The World Idiot (11 page)

“So you are the leader of this village,” the Captain grumbled. “The mayor perhaps?”

Lowri narrowed her eyes. “That title is obsolete. I am the
Peachy Poo
of Lladloh, a title I invented. I am far greater than any of the previous rulers, no idle boast considering that one was a god, but minor deities are common in these parts. There is nothing you can do to oppose my wishes, but I’m not unreasonable all the time.”

Captain Nothing felt anger but knew he was at a major disadvantage. If he tried to rush at her, she would transfix his heart with an arrow or set her attendants on him. Suddenly he felt furious with the whole village, not just her but the buildings too, including the tavern and those inside it. His revenge would be indirect and so he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level and said slyly:

“Do you know what they’ve got in that drinking den over there? An inflatable stadium, that’s what! Some German fellow brought it with him and they weren’t planning to tell you about it. I suspect they were going to set it up somewhere you wouldn’t see and keep it a secret. Not that it’s any of my business but what do you think of that?”

Lowri inclined her head to one side and her cheeks flushed. Captain Nothing expected her to notch an arrow to her bow but she merely flashed her eyes and nodded thoughtfully. Then she ignored him completely and returned to issuing orders to her little men. Now their task was finished and they carried the final planks and nails into the house, vanishing through the door in single file. Lowri moved away from the bridge and joined the line, the Captain stepping back so that she wouldn’t brush against him. She didn’t look back as she entered the house. The door slammed shut and he was left alone.

Without his ship he felt marooned and unhappy. He took a small satisfaction in the knowledge she had not taken the sausage, but he didn’t need it himself because he had decided to walk out of the village and it would slow him down. It seemed a good idea to begin walking right away. He crossed the bridge and found a promising path which headed south. When he reached the coast he would acquire another vessel, he wasn’t sure how, even if it was only a modest coracle or canoe. Possibly he would build a raft from driftwood. His confidence returned but the path soon frustrated him, leading into an overgrown forest and then into a narrow valley surrounded by frightful crags. He quickly lost all sense of direction and his body felt heavy with despair.

The valley opened out into a dismal plain but his view of the horizon was obscured by the bulk of a smoking volcano. Around the summit circled what looked like a pterodactyl. He turned back hastily and entered a different valley. Now he was trapped in a trackless expanse of high thorny bushes. The ground beneath his feet was ripe with thick mud. At last he came to the base of a cliff and followed it searching for a way up, but the face was as black and smooth as obsidian. There was the mouth of a cave and he entered it to rest and examine the scratches on his body. Something dry snapped under his heel, an enormous thighbone, and from the unlighted rear of the cave an unknown creature stirred with a massive yawn. The Captain retreated and plunged into the bushes. He wandered aimlessly for many hours and by the time he emerged it was growing dark and his clothes were in tatters.

A few lights twinkled ahead. He stumbled towards them and his heart sank as he crossed the stone bridge and made his way to the tavern. It was empty and cold inside and he came out. Voices and panting could be heard a little way off. He followed them to the church and passed through that abominable building into the walled graveyard.

He rubbed his eyes. Dennistoun the poet noticed him.

“Welcome back. We thought we’d lost you. What do you think?”

The Captain squinted. “Very impressive.”

“No, it’s awful, a complete disaster. Somehow Lowri learned of the German’s invention and paid us a little visit. She insisted we set it up right away. This seemed the best place because the graveyard walls might afford some protection if the thing bursts. We didn’t get round to replacing the headstones after the squonks wrecked them, so the ground’s reasonably flat. Don’t take your seat yet or you’ll be expected to contribute to the puffing.”

The Captain struggled to comprehend the scene before him. A sea of blue rubber rippled to the edges of the graveyard and seated at the far end on several limp tiers were Lowri’s grotesque assistants, all bending forward with their lips fixed to a series of protruding valves. Even the smallest attendant was trying to help the others, though his valve was bigger than he was. Dennistoun and the other drinkers from the tavern were clustered in groups nearer the church and there were many faces the Captain didn’t recognise. It appeared the entire village had turned up to watch, which in fact was the case, for the poet rolled his eyes in resignation and added sourly:

“Attendance is compulsory. The
Peachy Poo
said so.”

The barman came over with a thin smile. “I heard you took a sausage to bed.”

The Captain shrugged and the barman abandoned any further effort to lighten the mood. As twilight turned to dusk the smaller attendants became inferior shadows like wisps of black flame. As if reading his thoughts the barman explained that real flames weren’t a good idea this close to an inflatable stadium, so there wouldn’t be any blazing torches or spluttering braziers, the customary method of public illumination in Lladloh, but a full moon was expected to rise later and that would suffice. Indeed the present roundness of the moon was probably the reason why Lowri had insisted on setting up the stadium this very night.

“Do you get many moons in Wales?” the Captain wondered.

“Very few, but this is a special time. It’s a terrible irony really because the day started so well. The oracle I keep in the cellar, it’s a wax skull and mostly just screams, informed me that Pitapata, the local God of Rain, has fallen asleep for the first time in fifty years. The sky will be clear until he wakes again. My oracle doesn’t care for fine weather and has a dread of melting, which is why I put it in the cellar, it’s cool down there, but anyway I was so pleased by this news that I sent for the Room Barber to tidy up my tavern. Making my rooms more normal seemed a good way of celebrating.”

A tall man in a cloak who carried a folded razor as large as a coffin rotated his hooded head and hissed, “All the way from Lampeter I came.”

“That’s almost ten miles distant,” whispered Dennistoun.

