by Hughes, Rhys
“Two newcomers in a single night,” said one small fellow.
“I was blown off course,” explained the Captain.
The barman flicked at some dust with a dishcloth. “You arrived by boat? Were you lured by the false beacon on the edge of town? That was Lowri’s doing, she’s our new leader, one of her latest schemes is to light a wrecker’s fire every evening and claim salvage rights. She hasn’t had much success so far because ships don’t usually travel over land. In fact you are her first victim.”
“That’s not exactly how it happened,” replied the Captain.
The barman shrugged. “Your vessel will be completely plundered by morning anyhow. Don’t look so glum, you’re in Lladloh now and it’s a pretty unlucky place for outsiders, so I’d say you’ve got off lightly. Maybe fate is taking a rest today because nothing very bad has happened to this other fellow. He just strolled into town a few hours ago.”
The man with the waistcoats clicked his heels and introduced himself. “Karl Mondaugen. I’m an inventor and I have a new invention to demonstrate.”
This started the argument again and amid the babbling of voices Captain Nothing found he couldn’t understand a single word. The small fellow who spoke to him first detached himself from the throng and came to stand by his side. His mouth worked violently in a small way but his words were inaudible and the Captain realised he wasn’t actually speaking to him but reciting a dreadful poem. When the argument finally calmed down he stopped reciting, as if afraid of his own verse, and thrust out an arm with a greasy handshake on the end of it. He introduced himself as if divulging a low quality secret.
“My name is Dennistoun and I’m the local bard.”
“What is everyone arguing about?” asked the Captain.
“It’s that Mondaugen chap, he’s from Germany I believe, but that’s not the cause of our concern. He’s been wandering the lost villages of Wales trying to interest people in his latest invention, some kind of inflatable stadium, much cheaper than a solid stadium. Places such as Lladloh don’t have the sort of money they have in Cardiff or Swansea and can’t afford to build solid stadiums. We love our games here in Wales and it’s a shame we have to hold them in fields rather than in a proper arena.”
“In that case his offer sounds ideal.”
Dennistoun shook his head. “It’s not up to any of us, our leader is the only one who can give the go ahead and Lowri isn’t the sort of person you can approach without risk. She shoots arrows at things she doesn’t like. But those aquamarine eyes of hers are quite remarkable, I penned an ode to them once but she shot an arrow right through it as I was taking it to her. I was just going to leave it on her doorstep and run away. But to return to what I was saying, we’re all worried that the bursting of an inflatable stadium might cause structural damage to our homes.”
“That seems a little pessimistic.”
“Disasters are common here. The church was destroyed last year by wild squonks and we’ve only just rebuilt it, including the wall around the graveyard, which is shaped like a sack of tears. Mondaugen seems to think there’s no real danger, he claims he has been conducting research on inflated objects and has discovered something surprising, but we still have doubts. Anyway we’re arguing about who visits Lowri with the proposal tomorrow. Some of us believe it will be wiser to say nothing to her and chase the inventor away instead.”
“Well this is none of my affair, I plan on leaving as soon as possible, the moment the next storm comes along to blow me back to sea. I know you don’t have to wait long in Wales for downpours and gales. Does this tavern rent out rooms?”
And to emphasise his fatigue he yawned mightily.
The barman took note of his open mouth and pointed at the ceiling. “There’s a room directly above this one but I’ve already promised it to the inventor. You can share with him, if he agrees, but you’ll have to sleep on the floor.”
Mondaugen voiced no objection and so Captain Nothing began climbing the stairs, the bannister slimy and pliable in his grip, but he paused halfway to the top and called down, “Surely it would take many days to fill an inflatable stadium with air? I wouldn’t like to be the man who has to blow into it to puff it up.”
“That’s the clever part,” responded the inventor. “There’s a valve under every seat. When the spectators take their places they each contribute some of their breath to the task. The bigger the attendance for an event, the faster the stadium is erected.”
