Worming the Harpy and Other Bitter Pills

by Rhys Hughes

  ‘Wait a moment!’ I cried, interrupting her astonishing tale. ‘This surely cannot be true. A meteorite did strike the city that morning. It was reported in the Chaud-Mellé Chronicle.’ She acknowledged the truth of this, but explained that the object had struck the river. I had read the headline on a news-stand the following day and assumed it applied to me. I had not bought the paper and checked the story because my head was throbbing too much. She then claimed the blow had killed me instantly but my ghost, bold as a bagel, simply stood up and carried on walking. Beerbohm Soames and the other plotters were apparently much put out by this—they continued to treat me as if I were alive (this accounted for their difficulty in seeing and hearing me) and were enormously relieved when I turned away from poetry of my own accord.

  The deception had continued ever since. They were delighted when I set fire to Twilight of the Anti-Idols without any prompting. But she, beautiful and honest Éclair de Lune, had been disturbed by the whole sequence of events. She had tried to approach me with a letter revealing all, but her intentions had been discovered by Beerbohm Soames. With the aid of Signor Udolpho, he had imprisoned her in this attic. That was when she had decided to attract my attention by acting in a suspicious way: living just on cream cakes (for which she possessed a genuine love) and wallowing in dry baths. It had never occurred to her that I might fall in love with her—she merely wanted me to think she was a sort of phantom. My own real ghostly nature would thus be attracted to a kindred spirit (‘elective-magnetism’ she termed it), and I would stop at nothing to gain access to her room. Then she would be able to finally let me know the true state of affairs.

  ‘But your ghostly nature was not attracted. It seems I appealed more to your carnal desires than your ethereal soul. Though I ate dozens of éclairs by the light of the gibbous moon, though I composed several extended pieces for piano solo (that have been subsequently performed at the Lycée d’Gottschalk) and washed without water until I began to smell like an over-ripe cheesecake, you did not come. So when I heard your new poetry reverberating throughout my chamber, I seized the chance to snare you in a more practical way. I drew up the cable, compelling you to enter this very night. You are in great danger: if Beerbohm Soames finds out you have resumed rhyming, he will arrange for an exorcist to banish you instantly to Sussex!’

  Glumly, I confessed that I had been so caught by the yellow peril. Yet I was still not entirely happy with her version of events. I had wisely planned for my death, stating in my Will that my body must be left to the scientists of Ingolstadt University. They were doing wonders with their re-animation process these days. Beerbohm Soames would not have been able to contest it—my body would have duly been carted to that hallowed Institute and resurrected. I had little doubt of that. Had I really been killed that day, whether by meteorite or murderous bust, I would soon have been up and about again, not in spirit form, but as an honest walking cadaver, flesh and congealed blood. This seemed to be a flaw in Éclair de Lune’s story. I told her as much.

  ‘But Soames volunteered himself as your executor,’ she replied. ‘He made sure your body was left to science as instructed. Unfortunately, you did not state which science. He arranged it to be delivered to the Social Sciences Department. At first the economists there did not know what to do with you. They hid you in a cupboard and hoped you would go away on your own. Later, when they thought about it more carefully, they hoped you would not. In any event, you soon went off in a different way and your limbs were boiled to make glue for the teeth of debtors. A curious irony, to be sure—but Soames is a sly one!’

  ‘Evidently!’ I was startled by a crash from outside. It sounded as if a carbine had been discharged at the balcony, the shot ricocheting off the railings. It was not Harpy-shooting season for another three weeks; until then guns were not allowed to be fired in the city. I jumped to my feet and rushed over to the window. Signor Udolpho was standing at the foot of the ladder, hastily reloading his firearm. He saw me—his second shot shattered the glass of the window. I shook crystal shards loose from my hair. Éclair de Lune beckoned me back into the depths of the room. ‘Silver bullets, eh?’ I called down. ‘You have mixed your folklores, Signor Udolpho! I am no bloodsucker.’

