The Smell of Telescopes (17 page)

“Don’t trouble to do that, thanks,” replied Pin; “I have virtually no love for music. And bronze sickens me.”

“I have reason to believe you are thinking of sounding the whistle without using your lips! My aim is to dissuade you from such a course of action, without appearing impertinent.”

“While I’m willing to appreciate your skill as an eavesdropper,” Dr Pin objected, “I don’t see how you can possibly know what I am thinking. I rather sniff at the idea that minds can be read like Latin primers. I remain a convinced disbeliever in telepathy.”

“I can do nothing whatever of that kind,” Parkins said; “But you’re in this story—unlike the Burnstow one—and I have written it down for the entertainment of our colleagues.”

The Chancellor reached into his pocket and produced a manuscript of a size too large for a missal, and not the shape of an antiphoner. As he turned the pages, Pin realised the value of such a work. It was a nearly complete account of the story which you, the reader with endurance, have managed to reach to this point. [
It did not contain notes.
] Too scared to read it right to the end, the engineer stopped about here and changed the topic of conversation to less paradoxical matters. He discussed the nature of animated sheets and what they did when they came alive; he wondered if modern bedclothes had some immunity to the effects of the whistle. Would a duvet exhibit quite the same evil propensities as a plain blanket? What if Parkins had spent his Burnstow holiday in a sleeping-bag? Did a double bed always produce an apparition of larger dimensions than a bachelor’s berth? What if the whistle was played aboard a ship? Would hammocks rise up? Would Papists and Jesuits welcome genuine holy ghosts?

“I believe any fabric is a suitable candidate for animation,” cried Parkins; “whether curtains, tapestries or handkerchiefs. I think it will depend on how hard the whistle is blown. The volume of the note controls which covering adopts a semblance of life!”

He would have said more, but he was cut short by a cry from Pin. On the line directly ahead of them stood a figure in an anorak. It was, of course, the same trainspotter Pin had met at the station. He was unaware of his danger, too overcome with excitement at finding a locomotive not spotted by any of his peers. As he wrote down the registration number of the Lost Hearts, the engineer called for him to get out of the way. Much too engrossed in his business, the misfit ignored him. There was nothing for it but for Pin to reach out and pull the chain which allowed a blast of steam to sound the—(at this stage, the reader must pause for a cup of very sweet tea)—yes, yes, the whistle!

You don’t need to be told what happened next. They were passing the deflated Grand Pavilion at the time and it seemed to suddenly sit up, as if it concealed a waking giant. The notion of Pin and Parkins increasing speed and fleeing from—from something like this, is very comforting to me. You can guess what they fancied: how the thing might follow them and derail them with a casual sweep of a gargantuan foot. But, in fact, keen to take the opposite direction, it stamped toward the village square and descended the hill in a single bound. Although there seemed to be little material about it than the marquee of which it had made itself a body, a splintering sound confirmed to the departing scholars that it was rather adept at wreaking physical damage. In the moments that remained before a bend obstructed their view of the village, moments of tense anxiety, for they knew not whether they would have to pay compensation for the havoc, or whether they were covered by insurance, both men noticed that the sky and landscape seemed to darken about them—as if the being was standing in front of Lladloh’s desultory sun.

It is absolutely clear that they reached their destination a day or two later, and that they were mentally exhausted. It is also known that Pin took to his bed on the afternoon of the 23rd, and is still there. He does not make use of blankets, but sleeps with a college cat for warmth. The irony of all this, of course, is that Parkins is no longer bothered by such fears; he reinstated Pin as an Emeritus, feeling that giving him the sack might have been a bad omen, and took over his duties. It is not a pretty sight, to see an Ontographer adopting a new profession, but he soon had the measure of gear-ratios and the lever principle, and already is embarking on an ambitious extension of gyroscope dynamics into realms of anti-gravity physics. Indeed, I am—I mean, he is—rather close to designing a working model of a spaceship.

Nothing is less common form in postmodern stories than a serious attempt to explore real emotions and real people. The aftermath of the happening at Lladloh should be outlined, with particular reference to the terrible sufferings and deprivations of the populace. But neither Pin nor myself have ever taken the trouble to return there, or to learn what buildings, if any, survived the rampage. Possibly the survivors will try to rebuild what they have lost—perhaps they will move elsewhere. I know only that the village is no longer to be found on maps of the region; but it never featured on the majority of them anyway. 

