Nowhere Near Milkwood

by Rhys Hughes

  At this point it may suffice to relate that she was found not more than ten minutes later by a policeman, with the end of a lead protruding from her gaping maw. She was quite blue and bloated. By this time, Billy had entered a shop selling cream cakes and was busy hurling them, one at a time, at the frightened owner of the establishment. The constable who had discovered Mrs Featherstonehaugh instantly repaired to the shop and confronted Billy. He was attacked with an unsheathed chocolate éclair. His eye was poked. Cream spurted.

  To a casual observer newly arrived at the village, the sight of a wild-eyed figure being chased by a vengeful mob made up of ham actors, geologists, mourners, postmen, pastry cooks, a battered policeman and sundry others, may have been amusing. Billy also found it amusing – he grinned, chuckled and span as he ran. “You can’t harm me, I’m a ghost!” he called back. “I’m impervious to mortal blows!” But his pursuers seemed disinclined to abandon the chase. Somehow they were able to see him. Perhaps Mrs Featherstonehaugh had also turned into a ghost and was directing their pursuit. He wondered.

  Eventually, of course, he reached the cliff-top path that led from Southerndown to Nash Point. This was the course he had earlier followed. He raced down the path, but now he was puffing and panting. The crowd behind him was catching up. He tried to imagine what would happen if they caught him. Perhaps they would entrap him in a bottle and take him to an exorcist. Perhaps, when they had collected enough ghosts like him, they would force him to pay a hefty fine. There was, after all, duty to be collected on imported spirits...

  There was only one thing left to do. Reaching the point he had already jumped off once, he launched himself into space again. “I’m a ghost!” he cried once more. He fell in a graceful arc, tumbled head over heels and flapped his arms with gusto. No harm could come to him. He had already died once; he could not possibly die a second time. He was certain that his logic was watertight.

  This time, however, the tide was out.

  6: The Banshee

  Not all the writers who drink in the TALL STORY are dead and from Ireland. Many are local and very much alive. Among the published names, however, are a good few unpublished authors who languish in the beer garden, trying to outwit each other with bitter observations on the injustice of life. One day it might occur to them that for their work to be printed, they first have to send it off. Until then, they seem content to grumble and moan about the same things.

  I can see one of these hacks from here, crouched over a napkin with a pencil. I don’t know if he’s writing anything, but his dietary habits must be gross; his dribble contains the legs of ants. That’s typical of the revolting standards of these so-called literary types. It’s doubtless the reason why Hywel insists that they sit outside in the beer garden, even in winter, and why he encourages the jazz musicians who play in his pub every week to make as much noise as they can.

  “Did I ever tell you the strange tale of Walter’s Head?” Hywel asked me one night. The worthy in question had just tottered out of the bar, his open neck glistening with the frothy bubbles of his stout.

  “No,” I replied, “and you have never told me the tale of the three mountain climbers either.” I indicated the group of battered adventurers who had unlaced their boots and were warming their woolly socks by the roaring log fire, two of them eyeing the third suspiciously.

  “Well that will keep, I dare say. Until then, let us drink each other’s health, for as Omar Khayyám almost said:

  Come fill the cup, and in the Fire of Spring

  The Winter Garment of Repentance fling

  The pig of Time has but a little way

  To fly – and Lo! the pig is on the Wing.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I responded, “but I’m quite amenable if you’re paying. Besides, Omar never had a taste of Mrs Owen’s elderberry wine. It would have turned him teetotal overnight.”

  Just at that moment, I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I was sure for a moment that it was Mrs Owen herself, and that she would punish me by making me take home a year’s supply of stinging nettle marmalade, her answer to the tongue-searing curries Hywel had started serving in the bar.

