by Guy Adams
“If you’re going to upchuck,” Abernathy told her, “go outside, I’ve enough problems without you adding to the mess.”
“If you mean vomit,” she said, “I’ve a stronger stomach than you give me credit for.”
“I’m not sure I have,” admitted William, stepping back towards the door. “Maybe I’ll just grab a little air.”
“Pussy,” Abernathy muttered. He poked at the Annelides with the handle of his broom. “You’d better be of a mind to pay for the damages here, damn it, I’d only just got the place stocked before you decided to fill it with your stinking muck.” He poked at a pile of the goo. “So disgusting,” he moaned. “I’d chew my own fingers off before I got a drop of it on me.”
“Annelides mucus fetches high prices,” Biter told him. “The higher castes use it as an aphrodisiac.”
Abernathy dropped to his hands and knees and began scooping it up in his hands. “Don’t just stand there!” he turned to Billy, “fetch me a couple of buckets.”
Billy looked around, making sure Abernathy wasn’t talking to someone else.
“Would you have an old man do all the work?” Abernathy said. “They’re in aisle three, bring the cheap ones not the galvanised.”
Billy wandered off in search of them while Abernathy scooped the mucus into a mound. “Fetch a shovel too!” he shouted after him.
“It’s amazing,” said Forset, “I’ve never seen a creature the like of it.” He squatted down as close as he dared, scrutinising every detail of it. “It’s like a worm but clearly not subterranean, the pigmentation’s too dark.”
“If words cost dollars you’d be one of my favourite customers,” said Abernathy. He looked to Elisabeth. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any dollars have you? I hear they’re all the rage with mortals and if I want to do business outside this town I’d better get the hang of ’em.”
“I have some back at the Land Carriage,” she told him. “Maybe I’ll let you keep one or two of them in return for some supplies.”
“Explain to me how the damn things work and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Billy returned with three buckets and a shovel. “Get scraping, boy!” said Abernathy. “Do a decent job and I’ll cut you in for a percentage.”
The Annelides had finished its birthing as William returned, looking pale. “Folks out there are beginning to clear.”
“Good,” said Biter, “saves me having to whup ’em till their ears bleed.”
“You have a very percussive turn of phrase,” said Forset, scowling slightly.
“Why thank you,” said Biter with a grin, “good of you to say.”
He paced up and down, surveying the brood of young as they began to curl and wriggle. “I guess we should probably gather these up so we don’t lose any.”
“They’re rather sweet,” said Elisabeth as one poked at the toe of her boot.
“Damn right,” Biter agreed, “like honey dipped in sugar. That’s why they were gathering outside. Annelides young are a real delicacy.”
“That’s awful, how could they eat the poor thing’s babies?”
“Well, in my lawless youth, I might have turned a blind eye to one or two,” Biter admitted, “but I’m a man of responsibility these days.” He grinned, taking pride in the fact. “And I can guarantee you that no son of a bitch is swallowing these puppies ’cept the mother herself.”
“I beg your pardon?” Elisabeth backed away slightly as the large Annelides began to uncurl from its pyramid, its blind head probing around for its young.
“That’s the life cycle,” said Biter. “Annelides can’t eat nothing but its own young. If it don’t have a big enough litter to satisfy itself it’ll start chewing on its own tail and I don’t have to tell you what a mess that makes when it meets in the middle.”
The Annelides began sucking up its babies, slurping them whole into its distended, toothless maw.
“I’m just going to get a bit more fresh air,” said William, dashing towards the door.
“How does it propagate its species?” asked Forset. “Surely if it eats all of the young the line can’t continue?”
“It’ll spare a couple every few litters,” explained Biter, “then, once they’re mature, it’s off we go again.”
“That’s horrid,” said Elisabeth.
“That, my little bundle of sweetness,” explained Biter, “is nature.”
7.
WILLIAM SAT ON the boardwalk trying not to listen to the glutinous sounds coming from inside.
He watched the inhabitants of Wormwood going about their business. He wondered what his old brotherhood would have thought of the place. No doubt they would have made the sign of the cross and run off to find a dusty reading room to hide in. He had never really belonged in their order, he decided, he was too active to exist in such a passive regime. He wanted to experience the world, not sit in the dark and imagine it.
What about God? What would He have made of the beings that populated this halfway-house between worlds? If Biter was to be believed, the population of Hell were not the prison wardens traditional Christian study marked them out to be. They were just different. More of His creations living out their lives according to their own beliefs and desires. Perhaps it was his childhood, growing up on streets where even the cruelest, most violent gang member had something to redeem them, be it a sense of fraternal honour or doting love for his mother or dog, but William found he could see the bigger picture when he looked around him. He also knew that most would not. When these beings moved beyond Wormwood, stepping out into the mortal world, they would be greeted with fear. The fear would lead to hate and then the killing would begin. It was miserably predictable. Which side would he be on?
