by Mike Ashley
He sat there for longer than he knew, without moving, until he saw a tiny sliver of dusty light along the bottom of the closet door, and crouching down with his ear close to the splintery floor, he could almost see outside.
Young Bonaro knew that he could never escape through that crack beneath the door. A piece of paper could. A coat hanger would slide through there. A slippery gob of mud could do it. So Bonaro wished himself a slippery gob of mud, spreading himself out thinly on the floor. It was difficult at first, forcing each particle of himself through that slim slit, but finally he oozed the last drop out of the closet and wished himself Bonaro.
His father had beaten him for getting out; after carefully examining the lock on the closet door, he had beaten Young Bonaro with a long board until the boy was strangling on his own blood.
The Old Man thought of that time as he walked away from the train station and into a wide main street.
When did he next wish…? When he had been about twelve. Bad-father had taught him to steal, while Bad-mother laughed. Stealing was easy for Bonaro when he learned how to run away and hide, and he was never caught until that time when he was twelve and stole the Man’s wallet.
He had run for many blocks until his body refused to carry him further, and he collapsed into a soft pile of rags and trash. Seeing the walls high around him meant nothing until he saw the men coming after him, then jerking his body upright, he flung his eyes violently in every direction where escape might lie.
A high brick wall…a building…a wooden fence twice his own height…there was no way out and the men were after him. So Bonaro did the only thing he could: he wished himself part of that pile of trash and they never found him.
The train station was far behind.
“’Scuse me, fella. You okay?”
To Bonaro, the policeman was only another form to which he held out the sponge.
“You can’t talk, is that it?” The policeman pulled a note pad and pencil from the pocket of his uniform. “Maybe you need help. Can you write?”
The hand in which Bonaro held the sponge began to quiver.
“Now, look here, old man. I guess I don’t understand, but you darned near caused about five accidents by walking across that street without watching the traffic. You be careful from now on.”
Then, as the policeman went away, Bonaro’s thoughts went back.
On his twentieth birthday he had first seen the words “socially incorrigible” on his progress chart in the juvenile home. He learned that his father had died, his mother was arrested for a reason he didn’t understand. But Bonaro never cared, because he could always wish.
Hang-Pants, the hoodlum, had thought Bonaro an easy mark – one fist to put him senseless on the sidewalk – when Bonaro had wished himself a big rock. Hang-Pants left with a broken hand. That was funny.
Bonaro had killed the priest in front of a hundred worshippers and laughed as he wished himself a gleaming golden cross.
“I AM BONARO.”
The sign flapped on his chest as he stepped into the diner and sat down on a tiny stool. The young waitress looked suspiciously at his bedraggled appearance.
“Help you, sir?”
She suddenly jerked her body back as he thrust out the mouldy sponge.
Bonaro’s memories were vague in his head as he thought of the many, many fears of being alive. A dark night and a dog’s bark -fear - wish to be a lion. Steep stairs, slippery – fear - wish to be a rubber ball. Many…so many each day…uncounted when life was steal and kill and wish-different to escape.
“Help you, sir?” the waitress asked again.
They had come after him that final night with torches. Because they knew it was Bonaro who had killed their little girl. Bonaro stood tall, boldly on the wide concrete highway as they came for him. He saw the mob crunching closer, their kerosene torches flaming and flashing in the darkness. They marched across the field onto the road where he stood.
What could he become? To hide on this barren hardness?
One torch wiggled and sailed like an exploding star above the mob, arcing high towards Bonaro. He saw it streak down and felt it hitting his chest, the pungent odour of the kerosene filling his head as flame attacked his shirt. His body was heat and fire, as he pounded open palms against the growing horror of burning flesh as his clothes ignited.
Water! Water, said his mind as he dissolved himself into a puddle, seeping away from the scorching clothes, gathering in a pool on the road. He felt cool as a tender breeze caressed his dampness and he waited until he felt the warmth that meant sun. Sun meant time had passed. The mob would be gone and he wished himself Bonaro again.
Water, a puddle in the road, is drawn into the wind…evaporates. Bonaro almost screamed knowing why he had felt the coolness. What part had gone away with the wind? Eyes? Arms? No…his body was whole, but something still was gone.
Gone in water which goes on the wind, then to clouds, to rain. Rain comes back. Water is never gone…just lost.
He would find it, searching many, many more years until his body died. He would recognize that water because it was part of him. He would know.
The waitress set up a glass.
“Help you, sir?”
Bonaro held out the sponge hopefully.
THE OLD HOUSE UNDER
THE SNOW
Rhys Hughes
Rhys Hughes (b. 1966) is a master of the surreal and has written scores of short stories noted for their magical word play. His blogsite is at rhysaurus.blogspot.com. He has set himself the target of writing exactly 1,000 short stories, and he’s already nearly halfway there. A sampling will be found in his collections Worming the Harpy (1995), The Smell of Telescopes (2000) and At the Molehills of Madness (2006). Many of his stories are surreal or absurdist in nature, as exampled by “The Deaths of Robin Hood” included in the fourth volume of my Mammoth Book of Comic Fantasy. The following is one of his longer escapades and is somewhat reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland - at its most nightmarish!
