The Garden of Unearthly Delights

  ‘What’s a zoo?’

  ‘A place where you keep a collection of interesting animals. People pay to come and view them and—’ Maxwell halted before he reached full flow. Zoos were perhaps not the best idea in the old world.

  ‘Pay?’ Dave laughed. ‘Pay to see my animals? And what if some visitor steps up to bid me good morning and a venomous cobra darts out of my buttonhole and sinks its fangs into him?’

  Maxwell rocked backwards with such vigour that he nearly fell off his chair. ‘That sort of thing doesn’t happen. Does it?’

  ‘No. Not as such. It probably depends on the season and where I happen to be. It is summer in MacGuffin, hence the squirrels and the sparrow hawk.’

  ‘Kestrel,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Kestrel then.’

  ‘So what about the okapi?’

  Dave now shrugged. ‘The exception that proves the rule, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Maxwell rose and stretched. Enough was quite enough. ‘I think I’ll just take a little stroll around the village,’ he said.

  ‘But what about the job? You wanted a job.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you on that.’

  ‘No, really, please don’t go.’

  ‘Things to do, people to see.’ Maxwell snatched his cloak from the cloakhook and made hastily through the door and into the little lane beyond.

  At least he thought it was his cloak.

  A moment passed, the way some of them do. Then Dave heard a startled scream, followed by a great trampling sound and the distinctive baritone snort of a Tibetan yak.

  ‘There,’ said Dave to the squirrels. ‘Let’s hear him talk his way out of that.’

  As he spoke, a rabbit appeared from his right trouser cuff, twitched its nose nervously and scurried away to take shelter beneath the box ottoman.

  Where a fox ate it.

  8

  Cocking a snook at the now traditional, ‘Where am I?’ Maxwell awoke from unconsciousness with a cry of, ‘Dave, you BASTARD!’ This cried, he blinked his eyes and asked, ‘Where am I?’

  He was lying on a couch. It was an over-stuffed leather jobbie of the type once favoured by psychiatrists, for putting patients at their ease, while they were relieved of their cares and cash. This stood in a pleasant enough room, about as broad as it was long, and bathed in the red sunlight which washed through two high arched casement windows.

  This room owned to a multitude of glass-fronted showcases containing many stuffed beasts: rabbits, hares, minks, ducks, geese and others arranged in tableaux of imaginative depravity.

  Maxwell, as a lad, had, as most lads have, pored breathlessly over a many-thumbed copy of the Karma Sutra. And he might well have lingered long in appreciation of the taxidermist’s skill at depicting such wonders as a ferret ‘splitting the bamboo’ of a toad, or an otter ‘taking tea with the parson’ in the company of not one but three French hens, had it not been for the mind-grinder of a headache he now possessed and the all-over nature of his aches and pains.

  Maxwell ached in the manner that only one who has recently received a sound trampling from a Tibetan yak can.

  Or possibly one run over by an articulated lorry.

  Or crushed beneath a fall of dumbbells, which had been carelessly stacked in a high cupboard, usually reserved for the storage of books such as the Karma Sutra.

  Or even having been remorselessly beaten with ball-pane plannishing hammers, wielded by a sheet-metal worker named Brian and two of his drunken mates, outside a pub in Camden Town at closing-time, because he mistook you for the bloke who had been splitting his wife’s bamboo while he was on the nightshift.

  No, actually the last one is somewhat different, as the blows rained are aimed towards a specific area of the body.

  Maxwell groaned and felt about his person. ‘By the Goddess,’ he mumbled, ‘I feel as if I’ve been remorselessly beaten with ball-pane plannishing hammers, wielded by—’

  ‘A sheet-metal worker named Brian?’ asked a voice. Maxwell turned his aching head to view its owner and was impressed by what he saw.

  In the doorway stood a figure of heroic proportion. His broad shoulders almost filling the entrance span, his head bowed to avoid contact with the lintel. This man was a veritable giant.

  And he was marvellously dressed.

  All in red. Every inch. His costume was intricate, highly decorated and many layered. Over a ruffled shirt with four collars, flounced sleeves and gathered cuffs, he wore a number of sleeveless garments, graduating in length from the innermost, which reached nearly to the floor, to the outermost, which was little more than a skimpy bolero.

