The Cutlers Of The Howling Hills

by Michael Summers

  The Toad lazily eyed the horizon. It watched as the sun climbed over the hilltops. In a silent blink the first rays of dawn shot across the scenery, casting long, lowering shadows. The shadows shrank and the rays advanced, scaling the hilltops, scaling the wall underneath the window, until they alighted on the window sill.

  The Toad belched. It looked around. It turned almost hesitantly and regarded Bulkington over what passed for its shoulder. Then, quite unceremoniously, it hopped off the window ledge and disappeared into the coarse grass.

  Bulkington stared in disbelief. He ran over to the window and stuck his head out, looking for the Toad, but there was no sign of it. He let out a long, agonised groan. The abbot would find out about this. He would be cast out, disenfranchised, excommunicated. His whole life of silent contemplation and arduous study had been for nothing. Numbly, Bulkington walked over to his reading desk and sat down. He stared at the text, almost expecting the nausea to well up inside him. But it didn't. He stared at the writing for a little longer. For some reason the characters on the page seemed dislocated and empty, devoid of all meaning. He tried to focus, but the text just seemed to sit there. Bulkington ran his hand over his tonsure. This was more than the usual morning grogginess. He could not read a word.

  That evening, after eating his gruel, Bulkington crept out of the monastery, across the moor, and found the cutler.

  "Ho there!" he cried when he was in earshot.

  "Why, are you thinking of starting a vegetable garden?" replied the cutler.

  Bulkington looked confused.

  "How's things?" asked the cutler, changing tack.

  "The Toad escaped."

  "Of course," said the cutler.

  "You mean you knew it would?"

  Again, the cutler tapped his nose. "That's toads for you," he said.

  "Now I can't read a word of the texts."

  The cutler laughed. "You never could," he said.

  Bulkington looked confused. "I have read the texts every day of my life for the past thirty years."

  "No you haven't," said the cutler.

  "Yes I have," said Bulkington.

  "And now the Toad's gone and mysteriously you can't read a word?"

  "That's right."

  "Don't you think there might be some kind of connection there?" said the cutler.

  Bulkington stared at him in silence.

  The cutler sighed. "The texts are just a lot of symbols that look very convincingly like letters."

  "No they're not. They were written by the Scurrilous Sages deep back in the mists of time..."

  "Written?"

  "Yes."

  "The sages could never even read."

  "That's not true," said Bulkington.

  "Look," said the cutler, "you've never read a word. The Collywobbler Toads do all the reading. Very wise, the Collywobblers. Apparently they come from the Parchment Forests of the South, where the Paperbark trees grow full of fiendishly original narratives. The Collywobblers read faster than you could ever hope to, absorb reams of information, and then plonk themselves on your desk and hum out the result. They're not quite psychic, just very good at humming, so you sort of listen to the Toad, look at the Texts and think you're reading."

  "How do you know this?" asked Bulkington with venom.

  "I used to be a monk," said the cutler. "My Toad hopped off a long time ago."

  Bulkington couldn't help but look angry. "And now my Toad's gone. You knew it would."

  "Look on the bright side," said the cutler. "You'll never be short of spoons now. I've got an arrangement with the Abbot to nick the spoons, then sell them back to the monastery and split the profits. That way we each get to keep half the money from the cutlery fund."

  "You bastard!" exclaimed Bulkington.

  The cutler laughed. "Better grab some tea towels," he said. "You're an idiot now too."

  Chapter 3 - A Quest

  There are many quests. When it comes to quests, there's a lot. There are many brave quests, many dangerous quests, many suicidal quests, many magical quests, many cursed quests and many bloodthirsty quests. Of course, because there are so many quests that there are also many bloody stupid quests. Finding More Spoons, on the scale of things, is not such a stupid quest. Take, for instance The Great Quest To Determine The Meaning of Epistemology. Or The Intrepid Quest To Calculate The Angular Momentum Of Basingstoke (this was especially stupid as nobody on the Howling Hills had ever heard of Basingstoke before). People seem to like ridiculous quests and so reams and reams of sagas have been written on missions that are impossible, bizarre, useless or very mundane. This story is about a quest that is none of these things. This story is about The Quest To Find The World Beneath One's Feet. It is a difficult quest.

