by Hughes, Rhys
Hiding behind a bush, I watched as the portals swung open and hands reached out to snatch the gift. A voice announced, “Another one!”, which bewildered me, but I remained at my vantage until a great howling within the house caused me to stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, like a soul sewn into a sail, while no less than seven pastors burst from the building with pale countenances, each forehead stamped with a bruise the shape of a hoof. I raced forward but—to my profound alarm—found the portals closing again. By the time I gained the threshold it was locked and belittled my fists. I glanced through a window, and beyond a rent in the sable draperies, saw treachery.
Owain was dancing with Pan, or so it seemed; there was steam enough to veil their motions in mystery. Scattered about like Sabine attire lay relics of pie. It was plain that Owain had baked himself into one during my abduction of the imp, conveying it (I guess not how!) to my porch and thus gained admittance. The second pie had cleared the house of pastors and now the unnatural intruders were in cahoots, and in my kitchen. As I engrave this tale in pastry with a wooden spoon, I hear rumours above in the pub. Owain ap Iorwerth sells a beautiful pie, not of blueberries but oranges, and he has stitched a toga from peel for his familiar, which in return provides milk for his dough.
Now I comprehend why he bulged when he entered the pub; in Zipangu, so I’ve read, there are mandarins in every pocket. That’s natural. Wiser than me, he’d worked out that blueberry pie couldn’t entice Myfanwy back to Monmouth; she’d sniff a threat. Better to try a different flavour! He must have evolved the plan at his furthest point, while staring out over the void beyond his corner. And the reason why his right eye was younger than his left? He’d been winking to himself throughout Asia, all the way back across the fruitless desserts.
Nothing More Common
Mr Hugo Bloat, a disappointingly thin man, was an oddity amongst antique collectors for the grand nature of his acquisitions. Not content with hoarding clocks, furniture and porcelain, he had embarked on a mission to secure a tin-mine. He owned a house with grounds extensive enough to install one entire, and possessed ample funds for its transportation. Furthermore, he lacked a wife to complain about the bother, and his neighbours were sufficiently distanced. Already he had arranged a private paddlesteamer, the Waverley, to ship his prize across the Bristol Channel, from the Cornish Portreath to the Welsh Porthcawl. All that now remained was to select a suitable example.
He travelled by road to his destination, crossing the county boundary on the afternoon of August 24th 19— and proceeding across Bodmin Moor at a fair speed. Devoid of the miserly urges which frequently assail the slender rich, he nonetheless eschewed a chauffeur and preferred to drive his own vintage Bentley. The weather was wet and warm, with a salty mist which stung his lips. After a break to change a flat tyre, he pushed on all the way to St Agnes, reaching the ivy-choked Trevaunance Point Hotel shortly before dusk. Mist was also evident down in the cove and the collector formed the impression that it originated here, foaming over the rim of cliffs and saturating the land.
The Trevaunance Point Hotel is situated in a magnificent location, standing atop the battered headland with its gables akimbo. For an instant, Mr Bloat imagined it to be the petrified and mouldy flame of a wreckers’ beacon—a ludicrous comparison, and one which convinced him he had been travelling too long. He signed the register, permitted his baggage to be carried up to his room and sauntered into the bar to await his contact. He sipped a cognac and studied the menu, tempted by the vegetarian extravaganzas but dissuaded from their practical application by a hasty measurement of his modest stomach. Settling for a cress sandwich, he alternately nibbled at the crust and twiddled thumbs so laden with ancient rings that his impatience was as audible as a flamenco rhythm.
At last, a dark figure wearing a wide-brimmed hat slouched over his face entered the Hotel and joined Mr Bloat’s table, furtively setting down his own glass and drawing a flask from his pocket. He glanced around before pouring a generous measure. Whatever the stuff was, Mr Bloat decided, it was no regular tipple. Milky and viscous, it left a discernible trace of salt as its owner swirled it around. To upstage the awkward silence, the collector ventured, “Mr Grebe, I presume?” to which the newcomer gave a start, as if rudely denied a vital element of an arcane ritual.
“That I might very well be,” came the response.
“If not,” Mr Bloat announced, “you had best find another table. I’m waiting for that notorious smuggler.”
