Retromancer (25 page)

I ran to the double-bunk side of the ailing Mr Rune, my hands a-flap and both my knees a-knocking.

Doctors and various medics of that well-spoken order that attend to the needs of the rich, and will always sign them off with a sick note even if they do not really need one, stood about looking concerned and eager to apply all manner of brand-new medical equipment, much of it involving valves and wires and electrodes.

I pushed in amongst them and stared at my sickly friend. He did not look that sickly, as it happened. It looked more as if he was just having a little nap before getting stuck into his dinner.

‘What is wrong with him?’ I asked. ‘The message said that he was on his last legs.’

‘Exhaustion,’ said a medic with one of those circular mirror-things strapped upon his forehead. ‘Brought on by too much waterskiing this afternoon, I suspect.’

‘Then why did the message imply that he was dying?’

‘I don’t know what message you mean,’ said the medical type. ‘I never sent any message – did any of you send any message?’

His colleagues did shruggings of shoulders and shakings of heads. ‘Well, someone sent it,’ I said. ‘I have it here.’ But I did not have it there. ‘I must have dropped it on the way,’ I said.

‘And just who are you?’ asked a nurse, a shapely nurse with a pinched-in waist and large protruding bosoms.

‘I am Mr Rune’s closest friend. His aide and confidant. He is my mentor, my-’

But I did not finish what I had to say, which might have taken so much time to say if I had, because suddenly I was being pushed from the room.

‘He is in capable hands,’ said another medically inclined fellow, this one with an electric stethoscope about his neck. ‘You go off and enjoy your dinner – it is grilled coelacanth tonight, I understand, prepared with Oyster Fall in Ponze dressing, topped carefully with grounded mouille and spring onions. Served with garden salad.’

‘Is it?’ I said. ‘That sounds tasty. But I had better stay here with my friend. I really do think it would be for the best.’

But the medical personnel were having absolutely none of it whatsoever. Mr Rune was now under their professional care, he would be fussed over and looked after as befitted an exalted traveller in this floating palace and I was not to trouble myself, but rather go and enjoy my dinner.

And it had not escaped my notice that during the course of this conversation the medical team had been slapping surgical masks over their noses and turning their faces away.

It was that damned cologne that was doing for me once more.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I will leave. But I will be straight back here after dinner, so do not even think about locking the door and keeping me out.’

‘Enjoy your dinner,’ said one of these medics, although his voice was muffled by his mask.

As it happened I did not enjoy my dinner. I know what it was that I ordered, but what I ordered did not turn up on my plate. I ordered the soup, but I got fat bread rolls, all buttered. The steak, but I got a great big pie instead. The posh cheese and biscuits I wanted for afters, but I was served huge rolly pud. And so by the time I had finished, I was well and truly bloated and I had to loosen my cummerbund a couple of notches and engage the emergency gusset to the rear of my fitted trews.

And I do confess that I let out a terrible belch. Which did not increase my standing with the gentry. The waiter then brought me a milkshake and told me to drink it all up, because it was full of vitamins.

So it was with considerable effort that I attempted to rise and steer my patent-leather shoes towards my friend’s sick-bunk. I would have made it, though, if it had not been for the unexpected arrival of a very pretty girl, who seated herself down in Mr Rune’s chair and smiled most sweetly at me.

‘You are not going just yet, are you?’ she asked, and her eyelashes fluttered and she did pursings of the lips.

‘I have to go and see my friend,’ I said. ‘He has been taken ill.’

‘I’m sure he will be in good hands. The world’s finest medical experts are aboard this ship. Doctors from all over the globe, the cream of the catheter crop, as it were.’

‘I have no doubt of that,’ I said, sipping my milkshake. ‘Everything here is top notch.’

‘Including yourself,’ said this beautiful girl. Though I could not believe that she had.

‘We have not been introduced,’ I said, putting out my hand in the hope of touching hers. ‘My name is Rizla. What is yours?’

But the angel giggled prettily. ‘Rizla?’ she said. ‘What a wonderful name. I won’t tell you mine, it’s too dull.’

‘You have a most exotic accent,’ I said, for she did. ‘Is it Eastern European?’

‘Nowhere of consequence,’ she replied, daintily diddling digits in her lap. ‘I am the nursemaid of an old and distinguished lady. I was brought up in a small village, but later found work in the capital. My employer and I have been aboard this liner since the outbreak of the war.’

