Nowhere Near Milkwood

by Rhys Hughes

  Soon the cliffs of our shoreline were crowded with citizens throwing their mirrors, shiny cutlery and polished boots into the foaming surf. Some were more reluctant than others — generally the owners of fancy mirrors, heirlooms and antiques. I aided these with my sherbet voice, sunny and cringing, and my truncheon. I struck out in all directions until my weapon was no longer recognisable as an adjunct to my rank, but merely a twisted length of wood.

  Once we were satisfied that every mirror in the world had been given to the ocean, the arduous process of joining owner and image began. Floating out of their silvered cells, the reflections were washed up against the wharves of our major ports. Down at the crystal piers of the Capital, I organised fishing contests. With a jar suspended on a line, the entrants had to catch their own reflections, sealing the jars when successful and taking them home.

  Within a year, everything was back to normal. The President, having imprisoned his recalcitrant image in a Champagne bottle, sent me a touching letter. He would consent to being my friend again if I would apologise and help him decorate his emerald tower. Of all the citizens of all the lands, I alone was miserable. My reflection had still not returned. Every morning I fished in vain, hooking peculiar mythical beings (or archetypes from the unlit trenches of my subconscious) but nothing that resembled a Prefect of Police. Back at the station I discussed this with Dr Celery and he descended into the archives again and returned with the same ancient volume.

  "Mythical beings?" he cried, throwing open the book at a dog-eared page. "I anticipated this. We didn't read the footnotes." And adjusting the treble of his voice, he recited: "The ocean is indeed the biggest mirror in existence. But there is more sea than land. Thus the ocean can reflect the whole of human life with plenty to spare... In these gaps are to be found the beings of humanity's imagination. Here, in these uncharted regions, glitter the heroes, monsters and demons of legend. For example, Moozsgyrrgtlk, the tawny god of elks..."

  "Enough!" I shuddered. I scowled at the book. "Rubbish, pure stuffing and nonsense! I refuse to listen to a chronicle penned in the time of the Spectrum Republics!" I stormed out and returned to the crystal piers. I continued to fish until midnight. When I caught Neptune and was promptly swallowed by him, I had to concede that Dr Celery had a point. The god was real enough; his stomach was full of sunken galleons and triremes from semi-legendary sea-battles. In the phosphorescent light of nameless molluscs and half-digested seaweed, I glimpsed tattered banners of the Yellow President.

  The god of the sea dived down into the deepest trench. I escaped by climbing back into his throat and tickling his epiglottis with my truncheon. He sneezed me out and now I am trapped in an air bubble, speeding towards the surface. My truncheon more nearly resembles a piece of driftwood and makes an uncomfortable perch. Which reminds me, you fish have been a wonderful audience, the very best I've had, and I'd like to thank you from the throbbing heart of my submarine bottom.

  Crawling King Prawn

  The sun rose like a fishwife and I jumped out of bed with the enthusiasm of a limpet. It is cold in my house, the heating is inadequate. I refuse to pay my fire bills: the idiots insist on spelling my name incorrectly. I am not, nor ever will be, Titan Grubby! The titans were tall, ugly and devoid of friends, whereas I am short, beautiful and the President is my friend, except in winter, when he never visits because of the chilliness of my rooms. He says the real reason is that he hates me, but I think he is just being polite. Anyway, Titian is what I insist on being called; a single vowel, especially one as malnourished as 'i', might not seem much to you, but it is the difference between myth and art. Remember that, my trustworthy readers, and write letters of protest to the Fire Company on my behalf! I shall not even comment on their libellous use of my surname. I enjoy a bath (cold) once a month.

  Having abandoned the comfort of sheets and pillow, I dressed in the uniform of the Prefect of Police, which took an hour or so, thanks to an epaulette which would not stand to attention without a stiffening of oil and flour. Then I descended for breakfast, whistling a Django melody, as if some hot jazz might warm up the kitchen. A bowl of icy museli, washed down, or glaciated along, with a pot of frosty coffee, completed my dour repast and invested me with just enough energy to wrap myself in a scarf for the bleak journey along the Fimbul-corridor to my front door. I have fitted a new knocker, in the shape of a rune, a nordic design which is a brutal warning to casual callers of the nature of the interior. Possibly an extravagant touch — it cost more than my unpaid bills — but who shall deny my sense of irony? Nobody, I fear, as I never have callers, but all the same, the principle is sublime.