  His baggy trousers were tucked rakishly into red leather kneeboots with stylish double toes.

  All in all this outfit created a most singular and dashing appearance, but one somewhat at odds with his face. This was a bloated affair, big as a pig’s bladder balloon, all puffs and rolls of flesh. The eyes, black points, were scarcely visible, the nose was a dab of putty, the hair a red ruff teased into a thousand hedgehog quills.

  Returning to the nose, which Maxwell had no particular wish to do, but did, none the less, this nose was pierced through the centre cartilage between the nostrils, by a huge golden ring which encircled the mouth and reached almost to the first of several chins. From this ring hung two slender golden chains, one of which looped up to the left ear lobe, the other to the right.

  ‘Are you feeling yourself?’ asked the big red man.

  ‘No,’ said Maxwell. ‘It’s just the way I’m sitting.’

  The big red man nodded thoughtfully. ‘This is my house,’ said he. ‘And anyone who engages in cheap double entendre here receives a smack in the gob. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Maxwell. ‘You have no need to press home your point.’

  ‘Good,’ said the big red man. ‘So what do you feel like?’

  ‘I feel like shit, as it happens.’

  ‘Well, that’s a pity, because I only have cornflakes.’

  Maxwell shook his aching head.

  ‘Just my little joke,’ said the big red man.

  ‘Really?’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Of course. I have eggs, bacon, sausage and toast also. Follow me.’

  With a great deal of groaning and creaking and cracking of joints, Maxwell followed his enormous host from the room of rude animals, across a hallway lined with statuary of equal rudeness, up an elegant sweep of stairs and into a wonderful circular room.

  This had a high domed ceiling, decorated with a trompe-l’oeil of rich blue sky, dappled by scudding clouds. So cunning had been the hand which wrought this masterpiece, that the clouds appeared to drift free of the ceiling and hover in the room beneath.

  The big man’s tiny black eyes followed the direction of Maxwell’s large round ones. ‘An interesting piece,’ said he. ‘Although somewhat fanciful. A blue sky, who could imagine such a thing?’

  ‘I could,’ said Maxwell, wistfully.

  ‘Look from the windows and tell me what you see.’ Glazed apertures, set between pillars which supported the dome, encircled the room, Maxwell limped slowly from one to another, peering out.

  Beneath lay the village, petticoat-pretty and Queen-Mother-quaint; beyond, the cultivated fields and flower gardens, abruptly contained by the circle of raised columns with their spherical headpieces; beyond this, bleak moorland and the forest to the south.

  ‘Should I be seeing something specific?’ Maxwell enquired.

  The big man in red stared over Maxwell’s head. ‘Something most specific,’ he said. ‘What you see, there below. All around, thus and so. Is no jest and no joke. But a conclave of folk. Self-sufficient, contained. Content and unstrained. Order from chaos, complete harmony. A delicate balance, that’s what you see.’

  ‘Most poetic,’ said Maxwell. ‘And very nice too.’

  ‘I’m so glad you think so,’ said the big red man. ‘Because that’s the way it’s ruddy well staying!’

  Maxwell smiled up at his
host. ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll,’ said he, raising a thumb.

  ‘Then let us eat.’ Maxwell’s host waved a great hand towards a circular table at the centre of the room. Its top was a mighty slab of clear rock crystal supported by the raised hands of a grinning naked satyr, carved from black basalt. The look of pleasure evident upon the face of this grotesque was in no small part due to the oral homage being paid him by the kneeling figure of a woodland nymph. This being, delicately wrought in white marble, was a thing of extreme beauty and Maxwell’s eyes dwelt upon it for more than a moment.

  ‘Sit down and get stuck in,’ said Maxwell’s host.

  Maxwell glanced up at the big red man who was lowering his big red self into a big red throne-like chair.

  A single other seat remained before the table, this was a knackered old bentwood number. Maxwell shrugged and sat down upon it.

  ‘Eat,’ said his host.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Maxwell.

