The Smell of Telescopes (30 page)

“I’ll conserve your hide, you slimy scamp!”

Out of Monmouth I rode. Back toward the Caucasus and the Kaatskills and the other misplaced ranges. Always up: on the lookout for the yellow turban which would guide me over the passes. I found it snagged on Mount Ararat, together with a dove, raven and pelican. But even here my vision was obstructed by summits equally lofty. The ribbon of the turban didn’t follow the contours of the land, but slanted into the sky. Strumming the taut fabric, I produced a celestial note. As the hours passed, the angle of the slant increased. Soon the ribbon was useless to me, spearing into the clouds which boiled over the Julian Alps, a place I had no desire to visit. I rejected it and weaved without bearings into the Sierra Morena, where bulls and gallows parted for me.

It was only when I gained the apex of the highest peak in the Hindu Kush that I had my first proper view of the horizon. Rather, what should have been my view. The mountains staggered down to the rolling plains of Shropshire; these plains undulated not gently onward but upward. My eyes followed the gentle incline: the vast tract of land was approaching in a wave, growing steeper all the while. At the same time, a shadow hastened toward me, blotting out Shropshire before the county itself was snatched up. The crest of the tectonic wave was almost directly overhead. The sun vanished. But in the last glimmer of solar radiation, I saw the ultimate beaches of Hyperborea curving high, leading the assault. White sands and deckchairs and not so good vibrations.

The remaining corner of the world was folding itself over Monmouth. But there were no harpoons or trolls to reel it in! Then I realised what had happened: the conference of mountains had started a trend. Geography of every sort now felt an impetus to gather and chatter. Forcing Zipangu and Pennsylvania together had tricked Hyperborea into thinking a meeting was taking place in Wales to which it hadn’t been invited. It was coming to discover what the other two corners were saying about it. Dismounting and lowering my ear to the ground, I grimaced. The expected deluge would completely fill up the inside of a round world, drowning all within. The fashioning of a submarine was a priority. I had to bake one immediately, but I lacked oven and all ingredients.

Nothing for it but to extract the filling from my mutant pie! There was a chance I might curl up small enough to replace the jam. If so, the marvels of a saturated planet awaited, the freedom to explore the wrecks of our culture, aquatic cities and markets. If not, my soul and trousers would soon be falling outward, to Hell. If Myfanwy wore the latter, this should leave her legs exposed. Better hurry to Lladloh to see! But there was a third possibility, the one I considered most likely: the pie might be large enough to contain my frame, but eating the filling would poison me fatally. Then I would possess a sarcophagus instead of a submersible; the coffin I previously referred to. Ashes to ashes, crust to crust. And spread a napkin.
In pastry requiescat!

The Hush of Falling Houses

The sacred relics of Lladloh are stored behind the bar in the village’s nameless tavern. They include the ear of a monstrous rabbit, broad as a rudder, which, together with the rest of the beast, belonged to the very last druid, Barrington Burke; a volume of poems penned by legendary bard Dennistoun Homunculus; the stopper of the pickle-jar wielded by the Reverend Douglas Delves; a flintlock pistol left behind by a highwayman with bad teeth who fought the pagan god Beer’or and broke his hold on the region. This service earned the fellow extensive dental work from grateful local folksingers, but only in their lyrics. 

Despite the gravitas associated with each of these items, the most valuable of our ornaments remains the bottomless glass of Guinness cut from a fossilised demon’s tear by Yeats O’Casey, the Dublin rakehell who exhibited his treasure throughout the dives of Europe to general acclaim and specific envy. The subsequent adventures of this object can be found coded in my new recipe, a hotpot which cleverly utilises veins of stout to instruct the epicure. Of all our holy artefacts, the bottomless glass is the only one which attracts pilgrims.

