by Jack Spain
Moriarty rode the rabbit across the deserted site, past some heavy machinery to a workers’ cabin. There he dismounted the rabbit and climbed up onto a barrel to look in a window. He rubbed some of the dust and dirt off the window with his elbow, and peered inside. There on the wall opposite the window was a map with two thin parallel lines on it. His throat grew very dry as his eyes followed the lines up the map, over the river, through the fields, past the sliced-loaf rock, by the lakes, over the stream, and into a hill. He looked down at the curious rabbit.
‘This isn’t good,’ he said.
The Laboratory of Balor
Balor’s basement laboratory was typical of any mad scientist’s workplace. It was untidy, cluttered with the oddest of things and very dark. One wall was covered in maps and another was covered in shelves, packed with books, dusty jars, rusty swords and a collection of the weirdest mechanical inventions that you ever saw. There was also a collection of radios and other electronic devices that had been so badly scavenged for parts that it was impossible to tell what they had originally been.
A large, simple fireplace with a roaring fire lit the laboratory. Moriarty was seated on a workbench, holding up his shirt to reveal his torso, which was heavily tattooed in ancient script, and sported a very large bruise. The ancient, wild white-haired, wizened figure of Balor rummaged through an old wooden box. Moriarty had always found the laboratory a mixture of spookiness and intrigue. A strange place where you never quite knew what was going to happen next.
‘Aha!’ Balor exclaimed, standing up and holding a bandage roll and a jar of some unearthly green ointment.
‘What’s that?’ Moriarty asked.
‘A bandage. What does it look like?’ Balor replied.
‘No, in the jar. What is it?’
‘Pesto,’ Balor replied as he came over.
‘Pesto? What are you going to do with that?’
‘Eat it. I like pesto,’ Balor replied as he reached into the pocket of his brown habit and pulled out a spoon. Balor opened the jar as he came over to Moriarty. Then he spooned some out and ate it, savouring the taste.
‘Tastes divine, doesn’t it?’ he said as he licked the spoon clean and placed it down on the table. Balor examined the bruising around Moriarty’s chest, poking his ribs a few times in the process and making Moriarty flinch.
‘Nothing broken this time, just bruises,’ Balor declared, throwing the bandages over his shoulder right back into the box. Then, without warning, he scooped out some pesto from the jar and smeared it over the bruising.
‘Oww! What are you doing with that?’ Moriarty protested.
‘I really don’t know, I’m sure. But we’ll see what happens,’ Balor replied before picking up the spoon and having another mouthful of pesto for himself. Moriarty looked doubtful.
‘Did you tell the King what I saw?’ he asked as he rolled down the shirt.
‘I did, and he’ll be over here shortly. Now,’ said Balor, changing his tone to something more inquisitive. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’
‘What do you mean?’ Moriarty replied defensively.
‘Oh,’ Balor continued in a more inquisitive tone. ‘I’m just curious as to how you came to have so much bruising on your chest that you decided to come to me instead of going to the hill’s surgeon. That’s all.’
‘I was out on Chopper and he ran under a low-lying branch. I fell off,’ Moriarty replied. ‘You can patch me up better than the surgeon anyway.’
‘I suppose I can but only because of the experience I gained from the frequency and inventiveness that you apply to breaking your bones, combined with your dislike of the surgeon because he informs the King,’ Balor replied. ‘If you lived a less adventurous life, you wouldn’t need me or the surgeon.’
‘Nothing wrong with living a little more than most, and I had something to tell the King anyway,’ Moriarty said.
‘I see. Is that all?’ Balor asked.
‘That’s all,’ Moriarty replied sternly. Balor looked at Moriarty and shrugged his shoulders before eating another spoonful of pesto. He then walked across the laboratory to a radio, held up a knowing finger and, with the other hand, switched the radio on. It was a police receiver and the laboratory filled with the sound of a radio controller directing the police to attend to various incidents. Moriarty realised that Balor had overheard the whole episode.
