The World Idiot (10 page)

Even more disturbing than this is the fact that someone has been taking sly drinks from the bottle behind the bar. I suspect that it is Emyr. It seems I will soon have a rival. This is the last thing I need at my stage in life. Had I submitted to the operation, my own ego might now be the one that is being consumed and I wouldn’t have to worry about competition. I sometimes stare out of the grimy windows of my garret, hoping that the stranger, or one like him, will return. It is a forlorn hope. More often, I take myself out to my favourite cemetery and lay myself down in that opened grave which I refuse to see refilled. Ah Gwyneth! She alone understood my essential nature. How I yearn for her puffed face close to mine, her wormy embrace! There is another poem somewhere in this, I am sure. Who knows? If I persist, I may yet attain the status of creative genius.

The West Pole was traditionally discovered by Caradoc Weasel, an explorer who did nothing with it. For many centuries, its existence was merely a rumour. After it was found, the other theoretical Poles were accepted as real. In due course, they were also reached and researched. Of the six Poles, the West remains the most magical. Nobody can say why. The North and South are too functional to inspire the same feelings of awe. They occupy the two ends of the axis upon which the planet spins. The East, Front and Back Poles have no such role, though no geographer dares consider them superfluous. But they do not command the respect which is offered to the West Pole. Possibly this is because the human race never truly appreciates what it has until it is gone.

The longitude of the West Pole is 90ºW. Naturally it lies directly on the equator. It ought to have been easy to locate, for it stands exactly where it should, at the sunset’s point of absolute rest. But the diameter of the Pole is only that of the thickness of any line of latitude, and it is sunk into the sea, and sailors are often drunk. It persisted as a myth for long ages. But once it was found, it became obvious, and then the mystery was how it had eluded detection before. That is usually what happens with new things. Now storms always seemed to be blowing ships onto it and it was marked on every chart as a hazard. Without changing their routes at all, many vessels were wrecked there, and the act of its discovery was generally held responsible.

In time, its reputation mellowed, because ships grew harder and steel plate did not puncture so readily. Then the storms were no longer so frequent. Sailors began to steer for it deliberately. As a meeting place, it was ideal. The Galapagos lay a little to the west, yet the Pole had none of the disadvantages of conducting business on land. There were no brothels to start fights in. Before long, a thriving market came into being around the actual Pole. Ships would tether themselves to it with ropes. Then goods would be traded from deck to deck. Sometimes crews would just chat or sing together. The neutrality of the Pole was respected. Even the fleets of nations at war would refuse to engage in combat in the vicinity of that foolish but astounding length of wood.

For such was the material from which it had been created. The same was true of the other three inessential Poles. Whether they had grown there naturally, or were carved and planted by an unknown and forgotten intelligence, is an unanswerable question. The fact they were striped with red and white bands is cited as evidence for an artificial origin. But the world is strange and too many conclusions about its secrets are apt to be wrong. Even the objection that wood does not grow under water is a prejudice rather than a certain truth. It is wiser not to speculate. The East Pole at 90ºE in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Sumatra, and the Front at 0º in the armpit of Africa, and the Back at 180º near Kiribati, all on the equator of course, are identical to the one that was the West. Perhaps it will grow again.

When he was an old man, Caradoc Weasel decided to repay a visit to the site of his discovery. He also wished to purchase some fine wines, a plate painted with a picture of a winged cow and a replacement key for the front door of his house. He knew that the West Pole had become the biggest floating bazaar in the world. It was a place where almost anything, however unlikely, could be bought. He dug his life savings up from under the floorboards where he had been hiding them and set off on a ship. He was carried across the Atlantic Ocean and around Cape Horn, because this was a time before the Panama Canal was finished, and up along the Pacific coast of South America. When he reached the point of the Pole, he was astonished. There were no other ships in the area. The sea was empty all the way to the horizon.

True, he had not expected to see the actual Pole. Like its counterparts in the other oceans, the West Pole did not break the surface of the water. On a day without storms, when the sea was a smooth belly, the top of the Pole lay exactly level with the oceanic meniscus. It was neither higher nor lower than the surface by even so much as the breadth of a fish scale. Its flat top was part of the plane where liquid became air, a small but perfect circle at the intersection between ocean and atmosphere. This is why it had proved so difficult to discover. Only the hulls of ships knew, and they suffered for it. After it was established as a geographical feature, experienced eyes would look for the bent line of its shadow plunging into the depths and the infrequent glimmer of red and white.

