Retromancer

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘That is not much of an end to the story. Surely there is more to it than that.’

  ‘There is more,’ said Esmerelle, ‘but you might not wish to hear it.’

  ‘You said there was a monster involved,’ I replied. ‘Get to that bit at least.’

  ‘So be it. The two sisters tried to free the golden mermaid, but they could not open the cage. And then suddenly they heard the door of the waggon lock upon them and the waggoner whipped up the horses and drove away from the village. Although the sisters cried out for help, their cries went unheard and the waggon drove on and on for several days. Soon the sisters were starving and driven half-mad by this hunger. And they could hardly cry out any more because they were growing so weak. There was no food at all in that locked wagon and so, upon the third day of their awful confinement, they made a terrible decision. That if they were to survive they must eat the golden mermaid.’

  I almost said, ‘Alive?’ but held my tongue.

  ‘They stabbed it,’ said Esmerelle. ‘The golden mermaid still flourished, you see, as if it had never the need for food. And they had begun to hate it and to envy it for watching their torment whilst remaining beautiful and unmoved. Oh yes, they really hated that mermaid. And so they killed it. They stabbed it through the bars of the cage and chopped it into pieces right there. And then they thrust those pieces into their mouths and never had they known such pleasure. That anything could taste so sweet.

  ‘But mere moments later the waggon stopped and the door was unlocked and the waggoner looked into the back of his waggon. And there he saw the two sisters, dirty and dishevelled, with blood all about their faces and all over their hands. And the waggoner gave forth a terrible wail and wept for the loss of his treasure.

  ‘And there and then he cursed those sisters for eating the sacred flesh of a merperson. And he cursed them with an everlasting hunger that should never be satisfied but by eating one of their own kind. The waggon had stopped high in the mountains and as the waggoner vented his curse a lone wolf howled on the mountainside.

  ‘And so that curse came to be, that the sisters would live for evermore, tormented always by a hunger that they could only slake once every month. When, with the coming of the full moon, they would take on the awful aspects of that lone wolf and consume human flesh. And so must they do this for ever.’

  ‘That is quite a story,’ I said. ‘And it has two monsters rather than one. Would you like me to tell you a story about how Mr Rune and I once travelled upon a subterranean ark and also visited the sunken city of Atlantis?’

  ‘No,’ said Esmerelle. ‘You fail to understand. My story is not just a story. My story is real. Those events really happened.’

  ‘I suppose it is possible that they might have done,’ I said. ‘I have experienced some very weird occurrences, so I would be prepared to believe such a tale. At a stretch.’

  ‘It is a true story,’ said Esmerelle. ‘And there is a little more to it than that. The curse was even more horrible in that only one sister is able to eat at each full moon. And the sister who is unable to eat ages overnight to become a wizened, wretched creature. So each sister must nurture the other, if both are to survive. And so the strong one, who remains young, selects a victim for the one who has become old to feast upon. This victim is always a young, fit boy of teenage years and he is dowsed with a pungent unguent to tenderise his flesh and mask his human smell, which makes him easier to eat. And he is fed a last supper of fat bread rolls, well-buttered, great big pie and huge rolly pud. For stuffing, you see. As one might stuff a Christmas turkey. And washed down with a milkshake to add extra vitamins.’

  A certain chill had now entered my bones and a certain squeaking sound came also to my ears. Along the deck trundled the wicker bath chair containing the ancient prune-like nanna, still being pushed by the striking gentleman with the amazing mustachios.

  The bath chair was drawn level and the nanna stared at me. ‘Meet my twin sister,’ said Esmerelle.

  And the nanna’s eyes glowed in the moonlight.

  52

  I would have run like the wind at this point. Or, if not at this point, then definitely at the point where the ancient, wrinkled, prune-like nanna rose from her bath chair and metamorphosed right there and then into a terrible wolf. And it was a proper full-scale animatronicstyle metamorphosis at that, with pruney skin shredding and big wolfy bits bursting out all over the place.

