The Garden of Unearthly Delights (34 page)

‘All
right.’ The big man applied his strength to the coffin lid. He strained and
groaned and inch by inch it came away to fall with a bang to the floor.

Maxwell
peeped into the coffin and gasped. ‘By the Goddess,’ he whispered. ‘It
is
the
Goddess.’

William
peeped in and gave a wolf whistle.

‘Let me
see,’ Rushmear looked in and he too gave a gasp. ‘So beautiful,’ said he.

And
beautiful she was. So beautiful to look at that it hurt. A golden goddess,
naked, on a cushion of black velvet. Her slender hands crossed between her
perfect breasts. Her lovely face, composed as if in sleep, bore an expression
of such sadness, Maxwell felt a lump come to his throat and had to turn his
face away.

‘Put
back the coffin lid,’ he said.

Rushmear
reached in a hand to touch the golden sleeping beauty.

‘No,’
cried Maxwell. ‘Don’t.’

‘Why
not?’

‘It
isn’t right. It just isn’t.’

‘Huh!’
Rushmear took up the coffin lid. ‘She’s only a toy.

‘She’s
much more than that. Fasten the lid, we will put the entire coffin into
MacGuffin’s pouch.’

Rushmear
beat the lid down with a mighty fist, then with Maxwell’s help, slid the coffin
into the magic pouch.

‘I’ll
take this,’ said Rushmear, snatching the pouch from Maxwell’s hands.

‘All
right,’ Maxwell said. ‘You take it.’

‘All
right?
You give up the pouch without a struggle?’

‘I’m
sure it will be safe with you.’

‘Have
no fear for that. I’ll guard it with my life until we return to MacGuffin.’

‘Then
you’ll die so doing,’ said Maxwell.

‘Aha,’
Rushmear sprang back. ‘You mean to kill me for it.’

‘Nothing
of the kind. If you attempt to carry the pouch back through the grid you will
be shredded. We only need it to transport the coffin as far as the airship.
Once the coffin is unloaded on board we would do well to fling the pouch over
the side. It will have served its purpose.’

‘Hmph,’
went Rushmear. ‘But, of course, this was
my
intention all along.’

‘I’m so
pleased to hear it. So, shall we depart?’

‘Yes
indeed.’

The journey from the
basement to the roof was quite uneventful. Clearly none of the students knew
yet of Count Waldeck’s demise, and as Rushmear stomped along with his hood well
down, they saluted him and wished him good day.

Maxwell’s
nerves were somewhat on edge. There was the matter of the count’s guards. But
it was probable that with the count deceased, his magic had died with him and
his guards dissolved away.

There
was also, of course, the matter of those rampaging animals. What exactly had
become of them?

Maxwell
hurried along behind Rushmear. William hurried along behind Maxwell.

Up a
final staircase they went, through a small door and onto the uppermost roof of
the University.

And
here they found the airship.

Maxwell
whistled through his visor. A thing of wonder it truly was. And an airship was
truly the word. For there stood a vast cigar-shaped blimp secured by many ropes
to what appeared to be the hull of a Spanish galleon. From the stern of this
projected a number of long metal shafts with fan blades on the ends.

A dull
throb of pistons issued from the craft. Smoke rose from a variety of funnels
that poked through the foredeck. Anchoring lines held fast to metal rings
bolted to the roof.

‘And
that will fly?’ Rushmear asked.

Maxwell
scratched his helmet. ‘I agree it does look somewhat unlikely.’

‘Let’s
get on board,’ said William.

Maxwell
looked down at the lad. ‘Ah,’ said he.

‘Ah?’
William asked.

Maxwell
lifted his visor. ‘You’re not coming with us,’ he said.

‘I’m
not?
What do you mean?’

‘I
mean, I want you to stay here until I get back.’

‘And
what if you
don’t
get back?’

‘Exactly.
Things are likely to become rather unpleasant when we meet up with MacGuffin
again. I don’t want any harm to come to you.’