Ships would tether themselves as close to the top of the Pole as possible. Other vessels that came along would moor themselves to these ships. The result was a web over which trade might scuttle to devour bad feeling and war. Securing the first rope to the Pole always required a swim. In time, the Pole appeared shorter and divers were needed for this operation. It was no longer as high as the sea was deep. Its summit was no longer level with the ocean’s surface. The general fear was that the Pole was shrinking, or was being drawn through a hole in the seabed by an unknown agency. Only later was the alternative hypothesis that the sea was rising given serious attention. Various ideas were suggested for why this might happen. Increased rainfall was dismissed as an explanation, because the rain came from the sea in the first place. Melting icecaps and the arrival of extra water in comets both seemed more reasonable.

The truth was less catastrophic. Each time a vessel put to sea, it displaced a certain amount of liquid, a quantity equal to the volume of its hull below the waterline. In the early years of the Pole’s existence, when there were no ships, it probably reared high above the surface of the sea, waiting for its first visitor. Pterodactyls might have used it for an occasional perch. Then ships were invented, but they hugged the coasts of lands far distant from the Pole. By the time they were able to cross the open ocean, there were so many of them and they were so large that the waves lapped around the top of the Pole. But at least it was still out of the water and could be glimpsed. Ancient mariners must have seen it and thus it became a rumour. When Caradoc Weasel discovered it for certain, its top was flush with the surface of the sea.

Now that explorer blinked, for the absence of other ships around the Pole was remarkable. His vessel steered close to the spot where it should have been, to secure a line, but nothing was there. The Pole had gone. The empty sea was now no more mysterious at that one point than at any other on its broad expanse. There was no reason why ships should not gather without the Pole, which really served no more than a symbolic function. But it appeared that the symbol was crucial. It was a reference point. Without it, the ocean offered nothing to tie knots on, save for dolphins and driftwood. But those were not stable. If trading ships gathered here without the Pole, they would be sure to look menacing, even if they acted in the same way as before.

An international search was started to locate the missing Pole. It might have been rotten inside and dissolved all at once, but everyone believed it had been stolen. There was no hard evidence for this, but it was the general feeling. The search was abandoned after a decade. Trade continued at the East, Front and Back Poles, but these locations never seemed as colourful as that of the West, even though the Poles were identical. Students were eventually blamed for the theft, though none were ever convicted. There is a college in a town somewhere whose students had chopped down the tallest tree in the world. They liked playing ambitious pranks. It was probably them. They denied it, of course, but their long fringes kept falling over their eyes, a most unlikely thing to happen in a town which has so many barbers, nearly every shop displaying a short length of striped pole.

Captain Marlow Nothing made a big mistake when he fitted wheels to the hull of his ship. Nobody warned him what might happen because he always sailed alone. He wanted to roll his vessel onto beaches during storms to protect it from huge waves but the first time he attempted this procedure the anchor cable broke and he kept going. He had to keep his hands on the rudder wheel to steer his sloop between the dunes, so he wasn’t free to furl his sails. Soon he found himself speeding along a winding road and by the time the sun went down he was far inland.

The storm continued during the night and the lanterns dangling from the rails of his ship swung like drunken stars in rum bottles, casting a hopeless glow over the fields to starboard and port, fields of tall grass that rippled like waves so that it almost seemed to Captain Nothing he was still at sea, a sea that had grown hairs and needed a shave. Lost in these ripples like soft icebergs were worried sheep who bleated disapprovingly as he passed, but the Captain mostly kept his eyes on the road and did not pay them much attention, for he wanted to avoid an accident. His vessel wasn’t insured.

When dawn came the force of the wind began to abate, but the ship had built up such momentum that it would not stop for several hours after the air was calm. So far Captain Nothing had observed few signs of habitation and none of sentience, for he was in Wales, but now he entered a village of small black cottages named Cwmwysg and although the hour was early a few shops were already open. One of these shops was owned by a man called Dewi Gutstuff who was famous for selling the largest sausages in the locality. He was in the process of hanging his specimens from the awning over his window when the ship suddenly appeared and crashed right through his display.

It did not stop but continued to trundle onwards until it left the village on the far side but now the deck was strewn with sausages. Dewi ran after the vessel but it quickly left him behind and he abandoned the chase. He had lost his masterpiece, a sausage fourteen feet long, and for years afterwards he complained bitterly about how pirates now operated on land as well as sea, insisting that the foodstuffs of every village were in danger of abduction and ravishment by misplaced buccaneers, but nobody believed him. Meanwhile Captain Nothing glutted himself on the smaller sausages, for he could not manage the really big one, and was surprised to discover they were filled with cheese and herbs rather than meat.

