself badly qualified for the attempt. I shudderingly decided to stay where I was and grin.
“Will you share my fire?” it asked quietly.
“Are you sure you want to associate with a human, bearing in mind the callous way we treat your kind?”
“I never pre-judge an individual,” it answered.
“That’s very noble of you, so I’ll accept your offer gladly. Do you plan to camp here the whole night?”
“Seems the best place in the vicinity, unless you’ve seen better on your travels. But I take it you haven’t or you wouldn’t be wandering in the dark with just a stick for protection.”
“Is it dangerous in these parts?” I wondered.
The yeti whistled slowly through its fangs, nodded its head, then did something with the embers on the edge of the fire. It was roasting nuts, I realised, fresh from the nearby almond and chestnut trees. Squirrels gazed down in envious admiration.
“Share my food. It’s nearly ready.”
I sat on the ground at the opposite side of the fire, my front half soon roasting, my back freezing, a most typical scenario of bivouacs like that. The yeti introduced himself without offering his paw to shake. Has never been the monster way. I didn’t tell him about the fresh vegetables hidden about my person. I’m selfish.
“My name’s MeMeMeMeMe U,” he said.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance. And I’m Albert Guppy Heckoid. I got confused looking for a non-sequitur store. Entered a wig emporium by mistake. Now I’m out here.”
“Rather odd,” he mused, as he pinched nuts from the flames, juggled them to coolness, four at a time, handed an equal share to me, “for I had the exact reciprocal experience.”
“Looking for the wig emporium?” I prompted.
“Yep, but went into the non-sequitur store instead. Came out the back, planned to take a shortcut through the gardens, found it to be something beyond possibility. There’s a kink in the spacetime continuum or a similar contrived explanatory mechanism hereabouts and we’ve fallen out of our cosmos into a new dimension.”
I was shocked. “Have we really?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. That was just a guess.”
“What does the non-sequitur store look like? If I knew that, I might be able to keep an eye out for it.”
He nodded and chewed the flesh of nuts. “Sleep here tonight and we’ll travel together tomorrow. I’ve had enough of this climate, just want to get back home or anywhere else snowy. I’ve heard rumours about places even snowier than Tibet. Are those rumours true? Is there a genuine country by the name of Snowva Scotia where it snows forever, even when it’s sunny, even when it’s not snowing?”
“No there isn’t. Sorry,” I said.
“Shame. Why am I always so gullible?”
“Caution is a keyword. So is prudence. Caution and prudence. Never believe everything you’re told.”
“It looks like a pyramid, by the way,” he added.
“The non-sequitur store?”
“Among other things, yes.”
I swallowed a nut. “Just looks like one?”
“Is one,” he corrected.
“That’s useful. I’m grateful,” I said.
He nodded. “I’m going to ask you a serious question and I want you to give me your best answer. Tree hugging. Comforting or traumatic for the tree? I mean, hippies often quote hugging a tree as an ultimate example of spreading love and peaceful energy. But I wonder. For the tree it might be a nasty experience, making it think it’s being strangled by a parasite like a fig. Choke other trees, figs do.”
“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” I said.
“Fair enough. I respect your honesty. Tomorrow I’ll abandon my own quest and escort you on yours. My original plan was to give the owner of the wig emporium a savage beating for the trouble he causes my kind but I no longer have the heart for it.”
“Just as well if you can’t find the place.”
“Life’s too short anyway. In the language of my country I’m not called yeti but metoh-kangmi. Not that it matters. I also suspect that trees hate to be embraced. They aren’t bears.”
I noticed two long poles in the shadows. “What are those things there? Are they stilts? Are they yours?”
“That’s right. My stilts. Used them to get here, to stride over boundary walls, of which there are dozens or hundreds in every direction. Walking over difficult terrain is easier with stilts, Mr Heckoid, and is good fun too. Considerable skill is required to attain speeds faster than a tiger or stoat, and stilt running is a major yeti accomplishment, but it’s not confined to our species. The human peasants of La forêt des Landes in Gascony have the ability too, so I’m informed.”
“Can you juggle?” I pressed.
“Never cared to learn that. Nor the swallowing of swords. Finish your nuts and get some sleep, you’ll need energy for tomorrow. There are wild dogs on the loose, the descendants of domesticated breeds whose kennels fell apart generations a
go. The fire will discourage them, but if you need to get up in the middle of the night and relieve yourself, don’t wander too far into the bushes. They’re hungry.”
“The bushes or the dogs?” I shivered.
He laughed at that, the great friendly brute, and the brief remainder of my conscious evening passed in making myself as snug as possible while the echoes of his mirth fanned the flames with diminishing impetus. Nuts in belly, dry leaves for bedding, clump of grass for a pillow, I quickly fell asleep despite the early hour. The stars shone without twinkling, probably because the twigs were crackling on the fire, and twinkling and crackling is an overseasoning of backdrop.
Worms moved in the world under my body while I slept. Humans drill the soil for what it conceals, worms for what it is. Who’s the fool, who the brains, in that set up? I dreamed vivid dreams all night. First I dreamed I was sliding down the side of a pyramid, sacred crocodiles snapping in the river, desert sands drifting into dunes on the horizon, while animal-faced gods played musical instruments.
Then I dreamed I fell down a fissure and landed inside the pyramid. It was pitch black and I was bruised and nervous. I wanted to shout for help, but before I could make any noise, a voice cried, “No more non-sequiturs in stock! Come back some other soup!” Suddenly I felt more disappointed than ever before. A big furry hand shook me gently. This didn’t belong to the dream. I opened moist eyes.
“Dawn already,” said the yeti with a smile.
“Rosy fingered. Thumbs up.”
“Did you sleep like a log?” he asked.
“Like a transitional passage,” I corrected. “Are you boiling peppermint leaves for breakfast tea, Mr U?”
“Please don’t be so formal. Call me MeMeMeMeMe. You’re my guest and my responsibility. Now then. There’s no way you’ll keep up on your own legs when we set off, so I’ll carry you. My upraised arms will serve as your stilts. Hope you have a good head for heights. Especially as we’ll be mounting some lofty walls.”
