The Smell of Telescopes

by Hughes, Rhys

  The night before the big day, Oldona took Lilith for a drink at the Palais. Lilith wanted to keep a clear head, but the student insisted she consume bottle after bottle of strong beer.

  “It’s a celebration,” Oldona insisted.

  Lilith leaned closer and belched. “I’ve enjoyed your caresses for a whole semester. But why don’t you let me give you pleasure in return? Is it American shyness? My tongue is very fast!”

  Oldona smiled. “Just wait for tomorrow, Mrs Robinson. All will then be revealed; it’s a surprise for you!”

  In the morning, Lilith woke with a hangover. Groping her way to the bed’s edge, she looked at the sundial in horror. She had overslept: in a few minutes, the parade would begin. Dressing hurriedly in a velvet cape she jumped to the window and looked out. The canopy had been lifted from the bridge and the river banks were thronged with students. Mrs Robinson rubbed her disbelieving eyes: the bridge was an exact replica of a banjo and Oldona stood in the centre of the structure like a plectrum. Aghast, Lilith fell back from the curtains. Noticing the movement at the window, Oldona blew a kiss. Was this some sort of sick joke? A banjo! Shivering, Lilith chewed her talons, her hearts thumping.

  Slowly, like puppets stalking a lathe, the Chancellor and his staff of diseased minions made their way to the front of the bridge. There was no better time: all eyes were focused on the river and the crossing. Mrs Robinson rushed to her desk, felt under it for the faucet and opened the valve. There was an immense crash far below, the pipes were rumbling and screaming; the office shook. She returned to the window and looked down. Any moment now, the tide of blood...

  At this point, something truly unexpected happened. The Chancellor took his first faltering step on the bridge, followed by his colleagues. The vibration sounded a chord from the taut cables. Each step produced a different chord, a sequence of notes which formed a melody. Even worse, the melody was recognisable as one of Artery’s most syrupy compositions. As the Chancellor proceeded, Oldona raised her megaphone, pointed it at Lilith’s window and started to sing.

  Lilith dove headfirst through the glass, speeding towards Oldona. A student burst into applause, convinced that this was part of the parade. Then others joined in, distracting Lilith, who lost control and collided with Oldona. The exchange student tumbled and bits of her fell off. Suddenly, it appeared she had snapped in two.

  Lilith rolled upright and gazed at the disconnected segments of her Sapphic sweetheart.

  “Artery Garfunkle and Appalling Simon!”

  The two figures brushed splinters of smashed costume from wings and limbs. Artery was rueful. “This isn’t what I wanted! It was supposed to be a surprise. Now you’ve spoiled it!”

  The Chancellor approached, his inverted face full of occult fury. A deafening rumble beneath them drowned out his words of chastisement. Now the torrent of blood was gushing at full force down the river, but nobody seemed to notice. They were too concerned with watching the Chancellor’s bodily contortions, unsure of whether this was really part of the act. With a pang of despair, Lilith realised the whole flood of ichor was going to pass without exciting any comment whatsoever.

  “Why did you do it, Artery? What was it for?”

  “You mean you didn’t know it was us, Mrs Robinson? But I thought we blew our disguise in the Palais de Decadence!”

  The Chancellor bellowed. Lilith wiped a tear.

  “Oldona was just a costume!” she cried. “I fell in love with a mere disguise! No wonder her mannerisms seemed familiar! You’ve hurt me badly this time, Artery. My heart is cankerous!”

  Garfunkle laughed uneasily. “This is a joke, right? You are trying some sort of double-bluff? Appalling and I came up with the plan during my graduation. We wanted to hear you praise our music. You pretended not to like it, but we knew that was an affectation. We’re talented lads and our songs are special! So we invented the exchange student as a test. It failed and you saw behind Oldona’s disguise. You must have done, because you kept insisting you hated our music!”

  Appalling added: “If you hadn’t known it was us, you’d have given a more honest appraisal and said we were great!”

  Artery nodded. “We figured if you were going to keep up with such a ridiculous pretence, we were as well! I thought the banjo-bridge was the really clever touch. A stroke of genius!”

  Lilith was still sobbing. “I loved a figment!” She grabbed Artery’s wings. “Don’t you understand? I loved her!”

