"Quite," said Indole, a look of extreme concentration on his face. "You know, this rain reminds me of Deluge Verse 1:
The skies did pour forth a deluge upon the Earth
and then it became a river;
then it rained a bit more
and lo it did become a lake;
yea, it did rain until there was no water left in the sky
and the Earth did become a Sea.
Then The Scurrilous Sages turned everything upside down,
and lo, it did start raining again."
Indole paused. "Did you just hear a ribbet?"
"What?" said Bulkington.
"A ribbet. I'm sure I just heard a..."
"Ribbet."
"You did that very well," said Bulkington.
"That wasn't me," said Indole.
Then something made them look up. At that point Indole Flux was hit square on the forehead by something large and green, whereupon he sank to the ground senseless.
Chapter 17 - Chorus
When Indole woke up Bulkington was standing over him looking worried, although Indole didn't even notice him. His attention was entirely absorbed by a squat, bulbous form on the ground. There, on the rain-soaked grass, eying them both with a nonchalant look was a huge toad. Indole got to his feet and brushed himself off. He walked over to the amphibian.
"Two warts over its left eye. A dark streak down its back. A toe missing on its right foot. It can't be..."
Bulkington watched as Indole peered closely at the toad. The rain was still sheeting down and the wind whipped at Indole's clothing.
"I thought that you had hopped off a long time ago," said Indole. "Where did you come from?"
The toad opened it's mouth and let forth a gargling sound. Indole swallowed down his nausea and then looked oddly entranced.
Yea, long through the desert I have travelled
scorned by the very stones and the dust.
Yet if out of stones and dust life was once made
out of them a life can yet be made again.
"How did you get here?"
The heavens did seethe with tempest,
the winds howled with fury;
a great column descended from on high
and did do many wrathful things.
"Why did you come back?"
Why the hell not?
Indole grinned. "Oh well, as good a reason as any I suppose. I have the wisdom of the Scurrilous Sages with me once more. You know, maybe now things are looking up."
"Speaking of which," said Bulkington, "I think we should shelter under that tree."
"Why, it's only a bit of rain..."
There was a chorus of ribbeting. The moon disappeared. There was a rumble from on high. And then, in a chaos of green slime and webbed feet, thousands upon thousands of Collywobbler Toads began to rain down on Indole and Bulkington, knocking them off their feet. They crawled under the tree.
Disturbed by a ribbeting coming from their rooftops, the people of Avaciggy filtered out into the pale half-light and surveyed the scene with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust. There, littering the ground was a layer of toads, scrambling desperately over each other to hop down into the safety of the pond.
Bulkington stood up. "Oh dear," he said. "The sun's almost up. The toads will start their dawn chorus any second."
"So?" said Indole. "What's a bit of nausea?"
Bulkington motioned towards the people who stood blinking in the pre-dawn light. "Lets just say there are going to be some very well-read people by the end of this morning."
"A bit of reading never did anyone any harm," said Indole. He smiled, picked up a branch from off the floor and pointed to the shopping trolley. "The future starts today," he said. "It's not the Paperbark Forests but it'll do. Go on, row out into the middle. That way you won't miss a single ribbet."
Bulkington looked at Indole.
"Don't just stand there," Indole said.
Bulkington shrugged, took the piece of wood and walked over to the shopping trolley. Cautiously he clambered on and pushed himself out, punting along with the branch. As the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, Bulkington Azimuth was sat in the middle of the pond with a look of zen-like calm on his face.
There was a burp.
There was a ribbet.
There was an indescribable gelatinous sound.
And then the pond erupted in the most hideous croaking chorus that could be imagined.
Bulkington loved to read.
Chapter 18 - The Last Page
As the chorus finished there was a moment's silence. Then the crowd around the pond started talking - and highbrow talk it was too.
Indole stepped forward to the edge of the water. "You figured out the riddle of the spoon yet?"
Bulkington reached into his pocket and took out the spoon. He looked at the concave surface of the metal. Then he smiled.
"I think I've got it," he said.
"Oh," said Indole. "Go on, do tell."
Bulkington looked at his reflection in the spoon. "All I had to do was look. The most magical thing about the spoon," he said, "is me."
"Excuse me while I vomit," said Indole. "You haven't learnt anything, have you? You're looking at the wrong surface."
Bulkington turned the spoon round. "I don't get it," he said, looking at a very small reflection of himself.
"You're still looking at the wrong surface," said Indole.
Again, Bulkington turned the spoon round and stared back at himself magnified in the silvery metal.
"You really don't get it, do you?" said Indole.
Bulkington looked annoyed. "I'm tired of this semi-mystical bunkum," he said. "You know what? I'm going to bag a toad, walk back to the monastery and then I won't have to worry about wolves or crazy cutlery salesmen for the rest of my life."