His vessel left the road on a particularly sharp bend and rattled over grassy hills, almost coming to a pause on each summit but then slipping over the crest and building up speed again. The hills grew smaller and rounder but it was after sunset before he finally stopped. He had rejoined the road and crossed a stone bridge and now found himself on the outskirts of another village. A large bonfire blocked his path but his wheels scattered the blazing logs into the damp grass. He ground to a halt, climbed down on a rope ladder and wandered the deserted streets. In the highest window of the tallest house a curtain twitched and he shivered inexplicably. Then he noticed a tavern without a name and he pushed open the door and stepped into a room full of strange fuss.

In many ways it was a normal tavern, with tables and chairs and a bar serving beer and whisky, but the people who drank there had an uncanny look about them and they were arguing with a man dressed in a series of elaborate waistcoats who wore a timepiece on a chain in each pocket. When the argument lulled the ticking was abominable. Captain Nothing strode to the bar and ordered a drink and now he was the centre of attention, all heads turning to survey him with narrow eyes that weren’t inscrutable, though he wished they were. He sipped his beer and nodded at the company but it was a long while before anyone spoke to him.

“Two newcomers in a single night,” said one small fellow.

“I was blown off course,” explained the Captain.

The barman flicked at some dust with a dishcloth. “You arrived by boat? Were you lured by the false beacon on the edge of town? That was Lowri’s doing, she’s our new leader, one of her latest schemes is to light a wrecker’s fire every evening and claim salvage rights. She hasn’t had much success so far because ships don’t usually travel over land. In fact you are her first victim.”

“That’s not exactly how it happened,” replied the Captain.

The barman shrugged. “Your vessel will be completely plundered by morning anyhow. Don’t look so glum, you’re in Lladloh now and it’s a pretty unlucky place for outsiders, so I’d say you’ve got off lightly. Maybe fate is taking a rest today because nothing very bad has happened to this other fellow. He just strolled into town a few hours ago.”

The man with the waistcoats clicked his heels and introduced himself. “Karl Mondaugen. I’m an inventor and I have a new invention to demonstrate.”

This started the argument again and amid the babbling of voices Captain Nothing found he couldn’t understand a single word. The small fellow who spoke to him first detached himself from the throng and came to stand by his side. His mouth worked violently in a small way but his words were inaudible and the Captain realised he wasn’t actually speaking to him but reciting a dreadful poem. When the argument finally calmed down he stopped reciting, as if afraid of his own verse, and thrust out an arm with a greasy handshake on the end of it. He introduced himself as if divulging a low quality secret.

“My name is Dennistoun and I’m the local bard.”

“What is everyone arguing about?” asked the Captain.

“It’s that Mondaugen chap, he’s from Germany I believe, but that’s not the cause of our concern. He’s been wandering the lost villages of Wales trying to interest people in his latest invention, some kind of inflatable stadium, much cheaper than a solid stadium. Places such as Lladloh don’t have the sort of money they have in Cardiff or Swansea and can’t afford to build solid stadiums. We love our games here in Wales and it’s a shame we have to hold them in fields rather than in a proper arena.”

“In that case his offer sounds ideal.”

Dennistoun shook his head. “It’s not up to any of us, our leader is the only one who can give the go ahead and Lowri isn’t the sort of person you can approach without risk. She shoots arrows at things she doesn’t like. But those aquamarine eyes of hers are quite remarkable, I penned an ode to them once but she shot an arrow right through it as I was taking it to her. I was just going to leave it on her doorstep and run away. But to return to what I was saying, we’re all worried that the bursting of an inflatable stadium might cause structural damage to our homes.”

“That seems a little pessimistic.”

“Disasters are common here. The church was destroyed last year by wild squonks and we’ve only just rebuilt it, including the wall around the graveyard, which is shaped like a sack of tears. Mondaugen seems to think there’s no real danger, he claims he has been conducting research on inflated objects and has discovered something surprising, but we still have doubts. Anyway we’re arguing about who visits Lowri with the proposal tomorrow. Some of us believe it will be wiser to say nothing to her and chase the inventor away instead.”

“Well this is none of my affair, I plan on leaving as soon as possible, the moment the next storm comes along to blow me back to sea. I know you don’t have to wait long in Wales for downpours and gales. Does this tavern rent out rooms?”

And to emphasise his fatigue he yawned mightily.

The barman took note of his open mouth and pointed at the ceiling. “There’s a room directly above this one but I’ve already promised it to the inventor. You can share with him, if he agrees, but you’ll have to sleep on the floor.”

Mondaugen voiced no objection and so Captain Nothing began climbing the stairs, the bannister slimy and pliable in his grip, but he paused halfway to the top and called down, “Surely it would take many days to fill an inflatable stadium with air? I wouldn’t like to be the man who has to blow into it to puff it up.”