  I have ventured along the corridor many times, but familiarity with the terrain has its own perils. One must guard against overconfidence. A sudden shift in the direction of the draughts can scupper the most stoic explorer. Often I have been forced to set up emergency camp in the small room under the stairs, warming my fingers on a spare candle. Today I was more fortunate: I reached the hatstand without much trouble, rushing the front door with a frenzied twanging of tendons. Fumbling with the catch, I opened it and stepped out into the balmy morning. My limbs unfroze and expanded; I stretched in the slanting rays. The planet, unlike my house, is adequately heated, and the sun has not yet demanded payment. Climbing into the threadbare sky, Sol cast beams like hooks. Removing my scarf, I skipped the whole way to my office.

  The Police Station is a nine-sided building, each side representing one of the major excuses of the modern criminal. The ground floor of the 'Absent Father' wing has been knocked into one room. Here I work, curing the realm, purging society of its ills, aided by my colleagues, the most trustworthy professionals in the business. Behind my balsa desk, I watch over all citizens, wagging my finger at the naughty ones, arresting them and throwing them into the dungeons to await trial. The courtyard at the centre of the complex is filled with statues of my predecessors. Soon an addition will be made: I observe the empty plinth from my window. Quartz and topaz, my likeness will sparkle brightest of all. How I long for the time when I stand over the sculptor with a mallet, ensuring he spells my name correctly! It cannot be long now.

  Anyway, as I approached the main gate, I was shocked to find my way barred by a guard, musket at the ready.

  "What is the meaning of this, Percy?"

  "Sorry, Mr Grundy, orders from the top. Mustn't let you in for love or oranges. Told to use necessary force."

  "Absurd fellow! How am I to go to work? Do you want recidivists and rogues running free, violating your daughters and bookshelves? Come now, good man, let me through, before I cry."

  "Can't do that, sir. Loaded gun this is!"

  The fool was torn between conflicting loyalties. I saw I was in for a long argument: Percy Flamethrower is a stubborn old soak, which is why I employed him as security. I sighed and tapped my foot, opened my mouth and inhaled enough oxygen for a lengthy monologue, when a figure came up behind him, waving at me. It was Dr Celery, the Police Surgeon Specific, my most competent colleague. Fixing him with a charming smile, I lightly inquired as to the nature of the problem.

  He was very grave. "You've been sacked."

  "Nonsense! I have recently achieved a 99.9% success rate at solving crime. The President is my friend!"

  "No longer, it seems. Listen, Titian, we've worked together for two decades now, so I think we can speak frankly. Age has numbed your senses and wrinkled your reflexes. You're getting rusty round the gills, losing your hair. Your platinum judgment is suffering from metal fatigue! There was no option but to replace you."

  I tried to imagine an usurper sitting on my chair, feet on my desk, smoking my cigars, kissing my beekeeper, scuffing my rug. Would he steal my plinth? I wept sour tears. "Who is it?"

  Dr Celery lowered his eyes and muttered: "Raphael Perkins, returned from exile yesterday. The President issued a full pardon for his part in the Jumble-Sale Uprising, the Coup d'Tat."

  Collapsing to my knees, I sought to control my quivering lips. "The
President must be mad. Perkins is a known agitator. He puts cider in his jelly! How can you obey any of his orders?"

  Dr Celery shifted uncomfortably. "Satsuma Ffroyde, Lola Halogen and myself petitioned the President in an attempt to change his mind. No-one was indispensable, he told us. Indeed, he went on to say he had lined up replacements for us, if we wanted to be awkward. For Satsuma Ffroyde was a zestful upstart called Clementine Jungg, and Lola Halogen was shadowed by some hussy known as Mina Argon."

  I swallowed. "I remember her! I once rejected her application for a secretarial job. She doesn't even know how to form salts by direct union with metals! This is a disaster: with that lot in charge of policing our cities, criminals will proliferate like profiteroles! Yes, it was better to betray me than the nation! I forgive you!"