Indole watched as Bulkington punted back to the edge of the pond. Now it was his turn to shrug. "I suppose," he said quietly to himself, "that you would say that. But then you can't really see the other surface of the spoon, can you? It's pretty frightening, that other surface. Because in it are the sky, the ground and lots and lots of people. Not magic, perhaps, but very close."
Indole picked up his toad, slung his bag over his shoulder and trudged out towards the edge of town. Bulkington, wet, cold and miserable, picked up a toad. It looked him square in the eye and then let out a long, sustained burp. In Bulkington's mind, there materialised a series of words:
A man sees in the world
a hundred reflections of his own foolishness;
yet the world, in its wisdom,
sees only one fool.
He scowled and made to walk off towards the distant, cold, austere monastery. Only, when he had taken a few paces, something made him stop. He found a smile creeping onto his face and he turned to Indole.
“I may not know the answer to the riddle of the spoon,” he said.
“Eh?” said Indole, cosseting his toad. “What's that?”
“I may not know the answer to the riddle of the spoon,” repeated Bulkington, “but I don't think you know the answer to the riddle of the toad.”
“I don't?” said Indole, not quite knowing what else to say. Bulkington's expression was unnerving.
“No,” said Bulkington. “You see, reading shouldn't be about nausea. It shouldn't be about sitting there feeling sick and letting something else do all the work.”
“That's the way it works,” said Indole.
“Not any more,” said Bulkington. “Not for me. My toad's gone.”
“Your loss,” said Indole.
“Not necessarily,” said Bulkington. “You see, now I'm going to learn to read. Properly.”
Indole laughed. “Impossible. Next you'll be saying you've come up with a use for the round.”
“You watch me,” said Bulkington.
“No thanks,” said Indole sadly. “I've got my own future to keep my eye out for.”
“It doesn't have to be like t
hat,” said Bulkington.
“But it probably will be like that anyway,” said Indole, “just to be spiteful.”
“Well, I'm going to at least make the effort,” said Bulkington.
Indole laughed. “You've got spirit after all, more so than creme-de-menthe even. Good luck.”
“I might need it”,” said Bulkington, thinking of the abbot and excommunication.
“Go on,” said Indole looking miserable. “It's been nice knowing you. We might meet again sometime.”
Bulkington smiled again, a smile that struggled against the cold. “You never know,” he said. “I'll think of you when I eat my gruel. And when I read.”
Indole smiled back, “Go on,” he said.
Bulkington put his hand on his shoulder. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Bulkington turned and set off in silence.
“You'll be alright,” said Indole to himself as Bulkington faded into the distance. “You can think for yourself.”
He stared at the horizon for a few moments, lost in thought. The wind was biting, the sunlight scarce, and his eyes stung with the years. He didn't know how to describe the emptiness. Of course, when he turned round to pick up his toad, there was only a patch of withered, wind-blasted gorse. For a moment, he felt an odd kind of happiness.
Chapter 19 - The Lay of The Last Wastrel
An Epic Poem
Introduction
To drink the black and chase the damp
Low on the hills there burned a lamp;
A single dour tallow lantern,
Lit in shades the Hogshead Tavern.
A rookery or castle keep,
May hold a king or knave in sleep;
Yet draughted here with copper coin,
The beer could wake and sleep conjoin.
A shadow settles in a glass
And back and forth the shadows pass;
To beat the time with every mite
Of hourglass dust and faltering light
All balanced folk of goodly mould
Had long since heard their bar tab told
Yet left to eke the gritty drops,
One red-cheeked sot still praised the hops.
"As good a brew this Hogshead ale,
As one that e'er deserved a tale;
So trip up close ye gangled spider,
Ye mouse drunk on the dregs of cider
And listen sharp to what I tell-
'Tis the Lay of The Last Wastrel!"
Canto First
At first were two words: "Eh?" and "What?"
And out of dark there sprung a dot.
Out from the dot there scribed a line
And this was stretched across in time.
The line became a sheet of cloth,
The Fates wove tales of peace and wrath,
And of the sheet sprang forth a world,
Where many dots, lines, sheets unfurled.
When two cruel lines did chance to cross,
A hope was born from mighty loss;
The hope that earthly dots would see
How fluent this blank sheet could be.
Yet something on the page did draw
And men once more began to fall
All charmed towards a central dot
That bore the graven name: "Full Stop".
(There was a flash.)
Canto Second
Newly drawn from radiant gamma;
A line began with ad-hoc grammar;
They roistered 'cross the wasteland's pages,
And hence was scribed the Book of Sages.
They looked about and in one breath,
Roared "OMG" and "WTF?"
"How have these hillsides sunk so low?
Wherefore shall we play the polo?"
From this began the first brave quest
For polo grounds on which to test
Skill with mallet and with rein,
A goodly pitch on which to train.
