The Anagram

by Russell French

  The A487 had her winter clothes on. The brooding mountains were softened by a crisp coating of snow but still offered a shadowy menace. The ever-present wind was icy and razor-blade sharp and the road surface clad in a covering of ice-rink treachery. A general atmosphere of wintry unpleasantness hung around the place. On the other hand, there was no rain this time and traffic was comparatively sparse. Gareth drove carefully—he was not in too much of a hurry. Would you be if you had an appointment with a gnome? Noel Lyttle had told him to make for the “Guardsman” pub next to the old bookshop in Machynlleth, where he would be contacted by an individual calling himself Graham Nate. Things would develop from there. “Events will follow their natural course” as the old lawyer had put it with a knowing look.

  “Natural course? Does that mean I have no control over events? Why don’t I just stay inside my house and let events come to me, then? And who the hell’s Graham Nate, when he’s at home?” These were among the many thoughts that cluttered up the young man’s confused mind, the trademark deep frown meeting up with his scar, as it did more and more frequently these days.

  As it happened, and despite Noel Lyttle’s prophetic words, things did not go according to plan. He ploughed on towards Machynlleth and he was nearing his destination when a completely unforeseen event took place. Gareth had been aware for a couple of minutes of a girl cyclist pedalling furiously in front of him. She was well wrapped up against the inclement weather but it seemed to Gareth that a pleasantly curvy figure was concealed under all the layers of clothing—definitely worth a closer look, the young Welshman thought. He allowed these less gloomy ideas a little head room for a moment or two and was just pulling out to overtake when a dark shape seemed to flash across the road in front of him. In instinctive panic, he lurched to the left, knocking the cycle and its occupant into the roadside bushes and pointing his car at a large oak tree at the edge of the road. The front of the car took the full brunt of the impact, Gareth’s head crashed against the steering-wheel and all the lights went out.

  8

  The first thing Gareth saw when he rather groggily opened his eyes again convinced him he was dead: a vision, it seemed to him, of such perfect beauty that it could only belong to an angel. The oval-shaped face was wrapped in straight dark auburn-brown shoulder-length hair, the ends of which framed a delicate chin and encased a pair of eyes of the deepest darkest brown imaginable. Around the divinely kissable lips there played a gentle, slightly shy smile.

  “If this is Heaven, give me more of it” he managed to croak before becoming painfully conscious of a skull-splitting headache and falling back exhausted on to his pillow.

  The angel smiled. “It’s all right. You’re not dead. Just had a nasty crack on the head. You might have another scar to go with the one you’ve already got—no, only kidding!”

  Now Gareth was really confused. Like most of us, he had never really given much thought as to what an angel’s voice might sound like but it was safe to say that what he could only describe as educated Scouse would not be first on many people’s list of heavenly tones. If he wasn’t dead, then, where was he? He made an effort to turn his head to either side to try to establish his whereabouts. The angelic nurse turned away from him and bent her shoulders slightly to get her patient a glass of water. Gareth was conscious of a beautifully slim waist above heavenly—shaped legs, clad in form-hugging jeans. A woolly black top was firmly and enticingly wrapped over tantalisingly proud breasts.

  What he saw next in no way dissipated the fog in his brain. He appeared to be, for want of a better word for it, underground. The room surrounding him had a low ceiling, green walls and tree-roots protruding at various angles. A log fire, burning in what seemed to be no more than a hole in the wall, gave out cheerful light and heat and yet the chamber was not smoky or oppressive. The low wide bed on which he lay was obviously made from natural wood, as the wonky-looking but sturdy legs suggested, but was at the same time extremely comfortable.

  The frown returned, deeper than ever. “Where am I? And who are you?”

  The ministering angel smiled again. “You’re in Theeth’s house and I’m Beth.”

  “Theeth’s house. You’re not telling me that he perpetuates the myth by living… underground?” In spite of the physical discomfort he was experiencing, Gareth could hardly keep the scorn out of his voice.

  “Don’t mock. It’s not a myth. There is a proper house above but he likes to come down here because this is where he feels most comfortable. He needs to keep in touch… .”

  “With his roots!!” Gareth sneered. “Don’t tell me!”

  “I don’t think I’m going to like you”. The seraphic smile had disappeared, “Which is awkward if we’re going to have to work together.” The angel’s beautiful face was creased by a worrying frown.

  Gareth scrutinised the angelic features ever more closely. His heart almost missed a beat when he gazed into the deep limpid eyes and caught a glimpse of the fellow-feeling he had been searching for. He quickly regained his composure, examined the rest of her face and was conscious of scratches on both cheeks. “What happened to you?” he asked.

  “Oh nothing serious. Just a slight accident—some lunatic roadhog dumped me into a thorn bush, that’s all.”

  “You’re the girl on the bike! My God, I’m so sorry! Something crossed the road in front of me and I swerved to avoid hitting it. Ended up depositing you into the bushes. Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “No, no, I was lucky—and so were you, by the looks of thing. Could have been quite nasty, but I just acquired a few bruises. I don’t remember seeing anything on the road, though. What did it look like?”