  "What's wrong with my tea-towels?" enquired the cutler angrily.

  "Nothing," said Bulkington. "It's just that I never really saw myself in the tea-towel distribution industry."

  "It's not an industry, son, it's an art. The fact of the matter is that there is a massive surplus of tea-towels and nobody really wants to buy them. Selling tea-towels requires magic."

  "Magic?" enquired Bulkington with an enthusiasm that was to reality what saccharin is to sugar. "That sounds more like it. More epic. What magic do you know?"

  The cutler shook his head. "You don't even know my name and you're asking me what magic I know? Have a little civility."

  "What's your name?"

  "Indole," said the cutler. "Indole Flux."

  "And you're a magician?"

  "A mage."

  "So you know magic?"

  "What? Would you ask someone who plays the harp if they 'know music'? Magic's big. I know one little corner of it."

  "And you sell cutlery?"

  Indole stopped walking. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a very shiny spoon. "First test," said the mage, "for someone who wants to know magic. What's the most magical thing about this spoon?"

  He handed the spoon to Bulkington. Bulkington looked at the spoon. He shrugged.

  "It doesn't look very magical to me."

  "You're not looking properly. Hold it up to the light. Now answer the question."

  Bulkington thought for a moment. Then his brow furrowed and he decided to be clever (and also not very original). "There is no spoon."

  "Of course there is, you clot. Look at the spoon."

  Bulkington sighed. "You don't know any magic, do you? In fact, just as I always thought, there's no such thing as magic."

  Indole laughed. "No such thing as magic? You put that spoon in your pocket. Keep it until the end of our journey and then you tell me there's no such thing as magic."

  "What journey?"

  "Well, more of a Quest."

  "Does it involve angular momentum?"

  "No more than anything else."

  "What's it a quest for?"

  "It's a Quest To Find Magic."

  "Those are three a penny."

  "No," said Indole. "There are lots of Quests to find magic things. Like The Quest To Find The Magic Axe of Ulgarth. Or the Quest To Find The Magic Lantern of The Undead. Or The Quest To Find The Magic Card Under The Upturned Cup Which Inevitably Ends Up In You Losing Five Quid. Not many people are stupid enough to go on a Quest Just To Find Magic In The Abstract. I mean wise. Not wise enough to go on a Quest To Find Magic In The Abstract."

  "Well, a quest's a quest."

  "No it's not. It's a Quest. Always capitalised."

  "I suppose I don't really have much else to do. Where will this Quest take us?"

  Indole waved his hands meaningfully at the horizon. "Over there somewhere."

  "How far will this Quest take us?"

  "Almost exactly two hundred miles."

  "That's remarkably similar to the distance to the nearest town."

  "It might be," said Indole, trying to sound nonchalant.

  "You're just going to walk to the next town, aren't you?" said Bulkington. "The one that's bleak, depressing and with a profound lack
of interest in cutlery."

  "Possibly," said Indole. "Tea towels don't sell themselves."

  "Magic tea towels probably would," said Bulkington.

  "Well, these ones aren't magic. They would be if I wanted them to be, though," said Indole.

  "Of course," said Bulkington. "Because you're a mage."

  "Oh ye of little faith," said Indole, looking hurt. "Magic is a bit more subtle than fireballs and dragons. You can't even solve the riddle of the spoon. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

  "Well, lead the way then," said Bulkington. "At least towns don't have wolves."

  "No," said Indole. "Probably due to the free-lance coat making industry. Now that really is an industry."

  There was a starkness to the Howling Hills as the evening drew on, not at all like the gentle sunsets in other parts. As the sun got lower it cast shadows that crept, shadows that snaked and darted in arcane patterns from every wizened tree and wind-carved crag. Then night was over the land, and there was nothing but the howling of the wind and the moonlit path before the two travellers. After a few hours walking in darkness, Indole motioned towards a series of crags next to the path.

  "There's a cave over there. We stop for the night."

  Bulkington nodded. "About time, too."

