by Heide Goody
“What's inside?” said Rutspud. He splashed into the water and rapped on the door. It made a hollow, metallic clanging sound. The big metal box was more than twice his height and three times longer than it was tall.
“It could be anything,” said Stephen, stepping in with the hem of his habit held high. “I suppose we'd better wait until the tide's fully out before we try and open the doors, it's going to be tricky with the water up here like it is.”
“I won't get to see,” said Rutspud with a small pout. “I'm going to miss all the fun. Well, make sure you let me know if there's a unicycle in there, won't you?”
Stephen led the other monks down the path just after dawn.
“Well, our restless, early-rising brother has found something interesting here,” said Manfred as they took in the sight before them. The container was completely clear of the water now. “I estimate that we have around two hours before the tide will turn and make things difficult for us.”
“We need to see what treasures lie within as quickly as possible,” said Bastian.
“Treasures?”
“There could be something really valuable in there,” said Bastian, with a glint in his eye. “Electronics, antiques, high-end fashion.”
“I was hoping there might be something we could eat,” said Manfred with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh yes, of course. That would be nice,” said Bastian with a distinct lack of conviction.
“I think we should say a few words.”
The other monks looked at Brother Clement in puzzlement.
“Beg pardon?” said Brother Lionel.
“The Lord’s bounty has been delivered to us by his mysterious hand,” said Brother Clement. “The least we can do is offer our thanks.”
“Fine.” Manfred hefted a sack of tools from his shoulder. “Heavenly Father, we are thankful for this unexpected offering in our time of need. We receive this gift as your humble servants. Could you please bless these bolt croppers so that we can be sure of gaining entry?”
Some fraught minutes later, filled with shouted instructions, some slightly sweary disagreements and the screams that followed Brother Vernon stubbing the toe of his brothel creepers on the container door, the brothers of St Cadfan’s (aided by the blessed bolt croppers) managed to gain access.
The monks all crowded round as Manfred pulled the doors open. One of the doors jammed against an outcrop of rocks, but through the other they could see that the container was filled with boxes.
“What’s inside?” said Stephen his voice squeaking with excitement and curiosity.
“A little calm, please,” said Manfred.
“Sorry. It’s just like Christmas, isn’t it? Wondering what’s inside.”
“Oh,” said Brother Clement condescendingly. “Of course. Christmas is all about the presents, isn’t it? Not about our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
Stephen gave him an apologetic look.
“It is about the presents a bit,” he whispered to no one in particular.
“Listen everybody!” said Manfred firmly. “We do not have time to be distracted by peeking inside these boxes. If we wish to make sure we get them out of the way of the sea and the weather, we will need to form a human chain and get them all up to the monastery before we examine them properly. Can I please count on your discipline and energy?”
There was a slight grumbling, but the monks got to work and they managed to clear the last of the boxes as the advancing water began to slosh inside the container. Most of the boxes had been of a manageable size, but there was one oversized package that was wrapped in opaque plastic and affixed to a pallet.
“What do you suppose this is?” asked Henry, who was holding the middle of the pallet, while Manfred and Stephen struggled with the ends. “Let me check the other side.”
Henry let go of the pallet and walked around to the other side and put his hands underneath to support it again, as he scrutinised the mysterious package.
“Henry,” said Stephen, puffing with exertion, “I didn’t notice any difference at all when you let go just then. You’re not actually helping.”
“Well, that’s not very nice,” said Henry. “Sometimes I think you’re not much of a team player, Stephen.” He tugged at the plastic that wrapped the contents. “Maybe it’s a karaoke machine. I like a bit of karaoke. Or bingo, it could be one of those machines with the balls.”
“Brother, I think you may have dropped the cord to your dressing-gown,” said Manfred, nodding over Henry’s shoulder.
Stephen ignored Henry’s retreating blather as he went off to look. Manfred winked briefly and the two of them continued to negotiate the rocky path with the awkward load.
Manfred made sure that the boxes were piled safely indoors in the refectory and then ushered Father Eustace forwards to preside over things.
Father Eustace plucked ineffectually at the plastic covering the pallet. Manfred stepped forward with a paring knife and used it to slash through the plastic covering. There was a brief silence as the monks all absorbed the sight before them.
“Is it a go-kart?” Brother Lionel eyed the vehicle’s chunky wheels and cherry red paint job.
“It’s a mobility scooter,” said Bastian. “You know, for lazy people and sometimes the disabled and old people.”
“This may be disappointing to some of you,” said Manfred. “We cannot expect that everything we find here will be useful.”
Father Eustace was climbing stiffly onto the scooter seat as he spoke.
“We should open some more packages to see whether – ah Father, I think these things are transported without a battery,” said Manfred. “It’s most unlikely that it will – oh.”
Eustace pulled sharply forward on the scooter. It crashed down off the pallet and the crowd of monks parted rapidly as he zipped across the refectory floor.
Brother Clement pushed forward and held up his hands for silence.
“Brothers, I think we have just been shown the way to deal with this.”