Satisfied with this answer, the Captain continued his ascent and reached the highest step. Passing along a narrow corridor he opened a door and entered a room illuminated by two spluttering candles. A huge mushroom grew in one corner, spreading over an entire wall, and something dry and ancient fluttered weakly behind it, perhaps a trapped moth of unnatural dimensions, and in another corner a vast cobweb vibrated to its own rhythm and the flies caught in its silky strings had the appearance of musical notes, tiny winged minims and crotchets, but this was probably a trick of tiredness and shadows. Apart from fungus and web the room was fine. The carpet was soft and comfortable enough and the babble of voices from below sounded like the roar of distant surf. Soon the Captain was asleep.
He tossed and turned for an hour or two and was briefly awakened by the arrival of Mondaugen, who stepped over him and blew out the candles before collapsing into bed. The inventor did not undress and the ticking of his watches was thankfully muffled by the heavy blankets. Nor did he snore and the Captain’s sleep should have been untroubled, but there was something wrong, it was unclear what. Nonetheless more peace and rest was enjoyed than might be expected in such a place until midnight came and all the watches sounded the hour together and filled the room with a tuneless melody, setting the cobweb groaning like an echo which has forgotten the sounds it is supposed to repeat and makes up its own. The effect was quite ghastly and the Captain finally decided he was unhappy with the sleeping arrangements.
There was a solution to this problem and he rose and left the room and went downstairs and through the front door into the night. The sky was clear, an event so rare in Wales that many inhabitants still doubt the existence of stars, and the air was completely still. The Captain wanted a storm and was dismayed but he made his way to his ship and climbed the rope ladder to the deck. He craned his head up at the constellations and for an instant he imagined they were the lights of other villages, equally horrible, layered above this one. Then he shook himself free of this literally groundless fear and turned his attention to the champion sausage, dragging it across the planks and dropping it over the rail.
It landed on the grass with a sickening and slightly sad squelch, as if a squonk had been stomped by a clumsy centaur, and he followed it over the side. But before he touched ground and let go of the rope ladder he chanced to look at the tallest house again. A face was peering at him from the highest window. He guessed at once this was Lowri and he offered a limp wave but he never knew if she responded because his attention was suddenly diverted to the lower windows of the same building. Grinning faces were crammed behind each pane of glass and they were all identical in expression and layout but different in size. Then every curtain swished into place and he was left alone with his sausage.
He hauled it back to the tavern and up the stairs, wincing as it bounced on every step, and into his room. Laying it out on the floor, he settled down next to it and embraced it, using it partly as a pillow and a bolster, and perhaps partly as a woman, something fleshy to hold and encourage a deep slumber. And in fact his sleep was perfect, the deepest sleep he had known for many nights. When he woke again it was nearly dawn.
He decided to leave immediately, not caring to view the mushroom and cobweb in the light of day, and so he trod lightly back down the stairs and out of the tavern. There were still no signs of a coming storm in the sky. But he preferred to wait in his ship and he did not believe he would have to wait long, not here in the depths of Wales. The village looked different in the sick rosy glow preceding sun
rise, the buildings more squat and much older. He noticed the church with its mouldy tower. He increased his pace with a shiver.
A shock awaited him when he reached his vessel. It was being dismantled by scores of little men who wielded hammers and saws or gripped pliers and spanners. Already there was almost nothing left but before he could shout out in anger he spotted the figure of Lowri lounging by the stone bridge, a longbow in her hand and a quiver of arrows slung over her back. She was directing operations and greeted his arrival with a sneer. Her hair, golden at the front but darkening to auburn at the back, hung in thick plaits apart from a few loose strands, but it was her eyes which riveted his attention, blue green and very wise but also somehow innocent and pure. From a safe distance he blabbered at her:
“This ship is my property. Put it back together immediately!”
She yawned languidly and shook her head. “You were wrecked in my domain and therefore I claim salvage rights. You are clearly an incompetent sailor.”