  The table was burdened by a bounty of local fare: pyramids of boiled goose eggs, a fine pink hock of ham, a tray of baked muffins, a pot of steamed mushrooms, jars of honey and pickled preserves, a silver samovar simmering tea, and a whole lot more, which, without the aid of some cunning literary artifice, would be far too tedious to list.

  There were, however, white linen table napkins and ivory-handled cutlery of the ‘Saltsberg’ pattern. The china came as a bit of a body-blow though. It was that nasty fruit-spattered stuff that you get from the Argos catalogue.

  ‘Careful with the china,’ said Maxwell’s host. ‘Most valuable and antique.’

  Maxwell ladled a helping of plump sausages onto his plate. He was very hungry indeed.

  ‘So,’ said the big fellow, delicately dispensing tea. ‘You are Maxwell.’

  ‘That’s me.’ Maxwell forked sausage into his mouth and began to munch.

  ‘And you are an imagineer.’

  Maxwell’s munching ceased. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked.

  ‘Never mind. But listen, how rude of me. I have not introduced myself.’ The big man reached a big hand across the table for Maxwell to shake. ‘I am MacGuffin,’ he said.

  Maxwell shook the big hand. It was soft as a spun-silk sporran, if such a thing exists. The nails were delicate and richly lacquered. The thumb was embraced by a golden ring clasping a jade disc, intagliated with an erotic device.

  Maxwell’s hand returned to his fork, his fork to his sausage. ‘Then this village is named after one of your ancestors,’ said Maxwell, before pushing the sausage home.

  ‘Named after me,’ said MacGuffin. ‘It is my village. Within the circle of columns, all is mine.’

  Maxwell nodded as he ate.

  ‘I am known by many appellations,’ the big man continued. ‘MacGuffin the Munificent. MacGuffin the Merciful. MacGuffin—’

  ‘The Maroon?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘MacGuffin the Mage,’ said MacGuffin, in no uncertain tone. ‘And MacGuffin the Maleficent to any who dare rub me up the wrong way with duff remarks like that.’

  Maxwell reached for a tomato ketchup bottle which had previously escaped mention. ‘Mage, you say?’ said he. ‘Do you mean, as in magician?’

  ‘You thought, perchance, that I was a plumber?’ MacGuffin laughed.

  ‘Pornographer perhaps,’ said Maxwell, squirting ketchup on his sausage.

  MacGuffin’s laughter stilled away. ‘Magician I am. And one of no trifling talent. I maintain absolute control within the environs of my domain. I am a benign despot. All who dwell here understand this and are employed in a useful capacity. They enjoy the benefits of my maintenance of their equilibrium.’

  ‘Well,’ said Maxwell. ‘You would appear to be doing a splendid job and as I assume I have you to thank for nursing me back to health, I thank you. Very much.’

  ‘Indeed.’ MacGuffin passed Maxwell a cup of tea.

  ‘I was hoping to take some kind of work,’ said Maxwell, accepting the cup.

  ‘There is no work here for a man like you.’

  ‘Oh, Dave must have got it wrong then.’

  ‘I said there is no work here. There is work for you elsewhere though. I divine in you, Maxwell, a man who lacks purpose. A man of great talent, but one condemned to put this talent to no good use, unless under the guidance of some leading light. Tell me, have you ever heard of a town called Grimshaw?’

  Maxwell, who had been packing toast into his mouth, now spat this all over the table. ‘Sorry,’ he spluttered. ‘Went down the wrong way. Grimshaw, you say? No, I don’t think I know the name.’

  ‘How strange,’ MacGuffin dusted flecks from his layered leisurewear. ‘Several riders came through here only yesterday. They spoke of a terrible disaster that had befallen Grimshaw and told of the three men responsible. One of these answered to your description and also, would you believe, your name.’

  ‘Coincidences abound,’ said Maxwell, dabbing at his chin. ‘Many have sought to interpret them, all with an equal lack of success.’

  ‘All, that is, before me,’ said MacGuffin. ‘But then I do not believe in coincidence. I believe in predestination. I feel absolutely certain that fate has taken you by the hand and led you directly to my door.’

  ‘That’s a cheering thought,’ said Maxwell, who had the feeling that it was anything but. ‘These, er, riders, are they still in the village?’

