by Hughes, Rhys
The World Idiot
and other absurdlings
by
Rhys Hughes
Copyright © 2012 by Rhys Hughes
All rights reserved. This book and any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, 2012
Gloomy Seahorse Press
Swansea, Wales
http://rhyshughes.blogspot.com
The cover of this book was created by the artist Kendal Obermeyer
Table of Contents:
The Fury Machine
Walpurgis
The World Idiot
Loop
The Big Lick
There Was a Ghoul Dwelt by a Mosque
The Silver Necks
The Tell-Tale Nose
The Macroscopic Teapot
Gut Road
Grumblebelly
Ten Grim Bottles
The West Pole
The Inflatable Stadium
Rediffusion
The Fury Machine
After the trial, I led him to the prison on a chain. We danced along the rocky path that wound up into the mountains. At times, when his pace slackened, I told him tales of the brigands who inhabited this region. We reached the prison before nightfall.
The cell I gave him had a small, high window that faced south. He did not want for anything. There were cigarettes and newspapers. I even offered to play chess with him out in the courtyard. He gripped me firmly by the arm and said:
“You must not be too kind.”
And then we both laughed, for he had realised I was nervous. I still feared I might falter at the last minute. After all, I had an affinity with him. We had once been friends.
“There will be no problems,” he added. I knew what he meant. The last execution had gone like a dream. There was no reason to suppose that the next would not.
For a guard, he had Boris. A practical soul, Boris had already cleaned his rifle. The prison, he said, reminded him of the caves where he had spent his childhood. The stone walls were very damp.
“Happy days,” he kept repeating, as he tapped his nose with a bony finger. I resisted the urge to beat him with one of my clubs. He seemed amiable enough, though his eyes were full of malice. I had chosen him well.
I contented myself with a suitable insult. He winked at me and began scratching at the sores that covered his legs. His nails, like his teeth, were long and yellow. I left him alone, perched on a wooden stool outside the cell, and made my way to my own quarters.
Pulling off my gauntlets, I inspected the unfamiliar room. It was as oppressive as a cell itself. I noticed that my predecessor had left a list of my duties pinned to the desk. I sighed as I read through it. Busy times lay ahead. An Executioner is much more than the man who pulls the lever.
One of these duties was the preparation of the prisoner’s meals. I gave him stale bread and good wine for his supper. It was, I felt, the right imbalance.
I often watched him while he ate. A single candle illuminated his cell. When I informed him that his lawyer was due to arrive on the morrow, he moved out of the shadows and frowned.
“He wants to give you the chance to appeal,” I explained.
“It is very considerate of him,” he replied, “but his journey is unnecessary. It was a fair trial.”
I nodded my agreement. The wheels of justice were now smooth. All trials were fair. Indeed, the Press had commented favourably on his own. The Judges had been most sympathetic, the Jury had shed many tears. Everything had gone to plan.
“You must turn him away,” he added.
I removed my mask. The mask of an Executioner is a heavy one, and I had not yet grown accustomed to it. Sweat on my brow chilled quickly. I shivered. “Of course. That is wise.” There was an awkward silence. He poured himself a glass of wine.
“It is a slow death though,” he said.
I shuffled my feet. He knew the process as well as I. The Fury Machine had not been designed to perform its task humanely. I sought to remind him of the higher reasons behind the function of the device, to endear him to the ideals that governed its operation.
“A slow death,” I echoed, “and a painful one. But that is not the point. In former times, the corpse of a prisoner had to be cut down, carted to the Autopsy Room and then embalmed by an expert. We save much fuss by having the embalming as the actual method of dispatch.”
He did not look at me. I took this as a sign of despondency. I decided to continue along different lines:
“Yes, the details are grisly. The formaldehyde, the cotton pledgets under the eyelids, the removal of the viscera. But consider the superb irony there: the prisoner seems to grow more healthy as his life ebbs away.”
He drained his glass and poured himself another. His hand did not tremble. The crimson droplet on his lip did not fall.
“I have killed a man,” he said simply. “Therefore I must die.”
I understood then that my words had been for my own benefit. I had underestimated him. His earlier remark had been a plain statement of fact and not a complaint. I did not thank him for this example. Instead, I raised my fist as if I would strike him.
Outside, in the corridor, Boris clapped his hands.
I also had to provide the prisoner with writing materials. According to the list, every prisoner had to record the details of their life just prior to their crime. It was a tradition.
My curiosity aroused, I searched out a map of the prison and traced a route to the archives, where all these records were kept. The room lay at the bottom level of the prison. Descending the stone steps that led into it, I discovered that the records had all been destroyed. The chamber was completely flooded.
This made it doubly important that the prisoner took the opportunity to record his motives and premeditations. He would be proud, I knew, to be the first contributor to a new archive.
On my way back to his cell, in one of the ruined wings of the prison, I came across Arkady. He had not yet fully mastered his instrument. His bright, clear notes were not those of a dirge. I found it easy enough to reprimand him: I seized him roughly by the throat and whispered softly into his ear.
