Nowhere Near Milkwood

by Rhys Hughes

  I understood. “Ditto the Faskdhfgasdhians?”

  “Slowly they started to die out. Eventually there was one couple left. Then less than that.”

  I nodded. “Right! So this chap is the very last member of his race? I can guess how he feels, standing on the edge of a genetic, linguistic and social abyss. But to extend your metaphor – if the wallpaper is stripped away, won’t we suddenly notice a bare wall of crumbling bricks in our cosmopolitan environment?”

  Hywel shrugged. “Who knows?”

  We remained silent for a few minutes, and he took this lull in the profundity to serve his other customers, but by this time they had all been whipped back to work by potbellied overseers, who had selected drumming music on the ancient jukebox.

  “This man – what’s his name? – Asdgfxfkh Kuhfoashfubv! – has no way of relating to anybody else. No shared values, customs, concepts. He is utterly divorced from modern life.”

  “Correct again. No comedy in this tale, eh?”

  An abrupt moral impulse seized me. I clicked my fingers at Hywel and cried: “The pickle jar.”

  Normally treating him with such rudeness would result in me having the jar forcefully set down on my head, which is actually what happened, but I was prepared for it, and it was the only way I could be certain of getting quick access to it, without yet another story nested inside this one, and I didn’t care for a diversion. My hat cushioned the blow, and I left the vessel perched there as I stepped over to the poor soul. He had a look of extreme relief on his face when he saw that I acknowledged his existence, but I waved him back and offered him the jar with a deep bow. Maybe that gesture was an insult in his culture, for he blushed red. But for the sake of contact he repressed his feelings. He took the gift but didn’t know what to do with it.

  “There’s joy in pickles,” I said.

  “You’ll have to show him how,” Hywel called to me. I unscrewed the lid and swallowed a gherkin whole.

  Then I left him to it. I didn’t want to look too soft, in case the act became a real part of my character and weakened my career hopes. By the time I had returned to the bar, Hywel had sharpened and polished a reprimand. “That was so irresponsible!”

  “Not at all. It was an attempt at empathy.”

  “Would you give a terminally depressed man a loaded gun? Shame on you!”

  I was confused, but not for long. Unable to bear his situation any longer, the last Faskdhfgasdhian had followed my example deliberately badly. He had stuffed not just one but several dozen gherkins into his small mouth at the same time.

  “He’s committing suicide!” I wailed.

  “Worse than that,” said Hywel. “When the average man kills himself, the world loses a single individual, a cell in the body of society. But what this chap has done is to wipe out an entire civilisation, with all its components. At a single choke he has eradicated a complete system of ethics, language, laws, aesthetics, fashion, science, religion. It’s the ultimate crime. It’s auto-genocide!”

  “An indigenous religion, you say? I wonder what form that took? We will never know for sure now...”

  “We can speculate,” retorted Hywel. “I reckon the Faskdhfgasdhians were monotheists. Probably because I’m too lazy to envisage more than a single god for them. He was usually depicted as a clown holding a rake. A bumbling gardener, if you please.”

  “What do you base that reasoning on?”

  Hywel leaned closer and winked. “Essentials of plot. Were you born yesterday? Now shut up and weep!”

  I bared my teeth. “No! If I’m partly responsible for this disaster, it’s up to me to put things straight! I intend to do my best to revive him. First aid and all that stuff.”

  “Too late! He’s stopped breathing.”

  I rushed over to the casualty, who had collapsed onto the floor and was lying quite still. His throat bulged with gherkins. I roared: “Sound the alarm! Call for a doctor!”

  “Ja!” barked Karl Mondaugen from a nook.

  “Not you. We don’t need a doctor of cryptozoology. We want a medical practitioner. Where’s Dr Walnut?”

  “Struck off decades ago! By a child with a catapult.”

  “Then I must pick him up.” I hurried out of the pub but didn’t get far. No time to explain why.

  “What do you intend to do now?” sneered Hywel.