  I would have run, I really would. But I did not. I could not. I was all weighed down by that special last supper, which was clearly designed for such effect. So I sort of staggered to my feet and lurched forwards like some B-movie zombie. The werewolf monster was clawing through blankets and old-lady trappings, its jaws all salivaed, its growlings most awful to hear.

  And although I could not move too fast upon my wobbling legs, I was still able to lash out with justified and considerable fury and I managed to welt the fellow with the fine moustaches a blistering blow to the hooter, which sent him sprawling over the monster that was scrabbling up to eat me.

  Which did not give me very much time, but gave me just enough. There was one of those things that I have never really understood rising from the deck near at hand. One of those things that look a bit like a grossly oversized ear trumpet and are constructed of polished-up brass on period liners like this. And although I did not know just what I might be getting into, anything was preferable to being eaten alive by a monstrous wolf, so I flung myself into this polished brass item and fell into darkness below.

  The next thing I knew a couple of stoker-type sailors were yanking me into the light and telling me that I should not have been in there because that was a very dangerous place to be. And I was thanking them very much for this, but emphasising the fact that there were many more dangerous things in this world, when a lot of growling and clawing and scrabbling announced the imminent arrival of wolfish wickedness.

  ‘I would run if I were you,’ I told the stoker-types. ‘It is what I intend to do and you would both do well to emulate my example.’ Which was quite nicely put, although I think they failed to grasp the full import of its meaning.

  I ran at a belly-sagging stagger as fast as I possibly could.

  Behind me I heard growls and screams but I just lumbered on. Through a hatchway I went, but there was no lock, nor nothing to bar it behind me. And on and on I went, down a narrow corridor, until I reached a door with a sign that said CARGO HOLD.

  Behind me rose growls and horrible sounds, and so I entered the cargo hold.

  It was dimly lit and there were many steamer trunks and packing cases and crates of stuff and this, that and the other. I edged this way, that and the other trying to shrink through confined spaces and do my best to make myself invisible. But I was aware of one thing and that one thing was how members of the dog family are so noted for their sense of smell. And the way I smelled, I knew I must be leaving a trail that a half-nosed pup could follow.

  But I kept right on squeezing and held my breath as I heard the door to the cargo hold smash and the growlings grow louder and louder.

  ‘What would Hugo do?’ I wondered to myself. ‘Perhaps he would cast a mystic lightning bolt or simply pull a derringer from his shirt cuff and dispatch the beast in an instant. And then probably have some tailor in Knightsbridge run up a nice wolf-skin jacket for him from the pelt.

  I heard the beast do sniffings, then heard it growl once more. And I fumbled along, as quietly as I could in the dim light, hoping desperately that some solution to my dire predicament would hastily reveal itself.

  And then something nearly took off my hand.

  And I say nearly because I felt it coming at me rather than saw it and I tore back my hand in a rush.

  I had got myself a bit wedged against something that looked like a mighty steel coffin. It was all metal plates and rivets and seemed the sort of thing that would be likely to house something really dangerous.

  And on this occasion first impressions we
re not incorrect, because as my hand had brushed past a little barred air-hole kind of arrangement in the bolted lid, whatever lurked within had gone for it.

  I flapped my hand. I was trembling now and I had had enough of this business. I stared down at the metal coffin affair and read the label that was pasted upon it:

  PROPERTY OF BARON VON BACON.

  DO NOT FEED.

  DO NOT TOUCH.

  AND CERTAINLY DO NOT OPEN.

  Baron von Bacon, I knew that name. Creator of the Hell Hound with the human brain that had feasted on dead bodies back at Mons. Was the evil baron aboard this ship? It seemed that if he was not, then his Hell Hound was.

  And now there was growling in stereo, Hell Hound to the left of me, werewolf to the right, here I was, stuck in the middle with . . . just me.

