“It's a wonder you don't gather belly-button fuzz and process it for profit,” Canute laughed.
“Of course we do,” Effie cried. “We gather more than a pound a year of it from the people of the town, and this in spite of the fact that many of the burghers will not cooperate with us and say that the whole thing is silly. But there are a few friendly people in town who wear wool. The woolies are the best for the fuzz. And it can be made into the softest of all sheens. Oh do stay over and have a look at our nightlife tonight, Mr. Freeboard! Really, it's wonderful the times that we do have.”
A third grackle came and stuck itself in the bird-lime on Effie's head-garden. And then was heard ‘Sorrow in Three Voices by Grackles’: but only those three would be stuck there. Others would veer away from the three birds in trouble.
But a fourth bird did come, a bird carrying a long piece of broken looking-glass in its beak. It was too wise to get caught in the bird-lime, but it was watched with avid eyes. Sometime it would drop that piece of silvered glass, and some person would rush in and catch it before it hit the ground. There's profit to be had from old mirror glass.
A man with affluent gestures arrived at Hiram Poorlode's booth in a sudden hurry. He had the sharp, lean, craggy face of a bird of prey. He was taut and of a restless thinness in every part. Why, he was none other than the Lean Eagle from Lean Eagle Street!
“Hiram, I'm caught short,” said that opulent man who wore diamonds on every finger. “I have to cover. I'm overextended. It will be only for a few days. I need two and a quarter million dollars and I need it now. I have my dray here.”
But the Lean Eagle was the highest-flying and the most rapacious money-man ever. Why should he come to Leptophlebo Street to borrow?
“With me, a man's face is his security,” Hiram Poorlode said, “and I know your face, Mr. Schlemel kurz Karof. A man of such a name and reputation is security itself.”
Hiram removed three of the largest flagstones from the street on which he had been sitting. He passed the heavy bars of gold up to the nine lackeys who served Mr. Schlemel kurz Karof. It took a fair number of gold bars to amount to two and one quarter million dollars.
“There has to be an explanation to this!” Canute Freeboard howled out load. “Oh, but by all the equivocating things that be, there can't be any explanation to it!”
When the lackeys had loaded all the gold bars onto the dray, Mr. Schlemel kurz Karof signed a note and gave it to Hiram Poorlode. Then that opulent man went away with his dray and his lackeys, and Hiram Poorlode replaced the three flagstones in the street.
Canute Freeboard hummed a little tune to himself. There were some notes missing from that time. “How long did it take you and your husband, at a nickel a week, to get to a position where you could make instant loans of two and a quarter million dollars and still have lots more gold glittering in your gold-hole under the street?” Canute asked Effie.
“It sure did take a long time,” she said. “There just aren't any short-cuts.” Effie took from her husband the note that Schemel kurz Karof, the Lean Eagle, had given him. She dissolved the ink off it and put it in the ink accumulation. And she put the de-inked paper with the paper accumulation.
“How will you collect when the writing is dissolved off the note for the ink?” Canute asked Hiram.
“Ah, a man's face is his security to me,” Hiram said. “He will pay me back. And if he does not, what is the difference? In time I will accumulate the amount again, and I have lots of time.”
“Hey, is the handsome man going to stay around for the nightlife this evening?” two pretty young skinny ladies asked. “We sure do have a lot of fun at nightlife fiesta.” “These nice young ladies are Regina and Maharana Shortribs,” Effie Poorlode introduced them. “I believe that a good-looking you man like you could have a lot of fun just skylarking with them at nightlife, Canute.”
“You know what we do for the climax of a nightlife go-it-all?” Maharana asked. Oh, the skin and bones of that young girl! They'd send shivers of delight through anyone.
But sometimes one must put second things first.
“Ah, about that loan,” Canute spoke to Hiram. “Oh by the swept cobbles of Leptophlebo Street, there has got to be an explanation to this! About that loan, Mr. Poorlode?” “Oh, certainly,” Hiram said. “I've been observing you and I now have complete confidence in you. I'll lend you the money. Eighty-five thousand dollars, was it not? Do you want it in gold or in certified cash warrants?”