  As I cowered in fear, a rasping voice tickled the nape of my neck and I heaved a sigh of relief. I recognised the voice as belonging to Madame Ligeia, the resident clairvoyant and mystic who had done much to throw her profession into disrepute. As I turned around, I found myself confronted by a veiled figure. No-one knows what Madame Ligeia looks like; she wraps herself so tightly in a cloak of mystery, complete with hood, that only her two eyes are ever visible – glowing like dim coals.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I want that woman out of the pub now! Do you hear? Now!” She pointed a quivering finger at an empty chair around an empty table.

  Hywel sighed and gave me a knowing look. “I’m pleased that you two have decided to become friends. Mutual trust is so important these days.”

  “Either you kick her out or I’ll box your ears, you ill-mannered lout!”

  “And to think that only yesterday you were insisting that I throw her out and threatening to box me around the ears!”

  During this conversation, I was less bewildered than might be expected, for I knew something about Madame Ligeia which explained everything. Madame Ligeia is a mystic who can only see into the past. She never knows what is going on in either the future or the present. Consequently, she lives a whole day behind everyone else. That is why holding a conversation with her is so difficult: you have to provide answers to questions she will not ask until tomorrow.

  The reason why she had her hand on my shoulder and was talking to me as if I were Hywel was because Hywel had sat on this particular stool the previous day – during one of his many breaks. To clarify matters further, it is best to linger awhile in this previous day and to note what happens:

  Hywel is sitting on my stool and I am standing at his place behind the bar (just to help out, you understand) when a dishevelled figure enters the pub and walks up to us. I am astonished by this figure’s appearance. It resembles a banshee, with long tangled hair and wild eyes.

  Now the banshee, as everyone knows, is a spirit that follows old families about and wails before a member of that family is about to die. However, it is not quite as sinister as some people like to make out. Indeed, the day before, I had discussed the matter at some length with W.B. Yeats, who told me: “The banshee differs from the general run of solitary fairies by its generally good disposition.”

  So I am not too afeared when it comes up to Hywel and points a finger at an empty chair around an empty table.

  “That woman keeps glowering at me and making rude comments,” it says. “I want you to tell her to stop.”

  Hywel shrugs his shoulders and blows his nose in a handkerchief. “It is very heartening to see that you have resolved your differences. Life is too short for bickering.”

  “If you don’t tell her to stop I shall twist your ears off!”

  “And to think that tomorrow you were planning to twist my ears off and telling me to force her to stop sitting in that chair!”

  After it has left, I turn to Hywel with a quizzical look. Hywel taps his forehead with a smile and winks.

  “She is my guest. I invited her here personally.”

  I am dumbfounded. “What do you want a banshee for? Isn’t Mrs Owen frightening enough for you?”

  Hywel chuckles and explains that it is not a banshee but Madame Berenice, a mystic who can only see into the future. She never knows what is going on in either the past or the present. Consequently, she lives a whole day in front of everyone else. She is as difficult to talk to as Madame Ligeia is – for the opposite reason.

  “But this is a disaster!” I cry. “You know how much Madame Ligeia hates rivals! There will be trouble over this, mark my words!”

  Hywel shakes his head emphatically. “They both hate the idea of each other, true enough. But when they meet, the day after tomorrow, something will cli
ck into place. Madame Ligeia can only see into the past, whereas Madame Berenice can only see into the future. When they meet, they will both cancel each other out. At long last they will be able to see into the present!”

  I scratch my head and pour myself a glass of cognac. “You mean like a seesaw of time? Madame Ligeia on one end and Madame Berenice on the other?” I am impressed when Hywel nods. “And you did this as a favour for them?”

  “Wait until the day after tomorrow and then we’ll see how things have turned out.” Hywel snatches my cognac away and downs it himself, handing me back an empty glass. “Keep your fingers crossed until then.”

  The day after tomorrow comes soon enough and this time I am sitting on my stool while Hywel is behind the bar. It is a Tuesday night and musicians from far and near are setting up their equipment ready for the weekly jazz session. There is a lot of excitement in the air. A rumour has gone round that Tony Smith – one of the greatest jazz guitarists of all time – is due to make an appearance.