  Artery cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Very funny but we ought to kneel in front of the Chancellor before he has us locked in the college dungeons! He’s as livid as a maggot!”

  Lilith peered over the side of the bridge. The river was clear as a mouse’s lust. Not a spot of blood remained in the water. “Let’s just get away, Artery. Come with me back to my room.”

  “I’m all yours!” Artery let himself be led from the bridge and into the air. They flapped over the crumbling outbuildings to the residential block. They entered the window together.

  As soon as they were inside, Lilith took the cleaver from the chain around her neck and struck Artery a mighty blow. His wing tore along the edge. He gasped and choked in amazement.

  “What was that for? Didn’t you like my landing?”

  He struggled into the air, spiralling around the room and crashing onto the bed, his face and voice contorted.

  Lilith glowered. “You’ve finished me at this college. I can’t take a job in America, because my contact was a fraud. Arkham isn’t aware of my existence! My only option is to join my husband in Yemen. But Woody needs some new exhibits to stay there. Your tendons have been toughened by singing. Ghouls won’t find you appetising.”

  The blade slashed down again. Garfunkle screamed.

  Lilith chortled. “This is the sound of violence.”

  It was really his age. These warped relationships were doomed right from the outset. There were historic examples: Actaeon had peeped at the goddess Diana as she bathed naked and she was several million years his senior. The affair ended in disaster. Lilith knew the source of Artery’s irritating innocence: too much maturity.

  Perhaps he had been so sensible he’d gone round in a circle. Which, she supposed, was the only way to go with a damaged wing. As she allowed her gaze to linger on his torn membrane, she raised the cleaver for what lay ahead. Each time it descended, she counted on his appendages and her numbers soon exhausted fingers and toes.

  There must be fifty ways to cleave a lover.

  Burke And Rabbit

  It’s bad enough pulling back the bedsheets to find a severed head gazing up at you. It’s even worse when it starts to accuse you of all sorts of misdemeanours. I’d had problems of this kind ever since I decided to run for mayor. The position was officially vacant now we’d finished toasting the last one, grinding his bones to make muffins. The one before that, I seem to remember, withered away to nothing. Shortly after I announced my intention, a thunderstorm drenched my house. It had not rained in Lladloh for thirteen years. A rival village had been stealing our weather. But news of my decision so startled one of their magicians that he left his cellar door open and the captive clouds escaped up the chimney. Where the heavy droplets fell, monstrous orchids sprang up, smothering the valley in decadent scents. For the sake of my buttonhole, I pounced on one with a scythe.

  In the local pub, a nameless horror, I drank a glass of whisky and defended my actions. “As mayor of this miserable hole,” I said, “I shall be able to carry out reforms that should have been implemented centuries ago. Lladloh is still in the Dark Ages. It is my intention to strike the match of reason on the sandpaper of progress.” I knitted my brows. “Or is it simply to strike?”

  Emyr, the landlord, was not helpful. “In this village, only a fool would willingly become mayor. I lie awake at night praying I won’t be chosen. There’ll be no turning back once you’re elected. Do you realise what you’re letting yourself in for?” He jabbed a finger at my chest. “A fate much
worse than the millstone and grill!”

  In Lladloh, the function of mayor is not quite the same as in other places. Here, a mayor holds power for a relatively short length of time, and is then sacrificed in a number of horrible ways. It is an old, corrupted tradition—the next unlucky soul would be hurled down the opening of a disused gold-mine to placate the god of yellow beer. “I’m not afraid,” I replied.

  “It is said the mine shaft is bottomless,” added Emyr. “You’ll die of thirst before hitting anything. If you take enough supplies, you may even die of old age!”

  Although he has little love for me, Emyr is always loathe to lose a good customer. “Why throw your life away for the sake of a superstition? It’s all nonsense, after all. Nobody believes in the beer god anymore. Fie! What rubbish!” He kept his voice down and glanced around, to make sure no beer barrels were listening.

  I paid for my drink and returned to my garret. Dark rain was still pounding the streets; in my pocket, the manuscript of my latest poetic folly rustled. I took it out and used it as an umbrella. My work often serves a prosaic function. This latest effort was an epic entitled Harping The Wormy. It told the story, in blank verse, of a harp strung with carnivorous worms which turned on its owner during a recital and tried to eat him. The audience gave both a standing ovation. My greatest failing, as an artist, is lack of imagination.