“In gold, in gold. Oh, what a beautiful, hard-scrabble, skinny street this is!” Canute rejoiced. “How have you done it? How have you accumulated millions of dollars in gold on a nickel a week?”
“In bad weeks we don't make near that much,” Effie Poorlode said.
“Ah, but where does the gold come from?” Canute pursued the matter.
“Oh, there's several legends about the origin of the gold,” Hiram told him. “One story is that it's rabbit gold and that it reproduces itself, that it all comes from two nuggets that got together under the flagstones.”
“But there is raw nugget gold there. There is bar gold and ingot gold. And there is coined gold of various coinages,” Canute protested. Hiram had already removed the stories that covered the gold in the street.
“Yes,” Hiram agreed, “several pair of different forms of rabbit gold would be required, wouldn't they? Then there's the story that it's all monkey gold. The monkeys find it and refine it in the woods. Then they give it to us noble burghers of the Street. They are afraid to keep it. It is said that they did keep it when they were men, and that that's what made monkeys out of them. You don't believe that entirely? Oh, I see that Hoxie has been monkey-facing my act behind my back.” And Hoxie had been doing that. But had he been saying ‘Do not believe all of it’ with his monkey-facing, or had he been saying ‘Do not believe any of it’?
“The third legend is that it is all pound-of-flesh gold,” Hiram said. “This legend states that we sell pounds of flesh for the yearly bashes of the Extortioners Guild and the Hatchet-Makers Guild and especially for that dread secret society Glomerule; and that we receive our gold for the pounds of flesh. Ah, there it is, Canute, all ready for you to take it: eighty-five thousand dollars worth of gold. It's quite a bit over a hundred pounds. The young ladies will help you carry it.”
“Which of the three legends is true, Hiram?” Canute asked softly.
“Oh, they're all a little bit true, but all together they would only account for only a fraction of our gold.”
“What accounts for the rest?”
“How can we tell you that? It's a secret. We know you are not so base a person as to want us to tell you the answer. You will have the pleasure of guessing it as the years go by, but we will not tell it to you. Ah, your gold is ready for you, Canute.”
“We know you are not such a fink-dink as would like to be told,” Effie said. “It took the last one about a thousand years to guess it, and you want to miss all that fun?”
“Who was the last one to guess it?” Canute asked.
“Me,” said Hiram.
“We know you are not such a cheap-creep as would listen even if someone whispered the answer to you,” Maharana Shortribs said. “We know you are better than that. My sister and I will help you carry the gold.”
“You will not tell me where it comes from,” Canute mused. “And you offer it to me so freely that there has to be a catch to it somewhere. What is the catch, Hiram? There's a hook in the bait, isn't there? It's logical that there would be a hook.”
“Oh sure, but it's so thin a hook that you'll hardly notice it. And believe me, the hook isn't a logical one.”
“Hardly notice it, huh? That may be like saying that a knife is so thin that you'll hardly notice it when it goes in between your fifth and sixth ribs,” Canute said doubtfully.
“Yes, exactly like,” Effie Poorlode chimed in. “How did you know about the cut between the fifth and sixth ribs, Canute? It isn't one of the major cuts.”
“Lose weight free in seven minute process,” a little boy chanted at Canute. “My father is king of all the weight-takers-off in Leptophlebo Street.”
“Not right now,” Canute said.
“Get your clothes rewoven free,” another little boy chanted. “My father reweaves baggy too-big clothes for slim-trim limb.”
“Not right now,” Canute said. “Does the hook hurt, Hiram?”
“Only a little bit. Only for a minute. Take the gold, Canute, and go close your deal. Then come back here for certain entertainments and kindnesses that we will have scheduled for you. You'll really like them. And when you have experienced them, and the mark that goes with them, then you will be one of us and you may enjoy Leptophlebo Street for as often as you like and for as long as you like. And you won't even notice the hook when it goes in.”
“And afterwards? When I do notice it?”