“Have we?” said Stephen.
“Care to explain?” Manfred asked.
“I would liken our situation to the parable of the talents,” said Clement. “If you recall, Matthew tells of a master who, upon going away for some time, entrusts his property to his servants. The first servant was given five talents, the second two talents and the third was given one talent. I'm given to understand that a talent is quite a lot of money, by the way.”
“Yes, do continue,” said Manfred.
“Well, the parable tells how the first two servants made a healthy return on the money by investing it in some way, which pleased the master greatly. The third servant merely buried it, so that he handed back exactly the same amount, untouched. That servant was punished for being lazy.”
“Ah yes,” said Bastian. “The parable of rampant capitalism. One of my favourites.”
Clement gave him a sour look.
“I rather think that it's intended to show how we are each expected to make the best use of what we are given,” he said. “Father Eustace has demonstrated that we can find a use for each and every gift that has been sent to us in this most unusual benefaction. It is our duty to trust in the wisdom of our Lord and find the means to benefit St Cadfan’s with the contents of these boxes.”
Manfred nodded enthusiastically.
“Brother Clement, that is a fine idea. Surprisingly. We distribute the boxes amongst us all, unopened. Each of us must use our creativity to find a constructive use for what’s inside.”
He caught a small cough from Clement.
“We use our creativity and the power of prayer, yes, of course,” corrected Manfred. “In that case, let us form an orderly queue and we can hand out the boxes.”
The monks jostled for position in the queue, as they craned their necks to see which of the boxes looked most promising. Manfred heard whispered comments drifting towards him as he did a count of the boxes.
“Those metal boxes look as though they're protecti
ng something valuable. We could be talking custom-made guitar.”
“There's a special seal on that box there. Gotta be something good in there.”
“See the writing on the side of the red cartons? Do you think it's Chinese for nougat?”
Manfred ignored the fantasies and speculation, and started to hand out the boxes.
“Move back please, brothers, once you've got your boxes! I know you want to see what's in them, but please move back so we can keep things going.”
The refectory soon turned into a frenzy of box opening.
“Who's got nails? I can't get this tape off!”
“Where are the scissors?”
“I've found a woman!”
At once, all of the monks stopped scrabbling at packaging and silence fell.
“Come again?” said Brother Henry.
“What did you say, Brother Lionel?” asked Manfred.
“There's a woman in my box. Look!”
Bald and ancient Brother Lionel held a plastic woman high up in the air, turning so that everyone could see.
“Why's she got no arms or legs?” asked Henry.
“Because it's Annie,” said Brother Gillespie.
All heads turned to him.
“You can't possibly know her name,” said Lionel, clutching the doll to his chest defensively.
“She's a Resusci-Annie,” sniffed the infirmarian, stepping forward. “Look, her chest goes up and down. She's been saving lives for generations.”
“Is it one of them marital aids?” said Brother Lionel.
“It’s for practising CPR,” Brother Gillespie explained.
Gillespie gave his ever-running nose a preparatory wipe, took the doll, placed her on the floor and showed the monks the life-saving technique. Manfred noticed that Lionel scowled throughout at the violation of his new friend.
“Look! Look what I got!” shouted Henry.
Everyone turned to see what he had. Henry's face glowed with pleasure as he slotted together the vertical sections of pole.
“Is that an IV stand?” asked Manfred.”
“Yes! I've wanted one of these for as long as I can remember,” said Henry, whisking it back and forth on its wheels.
“But why?” asked Manfred.
“I was in hospital, as a child, with a broken arm,” said Henry. “All the cool kids had these. They went everywhere with them, like faithful dogs. I really wanted one too, but they said no. Oh, I'm so happy, I've got my own at last!”
Henry danced and twirled with his new toy.
“Now remember, brothers, the challenge is for each of us to find a way to use these things to benefit the whole monastery,” said Manfred. “What do you have there, Bastian?”
“I think it's antiseptic handwash,” said Bastian, holding out a pump bottle.
Manfred sniffed it critically, detecting an alcoholic base.
“I wonder if it might serve as a useful marinade.”
“Manfred,” said Bastian, “there is a skull and cross-bones and a large warning that says it's not for human ingestion.”
Manfred made a dismissive hand gesture as he continued to sniff the intriguing liquid.
“That's just to cover themselves. It would probably be fine in moderation.”
He handed the bottle back to Bastian and turned his attention to his own box. He pulled out a handful of plastic tubing with a nod of approval. Now here was something he could work with! It looked vaguely medical. In fact, it struck Manfred that everything they'd opened so far seemed to be medical supplies of some sort. He delved further and found some sturdy-looking bags that seemed designed to fit onto the tubing, presumably for intravenous drips and the like. Manfred's mind raced with the possibilities. He had promised that he would not make any further attempts to distil alcohol after last year’s explosion, so he scrubbed that idea with some regret. He was wondering if it might be possible to construct some rudimentary bagpipes when a shriek of pain went up.
“There's scalpels in that one, watch out,” came Stephen's voice.