‘That is a long time,’ I said. ‘But there are certainly worse jobs to be had. And far worse places to have them.’

‘Few lives can be worse than mine,’ she said, in a whispered voice. But did not want to elaborate.

‘It would be lovely,’ she said, ‘if you and I were to take a little stroll upon the promenade deck. The full moon is out tonight and the sea looks so beautiful.’

‘I really should return to my friend,’ I said. ‘Although your offer is certainly tempting.’

‘There is no telling where a little stroll might lead to.’ The beautiful young woman smiled at me.

Which left all sorts of potential erotic possibilities hanging in the air. As it were.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘As you said, I am sure he is in good hands. What possible harm could a short stroll do? Although I do have to say that it probably will have to be a very short one, as I have rather too freely indulged in my dinner.’

‘We can stroll slowly,’ said the marvellous being and she rose elegantly to her feet and put out her arm to me. And I rose and took it and, smiling quite smugly, escorted her off to the deck.

The moon looked so achingly beautiful, the sea like a mirror reflecting its glory, the ship seemed to glide as on ice and the weather was warm. No more perfect night than this could I possibly imagine and I sought to add it to my store of remembered moments. In the hope that one day, many years from now, when I was old and wretched and done for, I would be able to look back with clarity and say, ‘That was a moment.’

‘You seem thoughtful,’ said the lovely girl. ‘Are you a poet, perhaps, or a concert pianist, or maybe an artist?’

‘I am none of those things,’ I replied. ‘I am like you, in employ to another. Although he is a great man.’

And we strolled a little further and I pulled a little on her arm and sought to draw her closer to my side. Because she did seem to be keeping herself somewhat at arm’s length and I was now really keen to perhaps have a little snog with her and see where it led to.

But this nameless beauty maintained her distance, which I had to put down not to my lack of grace and manly charm, but more to the cologne I had doused myself with. Which, rather than dissipating as one might naturally have expected it to do, seemed, if anything, even more pungent than ever.

‘Do you know what?’ I said. ‘I am thinking that I might repair to my accommodation, change my clothes and have a quick though extremely thorough shower. I would not be more than ten minutes at most – would you wait for me here?’

‘Please don’t leave me,’ said the exquisite young woman. And tears welled in her wonderful eyes and her wonderful mouth grew crinkly.

‘Oh sorry, sorry, sorry,’ I said. ‘I will do as you ask. It is just that I know how I smell.’

‘We could talk, couldn’t we?’ she said. ‘Sit here, perhaps?’ And she gestured to a pair of steamer chairs that faced out towards the moon and the magical sea.

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I would like that very much.’

So down we sat and gazed at the moon, though I gazed mostly at her.

‘Please tell me your name,’ I said. ‘I will bet that it is a romantic name, as might befit a faerie queen.’

‘My name is Esmerelle,’ said Esmerelle.

‘And that is a beautiful name.’ I reached out now to touch her hand, but this she pulled away.

‘Might I tell you a story?’ she asked. ‘Of my homeland.’

‘Might it lead to anything, how might I put this delicately, interesting? ’ I enquired.

‘Oh yes, I can most certainly promise you that.’

‘Does it involve pirates?’ I asked, for I still harboured a great affection for pirates.

‘No pirates,’ she said. ‘But there is a monster involved.’

‘That is fair enough then,’ I said. ‘A monster and pirates might be asking a lot.’

‘Would you like me to begin now?’ asked my fabulous companion with but a hint of annoyance in her voice.

‘Yes please,’ I said. ‘Carry on.’ And I settled back in the moonlight and listened to the tale.

‘More than a century ago in my village, there lived twin sisters. Young and gay and beautiful were they and as the village prospered, for the land was rich and lush, these sisters were carefree and joyous. But then one day a showman’s waggon was driven into the village. A curious hunchbacked fellow in multicoloured garments drove this waggon and with him a dwarf of terrible aspect. Many of the villagers were afeared at the arrival of these unsavoury characters, but the twin sisters, who knew only happiness and frivolity, dallied near the waggon when it stopped for the watering of its horses and that its driver and diminutive companion might take a jug of mead at the alehouse. And while the horses and the travellers drank, the two sisters sneaked around to the rear of the waggon, which was as a gypsies’ waggon with bowed canvas all about and a tiny door to the back. And they peeped in at a tiny window in this tiny door and there saw something wonderful within.’

