The Smell of Telescopes (26 page)

The antique dealer does not like to talk about what he saw. Had the dilettante looked more closely at the book he bought, he would have seen that mice had been at this too. Well, not mice exactly, but a rodent not a jot less voracious—I mean Herr Fluchen himself, who had cut out some pages which rightly concluded the story. These pages told how Mortice in his prison soon grew very bitter. His initial promise, to reward whoever set him free, underwent a transformation: he vowed instead to submit his liberator to the same treatment he had suffered. Hardly fair on the poor innocent who released him, but like all long-term captives, his judgment had been adversely affected. This phenomenon, which is a form of revenge by proxy, is termed Bottled Djinn Syndrome.

What I have been able to get out of the proprietor—which is quite a lot, as he is me—is tinged with awe and horror. The clock flew open: the thing which had occupied it for three centuries snatched Mr Humphrey in its bony arms and bundled him inside. Whether he arranged our hero in a particular way, attaching his limbs to internal gears and levers, I do not know. It is certain, however, that as soon as the desiccated monster slammed shut the door, the clock began working again. It all happened so quickly that Herr Fluchen was unable to take in all the details. He fled back to his shop in Abell, fixing himself a glass of antique absinthe. A few loose ends need to be tied up, and we shall do this while the trader is busy drinking himself into a stupor.

Although he planned everything from the beginning, he was not fully prepared for the sight of the being which leapt out of the clock. He had expected Mortice d’Arthur to resemble the woodcut on one of the pages he had removed from his book. In fact, the clock-maker was altered in a way which suggested he had been subject to more than simple ageing. This can be confirmed by remembering that Mortice, during his imprisonment in the timepiece, was actually ageing backwards.

It appears he grew younger and younger, waiting for his treacherous assistant to return. Eventually, he regressed beyond his own birth into a prior life. The process was repeated a number of times: we may surmise that the monster which assaulted Humphrey was a character who originally lived three centuries before d’Arthur. Research reveals that Chaud-Mellé was enduring an especially nasty plague at that time. This might account for the suppurating boils and lesions...

When Mortice d’Arthur’s possessions were looted by bailiffs, it was Herr Fluchen’s ancestors, also in the curio business, who benefited. The clock, the one item they did not manage to sell, was handed through the generations to the present antique shop owner, who, aware of the legend, gave it to the previous inhabitant of Mr Humphrey’s house. This occupant was enamoured of antiques but did not, as the proprietor hoped, care to open the grandfather. For his own nefarious reasons, Herr Fluchen needed d’Arthur released, but not by his own hand.

Arriving on the scene, Humphrey presented a perfect opportunity for the unscrupulous trader. Herr Fluchen was also an antiques-licker, but a clandestine one: he instantly recognised a kindred spirit. Learning that the dilettante was about to buy the recently vacated house, he forced an entry and doctored the clock. He drilled a hole into the dial and packed an ounce of caesium into the space. Then, to disguise the flavour of the alkaline element, he varnished the grandfather with a tincture made from iron pipes, splashed puddles, soot, roots, bicycle gears, cheese, apples and various other ingredients. He knew that, one day, Mr Humphrey would lick the timepiece: this would detonate the caesium, which explodes when in contact with moisture, and the mechanism would break. The dilettante would then contact the jeweller in Quinn who, unable to repair it, would draw attention to the words on the faceplate. Herr Fluchen gambled that these names would lead Humphrey to his store.

I have told you the rest. The plan worked perfectly. After watching the remarkable emergence of the clock’s prisoner, the proprietor needed absinthe not simply to provide a blanket over fear but as a celebratory adjunct. To be fair, he also raised a glass in the dilettante’s memory. We will preempt sentimental eulogy by stating that a fool once inherited a grandfather; and the grandfather returned the gesture. Mr Humphrey and his clock’s inheritance are one and the same thing.

The tale does not end here, though it is nearly finished. The thing which leapt out of the clock was ravenous after such long confinement. I imagine it roamed the house searching for food. It probably swallowed my wife’s cake in a single bite—but I am certain it was impressed by such a delicate savour. Later, when it had eaten its fill, it settled down to stealing the dilettante’s identity. Dressed in his spare clothes, it had little difficulty in passing itself off as him. The sideburns took three weeks to grow, the stomach another to bloat. Because Humphrey was a rare visitor to the villages, few noticed the difference. To my delight, this new dilettante had a genuine interest in antiques—possibly because to it they were examples of contemporary design.