‘You were seen,’ Balor announced loudly as he turned off the radio.
‘By the police? No chance,’ Moriarty protested.
‘No, not by the police,’ Balor said. ‘But by the man you left dancing in circles in the middle of a field. He claimed to the police he was doing it because he’d been stabbed in the neck by a little man who ran up his back. I suspect that he will end up in a mental institution for a few years if he sticks to that story.’
‘What of it?’ Moriarty asked defensively. ‘I hate hare coursers.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I hate hare coursers too. I spit on their graves,’ Balor replied, mock spitting on the ground. ‘And, if the truth were known, I think that a mental institution is the best place for the dancing man, whoever he was. I just think that you need to use Comither correctly. Spray it onto the skin, tell them what to do, and don’t forget to tell them to forget they saw you,’ Balor lectured the young man, wagging his finger like a schoolteacher. ‘Isn’t that what I created it for? To make humans forget they saw us.’
‘Who else knows?’ Moriarty asked.
‘Nobody, but next time you decide to get fifteen people arrested for hare coursing, let me know first.’
‘Fair enough,’ Moriarty replied. ‘I’m sure I could do with the help.’
‘Help?’ Balor laughed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of helping you. I’m going to take bets on how many ribs you break!’
Moriarty scowled. At that moment, a deep voice bellowed down from upstairs.
‘Ahoy down there. Is it safe?’
‘Safe enough, your travesty!’ Balor bellowed back mockingly.
‘Remember, the hare coursers. Keep it quiet,’ Moriarty reminded Balor. Balor nodded in agreement and strolled over to the base of the stairs to watch King Bruan make his entrance. The King descended the stairs and paused at the bottom to look at Balor. He was a portly man, dressed in blue and white with a rather colourful waistcoat.
‘So, what’s this I hear about a road?’ the King asked.
‘Means nothing to me,’ Balor replied. ‘Ask the boy.’
‘Well?’ King Bruan asked, raising his voice in the direction of Moriarty, who had just noticed that the pesto was starting to come through his shirt. He looked up.
‘I came across a roadworks about five miles from here.’
‘What were you doing out there?’ asked the King as he walked over to Moriarty. ‘Do you know anything about this big police raid on hare coursers? That was about five miles from here.’
‘Hare coursers?’ Moriarty asked, casting an angry glare at Balor.
‘Aye, hare coursers. There is a rumour going around the hill. Something about someone taking bets on how many hare coursers have been arrested this morning. There is another one about some idiot who was dancing in the middle of a field. Obviously unrelated.’
The King looked at Balor for a moment with a knowing look in his eye.
‘You wouldn’t know anything about that?’ he asked. Balor just smiled and shrugged his shoulders, so the King turned his attention back to Moriarty, who just looked back innocently and said nothing. The King began to sniff the air.
‘You smell like pizza,’ he remarked. ‘You should cut down. It can make you fat.’ He patted his own, not insignificant, stomach. ‘Anyway, tell me about the road.’
‘I came across a roadworks. There was a cabin there so I looked in the window and saw a map on the wall. There were two red lines that stretched in a straight line between the two nearest towns,’ Moriarty explained as he lifted his shirt to wipe the pesto away.
‘I see. That’s interesting.
What happened to your chest?’ the King asked, changing the subject.
‘I was knocked off Chopper as he ran under a low branch.’
‘I thought you were told to stay off that cross-eyed abomination?’
‘Balor made him an eye patch. He runs in straight lines now.’
‘He’s still an abomination. I was watching him this morning. He seems to be looking for something. He’s been sniffing around everywhere. He’s a mutation and not to be trusted. He is unnatural.’
‘He is an environmentally friendly rapid transport system. Runs on carrots,’ Balor interrupted. ‘And, as you rightly pointed out, he is cross-eyed. No prototype is perfect, especially with genetic modification. Previously, he saw two of everything. He used to see two Moriartys, two villages and two kings. With the eye patch, he can now see only one of everything. As far as he’s concerned, the village in the hill is half the size and everyone’s twin has gone missing. He’ll get used to it.’