  He calmly proceeded to pour more gunpowder down the smooth-bored barrel, reaching into a pouch at his belt for the shot. ‘Not silver, Monsieur Jekyll. Chrome! All supernatural beings have an aversion to one metal or another. One of these pellets lodged in your insubstantial hide will slow you down!’ He raised the gun to his shoulders and let loose a third volley. He was a poor shot; the result of this one was a number of loose tiles that slid off the roof and smashed at his feet. ‘Ah, but I have already summoned Monsieur Soames and the others. They are on their way at this moment with an orthodox priest!’

  I turned back to Éclair de Lune. A long look passed between us; I was asking her to come with me, to forsake her life of piano and pastry for one of greater hardship—the girlfriend (and then perhaps wife?) of a phantasmagorical insurance-salesman. She nodded assent with an almost imperceptible motion of her fine head. ‘Come then!’ I wailed. ‘Let us be gone from this frightful place.’ I spotted the insulating-cable lying in a corner and coiled it around my shoulder. Then I clasped her hand tightly. She shrugged. The door that led from her room was not locked, but there was no way down. Beerbohm Soames had removed the staircase. I flung open the door and teetered on the brink of the musty abyss. I wrapped the cable around the leg of her piano and lowered the doubled length into the depths. Éclair de Lune was less fearful than was I; she grasped the cable and slid its entire length with the grace of an angel cake. I followed in trepidation. When I reached the bottom I tugged the cable after us. It dropped at my feet like liquorice.

  We groped our way through the gloomy stairwell into the pâtisserie proper. I cursed myself for not drawing the ladder up after me when I had entered Éclair de Lune’s room. Signor Udolpho’s insomnia was well documented; he had probably ventured out for a walk and collided with the ladder as he stepped out of his front door. ‘Hurry! Soames will be here soon!’ I hissed. We entered the pâtisserie; it was as dark as black-cherry gâteaux. We would have to leave by the back way. All at once there was a spark, as of flint striking steel. Then there was another, and yet another. Phosphorous matches were being struck all around us—some flared into life, others merely scraped their heads away on invisible sandpaper. It was like a chorus of cicadas, accompanied by sardonic laughter. One by one, candles were lit—the room wavered, the colours ascended an octave and then all was plainly visible.

  It was a trap. They were all there; they had doubtless been waiting for us the whole time. Signor Udolpho’s shotgun antics had served the purpose of driving us into their clutches. Beerbohm Soames, in yellow silk pyjamas; Edwin Saltus Abbott, wearing a hat with an outsized price-tag stapled to the brim; Villiers le Gallienne, absinthe bottle raised to green lips; Novalis MacDonald, in kilt and Tyrolean hat, a reference to the ancestor who had helped found the city (originally named Umber-Scone and changed to Chaud-Mellé, at the turn of the last century, when duelling was finally legalised and the city seceded from the Federation, becoming, in Mark Xeethra Samuels’s phrase, the first ‘Cantonesque take-away’). But there were some present who I thought too successful to be envious of my work: Rosemary Gibbet-Pardoe and her lover, Dennistoun Homunculus; the renowned minor composer Cobalt Hugh; the evil Sumerian pervert, Cuneiform de Sade.

  And among the familiar faces, I saw one I did not know. A furious gentleman with an oily chin, dressed in black robes and almost crushed by the mass of ornate necklaces that rested on his bloated stomach. Beerbohm Soames noted my confusion. ‘Allow me to make introductions. This is Canon Alberic, an unconventional orthodox priest. He has come to banish you to East Grinstead.’ I studied the figure more closely. His jowls shook with rage. Obviously Canon Alberic had a short fuse. I moved in front of Éclair de Lune, to shield her from any designs they might entertain upon her person. But Soames shook his
head; he was genuinely affronted. ‘We shall not touch her. It is you we want; we will simply return her to the attic.’

  I exploded with self-righteous fury. I noticed a chocolate éclair resting on a plate on the counter. Without thinking, I snatched it up and advanced towards Beerbohm Soames. ‘Come then, you swine! Face me like a man, poet to poet.’ This had an astounding effect. The greater mass of those gathered seemed mentally to draw back from Soames, though they did not physically move. If he refused my challenge, he would lose all authority in their eyes. He scowled and seized an unsheathed éclair of his own. This was a highly symbolic choice of weaponry. We were, in effect, fighting over Éclair de Lune with the emblems of her identity. I lunged at him, but he jumped back, knocking over his chair and spitting oaths at me. Then he counter-attacked, grazing my elbow; I clutched my arm and felt the cream oozing between my fingers.