One morning, the impostor was passing my store. My wife was baking cakes at the time: the fumes were vented onto the street. The temptation was too great for the creature: it stepped over my threshold. Without a moment’s delay, I snatched my hat and coat and rushed past it, through the door. I did not look back. I felt sorry for Anna, naturally enough, but one does not get the chance to cheat the devil twice every century. To put the record straight, I have to say that it was not a Gainsborough but a Turner. Rumours are often poor on detail.

Yes, reader, the monster was my thousandth customer. Compelled to take my place, it is furious at being caught a second time. My sympathy is limited: I moved into the Gothic manse and searched for the document vital to my happiness. I quickly found it. Humphrey had penned his Will on the flyleaf of the Ingolstadt Legends. True to his word, it named me as sole inheritor of his property. This is what I meant when I quoted the price of the volume as a “good deed.” The best deeds are those which concern houses. Now sit down and permit me to pour you a glass of wine. Perhaps I can offer a pinch of Regency snuff?

Well if you are reluctant to partake, that is your loss. But allow me to demonstrate the elegant way of inhaling tobacco-dust. Left nostril first; then the right. Observe the angle of the sneeze. Note its power! Pardon me, I did not realise you were wearing a wig. I assumed readers had their own hair. Now there is a knocking on my window! Who can it be? Excuse me for a moment; I will be right back. There is a peculiar fellow outside: he is peering through the glass. A practical joker, I suspect. He is wearing a mitre and carrying a crook...

AFTERWORD

The above text was found scratched in sand on a beach between the hamlets of Abell and Quinn. Anyone who doubts the content need only contact the local jeweller, who will confirm the main points. The manse, however, may no longer be visited. According to legend, it was a cursed abode condemned to stand until a certain number of owners had lived in it: when that number was reached, it would vanish, taking the very last dweller with it. It is true that sightings have been made of a spectral Gothic structure, housing a bishop-like figure, in various parts of the world, but these cannot be confirmed. The site of the manse is presently occupied by a holiday cottage with a rose garden. All enquiries must be directed to the landlord, Pastor Rowlands.

There Was A Ghoul Dwelt By A Mosque

This is the story about ungodly deeds which Vathek, the mad caliph in Beckford’s novel, was hearing from one of the new arrivals in Hell, when his mother flew in on the back of an afrit to chide him for not enjoying the pleasures on offer. The tale was never finished; Vathek’s acquaintance was damned soon after. Now, what would it have been? Beckford knew, no doubt, but I am not bold enough to say that I do. I will offer a new story: one you will think has been made from scraps of other fables. Everybody should sew a patchwork coat from the materials he likes best. This is mine: 

There was a ghoul dwelt by a mosque. His name was Omar and he was a potter with a shop built from broken vases. His doorway looked out on the Kizilirmak, the longest river in Asia Minor, and from his roof he could lean over and touch the mosque with his elongated arms. His wheel and oven had belonged to a human craftsman who died without heirs and was buried with his tools, but (this was in Haroun al Raschid’s day) ghouls were allowed to keep any items they dug up. The creature filed his teeth to stubs to reassure his neighbours—but never mind what they thought of him; he was skilled enough at his trade to make a living from the travellers who passed through Avanos. He rarely overcharged for his products and this frightened people most of all.

Omar lacked humanity in other ways: he kept an attic full of hair clipped from the heads of his female visitors. There were women pilgrims and merchants even then and they were politely requested to give up a lock or two for his archive. The monster labelled them and secured them to the ceiling on hooks, where they exuded a musty odour and shivered in the shifting air currents. Omar liked to imagine that his attic was a cave beneath a garden—a garden of vegetable girls whose roots were pushing through into his subterranean kingdom. This unusual custom has persisted through the centuries; next time you are in Avanos, ask for the house of Master Galip and you will see what I mean. His modern collection is also illuminated by a single lamp.

The ghoul had a mother no less grotesque in her habits. She helped him to collect the red clay from the river-bank, bringing him a fresh supply each morning. Instead of cutting the clay into blocks, she would roll it in her hands and present it to him like a freshly-exhumed intestine. Then he would divide it with a pair of shears and they would gather around the wheel with excited giggles, as if they were grilling sausages instead of preparing to throw another plate or saucer.

The attic was also the place where the ghoul kept all of his rejects, the warped and flawed work. Heavy urns, twisted over like slaves; cups with no handles, or too many; pitchers with clamped mouths or leaking sides; shapeless mounds as tall as men which should have been coffins but were unusable, save for lepers; pipes with stems which curled back into the bowl; teapots without spouts, or spouts which poured tea into the lap of the drinker. All these, Omar packed into his attic, loathe to discard them. With the hair above and the failures below, the room became a sort of museum of imperfection—the former lacking complete substance; the latter lacking complete form.