He appeared to comprehend. “Gloomier on the day? By all means.” But I was not entirely convinced. I decided to stress the urgency of the matter.
“The days are wearing on. The big day itself will arrive. If you cannot fill the corridors with dismal music by then, you will be letting us all down.”
He knew, of course, that my anger had a different source. Every night I had been woken by his wild screeching. And I had thought, at first, that the prisoner was screaming.
The prisoner’s family came to pay their last respects. They filed into the cell and I closed the door. Boris and I refused to accompany them inside. We respected privacy, we said. Together we watched through the spyhole.
It was a marvellous scene. The prisoner’s brother was of particular note. He paced the cell and made extravagant gestures. At first, the conversation was dominated by domestic trivia, but eventually they drifted onto more interesting subjects.
The brother, it turned out, was studying History at the University. He had brought a present for the prisoner, a religious icon that he placed on the table next to the bed. His anecdotes about the distant past were fascinating.
“Law was not always an exact science,” he said. “In former times, two men might be punished differently for the same offence. There were inconsistencies everywhere. Circumstances surrounding actions were taken into account as well as the outcome of those actions.”
“I had good reasons,” the prisoner replied, “but I do not expect to b
e treated any differently. I was found guilty and must pay the price.”
The brother took him around his thin shoulders and said in a stage whisper: “Naturally. Reasons complicate matters, as our ancestors discovered.” He pointed at the icon. “Pray to Watt whenever you have doubts. It was he alone who reformed the system. As an Airship Captain during the wars, he dropped bombs on the heads of many innocent civilians and was hailed as a hero. The experience affected him profoundly. He came to believe that all deliberate taking of life should be classed as murder.”
“An inspired idea.” The prisoner nodded.
Reaching into his pocket, the brother drew out a silver ring and pressed it into the prisoner’s palm.
“Your fiancée wants you to have this back. She is very happy. Already she has found another man. They are soon to be married. Her only regret is that, for obvious reasons, you will be unable to attend the wedding.”
The prisoner gazed at the ring for a long time. And then he smiled, as if reflecting on all his good fortune.
The big day soon arrived. Arkady led the procession through the prison. Mourners and Wailers brought up the rear. The prisoner walked with his icon clutched to his chest. I walked by his side, marvelling at his dignity. Boris took his place a respectful distance behind us.
In this manner, we negotiated the complicated passages and steep stairways to the circular chamber at the centre of the prison. I took the heavy key from the ring at my belt and opened the door. A little confusion arose here, for Arkady was unaware that only the Condemned and his Executioner were allowed into the dungeon. He was disappointed at being denied admittance, but I reminded him that the time might come when he too would hold the post of Executioner and be given the privilege.
And so, gripping the prisoner by the elbow, I steered him into the chamber. The Fury Machine stood silent. I walked behind the device and took hold of the lever. The prisoner kept his eyes on the floor.
I offered him a last request, but he had the good taste to refuse. So I bade him farewell and pulled the lever. There was a roar and the Fury Machine sprang into life, showering sparks onto the cold stone floor, illuminating the gloomy dungeon with a garish light. The myriad arms of the device began to uncoil and sway from side to side, as if they had been charmed by the unearthly music of the whining motors.
Events should have proceeded smoothly from here. Certainly the arms clasped the prisoner tightly enough and drew him inwards. But an unforeseen problem arose. The metal icon that he still carried had been magnetised. It began to interfere with the circuits. The arms loosened their grip and flailed about wildly. The prisoner, uncomprehending, stood amid this frenzy, eyes wide, mouth agape, uninjured.
I tried to call out to him, to tell him the reason for this chaos, but he could not hear me above the noise of the engines. He simply clutched his icon even more firmly. I saw to my horror that the Machine was overheating: its body glowed, the sparks that spurted from its exhaust nozzle grew larger and brighter, the whole device began to rock on its foundations.
Desperately, I struggled to abort the execution, to force the lever back to its original position. But it would not move. The Fury Machine was determined that the execution would go on. It owed not only its name to those vengeful harridans of myth, but also its tenacity. I realised that I had no choice but to knock the icon out of the prisoner’s hands.
With a mighty leap, I vaulted right over the Machine and into the midst of the careening arms. I tried to snatch the icon away from the prisoner, but he would not release it. He did not understand. A blade grazed my scalp. I yelled and struck the prisoner on the jaw with my fist, wrenching the icon out of his grasp as he slumped. I rolled to the safety of the far corner of the dungeon and remained there, curled up with my prize, until the Machine finally shut itself off.
Slowly, I clambered to my feet and turned around. The Fury Machine had not let us down. The prisoner’s body hung suspended a few inches off the ground, perfectly embalmed, a tranquil smile on its face. I unlocked the door and stepped out into the corridor. Boris was waiting for me with loaded rifle. Arkady spat at me in disgust. The Mourners and Wailers shook their heads and muttered.
“You are under arrest,” Boris snarled.