“Ah, best get Brother Gillespie,” said Manfred absently, blowing into an IV bag. It made a small farting noise, rather than any musical note.
“I don't think so,” said Stephen. “It was Brother Gillespie who stabbed his hand. He seems to have fainted.”
The office of Quilldust, the census-taker, was fitted with shelves from floor to ceiling, and every shelf was laden with folders, their spines inscribed with neat handwriting. Rutspud saw that there was a sleek black computer on the desk, but for some reason, Quilldust chose to write everything down in longhand in a huge book.
When Rutspud had asked him why he kept the machine if he wrote everything out, Quilldust had replied, “The computer is for underlings who displease me.”
“You mean you write reports about them, log details of their transgressions?”
Quilldust had shaken his head and simply pointed at the blood encrusted along the edge of the monitor.
Rutspud had so far answered questions about his name, place of residence and occupation. Quilldust had written down his answers with excruciating slowness, using real ink. Each time he came to the end of a line, he carefully blotted the words, to be sure that he didn’t smudge them.
“Next question,” said Quilldust. “What is the size of your cave? You may give the answer in square metres, square yards, hectares or acres. An estimate is fine, as long as we find it to be accurate to plus or minus five per cent if we choose to carry out a spot check.”
Rutspud had no idea.
“How often do you carry out a spot check?” he asked.
“Approximately one answer in a hundred will be selected for further verification,” said Quilldust.
“And what happens if I'm wrong?” asked Rutspud.
“You carry out the next hundred spot checks,” said Quilldust.
Rutspud concentrated. He could do this. Shooting from the hip was what he excelled at. He pictured the cave, and the things within it. The snooker table would account for about a tenth of the floor space. How big was the snooker table? Say three and a half by two metres. Seven square metres.
“My cave is seventy square metres,” he said confidently.
Quilldust wrote down the answer, taking so long that Rutspud wanted to tear the pen from his hand and write it himself, but he sat and waited.
“Do you exist in any other dimensions?” asked Quilldust eventually.
Rutspud tried to imagine what that question meant. Did they somehow know about his visits to earth? Did that count as another dimension?
“Apart from the usual … three?”
“Yes.”
“Would I know about it if I did?” he asked, cautiously.
“We're just trying to build a complete picture of the whereabouts of all demons,” answered Quilldust. “If we're likely to find you manifested elsewhere, we could do with some warning so we don't double-count.”
“Right. No. I’m only ever in one place at once,” said Rutspud, and waited while the pen scratched slowly across the surface of the paper.
“I need to ask you about some of your underlings,” said Quilldust. “Do you keep any imps?”
“Yes. I command a horde of the Tiny Blue Innumerables.”
“I see. And how many of them are there?”
Rutspud blinked. He had large eyes and he blinked big.
“Well … they’re innumerable. You can’t count them.”
“You haven’t bothered?”
“No. I have tried. But they are innumerable, uncountable. It’s part of their nature. It’s metaphysically impossible to know how many of them there are.”
“Yes. And when you have tried to count them, how many did you count?”
Rutspud shrugged.
“Seven? Twelve? Thirty-two?”
“Which is it?”
Rutspud groaned inwardly.
“Twelve,” he said. “Put twelve.”
Quilldust did just that. Slowly.
“I a
lso need to ask you about a demon called Frogspear. Where might we find him?”
“Ah,” said Rutspud. “It's a bit complicated.”
Quilldust looked up at him, his pen poised.
“Yes?”
“Frogspear doesn't actually exist anymore. He was chopped up, at the same time as Bootlick. Parts of him are in the demon Lickspear.”
Quilldust took a very long time to write this down, word for word.
“And what happened to Bootlick?” he asked.
“Parts of him are in Lickspear too,” said Rutspud.
“Where is the rest of him?” asked Quilldust, as he finished transcribing.
“The rest?”
“Two demons were chopped up, but you have only accounted for half of the pieces. Is there another demon who comprises the remaining pieces?”
Rutspud's mouth opened and closed.
“Well, Lickspear is slightly bigger than either Frogspear or Bootlick, so it’s more like sixty percent.”
Quilldust stared at him.
“I'm afraid I don't know,” said Rutspud.
Quilldust recorded, in his careful handwriting, that the interviewee was unable to account for the whereabouts of the remaining demon parts.
“You could try asking Scabass,” said Rutspud. “I'm responsible for my group of damned souls, not any demons. Don't you want to ask me about them?”
“No, this census is for demons only,” said Quilldust, “and don't worry. We'll be asking Scabass. We'll be asking every demon.”
“What's the reason for all this?” asked Rutspud. “Have we lost some demons?”
Quilldust ignored the question.
“I need to ask you about another associate. What do you know about the whereabouts of the demon Lugtrout?” he asked.
“I never actually met Lugtrout,” said Rutspud. “I'm his replacement in the R&D lab, but he left before I got there.”
“How convenient for you,” said Quilldust, and wrote down what Rutspud had just said.
Rutspud frowned at this.
“What do you mean by –”