One day, a cowled traveller called at the shop. Veiled from head to foot, she betrayed her femininity by her poise and sibilant voice. She had come far and was taking her first holiday in many years. Her sisters were keen on stone figures for their garden and she had promised to take some back as gifts. But sculptors were rare in Asia Minor; the prophet had forbidden such art; and so, to make the best of a bad thing, she had decided to purchase pottery as a substitute. She wondered if she might view Omar’s most decorative examples.

“Well, my work is functional, not fine art,” said the ghoul. “But you’re free to look round. I’m self-trained and you mustn’t expect too much in the way of aesthetic gratification.”

“Come, these pots betray a certain flair,” cried the visitor. “Lead me through your shop and I will choose something.”

So he guided her along racks of ceramic utensils, which she studied with a slight wave of her hand, as if to indicate they were not quite suitable. When the conventional rooms were exhausted, they reached the attic. “The work in here is not really for sale,” apologised Omar, “but if you will enter and allow me to snip a strand of your hair...”

The visitor seemed about to refuse, but the door was swinging open and when she caught a glimpse of the mutated wares she forgot to voice an objection. Stepping forward in joy, she squealed: “Perfect! They are so delightfully strange. And this one is the oddest of the lot! I must have it at any price!” And she moved to the end of the attic and seized the ghoul’s mother, who was sleeping on a stool. At this point, several things happened at once. The ghoul mistook his visitor’s cry for compliance with his request, and he reached across the room with his elongated arms to sever a lock with his shears. But the mother had jumped up in alarm, knocking over and smashing the single lamp. In pitch darkness, Omar felt under his visitor’s veil and detached it with clumsy fingers, whereupon he snipped the lock. While he groped his way to a hook to hang it up, his mother struck a flint in an attempt to relight the lamp; the attempt was unsuccessful, but the long spark which winked in the gloom was enough to illuminate the visitor, who was still bending over the mother. Then darkness came again, more intense for the momentary light: there was a groan, something brushed past the ghoul and clattered out through the shop.

When Omar’s slitted eyes had adjusted, he saw he was alone in the attic. No: his mother was there as well, but she was changed. Her arms flung up as if to cover her face, her body twisted away as if from some dreadful apparition, she was literally petrified. She had always had a stony expression; now it was real. Omar looked at the ceiling and his hearts raced madly; in place of the lock of hair was a very angry snake, hissing and writhing on its hook.

Well, he gnashed his filed teeth for many a moon, I can assure you. Without a mother, a ghoul is lost, like a bridge without a river or a pot without a price. Luckily, he dwelt by a mosque and the local muezzin was a sorcerer who made no secret of his skills. Standing on his roof at night, just after the evening call to prayer, Omar hailed the muezzin on his minaret and made a pact. He would sell part of his soul, the human part, to Eblis—the devil—in exchange for the return of his mother. So the muezzin lowered a glass tablet inscribed with arcane symbols on a gold thread and told Omar to place it between his mother’s granite lips, whereupon she would spring to life. As he stumbled through the attic with this talisman, Omar happened to brush the snake, which bit him on the shoulder. He growled in pain and his great hands came together, crushing the glass tablet to powder. The sparkling shards flew up and settled on the warped and twisted pots. With a hideous scraping sound, they came alive—the urns, the pitchers, the cups, the coffins—tumbling awkwardly, snapping their lids, grating against each other, whistling, crowding round the ghoul like dogs round a master, or jackals round a corpse. With his fists and feet, he smashed them to pieces, then he went down and returned with the potter’s wheel, which he rolled among the wounded ceramics, reducing them to fine dust. The one place the magic glass had missed was the mother, who remained as motionless and igneous as before.

Unable to bear the loss of his soul for naught, Omar left his shop disguised as a minor prince and went searching for his visitor. But he succeeded only in passing into the domain of Hell. By now, his fears had altered. He was more frightened that another sorcerer would manage to reanimate his mother: she would be furious at being kept so long in such a condition and would berate him. Better to be damned, he decided, than to suffer the ill-will of a ghoul’s mother, who would be certain to bend him over her knee and smack...

At this juncture, Vathek’s acquaintance slapped off his turban to reveal the horns of a ghoul. His forked tongue poked out over his filed teeth. Vathek fell back with a cry of pity and alarm, but recovered soon enough and, tapping his nose, asserted that he knew another mother quite three times as dreadful as that one, but lacked enough horrid words to describe her. Indeed, at that very moment she was trying to dethrone one of the pre-Adamite sultans. More tangibly, in Avanos there is a curious statue standing in the square, waiting for something, a backward glance from an earlier tourist, I do not know; but it is a fact that Gorgons no longer go to Asia Minor for their holidays.