As the self-appointed antiquarian of the town, I see my mission to research our heritage as one of immediate concern to my neighbours. I am not paid for my pains, which are unofficial; perhaps in response to this affront, I am forever seeking to combine my studies with my day job. Any customer who ventures inside my restaurant is sure to leave with as much appreciation of the past as of pâté de foie gras. I can bake lectures on archaeology into casseroles or arrange noodles into family trees. I feed the belly with the stock of centuries. My secret motto is: “An aeon with every course.” My name is Giovanni Ciao.

When the last diner departs the establishment, I hurry to the shore and sit on the edge of the pier, fishing in the gelid waters with a net. Heirlooms sometimes come my way, broken clocks and the like. I am hoping for one revelatory catch, a relic to rival O’Casey’s glass. When I have it, my hobby will finally be taken seriously—I’ll exchange cleaver and pancake for spectacles and lumbago. I am not the only villager to pursue a nobler calling. Since the construction of the real harbour, we have all harboured romantic yearnings, as if the stone quay has turned the locks of a collective repression. Only Olaf Smorgåsbord, the innkeeper, is satisfied. The nameless tavern is a focal point of the community and its supervision requires fanatical devotion.

The chilly sea is not generous with its gifts; it can be likened to a sister. Drowned dogs form the bulk of my haul. These are passed to the local anatomist, Medardo, who dreams of dancing ballet. Flaying them, he varnishes the bones with a lacquer of his own devising. So many dogs are washed onto our shore that we have a surfeit of bones. These are used in place of timber for building purposes: the pier consists entirely of the femurs of chows. The more we hook, the further the pier extends. Soon it will reach the place where the animals originate.

Lladloh was not always a seaside resort. In the distant past, when much of the ocean was locked away in polar ice-caps, it stood quite far inland. I am acutely aware, when I dangle my legs over the side and gaze south, how many civilisations lie below, visited only by the denizens of the deep. The names of these cultures still sound impossibly exotic when spoken aloud—Swansea, Tenby, Llanelli. What were they really like? I envisage shining towers of crystal; philosophers in togas; gardens full of musicians rehearsing unearthly melodies. A far cry from Lladloh, the malodorous, squat reality of my existence...

The evening I caught the astrolabe was no more remarkable than any other. I dismissed my final customer with subtle hints and a brandished ladle, rushed to the pier and dipped my weave. The air was warm; I soon netted a dachshund and then, to my considerable surprise, a small book. Gratified, I studied it more closely. It turned out to be a summary of the rules of a forgotten game, played by the ancients; though sodden, I slipped it into my jacket pocket and resumed fishing. I did not think I would be lucky enough to trump this find. But I persevered, sweeping my net into the reflected moon and gasping when a rusty fragment of the orb detached itself from the greater mass.

After vigorous polishing with my cuff, this shard began to glitter. A brassy ring seduced my thumb; I dangled the object before white stars, its intended lovers. I was unfamiliar with the workings of astronomical devices; no texts on the topic had survived the deluge. But I recognised it for what it was: the numerals embossed on both sides proclaimed its purpose—the calculation of the precise position of the planets among the constellations. At once I realised its immense worth to the village. A method of casting truly accurate horoscopes had been offered to us. I spent the remainder of the night determining angles of incidence between the visible members of the solar system.

When morning came, my experiments ceased and I rose stiffly from my vantage, shouldering my net and walking up the cobbled lanes to my home. I passed Lladloh’s outermost structure, Cobweb Cottage, the abode of my beloved, which, in a permanent state of topple, mulishly defied gravity. The houses of Lladloh stand all alone; we are provincial snobs. Before I reached my own aloof dwelling, I was buttonholed by Padgett Weggs, the postman. “Aren’t you the cheerful one?”

“Quite so,” I replied. “I have discovered something of great import to the community. A pre-flood artefact.”

“You and your past! Won’t do you any good, mun. Give it over before it turns you daft. Seen it before. Neurotic obsession is what I call it. Bad for the brain. Gwallgofrwydd!”