  This cheered Dr Celery a little, but he still had some wallowing to complete. Leaning closer, pushing his lips through the bars of the gate, he said: "My replacement would have been Professor Fennel, a downy quack of the aniseed order. My dismissal would have taken place in public — my epaulettes would be lashed from my shoulders with a liquorice whip and a symbolic celery stick snapped over my knee!"

  I stepped back and walked away. At my retreat, Percy grew confident and cocked his musket. "That's it, sir! Nice and easy, can't have public servants acting like valets! Move off, lad!"

  Dr Celery was still mumbling to himself. "Hold the fort, that's the idea, in the circumstances, can't blame us..."

  I shook my head sadly. "No, I don't blame you."

  "Come on now, Mr Grundy, don't try anything foolish. Blow your nose clean off into the shrubbery, I will."

  "Thank you, Percy. Take care of yourself!"

  When I was out of sight, the tears flooded my ducts. All that work, all those years of toil, of hopes and fears and dreams and cheese! So it was to be in vain! I could scarcely believe it, even when I went back to the gate for a second opinion. Percy was even more violent this time and fired a warning shot which smashed the headstone of Sir Charlton Radish, founder of our order. I guessed a mistake of some kind had been made and that the President would put things right if I met him in person. So now I headed for his jasper tower, which had been moved to the marketsquare, a locale giving him ample opportunity to slip from official business and purchase ugli-fruit fresh from the stalls.

  When I reached the tower, I did not even bother to knock. There was a sign pasted on his door which told me what I needed to know. It denied a lifetime of friendship and cracked my remaining pride. It was a simple sign. It said: No Admittance To Titan Grubby! I wiped my eyes and walked out of the market, the traders pointing at me and throwing rotting fruit at my departing form. One pineapple struck my on the head, making my ear burn like a spiced heretic. Women mocked me.

  From the market, I made my solitary way back to my house, taking an oblique short-cut through the park. The ducks laughed at me as I skirted the water; the fish mouthed silent obscenities. I tore off my epaulettes and cast them into the pond, which turned oily and brackish. I was in no hurry to return to my cold rooms, but meandering could not be maintained indefinitely. At some point, I would have to pass my door, place the key in the lock and enter my refrigerated domesticity. When I took the fatal step, the knocker glared like a lobster.

  Inside, I performed a stately dance to warm my innards. Between the steps, I set words on paper with a quill made from an icicle. My letters to the President were generally formal; this one implored him to give me the reason why he had forsaken me. As soon as it was finished, I sent it by carrier-snail and waited for an answer. The days passed in sub-Arctic gloom. The aurora borealis licked the paint above my staircase. Penguins emerged from my taps and filled the bath with their executive antics. At last, during a blizzard in the lounge, I received a reply. Snatching the epistle from the carrier-snail, I devoured it as hungrily as polar-bears devour grandfather clocks (one was busy with the pendulum right now.) My eyes scanned the words and I howled.

  "Dear Titian," it said, "I know this must be hard for you, being an arrogant so-and-so, but really it's quite the most sensible thing to do. Think about it, old chum, and think about what sort of future our people want for their children. Your detection rate is 99.9% and some officials might think that pretty neat, but what about those dead mothers and lost dogs who make up that 0.1%? How can I look them in the face and say that they're just throwaway statistics? No, it's time for a change. Even I've made sacrifices, giving up juggling for bagatelle. Well, I'm sure we can rely on Raphael Perkins to get to grips with that missing percentage. He has the drive you've lost, the sheer fanaticism and gutsy determination. We're on the threshold of a new era, friend, and some of us have to move over to make room for fresh growth. That's how it goes. No hard feelings and chins aloft! Signed: the President."

  Before I could fully digest this news, I noticed there was a second letter on the snail. Easing it from the antennae, I tore it open, seeing at once it was a final demand from the Fire Company. If I did not settle my debts in one week, it warned, I would be taken to court. In the exact centre of my kitchen, I made a little fire with the letters, just enough to boil a cup of mocha. As I sipped and mulled on my future, an upstairs wardrobe suddenly burst in the cold, sending frozen shirts tumbling down the steps. This avalanche swept aside the bannister, continuing into the lounge and completely demolishing the interior. Had I been sitting there rather than in the kitchen, my life would be as smeared as my career. It was a decisive moment. I would call this hollow iceberg 'home' no longer! I would relive one of my earliest dreams, travelling the world in simple splendour, flowery rucksack on my back.

