by Rhys Hughes
“I wonder,” replied the Prince with an enigmatic sigh.
“What do you wonder?” asked the Captain.
“Was it a mermaid who asked you to do all this?”
The Captain blushed. The awkward silence lasted for nearly a minute. The floating roof strained against its tether. “She didn’t really ask me.”
The Prince walked to a cabinet, opened it and reached inside. Something struggled in his grasp and vapour seeped through his fingers. He selected a waterproof sack, forced the thing within and pulled the drawstring tight. He passed the sack to Captain Dangleglum and refused payment when the Captain reached for his wallet. There was a many faceted glint in the Prince’s eyes and a peculiar expression on his face, a mixture of understanding, envy and humour.
“My heaviest monsoon,” he said quietly.
As the Captain bade him farewell, the Prince returned to his seat behind the counter and began muttering to himself. “My grandfather was quite a rainy fellow, my father was very rainy, but I am even more rainy than that. My reign is nothing less than torrential. For I am Prince Rainier of Monsoonarco!”
Captain Dangleglum deemed it impolite to turn around. He pulled up his anchor and went sailing away without looking back.
The City that was Itself
You have probably never heard of Itselfia, the city that evokes only itself. Few people go there these days. That is a shame because it is rather a pleasant place, full of little squares and gardens where the inhabitants gather to play music, drink wine and forget they are lost until the following morning. Even the ruler of Itselfia can sometimes be found wandering the open spaces, asking people for directions home. Once he lived in a palace and one day he might find it again. Until that moment he satisfies himself with cheap rented accommodation.
All other cities like to dream of other cities. Itselfia does not dream or encourage dreams in its populace, unless those dreams are scenes identical to the scenes of daily urban life. Itselfia is unique. All cities are unique but the style of uniqueness possessed by Itselfia is wholly singular, for it has nothing to do with geography, architecture, the culture or character of its people. Itselfia may resemble other cities in certain aspects, the boulevards and parks and restaurants, but it refuses to acknowledge rivals. It is self referential.
Other cities gives the impression of wanting to travel elsewhere but Itselfia prefers to be only where it is. It is satisfied but not smug. Consider a city such as London. A traveller may visit London and stroll down Oxford Street and thus be reminded of Oxford; in Oxford he might cross Gloucester Green and so begin to think of Gloucester; in Gloucester he can loiter on Cheltenham Road while he daydreams of Cheltenham; in Cheltenham there is a Bath Road; in Bath an Upper Bristol Road; in Bristol a Coventry Walk; in Coventry a Norwich Drive; in Norwich a Quebec Road.
Simply by arriving in London one rainy day the traveller has already moved in some part to Canada, in terms of reference, of imagery. He is connected with places outside his actual location, and those other places are similarly connected. This process is endless and forms a gigantic loop, or rather a net that ensnares the world, for London does not evoke merely one city, Oxford, but a thousand others, each with a myriad evocations of its own. All cities are invisible lenses that diffuse a sense of place, all except the unambiguous Itselfia.
The method by which Itselfia evokes only itself is disappointingly simple. Every street, however long or short, has the same name. Likewise every square, park, building. It might be supposed that the inhabitants can still distinguish certain areas by painting houses different colours or planting trees in recognisable patterns. But without names a destination becomes merely a description, subject to inaccuracies and fatal misunderstandings. The Street of Green Houses is a new name; a street of green houses is not. The former if outlawed in Itselfia; the latter is permitted but useless.
I wanted to live in Itselfia and decided to look for work there. The journey was long and not without incident. I entered the city under the imposing arch of Itselfia Gate and walked down Itselfia Street as far as Itselfia Square. I asked for directions to Itselfia Hotel, where I planned to spend the night. I was given the same reply from many people: “Turn right or left on any corner, walk up or down any street, cross any square and knock on the door of any house.” These directions were both vague and precise. I did not find my hotel. I drank wine in a garden instead.