“I told you that it hurts only a little bit, and for only a little while. We do want you to be one of us. We want you sincerely.”
Canute Freeboard looked up and down the crooked length of Leptophlebo Street.
“Choose us, join with us,” said that skinny young lady Regina Shortribs. “Have fun with us. And come back often.” And Canute looked at the wonderfully bony form of Regina.
He looked at Hiram Poorlode's sign which read “Nuts Wholesale and Retail”. He looked at the three sad grackle-birds that were stuck to the top-of-the-head garden of Effie Poorlode, and at that other unstuck grackle that was flying around with a piece of looking-glass in its beak. He looked at Highfellow, Redbone, Roxie, and Hoxie, the solemn monkeys of the street.
Hoxie wrote a note and gave it to Canute. “Join with us. Stay with us. We like you,” the note read. Effie Poorlode took the note from Canute to dissolve the ink off it. A tear ran down Canute's face for he was genuinely moved by the friendship of the monkeys. The little boy Crispin Halfgram raced in and caught the falling tear in a special little cup before it hit the street.
“My mother can use it,” Crispin said. “Each teardrop is a storehouse of balanced chemicals. The special salinity is quite prized.”
“Analyze your dreams, analyze your dreams!” a little boy of the street was making a pitch. “My father makes fine dream analyses free. Lie down on the cobbles.”
“How can your father make a living by analyzing dreams free?” Canute asked.
“Residuals,” the little boy said. “He gets rich on the residuals.”
“Choose us, join us,” said that skinny young lady Maharana Shortribs. “Have fiesta with us and come back all the time. Hey, do you know what we do for the climax of one of our night-life go-it-alls?” Canute looked at the wonderfully bony throat of Maharana.
“I make my choice,” he announced. “I swallow that bait, hook and all. I become a partisan of this street.” (Even the lop-eared dogs of the place raised their ears and snouts in joy.) “I take the loan now in cash.” (The people began to cheer.) “I will go and seize the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” (Folks began to laugh and to tune musical instruments.) “And then I will come back here for the entertainments and kindnesses and the nightlife.” (The monkeys were clapping their hands.)
There was real welcome in the wind, and somewhere near there was the joyful whetting of knives. Canute and the Shortribs sisters picked up the gold bars and went with them and closed the deal. So Canute nailed down the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but he knew that it was small stuff compared to the mysterious opportunity of Leptophlebo Street itself.
They came back to Leptophlebo Street, and a ‘Gala and Welcome’ banner was stretched clear across the street. So it was quite impossible to decline any of the activities. And who would want to? The trumpet was blowing a great blast, and the other instruments were joining in.
Canute was having his teeth cleaned, his head groomed, his appendix removed, his dreams analyzed, some other pleasant surgery being done to him, and his clothes rewoven all at one time. This was life at its most full, and the dazzle and confusion were to be expected. “This is the first appendectomy since my father got his knife sharpened,” Pat Thingruel sang happily in Canute's ear. “Oh, you are lucky! Listen now as I join the rowdy-dow band for you. I play eighth flute.”
“And this is the first free seven minute surgery since my father got his knives sharpened,” another little boy was chirruping. “Listen when I join the band. I play fifth drum.” Canute couldn't remember what the free seven minute surgery was about but it had to be good. He heard the eighth flute and the fifth drum join the band and it was rapturous music. His dreams were being analyzed right on the glittering edge of his senses and he could only guess what rich residuals they would have. And a written note was placed shyly before his eyes.
“Listen now as I join the rang-dang band,” it read in the handwriting of the monkey Hoxie. “I play third bagpipe.” Canute passed the note to Effie Poorlode for processing and salvaging. Everything that was done on Leptophlebo Street contributed to the fortune of that famous place. With joy Canute heard the third bagpipe join the rang-dang band. He was in glowing confusion as he recovered from his surgeries (there had been several of them) and his cleanings and groomings and reweavings and other things. Oh it all did make him feel light and lightheaded and slick-fit and trim-limbed and happy!