  The sordid chamber where I live and compose is right at the top of the mortuary chapel. Although in a picturesque state of semi-dilapidation, the building is still used as a meeting place for various local societies. Squeezing through one of the broken windows (the front door is guarded by a garrulous gargoyle) I was much astonished to find myself dropping into the midst of a candle-lit banquet. I picked myself out of the tureen of semolina and made my apologies.

  It was the annual dinner of the Eldritch Explorers Club. The dozen members regarded my intrusion with a weary cynicism. They were a jaded mob, senses dulled by a lifetime’s pursuit of the strange and unnatural. The society’s founder, Caradoc Weasel, was in the middle of a speech. He turned his doleful eyes upon me and frowned. “As I was saying, I found Noah’s Ark exactly where I calculated—in Snowdonia. It was far larger than I’d been led to believe. Its dimensions bespoke of a technology superior to our own. On the side was some writing, which took me a while to translate. A single word—Lifeboat.”

  Polite applause echoed faintly throughout the nave. Caradoc Weasel was held in high esteem for mounting three audacious expeditions. Apart from his discovery of Noah’s Ark, he was the first man to reach the West Pole (which unlike its chilly counterparts is almost impossible to run a flag up.) Even more incredible, in therapy, he once discovered himself. These achievements formed the basis of much of his conversation. He was forever declaring that there were no regions left to explore.

  “Balloons! Hydrogen balloons!” My intrusion gave Icarus Evans, the club’s treasurer, a chance to air his own obsessions. He was Caradoc’s biggest rival and always keen to denigrate the older man. “Balloons are the answer! My latest model is big enough to carry a cat. Soon I shall have enough material to construct a device capable of lifting a human being into the stratosphere!” It was suspected he made his balloons from handkerchiefs, the only suitable fabric in the village, filched from our very pockets. “New regions aplenty!”

  “Foul liar!” stormed Caradoc, jumping up onto the table and waving his fists. Icarus rose to the challenge and followed his example. Black jellies were trodden underfoot. Aware that I was partly responsible for the fracas, I sought to make amends. “Gentlemen!” I pleaded. “When I’m mayor, I’ll throw a banquet every week! You’ll have semolina of every conceivable shade, from midnight blue to lopped arm red!” This had the desired effect and they calmed down. I was extremely grateful. I did not wish to be kept awake by an esoteric squabble.

  I left them to their meal and ascended a spiral staircase to my garret. Here, I resided among my unpublished poems. Lighting a candle, I took out the one in my pocket and held it up to the flame. The ink had run in the storm, improving the piece considerably. I called out for my cat, Pushkin, but he was nowhere to be seen. I threw myself onto the bed and laughed aloud. I was standing on the threshold of a new life, a doorstep beyond which lay the gratification of my desires. Once elected, a mayor is allowed to take into his bed the entire female population of Lladloh, witches and gorgons excepted.

  Although a poet, I am also a man, with the natural urges common to my kind. The girls of the village tended to ignore me, hardly surprising considering my lack of redeeming features. While racking my brains over how to improve my amorous fortunes, an ingenious idea came to me. As I have already stated, a mayor only holds power for a brief period before being sacrificed to some dubious deity. The period in question concerns the number of nights it takes him to exhaust all his lustful privileges. Depending on the vigour and age of the candidate, it can range from a single weekend to several years.

  My ingenious idea, as lustrous as a toadstone, was the discovery of a loophole in this curious custom. I had seen a way in which, as mayor, I could enjoy my dues without having to forfeit my life. I’ll say more about this later. For the rest of that evening, I lay between my sheets, writing erotic verses with a pair of scissors. This compositional method requires explanation. My blank notebooks had long since been filled up. In a corner of my chamber, left over from happier mortuary days, a stack of Bibles awaited my lyrical alchemy. I worked my way through the tomes, cutting out words that had no place in my poems.