  “Dunno. It was just a shape, rather than an actual creature, or so it seemed. It just came from nowhere and flashed past the front of the car.”

  “Really? That is quite alarming. Would they dare, so near here?” A previously-unnoticed figure eased itself from a deep armchair in the corner of the room. Gareth thought he could make out a small, ostensibly male form dressed in black trousers, white shirt and burgundy velvet jacket adorned with a navy blue bow-tie jauntily perched at an angle. His skin was the colour of rice pudding and two striking features dominated his wizened features: a pair of intense coal-black eyes and a long carrot-shaped nose. Gareth felt a vague twinge of recognition.

  “You were at Seth’s funeral,” he said, almost accusingly.

  “Yes, I had hoped you wouldn’t notice me but I had to be there. It was hard, to lose such an old friend.”

  “Why didn’t you make yourself known?”

  “Well, it’s not easy. I can pass as human but there were people there who might have reacted unfavourably to my appearance. Better to stay unnoticed. When did you see me?”

  “I didn’t actually see you. I was aware of something moving in the trees as we left.”

  “Yes. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Theeth. Actually, that’s a title rather than a name but that is how I am generally known. And you of course are Gareth Llewellyn, which means that we are all assembled.”

  “And are you really a… . gnome?” Gareth could scarcely keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  “Yes, yes. I am indeed. There are a small band of us left who keep the old ways going. I’m sure you know about the Balance and how gnomes and goblins try to tilt it one way or the other. We need the help of selected humans, of whom you are one and so”, he nodded towards Gareth’s nurse, “are you”.

  “Well, yes I’ve read a bit about it but it just sounds like so much rubbish to me!”

  “Rubbish? How dare you!” the throaty voice was genuinely insulted. “Does my presence here not immediately confound that theory? How can you still have doubts?”

  “Well, I’ve only just met you. You could be some crackpot dressed up trying to fool people. Noel and John Phillips and the others have never met you.
There’s only Seth, and he’s dead now, conveniently.”

  “Seth was able to meet me because he, like you, was a Custodian. We usually limit our dealings with humans to Custodians. Pierre Poivre took a tremendous risk showing himself in a public place, but I suppose he thought it was worth it. And it did, ultimately, achieve his aim.”

  “Well who’s this Graham Nate? Is he a Custodian? I was told there were only two of us round here.” Gareth’s raging headache made him sound even more sceptical.

  Theeth gave a gravelly little chuckle. “We sometimes have to couch our messages in disguised form. Anagrams play a big part in our communicating, in an attempt to confuse the opposition.”

  “Anagrams, eh? Word games? I’m good at those. Is Custodian an anagram? As there are two of us here, how about ‘A discount’—two for the price of one?” The crippling migraine had not managed to distil the Welshman’s trenchant wit.

  “That’s quite clever, Mr Llewellyn.” Theeth’s voice was colder now. “Why do I get the impression that you are not taking this very seriously?”

  “Or, or,” Gareth was on a roll now, “You could have ’Oi sad cu—”

  “That’s enough, Mr Llewellyn!” Theeth’s rasping tone brooked no rebuttal. “I will not tolerate vulgarity in my house and yet I cannot throw you out because I need you. You and this young lady are all we have. We must work together if we are to preserve the Balance! This is not a time for trivial amusement.”

  “Otherwise what? Armageddon?”

  “Gareth, that’s enough. You ought to rest now.” Beth’s soothing intervention had the desired effect.

  “Yes, right. Sorry. We’ll talk more later and plan for the end of the world as we know it!” Gareth settled down in his rustic bed again and drank some of the earthy-tasting liquid Beth proffered him in an old mug.

  “Why am I the one always apologising? I didn’t ask to be here.” Gareth’s grumpy complaints were cut short as the potion started its work and he fell fast asleep.

  Beth smiled ruefully as she brushed the hair away from the bruise on Gareth’s forehead. She gazed down at him for a few seconds and managed to refrain from stooping low and kissing him on the cheek. She shrugged her shoulders at Theeth as she quietly left the room. The old boy had a puzzled frown as he settled back into his chair and gazed intently at the sleeping Welshman. This was not what he had expected, not what he had expected at all! If Gareth Llewellyn remained an unbeliever, he would be of no assistance whatsoever. He could only hope that his arguments, coupled with Beth’s charms, might help to win the young man over. If not… .

  9

  “We go back a very long way”, Theeth began, after breakfast the next morning, “At least as far as Neanderthal and early Cro-Magnon man.”

  “What happened to you, then?” asked Gareth, as he sipped at his third cup of excellent coffee. “Why are there so few of you now? And why is the world not aware of your existence?” The Welsh lawyer was still puzzled as to what kind of creature his host was—not human, that was for sure, yet certainly not animal. The gnome was revealing mental faculties as least as advanced as any humans he knew, and these would appear to compensate more than adequately for any deficiencies in the physical area. Was it possible, was it just possible that Theeth really was a gnome, a “new” species previously completely unknown to Man, give or take one or two privileged people? No, no, surely not, and yet… Gareth decided to bide his time and try to keep his scepticism under control.