  But above all the noise and hubbub of musicians tuning up and music lovers murmuring in anticipation, the raucous laughter of two women seated around a table drowns out all else.

  “What did I tell you?” Hywel leans over the counter and gives me another one of his sly winks.

  As I gaze at the two women, I can only shake my head in admiration at Hywel’s ingenuity. The two women leave their seats and come over to join us. This time they address themselves directly to Hywel.

  “We just want to thank you for introducing us to each other. We have so much in common. It really is incredible!”

  Hywel puffs out his cheeks in pleasure. “It is very heartening to see that you have resolved your differences. Life is too short for bickering.”

  “For the first time in our lives we are able to live like normal people!”

  “And to think that only two days ago you were insisting that I throw one of you out and threatening to box and twist my ears!”

  Before I lose track of my senses completely, I decide to change the subject. I gesture toward a bottle of wine standing full among empty fellows. “I have heard this conversation before, or one very much like it. Now what was it that Omar never said?”

  7: The Queen of Jazz

  Tony Smith entered the smoky pub and made his way to the stage. As he passed the bar, Old Bony thrust a whisky sour into his hand and winked. Tony took his guitar out of its battered case, plugged in and tuned up. He was vaguely aware of the admiration of the crowd, their love. “Right boys, what’ll it be?”

  “How about ‘Clotted Cream’?”

  “Nope. Let’s make it ‘Samarkand’.” He nodded to the other musicians on the stage, the drummer, the hook-nosed bassist. They were all looking distinctly uncomfortable. It was probably the first time they had ever played with a living legend.

  As his fingers eased into the prelude, tickling the melody through all the complex time changes, Tony allowed himself the luxury of a sigh. His superiority was beginning to tire him. He was beginning to wish, just for once, that he would meet his match. But that, of course, was impossible.

  The musicians fell behind and he waited patiently for them to catch up, improvising on a former theme, his fingers a blur, his guitar the interface for a talent that was strong yet yielding. Though he could play faster than the eye could see, he never sacrificed delicacy of nuance for sheer technique.

  “No doubt ‘bout it! Tony Smith is the king of jazz!”

  With the faintest of smiles, Tony nodded at Old Bony. This night was a free for all, a time when the cream of the local talent could show off their skills, stepping up on stage and dropping in or out of the performance whenever mood, or ability, suited them. Tony recognised many familiar faces in the audience. Most had brought instruments with them. None could hope to compete with him on equal terms.

  Throwing up his arms, the alto sax left the stage and sat down on a stool near the bar. He was shaking his head, his eyes alight with unfathomable awe. His place was taken by a more experienced musician, who also struggled with the rhythms Tony had initiated. One by one, the drums, bass and keyboards lost themselves in his web of shimmering sonorities and modal harmonies.

  “Come on boys, let’s try ‘Purple Egg Head’.” Tony attempted to inflect a note of enthusiasm into his voice, but it was a lost cause. Although he was the greatest jazz musician in the world, the most loved guitarist of all time, he had a problem. It was a problem that made the problems of other musicians seem insignificant. He had sold his soul to the devil.

  It was the old, old story. Fifteen years previously, he had signed a diabolical pact in his own blood. The devil had promised to make him the best jazz musician in the world on condition that, after twenty years, he would give up his soul with the minimum of fuss. It had seemed a good idea at the time.

  Almost immediately, Tony had found himself catapulted from semi-professional status to international renown. He had, in quick succession, conquered every possible style of jazz. He had taken trad, bebop, cool, fusion and even avant-garde to their logical extremes. Success, of course, had not brought happiness. But happiness was not a term of the contract.

  At the end of the number, he instantly launched into another. “‘Fleshpots’,” he announced. The other musicians were sweating heavily. They were all duly replaced by a fresh batch. Once again, Tony calmly proceeded to blow them all off the stage. “‘Pelican’,” he cried, and then, “‘Cryptozoology’.”