  ‘No. They have departed on their way. All bar one, who has departed upon mine.’

  The sinister emphasis laid on the word mine, was not lost upon Maxwell who now felt quite certain that it was time to say thank you and farewell. There was something deeply unsettling about this gargantuan figure with his love of the lewd and his taste for autocracy.

  ‘Well,’ said Maxwell. ‘This has been a most marvellous meal and again I must thank you for looking after me and everything. But I’m sure your time is valuable and I must not presume to take it up in such abundance. Thank you and farewell.’ He rose shakily to his feet.

  MacGuffin fluttered his fingers. ‘Stay, stay,’ said he. ‘I would not have you leave quite yet. Eat your fill. Sustain yourself for your journey.’

  ‘All full up,’ said Maxwell, patting his belly. ‘Goodbye now.’

  ‘Sit down!’ MacGuffin fluttered his fingers once more and Maxwell’s knees gave out beneath him. He sank back to his chair in an undignified heap. ‘Comfy?’ asked MacGuffin.

  ‘No,’ said Maxwell. ‘What have you done to my knees?’

  ‘A temporary disassociation of the muscular synapses. It will pass.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Maxwell asked in a quavery voice.

  ‘All right,’ said MacGuffin. ‘Let us bandy words no more. You are Max Carrion, the imagineer who brought chaos to Grimshaw.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ complained Max. ‘I was trying to help.’

  ‘Well, you shall help me. I require you to perform a service. I have restored you to health and kept your whereabouts secret. Now you will repay my kindness. This is fair, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Maxwell, plucking at his knees.

  ‘Ungrateful bastard,’ said MacGuffin. ‘Free breakfast thrown in and all.’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry. What is it you want me to do?’ Maxwell shuddered. ‘Nothing sexual, is it?’

  ‘How dare you!’ MacGuffin’s nostrils flared. The chains on his nose-ring jingled.

  ‘No offence meant,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Nothing sexual,’ said MacGuffin. ‘I have all the women I need. All the men too, as it happens. And the sheep and—’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘In Dave’s company you used the word “computer”.’

  ‘Dave told you that?’

  ‘A sparrow hawk has ears.’

  ‘It was a kestrel.’

  ‘No matter. Its ears were my ears.’

  ‘Then those animals that plague Dave — you cause them.’

  ‘My subjects must be kept on their toes. Dave’s job is to keep watch on th
e high street, greet all strangers and direct them here, by one means or another.’

  Maxwell’s knees showed no signs yet of supporting him, which was a shame, considering how dearly he wished to put them into service.

  ‘Interesting things, computers,’ said MacGuffin the mage.

  ‘I never found them particularly so.’

  ‘It is said that they caused the downfall of the old aeon, you know.’ MacGuffin dipped a bread soldier into his tea and sucked upon it. ‘Formed a global link, hard-wired the planet. Blew its natural fuse.’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me one bit.’

  ‘I have one,’ said the mage. ‘Well, half a one. Your mission, should you choose to accept it — and you will — would be to supply me with the missing half.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the word, electricity?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘Of course. Have you ever heard of the word, iconolagny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. This computer does not require electricity. It requires its other half. Let me show it to you.’ MacGuffin clapped his hands together. ‘Aodhamm, come,’ he called.

  There came the sounds of movement on the stairs beneath: dragging footsteps. Frankensteinian dragging footsteps, horrible monstrous Frankensteinian dragging footsteps.

  Maxwell shifted uneasily on his knackered bent-wood.

  ‘Get a move on, you idle bugger,’ called MacGuffin. The horrible monstrous Frankensteinian dragging footsteps drew nearer and nearer.

  Something entered the room.

  Maxwell gawped.

  This something was no graveyard nasty. This something was a something of such rare and almost unutterable beauty, that a man might expect to view such a something only once in his lifetime.

  Or twice if he was very lucky.

  Or three times, if he was Mr David Doveston of Bronwyn Terrace, Harlech, who is blessed of the gods and regularly has Jesus round to tea.

  Maxwell might have managed ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll’, but he was speechless.

  The something of rare and almost unutterable beauty shuffled into the high-domed room, bringing with it a golden radiance that seemed to make the very air vibrate.