“Hurry up and heal up,” Regina Shortribs was talking into his ear. “Heal real fast. Drink this cup of Nut-Shell Bitter Tea. It's medicinal, and it also makes the bones glossy. Then we will go and honkey-tonk.”
“You know what we do for the climax of our nightlife go-it-alls?” Maharana Shortribs asked once more.
“No, but I will like it,” Canute gloated happily. He was feeling almost healed now. In another minute he would be healed completely. “What do you do for climax, Maharana?”
“Eat bowls of real organic soup,” the skinny girl breathed the delightful information. She made it sound wonderful, and of course it was. But Canute was watching the way that her skinny throat moved when she spoke. It was sheer witchery of ligament and sinew.
As Canute rose to his feet with a little help, the band played on with flutes and drums and bagpipes and all the wonderful and skinny-sounding instruments. It was certainly fine just to be there between the two beautiful and meager Shortribs girls.
“I have swallowed the hook without noticing it,” Canute said, “and it didn't hurt a bit. I wonder what distinguishing mark has been placed upon me? And my rewoven clothes fit me so trim! How is it possible that anything should be so trim? I feel wonderful and light. I wonder how I look?”
“Bird, bird!” Maharana cried, and she clapped her hands. “Bring the looking glass!”
“Oh gee, now it comes,” Effie Poorlode said apprehensively.
“Remember that even the Lean Eagle was known as the Fat Eagle before he trafficked here,” said Regina.
“And remember that it only hurts a little bit and for a little while,” said Hiram.
“No man can have everything, but on Leptophlebo Street he sure can come close,” Canute gloated. “Now let's just see whether I look as fine as I feel.”
The grackle-bird brought the piece of looking-glass to him. And Canute took it.
He looked at his image in it.
He cried out in shock!
His face cracked in a spasm of agony. And the looking glass shattered into tinkling slivers that fell, and were caught before reaching the street, by a small boy who would have profitable salvage from them.
But it hadn't been Canute in that mirror. It had been a horrifying skull-and-bone thing. That slick seven minute free surgery had removed more than a hundred pounds of his flesh by a hundred cuts, one of them between the fifth and sixth ribs.
There was a ghastly screaming going on and on.
It hadn't been Canute in the glass. And it couldn't be him now. It was a horrifying devil. It was a starved and demented ghoul. It was a malodorous ghost. It was a misbegotten bony abomination. It was—
It was one of
the skinny people of Leptophlebo Street. It was himself, of course: and the screaming voice was his own.
Heavy tears were running down Canute's face
(“It only hurts for a little bit and for a little while,” Hiram was saying again.)
in outrageous streams
(“You'll learn to like yourself this way,” Maharana was saying. “We like you this way.”)
and falling
(But how could you become one of us if you didn't become one of us?” Effie was chiding.)
to be caught in a special cup by Crispin Halfgram
(“The special salinity is quite prized,” he was saying.)
before they hit the Street.
The Man Who Walked Through Cracks
I
There came a crooked man, untimely born,
Who blew down walls with soundless, cromie horn.
He sought, beyond the realm of cul-de-sacs,
Infinity that hides itself in cracks.
—The Original Horn Book
Hamelin College had no claim to fame except that it was the titular see for a group of numinous guards. They guarded well most of the time, but every few centuries some group slipped through them. There were, in fact, recent events pointing to the case that someone might have slipped through in the present decade.
“The events weren't real,” Professor Dorothy Mandel insisted. “They were working postulates used in my experimental psychology class, and that's all they were.”
“The events weren't real,” Professor Rosemary Thumbsdown insisted. “They were recurring mythperson events in my analytical mythology class, and that's all they were.”
“Our position is that the events weren't real,” said Dean John Michael Anwalt. “But we have to crom our necks a bit to hold that position. It gives you a funny outlook when, one half of the time, you are looking out at the world from the inside of a spherical bottle.” Aw, what kind of talk is that?
The Man Who Talled Tales: Collected Short Stories of R.A. Lafferty Page 211