  Utterly exhausted, the musicians came and went. Tony alone remained the constant factor. He wrestled with trombones, cornets, marimbas, all manner of keyboards, flutes and even a rival guitar. His phenomenal ability swamped them all.

  It was at the end of ‘Nonchalant Pygmies’, one of his most famous compositions, that a quiet auburn haired girl stepped onto the stage with a large case. Tony frowned. He had not noticed her in the audience. He watched as she removed a long peculiar trumpet from her case, wiped it down with a cloth and moved toward a microphone. “How about ‘Visitin’ Angels’?” he said.

  The girl shook her head. “Not quite. This one’s called ‘Judgment Day’. Just follow me if you don’t know it.” She raised the instrument to her lips. In the dim light of the pub it glowed with preternatural brightness.

  “Never heard of it. And what kind of horn is that?” But the girl had already launched into the number, blowing a handful of notes of such unearthly beauty that he reeled backward. “Eh?” With a great deal of effort, he composed himself and followed her.

  A hush fell over the packed pub. Even Old Bony stopped stamping and clapping. Tony suddenly realised that he was alone on stage with this newcomer. The others had tactfully withdrawn. As the tempo of her blowing increased, he struggled to keep pace. A surge of energy flooded his veins and his fingers took on a life of their own. He already knew he was playing better than ever before. But still the girl kept ahead of him, bouncing a melody of exquisite sadness back at him, bending his own desperate variations through impossible contortions.

  He sobbed. She was leading him into musical dimensions he had never suspected could exist. He threw everything at her, changing key again and again, altering the time signature with every note so that the whole took on its own supernal logic; but she swallowed it all up with the mouth of her horn and blew it out again, transmuted into something even more revelatory.

  As if in a dream, he looked down at his fretboard. His fingers were bleeding. With a wrenching gasp, he struck a discord, another, and then it was all over. He gave up and watched with a curious mixture of horror and fascination as the girl finished the piece, sending a series of utterly perfect notes over the edge of the sound spectrum, shattering every glass behind the bar in an inevitable, apocalyptic crash.

  There was a deathly silence. Old Bony wiped his hands free of glass shards and foamy beer and whistled slowly through his teeth. “Tony Smith is no longer the king of jazz!”

  Head bowed, Tony unplugged his guitar, placed it back in his case and h
oisted the case onto his shoulder. When he looked up, the girl had disappeared. He stepped off the stage and made his way toward the exit. No-one tried to stop him.

  Out on the waterfront, he paused and breathed the cold, pure air. He felt a strange mixture of emotions. He was pleased that he had finally met his superior. And yet, he was also worried. What would happen to his reputation now? Had he lost his soul for nothing?

  As he walked deeper into the night, he saw that the mysterious girl was waiting for him. “Well!” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I’d take my hat off to you if I had one. You’re a fine player, to be sure. I thought you were an angel in disguise at one point!”

  The girl brushed the auburn hair back from her face. “The opposite is closer to the truth. I’m more familiar with the other place. To put it bluntly, I’ve sold my soul to the devil in order to become the greatest jazz musician in the world.”

  “But that’s what I sold mine for!” Tony blinked in surprise.

  “I know. Let me explain. I’ve followed your career ever since it began. It always struck me that your talent was too vast to be natural. I guessed you might have made a pact with the devil. So I did the same. I said to the devil, ‘I want to become a greater jazz musician than Tony Smith’. And he accepted my offer. I did it to save your soul. Now that I am better than you, the terms of your contract have been violated. You can demand a refund.”

  Before Tony could reply, the girl started to cry. Suddenly he understood the import of her words.

  “My poor dear!” Taking her around the shoulders, he hugged her close. For the first time in fifteen years he felt free. So the devil had been cheated after all! A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He found it hard to repress his delight. He matched her tears of anguish with his own tears of joy. “Do you really mean it? Have you really sacrificed your own soul to save mine? Am I no longer destined to burn in Hell?”