  And then an idea dawned that was little less than inspired. Had I had longer to weigh up the disastrous potential attendant to the execution of this idea, I might well have thought twice about translating thought into action. But I was still young and foolish in my way and it did seem such a good idea at the time.

  And so I dragged open the bolts on the steely coffin, swung wide the steely lid and cried, ‘Kill, boy! British soldier dressed as a dog! Kill, boy! Good boy! Kill!’

  Well, there was always the chance that it understood English and I must say that considering the speed with which it left its metallic prison, it was certainly eager for freedom.

  I now did duckings of my head as the fiends fell to hideous conflict.

  The Hellish Hound and the Werewolf Monster tore at each other in fury. From what I could see of the maelstrom of violence, they appeared to be quite evenly matched.

  I had never been a betting man. It was just one of those things that never had come into my life. And anyway I was too young to enter a bookies and really did not understand quite what went on within them. But if I had had to place a bet upon which monster was going to survive the fur-flying holocaust, I would have been really hard put to it to choose.

  So I just slunk away, white-faced and trembling, and left them to sort it out for themselves. And I was halfway back along that narrow corridor when they came bucketing after me, bloody claws and teeth a-snapping and a-tearing. And I found some vigour in my legs now and so I took to my heels.

  I made it up to a deck that I had not visited before. Perhaps it was one of those decks frequented by the lower classes, who like to dance jigs upon them, or sing Irish songs about sorrow and spuds. Or sorrow for lack of such spuds. But whatever the case, it was presently deserted and I burst onto it followed by two flailing monsters.

  I tried hard to run, but tripped on my face and prepared to meet my maker. Howls and horror, growls and screams and moans and so much more.

  Then nothing.

  Then a kind of double splash.

  And I raised my eyes and crawled to the side and peered down into the water. But the moonlight shone serenely upon the mirrored surface and all was once more calm and peaceful, pale and tranquil.

  ‘Well,’ I said, rising and dusting down my dining duds, ‘I think that went rather well. We can chalk that one up as a success, I think.’

  Which of course was not the thing to say, because whenever you do get a bit smug and make a remark like that, something will always pop up, spoil the moment and smack you back down to the ground.

  This of course was just such an occasion, and the voice that I heard chilled my heart.

  ‘You have murdered my sister,’ cried Esmerelle, and then she was upon me. She hauled me to my feet and swung me around and as I stared into her beautiful face it transformed right there before my very eyes.

  ‘Only me now!’ she cried and she howled like a wolf. ‘And so I must have revenge for the death of my sister. I’ll tear your throat but let you live, and you shall be like me.’ And so there was a terrible ripping and tearing of clothing and the beast rose up to gnaw at my throat and transform me into a werewolf.

  And I prepared once more to meet my maker. Hopefully to meet my maker, for death would be better than the werewolf alternative.

  And the terrible jaws with their terrible teeth came closer and closer and cl—

  But then I saw that wolf face seem to fold, the jaws gaped wide but then dropped slack and I heard a swish and a swish and a swish and the monstrous beast fell past me.

  It plunged over the rail and down and down and into the ocean below.

  And I stared boggle-eyed into the face of my deliverer.

  For Hugo Rune was wiping down the swordstick blade of his stout stick cane.

  ‘Well, Rizla,’ he said. ‘This is a sorry business. You look, I must say, just a little pale, caught there in the light of THE MOON.’

  53

  THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE

  We sat at the bar upon chromium stools and I had an all-over shiver. Hugo Rune ordered me something strong and Fangio served it to me.

  ‘It was horrible,’ I told the Magus, as I poured out the details. ‘They were going to eat me. Horrible it was, just horrible. And Baron von Bacon’s Hell Hound was on board too. And that was really horrible and—’

  Hugo Rune nodded in a manner suggestive of the fact that he knew just how horrible it all was. And then he did sniffings at me. ‘Pooh,’ he said. ‘You really pong. First it was of horses from the Tower of London, and now—’ and he sniffed and did noddings of the head ‘—a perfume created from the gonads of the white wolf. Such a scent would surely attract any wolf, were or otherwise.’

