"And then, filled with the boundless energy that comes with faith and the threat of polo, the townspeople built them St. Collywobble's. It was said that, as a demonstration of their dedication, they built it two hundred miles away, carrying the stones all the distance with only primitive wooden rollers. The people of Avaciggy were happy after that, because mallets did not feature so heavily in their life."
Indole paused as they passed through the gates. "There is no luxury in this town," he said, "only necessity. There are no pubs, no coffee houses, no gambling dens, no restaurants, no theatres. There are rooftops and floors and a little in between and that's about it. People considered building things more than one story high and then thought of St. Collywobble's and decided that architecture was best kept at a distance. Everything here is built without a slide rule and so the rules slide - no right angles, no consideration of load-bearing walls or roofs that don't leak. It isn't planned obsolescence because it isn't planned. Life would be mundane, but people are apt to make things very complicated in even the most threadbare of environments. There is no such thing as boredom, only tiredness."
"This is the end of the quest?"
"The beginning of the Quest," said Indole.
"Oi," said a voice as they walked through the gates. A dumpy woman with a face like porridge approached Indole sporting a look of vehemence tempered only by obesity. "You bastard!" she said.
"Very concise," said Indole. "A good firm 'oi' and then an insult. Very efficient."
"I remember you," continued the woman. "Last time you were here, you sold me a love potion for half a year's wages. To win over the man of my dreams. A tincture of magical ingredients, you said."
"Ah yes," said Indole. "Did it work?"
"Of course it bloody worked," said the woman. "It turned out just to be two pints of brandy with some heather floating in it."
"There you go then," said Indole. "A very effective brew."
"Unfortunately it worked so well," said the woman angrily, "that of an evening the man of my dreams didn't stop singing 'you've got a lovely bunch of coconuts' for two hours, then fell asleep on them. For some reason the next morning I couldn't even get another verse out of him."
"Perhaps he was shy," said Indole. "Get it? Coconuts, shy..."
The woman looked unimpressed. So unimpressed that she made to knee Indole in the coconuts, which he only avoided by a quick hop backwards. This hop conveyed him into the clutches of a large man with a mean look on his face. It was a testament to the resilience of the human body that this man could sustain muscles like sacks of potatoes despite having a diet like that of a yogi.
"You bastard!" he said.
"I see you skipped the 'oi'," said Indole.
"You sold me a hangover cure. I'd just woken up with a splitting headache and the vague taste of heather in my mouth when I thought I'd go for a walk to clear my head. I got halfway down the street and you gave me a very convincing lecture on the health giving properties of natural mineral water when indisposed due to drink. From a pure mountain spring you said."
"I remember. Did it work?"
"Oh, it got rid of my hangover straight away."
"Good."
"The cholera lasted a week though. When you said a pure mountain spring, I take it you meant the nearest horse trough?"
"Well, it must have come from a pure mountain spring at some point," said Indole.
"The problem was it had gone through the horse afterwards," said the man. "I want my money back and something for my trouble."
"Something for your trouble? Have you tried coltsfoot in spirits of wine?"
"No I bloody haven't!"
"I'll just go and rustle some up then," said Indole, turning round again. There, stood in this new direction, was a tall woman with a thunderous countenance and a walking stick which she applied to Indole's shin.
"Quack!" shouted the woman.
"Meow?" ventured Indole.
"You sold me a sleeping draught! I'd been up two nights in a row, what with some lout singing 'til all hours one night and then vomiting the next. You said it would make me sleep, no doubt."
"Did it work?"
"I don't know. I spilt it before I had chance to drink any."
"A great shame," said Indole.
"For the petunias it was. Certainly sent them to sleep. Set them on fire first, though."
"I cannot be blamed for the potency of my wares," said Indole. He looked desperately for an escape route, but at the final point of the compass stood the crazed looking hermit from the cave.
"You stole my beans!" he shouted.
This proved decisive. From all directions, strong, gnarled hands grasped Indole's clothing.
A little later, Indole turned to Bulkington. Only very slightly though.
"Well, at least we now have the components of a pasta source," said Indole.
"Unfortunately not," said Bulkington, who sat glumly next to the stocks. "After they threw the tomatoes at you they went and picked them up again. Tomatoes are extremely scarce on the Howling Hills. They must have really liked you."
"Everyone likes me," said Indole.
"How are you going to get out?"
"I've already thought of that," said Indole.
"Oh?"
"Using the incredible powers of magic that reside within my coat pocket, I'm going to unlock the stocks. With the slightest bit of assistance..."
Bulkington took the hint and rummaged in Indole's pocket for him. He pulled out a paperclip.
"Put it in my hand," said Indole.
Bulkington gave the paperclip to Indole.
"Now let's see..." said Indole, a look of concentration on his face. There was a click and a lock dropped to the ground.
"You've done that before, haven't you?" said Bulkington.
"Once or twice," said Indole. "Now, let's find somewhere where I can sleep off my neck ache."