Itselfia is not quite a labyrinth, for a labyrinth evokes other labyrinths, some with walls of stone, some with walls or thorns and leaves. Itselfia is too homely, too comfortable to be a labyrinth. When a man is lost in a labyrinth he is always where he does not wish to be. When a man is lost in Itselfia he is always in his desired place, in the right house, on the right street, listening to guitars under the right willow. It was many months before I managed to escape Itselfia. I can no longer remember if I left willingly or not. But I have never returned.
The Man who Gargled with Gargoyle Juice
“It’s good for your throat.”
“I’m not sure. I don’t like the sound of it. I bet the taste is awful. Will it be very slimy?
“Not slimy. Not slimy at all.”
“The goblin was slimy.”
“Surely it was. That’s the only kind we get round here, the slimy ones. If you were to go as far north as Kilkenny you might be able to procure a powdery goblin or maybe even a peppery one, but down here in Cork the goblins spend a lot of time above ground in the rain and the water gets inside them.”
“Don’t they wear capes and boots?”
“Certainly they do, but the capes and boots on sale in Cork are the porous kind, full of little holes.”
“Won’t you try me with a leprechaun or fairy first?”
“That would be a waste of your money. The fluid inside a leprechaun is less potent than goblin juice and you’ve already drunk a goblin to no avail. As for fairies they are out of season and you’d have to cross the equator into the southern hemisphere to get one at this time of year. That would be very expensive.”
“How about a banshee?”
“This is a shop, not a story. Banshees don’t really exist. Neither do trolls, hippogriffs or golems.”
“Maybe some antibiotics would do the trick?”
“I don’t think so. You must have a very severe throat infection if a goblin didn’t cure it. The kind of medicine you get from a doctor won’t stand a chance. You’ve come to the right place now and I’m sure gargoyle juice is the best remedy.”
“Where do you get your ingredients from?”
“A local company, Little People Inc. They send agents out with nets to explore grottoes, climb churches, sleep under toadstools and do whatever else is necessary to replenish stock.”
“Is there only one method of extracting the juice?”
“Absolutely not. Goblins are simply popped into the liquidiser but pixies are pressed by hand through a sieve. As for gnomes they have to be hung by their feet and tickled until all the fluid has dripped into a bucket. Gargoyles are different again.”
“Repeat that in a more typically Irish manner, will you?”
“The divil I will! Be off with your strange requests! Do you want to get rid of your sore throat or not?”
“Yes I do. I’ll try a gargoyle if you really think it will help. Do they take long to prepare? How much are they?”
“It won’t burn a hole in your pocket. Trust me. Wait here and I’ll have the drink ready for you in a few minutes. You won’t regret this, I assure you.”
“What’s that odd wheezing sound?”
“That’s just me working the bellows in the back room. Just stay there in the front of the shop and I’ll rejoin you soon enough. Why not tell me about yourself while you are waiting?”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“Birth is the standard opening to a human life. Maybe your mother was a woman with big hands? Maybe she walked on stilts and kissed the tops of chimneys? Was she a duck in a former existe
nce? Perhaps her forearm resembled the coast of Norway? Did she meet your father on a gangplank? Did she sleep in an awkwardly varnished bed?”
“I have simply no idea.”
“No matter. I was only making small talk. The gargoyle juice is ready now. I’ll bring it out to you. Be sure to drink it all down in one gulp for maximum effect. Here it is.”
“A stone cup with insulated handles?”
“Yes indeed. Be careful how you hold it. That’s right, pour it down your throat, every last drop. Sure it glows like lava. That’s because it is lava, a gargoyle taken from a Cork church melted down in my furnace. So what do you think? Do you like it?”
“Urgh! Nunnghrrrgh!”
“That was clumsy of you, dropping the cup like that! Of course it burns terribly. What did you expect? A gargoyle is a small sculpture, a stone figure, not a living creature like a goblin. The juice of a gargoyle is several thousand degrees centigrade, otherwise it turns solid again. But it’s guaranteed to stop a sore throat.”