  I drank some more and grew sulky. ‘And they all knew,’ I grumped. ‘These rich swine, when they sniffed me and turned away their heads, they knew I was marked for death.’

  ‘If this has, as I suspect, been going on for some time, then it would be a case of “rather him than me”.’

  ‘It has been going on since the start of the war,’ I said. ‘Those monsters have been living aboard this ship since then.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I have not encountered one of their kind for more than fifty years. My blade, thrice-blessed for such business, has happily not lost its edge.’

  ‘And you have saved my life once more,’ said I, brightening. ‘And I am very grateful for that. Thank you so much, Mr Rune.’

  ‘I could not let my acolyte come to harm. Even if he did ignore my plea and swan off to dinner instead.’

  ‘Your plea?’ I said.

  ‘The message you received in the dining salon.’

  ‘So it was you who wrote the message. But—’

  ‘You fail to understand. Yes, I see. She slipped me a sleeping draught, Rizla, this Esmerelle of yours. A Mickey Finn, as it were. She arrived at my suite with a cocktail that I had not ordered and then waited while I drank it. I was tricked once more, Rizla. I really do feel that I am losing my edge.’

  ‘But the message?’

  ‘I felt the drug taking hold and I feigned unconsciousness. She left my quarters, then I hastily scribbled the note and rang for room service.’

  ‘It said you were dying,’ I said.

  ‘I might well have been.’

  ‘You just looked like you were sleeping peacefully when I saw you.’

  ‘A sleeping draught will create such an effect, Rizla. They wanted me out of the way while they dined upon you. They were no doubt thinking to reserve me for the next full moon. Had you taken my message at face value you would have sat with me in my bedchamber, and possibly remained safe until I regained consciousness. However, you—’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All right. You just looked so peaceful and all those medics were there.’

  ‘In on the conspiracy,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I can assure you, Rizla, they felt the wrath of my stout stick when I awoke.’

  Fangio served us further drinks and these we downed in silence. Presently Fangio tired of this silence and took once more to the toot.

  ‘I was chatting,’ said he, ‘with the first mate. And the first mate says that this is the worst trip he’s ever been on. And he’s trav
elled on some stinkers - he was aboard the Sloop John B, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. And I yawned.

  ‘And there’s three waiters working here who survived the Titanic.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. And I yawned while I said it.

  ‘And the captain fell overboard on our first night out and was drowned.’

  ‘Nobody mentioned that,’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘The first mate said that they didn’t want to panic the passengers. Lots of posh Eastern European nannas and suchlike.’

  ‘Hm,’ I said, without a yawn. And then said, ‘Hm,’ again.

  ‘So, being a democratic crew, they drew lots to see who should captain the ship.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘I think I know what is coming. Break out the lifeboats, Mr Rune - Captain Fangio is steering us into an iceberg.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so silly,’ said Fangio. ‘They only drew lots amongst the long-standing seaman types. And a worthy fellow now steers the ship.’

  ‘Well, thank whatever for that,’ I said.

  ‘And funnily enough,’ Fangio continued, ‘he’s a Brentford man. I wonder if you ever ran into him. His name is Pooley, Jimmy Pooley.’

  There was a moment of silence there.

  Just before I screamed.

  ‘Hold on, hold on, hold on, please,’ said Fangio. ‘No screaming in the posh bar. Not until tomorrow night anyway. I have been elected games and entertainment officer and put in charge of bar fun generally. I thought I’d start off with a Weeping and Wailing Competition tomorrow night.’

  ‘No!’ I protested. ‘You do not understand. We are all doomed, doomed, I say.’

  ‘You’d be in with a chance with that kind of wailing. But please keep it down now, you are frightening my monkey.’

  ‘Sorry, Clarence,’ I said to the creature, ‘but we really are all doomed.’

  Mr Rune said, ‘Please speak clearly.’