  “Because of our size and our slight build, we were easy prey for other creatures, even though we meant them no harm. We learnt very quickly to hide ourselves away where we could not be found. Both the goblins and ourselves come from the same ancestors as man, obviously, but at some point way back in the past our paths separated enough to make a difference. We differ from humans in that we have two hearts, not one and a much slower metabolism. We live on average twice as long as man and produce far fewer offspring. We also have only four digits on our hands and feet, which is why you will always see us wearing gloves and shoes.” Theeth held up a hand which was indeed sheathed in an elegant black glove. A natty pair of brogues adorned his rather dainty feet.

  “Five fingers,” said Beth, “How come?”

  “One”, replied the gnome “Is a false one, just for appearance’s sake.” He squeezed the middle finger to prove his point. “It would not do for some nosy keen-eyed human to spot the anomaly and start asking embarrassing questions.”

  “So for thousands of years you would have us believe you’ve been hiding away barely scraping a living. Pretty pointless existence, isn’t it?” Gareth was still sceptical, in spite of his best intentions.

  “Maybe, to you. But we have been gifted with great intellect and we have been able to have an effect on the progress of the world. It soon became clear that despite our similarities, the goblins and the gnomes viewed this Earth from different perspectives. Gnomes have always been optimistic, cheerful in their view of life. We regard men as our friends, despite their historical hostility towards us. We believe that man is the ultimate creation and it is our mission in life to try to help him to achieve his full potential. The Goblins on the other hand, believe that man is evil and do their best to bring him down at all times. Gnomes have green blood, by the way, and goblins black. You will understand why we are not keen to mix too much with humans and why Pierre Poivre’s action in Paris concerns us so much.”

  “Yes, I can see that”, said Gareth rather grudgingly, “Assuming that everything you say is true. But how did you end up here?”

  “There are small pockets of us throughout Europe and the odd one in other parts of the world, although hotter climes do not really suit us”, Theeth replied. “We are not always in contact with each other. It is not easy for a gnome or goblin to set up an e-mail account, as you can imagine. We are not sub-divided on racial lines as humans are. Pierre Poivre, for example, just happens to have taken on that name because he lives in France. I am here because the vibes are good for gnomes in this part of the country. There are just a few of us—the main colonies are further up the coast and also in the north-east and south-east of England. The Goblins tend to be based in large cities such as London and Paris because it is easier for them to hide. There is, however, a place not far from here, near Mold in North Wales, called Bryn yr Ellyllun, which means The Hill of the Goblins. This indicates that they might well have had a fairly strong presence in Wales at some time.”

  “No sign of them now, though?”

  “Not as far as I am aware.” Theeth replied cautiously. “We seem to have driven them off.”

  “And why are you always at war? Why does it affect us?”

  “As I told you, we have a different outlook on life. We gnomes do not accept the God of the major religions—all-powerful, all-knowing, demanding eternal adoration. We believe, like Buddhists and a bit like the Japanese, that it is what man does with his own life that is important. What happens after, we are not sure. We do not rely on so-called divine revelations or miracles to prove the existence of a supreme being. Such a presence does exist, we believe, but not as a bossy or interfering deity. Having created the planet, he has left us to get on with it and make of it what we can.”

  “A kind of deism, then.”

  “If you like. How can a loving God explain the Holocaust or the Inquisition or the horrors in Stalin’s Russia? How can a loving God explain that one in seven of us on this planet is hungry and will almost certainly die an early and miserable death? No, we believe that man is in control of his own destiny and has it within him to make life good for all.”

  “So man is aiming for a sort of ultimate goal like the Buddhist Nirvana?” Gareth was by now genuinely curious. He was doing his best to get his head round the beliefs Theeth was expounding.

  “Not exactly. We do not believe in re-incarnation, for example. Man only gets one chance. He just n
eeds to make as much of life as possible, to fulfil his potential for good rather than evil. In keeping with all great religious or philosophical credos, we have made use of other customs and beliefs to advance our own cause. We recognise Christ, Mohammed and Buddha as great prophets. We took the phrase “Ecce homo”—‘Behold the Man’—the description of Christ, and altered it to “Ecce triumphans homo”—‘Behold Man Triumphant’ to acknowledge the fact that this greatness lies in all men. Hence the letters ETH have taken on great importance for us. Words, names, that end in these letters have particular significance for gnomes. Not to say that everybody named Elizabeth is somehow special but it can be a pointer.”

  Gareth and Beth looked at each other and grinned.

  “Obviously, the initials E.T.H are also important but, funnily enough, any word that starts with the letters “Eth…” could be malevolent, what you would call a double bluff. Anagrams are important for us, particularly in the English language, the language of global communication and of course “eth” is an anagram of “the”, the most common word in the language. It is also an anagram of “het”, as in “het up”, which implies anger and frustration and as such is not a good word. That is why Goblins have been able to appropriate limited use of it as well.”

  “So where do we fit in all this?” This seemed a perfectly reasonable question to Gareth and indeed Beth nodded her agreement.

  “As we are unable to mix with humans, we need people, special people, to spread the doctrine.”

  “And how do we do that, if we are such special people? I’m not aware that I have any particular talents in that direction.” The cynicism was there again.