Captain Nothing took a step forward but she thumbed the string on her bow meaningfully and his courage evaporated. He concealed his fear from her scrutiny by turning to regard her house. For the first time he saw that a giant scarf had been wrapped around the roof, keeping the gables warm. It was the same colour as her eyes but sparkled with sequins. The front door was open and her assistants carried the broken pieces of his ship inside. The tallest of these attendants was about half his own height, while the others were graded on a diminishing scale. They were all variations of one person and the Captain was reminded briefly of Mondaugen’s nested waistcoats, but these men did not tick. The smallest was no more than an inch high and carried a single nail over his shoulder.
“So you are the leader of this village,” the Captain grumbled. “The mayor perhaps?”
Lowri narrowed her eyes. “That title is obsolete. I am the Peachy Poo of Lladloh, a title I invented. I am far greater than any of the previous rulers, no idle boast considering that one was a god, but minor deities are common in these parts. There is nothing you can do to oppose my wishes, but I’m not unreasonable all the time.”
Captain Nothing felt anger but knew he was at a major disadvantage. If he tried to rush at her, she would transfix his heart with an arrow or set her attendants on him. Suddenly he felt furious with the whole village, not just her but the buildings too, including the tavern and those inside it. His revenge would be indirect and so he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level and said slyly:
“Do you know what they’ve got in that drinking den over there? An inflatable stadium, that’s what! Some German fellow brought it with him and they weren’t planning to tell you about it. I suspect they were going to set it up somewhere you wouldn’t see and keep it a secret. Not that it’s any of my business but what do you think of that?”
Lowri inclined her head to one side and her cheeks flushed. Captain Nothing expected her to notch an arrow to her bow but she merely flashed her eyes and nodded thoughtfully. Then she ignored him completely and returned to issuing orders to her little men. Now their task was finished and they carried the final planks and nails into the house, vanishing through the door in single file. Lowri moved away from the bridge and joined the line, the Captain stepping back so that she wouldn’t brush against him. She didn’t look back as she entered the house. The door slammed shut and he was left alone.
Without his ship he felt marooned and unhappy. He took a small satisfaction in the knowledge she had not taken the sausage, but he didn’t need it himself because he had decided to walk out of the village and it would slow him down. It seemed a good idea to begin walking right away. He crossed the bridge and found a promising path which headed south. When he reached the coast he would acquire another vessel, he wasn’t sure how, even if it was only a modest coracle or canoe. Possibly he would build a raft from driftwood. His confidence returned but the path soon frustrated him, leading into an overgrown forest and then into a narrow valley surrounded by frightful crags. He quickly lost all sense of direction and his body felt heavy with despair.
The valley opened out into a dismal plain but his view of the horizon was obscured by the bulk of a smoking volcano. Around the summit circled what looked like a pterodactyl. He turned back hastily and entered a different valley. Now he was trapped in a trackless expanse of high thorny bushes. The ground beneath his feet was ripe with thick mud. At last he came to the base of a cliff and followed it searching for a way up, but the face was as black and smooth as obsidian. There was the mouth of a cave and he entered it to rest and examine the scratches on his body. Something dry snapped under his heel, an enormous thighbone, and from the unlighted rear of the cave an unknown creature stirred with a massive yawn. The Captain retreated and plunged into the bushes. He wandered aimlessly for many hours and by the time he emerged it was growing dark and his clothes were in tatters.
A few lights twinkled ahead. He stumbled towards them and his heart sank as he crossed the stone bridge and made his way to the tavern. It was empty and cold inside and he came out. Voices and panting could be heard a little way off. He followed them to the church and passed through that abominable building into the walled graveyard.
He rubbed his eyes. Dennistoun the poet noticed him.
“Welcome back. We thought we’d lost you. What do you think?”
The Captain squinted. “Very impressive.”