They wandered along the street, watching the people plod home as evening crept in. It was a simple life, the life of Avaciggy, which in other words meant that it was bloody awful. It was difficult to tell whether people hated each other, because they were very pleasant for ninety nine percent of the time but in the other one percent seemed to make up for this. Because Indole tended to exist in this percentage pretty much permanently he put his hood up and seemed to shrink into his cloak to such an extent that he was barely recognizable. They found a stable with some emaciated cobs and made themselves comfortable in some well-nibbled hay. The horses looked worried, which was not surprising seeing as the menu at the nearest inn was an omnipresent reminder for them to keep champing at the bit. Indole looked longingly at the inn and thought of gravy. With such thoughts he fell asleep.
Bulkington, however, could not sleep. He had been used to sleeping on a bare wooden bunk for his whole life and he was tempted to say to himself that straw was too soft for him, but this was not true. He had a sense of vertigo, a sort of feeling that there was nothing for his thoughts to grip. Everything that his train of consciousness alighted on seemed to shimmer and evaporate, no more substantial than the howling of the hills. Bulkington stood up, brushed the straw from his clothing and walked out of the stable. The street was dark, the windows of the houses a mass of rag curtains, the sparse cobbles iridescent in the moonlight. He did not really know where he was heading, but footstep after footstep he found himself wandering towards the centre of town. When he got there he sat on a bench and looked at the centre. It was large, perfectly circular and about twenty feet deep. He nearly jumped when he noticed in the gloom that there was already an old woman sat next to him on the bench. She was knitting.
"Is this some kind of new take on gardening that I'm not aware of?" he said, motioning to the crater.
"It's the centre of town," she said.
To Bulkington this was not really much of an explanation. "What exactly is it?"
"Part of the sky fell down a few thousand years ago," she said.
"Part of the sky?"
&nb
sp; "Nothing but rockery for miles around afterwards. Still warm in the middle." The old woman grinned a toothless smile. "Don't go too near it though otherwise your gums'll bleed."
Bulkington thought of Indole's gingivitis and suddenly he felt very tired indeed. He walked back to the stable and fell asleep in the hay.
Chapter 12 - The Pig
It was to be a long day. The air was crisp - in other words achingly cold - and it drove Indole and Bulkington to stamp in the street with the first light of dawn, watching as the horses restlessly tugged at the remnants of hay that constituted their breakfast.
"New day, new chances," said Indole, striding forward. "I sense greatness is just around the corner."
Bulkington scowled and quite rightly too. Greatness was not round the next corner. Round the next corner was a market. This consisted of someone selling sprouts, two people selling cabbages and one person selling a pig. There were no customers.
"Geerrrt yer sprouts!" Shouted the sprout seller. He did not shout it directly at Indole, although there really was nobody else he could be trying to sell them to. "Two for a penny, buy three and I'll throw in a dead rat! There's good eating on one of them! Sprout and rat soup, make yer mouth water! Geerrt yer sprouts!"
Indole swapped a spoon for two sprouts.
"Getcha cabbages, luvverly cabbages! Good for the circulation! Full of 'ealthy minerals and vitamins! Penny a cabbage!"
Indole bought a cabbage.
Bulkington looked at the person selling the pig. She was an old lady with eyes that looked like they could see for a thousand miles - as well they might because a thousand miles away looked pretty much like right here on the Howling Hills. He nudged Indole. "Aren't you going to buy the pig?"
"No, strictly vegetarian me," said Indole. "Hence the flatulence. Besides, that pig's not for me."
"What do you mean?" asked Bulkington.
"There's a story behind that woman with the pig," said Indole.
"Oh no," said Bulkington.
"It's quite a good one," said Indole.
"I'm not going to stop you telling it me, am I?" said Bulkington wearily.
"No," said Indole. "Are you standing comfortably?"
"No," said Bulkington. "I'm cold and I can't feel my feet."
"Then I'll begin..."
There once was a young lad who, on his twenty-first birthday, decided that he was tired of the drudgery and grind of everyday life. He thought to himself "I'll never make my fortune here." So he gathered together all that he owned, which wasn't much, and counted out his money, which also wasn't much, and decided to walk with his dog to the nearest town, some twenty miles away, to buy a pig.
Now the road led out onto the moor. A very windswept and barren moor it was, jagged with gorse and heather, studded with rocks and pockmarked with bogs. It was a gruelling journey, but the lad was strong and kept going through the day until, just as night was drawing in, he came across a wall stretching as far as the eye could see, of large white bricks, amazingly even and smooth. The only way over this wall was a stile, which the lad and his dog climbed over. Once over, they kept going on through the night, though the rain lashed and the tormented air howled over the wasteland. It was as though the elements had spirits, as though the inanimate world could speak, and when it spoke, it roared. The lad was aware for the first time that he was very small, that the world was very big, and that most of it was powerful and angry. These tempestuous thoughts remained with the lad until the spiteful night grew still, the wind dropped, the moon grew wan and the birds started to chorus.
As the sun rose and reflected dull orange from the puddle strewn path, the lad finally caught sight of the town. The buildings stood in stark rows, magnificent in a way, yet frightening. The lad walked through the town and eventually came to the market, where he bought the pig from a gnarled old woman with eyes that saw right through him.