  “I must unblock his throat!” I whimpered, as I returned to the side of my patient. “Any suggestions?”

  “Perhaps you could try lubricant?”

  “Not tonight, Vaseline!” I muttered darkly.

  “What was that?” demanded Hywel, but I shrugged and he didn’t press for an explanation. He scratched his head and sought to recall the brief medical training he never had. In a nonexistent pub, that’s feasible. He almost giggled as he called:

  “Try the kiss of life!”

  I groaned. I rarely care to kiss men, partly on account of their stubble, partly on account of mine, but mostly because I’m still in love with my past achievements. Mind you, I have a mistress too: my future hopes. Can’t choose between them.

  “Not sure I can manage... do my best...”

  The smell of vinegar was abominable. My lips just wouldn’t attach themselves to his. I tried pushing my head down with my arms, but they refused to work. The nearest I got was nose to nose, and that’s still a handkerchief’s breadth away.

  “Ugh! How do women cope?”

  Hywel cried: “Have you started yet?”

  As I shook my head to reply in the negative, something incredible happened. The unmoving body beneath me sat up and spat out a stream of gherkins, most of which struck my face. The Faskdhfgasdhian known as Asdgfxfkh Kuhfoashfubv was better. He had got over his minor case of death with amazing abruptness.

  I recoiled. “How did I accomplish that?”

  Hywel rubbed his chin. “Of course! The people of Faskdhfgasdhia don’t kiss as we do, with mouths. They rub noses! So you gave him the precise kiss of life he required!”

  “Another forced TALL STORY coincidence!”

  “I’m not sure if that’s the right word,” said Hywel with a frown. “I’d call it a rusty deus ex machina.”

  “You’re such a snob! But look at this!”

  I nodded at all the other customers in the pub. They were no longer engaged in their own business. They were turning on their chairs to gaze at Asdgfxfkh Kuhfoashfubv. It was as if they’d noticed him for the first time. There was excessive interest in their expressions. Even Byron and Julian were fatally distracted from their dice, or whatever game it was they were playing. Even Anna and Gareth stopped to stare. Claire and Peter too (and Flann O’Brien and James Stephens beneath the map). Also Mr Burke, Mrs Owen, Madame Ligeia, the Three Friends, Harold the Barrel, Billy Belay, Tony Smith. Everybody.

  “Why the sudden fascination?” I wondered.

  “A sad reflection on our society,” sighed Hywel. “While the last Faskdhfgasdhian was still alive, nobody cared about him. After his death, it became open season on his culture. We all want to adopt it. He has become fashionable because he’s the focus of a revival. We often seem to prefer reconstructions to the authentic product. Now he’s set up for the rest of his second (bogus) life.”

  I noted that people had begun to try to dress like the new exotic celebrity. Someone had powdered the chalks provided for use at the dart board and was passing the dust around. This was being applied to cheeks and eyebrows. Clothes were being ripped and folded just so. Mouths were forcing guttural accents into the smoky air. And Asdgfxfkh Kuhfoashfubv was soon surrounded by dozens of admirers, fingers stroking his hair, tongues tracing his tattoos.

  “Disgusting!” grumbled Hywel.

  “Aren’t you delighted he’s finally receiving the attention he deserves?”

  “No, because they won’t get it right. When he choked himself on the gherkins, he really did expire for a short time. So the link between the authentic Faskdhfgasdhian culture and this new one was broken. It can’t be the same.”<
br />
  “Won’t he help to put matters straight?”

  “How can he? Like I said, he did die. Thus he’s also part of the revival. Probably some of his brain cells decayed while he lay prone on the floor – the cells containing the accurate memories of his customs and culture. So he’ll have to go along with the recreation. It’s just play-acting. Pure theatre.”

  “With plenty of opportunity to get things wrong? That’s what happened with the Druids, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly. The crucial link was broken there too, and the modern ‘Druids’ have almost nothing in common with the ancient ones. I mean, the robes, the beliefs, the association with Neolithic monuments: it’s all incorrect. But what can we do?”