‘Things
could become rather unpleasant here also.’

‘Sorry,’
said Maxwell. ‘But there it is.’

‘You
heartless bastard.’

‘Soul-less
bastard. I’m sorry, William,’ Maxwell reached out a
gauntleted hand, the lad took his shoulder beyond its reach.

‘Stuff
you then,’ said William.

‘Oh
don’t be like that. I can’t take you. It’s too dangerous.’

‘Let’s
go,’ muttered Rushmear.

‘Yes.
All right.’

Maxwell
followed the big man up the gang plank. At the top he turned back to offer a
wave. But William had gone.

‘Damn
it,’ said Maxwell.

‘Welcome
aboard, My Lord Count,’ said a chap in a seaman’s uniform. ‘And good day to you
too, Sir Knight.’

‘Good
day,’ said Maxwell, lowering his visor.

‘Take
us to the village of MacGuffin as fast as you can,’ ordered Rushmear.

‘You’re
voice sounds terrible gruff,’ said the seaman (skyman?).

‘I’ve a
sore throat, now get a damn move on.’

‘Yes,
sir.’ The skyman (yes, that’s it) blew a whistle. Other skymen scurried onto
the deck and began busying themselves at the ropes which held down the
airship.

‘Let’s
have the coffin out,’ said Rushmear.

‘Right.’

They
slid the coffin out onto the deck.

‘Prepare
for lift-off,’ called the skyman, blowing his whistle once more.

‘Sling
the pouch over the side,’ said Rushmear.

‘Right.’

‘Lift
off,’ called the skyman, as the airship began to rise.

‘Oh,
Maxwell,’ said Rushmear.

‘Yes?’

‘Just
this,’ Rushmear leapt forwards and pushed Maxwell over the ship’s rail. ‘As
with the pouch, you have served your purpose,’ he called to the falling figure.
‘I will send your regards to MacGuffin. Farewell.’

25

They say that anger begins
with folly and ends with repentance.

They
also say that if you put bigger wheels on the back of your car you will save on
petrol because you’re always going down hill.

It’s
funny what they say.

Though
perhaps not
that
funny.

Maxwell
didn’t think it funny. But then Maxwell was angry. He was
very
angry.
And his anger, which had indeed begun with folly, did not look like ending with
repentance.

A heart
attack possibly, but
not
repentance.

The
fall had knocked the breath from him, but he was otherwise unscathed. Now he
raged about the rooftop like a madman. He tore off items of golden armour,
flung them down and kicked them all around. He came upon MacGuffin’s pouch and
stamped on it again and again and again.

Then he
realized that he had stamped the Max Carrion outfit to oblivion, having
thoughtlessly neglected to remove it from the pouch before he did the even more
thoughtless flinging of the pouch from the airship.

This
raised Maxwell to even greater heights of anger and fury.

He
shook his fists and fired off volleys of abuse towards the receding airship. As
a berserker he gnashed his teeth and growled and scowled and screamed.

Bilious,
he was. Wrathful, stung, incensed. Fuming, boiling, rampageous.

Cross.

Very
cross.

Very
angry.
Very
cross.

Maxwell
threw himself down on the rooftop, thrashed his legs and drummed his fists. And
howled and howled and howled.

It was
all too much, it really was. He’d got this far just to lose the lot. And to a
horse trader. A bloody horse trader! He, Max Carrion, Imagineer, bested by a
bloody horse trader!

Maxwell
ceased his wrathful thrashings.
He, the Imagineer!
What a fine joke
that
was. He with his high thoughts and his grand schemes. He’d achieved
nothing. He
was
nothing. Since he’d been dumped onto this future world,
what had he done? Caused a lot of grief and misery and chaos, that’s what.

Maxwell
groaned and moaned, now bitter with remorse and regret.

Still,
they do say that anger begins with folly and ends with repentance, don’t they?

