The Garden of Unearthly Delights

  ‘Get a grip,’ Maxwell told himself. ‘You are the Imagineer. Cool reason. Strategy. Forward planning. Logic. Low cunning - lots of low cunning. Just get a grip. Don’t go to pieces. And don’t fall off.’

  The chair flew on.

  Maxwell set about the job of persuading it to land. He impersonated the voice of the magician and cried, ‘Horse and Hattock, Maxwell’s chair, and back to MacGuffin at once.’

  The chair ignored him.

  Maxwell locked his feet about the chair’s legs, formed aerofoils with his hands and sought to steer the thing down.

  The chair flew on regardless.

  Maxwell took to wondering, as one would, just what held the chair aloft. Magic surely obeyed some scientific principles. Gravity was being defied here, after all. How was the magic done?

  Did some invisible entity, summoned from the Goddess knew where and slave to the unspeakable MacGuffin, carry the chair upon its winged shoulders?

  Was it a beam of force, possibly embodying elements of the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter?

  Had the atomic structure of the chair been altered in some way that it was repulsed by the magnetic polarity of the planet?

  Maxwell pondered upon the last possibility. What might occur if he could break the chair up, a bit at a time? Would its power slowly ebb away? Would it gently sink to the ground?

  Or simply plummet?

  With his luck?

  Maxwell hunched on the chair and resigned himself to wait.

  Onward flew the knackered bentwood. Onward ever onward.

  Villages passed beneath. Rivers, streams, hills and mountains. A sea. Some dismal-looking islands. Maxwell recognized nothing.

  Either the topography of the world had altered substantially when the great transition came, or he was simply flying over bits of it that he knew nothing of. One or either, both or neither, were as likely. There was no consolation to be had.

  The chair moved at a fair old lick and Maxwell didn’t have his cloak. It was bloody cold. By sunset he was hungry. And he needed the toilet. By sundown he was still hungry, but he had managed to pee on a fishing boat.

  Whether the chair was offended by this, Maxwell didn’t know, but with the coming of night it took to performing hair-raising aerial manoeuvres which seemed expressly calculated to dislodge him.

  There was no sleep for Maxwell, and if it hadn’t been for the thoughts which crowded his head, concerning the sequence of horrific tortures he would subject MacGuffin to prior to the slow and agonizing death, he would surely have nodded off and plunged to a swift one of his own.

  By dawn Maxwell was grey-faced and crazy-eyed. Determination now held a rein to his fury. Revenge was ever uppermost in his mashed-about mind. Survival, at any cost, to satisfy this vengeance, the driving force of his being. And nasty stuff like that.

  Shortly after sunrise the chair began to lose altitude. Maxwell could only guess how far he’d travelled, but it had to be many hundreds of miles. Far too many to walk back.

  Maxwell recalled the magician saying that if he completed his mission successfully he would learn how to return. Learn how to activate the chair, perhaps?

  But now was not the time for guessing. Now, Maxwell realized, was the time for praying. The chair was going down.

  Fast.

  Pell-mell.

  And helter-skelter.

  Maxwell’s ears went, pop pop pop. A boiled sweet to suck on would have been nice. Down went the chair and up rushed the ground. Maxwell could hear it coming. And he could see it too.

  It was a green and pleasant land. Far better looking than all that waste and moor he’d tramped across. But there was no joy whatever in the speed of its approach.

  ‘Slow down!’ Maxwell told the chair. ‘Slow down!’

  The chair was deaf to Maxwell’s pleas. It had evidently reached its destination and, was now eager to return to its natural habitat. The chair began to spin on its vertical axis, the dreaded ‘Roman Candle’, much afeared by parachutists. Round and round went Maxwell and down and down and down.

  Blur, whirl, rush and scream.

  And finally— Stop!

  The chair screeched to a halt. Maxwell caught his breath, gasped a gasp, thanked the Goddess, hailed Rock ‘n’ Roll, and cursed MacGuffin.

  And then the chair dropped the final six feet.

  Maxwell smashed down. Struck something, other somethings, further somethings. Rolled over and over and continued on down.

  Then he came to rest in the dirt.

  Winded, fuming, starving, bloodied, joint-stiff, sore-bummed, giddy-headed, Maxwell lay upon terra firma, a tangled heap of old grief and bad attitude, a sorry soul-less shadow of his former cheery self.

  Hardly surprising really.