  “Just watch and be superior, I guess.”

  Some of the drinkers were building a ‘Faskdhfgasdhian’ temple out of stacked beer glasses. It was soon finished. Then they danced around it, calling out for the god which had once belonged to Asdgfxfkh Kuhfoashfubv alone, but now was theirs as well, to put in an appearance. I don’t think they expected results. Which is why they were so shocked when a vague shape began to materialise in the entrance to the temple. They backed away as it stepped out and turned solid. It had hunched shoulders and was dressed like a rogue, with long dark coat, slouched hat and spotted necktie. It wore stubble on its chin and a filthy cigarette dangled from its lower lip. It had a squint and fingerless gloves. It hissed:

  “Awright, me hearties? Wots up wid you lot then, eh? Leave it out, guv’nor. Get it sorted, mate.”

  In a grimy hand, it held a tub of strawberry yogurt.

  Hywel smote his brow in despair. “They’ve even got the god wrong! The rake and the fool have been mixed up!”

  I hadn’t realised a rake was a kind of rogue...

  There was a commotion at the main door. A policeman had entered the TALL STORY. It was Inspector Firbank. He was always late at the scene of a crime. It gave him a headache.

  “Somebody has reported that an ultimate crime has been committed on these premises. Anyone care to own up?”

  Hywel pointed at the god. “He’s murdered good taste!”

  Inspector Firbank nodded smartly and stepped over to the figure. He grabbed it by its torn collar and yanked it out of the pub back to the station. Blasphemy, hubris, justice!

  I slumped at the bar. “Listen, I accept it was my fault for asking for a culturally relevant tale. I won’t do that again. Grief! I could do with a dose of your most outrageous flights of fancy, however weak and corny. Now please take my order.”

  “What will it be?” asked Hywel.

  “A triple of the worst you’ve got...”

  11: Goblin Sunrise

  Anna shook her husband awake. Gareth blinked dreams from damp lashes. He struggled through the syrup of hypnagogic sleep. His yawn was as pink and large as the morning.

  Anna kept shaking him. “Eh?” he gasped. His hands clenched the pillow and wrestled it over the edge of the bed. The reflexes of a tree, Anna thought derisively. His eyes snapped open.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Anna lost no time. “There’s a little man outside the window. He’s wearing a floppy hat and curly slippers. He’s laughing his head off. He’s very ugly. He has a dirty beard and a warty face. Also, he’s got horns.”

  “Ah yes, that must be the goblin I ordered.”

  “The what?” Anna cast a doubtful look through the frosty glass. She frowned. “Did you say goblin?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I ordered one yesterday to do some work for us. Very hard workers apparently. Very efficient. Very neat. Good overall value.” Gareth yawned again.

  “Where did you order it from?”

  “Little People Inc. A new company based in Cork, Eire. They provide goblins, gnomes, dwarves, elves and leprechauns for customers. Goblins are the cheapest of the lot. Not very bright, you see. But good workers all the same. Beautiful,” he added.

  Anna pouted. “I see.” She lay back down on the bed. Gareth closed his eyes. Anna frowned once more. Gareth snored. After a couple of minutes, she turned on her side, propped herself up on one elbow and studied his face with its gaping, drooling mouth.

  “What now?” He was somehow aware of her gaze.

  “Let me get this straight. You ordered a goblin to do some work for us? What sort of work?”

  “Oh, in the garden.” He was dismissive.

  There was another long pause. “I see,” she said again. She scratched her nose. She introduced the toes of her left foot to the toes of her right. “Then why is he floating in the air? And why is he cutting at the clouds with a pair of clippers?”

  “What?” Gareth woke with a start, jumped out of bed and squinted in the early light. The sun was big and red on the horizon. And there, far away, silhouetted by the dawn, a goblin was carefully trimming the rosy cumulus tufts.

  Gareth opened the window, looked down at his overgrown garden, shook his fists at the sky and cried: “The lawn, you fool! The lawn!”