“No, it’s awful, a complete disaster. Somehow Lowri learned of the German’s invention and paid us a little visit. She insisted we set it up right away. This seemed the best place because the graveyard walls might afford some protection if the thing bursts. We didn’t get round to replacing the headstones after the squonks wrecked them, so the ground’s reasonably flat. Don’t take your seat yet or you’ll be expected to contribute to the puffing.”
The Captain struggled to comprehend the scene before him. A sea of blue rubber rippled to the edges of the graveyard and seated at the far end on several limp tiers were Lowri’s grotesque assistants, all bending forward with their lips fixed to a series of protruding valves. Even the smallest attendant was trying to help the others, though his valve was bigger than he was. Dennistoun and the other drinkers from the tavern were clustered in groups nearer the church and there were many faces the Captain didn’t recognise. It appeared the entire village had turned up to watch, which in fact was the case, for the poet rolled his eyes in resignation and added sourly:
“Attendance is compulsory. The Peachy Poo said so.”
The barman came over with a thin smile. “I heard you took a sausage to bed.”
The Captain shrugged and the barman abandoned any further effort to lighten the mood. As twilight turned to dusk the smaller attendants became inferior shadows like wisps of black flame. As if reading his thoughts the barman explained that real flames weren’t a good idea this close to an inflatable stadium, so there wouldn’t be any blazing torches or spluttering braziers, the customary method of public illumination in Lladloh, but a full moon was expected to rise later and that would suffice. Indeed the present roundness of the moon was probably the reason why Lowri had insisted on setting up the stadium this very night.
“Do you get many moons in Wales?” the Captain wondered.
“Very few, but this is a special time. It’s a terrible irony really because the day started so well. The oracle I keep in the cellar, it’s a wax skull and mostly just screams, informed me that Pitapata, the local God of Rain, has fallen asleep for the first time in fifty years. The sky will be clear until he wakes again. My oracle doesn’t care for fine weather and has a dread of melting, which is why I put it in the cellar, it’s cool down there, but anyway I was so pleased by this news that I sent for the Room Barber to tidy up my tavern. Making my rooms more normal seemed a good way of celebrating.”
A tall man in a cloak who carried a folded razor as large as a coffin rotated his hooded head and hissed, “All the way from Lampeter I came.”
“That’s almost ten miles distant,” wh
ispered Dennistoun.
Captain Nothing rubbed his chin. “I don’t understand. Your room seemed agreeable enough to me, I was perfectly at ease on your carpet.”
The barman and poet exchanged glances. “We don’t have carpets in Lladloh.”
The Captain felt bile rise in his throat and changed the subject. “Where is Lowri now? I don’t see her. When the stadium is fully inflated will she shoot an arrow at it?”
“Indeed no, that’s not the reason we think there’s a danger of it exploding, quite the reverse, Lowri loves the concept. We’re worried because of the types of games we play in Lladloh, this village is behind the times.”
“You don’t play rugby or cricket?” the Captain asked.
“No, we still enjoy gladiatorial contests. Two men locked in combat with the crowd applauding or jeering and our leader, in this case Lowri, deciding the fate of the loser with the jerk of a thumb. We use the ancient weapons, mostly sharp implements, and the chances of a puncture are extremely high. Of all the games to hold in an inflatable stadium, such fights are probably the most hazardous. Mondaugen obviously was unaware of our tradition when he made his proposal. Too late to do anything about it now.”
This was true. The stadium was expanding rapidly, taking on a more substantial form, the limp walls growing firmer, the rows of seats more stable. Captain Nothing realised with alarm that he was inside the stadium, a wall of thick rubber rising to block his retreat through the church. They were all trapped, unwilling spectators of a contest that might annihilate the whole village. He looked for a way out but the sides of the stadium lacked doors. He climbed to the top row of seats and peered over the edge. Too high to jump without injury. Lowri’s house was visible above the rooftops of the other buildings and she was framed by her window. She winked at him and then moved back into the gloom of the room and his heart missed a beat. Would she watch everything from that vantage? Surely not even her house could survive an explosion of such magnitude!