  They picked their way over the rocks and found the cave, an arching black mouth set into the moonlit rock. Indole motioned to Bulkington to go in, but Bulkington stopped. "I can smell smoke," he said.

  Indole sniffed. "Of course," he said. He waved his arms for effect. "I have summoned forth fire from the rocks."

  "Yes, there's definitely a fire there," said Bulkington peering into the cave. "Although I doubt you conjured it up. There's someone sitting there. It looks like he's cooking a tin of beans."

  "Magic beans?" asked Indole.

  "No, just normal beans."

  "Good," said Indole. "My wind's bad enough as it is."

  "And he's chewing something."

  "Probably his false teeth. Hello there!"

  Indole strode into the cave and the hunched figure looked up. When he saw Indole he cackled and spat into the fire, at which the flames rushed up and burnt green.

  "Ah, good stuff," said Indole. "Careful though, you'll burn the beans."

  Again the stranger cackled. "I see your future, Indole Flux. I see it unfurled like a scroll of old parchment. I see every letter of your life to the last full stop."

  "I think we should leave," said Bulkington through gritted teeth as he tugged at Indole's sleeve. Indole brushed him off and sat down next to the stranger.

  "You wanted to see magic, eh?" said Indole to Bulkington with a grin. "Come on, sit down."

  Cautiously Bulkington sat opposite on an outcrop of rock. He didn't take his eyes off the stranger.

  "I see your life, Bulkington Azimuth. I see your life in the movement of birds, in the patterns of entrails, in the fall of sticks and bones."

  "Cheery, eh?" said Indole.

  "Watch the fire! Watch the flames rise!"

  "Watch the beans!" cried Indole.

  The stranger spat once more into the fire and the cave filled with smoke, out of which danced a hundred shapes and shadows.

  "Watch, Indole Flux!" shrieked the stranger. "Watch!"

  There was blackness and out of that blackness came daylight in a whirl of green flame. The smell of a forest hung heavy in the air, a smell that was at once fresh and ancient. Trees towered to the sky, trunks wrapped together in spiralling braids, each bough climbing up over another to reach towards light and life. There was a hut, outside which was a wind-chime made of spoons. The door of the hut opened and Indole hobbled out, his face wrinkled with age and a long, matted beard blowing in the breeze. He looked happy.

  "A fortune made and my life as a cutler behind me. Now I can sit back and relax with the small fortune I accrued from the spoon racket. Life is good." Indole yawned, stretched and then sat down on an old wooden chair and closed his eyes in satisfaction.

  Hours passed. The woodland was alive with the sound of birdsong, the natter of insects, the soft rush of wind. Indole thought to himself about the benevolence of Nature. He pondered the music of the humble song-thrush, the industrious thrift of the busy squirrel, the frivolous roaming of the bumble bee on the summer breeze...

  "Not so fast," came a voice from nearby.

  "I'm sitting on a chair," said Indole without opening his eyes. "I could hardly get less fast."

  "Stand and deliver!"

  Indole opened one eye. "But I was just getting comfortable."

  "Give me all your money now!"

  "Oh. I see."

  There stood in front of Indole a young, stocky man with lank, brown hair and eyes that glinted with ill-intent. Round his face he wore a tea-towel and in his hand there was a spoon that glinted menacingly in the sunlight.

  Indole gasped, which was a little late but effected with panache nonetheless. "Not a spoon!"

  "Sharpened to a fine point!" said the bandit.

  "And a novelty tea towel to hide your identity!" cried Indole. "Infamy!"

  "Now stay still while I nab all your cash."

  Smoke curled and cleared, and once more the fire burnt yellow and red. Indole shuddered.

  "The future is so full of horror," he said. "Surely there could never be such malice in a breakfast utensil."

  The stranger cackled. "Now, watch your future, Bulkington Azimuth! Watch the flames!"

  "Here we go again," said Indole.

  The old soothsayer spat and the fire roared.

  The swamp was illuminated with marsh-lights and the thin moon above, an even mist settling on its surface to hide a thousand deadly sinkholes, making the bog impassable to all but the most intrepid adventurers. Bulkington, his face worn with age, sat cross legged on a platform built from old logs in the middle of the swamp. On the edge of the marsh the paperbark trees towered, their parchment bark flaking away in the wind and drifting in sheets over the brackish water. There was only the buzz of flies, the belch of rotting vegetation, the slow riffle of the trees. And then the sun hit the horizon and rays of light shot over the ground like laser beams and hit the swamp.