“Get your spade.”
I won’t say Curtis was a mean man, but that’s how he wanted to be remembered. His face was gentle and round and inspired only good humour in the people he wanted to annoy or dominate. Not that he was soft, but his basic nature was too pleasant and relaxed to give him the reputation he craved, which was that of a tough adventurer, an outdoors type, rugged and unforgiving.
He worked hard to keep himself in shape and his expression always betrayed his inner dismay at a life of enforced marches over hills and early morning baths in icy ponds. His stamina and frugality were contrived. As for myself, I had less than half his love of trekking, camping and the wilderness in general, but this was enough to ensure I joined one of his expeditions every month.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Not far this time. Just up to the crater. The place where it’s always winter and the snow is extra fine.”
“What’s there? Nothing, if I recall.”
He tried to fix me with an intimidating stare, failed and rubbed his eyes. Then he pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. I opened it and found myself blinking at a map. It was old and the ink had faded but I recognised the local mountains. There was something else.
“Where did you get this?” I wondered.
Curtis licked his lips and nodded with childish glee. “Bought a cabinet in an antique store from a senile fool last week. It didn’t look quite right in any of my rooms, I can’t say why, so I kept moving it about and I guess all that vibration activated some hidden springs. A secret compartment popped out and this was inside. It reminded me of the legend and made me think that maybe there’s truth in it after all.”
I examined the map more closely. “This certainly looks like a house.”
“I’m sure it’s the Baron’s place. He must have sold the cabinet without realizing the map was in it. More than a century ago!”
I sighed. In the rather thin folklore of our region the tale
of the missing mansion was the most prominent fable. I couldn’t account for its popularity, for it lacked plot and moral and was utterly inconclusive. The Baron was an immigrant from somewhere in Central or Eastern Europe, only he wasn’t a real aristocrat but a rich merchant with aspirations to a title. He built a large house in the mountains and the labourers who worked on it were recruited from a lunatic asylum, so that its location would become a sort of secret, for they were bound to disagree on where it was. And so it was finished and nobody had seen it since.
Curtis enjoyed relating the different endings of this myth.
“The madmen built it inside out and it collapsed. Or the Baron was hiding from the devil, who disguised himself as a labourer and remained behind, to greet the new owner when he opened the door, though this doesn’t explain why it vanished. Or some sort of experiment went wrong and shrank it to the size of an eyeball. They said the Baron was a magician or scientist.”
I tapped the map with a finger. “But here is a more mundane explanation.”
“Yes and it suits our purpose. The crater isn’t above the snowline but the surrounding peaks mean it is always in shade. It must have been empty when the Baron built his house there. Then an avalanche filled the crater and buried it under tons of snow for a hundred years.”
I laughed. “That’s so simple!”
“The snow won’t melt but will just keep getting deeper until the crater is full. We have about thirty feet to dig through. My guess is that the building is in perfect condition down there. And all the stuff in the rooms untouched.”
“Do you mean treasure?” I mumbled.
He offered me a wry smile. “The Baron was a wealthy man and I doubt he deposited his money in a bank. It wasn’t the way they did things back then. Maybe there’s nothing of any value but it can’t hurt to take a look.”
“Worth it for the adventure,” I said.
He slapped me on the back. “That’s the spirit! Let’s gather some equipment. Ropes to climb into the crater and flashlights for our work.”
I checked my watch. “It’s getting late.”
“All the more reason to hurry. Come on, Warren!”
I needed no further encouragement. Within an hour my backpack was full and my hiking boots were laced tightly to my feet. We tramped through the town to the outskirts and found the path which led into the foothills. Nobody we passed gave us a second glance. They were used to seeing us embark on expeditions, but it was an odd hour to be setting off, with the sun already low in the west, and we had no tents. I welcomed the lighter load and I know Curtis did too, though he would never admit it.
The path was strewn with small stones and as we slowly ascended my ankles began to ache from the constant stumbling, but I didn’t complain. Soon we turned off and followed the equally rocky bed of a narrow stream. This was a quicker route to the crater. The chill penetrated my boots but I had got into the rhythm of walking and felt at peace with nature, enjoying the weak warmth on the back of my neck and the smell of the air, which was clean and exhilarating.
I was shocked out of my complacency by a sudden crash from ahead. The note of violence boomed around the mountains in a prolonged echo. I paused and was nearly overwhelmed with fatigue and doubts.
Curtis kept going. “Just an avalanche. Nothing special.”
I nodded and caught him up, the spade on my backpack swinging and slapping my flank as if I was a mule that needed to be goaded.
THE SUN WENT DOWN…
But we went up, higher and higher, until we were truly in the mountains and could permit ourselves a rest without feeling guilt. We sat and shared a flask of coffee and marvelled at the rosy clouds and the darkening sky.