“Hush! hush! Very well then, I’ll admit it, only you must keep your voice down. The proprietor don’t care for me, not since I ran a pipeline from his cellar to my cottage. Beer on tap for a month I had, before he found me out and followed the pipes to my dwelling. He shook and slapped me, and says he, ‘You naughty bootlegger, haven’t I forbid you seventy times to plunder my refreshments?’ But he weren’t able to punish me more than that, for folks would be in uproar. Where else would they get their little treats? Answer me that!”
At this juncture, he cast a wink at the collector and appeared to have difficulty opening his eye afterward; perhaps the briny fumes from his beverage had sealed it shut. Or maybe it was the fog which glued it tight, for the vapours were seeping into the Hotel and filling the bar to the brim with pearly tendrils.
Mr Bloat was annoyed by what he took for affected eccentricity and answered, “Yes, I’ve heard you are the slyest rogue in the region, which is precisely why I wish to engage your services. You are aware of the object of my quest?” And by the width of the other’s smile, he was sure there had been no misunderstandings.
“Our mutual friend, Mr Longhorn, told me everything, sir. Tomorrow we shall go a-prospecting, and I know where the best mines are: I was looking at some today. Lovely shafts!”
Mr Bloat finished his brandy and frowned. “You don’t think it is a tall order? I’m not talking about a couple of barrels of whisky. This is a major piece of contraband.”
“What’s that? Fie upon you, sir, for doubting my talents! I’ll have you to understand that my family have been in the purloining trade for generations. Have you heard of the land of Lyonesse which once connected Penwith to the Scilly Isles? Where do you think it went? Under the sea! Oh no, sir, not an ounce of it. Spirited away to Greece, every speck, by one of my nameless ancestors. A tin-mine won’t be much bother at all; no more than picking a blackberry.”
The eye popped open in an inverse wink more conspiratorial than the standard kind, and Mr Bloat was compelled to order a second drink before discussing his scheme’s finer details.
“The villains in my home town are similarly given to exaggeration, but I care little for talk. Results are what I crave, Mr Grebe, and it is on performance alone you shall be remunerated. I’ve bribed the pilot of the Waverley—a Captain Nothing, as he likes to term himself—to anchor off the ruined harbour of Portreath. The cove below is unsuitable for large vessels, so Mr Longhorn has informed me. Moving the mine to the harbour is the tricky part. Once across the Channel, I can dock in Porthcawl without trouble—the authorities there are used to turning a blind eye to my undertakings.”
“Oh very amusing, sir!” chortled the smuggler, rolling his newly freed orbit in its socket. Dismayed at this favourable reception to an unintentional joke, Mr Bloat sighed.
“The operation must be carried out in a single night. Are you quite sure you can manage it alone?”
“Have no fear, sir. I’ll meet you here at dawn and we’ll go to the outskirts for a poke around.”
He might have said more, but the proprietor of the Hotel caught sight of him and came over, armed with a dishcloth. A dozen or so grimy lashings and the smuggler jumped up and scurried outside, leaving his flask behind. The proprietor called:
“You’ve raked your last moon in this establishment! Get out of it, you bedsheet or I’ll carve a runic whistle from your nose!”
As soon as Mr Grebe had vanished, he leaned apologetically forward. “Was that very wicked man bothering you, sir?”
>
“I do believe he was,” coolly answered Mr Bloat.
“Keep your door locked tonight. There’s no telling who or what may be lurking. Not just smugglers, neither. This fog’s been giving some of my guests bad dreams. Spewing out of Hell’s Mouth by all accounts.” Then noting the collector’s arched eyebrow, he added, “That’s a geographical feature, not a religious allusion.”
Mr Bloat nodded. He recalled the enthusiastic descriptions of this area given him by Mr Longhorn, who was his most reliable advisor in all dubious dealings. Hell’s Mouth was a simmering pot of foam and rocks not far from Portreath’s abandoned quays. In some ways, it was a negative of St Agnes Beacon, the peak which dominated the western skyline, or was supposed to—it was presently invisible in the fog. Despite his wealth, Mr Bloat was unable to obtain a head for heights and therefore remained sceptical about both these attractions. He concentrated instead on the flatter issue of linguistic matters.