  There was a burp.

  There was a ribbet.

  There was an indescribable gelatinous sound.

  And then the swamp erupted in the most hideous croaking chorus that could be imagined.

  Bulkington's brow creased in concentration. He loved to read.

  The smoke cleared and the sound of a cackle disappeared into the night. When Bulkington could see once more, the stranger was gone and there were only Indole and he sat beside the fire. Indole reached over and picked the tin of beans from off the fire with his sleeve.

  "That's it?" said Bulkington. "Nothing but robbery and nausea?"

  "Depressing, eh?" said Indole, pulling out a spoon. "But, look on the bright side. You've had an irrefutable demonstration of magic."

  "Not really," said Bulkington.

  "Oh? Then what about the smoke, the visions of the future?"

  "Didn't you notice him chewing something?" said Bulkington.

  Indole narrowed his eyes. "Probably just finishing a mouthful of beans."

  "No," said Bulkington. "He wasn't carrying anything and the nearest town is nearly two hundred miles away. He can't just live of beans. There must be another source of food on the Howling Hills."

  "Nothing that I know of," said Indole.

  "Nothing?" pushed Bulkington.

  "Well there's a type of mushroom that's nearly edible."

  "There you go," said Bulkington. "He spat a mouthful of nearly edible mushroom onto the fire and that explains the smoke and the green flames and the visions. Not magic, just a clever trick."

  Indole shook his head. "So cynical," he said, casually brushing the mushroom stalks that littered the ground with his foot until they were out of the ring of firelight. "You really don't believe in magic, do you?"

  "I believed in reading until my toad hopped off. No
w I'm a sceptic about everything."

  "But you are to find plenty of toads again in the end; you saw it. Just like you'll find magic. Now let's get some sleep. A mage must replenish his awesome powers sometime."

  Chapter 4 - The Valley of Bones

  Not many days start at dawn. Even fewer days start at dawn when the night before was spent huddled in a cave with the unsettling smell of burnt mushrooms hanging in the air and only a tin of beans for supper. So when the sluggish grey light, the thick gloop of mist and the sound of a few half-dead birds coughing up a dawn chorus somehow made it past the mouth of the cave, these highlights of the Howling Hills took some time to wake Indole and Bulkington. When at last they awoke, Indole looked wistfully at the empty tin of beans and then pulled out a rock-solid hunk of bread from his pocket. He broke an unfairly small piece off and passed it to Bulkington, who eyed it ruefully before chewing a corner.

  "You know what?" said Bulkington through a mouthful of bread that tasted like sawdust and mould.

  "Yes," said Indole between mouthfuls.

  Bulkington looked annoyed. "You didn't let me finish what I was going to say."

  "You were going to say that you have never felt so miserable in your life."

  Bulkington looked even more annoyed. "You could at least have let me say it," he said.

  "What use will whining do?"

  "It'd make me feel better," said Bulkington.

  "No it wouldn't," said Indole. "It'd make you feel worse. So you'd whine more. Then you'd feel even worse. Much better to swallow down your misery and look forward to the future."

  "You mean the future of sitting in a swamp surrounded by toads?"

  "Maybe not that one."

  "Or the future of being robbed at spoon-point?"

  "Not that one either. The one where you're happy and everyone else's happy and nobody's being complete bastards to each other. That future."

  "Oh," said Bulkington. "That future."

  They walked on in silence for a while.

  "What bright and happy landmark is next?" said Bulkington when they had walked a few hundred yards.

  "The Valley of Bones."

  "Oh, great," said Bulkington. "Happy days."

  "Ah, a grim prospect, indeed, but proof that magic exists."

  "How so?"

  "You'll see."

  They trudged on until the sun was high in the sky and then there it was: the valley of bones. In the diffuse light there was visible a deep dell and in that deep dell there was the macabre spectacle of thousands of bones from a hundred different species, bleached white by the scouring winds.