  The pâtisserie was now utterly silent, save for our puffings and pantings, and the squishy clash of cake on cake. Fortunately for me, he was not an expert fencer; to my disadvantage, neither was I. We parried and thrust clumsily from one end of the pâtisserie to the other. Beerbohm Soames bawled to his compatriots for assistance, but though despicable rogues, they knew the rules of the duello could not be broken. I leapt onto a table; it collapsed beneath my weight. Soames knocked candles over as he swung, setting tablecloths alight. Signor Udolpho chewed his knuckles as several small fires merged into one larger one, exposing the sweat and grime on his face. And then I tripped over an abandoned scone, falling forward with outstretched éclair. By some fluke, it caught Soames with his guard down. The point poked his eye; cream spurted. He moaned and collapsed to the floor. I did not hesitate. Anyone who has lived more than four-and-twenty summers will always choose mercy over justice; I offered Soames the latter. Taking a gingerbread devil from the counter, I administered the coup de grâce. I was in half a mind to saw his head off with the implement, impale it on a baguette and parade it in front of his friends. But I could not find a baguette.

  I looked over my shoulder for Éclair de Lune. I had expected, in a typical male sort of way, that she would be meekly waiting while the two rivals for her attention fought it out. In fact she was engaged in a duel herself, taking on Edwin Saltus Abbott, Villiers le Gallienne and Novalis MacDonald simultaneously. More to the point, she was handling her weapon with a good deal more panache than I ever could; her stricken antagonists fell rapidly to her superior technique. Soon they lay in a heap together, their hearts riven, a pool of strawberry jam spreading from under their prone bodies. ‘Hurrah!’ I cried. ‘Salut!’ I continued with other similar phrases, in a dozen languages, much in the manner of a pretentious short story writer who wants to sound like an educated European, but in fact looks the words up in dictionaries.

  The door of the pâtisserie flew open and Kingdom Noisette stood framed in the light of a false dawn (much time had passed since I recited my poem outside Éclair de Lune’s window). ‘Ee oop!’ he cried, his voice like the pounding of a steam-driven guillotine, his whiskers bristling. As far as I was concerned, this was a perfect ending. The man I held in higher esteem than any other had obviously come to sort things out, to right all wrongs, avenge all injustices, in the sort of patronising way (kindly but firm) we are all so used to. I rushed forward to kiss his boots, but he seized me by the collar and held me off the ground. Then, with the back of his hand, he began to slap me. His calluses were like the barnacles of a ship; they would have drawn blood had I not been a ghost. As he continued to slap me, I decided he had not come to put matters right after all; neither did it seem very likely that he had come just for the insulating-cable.

  The beating went on for some hours. My memories of it are muddled. When Kingdom Noisette had exhausted himself, he passed me over to one of the others present in the pâtisserie. They all took their turn. Rosemary Gibbet-Pardoe used the complete works of her favourite writer, Bram le Fanu Maturin, to inflict the blows; her lover, Dennistoun Homunculus, used the tip of his cane; Cobalt Hugh used a bassoon; Cuneiform de Sade contented himself with calling me rude names. I was dimly aware that Éclair de Lune was vainly struggling to restrain them—their numbers were too great even for her. I felt I could stand no more. After a while Kingdom Noisette was sufficiently rested to resume where he left off. As he bore down on me again, a peculiar thing happened.

  The ground opened up behind him. Part of the floor ruptured and exploded outwards, showering everyone with rubble. From the hole thus exposed, eerie figures began to emerge into the light. They wore steel helmets and carried picks; sticks of dynamite dangled from their belts. They blinked and coughed dust out of their lungs. I recognised them at once and clapped my hands for joy—they were the team of engineers from whom I had borrowed the cable. Without communications, they had indeed ventured off course and had blasted a tunnel into the pâtisserie. It took them some seconds to understand where they were. When it dawned on them that they were in the midst of some of the most renowned cakes in the city, they whooped and discarded their egg and anchovy sandwiches. Then, in a single great wave, they surged over the lip of the hole and made for the counter with vastly rumbling stomachs.