He watched a young couple cutting across the road towards the square. The man was definitely human, lopsided spectacles and unruly hair. The woman was harder to judge, she looked perfectly normal but there was an air to her that somehow set her apart. His instincts told him she was not of the mortal world. Yet here they were, arm in arm, sharing a laugh and, judging from their body language, much else besides. They would be the exception, William decided. A pity.
They walked up to the wooden statue and the man patted it on the shoulder, saying something in its ear. The statue remained immobile and the young couple continued on their way, walking up to the large house. The man opened the door and they stepped inside. After a moment the wooden statue’s head inclined slightly, no more than an inch but enough to prove there was life in it.
William smiled, got to his feet and went back inside the store.
8.
DESPITE THEIR INITIAL determination to pass Wormwood by and make their way into the Dominion of Circles, Forset’s party agreed to linger.
Forset had been convinced that they’d have more success moving forward with the help of a guide. Securing the services of someone reliable would be time well spent, he decided. Also, the prospect of being able to carry out full repairs on the Land Carriage was attractive to Billy. Why make do with the rough emergency repairs when they had access to materials and tools to do the job properly? They could also get themselves fully stocked for the road, maybe even secure more fuel. After all, Wormwood was a thriving town, becoming more so by the day. Why not take full advantage of the fact?
Of course, as sensible as these excuses might be, they were still excuses. They had been lured by the strangeness of the town, mysteries and monsters on every corner made safe by the attentions of Biter, his immobile deputy and the control of the governor. The latter was, it seemed, a reclusive figure, staying inside his house and only occasionally meeting with his representatives—most notably Biter. Sometimes instructions were given, messages passed. The permission to store the Land Carriage in the square ,for example. It was quite clear it couldn’t remain where they had left it, blocking the streets. It could be stationed in the square, the governor instructed, and Billy moved it there, trailing the group of children that had taken such a shine to the vehicle wh
en it first arrived.
The children used the Land Carriage as a climbing frame while Billy worked. Eventually they even began to take an interest in the dull business of repairs, assisting with small jobs, offering up wood to Billy’s hammer and nails, balancing glass panes as he replaced the windows.
If this noise disrupted the life of the governor, he gave no mention of it. Which is not to say there wasn’t sign of some distress within the walls of his home.
Working late one night, Billy had noticed a small fire burning behind one of the upstairs windows. He had assumed the worst when it began to flit from one window to another, moving around in the darkness like a firework ricocheting off the walls.
He had jumped down from the carriage, meaning to call for help, when the young man that William had seen on their arrival had appeared next to him and reassured him that there was no emergency.
“He gets like this sometimes,” the young man said, removing his spectacles and cleaning them on the material of his waistcoat. “He’s grieving.”
“Who for?” Billy asked.
“His father,” the man explained, walking on and entering the house.
To begin with, they slept in the Land Carriage but, after a couple of nights they found themselves convinced to take up rooms in the hotel. Their money was desired in Wormwood, its infernal population intrigued by the concept of currency you could hold in your hand and eager to learn its value.
“This is a far less painful way of working,” said Popo, the Incubus manager of the hotel, holding a dollar note up and rubbing it with his fingers. “To think that, if you gather enough of these, you can get whatever your heart desires without having to lose years of your life to pay for it.”
He had explained to Elisabeth the system prevalent in the Dominion and she had been grateful they didn’t have to subscribe to it. She had so few truly cherished memories that the idea of abandoning them seemed more than she was willing to consider.
“It’s not so bad,” Popo told her, “at least it stops you living in the past. Mind you, mortals would be very impoverished, so few years to gather the currency of experience.”
Both her father and Billy had been extremely wary of Popo talking to her of course but, despite physical evidence that suggested otherwise—something his refusal to wear clothes made brazenly plain—he appeared to have no sexual interest in her. She had mocked them for their clear embarrassment and disgust at the creature’s appearance.
“Typical men,” she had said, “we’re surrounded by physiognomies undreamed of and yet nothing terrifies you more than the sight of someone’s sex.”
They had not had much to say to that. Though, as the days passed, she noticed they grew used to his appearance and soon seemed to forget the fact. You can get used to anything in time, she thought. Say what you like about mortals but we’re adaptable.
If Popo fed on any of his residents none of them were aware of it or suffered ill-effects. He was the most gracious of hosts and they were extremely comfortable beneath his roof.
It was after they’d been in Wormwood a full week that Forset first met the elusive Governor.
9.
“‘YOU MORTAL ENGINES, whose rude throats the immortal Jove’s dead clamours counterfeit.’”
Forset looked up at the voice. The night was heavy around him as he sat in the Land Carriage, reading his old schematics by candlelight, contemplating improvements on the vehicle.
The man appeared ancient, his skin dry and sunburned. He wore black trousers and a loose shirt which showed the wrinkled flesh at his throat, a dry riverbed flowing down his chest.
“Shakespeare?” Forset asked.
“Othello,” the old man agreed. “It seemed appropriate.”