"It's a good pig," said the old woman. "But lazy as the proverbial."
So the lad paid the woman nearly all he had and left the town with the pig and his dog. It was slow going, for the lad had to nudge the pig on every hundred yards or so. After a long and arduous trek, the lad came to the wall and the stile, which he made to climb. Yet when he was half over he looked down and saw the pig sat in the mud, looking at him.
"Come on, over the stile, pig, so I can get off home," said the lad.
The pig sat obstinately and closed its eyes.
The lad sighed. Suddenly he realised how tired he was, but he was still a long way from home. He climbed down the stile and tried to nudge the pig with his foot, but it was snoring lightly and only grunted in response. Then the lad turned to his dog.
"Dog, bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
The dog lay down on its front paws and regarded him with baleful eyes. It did not look like it was going to bite the pig.
The lad was annoyed. He looked about, whereupon he saw a stick.
"Stick, poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
The stick just lay there. If it could have shook its head it would have.
Now the boy was furious, and the night was drawing in again, so he built a fire. When it was crackling away and throwing sparks into the blue-black sky, he addressed it in as authoritative voice as possible:
"Fire, burn the stick, so it'll poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb the stile, so I can go home."
The fire, however, remained happy to blaze away merrily as it was.
Now the lad was really mad, so he screamed at the sky:
"Sky, make it rain, so it'll dampen the fire, so it'll burn the stick, so it'll poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb the stile, so I can go home."
As if on cue, it started to rain again. The fire burnt just as it had done before, only now the lad was soaked through. He gnashed his teeth in fury. Out of his bag he pulled a tent and set it on the floor.
"Tent, scatter the rain, so it'll rain harder, so it'll dampen the fire, so it'll burn the stick, so it'll poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
The tent lay unmoved. Reluctantly, the lad set up the tent, crawled inside and fell fast asleep.
The next morning, the rain had stopped, though the wind was still high and howled against the tent. The lad sat up, rubbed his eyes and thought how far away from home he was. He shuffled out of the tent and into the pale sunlight, where he could still see the pig asleep by the stile. He threw a pebble at it but it didn't even flinch.
"Stupid pig," he said. "Now I'm starving. I'll have to walk back to the town and get some food, then I'll be back and I'll get you to climb the stile, so I can go home."
So the lad walked back to the town, bought some food with what little money he had left and returned to the stile. The pig opened one eye and watched him languidly as he returned, before drifting off to sleep once more.
"Pig, climb over the stile, so I can go home."
The pig didn't move.
"Dog, bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
Nothing.
"Stick, poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
There was absolutely no response from the stick.
"Fire, burn the stick, so it'll poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
The fire was remarkably unperturbed.
"Sky, make it rain, so it'll dampen the fire, so it'll burn the stick, so it'll poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb the stile, so I can go home."
Obligingly, the sky started to rain, and once more the lad was miserably wet. He took out the tent.
"Tent, scatter the rain, so it'll rain harder, so it'll dampen the fire, so it'll burn the stick, so it'll poke the dog, so he'll bite the pig, so it'll climb over the stile, so I can go home."
He set up the tent. Still angry but very tired, he climbed ins
ide and quickly went to sleep.
The lad got up the next morning and found the pig just as sessile as it had been the day before. Despairing, he walked to the town and earned a little money by helping the old woman from whom he had bought the pig to carry some of her produce to market.
"I told you it is a very lazy pig," said the woman, when he told her about it. She smiled. "A good buy, I think you'll agree though, when you get home."
The lad was puzzled at the woman with the smile and the vast eyes, but he said his thanks and walked on. He bought some food, lingering in the market where there were people and the bustle of life. Every moment he spent here made the desolation of the moorland seem all the more pronounced. At last, he felt he could linger no longer, for the night would soon be drawing in, so he walked back out into the wilderness.
"Pig, climb over the stile."
Of course, there was no response.
So the lad kept up the routine, day after day, night after night, cursing the stubborn pig and longing every minute to go home. After a week or so, the old woman at the market gave him a job, and though the pay wasn't good he had enough to keep him in food. He would return, irritable and with aching legs, to the tent which wouldn't scatter the rain, which wouldn't dampen the fire, which wouldn't burn the stick, which wouldn't poke the dog, which wouldn't bite the pig, which wouldn't jump over the stile, so he could go home; he would return and go through the same rigmarole again, without success.
The seasons passed, and summer chased winter, chased summer, until one day, when he was in the town he met a girl about his age and with long, oaken hair. She smiled and he smiled back, and before he knew it they were talking together about anything that came into their heads. As the night drew on, the lad tore himself away and returned to the moor, where the pig lounged and refused, again, to climb over the stile.
How fast is a year? How fast are ten? To the lad they seemed long in the making and so ephemerally short in the recalling. A decade had gone by, and the lad was a man. He had kept up his trudge to the town and back every morning and every evening for those long years, and still the pig was just as immobile. When he got to the town on the first day of the tenth year, the girl, who he had been seeing for all this time, who was now a woman, was angry with him.
"You always disappear every night. What is more important than being with me?"
The Cutlers Of The Howling Hills Page 5