  Kingdom Noisette was caught up in the relentless tide of hungry workmen; in vain he tried to assert his authority over them. The last I saw of him was a horrified visage disappearing into a sea of struggling bodies. He fixed his bloodshot eyes upon my true love and muttered the rueful words, ‘Ee Claire!’ and then he was gone. The engineers crashed through the pitiful barricade of overturned tables and chairs that the demi-monde hastily erected—they crushed all before them in their rush to reach the confections. Kingdom Noisette’s last words had electrified my soul (which was now the whole of me) and I stood dumbfounded. But Éclair de Lune, exhibiting more fortitude, grasped me by the arm and propelled me towards the opening of the tunnel. We stumbled down into darkness. Behind us, the sounds of titanic gorging bespoke of the utter failure of the bohemians to keep the engineers at bay.

  We ran for a good mile or so and then paused for breath. Éclair de Lune had wisely thought to bring a candle and a match with her. We soon had the benefit of illumination. As we wandered down the tunnel, hand in hand, she filled me in on the rest of what I needed to know. It was true that Kingdom Noisette was her father (such an absurd coincidence that I could do little but puff out my cheeks and exclaim: ‘Ach!’). She had been christened Claire—Claire Louise Noisette was her real name, but she had adopted the pseudonym Éclair de Lune for a variety of reasons, some of which we have already outlined. Her father’s pronunciation of her name was merely the most obvious. Others included the fact that the word ‘loon’ means ‘harlot’ and she had worked for a time in Southampton. The main reason, however, was that ‘éclair’ is French for ‘lightning’ and her family had originally come from Bolton.

  Kingdom Noisette, it appeared, had been in league with Beerbohm Soames all along. He had been disappointed that his daughter had chosen a poet for a lover and persuaded Soames to keep the affair secret. In return, Noisette lent him the money to keep her in cream cakes when he imprisoned her above Udolpho’s pâtisserie. But there was more to the deal than that—the bushy Grand Engineer had seen possibilities in my ghostly condition. ‘The reason why his workmen accepted you so readily was because they were all ghosts as well. It was the meteorite striking the river that caused the collapse of that first tunnel and the drowning of those men. That is why you felt a calling for engineering after your own death—it was elective-magnetism; the pull of kindred spirits. My ghostly charade could not hope to compete with the real thing.’ She then added that Kingdom Noisette had been investigating the potential of ghost power as a cheap source of energy. For one thing, he would not have to pay workers who were already dead.

  We wandered down the tunnels for many days. It became apparent that the workers had broken into an older system of passages during their excavations. We explored caverns measureless to man (but not to woman) and eventually emerged in the cellars
of the Uruguayan embassy. It was well-stocked too, with Chiantis and fruity Moselles. We were determined to start a new life together (I use the word ‘life’ as a mere figure of speech). And that is precisely what we did. We also attempted to find a moral of some sort in our adventures. Had they shown that love can cross all barriers and social classes, even those between living and deceased? Had they shown that lust was stronger than putrefaction? I thought they had, but Éclair de Lune disagreed. When I tried to argue, she threatened to turn me in to Canon Alberic. I have heard it said he never gives up on a case. It is a point of honour with him—he still feels he has to atone for that time he overwound the cathedral clock.

  It is refreshingly cool down here in the cellar. But we are running out of wine. Éclair de Lune hints she will send me up to the surface to obtain some more. I spend my time writing short stories—I have not yet had any accepted for publication but I am hopeful. I want to write pure fantasy; I am already planning a series of tales set in an alternate world where harpies do not exist. Here is my one attempt at realism; it is not really my flask of Hock. Éclair de Lune edits all my work, she claims I am too verbose. This piece, for example, was originally nine times as long. She also edits my emotions.