‘Was it a monkey?’ I asked. For in my way I did like monkeys almost as much as I liked pirates. I was, in fact, very taken with Fangio’s monkey Clarence. ‘A golden monkey, perhaps?’

But Esmerelle shook her beautiful head, raven-haired tresses and all. ‘Are you a complete stone-bonker?’ she asked.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But I have always dreamed of seeing a golden monkey. Please carry on. I should not have butted in.’

‘It was a golden mermaid,’ said Esmerelle.

‘How close was that?’ I asked.

And Esmerelle sighed, which made me feel very guilty about behaving in such a foolish manner.

‘I am so very sorry,’ I said. ‘Please carry on with your tale, I promise not to make any more stupid remarks.’

Esmerelle’s eyes sparkled with reflected moonlight and she continued with her tale.

‘Golden, she was, and alive. This was no showman’s gaff. No stuffed chimera of ape and fish, but a living, breathing mermaid, who sat in a gilded cage. The two sisters were entranced by this mythical being made flesh. And they felt that they must free it from its prison and release it back into the sea. And so they entered the showman’s waggon and were never seen again.’ And Esmerelle sighed gently and diddled her fingers on the arms of her steamer chair.

‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘That is not much of an end to the story. Surely there is more to it than that.’

‘There is more,’ said Esmerelle, ‘but you might not wish to hear it.’

‘You said there was a monster involved,’ I replied. ‘Get to that bit at least.’

‘So be it. The two sisters tried to free the golden mermaid, but they could not open the cage. And then suddenly they heard the door of the waggon lock upon them and the waggoner whipped up the horses and drove away from the village. Although the sisters cried out for help, their cries went unheard and the waggon drove on and on for several days. Soon the sisters were starving and driven half-mad by this hunger. And they could hardly cry out any more because they were growing so weak. There was no food at all in that locked wagon and so, upon the third day of their awful confinement, they made a terrible decision. That if they were to survive they must eat the golden mermaid.’

I almost said, ‘Alive?’ but held my tongue.

‘They stabbed it,’ said Esmerelle. ‘The golden mermaid still flourished, you see, as if it had never the need for food. And they had begun to hate it and to envy it for watching their torment whilst remaining beautiful and unmoved. Oh yes, they really hated that mermaid. And so they killed it. They stabbed it through the bars of the cage and chopped it into pieces right there. And then they thrust those pieces into their mouths and never had they known such pleasure. That anything could taste so sweet.

‘But mere moments later the waggon stopped and the door was unlocked and the waggoner looked into the back of his waggon. And there he saw the two sisters, dirty and dishevelled, with blood all about their faces and all over their hands. And the waggoner gave forth a terrible wail and wept for the loss of his treasure.

‘And there and then he cursed those sisters for eating the sacred flesh of a merperson. And he cursed them with an everlasting hunger that should never be satisfied but by eating one of their own kind. The waggon had stopped high in the mountains and as the waggoner vented his curse a lone wolf howled on the mountainside.

‘And so that curse came to be, that the sisters would live for evermore, tormented always by a hunger that they could only slake once every month. When, with the coming of the full moon, they would take on the awful aspects of that lone wolf and consume human flesh. And so must they do this for ever.’

‘That is quite a story,’ I said. ‘And it has two monsters rather than one. Would you like me to tell you a story about how Mr Rune and I once travelled upon a subterranean ark and also visited the sunken city of Atlantis?’

‘No,’ said Esmerelle. ‘You fail to understand. My story is not just a story. My story is real. Those events really happened.’

‘I suppose it is possible that they might have done,’ I said. ‘I have experienced some very weird occurrences, so I would be prepared to believe such a tale. At a stretch.’

‘It is a true story,’ said Esmerelle. ‘And there is a little more to it than that. The curse was even more horrible in that only one sister is able to eat at each full moon. And the sister who is unable to eat ages overnight to become a wizened, wretched creature. So each sister must nurture the other, if both are to survive. And so the strong one, who remains young, selects a victim for the one who has become old to feast upon. This victim is always a young, fit boy of teenage years and he is dowsed with a pungent unguent to tenderise his flesh and mask his human smell, which makes him easier to eat. And he is fed a last supper of fat bread rolls, well-buttered, great big pie and huge rolly pud. For stuffing, you see. As one might stuff a Christmas turkey. And washed down with a milkshake to add extra vitamins.’