The conventional sequel to this tale is that the organisers of the Eisteddfod have vowed never to hold another festival near there. Indeed, Mr Barrington Burke, the Arch-Druid, has even suggested taking the event outside Wales for the first time. He has his eye on an innocuous town on the east coast by the name of Seaburgh. Nothing can possibly go wrong in that location, he claims; but if it does, then he will take the festival out of the country altogether, to a place he has heard about, a decayed little town on the spurs of the Pyrenees.

Bridge Over Troubled Blood

“Here’s to you, Mrs Robinson!” cried Artery Garfunkle, raising his glass of blood. “Without your help, I would never have transfused the required eight pints and graduated.” 

“It’s called ‘Passing Out’,” returned Mrs Robinson. She drained her glass and licked her bitter lips.

“Nothing like your own vintage,” observed Garfunkle. He sighed. “Do you think our relationship is sinful? I’m barely into triple figures and you’re approaching your millennium.”

Mrs Robinson reached out and caressed his wings. “Silly bat! Ignore conventional morality. Now help me get dressed. I bought a new brassière the other day. Would you like to button it?”

“No, I can’t stand French food. The Marquis de Sade gave me ghastly indigestion. It’s time I prepared for work.”

Lilith Robinson regarded her enthusiastic young lover with a slight frown. His brand of innocence worried her: it wasn’t fresh and charming, but rotten and cankerous—more like decayed sagacity than true naïvety. Quick as a fever, he climbed out of bed and started dressing, relying on her mimicry to adjust his silk cravat. Unable to use mirrors, they often stood in for each other’s reflection.

Her tone was gently chiding. “Only graduated last month and already starting a job! The youth of today don’t know how to enjoy themselves. I took a century off when I was your age.”

“Really?” Garfunkle raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

“Holiday in Arkham. Did me an underworld of good.”

“But that’s where I’m off to! The college has arranged an exchange. Arkham’s brightest graduate is coming over here—she’s an engineer of some kind—and I’m going over there. Isn’t it exciting? I can’t imagine how I won the offer. The competition was fierce.”

“Tell me more. What are you expected to do? I hope it’s not just an excuse for some cheap labour! I don’t want you working your guts out for the sake of a wriggly taskmaster.”

He smiled. “The Arkham authorities seem personable entities. It’s a cultural thing. They like my music.”

“Music? But you graduated in euthanasia!”

“I specialised in rubbing down bishops with extreme unction. But my guitar is the cavity where I keep my heart...”

“You’re not taking Appalling with you?”

Artery Garfunkle flushed white and nodded: “He’s my best fiend. And who else can provide me with lyrics?”

Mrs Robinson threw up her talons in despair. “The pair of you don’t know what the music business is like! So many ambitious bats end up with dreams smeared over their maws. Don’t do it, Artery!”

“I have to. It’s my destiny. I know the folk-scene is difficult to make a mark in. But so is a flint neck! It takes a degree of masochism. Remember this, Mrs Robinson: hell holds a place for those who prey. When I’m wealthy, you’ll have as much lingerie as you want. With Appalling by my side, we’ll soon be rolling in it!”

Lilith shook her head. “The words of the profit were written on the dungeon wall,” she muttered. “In gore.”

With an angry pout, he pulled on his coat and made to leave. “Sorry you don’t feel the way I do. But you must try to understand. Best for me to make my own mistakes in my own way. No point trying to put an ancient skull on old shoulders. It’s not a matter for debate—I’m off to Arkham to strum the catgut and there’s an end to it.”

“What if you meet someone else? Musicians are followed by hordes of screaming harpies. They’re young and puffy!”

“You’ll just have to trust me, Mrs Robinson.”

Wings flapping through the slits in his coat, Garfunkle stormed out of the apartment, slamming the window as he went. Lilith buried her face in the grave-scented pillow and spilled a crepuscular tear. What she had feared all along was coming to pass: the age difference was too great to sustain the affair. She had lost him—he was off in pursuit of somebody new. Not that he necessarily knew this on a conscious level: it was the inevitable outcome of unbalanced amours.

Lilith raised herself, tears cascading over the side of the bed and landing in her glass of blood, diluting the ruby fluid to a tragic rosé. The only question was how she ought to act now: embittered or forgiving? It was much more mature to shrug her shoulders and forget about him. But maturity only lasted from the ages of eighteen to seven-hundred-and-ten. After that, emotions turned full circle: grudges were reclaimed, revenge was back in favour and hate became a noble feeling. Deeming it better to act her age, she decided to be vindictive.