  Groaning like a good’n and cursing fit to bust, the lad in the zoot suit, bowling shirt and fine substantial boots, raised himself to his knees and blinked around and all about.

  And up.

  Maxwell gazed up. And his jaw dropped down. Above him loomed the mountain, whose peak he had struck and whose side he had careered down. A fairly good-sized mountain, considering what it was composed of.

  Chairs.

  Bentwood chairs.

  Hundreds and hundreds of broken, knackered, clapped-out bentwood chairs. Just like the one he had travelled upon.

  ‘MacGuffin.’ Maxwell shook his fist at the sky. ‘I’ll fix you, you fu—’

  The word, whatever it might have been, probably ‘Fuchsia-face’ or ‘Fumble-bottom’, was cut short, however, by a clamouring of bells. Maxwell, senses tingling, lurched to his feet and gave his present surroundings a good looking about.

  The mountain of broken chairs rose from a sort of plaza, paved with sandstone blocks, hexagonal in shape. The plaza too was hexagonal, high fence of iron staves running about its perimeter. Beyond this, clusters of houses, Mexican-looking. White adobe walls, tinged rose-pink by the wan sunlight. Shuttered windows. Dungeony doors.

  Maxwell viewed the bell-clamourer. He was high atop a raised wooden tower, just beyond the perimeter fence. He was jumping up and down and pointing with his non-bell-clamouring hand.

  He was pointing at Maxwell.

  ‘Aw, sh—’ This word, possibly ‘Showaddy-waddy’ or ‘Shamrock’, was similarly cut short, as Maxwell now viewed the small dark running forms. They were carrying long poles with rope nooses attached to the ends. They were howling and whooping and hollering.

  And yes, of course, they were running towards Maxwell.

  They threw open gates in the perimeter fence and swarmed onto the plaza. Dozens of them. Dark and rat-like.

  If they were men, then they were of no race Maxwell knew. Red eyes glared, sharp little teeth went snip-snap-snip.

  Maxwell was in no fit state to fight, but he wasn’t ‘coming quietly’. He snatched up a chair leg, brandished it in a menacing fashion, weighed up the odds, found them not to his favour, and so set to scrambling back up the mountain of chairs.

  The going wasn’t easy, but the hollering mob, now ringed around the mountain, put a certain zest into Maxwell’s climbing.

  As he reached the summit, all torn fingernails and great lung-bursting gasps, a roar of applause rose up from below, followed by nothing but silence.

  Hyperventilating and numb at the extremities, Maxwell peered down from his bentwood eyrie to see what was now on the go.

  What was now on the go was a pathway clearing through the mob. Something tall and white was moving down it. Moving, of course, towards Maxwell.

  Maxwell wiped sweat from his eyes. The tall white something was a man: a white man in a white suit and a white panama hat. He carried with him a long-handled fly whisk and an air of great authority.

  At the foot of the mountain he paused, gestured. Little black forms scurried about, selected a serviceable chair, tested its strength, aided the white fellow onto it.

  The white fellow gazed up at Maxwell and Maxwell in turn gazed down.

  ‘Ahoy there,’ ca
lled the white fellow in an upper-crust kind of a tone. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

  Maxwell glared him some daggers, irrational hatred knotting his stomach like a dodgy vindaloo. ‘Kill him,’ shouted Maxwell’s senses. ‘Go down there and rip off his head.’

  “Spect you’re feeling a bit squiffy,’ called the white fellow. ‘Fuming with rage and thinking you’d like to pluck out my eyeballs and drop red-hot coals in the sockets.’

  ‘Eh?’ managed Maxwell. The thought had crossed his mind.

  ‘Perfectly natural, old chap. It’s because of what MacGuffin did to you.’

  At the mention of the magician’s name the crowd shrank back, visibly cowed.

  ‘What say you come on down and partake of a bit of brekky?’

  Maxwell shook his head slowly.

  ‘Pretty disorientated, eh? Understandable. Listen, haven’t introduced meself. The name’s Blenkinsop. Tim Blenkinsop. Chaps at the Colonial Club call me Tadger, but we needn’t go into that here. I’m the Governor of these parts. Keep the natives in order, doncha know.’

  Maxwell glared down upon the natives.

  ‘Not a bad bunch. Bit rough around the edges. Pay’m no heed.’

  Maxwell shook his head once more.