  That night, my dreams were full of soft female bodies and groaning bedsprings. I woke in the early hours to a horrible mewling. Something brushed against the skylight. Pressing my face to the glass, I thought I saw the silhouette of a balloon drifting off into the clouds. It was too dark to be certain. At the same time, I called Pushkin again, but he did not answer. Obviously he’d wandered off, which was unusual, consider- ing I always kept my garret door locked.

  The next day, I was the talk of Lladloh. My application for mayor had been accepted by the village elders (a band of lawmakers so secret nobody can name them—I might even be one.) In the nameless pub, Emyr commiserated with me. As the only candidate, it was highly probable I would win the election. “Idiot!” he kept crying. “Daft hap’orth!” But I smiled smugly, drank the whisky he offered and even had the audacity to toast the god of golden beer. “Heretic!” was his main comment now. In my wallet, generally empty, I kept the words I’d removed from the Bibles. I tipped them into my full glass and watched the new poems wriggle in the alcohol like Silurian worms.

  I will skip over the details of the actual election. I was far too excited to pay much attention to them. Suffice to say, I became mayor, carried out some nominal duties (such as changing Emyr’s licensing hours and keeping my promise to the Eldritch Explorers Club) and then set to task on the village maidens. I’ll also say little about this, save that my eyebrows—already so high they tickled my crown—were raised still further. “So that’s what it’s like!” I said to myself, in stupefaction. “More fun to read about than try!” But as my technique began to match my enthusiasm, this opinion was slowly reversed (when the former exceeded the latter, I was utterly bewildered).

  Finally, one evening, as I staggered into the pub, Emyr took hold of my arm and helped me to a stool. “Slow down, friend,” he cautioned. “There’s only Bigamy Bertha left. After her it’s the mine shaft.” Too exhausted to speak, I shook my head. “You can’t escape,” he reminded me. “The mayor can change any law he pleases, except that one. Tomorrow, at sunrise, if you entertain tonight, down the shaft you’ll go. There’s no appeal.” He didn’t guess I had a trump card, held up my sleeve with the aid of a sophistic bicycle-clip.

  Even had I wished to spend a quiet evening alone, it would have availed me naught. Bigamy Bertha, the long-distance adulteress, has no need to enter a man’s garret to envelop him in her unique charms. Her peculiar talent has been sought by arcane pleasure-houses as far afield as Angles
ey. To put a finer point on it, she came to me in succubus form while I was looking for Pushkin, who still hadn’t turned up. On my hands and knees under the sink, I was in no position to resist. Her passion is like a doughnut caught in a mousetrap: sickly-sweet, contrived, wholly inappropriate. It was my turn to mewl.

  There are a couple of things I’ve forgotten to mention. Because of my liberal administration, with regard to semolina consumption within village limits, the Eldritch Explorers Club made me an honorary member. I kept finding promotional leaflets under my door, offering cut-price boots, knives and beards. Also, my poetry suffered. Lacking the spark of inspiration provided by my failure with women, it reached new depths of bathos. Considering it was of zero merit to begin with, this was no mean achievement. I was now possessed of negative talent, a curious (and not entirely unwelcome) development. This expressed itself in my poems as an aesthetic vacuum, which sucked a reader’s own literary abilities out of his brain and onto the page. I had invented a genre.

  Anyway, the morning after, I dressed in my ermine robes, hung the heavy gold chain around my neck, adjusted my fur-trimmed tricorne hat and made my way down the spiral stairs. Outside, in the graveyard, a procession awaited. Hoisting me onto their shoulders and banging on iron gongs they paraded me through the streets, making three circuits of the village square before veering off towards the disused mine shaft. Emyr was there, looking embarrassed, hair stiffened with lime and dressed in animal skins. Hywel the Baker, completely naked, led the way, elongated loaves (representing antlers) tied to his head.

  I said little until we reached our destination. Then, just as they were about to hurl me down the opening, I raised a hand for silence and cleared my throat. “What are you doing? My term is not yet over.” They chuckled at this, suspecting a joke. But I was serious. “I haven’t had all my privileges,” I continued. I reminded them that I was entitled to enjoy every women in the village. “But I’ve only just finished the live ones,” I said. Gasps of outrage went up from the crowd. I had escaped on a technicality—there was nothing in the terms of the custom to exclude those females who lay rotting in the graveyard.