She would strike viciously, without mercy, as blatantly as a child. She would damage not his skin but his reputation. When he came back from Arkham, he would find himself mocked in professional circles. No hospice would employ him as an euthanasist. If he wanted to fool with music, she would ensure he did it on street corners.

Moving to the casement, she peered through the warped glass. Artery had landed on the grass embankment outside the library and was listening to his companion, Appalling Simon, who was playing a flute carved out of a mouse. Even at this distance, Mrs Robinson thought she could discern a whisper of the furtive and twitching melody.

She snatched up her brassière and carried it into the kitchen. When she reached the stove she filled the iron cups with charcoal and grilled a whole poodle over the pulsating flames. Her brassière often doubled up as a brazier: it saved on vocabulary.

A week after Artery and Appalling left for Arkham, the exchange graduate arrived at the college. She was almost twelve feet tall, with snaky hair and four visible arms. Softly spoken and darkly cowled, she teetered on a pair of stiff legs. She introduced herself as ‘Oldona’ and seemed a little confused in her new environment. She was a civil engineer and her main interest was in building bridges. The Chancellor had commissioned a crossing of the local river as a test. The college stream was a trickle, but it cut into the campus like a festering wound, dividing one faculty from another. For the flying staff this presented few problems; but the Social Science Departments were run by zombies, who had to be rowed from bank to bank by galley-slaves hand-picked from the student ranks. The loss of scholars was high; the gondolas were often capsized by the uniformly suicidal punters, fatally dampening the reputation of Stakehampton Institute of Parasitical Studies. 

Wasting no time, Oldona experimented with a large number of designs before submitting the most suitable for approval by the Chancellor. A suspension bridge would look best, she maintained; but only if it was well-hung. This was Arkham gallows humour.

Lilith planned to make her acquaintance as soon as it was feasible, but in fact the engineer sought her out first. Officially, Mrs Robinson was a student counsellor. Undergraduates came to her with their problems and her job was to make them worse, offering bad advice on dilemmas in housing, nourishment and faith.

“I just can’t seem to settle in,” Oldona lisped, as she entered Mrs Robinson’s office. “The climate is horrid and I can’t get used to biting on the left hand side of the neck.”

“Sit down.” Lilith indicated a chair.

Oldona lowered herself, rather awkwardly, onto the seat. She winced and adjusted her position. “I’m quite happy with my working arrangements here; it’s the social side. I feel lonely.”

“Perhaps you need a lover. There are some eligible gargoyles on the shelf in the college chapel basement.”

“I’m a married entity. I couldn’t possibly consider a paramour. How would I appease my conscience?”

“A paranormalmour,” corrected Mrs Robinson. “I had one myself, very recently. See this cleaver hung around my neck? The first gift he bought me. I sharpen it once a day. Actually, he’s the bat who’s gone to Arkham in your place. He’s a songwriter.”

Oldona’s eyes grew bright. “Is he any good?”

“In bed? Certainly! Or do you mean his music? Well actually...”

Lilith bit her lip, a painful gesture. Oldona seemed flustered; she mopped her brow with one hand and twiddled the thumbs of two others. Mrs Robinson broke the uneasy pause with a lopsided grin. “We both need some company. Let me show you the local nightlife.”

Oldona chuckled. “I was hoping you’d say that...”

“I’ll meet you outside the Palais de Decadence at midnight. But you must lope along now, I’ve got work to do.”

Oldona staggered to her feet and lurched out. Lilith was astonished by a sudden screech which diminished in sinusoidal waves. Then she guessed that Oldona had eased her alarming bulk onto the balcony of the spiral stairs and was enjoying an unconventional descent. She brushed tears and smiled indulgently at the same time. Youth was such a marvellous attribute, but no matter how it was spent, it was squandered!

Mrs Robinson thought of Artery Garfunkle, swooping over the maggoty campus of a foreign college, or treading the boards of a graveyard dive, plucking his guitar and crooning to Appalling’s accordion. What would an American audience make of their portentous melodies? Lilith recalled her own heroes—Howlin’ Werewolf, Bloody Waters, Hellmore James. Artery had no chance of competing with those big bogies.

On the other talon, it was even more disturbing to envisage success for the duo. If it happened, it would go straight to their skulls, like a wine fermented from pumpkins, nightshade and cheerleaders. The pleasures on offer, the adulation, would rot Artery’s mind, leaving him a pathetic wreck on the rocky shores of folk.

