The Garden of Unearthly Delights (22 page)

‘Couldn’t
we just hug and make up?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Go in for a bit of male-bonding?’

‘You’ll
taste my blade, sir.’

‘Well,
I wasn’t thinking of taking it that far.’

Several
knights groaned at this, which was hardly surprising really.

‘Down
from the steed, knave. Lord Grade,’ called Lord Archer to the knight at the
reins, ‘toss Lord Percy off.’

‘It’s
knob gags again,’ said Maxwell. ‘Why is it always knob gags?’

‘Down!’
cried Lord Grade, heaving Maxwell from the horse.

‘No,
hold on. Aaaagh!’ Maxwell crashed to the ground. ‘Now look,’ he mumbled, trying
to right himself. ‘Do you know what kind of a day I’ve had so far? I don’t need
any of this.’

‘Stand
up and fight, are you man or mousaka?’

‘I’m
mousaka, all right? I’m hungry and I’ve got a headache. Take me to the city
where I can recuperate for a couple of days. Then I’ll beat the shit out of
you.’

‘Ooooh!’
went the knights. ‘Naughty word.’

‘Naughty
word?’ Maxwell struggled to his feet. ‘You’re barking mad, the lot of you.
Prancing about on your horses, talking a load of old twaddle. Get a life, why
don’t you?’

‘Fight
me, you blumpit.’

‘Blumpit?’
asked Maxwell. ‘Is that the same as, bullygarve?’

‘It’s
worse,’ said Lord Grade. ‘Much worse.’

‘Right,’
said Maxwell, who had been controlling his red fug quite well up till now.
‘No-one calls me a blumpit and gets away with it. Someone hand me a sword.’

‘Use
your own,’ said Lord Archer, drawing his and whirling it about.

‘I
haven’t got mine, it must have been on my horse.’

‘Well,
you’re not having mine,’ said Lord Grade. ‘I only polished it this morning. I
used two quadroons of pilch on the hebbereen alone.’

‘No
more of that. Come on, someone, give me a sword.’

‘Oooh.
No. No. No.’ The knights all backed away, tucking their swords out of sight.

‘Right,
I’ll use a bloody stick then.’ Maxwell sought a fallen branch.

‘You can’t
use a stick,’ said Lord Archer. ‘Well, have
you
got a spare sword I
could borrow?’

‘I’ve
got one at home. But it’s my best one, you can’t use that.’

‘I
could fetch it,’ said Lord Grade. ‘Then Lord Percy could use the one you have
here.’

‘He
might break it.’ Lord Archer examined the blade of his sword. ‘And I only
polished it this morning, I used a full quart of—’

Maxwell
stepped forward and biffed Lord Archer in the chin.

‘Oh
my!’ shrieked the knight, falling down in a heap. ‘Come on,’ said Maxwell, doing
the Prince Naseem shuffle. ‘On your feet, let’s see what you’re made of.’

‘You
beastly man. I’m wounded. Wounded.’ Knights rushed forward. But not at Maxwell.
They flustered about Lord Archer, making soothing noises and patting his
wrists.

‘You
pack of pansies.’ Maxwell kicked the nearest in the seat of his golden armour.

‘Lord
Percy is bereft,’ this fellow cried. ‘Flee before he does us mischief.’

‘I’m
not Lord Percy, you idiots.’ Maxwell lifted his visor and grinned at the
knights, exciting them to shrieks of terror and sending them scurrying.

‘Come
on.’ Maxwell stood, making fists with his golden gauntlets. ‘Come on, you sissy
boys. I’ll take on the lot of you. Who’s first?’

The
knights were hopping back towards their horses. There was much bumping into one
another, and putting feet into the wrong stirrups and falling off and that kind
of thing.

Maxwell
danced amongst the scampering warriors, shaking his fists and making the kind
of remarks that would not have endeared him to the readers of
Gay News.

Lord
Archer was back on his horse.

‘Oh no
you don’t,’ Maxwell cried, grabbing the knight by the leg. ‘I’m not walking any
more. I’ll have your horse.’