I smiled indulgently. Weggs, though uneducated, had aspirations to become our first qualified therapist. As such, he sorted the problems of the inhabitants like mail—some were lost in the system. His speciality was post-natal depression, second-class.

“This is something special,” I cried. “It might prevent our village being destroyed again. Or at least give us some warning of any impending disasters. It is a defensive tool.”

“Ffolineb! Can’t avoid the judgment of destiny. When our time’s up, we ought to go quietly. Mustn’t fight fate, boyo. Delusions of grandeur, that is. Like what they had in Cardiff.”

I sighed. Popular legend still traced the source of the deluge back to that mythical metropolis, whose scheme to build a barrage all the way to the horizon had reputedly angered the sea-god. Rather than argue over a superstition, I bade Weggs farewell, took the key from a chain around my neck and opened my restaurant. Right at the back, in the kitchen, my bed awaited. The nameless tavern, final destination of my catch, did not admit patrons until noon; despite my excitement, I was too exhausted to remain upright that long. I slept in my clothes, the waterlogged book in my hand, the astrolabe under my pillow.

My dreams were ungainly affairs. I was preparing meals from stars, grating planets into stews and garnishing them with comets’ tails. When I woke, in response to the village clock’s dozen groans, I made a quick breakfast of bara lawr and hurried to Lladloh’s central square. Already the new Reverend Delves was blessing the tavern, censer swinging before him. As the repository of sacred relics, as well as of divine beer, the tavern exerts more of a hold on him than the chapel.

I entered in his wake and we converged at the bar. Olaf, armed with the traditional grimy cloth, was dirtying clean glasses. Delves squinted at me and clutched his stomach. “I think the meal you gave me last night was off. I’ve got these terrible cramps.”

I blushed. The Reverend had been an early customer and I had tried out a prototype dish on him: a bean salad, lightly draped with a garlic and mint dressing, incorporating a meaty dissertation on the history of community taxes during the rule of Silas Surcharge, the Grasping Mayor. Obviously, I had undercooked the conclusion.

“How else do you feel?” I ventured.

“Adept in the setting of tithes,” Delves groaned. He shook his head and ordered a glass of porter. Olaf gestured expansively with his giant hands and adjusted his horned helmet.

“Porter? Wouldn’t ye rather mead?”

“No thank you,” said the Reverend. Emboldened by his determination to choose his own drink, I followed his example. Olaf chewed his russet moustache and glowered at me. Both his lips trembled, but at different frequencies and for different reasons—the upper in berserker joy, the lower in Nordic dismay. This display encouraged me to retreat a pace. The porter seemed to hold its breath.

Later, I tried to persuade Delves that a single rotten pimento was responsible for his condition.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a bit disillusioning. The original Giovanni Ciao wouldn’t have poisoned his guests. Not in an obvious way. He basted his toxins with style.”

We sipped our mead in silence. Before we finish our glasses, I’ll explain the references to my namesake.

In its dense history, Lladloh has been annihilated many times. To be pedantic, when this story begins, these cataclysms number 665. After each destruction, survivors—of which there are always some—rebuild and repopulate the village. I won’t detail events individually, save to reveal that, on one occasion, only Reverend Delves escaped death. Climbing Mount Yandro at the time, the highest peak in the area, he turned for an inspiring vista, just as Lladloh and its burghers were dismissed from a world which had never worn them comfortably.

Alone, he was constrained to invite immigrants to reseed the homes; he advertised far and wide for settlers. One of those who responded was my paradigm, the first Giovanni Ciao, fresh from Sardinia. In the next levelling of the village, he played a courageous role, risking his own life to assist the wounded. This was the problem: with so many disasters and so much opportunity for brave deeds, our folklore became saturated with heroes. So that none might be dishonoured, due to limitations of memory and time, a system evolved whereby each new child was given the name of a predecessor. If they were called upon to perform beyond the bounds of duty, they wouldn’t add to the lengthy roster of champions. Thus was Remembrance Day trimmed.