“That’s the clever part,” responded the inventor. “There’s a valve under every seat. When the spectators take their places they each contribute some of their breath to the task. The bigger the attendance for an event, the faster the stadium is erected.”

Satisfied with this answer, the Captain continued his ascent and reached the highest step. Passing along a narrow corridor he opened a door and entered a room illuminated by two spluttering candles. A huge mushroom grew in one corner, spreading over an entire wall, and something dry and ancient fluttered weakly behind it, perhaps a trapped moth of unnatural dimensions, and in another corner a vast cobweb vibrated to its own rhythm and the flies caught in its silky strings had the appearance of musical notes, tiny winged minims and crotchets, but this was probably a trick of tiredness and shadows. Apart from fungus and web the room was fine. The carpet was soft and comfortable enough and the babble of voices from below sounded like the roar of distant surf. Soon the Captain was asleep.

He tossed and turned for an hour or two and was briefly awakened by the arrival of Mondaugen, who stepped over him and blew out the candles before collapsing into bed. The inventor did not undress and the ticking of his watches was thankfully muffled by the heavy blankets. Nor did he snore and the Captain’s sleep should have been untroubled, but there was something wrong, it was unclear what. Nonetheless more peace and rest was enjoyed than might be expected in such a place until midnight came and all the watches sounded the hour together and filled the room with a tuneless melody, setting the cobweb groaning like an echo which has forgotten the sounds it is supposed to repeat and makes up its own. The effect was quite ghastly and the Captain finally decided he was unhappy with the sleeping arrangements.

There was a solution to this problem and he rose and left the room and went downstairs and through the front door into the night. The sky was clear, an event so rare in Wales that many inhabitants still doubt the existence of stars, and the air was completely still. The Captain wanted a storm and was dismayed but he made his way to his ship and climbed the rope ladder to the deck. He craned his head up at the constellations and for an instant he imagined they were the lights of other villages, equally horrible, layered above this one. Then he shook himself free of this literally groundless fear and turned his attention to the champion sausage, dragging it across the planks and dropping it over the rail.

It landed on the grass with a sickening and slightly sad squelch, as if a squonk had been stomped by a clumsy centaur, and he followed it over the side. But before he touched ground and let go of the rope ladder he chanced to look at the tallest house again. A face was peering at him from the highest window. He guessed at once this was Lowri and he offered a limp wave but he never knew if she responded because his attention was suddenly diverted to the lower windows of the same building. Grinning faces were crammed behind each pane of glass and they were all identical in expression and layout but different in size. Then every curtain swished into place and he was left alone with his sausage.

He hauled it back to the tavern and up the stairs, wincing as it bounced on every step, and into his room. Laying it out on the floor, he settled down next to it and embraced it, using it partly as a pillow and a bolster, and perhaps partly as a woman, something fleshy to hold and encourage a deep slumber. And in fact his sleep was perfect, the deepest sleep he had known for many nights. When he woke again it was nearly dawn.

He decided to leave immediately, not caring to view the mushroom and cobweb in the light of day, and so he trod lightly back down the stairs and out of the tavern. There were still no signs of a coming storm in the sky. But he preferred to wait in his ship and he did not believe he would have to wait long, not here in the depths of Wales. The village looked different in the sick rosy glow preceding sunrise, the buildings more squat and much older. He noticed the church with its mouldy tower. He increased his pace with a shiver.

A shock awaited him when he reached his vessel. It was being dismantled by scores of little men who wielded hammers and saws or gripped pliers and spanners. Already there was almost nothing left but before he could shout out in anger he spotted the figure of Lowri lounging by the stone bridge, a longbow in her hand and a quiver of arrows slung over her back. She was directing operations and greeted his arrival with a sneer. Her hair, golden at the front but darkening to auburn at the back, hung in thick plaits apart from a few loose strands, but it was her eyes which riveted his attention, blue green and very wise but also somehow innocent and pure. From a safe distance he blabbered at her:

“This ship is my property. Put it back together immediately!”

She yawned languidly and shook her head. “You were wrecked in my domain and therefore I claim salvage rights. You are clearly an incompetent sailor.”

Captain Nothing took a step forward but she thumbed the string on her bow meaningfully and his courage evaporated. He concealed his fear from her scrutiny by turning to regard her house. For the first time he saw that a giant scarf had been wrapped around the roof, keeping the gables warm. It was the same colour as her eyes but sparkled with sequins. The front door was open and her assistants carried the broken pieces of his ship inside. The tallest of these attendants was about half his own height, while the others were graded on a diminishing scale. They were all variations of one person and the Captain was reminded briefly of Mondaugen’s nested waistcoats, but these men did not tick. The smallest was no more than an inch high and carried a single nail over his shoulder.