‘Not my
bonny Black Bess. Save me, someone.’ But Lord Archer’s bold companions were
digging in their spurs and having it away upon the hoof.

‘Down!’
shouted Maxwell. ‘Or I’ll twist your ankle.’

‘No,
please, I’m getting down.’ Lord Archer climbed from his bonny Black Bess. ‘Good
girl,’ he said. ‘Easy now.’

‘You’re
a bloody disgrace.’ Maxwell cuffed Lord Archer across the helmet. ‘Call
yourself a knight? You’re not fit to wear the armour.’

‘We’re
mostly a showpiece,’ whimpered his lordship. ‘Mostly ceremonial, we don’t go in
for any of the, you know—’ He mimed a feeble sword thrust.

‘Never
mind,’ Maxwell went to pat the knight’s shoulder, but the knight flinched away.
‘You certainly look the part. Splendid get up.’

‘I’ve
got cowpat all over my grieves.’

‘It’ll
wash off. Use plenty of pilch, that would be my advice.’

‘Yes,
thanks, I’ll do that.’

‘I’m
going to take your horse,’ said Maxwell. ‘It’s nothing personal, but I’m in a
hurry. Which way is it to the City of
Rameer
?’

‘Over
yonder hill. You can’t miss it.’

‘I’ll
leave your horse at the city gate. Don’t worry, I won’t race it or anything.’

‘Thanks.
There’s sugar in the saddle-bag.’

‘Any
food?’ Maxwell asked.

‘My
sandwiches — they’re in the saddle-bag too.’

‘Splendid.
I’ll take those too if you don’t mind.’

‘Well,
I… er, no. Please do.’

‘My
thanks. Would you mind helping me up? I’ve never ridden a horse before.’

‘Who
are you?’ asked Archer, hastening to oblige. ‘I am Max Carrion, Imagineer.’
Maxwell seated himself in the saddle. ‘She’s not rough this horse, is she?’

‘No,
she’s sweet as a lamb.’

‘Right.
Then I’ll bid you farewell. Give my regards to the other knights. Say sorry for
me that I frightened them.’

‘Thank
you, they’ll appreciate that.’

‘Farewell,
then.’

‘Farewell.’

Maxwell said, ‘Giddy up,’
and the horse clip-clopped forward.

He’d
actually done all right this time. A horse to ride on and sandwiches in the
saddle-bag. Maxwell dipped in a gauntlet and drew them out. Cheese. Fine.
Maxwell set into munching.

Over
the hill and off to the City of
Rameer
.

Dressed
as a knight, he’d get in OK.

This
was it. Almost there.

All set
to put into operation the mighty plan he had conceived earlier, the plan that
would set everything to right.

He was
scoring points.

It was
time to move in for the big K.O.

Maxwell
laughed between munchings. ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll.’ he shouted. ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll.’

16

So out rode brave Sir Maxwell
on his noble snow-white steed (Black Bess). He cut a pretty dashing figure:
tall and proud in the saddle, sun a glitter on the suit of golden armour, bit
of a designer stubble about the chiselled chin, lots of breadcrumbs round the
mouth.

Maxwell
dug deeply into the saddle-bag once more. He found a bottle of blueberry
cordial to wash down the sandwiches, a cream cake for afters and a bag of
boiled sweets. When all these were done, he ate the horse’s sugar lumps.

Maxwell
grinned. Things weren’t turning out too badly at all, considering his dire
circumstances. The armour wasn’t too uncomfortable and the codpiece no longer
pained him, now that he’d slipped MacGuffin’s magic pouch over his lunchbox.
The horse clipclopped beneath him at an easy pace, birdies twittered in the
hedgerows, the sun beamed golden blessings.

Up the
hill he rode, the very picture of all things chivalrous. The fact that he wore
a dead man’s armour and sat astride a stolen horse did not enter into it. Oh
no. He was rocking now and no mistake.

At the
top of the hill Maxwell drew Black Bess to a halt and gazed towards the City of
Rameer
.