To ease administration between generations, each child also had to follow the profession of its original model. For myself, this meant the saucepan and oven; for our Delves, the cant of the Church. This rule is especially hard on my beloved, Elizabeth Morgan, who despite a terror of brooms has to adopt the persona of a witch. Others suffer: Iolo Machen, fated to be a shepherd in disregard of his preference for nylon; Caradoc Weasel, compelled to be an explorer in an overmapped region; D.F. Lewis, by inclination a barber, obliged to compose short stories by the gross. This explains our lusting after alternative careers.

Recovering my composure, I met the Reverend’s gaze and took out my prize. It spun in the pale light of the tavern’s interior like a button from Odin’s favourite shirt. “Forget your ailments for a moment. Look at this and tell me what you think.”

He fingered the astrolabe. “A relic to rival Catrin Mucus’ cucumber flute! A fine addition to our hoard.” He made a pyramid with his fingers and held it over one eye—the holiest sign.

“Consider its applications!” I said. “We can draw a nativity chart for Lladloh itself! With the details this will provide, we’ll be able to reckon the date of the next catastrophe.”

“To cast a village’s horoscope, planetary positions are not enough. The destiny of urban conglomerations is also determined by the orbits of those planets’ moons. These are too faint to be discerned with the naked eye; and Lladloh is devoid of telescopes.”

I grinned. “You forget my culinary genius. One of my triumphs is a concentrated carrot sauce, reduced slowly over a firefly. Overindulgence of this delicacy has endowed me with superlunary eyesight. I am capable of making the necessary observations.”

“To what end? Predicting the apocalypse won’t prevent it. The cycle of demolition and rebuilding is endless; we might as well be phantoms trying to stall a carousel. That’s the chance we stand of breaking the loop—ghost of a one.”

This odd metaphor lodged in my brain; I frowned and angled my jaw at the smoky windows. “Do you really want to erect new nonsense? Better to keep the old. For one thing, I’m not handy with a pick or shovel. My trousers hug my buttocks.”

Delves nodded. Like myself, he did not relish the prospect of hard manual labour: the setting up of scaffolding, the endless cups of sweet tea, the tobacco and innuendo breaks. Through the tavern window, it was difficult to see anything, but I kept my gaze symbolically fixed on the filthy glass. Beyond, Lladloh festered in its own juices; the buildings spiralled from the tavern as if they were spiritually draining into it, like coffee down a plug-hole. This vortex pattern was not an indigenous layout; our ancestors would not recognise the village. Each time it was created, it was assembled slightly differently. Only the tavern, hub of our cosmos, remained unchanged, enjoying exactly the same location and dimensions over the turbulent centuries.

We continued to discuss the immutability of this singular boozer. I was so engrossed in my erudition, I hardly noticed when the doors swung open to admit another drinker.

“What’s this?” The newcomer removed his tall hat and I recognised the whiskers of Kingdom Noisette, resident engineer and the bushy genius behind our most absurd civil projects. These included the underground railway between the tavern and the pharmacy. Before you think me harsh, let me make a statement: Lladloh has no trains.

The Reverend and I fell silent, knowing the hazards of passing the germ of a pristine engineering scheme to this fellow. He would incubate it into another expensive folly. But our prudence was undermined by the innkeeper, who bellowed: “Preparing for the next Ragnarok they are! Got a gadget to tell ’em when it’s due.”

Kingdom Noisette rubbed his hands. “O aye.” As a bleak norther- ner, he has much in common with Olaf. He removed a pen from a bandolier around his chest and started scribbling on a peeled beer-mat. Already bridges and tunnels were emerging from his fevered doodling, like a length of spaghetti which forms a momentary meaningful phrase as it rises out of the deeps of a bubbling pot. When he finished, he studied the beer-mat critically and ordered a pint of brown ale.