“Aaaarghgh! Eerughfffghghghgh!”
“I’ll have to guess what that means. Are you trying to say that this wasn’t quite what you expected? Maybe not. But you can’t have a sore throat when you have no throat. Gargoyle juice never fails. I’ve treated hundreds of patients this way and not one ever voiced a complaint afterwards!”
The Tallest Midget in Christendom
I’ll tell you what I saw when I went to Lipsaria. The capital city of that country is famous for the outrageous incline of its football pitch. The truth is that it’s only inclined at certain times because it has been laid on the swing bridge over the River Grinn. When a ship with a mast wants to pass through the city, the bridge splits in two and both halves go up.
It might seem foolish to locate a football pitch on a bridge. Everybody agrees it was a daft idea but the city of Snogg is very tightly packed with buildings and doesn’t have any open spaces and its inhabitants are a feisty lot and hold public demonstrations if they don’t get what they want. Once they even marched – badly – for the right to have cramp. They demanded a football pitch and there simply wasn’t anywhere else to put it.
Usually a football game can proceed without the raising and lowering of the bridge because not many ships pass that way these days. But when the pitch does begin to slope the outcome of a match is always affected. The split is along the halfway line and when the two sides go up the ball rolls towards one of the goals. It is important to keep the ball in the opposing team’s half as much as possible. The goalkeepers have a hard job whenever a ship sails up or down that river and it’s an unpopular position to play.
I was once travelling from Monsoonarco to Wales and decided to break my journey in Lipsaria before proceeding to the Valley of Tall Midgets. My own vessel didn’t interrupt a game because I arrived very early in the morning. I moored my ship out of the way in a little dock and then I set out to sample the attractions of Snogg. In the streets I saw many people wearing hats and scarves and carrying flags in the local colours.
I stopped one fellow. “What’s happening?”
“A big football match today. Snogg United are playing Moonville Rovers for the cup!”
“Which cup?” I persisted.
“I’m not sure but it’s full of beer!”
“How much does it hold?”
“Lots and lots and lots. Enough to satisfy a giant!”
I decided to attend this football match. I made my way towards the pitch and fell into conversation with the other spectators. I learned that Snogg United had already knocked out Boca Juniors, Itselfia City, Lladloh Town, Yam-Yam Wanderers, Bristol Rovers, Dynamo Plush and Phoot Athletic to reach the final against Moonville. That last qualifying match had been especially hard – compared by some critics to a horrible outbreak – and now all the Lipsarians, not just the Snoggites, were puckered up with anticipation.
The game started well. Both sides scored early and the managers of the two teams kept jumping up and shouting. The Moonville manager, a fellow by the name of Troose, was particularly bellicose. I thought that Snogg United probably had the edge, courtesy of their strikers Titter and Snigger, but Moonville were strong in defence and had their own star player, Wane Moony, to keep the opposition busy. All the same the score remained a draw until half time.
The second half was much more eventful but not for the right reasons. Suddenly the pitch split in two and began tilting up. The ball was in the Snoggite half at the time and rolled into the goalmouth. The keeper just couldn’t keep it out, partly because he had ended up in the back of the net himself. After the ship passed, the bridge swung down again and play resumed as normal.
The crowd didn’t react much. It wasn’t so odd for the pitch to go up and down like that. They had seen it happen before. But it was a real surprise when the same thing happened again a minute later. And then again and again. Sometimes the ball rolled into one goal, sometimes into the other. Nobody present at that game had ever seen so many ships sailing up the River Grinn in one day!
Whenever I tell people I attended that match they often ask me, “Who was the winner?”
To which I reply, “Are you referring to the football game or to the boat race?”
For that was the eventual explanation! The Derek of Bo, also known as Diddly Derek, had decided to stage a boat race from Monsoonarco to Upper Bo at exactly the same time the Cup Final was taking place. It was an unfortunate coincidence. The Derek of Bo has tightly braided hair and lives in a cigar box but that is beside the point. He loves racing things, not just ships but lizards, tomatoes, shadows, insults, wardrobes, loners, anything at all!