There
was
no
City of
Rameer
.

‘Eh?’
Maxwell gave the vista a severe looking over. A green and pleasant valley lay
before, with a track that wound down through grassy meadows towards a line of
distant hills.

Maxwell
swung about in the saddle, but Lord Archer was well beyond sight. ‘Stupid sod,’
said Maxwell. ‘I suppose he must have meant the next hill.’

So
Maxwell rode on. Down into the valley he went, along the meandering track. It
was all terribly picturesque, very John Constable. At length he approached the
next hill.

And
here Maxwell espied an old woman. She hobbled down the track, dragging a small
boy by the arm. The small boy, upon sighting Maxwell, whispered something and
the old woman bopped him on the head.

As they
drew near, Maxwell reined in Black Bess.

‘Good
woman,’ said he, affecting a knightly manner. ‘Good woman, whither lies the
City of
Rameer
?’

The old
woman gestured past her shoulder with a sinewy mitt. ‘Over yonder hill,’ she
said.

‘Ah,
thank you very much.’

The
small boy whispered something more to the old woman and she clubbed him over
the head again.

‘Good
woman,’ said Maxwell.

‘Yeah?
Wotcha want now?’

‘Good
woman, ‘why clubbest thou the lad?’

‘Because
he’s stupid,’ the old dame replied.

‘That’s
hardly a reason for clouting him.’

‘I’ve
always found it sufficient.’

‘Fair
enough.’ Maxwell shrugged in his armour. It was none of his business, after
all. He had a pressing appointment with the Sultan. ‘Good day to you,’ he said,
‘and farewell.’

And on
once more rode Maxwell. This hill was more substantial than the last and though
Maxwell was eager to get to the top, Black Bess stopped to chomp grass and
drink from a stream.

‘Come
on,’ said Maxwell, clicking the reins. ‘Giddy up.’

The
horse plodded up the winding track and finally crested the hill. Maxwell took a
deep breath and gazed down towards the City of
Rameer
.

There
was
no
City of
Rameer
.

‘What?’
Maxwell shook his head, glanced down the track. Of old woman and child there
was no sign. ‘Stupid crone,’ muttered Maxwell. ‘I suppose she must have meant
the
next
hill. After all she was walking down this one. Good grief.’

And
Maxwell rode on.

Down
into the new valley he went. It was much like the last.

Possibly
a bit more Gainsborough than Constable, but there wasn’t a lot in it. The next
hill along the track was a good way off, though, and Black Bess’s pace was
slowing.

At
considerable length Maxwell finally approached the next hill and here saw an
old woman descending. She dragged a small boy by the arm.

 Maxwell
squinted and sighed. It was not the same old woman, although there were
similarities. Maxwell halted his horse and hailed the woman thusly. good
woman,’ he hailed, ‘whither lies the City of
Rameer
?’

‘Over
yonder hill,’ replied the old woman, thumbing over her shoulder.

‘Are
you absolutely certain of that?’

‘Course
lam.’

‘OK,
fine.’

 The
lad whispered something to the old woman and the old woman clouted him across
the skull.

‘Good
woman,’ said Maxwell, ‘why cloutest thou the child?’

‘Because
he’s stupid.’

‘I see.
Tell me, is it the regular practice in these parts to clout stupid children?’

The old
woman shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m not from around here. But I
could ask, if you want.’

‘Have a
nice day,’ said Maxwell, riding on.

It was late in the
afternoon when Maxwell reached the top of the next hill.
This
next hill
was not the next hill which the old woman to whom Maxwell had said ‘have a nice
day’ had told him was the one beyond which lay the City of
Rameer
.

Nor, in
fact, was it the one after that, which an old woman, who was smiting a child
when Maxwell met her, assured him would be the very one he sought.

This
hill was the hill that the old woman whom Maxwell
found sitting sorrowfully beside the track, weeping bitterly for the fact that
her daughter had never married and borne any boy children for her to clout,
told him, with utter conviction, was the
very
hill beyond which lay the
City of Rameer.