‘I shall
kill myself,’ declared Maxwell. ‘I am a useless no-mark. I shall end it all.’

He
sprang to his feet, kicked off his remaining armour, stalked over to the
parapet of the roof and climbed on to it. ‘Goodbye, cruel worlds,’ he said,
preparing to take the ultimate plunge.

And he
would have done it too.

But a
mighty cheer rose up to greet him.

Maxwell
tottered and gazed down. Below, in the quadrangle, stood hundreds of people:
little lads in grey, big lads in grey, chaps in cricket whites, masters in
gowns and mortar boards, knights in golden armour. They waved their hands at
him and cheered again.

‘Max-well,’
they went. ‘Max-well.’

Maxwell
gawped. ‘What?’

‘Three
cheers for our deliverer,’ cried someone.

‘Hip
hoorah. Hip hip hoorah. Hip hip hip—’

‘Deliverer?’
asked Maxwell, shaking a bewildered head.

‘Hoorah.’

‘Deliverer!’
Maxwell swayed on the parapet.
‘Deliverer!’
He rather liked the sound
of that.

‘Speech,’
cried someone else. ‘Speech from the slayer of the evil count.’

‘Ah.’
Maxwell’s brain went, Click-click-click. Slayer of the evil count. They were
cheering
him
as the hero.
He,
Max Carrion, count-slayer and
heroic deliverer.
Yes!

Now, of
course Maxwell knew full well that he hadn’t
really
slain the evil
count. It was Rushmear who had done the actual slaying. But then, Rushmear
had
done the dirty on Maxwell and flown off with Ewavett. So Rushmear wasn’t
here to take any of the credit. And, after all, if Maxwell hadn’t found his way
to the University, then Rushmear could never have followed him here and slain
the evil count. So Maxwell could really be considered to be the slayer of the
evil count. By proxy.

So it
wouldn’t really be wrong if he took
all
the credit.

Would
it?

‘My
dear friends,’ called Maxwell, all thoughts of suicide forgotten. ‘My dear
friends, I—’ And then he lost his footing and fell off the roof.

‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Maxwell, like you do. ‘Not fair … I … oh!’

A firm
hand shot out from a window he was passing by at speed and caught him by the
ankle. Gripped it tight. Drew him to safety.

‘Oh,’
went Maxwell. ‘Oh,’ and ‘Oww.’

And
then he was dropped on a carpeted floor. ‘Ouch,’ he said, then, ‘by the—’

‘Goddess?’
asked Sir John Rimmer, beaming down at him.

‘Goddess,’
agreed Maxwell, wondering up. The ancient barber was no longer ancient. And
barber no longer was he. Sir John wore his suit of bottle green velvet. His horn-rimmed
spectacles were perched on his hatchet nose. The beard of wispy white was rich
and red and marvellous to view.

‘You
are young,’ croaked Maxwell.

‘Not as
young as once I was, but all the better now the spell that kept me old and daft
is dead.’

‘I’ll
try to work that one out,’ said Maxwell. ‘Thank you for saving my life.’

‘Thanks
for restoring mine. But come now, you have much to do.’

‘I do?’

‘You
do.’ Sir John helped Maxwell to his feet. ‘They’ll probably want to carry you
shoulder-high about the quad. Then there’s bound to be a feast and you’ll have
to make a proper speech. Then there’ll be the awarding of some honorific title
and swearing you in as a life-long fellow of the University. Then—’

‘Er,
Sir John,’ Maxwell made a guilty face, ‘there’s something I think you ought to
know.’

‘Do you
mean like the fact that it was really Rushmear who killed Count Waldeck?’

‘Yes.
But how did you—’

‘I told
him.’ William’s face appeared, from behind a green velvet trouser leg this
time. ‘But then, as I explained to Sir John, if you hadn’t found your way here
to the University, then Rushmear could never have followed you and done the
actual slaying of the count. Logically, in the absence of Rushmear, you are the
slayer by proxy.