‘Twins, eh? And what did I tell you about messing around with genetic modifolification, or whatever you call it? I’ve told you before that I want this hill to be GM free. Although if you could genetically modify yourself to be an honest druid, I think I could turn a blind eye.’
‘You jest, your impotentness. Chopper is a free genetic modification. He cost nothing,’ Balor assured the King, referring to him as powerless at the same time.
‘I must warn you, Balor,’ began the King in a stern voice. ‘I have acquired a dictionary. I intend to look up these words you’ve been calling me. In any event, the rabbit: it doesn’t matter. So long as he doesn’t cause all the trouble that duck did.’ The King rolled his eyes up. ‘Oh,’ he said woefully. ‘I remember that duck.’
They all remembered the duck and looked around uncomfortably. The King snorted and thought about it for a minute. There was little point in arguing with Balor, as historically, statistically and philosophically, he always lost.
‘So, tell me about this road,’ the King ordered Moriarty.
‘I got a look at the map on the wall. The lines seemed to go through the hill,’ Moriarty continued.
‘This hill?’ the King asked in a concerned voice.
‘I think so,’ Moriarty replied.
‘I see. That’s a bit more serious. What do you make of it, Balor?’ The King turned to Balor.
‘What do I make of it?’ the druid replied. ‘Well, I’m really not sure. Historically, the roads have been built to connect the towns and go around the hills. They usually twist all over the place. Statistically, there are more of them every day. Philosophically, the shortest distance between two points is not always the straightest.’
‘I know why they are building the road, you gahoot!’ replied the King angrily. ‘I want to know if you think it’s coming through the hill.’
‘I’ll have to investigate. I’ll look into it, your—’
‘Stop right there, Balor. What were those other things you called me?’ the King interrupted.
‘Majesty and omnipotent-ness,’ Balor replied, before spelling them and also having replaced the offensive words with more respectable counterparts. The King took out a notebook and wrote them down.
‘I want this checked out anyway,’ he said.
‘The words?’ Balor asked,
‘The road,’ the King snapped back.
‘I agree,’ Balor replied. ‘I’ll arrange the reconnaissance of the roadworks,’
‘Is that dangerous?’
‘Probably.’ Balor sounded dismissive.
‘Good, then take this young pup with you,’ the King replied, wagging his thumb at Moriarty. He then turned to Moriarty. ‘How are the ribs?’
‘Just bruising; I’ll be fine,’ Moriarty replied.
‘That’s good. Now, get out! I want to have a word with your malignant guardian.’ The King waved his thumb towards the stairs. Moriarty looked angry for a second before sighing, picking up his jacket and walking over to the steps. He nodded to Balor and went upstairs. The King and Balor just looked at each other until they heard the front door of the hut slam shut.
‘Malignant?’ Balor remarked disapprovingly.
‘Malignant? Did I say malignant?’ King Bruan replied. ‘I’m sorry. I was trying to think of something worse, like maladjusted, moronic, merciless or malformed.’
‘It’s clearly evident that you have got up to the letter M in that dictionary of yours.’
Then Balor turned around and walked to a map on the wall. He picked up a small piece of charcoal and began to draw a line between the two nearest towns. Sure enough, it went straight through the hill. He then drew an ‘X’ on the map, approximately where the roadworks currently were.
‘Doesn’t look good,’ the King remarked.
‘No, it certainly doesn’t,’ Balor replied, studying the map and rubbing his chin.
‘I just don’t understand this new generation,’ remarked the King.
‘Oh,’ Balor said. ‘Moriarty will turn out all right. He’s still in his three hundreds, which gives him a mental age of about fifteen. Give him another couple of hundred years and he’ll be a fine upstanding citizen of the hill.’
‘What are you on about?’ the bemused King asked.
‘Moriarty?’
‘No, I was talking about straight roads,’ the King replied.