“You’re the governor,” said Forset, unsure as to why he was so certain of the fact.
“I am. I thought it would be good to meet you. I haven’t been sociable of late,” he looked out of the window towards his house, “for decades in fact. I have a feeling you may be of some use.”
“Considering your hospitality I’d be only too happy to help if it’s in my power to do so.”
“You’re a man of power in your country?” the governor asked.
“Why would you think that? Oh... my title. I’m a Baron, it’s hereditary. I’m afraid it doesn’t mean much.”
The governor nodded. “Titles of power handed down from father to son, unwanted and unused.”
“Pretty much.”
“So you don’t have the ear of your Queen?”
“Not really.”
“A shame. You must be aware that we’ve got an unpleasant time ahead of us. Consequences. War even.”
Forset hadn’t really thought that far ahead, too enamoured by the new world around him to think of where the appearance of that world might lead. “I suppose so.”
“I would avoid it if at all possible. I have no taste for death.” He paused for a moment. “Not any more.”
“You’re worried that the mortal world will try and stamp you all out?”
The governor looked up at him, a look of confusion on his face. “Quite the opposite. They wouldn’t stand a chance. It’s them I’m worried for. You can’t imagine the sort of power that lies on the other side of this town. I can hold it back, for a while. But sooner or later the mortals are going to make their demands. They’re going to threaten. Or just attack. Then I won’t be able to stand by and do nothing.”
Forset was struck by the man’s manner, there was no arrogance in him. He talked of a wave of destructive power that could wipe out the entire mortal world and yet he claimed he could hold it back. What was it about this man that made him such a force to be reckoned with? He decided he could but ask.
“I terrify them all,” the governor said. “Every last one of them. But fear is a useless power unless you’re willing to feed it. I’d rather think of another way.”
“Diplomacy?”
The governor nodded. “So. Will you help?”
How could Forset refuse?
WHAT AM I DOING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE REVOLUTION?
(An excerpt from the book by Patrick Irish)
NATURALLY, IT WAS a relief to see that my friends, indeed, all the inhabitants of the plains outside Wormwood, had survived the fate Alonzo had planned for them. As absurd as it may seem, given my residence within the gleaming corridors of paradise, I found I even envied them. Religious preoccupations aside, the Dominion of Circles will always make for more interesting sights than its heavenly counterpart.
I had made my considerable living writing about the monstrous and the uncanny—a genre I will be so bold as to suggest will offer little interest in the near future as the notion of the bizarre loses all meaning—and yet my imagination had been poor indeed. The barest glimpse of the denizens of that town soon made me look to my oeuvre with nothing less than embarrassment. I had once asked readers to react in awe to the notion of talking apes (Roderick Quartershaft and the City of Gorillas), small beer indeed compared to the species that strolled the streets of Wormwood.
But how would the people of the mortal world react? The governor—or, indeed, Lucifer as most knew him—was unquestionably right to assume the worst.
I have no doubt that, in the future, when the world is a different place, made smaller by faster transport and quicker communications (yes, I have seen such things, would you really expect a writer to sit in a room that can show him all of history and not take a peek?) that period between the town’s appearance and its global acceptance will seem absurd. A miraculous town—indeed the entire plain and the mountains surrounding it—had forced itself into the grasslands of Nebraska. Surely this would be remarked upon instantly? As a chronicler of these events I am duty bound to point this out to readers who—ah! The hubris!—may come to my words many decades after I have written them. To you, who have forgotten the slow crawl of information and wonder how the afterlife could intrude so forcefully and not immediately be surrounded by forces from countries the glo
be over, let me remind you of the world in which this happened.
The telephone was in its infancy, both in terms of construction and subscription. While telephony exchanges existed all over the country, they were small, local networks. The telegraph was our only method of long distance communication and, while fast, that relied on traveling to and from a telegraph office. The closest town to Wormwood, now that it had finally settled on a geographical location, was a small town called Alliance, and this was where you had to go if you wanted to send a message or, for that matter, take a train. It was fifty miles away, four hours on horseback, three if your horse was used to keeping up speed over distance.
As much as everyone, worldwide, knew that something had happened—that sensation, felt universally, when the Almighty fell to something as ignoble as a bullet—the appreciation of precisely what it was took a considerable time.
CHAPTER FIVE
PATHS OF WAR
1.
RAIN FELL OFF the old stone of Victoria Tower, pissing miserably onto the ground at Oscar’s feet.
“Is it so unreasonable,” he asked, hunkering beneath his umbrella, “that this meeting might have been conducted inside? I have no wish to drown halfway through our conversation.”
Oscar was used to suffering the elements. His position in the Foreign Office seemed never to allow him inside, it was one clandestine meeting after another. This, however, seemed a step too far; braving a cold wind in Regent’s Park was one thing, this deluge bordered on the apocalyptic. He regretted the thought as soon as it occurred to him, given the events he was hearing about in America. The notion that the apocalypse might indeed be close, chilled him more than the rain.