  12: The Juggler

  On a morning as bleak and grey as his soul, Byron rose from his bed and avenged himself on his tormentor. And then, suddenly aware of what he had done, he fled out into the city.

  He spent most of the day slinking down the backstreets and alleyways of the Docklands, convinced that the police were already after him. As night fell, and darkness wrapped itself like a cloak around his hunched frame, he grew bolder. Eventually, he decided that he needed a drink.

  Entering a tavern, he stood against the bar and ordered a large whisky. As he was raising it to his lips, a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He almost spilled the drink and whirled in alarm, but it was only Julian, an old friend.

  “What a surprise!” Julian was genuinely pleased to see him. He frowned. “What’s wrong? You look pale.”

  “Do I?” Byron managed a thin smile. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “No, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired, nothing more.”

  “Come, let’s find a table. We can talk about old times.” Julian led him to a shady corner and offered him a cigarette. Byron declined and chewed a thumbnail instead. Little muscles in his neck twitched and quivered.

  Julian talked for a whole hour, reminding him of more innocent days, student escapades and the dreams of youth. Byron forced himself to laugh at the right moments, but his eyes rolled in his head like those of a mad dog. Finally, he could stand no more and leaning forward, he hissed through clenched teeth: “I am evil.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Julian arched an eyebrow.

  “It’s true. This very morning, I took a kitchen knife and cut that hideous throat from one ear to the other. He deserved it though. Five years of torture! Can you imagine it? Every night for five years! It’s hardly surprising that I took matters into my own hands.”

  Julian opened his mouth and tried to speak. But no words would come out. He cleared his throat and gasped: “I think you should tell me all about it.”

  “Certainly.” Byron nodded. He finished his long-neglected drink and wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Listen then. It all began when a new owner moved into the flat above mine. He was an Insurance Clerk, but his hobby was juggling. He also happened to suffer from insomnia. On sleepless nights, he would while away the hours by practising.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He juggled with fruit. He bought some every day from the greengrocer across the road. I used to watch him through my window. He started with gooseberries and satsumas. These were not too bad. After a while, however, he progressed to heavier fruits. Apples, lemons, pears. Eventually, he was using melons.”

  Julian frowned and scratched his nose. He was beginning to suspect a joke. He wondered if he was supposed to chuckle. Lighting another cigarette, he studied the face of his friend, hoping to find a trace of humour in his stony expression.

  Byron slammed his fist down on the table. His empty glass jumped. “Don’t you see? He wasn’t a good juggler! He was awful! That’s why I had to do it. He ke
pt dropping the fruit. A pounding on his floor all night. And his floor was my ceiling. I was nearly driven insane. I became a nervous wreck. I began to hate him more with each passing day.”

  Julian realised that it was not a joke. He had never seen anyone twisted with so much rage and pain. He shuddered.

  “Of course,” continued Byron, “after such treatment, the fruit would be bruised and useless. And so he would have to buy more. I tried to reason with him. I tried to point out that the juggling was damaging my health. But he ignored me. Every night the pounding would grow louder, and every day he would buy fresh supplies from the greengrocer. Well, what would you have done in such a situation?”

  Before Julian had time to answer, Byron had slammed his fist down again. This time, the glass bounced off the table and rolled across the floor with a hollow drone.

  “Yesterday, I was walking past the greengrocer’s when I saw that he had arranged a dozen pumpkins on his stall. One of them he had hollowed out into a leering face. I remembered that it was Halloween next week, and last night I dreamed that my neighbour was juggling three of these pumpkin heads. This dream was a warning. Do you know how heavy a pumpkin is?”

  “So when you awoke you cut your neighbour’s throat?” Julian sighed heavily. Sweat stood out on his brow. “In that case, you must give yourself up. The Judge might be sympathetic. You could plead diminished responsibility. After all, you endured five years of Hell.”

  Byron scowled. “That’s just it! I didn’t kill my neighbour. Why should I? All he ever did was juggle. The real culprit was the man who supplied him with the fruit.”

  “You killed the greengrocer?” Julian was incredulous.