“Why did you call Mr Grebe a ‘bedsheet’?”
The proprietor folded his dishcloth. “He comes over all comfortable and snug but then tangles himself around your legs. That’s all I meant. It’s not an indigenous insult, sir!” After a pause of irresolution, he went on, “Actually my mind has been concerned with bedsheets lately. We have a lady guest upstairs who...”
Drowning him out with a yawn, the collector rose from his seat. “I hope you’ll excuse me, but I’m tired. I have an early start tomorrow and I must get some rest. For breakfast I require espresso coffee, chocolate croissants and a green napkin. However, I must go out on business before dawn, so have it ready for my return.”
And so saying, he marched past the stairs and stumbled through the main exit into the unlit car-park.
The proprietor’s voice followed him outside: “You’ve gone the wrong way! Your room is on the top floor.”
“Yes! yes!” snapped Mr Bloat. “It’s this cursed mist; I can’t see a thing.” He was about to turn and retrace his steps when a metallic noise attracted his attention. He groped toward it through the vapour until he reached the side of his Bentley, tripping over a pair of feet which were jutting from under it. Bending low, he tugged at one of the shoes, which came off in his hand. Somebody was tinkering with his car. He kicked the unshod foot and the concealed figure struck its head on the underside of the vehicle before slithering out.
Mr Bloat was exceedingly astonished to recognise Mr Grebe closing a pocket-knife and hopping on one leg.
“You nasty sinner, have you been meddling with my Bentley?” wailed the collector, directing a second kick at the injured foot. “Cutting the brake-cable, eh? Why, I ought to thrash you all the way from here to the cathedral town of Whitminster!”
“Hush! hush! ’Twas force of habit, sir. I’m a wrecker as well as a bootlegger. It’s in the blood; I have to tamper, the same way I have to conceal and siphon. It won’t do you no harm, lest you take it along the Stippy-Stappy. I know better than to murder my paymaster! I’m intensely interested in its workings, anyway.”
“Well, my man, though I do not wholly approve of your conducting without my supervision alterations which may possibly impair the usefulness of a vintage motor, I will do my best to explain the principles of classic braking systems to you. Fetch me the jack from the boot and remove your hat.”
Ten minutes later, having wiped that piece of equipment clean with a handkerchief, Mr Bloat returned to the Hotel. But as he was passing through the entrance, he happened to glance up and catch a momentary vision of a face in one of the highest windows—a face more creased than unwashed linen. He shuddered away the mirage and proceeded into the lobby and up the stairs to his room. As he turned the key in the lock, it occurred to him that the crumpled visage must belong to the occupant of the adjacent chamber. He listened: there was a faint whistling sound coming from behind the door.
His own room was neat and clean, filled with ornaments which as a collector he could not resist handling. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared through the window at the blank vista, imagining the sea with its susurrating cargo of pebbles and seaweed. St Agnes Head, a colony of kittiwakes, was near, though his ears picked up no sound other than the soft whistling of his neighbour. Its melody disturbed him and he was on the point of hammering on the wall with his fist when it abruptly broke off. There was movement on the floorboards; the occupant was leaving the room. He heard small feet skipping down the stairs and then, after an interval, coming back up. The door opened, the floorboards groaned an extra chord and the whistling was resumed. Mr Bloat stepped out into the corridor, but no clues were forthcoming. He placed an eye to the keyhole but saw only unrelieved darkness.
Straightening up, he remembered the smuggler’s flask. He went down to the bar and searched in vain; someone had removed it. While he was pondering the disappearance, the proprietor startled him by approaching from behind and touching his shoulder.
“I do apologise for scaring you, sir. But you seem to be in need of assistance. What may I do for you?”
“Something quite simple. I forgot a flask of medicine when I went up to bed and now it has vanished.”
The proprietor squinted. “A flask, you say? Are you certain it was yours? Why, the lady next to you came down for it five minutes ago and said it was a pint of cleaning fluid.”
“A bare-faced untruth!” spluttered Mr Bloat.
“Now don’t get all woundy cross-tempered with me. I try to be civil to all my guests; a helpful chap is what I am. Plainly you are suffering from delusions occasioned by mental exhaustion. I know it’s a long drive from Wales, sir, and I wouldn’t be feeling myself either if I’d made it, but that’s no reason to abuse me.”