Our progress would become more difficult, but we were fairly close to our destination. One more hour and we would be standing on the rim of the crater. We had both made this journey many times before, but rarely at night and always on the way somewhere else. Although an impressive geographical feature, the crater had previously held scant interest for us, being little more than a deep hole stuffed with snow.
Now we had a different opinion of it. Greed had blessed it.
We resumed our trek, picking our way between boulders and over the trunks of fallen trees. It was exciting but there was a hollowness in my stomach. I expected to be disappointed, to learn the map was a hoax or that the house had been crushed flat and its supposed treasures ruined. I knew Curtis was dreaming of gold bars but I thought paper money more likely.
The moon appeared through a rent in the clouds. Nearly full it was a great assistance to our uncertain feet and the path became less perilous. When we reached the crater and peered over, the snow below glimmered brightly. Our flashlights were surplus to requirements, but we were confronted with our first major problem. The avalanche we had heard earlier had taken place right here.
“More than thirty feet now!” I blurted.
Curtis grunted and pointed at the dark shapes that littered the fresh snow like giant limbs and heads. They were large rocks and parts of trees. Silently we secured our ropes to an overhanging crag and climbed down. Then we wandered among the debris to the exact centre of the crater and unslung our backpacks. According to the map the mansion was directly below us, but neither of us felt like digging.
The eyes of my companion glinted and his round face broke into a smile. He had picked up his own spade but now his grip relaxed and it dangled idly from his fingers. He indicated a boulder which had tumbled from a neighbouring peak. It was black and smooth and rested on the snow with an absurd elegance but on one side there was a wide indentation where a fragment had broken off in the fall.
“I have an idea. Look at the shape of this rock.”
“Like an overthrown altar,” I commented.
“Not quite, but it might resemble one more closely in a few minutes. Help me turn it so that the depression is facing upward.”
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
He ignored me and began digging under one corner of the boulder and his heavy breathing was so sincere I felt sorry for him and joined in. I used my spade as a lever and together we managed to shift the position of the enormous stone. Tiny crystals on its surface sparkled magically as Curtis roamed the surrounding area to collect wood. We piled branches into the depression and I finally understood his plan. It took several failed attempts with matches before a few of the smaller and drier twigs caught.
But the fire rapidly took hold.
I backed away but Curtis said, “Use the blade of your spade to reflect the heat back onto the boulder. It would be better to start a fire underneath it, but we can’t do that.”
“Some rocks explode when heated,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “That’s the risk.”
I watched as he added more branches to the blaze. The crater glowed with the pulsing light as if it was breathing and blushing. Within the orange of the flames appeared other colours, purple and green, but there was no smoke. I grew tired of holding my spade at an awkward angle and lowered it briefly. It grazed the surface of the snow and I was startled by an angry hiss. Meanwhile the snow around the base of the boulder began to crackle and give off wisps of steam.
Then the rock started to sink.
It dropped through the snow smoothly and Curtis threw on a final log before it sank out of view. The moon was still bright but now the crater seemed gloomy and unfriendly. We moved closer and gazed into the shaft. The boulder was already far below us, spitting sparks, and I briefly imagined I was observing a rocket barging into the sky. This optical illusion confused me and I staggered before regaining my senses. Hot air rose up the shaft and brushed my face and studded my brow with jewels of sweat.
“It’s certainly warm enough now.”
Curtis turned and strode off. “We’ll use one of our ropes to climb after it and keep the other in place to get us out of the crater.”
By the time he returned and tied one of the ropes to the trunk of what had been a mighty tree, the bou
lder had vanished from sight. We scratched our heads. Instead of flames or at least embers, the base of the shaft was occupied by something dark and shaped differently from the rock. But when we listened, the hiss of melting now was still faintly audible.
“I’ll go first,” declared Curtis.
I declined to argue and he took hold of the rope and lowered himself into the shaft. I followed close behind. We must have gone down more than sixty feet when he suddenly announced he had reached the bottom. He described it as a hard surface slanted at a steep angle. Then he added that there was another tunnel in the snow which ran parallel to this incline. All this mystery resolved itself in my mind when he next spoke.
“I’m standing on the roof!”
“The roof of the mansion?” I gasped.
“Of course. The boulder didn’t stop here but slid sideways to the edge. It probably tipped over the side and has melted another shaft down to the base of the crater. If we follow the path it has made we can be sure of standing next to the house. Then it’s just a question of finding a way inside!”
I panted my agreement and he crawled along the tunnel, still supporting himself with the rope. I touched down on the roof myself and followed his example. A beam of light told me he had switched on his flashlight. This beam shook and wobbled as he reached the next vertical shaft. I sensed the tons of snow above me and controlled my trembling, which had less to do with cold than fear. Then I also reached the edge of the roof.
To my astonishment, Curtis was standing a few feet below me. I wondered aloud if the mansion was really a cottage and if legend alone had expanded its size, but from the expression on his face, which was ghostly in the electric light, I realised this wasn’t the case. He confirmed it with his next words.
“I’m not standing on the ground.”
“What happened?” I asked.