  In the room under the stairs, I found the bag, unused since student days. With a rag I polished my thumb. I turned my uniform inside-out and threaded coloured laces into my boots. Then, with no more than a cursory glance back, I hopped off into the noon, down to the wharf and the magic shimmer of the crystal piers. Already I felt stubble pushing through the smooth skin of my establishment chin.

  The balloon port was thronged with aeronauts of many nationalities, some of them covered from head to foot in tattoos. Dirigibles from every corner of the scalene world were landing and taking off, bearing cargoes and passengers over the cobalt sea. It was a marvellous sight, a fulcrum of activity, with hopes lifting and falling in tandem with the balloons. I saw fat foremen and skinny accountants chasing captains and navigators to berate them for delays; I watched quayside prostitutes accept payment in helium from seasoned clients; I listened to meteorologists predicting cyclones and typhoons at lazy latitudes.

  I was generally ignored as I wandered the balustrades: my petitions for lifts were met with a shrug or a frown. At last, one aeronaut paused in his task of waxing a silk canopy, and explained that commercial craft were no longer allowed to pick up casual passengers, as it violated some insurance rule. He suggested I leave the city on foot and try to hitch a ride from balloons in transit, where crews could operate without company officials breathing down their napes.

  Taking his advice, I headed out of the metropolis, a more difficult journey than I had anticipated. When the final suburb receded behind me, I stopped on the side of a country lane and gazed upward. Balloons threw off ballast and rose like... pears in absinthe? Light-bulbs in gravy? Or perhaps like jellyfish in a boundless ocean? Yes, this simple simile was the truest: they were creatures of the deep and I was a sea-slug peering up at this rich harvest. In a daze, I lifted my thumb and beckoned in an elevated direction. To my surprise, a sporting dirigible released helium and dropped a rope-ladder at my feet. I clutched the bottom rung and was lifted, rotating in terror, into the basket, where an auburn-haired girl greeted me with a hearty slap on the back and a bottle of rum. I laughed at this magnificent change in my fortunes.

  We sped over the Pallid Colonnades and skimmed the Aracknid Islands and hovered over the sunken city of Amberzar to pick up supplies of damp cotton. It was better than I had imagined as a daydreaming youth. So the years of relentless ambition, of cla
wing my way to the top: that was the real waste! This was living as it should be, free of petty concerns. Now I was happy for the first time! My hair grew long, my knees grew scuffed and my shoes fell apart. I did not care! Up, up and away, was my cry! It rained, but the rain tasted sweet; it snowed, but the snow was like milk poured over chocolate; it hailed, but hail on the balloon's canopy was a percussion orchestra playing aphrodisiac songs from the figging-oases of Khyor. Grundy was finally gratified!

  The auburn-haired girl dropped me off in a mountainous town deep in the Uneven Lands. I took a job here as a waiter and earned enough to buy a mandolin. Then I was back in the basket, with a new crew, heading into the caverns of Doyléu, to barter with the gnoles. Out through the crater of an extinct volcano in Grokkland, I found myself strumming melodies on my instrument, as if my thumbs had been born to the art. The captain and mates danced so wildly the gondola nearly tipped up. I blanched and kept silent for the rest of the day, but the following morning, my insatiable fingers sought out new insidious chords. I began to develop a repertoire of songs, wistful ballads and sarabands.

  Frequently, in towns and cities, I met other hitchers, most of whom carried around musical instruments like myself. In Djiwondro, nine of us got together and busked ourselves stupid in the casbah, earning a gallon of scented tea and three days in jail for our trouble. Our relationships were cordial but casual; I picked up the lingo from them, passed tips on how to evade the local police, and shared suppers and scales. There were bouts of love too, both with female travellers and native girls, creases of passion in my previously ironed life. Yet I was chomped by wanderlust and could not settle anywhere. Always I had to ride the next balloon out of town, seeking adventures as fresh as seaweed. Like a barnacle, I felt compelled to attach myself to those bulbous forms. I visited Amana, Cus, Yam-Yam, Xopué, the jungles of Paraparapara.