The collector’s manner softened and he backed away, hands raised in a placatory gesture. He could not afford to alienate the proprietor now, for he did not wish to draw attention to his activities. Besides, there was an unsheathed dishcloth in the fellow’s hands and he seemed willing to employ it to further his point. Mr Bloat retreated to the base of the stairway, where an idea came to him. He tiptoed to the reception-desk and picked up the register, tracing with his finger the numbers of the rooms and the corresponding names.
The chamber next to his, he discovered, was occupied by a Rosemary Gibbet-Pardoe from Chester. The appellation, though unfamiliar, sent a shiver through him, as if internal thumbs were plucking a dirge on his nerves. He slammed the book shut, crushing a tongue of fog, and tramped up to the security of his room.
Why had this woman stolen the flask? How had she known it was left downstairs? The peculiar whistling noise was emanating through her wall again; he placed his palms over his ears, but the drone’s absence was no less irritating. At last he vowed to discover the nature of the sound, whatever danger the pledge might expose him to. But how? Trying her door was out of the question...
Throwing open his window, allowing limbs of fog to flop onto the sill, he climbed onto a narrow ledge which ran the length of the facade. His breathing rate increased and he fought down panic, but the drop was concealed by the billowing mist and only in occasional rents was he led to an appreciation of his elevation. Inching along the ledge, clutching at ivy for support, he gained the adjacent casement and peered inside. At first he made no sense of what he saw, assuming the space was filled with the same brume which swaddled the external world, but then his eyes adjusted and he uttered a cry of horror.
There was a woman asleep on a bed, her face contorted with mighty effort, as if she was digging a pit in her dream. What the collector had taken for the ubiquitous fog was in point of fact a voluminous bedsheet which covered a good half of the floor as well as the sleeper and seemed to be connected to her in the same way a moth is attached to its wings.
Even more bizarre was the way in which the bedsheet rose up in time to her snoring. Mr Bloat understood now that the whistling was a product of her nostrils; whenever she exhaled, the bedsheet billowed and ruffled and gathered itself into the semblance of a living being with a creased face, before co
llapsing at the end of the note. This repeated itself in a relentless rhythm and the sheet expanded on each pulse, as if it were oozing from the pores of her body. Was she an anthropomorphic silkworm, he wondered? But no, she looked like an ordinary female, though a little Gothic about the hairstyle, and with an inscribed nose. Mr Bloat was a poor philologist and the olfactory writing was too small to be made out at this distance, but he imagined it was a vulgar sort of Latin. On the pillow, tipped at an angle near her murmuring lips, was the smuggler’s flask, obviously drained of contents.
With pounding heart, he returned to his room. But sleep eluded him and he sat up until he heard movement next door. The lady was awake and striding about; then her door opened and he heard her descending. Moving to his window, he caught sight of her figure striding into the fog, the bedsheet neatly folded in her arms. At once he resolved to follow her. Pulling on his coat, he left the Hotel and pursued her toward the centre of St Agnes. He was dimly aware of her form flitting between slashes of vapour. Along the Stippy-Stappy she went, that precipitous terrace which makes the village so unique. She led him to the outskirts, a region of forgotten tin-mines whose crumbling chimneys jutted into the mist like organ-pipes blowing a fumy fugue.
In this landscape of industrial fossils, she slowed her pace and Mr Bloat crouched behind a ruined wall to observe her progress. She crossed to the edge of an abandoned shaft and dropped the folded bedsheet into its darkness. It should have made no sound, but the collector picked up a choral giggle almost below the pitch of audibility. Rubbing her hands together, the woman headed toward Trevaunance Point. Mr Bloat picked his way to the shaft and glanced down, seeing nothing, yet the giggle still descended. A laugh without a mouth?
Walking back to his lodgings, he was conscious of a change in the mist. It was slightly thinner, as if a single layer had been peeled away from it. Shaking his head at this new phenomenon, Mr Bloat was grateful to reach the Hotel and catch up on a few hours of much needed sleep. As he drifted off, he was aware that the whistling had ceased, replaced by the rasp of more conventional snoring.