‘Straight roads?’
‘Aye, don’t you see the irony in it all?’
‘They’re not made of iron. They’re made of tar and stones.’
‘No,’ barked the King. ‘The irony.’
‘Irony of what?’
‘The road.’
‘The irony of a road flattening the hill?’ Balor asked in a confused tone.
‘No, man,’ the King said loudly. ‘The irony is the road. When cars first came out, they had terrible steering, and no straight roads. Now, all we see on television is how good the steering is. And here they go, making all of the roads straight. What is the point of having a steering wheel if they are not going to use it?’
‘I think I can see your point. People have all sorts of things they never use. Why should a steering wheel be any different?’ Balor’s reply was almost patronising. The King moved in close to the map and stared at the line going through the hill.
‘Check this out thoroughly, Balor,’ he said.
‘And if it is true?’
‘Nothing for it. We’ll have to evacuate the hill.’
‘And go where?’
‘Carrickhill. It’s the nearest place that we can go to.’
‘Carrickhill?’ Balor exclaimed. The hairs stood up on his neck. ‘It’s a cursed place, too close to a river and it could be flooded at any time.’
‘Where else could we possibly go?’
‘There are six other hills. You could make a treaty with another king. After all, you have six to choose from.’
‘A treaty? We’ve been at war with the other hills for over three thousand years.’
‘Poppycock,’ Balor snapped.
‘Poppycock? What is that? I haven’t got up to the letter P in the dictionary yet.’
‘It means absurd. Let’s make a treaty with another hill as a fall back,’ Balor suggested.
The King shrugged it off. ‘We are still technically at war,’ he argued.
Balor raised an eyebrow. ‘Isn’t the definition of a war, two nations that are fighting? When was the last time anyone who lived in a hill had a fight with someone who lived in another hill?’
‘That’s not the point, Balor, and well you know it. If the hills were closer and we were taller, we would always be fighting but it’s not the case. It takes us so long to get to a battlefield that we all get tired and go home. It is our normal state to be at war with the other kings in the absence of a high king. I don’t expect you to understand. It’s a matter of politics.’
‘Politics?’ Balor mused. ‘I thought that you hadn’t got up to the letter P in your dictionary.’
‘You try my patience with a capital P,�
�� the King retorted.
The two men looked at each other angrily for a moment. Then the King decided to make a politically correct statement.
‘In normal circumstances, I’d agree to make a treaty,’ he said. ‘However, it hasn’t come to that yet. Check out the roadworks and I’ll make a decision.’
‘But Carrickhill?’
‘It’s nearby and it’s abandoned. And besides, I stopped believing in curses and magic the day you arrived here,’ argued the King. Balor chose not to reply and there was an uneasy silence between the two men for a moment. The King then stepped back from the map and walked over to the fire to warm his hands. Balor stood looking at the map.
‘There is another matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,’ the King said. ‘There are preparations afoot to have a teleconference between all of the kings for a non-profanity treaty.’
‘A what?’ Balor asked, now quite sure that the King had not reached the letter P in his dictionary.
‘A non-profanity treaty,’ the King repeated.
‘Non-profanity? What on earth is the purpose of that?’ Balor scoffed. ‘Are you all going to promise not to call each other names?’
‘Damn, no. What are you on about?’
‘Profanity. Definition. An insult, bad language, derogatory remark.’
‘Poppycock. We are negotiating an agreement not to have any more secret weapons.’
‘Non-proliferation treaty, you mean...’ Balor corrected the King.
‘Same thing. Anyway, this will be exactly like the other treaties we had, only completely different. This time we will break the treaty without telling anybody else.’
‘I seeeee.’ Balor smirked. ‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘We all have to agree that we won’t have any secret weapons, so I’m expecting the other kings to spy on us, looking for our secret weapons so that they can develop secret weapons of their own. There could be a secret weapons race and nobody would know about it because it was secret, and we don’t want that, do we? I dare say that there are spies amongst us as we speak.’