To heavens drear stretched rugged ling,
The rain did sheet, the wind did sting,
Yet still the sages toiled away,
And oiled their mallets twice a day.
With spades they moved the rock and dirt,
The fossils and the hallowed chert,
Until the pitch was flush and true
And but one thing was left to do.
"Up with the nets and shoe the horses!
Muster all your polo forces!"
The sages cheered and grabbed their steeds,
And on the pitch did derring deeds.
The turf was churned with iron hooves,
The ball rolled over ragged grooves;
Points were scored, the audience roared:
"Glory to the polo horde!"
At full-time's blast the sages slept
Not much for was their one precept:
"While proud the moon shines in yon sky,
We'll drink moonshine till we're pye-eyed!"
This blessèd revel lasted long,
All red-wine cheeked and full of song,
Until one chilblained winter morn,
Their vigil was from polo torn.
On rime-dressed bank of frozen brook,
Stood fast with her shepherd's crook,
A shepherdess in sunlight's glow
Arrayed, her cheeks as pale as snow.
Her tresses were of golden hue,
Her eyes looked not upon but through
The polo horde assembled there
On their rutted polo square.
(The maid lifted her hand and pointed to a tall hill.)
"Four years and twenty I did roam
And call that craggy mound my home;
Yet, highest of the Howling Hills
That peak with all its ice-locked rills
Has no name of which to speak.
I tell you if this hand you seek
Call forth the name of yonder brow."
The merry knights of polo fame
Stopped at once their polo game;
With clash of spurs they made dismount
And to the hill gazed adamant.
A silence passed as tense and taut
As e'er a battlefield was fraught,
Until at last a noble lord
Stepped forth from 'mongst the polo horde.
"Why, fair maid, that high hill yonder
Has no name, for we did wander
For many a mile naming all we saw
But that good fell we left uncalled."
The shepherdess took up her crook,
And in the frost beside the brook,
Drew bold and deep a single line
And, stepping back, spoke her design:
"None shall cross this boundary
Until they apt a name decree,
For the hill on which my flock reside,
Must have name 'fore eventide."
Mute as one the sages sought
That wisdom-steeped elusive thought,
That wind-blown name to call the mount
From inspiration's crystal fount.
Then one bright armoured, hill-strong buck
From off his horse his claymore took,
And raising it to the mountain's heights,
Looked down the blade as an archer sights.
"It seems to me fair yonder fell
Has many a glorious name to tell;
It speaks of battles fought and won,
On ling-bound slopes of purpled dun;
It tells of castles and of rooks,
Of gibbet trees and cheated crooks;
Of might and mien; of all between
The sky and earth, and arts unseen;
It tells of honour and of strength
In sagas of an epic length;
But a name can be but one thing cried,
And that one thing forsooth is 'Pride.'"
The maiden smiled but shook her locks,
Gazed past the sword unto her flocks
That grazed on d
istant climb,
And with a soft yet hardy voice
Rebuked the knight upon his choice:
"Your hearty guess, beats out of time."
There was a pause and the kestrel's greet
Was a single dot on an empty sheet
Of air that howled, as though to prove
A leveret's warning, as the kestrel dove.
Then from amongst the gathered men,
Stood another knight to ken;
His whipcord face well showed his steel,
Swiftly moved, and slow to heel;
A man of bullet quick resolve
A swifter hawk there never dove.
He squinted 'gainst the sunlit glare
And threw his words to wintry air:
"The hare runs swift beside the burns,
The lordly stag his horned head turns,
Both fell-run by the hunter chased,
For sure the good hill's name is 'Haste.'"
At this the shepherdess paused a breath,
Then with the crook she scored the heath.
"No wisdom in the name you speak,
For slow as stone is that weathered peak
The true name is buried 'neath the moss,
Find that truth for this line to cross."
The sun, now high and bright ahead
Set aflame the hare's last tread;
With coal-black eyes the kestrel met,
The glassy eyes of the leveret.
Then spoke a knight with bullish breath,
And beat his ale-horn to his chest;
Strong he was, as a barrel of oak,
Brave as wasps who in th'ullage soak.
His hair burned with the fiery shades
Of dreadlocked auburn, held in braids;
His cheeks were of a ruddy glow
Much known to strength and drowned sorrow.
When he spoke it seemed the peat
Tolled the words from under feet;
For his voice had battle braved;
Its clarion tune could not be stayed.
"The clouds merge with the stony top
Of Olympian ridge and staunch outcrop;
There is a name would reach that height,
Surely that hill's name is 'Might.'"
The pastor girl stood furrow-browed
For such furrows e'er reflect the proud,
Hasty and even men of might,
And the furrows stay when those things take flight.
Striking her staff on iron ground
The shepherdess did thus expound:
"Yon hill stands fast, its high-held hackle
The Cutlers Of The Howling Hills Page 7