  ‘Oh, I see. A bit perturbed about the numbers and the long sticks and all. For my own protection, d’you see? Think about the way you’re feeling. Imagine yourself in my shoes.’

  Maxwell weighed this up. The scales came down on the side of common sense.

  ‘Tell them to go away,’ called Maxwell. ‘I’m feeling fine now.’

  Governor Blenkinsop shook his panama’d head. ‘No can do, old chap. Tried that once. Still walk with a limp when there’s frost in the air. listen, my old tum’s crying out for a bowl of porridge and some rounds of toast and jam. Why don’t you just sit up there and ponder the situation? I’ll call back in a couple of hours, see which way your wind blows, what?’

  Maxwell’s hollow stomach gurgled noisily. ‘Perhaps that would be for the best,’ he called down. ‘Until I get my senses straight. Would you be so kind as to send me up some food? One of your chaps could put down his stick and carry up a tray.’

  The panama’d head shook again. ‘Sorry, no can do, neither. Natives consider the pile of chairs taboo. Bad ju-ju to climb up. Superstitious bunch, but willing workers. Must adhere to local manners and customs, when in Romania and all that.’

  ‘When in Rome,’ Maxwell said.

  ‘When in Rome, what, old chap?’

  Maxwell shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Quite so. Well, say toodle pip then, call back around lunch-time. Shouldn’t climb down when I’m not about though. No telling what pranks this lot might get up to. Bye for now.’ Governor Blenkinsop rose from the chair and turned to take his leave.

  ‘No,’ called Maxwell. ‘Hang about.’

  ‘Change of heart?’

  Maxwell justly dithered. What to do for the best? Weather it out up here? For what? He was starving. A couple of hours up here and like as not he’d pass out. Or the mob would start chucking stones the moment the Governor’s back was turned. ‘I’m coming down,’ called Maxwell. ‘In the name of MacGuffin.’

  ‘Ooooh!’ went the crowd, shrinking back a little further.

  ‘Stout fellow. Don’t mind if I just walk on a bit. Really can’t be too careful. Some of you blokes in absolute lather, frothing at the mouth and so forth. Have to play it safe. Hope you understand.’

  ‘All right.’ Maxwell climbed down the chairy mountain. It had been a lot easier climbing up. The chairs slipped and tumbled causing ‘Ooohs’ and ‘Ahhs’ from the swarthy crowd.

  At last Maxwell found himself once more upon the ground.

  ‘Follow me then,’ called Governor Blenkinsop, marching away. Little black figures fell in behind him, others now cleared a path for Maxwell, who dubiously followed the man in the white panama.

  Across the plaza they went and out through one of the gates. A few yards beyond the Governor turned and winked back at Maxwell.

  ‘Everything okey-dokey?’ he called over the multitude of little black heads.

  ‘Yes thank you.’

  ‘So good. Kakoo bee benado kunky.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Maxwell called.

  The man in white raised a pale right hand. ‘Kakoo bee benado kundy!’ he shouted. And at this signal the mob fell upon Maxwell. He was dragged from his feet, hurled to the ground, stamped upon, then bound securely hand and foot and gagged about the mouth.

  The man in white cleared a path once more and came to stand over Maxwell. ‘Must apologize for the old subterfuge,’ he said. ‘Have it down to something of a fine art now. Practice making perfect and all that.’

  Maxwell kicked and struggled but once again to no avail.

  ‘Funny old lot the natives,’ the Governor continued. ‘Get things a bit arse about face. Believe in a sky god named MacGuffin.’ (He whispered the hateful name.) ‘Believe he sends down bounty from above. Human bounty. Human foodstuff, doncha know. Believe me to be a kind of high priest. Long as I keep’m supplied with din-dins, then they’re nice as knitwear.’

  Maxwell’s teeth ground into his gag.

  ‘Bloody furious, what? But you haven’t heard the best bit yet. Told you I was the Governor. Didn’t say Governor of where. Governor of this town Kakkarta. Which is in the province of Rameer! Close chum of the Sultan, me. Fraid old MacGuffin’, the whisper again, ‘got his calculations a bit skew-whiff. Should have dropped you a mile to the south. Bit of a bummer, eh? Still, you’ll get plenty of grub to fill up the old tum-tum. Natives will want to fatten you up. Like their gifts from the god nice and fat. Big’ns small’ns, they can’t tell one white man from another. But they do like them all to be nice and fat when they gobble them up. Must skedaddle now. Trust you won’t take this personally. Only doing my job for the Sultan. You know how it is.’ And with that said the Governor skedaddled and Maxwell was left to the untender mercies of the mob.