The fact of the matter is that nobody won the boat race. The River Grinn crosses the Valley of Tall Midgets on its way to Upper Bo. Do you know the Tall Midgets? They resemble, but aren’t related to, the Microscopic Giants. Anyway, the river crosses the valley on an aqueduct supported on three vast pillars. Sometimes the Tall Midgets play cricket with huge stone cannonballs and use the aqueduct as a wicket. They bowl underarm but very powerfully.
It so happened that Tipsy Sobers, the second tallest midget, had already hit the balls of three full overs into the stratosphere. That’s eighteen balls in total for anyone who doesn’t like cricket. The bowler, Paddy Lily, couldn’t bear for the fourth over to go the same way, so he bowled his fastest ball and hit the wickets with enough force to scatter them over a wide area.
Tipsy Sobers was out but he didn’t leave his crease. He stayed where he was. He was transfixed by the sight of a hundred ships plummeting from the edge of the broken aqueduct one by one, landing in a pile of shattered wood and ragged sails in the centre of the valley. The Tall Midgets repaired the aqueduct as they always did after a cricket match, but it was too late. The boat race was abandoned.
“In that case, who won the football game?”
And I answer like this: “The final score was a 50-50 draw. The ball kept rolling into the goals but it spent an equal amount of time in each half of the pitch. A hundred ships sailed past, the bridge swung open one hundred times and that’s how many goals were scored. Nobody won!”
“Nobody! Are you quite sure about that?”
“Maybe Woozy Growl was a winner of sorts. He was the tallest midget of all, even taller than Tipsy Sobers, so tall he was able to play golf with the craters left by the cannonballs that descended from the stratosphere. He played all eighteen holes in one hour and when he went to the clubhouse for a drink he found waiting a massive cup of beer donated by the unlucky players of Moonville Rovers and Snogg United.”
The Kissable Climes
The French kiss with tongues; the inhabitants of Faskdhfgasdhia with noses; unfaithful wives with other men; but Diddly Derek will only smooch with syllogisms.
There are many worlds in the Cosmos, even worlds within worlds, and many zones on all those worlds, for instance the Frigid, Temperate, Tropical and Laughable Zones, and dozens of climes in each of those zones, including the Shimmering, Freckled, Gloopy, Dandelion,
Bradbury, Fahrenheit and Kelvin Climes, but Diddly Derek cares naught for those. Not now, at any rate!
He cares only for the planet Happenstance and the Lower Dunsany Zone wherein is located Lipsaria, the Kissable Clime!
Happenstance is unfeasibly fused to the Earth and can be reached easily enough on the back of the minotaur. He often wanders over there to try out the new labyrinths.
“That’s all very well. But who is Diddly Derek?”
I have no objection to answering that question – he’s the Racing Tyrant of Upper Bo – but who is this intruder and how did she get inside this story? I locked it carefully myself.
“Yes but you gave me a spare key. Don’t you remember? I’m an unfaithful wife and I’ve come to kiss you.”
Fair enough. I can live with that. Kissing is a marvellous thing, a gloriously juicy sport, and I could kiss for a hundred paragraphs before wanting to stop. But Diddly Derek is fated to kiss for much longer than that, until the End of Time in fact, whenever that is – perhaps tomorrow, certainly not yesterday.
In the Lower Dunsany Zone, Time is always described as ‘swart’, I don’t know why. I don’t even know what the word means.
“Why not look it up in your dictionary?”
I could do that if I really wanted to, but my dictionary is in my bedroom, to help me understand some of the things I say in my sleep, and I’m too busy writing this story to fetch it. Now what’s happening? I’m being led by the unfaithful wife up the stairs!
When I first heard about Diddly Derek, I was forced to look up the word ‘syllogism’ and I was surprised to discover it isn’t a part of the body. In that case, how does one kiss with it? Diddly Derek was able to manage. Bravo for him!