I waited as the badges of rank were passed on. Boris ripped mine off my tunic and pinned it onto his own. He then handed Arkady his own badge. This process continued down through the Mourners and Wailers. When this formality was over, Boris, the new Executioner, gave Arkady his gun and ordered him to lead me back to the surface.
I hung my head in shame as I climbed the stone steps. Within a week or two, I would be in the Courtroom, on trial for my life. But I knew that this was as it should be: I had just carried out an execution.
And an execution, like all deliberate taking of life, is a Capital Offence.
Walpurgis
At last we reach the stone circle and stop to rest in its shade. I struggle out of my knapsack the only way I know how: as if I am trying to struggle into it. There are easier ways than this, of course, but I have never been shown them, so like a hunchback wrestling with his own hunch, I twist my arms and make many a harsh grimace.
Already strained to their limits, the shoulder straps break, the burden falls away. Half my own bodyweight of assorted tools clatter against each other and spill out. The deflated sack hangs from my waist now, as limp as I. My shoulders ache, but I am content. I am resigned to pain.
So too Uncle Dylan. He chooses a place on the grass to sit. I straighten my back slowly, groaning as joints crack and snap.
“And now,” he says, “to work.”
He fumbles for his tobacco pouch, cursing at the amount of rubbish held by his pockets. At last he grips his prize and with dexterity remarkable for one with such rigid fingers, begins to fill his pipe.
A strange sight he makes sitting there. An even stranger sight we have just made trudging across the fields: Uncle Dylan in front with only one sandal, playing a sombre melody on his flute, his brass nose flashing in the sun; myself behind, bowed under my weight, hopelessly gasping and wheezing.
“Well don’t delay!” he cries, waving his pocket watch, “there are only four hours until sunset!”
I bite my lower lip. I had not realised it was getting so late. Had our car not broken down, we would have almost finished our work by now.
I select a suitable tool. Uncle Dylan lights his pipe. At least if he is smoking he cannot play his flute. I am grateful enough for this. I ignite the tool and set to work, remembering suddenly the date. It is the last day of April.
Our fourteenth cromlech...
Standing-stones are only slightly easier than barrows, hill forts and wildwood. All these and other focal points we deal with; we dismantle, we chisel away, we dig up, we fill in. Menhirs can be fun. Tombstones, moonpools, haunted bogs.
For just over six months we have been in business. Yet we are but two among many. We try to work for the most modest of fees. We can remove focal points with great efficiency. We have cut ancient dolmens into blocks and carted them away, levelled whole oak groves, excavated subterranean grottoes.
We are winding up the ley-lines, collecting them across the land. We are freelance now, but our services are still in demand. Sometimes, as we work, we discuss the nature of our toil, its purpose and morality.
We hold wildly differing theories. Uncle Dylan believes that our ancient landmarks, our heritage, are being sold by a bankrupt government to the Americans. Stonehenge, he claims, now stands in Utah. I am convinced that our masters in Whitehall are storing and concentrating mystic energy.
“They are experimenting with cosmic forces,” I argue. “They are hoping to develop a new type of bomb. The sources of pagan power are all being hoarded together.”
Our technology and skill enables us to complete our task in good time. We leave the blocks to collect the following day, walk down to the village and enter the pub. Over frothing ale, we acquaint ourselves with the locals. The talk is all about the
Earth Mother and the Moon. It seems that we have stumbled upon a pagan convention of sorts; strange men and women have gathered at the village for some sort of annual celebration. Their caravans can be seen through the grimy windows.
Uncle Dylan rapidly becomes drunk. I leave him slumped in a chair and saunter out into the night. I light a cigarette and sit on a bench in the beer garden. The air is very cool, but it hums with electricity. There is much movement among the caravans; figures emerge, their faces whitened, their hair dishevelled, their eyes filled with arcane wisdom and absolute purpose.
Although I try, I cannot greet this sight with much enthusiasm. I have already witnessed too many cults in my working life. I feel a sort of mild sympathy for them, the same sort of sympathy, I suppose, that the bailiff feels for his victim. I close my eyes and attempt to enjoy the country air.
I muse over my own theory as I sit there. I am convinced by my own polemic. I suspect that a remote tract of land, perhaps on a Scottish island, has been chosen as a site. I know that politicians can never be trusted. The recent past has proved this to the widest-eyed optimist.
I try to imagine what sort of weapon such a concentration of magical energy would make. There is a leviathan stirring somewhere in our midst. I am a mercenary of sorts. I finish my cigarette and rejoin Uncle Dylan. He has managed to get into a fight with the barman. He staggers around, arms flailing. Before any blows can be exchanged, he empties the contents of his stomach over his adversary.
We are both promptly thrown out. I accompany Uncle Dylan to a little bridge over a babbling brook. Grasping the side with two gnarled hands, he leans forward and dips his head into the icy water. We chuckle over this and limp back to the car to spend an uncomfortable night on the cracked leather seats, Uncle Dylan’s arm thrown out across my throat.