  He really did his best, with the struggling and kicking and the swearing too, once he had bitten through his gag. But he was raised and dragged and buffeted and driven across the town.

  The little shuttered windows in the pinky-tint adobes were open now and tiny black faces peeped down upon him. They certainly weren’t human this lot. Black rat crossed with cockroach. Those darting red eyes, chitin wattles with awful furry parts. That it really didn’t count as cannibalism if you didn’t eat one of your own species wasn’t a point at all, so as such it didn’t enter Maxwell’s head.

  And why should it?

  Beyond the town, a grey concrete area. The foundations of an ancient building perhaps. A big heavy iron grille was being unbolted and raised. Maxwell’s hands and feet were untied, he was lifted into the air, flung forwards and down.

  Down into a pit beneath.

  As Maxwell hit rock bottom in a pile of manky hay, the grille clanged shut above and the bolt flew home. Evil black faces giggled and chattered gibberish, then drew back and were gone.

  A dim red shaft of sunlight fell upon Maxwell as he thrashed about in the manky hay. Screaming and shouting.

  Then, suddenly aware of the terrible stench, he shut his mouth and clapped a hand across his nose. The smell was appalling. The smell was of human excrement.

  Maxwell slumped down in a wretched heap. This was it. The bitter end. The end to everything. Tricked once more. And this time, the last ever time. He was truly done for. To be fattened for the pot. The most ignominious end known to man. This was as bad as it could possibly get. No worse than this could there be.

  ‘Well, well, well, well.’ The voice wasn’t Maxwell’s, but it was one Maxwell knew. A friend! Dear Goddess, a kindred spirit. A soul with whom to spend his final days?

  A movement and a big and bulky frame shambled into the shaft of light. The head was a mass of matted grime. The eyes shone a ghastly white. ‘Well, well, well, well,’ said Rushmear the horse dealer. ‘What a pleasant surprise this is.
r />   11

  ‘Now, Rushmear wait.’ Maxwell scrambled into the farthest corner he could scramble to. It was the corner that served as latrine, quite naturally enough. ‘Urgh,’ went Maxwell. ‘Now don’t do anything hasty.’

  ‘Hasty?’ The burly horse trader rocked to and fro upon his heels. ‘Hasty? Allow that thought to perish. Slow and steady and one bone at a time.’

  ‘Rushmear, you’re making a big mistake.’

  ‘Oh, pardon me,’ said Rushmear, in an evil whisper. ‘For a moment there I thought you were none other than Max Carrion, Imagineer.’

  Maxwell gave a foolish titter. ‘Who?’

  ‘Max Carrion, who tricked me from my horses, made a laughing-stock of my lovely daughter and was party to the riot that ended with my town being burned to the ground. The same Max Carrion whom I swore to track down and whilst so doing fell into the clutches of a mad magician who stole my soul and cast me halfway across the world that I might grace the table for a hoard of Skaven rat ogres.’

  ‘Easy mistake to make,’ said Maxwell. ‘I’ve been told I do bear a passing resemblance to the man you speak about.’

  ‘Even down to the big substantial boots. You are that man. And now you die.’

  ‘Can’t we talk about this?’ Maxwell cowered and flinched.

  ‘My brain burns,’ said Rushmear. ‘It may cool a little once I have disposed of you.’ He swayed forwards, crooking the fingers of his mighty hands. ‘Recommend yourself to your maker, for in minutes you will meet Him face to face.’

  Maxwell sought invisibility. And in the seeking thereof, and what with death definitely now being only moments away, a thought entered his head, which was swiftly joined by another and yet another. Until, and all this occurred in but a single nanosecond, these thoughts melded themselves into one mighty thought.

  Rushmear lunged forward, grasped Maxwell by the throat and hauled him up the stinking wall.

  ‘Let me go,’ gagged Maxwell. ‘I know you hate me, but you hate MacGuffin more. Croak-gag-cough.’

  ‘I hate all,’ said Rushmear, tightening his hold.

  ‘I can get you out of here,’ choked Maxwell. ‘I know of a way. You could revenge yourself on MacGuffin, reclaim your soul. Gag-choke.’