At this thought, Mrs Robinson rubbed her palms in glee. Perhaps she ought to let them ruin themselves. But no, this smacked of quietism, she was determined to play a part in the final humiliation. With her sleeve, she wiped away the usual stain from the chair where Oldona had sat. Then she returned to work, shuffling her papers.

The afternoon progressed slowly. Seven distraught students, with a coffinful of depressions between them, came to visit, but she could only convince three that the answer was suicide. The others expressed doubts about its usefulness and her counselling skills could not persuade them otherwise. “It’s good for you!” she insisted.

Returning to her room, she made herself up with violet lipstick and crimson mascara, and hung dark pearls from her pierced nipples. Then she gargled with sweet nepenthe, stiffened her hair with lime and slipped on a revealing silk number, with thigh-length leather boots and a belt made from a heretic’s flayed back. Her mirrors being useless, she dressed a voodoo mannequin carved in her image in the same clothes. Satisfied, she added the final touch and strapped the pig-iron brassière to the outside of her dress.

How much longer could she strut her stuff like this? When would her fellow bats start wrinkling snouts and making disparaging comments? From the Anatomy lecturers, she had already heard some. “Mutton dressed up as aardvark!” was the cruelest jibe to date.

Perhaps some of Oldona’s vitality would rub off on her. The student was a peculiar creature, to be sure, but not unattractive. Spraying neck and cleavage with Chanel No. 666, Lilith opened the window and kissed the wind. She flung herself over the edge and headed downtown. She had a century of prime animus left, there was still time to dance and flirt. No mediocre songwriter was going to tarnish her dignity. She would split Artery and Appalling apart like mating toads.

Oldona was waiting for her outside the Palais de Decadence. The exchange student was wearing a poncho stitched with occult symbols and a sombrero with a sand-filled brim. A prickly cactus sprouted from the crown. “It’s the only formal gear I brought over,” she apologised. “I didn’t think to pack many posh clothes. Is it out of place?” 

Mrs Robinson shook her head. “By no means! You look really elegant. I wish I had your bone-structure.”

“That’s just where I keep my purse!”

They entered the dance-hall arm in arm in arm. A gallows stood on a makeshift stage. Corpses dangled from nooses, clutching trumpets, double basses and saxophones, which they played with violent spasms. “Don’t you just love traditional Swing?” Oldona asked.

The floor was crowded with jazz-freaks: tattooed ladies, strong men and sword-swallowers in zoot suits. They were dancing the jittervirus, a new craze created in a test-tube in the Chemistry Department. Surprising herself, Lilith snatched Oldona and bounded onto the floor, kicking legs and gyrating hips to the insidious rhythms.

Later, exhausted, they sat in a corner on a comfortable sofa, knees touching. Mrs Robinson gazed into Oldona’s rheumy eyes and found herself blushing as white as a grub.

“I know it sounds corny,” she stammered, “but I feel I’ve known you for a very long time.”

“That’s exactly how I feel, Lilith.”

“Like really close sisters.”

Oldona leaned forward. “Or lovers...?”

Mrs Robinson turned away, burning behind her pointed ears. But she was excited by the suggestion. Her strict Satanist upbringing prevented her from continuing the conversation in this vein, so she attempted to change the subject.

“Tell me about Arkham, Oldona.”

For some reason, the student seemed unsure of herself. “Well, there are woods near there which no axe has felled. The food is quite good: an indigenous dish is Blue-Heretic Pie...”

Oldona appeared reluctant to say more about Arkham. Lilith wondered at this unnatural reticence; it was as if the student actually knew very little about her home town. Perhaps there were secrets in her past which she was not yet ready to confront?

Perhaps she could draw Oldona out by revealing secrets of her own. This would also complete the first stage of her revenge against Artery. She sipped her drink and remarked casually:

“My former lover was a cheat!”

Oldona spluttered and coughed. “Really?”

“Oh yes, he passed his euthanasia exams by resorting to deception. The blood he transfused for his finals wasn’t his own. I collected lots of samples and distilled a substitute!”

The student appeared to be going into convulsions. She regained her composure with some difficulty and cried: “That’s impossible! Samples of bat blood cannot be collected without a license, and these are locked in a safe in the Chancellor’s office. They are rarely issued to students or staff, and any illegal blood collecting is severely punished. A student who used human blood would be disqualified immediately. Cheating is not a viable option at this college!”