Captain Nothing rubbed his chin. “I don’t understand. Your room seemed agreeable enough to me, I was perfectly at ease on your carpet.”

The barman and poet exchanged glances. “We don’t have carpets in Lladloh.”

The Captain felt bile rise in his throat and changed the subject. “Where is Lowri now? I don’t see her. When the stadium is fully inflated will she shoot an arrow at it?”

“Indeed no, that’s not the reason we think there’s a danger of it exploding, quite the reverse, Lowri loves the concept. We’re worried because of the types of games we play in Lladloh, this village is behind the times.”

“You don’t play rugby or cricket?” the Captain asked.

“No, we still enjoy gladiatorial contests. Two men locked in combat with the crowd applauding or jeering and our leader, in this case Lowri, deciding the fate of the loser with the jerk of a thumb. We use the ancient weapons, mostly sharp implements, and the chances of a puncture are extremely high. Of all the games to hold in an inflatable stadium, such fights are probably the most hazardous. Mondaugen obviously was unaware of our tradition when he made his proposal. Too late to do anything about it now.”

This was true. The stadium was expanding rapidly, taking on a more substantial form, the limp walls growing firmer, the rows of seats more stable. Captain Nothing realised with alarm that he was inside the stadium, a wall of thick rubber rising to block his retreat through the church. They were all trapped, unwilling spectators of a contest that might annihilate the whole village. He looked for a way out but the sides of the stadium lacked doors. He climbed to the top row of seats and peered over the edge. Too high to jump without injury. Lowri’s house was visible above the rooftops of the other buildings and she was framed by her window. She winked at him and then moved back into the gloom of the room and his heart missed a beat. Would she watch everything from that vantage? Surely not even her house could survive an explosion of such magnitude!

Mondaugen was also standing on the top row and came over to talk. “To be honest, I’m rather worried, I didn’t plan for these circumstances. My research into bursting balloons led me to the conclusion they only explode when they are inflated by one person, when the breath that fills them is exhaled by a single individual. Not all lungs are equally strong. Some people puff hard, others soft. If a balloon is inflated by mixed breath, all the different pressures inside it from all the different breaths interfere with each other. If jabbed with a pin, that balloon won’t burst. There is only danger when the breath is homogeneous.”

The Captain frowned. “Are you quite sure about that?”

“Many experiments confirm the theory. When I designed my stadium, I judged it safe from cataclysmic rupture by virtue of the fact it had to be inflated by a multitude. I never imagined one person might accomplish the task.”

And he gestured at Lowri’s straining assistants.

The Captain laughed. “There must be a hundred of them at least.”

Mondaugen sniffed sadly. “But they really are all the same person, mirrored again and again, the images given solidity. The barman told me all about it. Those living splinters were made from the previous mayor, a fellow named Weasel. It was Lowri’s revenge when he refused to hand over power. Now he works for her as a slave in all his variations.”

“It can’t have done his health much good.”

Mondaugen agreed and voiced another worry. “I bet they all have rotting gums and horrid breath. That makes the risks even worse. It’s not so bad when sweet breath blends with sour and they cancel each other out. Imagine the foul vapour that will drift over the region if the stadium bursts! It will poison anyone who survives the blast.”

Captain Nothing snorted. “I wonder who the gladiators will be?”

As if in reply to this question the barman climbed up to them accompanied by a dozen other men. There was understanding in their eyes but very little pity. “The arena is almost ready, the games will shortly begin. You’d better get changed into your armour.”

“Us?” cried Mondaugen and the Captain together.

“Of course. You are the newcomers, our guests. The honour of fighting to the death is yours and you don’t have a choice in the matter. If you decline or even delay then Lowri will do something much worse to you. Come with us and don’t forget to smile.”

Appreciating that resistance was pointless, Captain Nothing and the inventor allowed themselves to be led meekly to the centre of the arena. The rows of seats were now almost full of spectators, reluctant but unforgiving. The two victims were divested of their clothing and fitted with sparse armour. The Captain was given a helmet, small shield and bent sword. Suddenly the moon rose over a distant mountain and flooded the scene with waxy light. Now the crowd began cheering and he found himself alone in the central space with Mondaugen, who was dressed differently and carried a net instead of a shield. Was Lowri watching from her house? If he refused to fight would she fill him with arrows? While he was speculating on these enigmas, the inventor lunged at him and struck a glancing blow on his helmet.

“Watch what you’re doing with that fork!” the Captain protested.

Mondaugen leered. “It’s not a fork but a trident, a three pronged spear.”

“It looks just like a giant fork to me.”

Mondaugen came at him again, clearly trying for a swift victory, and the Captain was forced to defend himself. It no longer felt much like a game. The crowd cheered or hissed and Lowri’s attendants, who occupied one side of the stadium by themselves, applauded with their graded hands. The sound resembled boxes of thunder nested inside each other. Something wet splashed the Captain’s arm. Blood? No, it was clear and pure. A drop of rainwater. The scarf on Lowri’s house, visible over the walls of the stadium, stirred in a light breeze. The storm was coming at last! More raindrops rang on his helmet and he heard a concerned muttering behind him. He had retreated before Mondaugen’s onslaught and found himself pressed against the lowest tier of seats, a position from which he was able to discern individual voices.

“The oracle lied. Pitapata is not sleeping after all!”

“Something must have woken him!”

“The stadium will fill with rain and we will all drown!”

The panic spread, people jumping out of their seats and clambering to the top to jump over the side, risking broken legs to escape. The skies opened and the rain fell with a vengeance. Nobody had any more interest in the fight. The weight of so many people on one side of the stadium caused it to sag, so there was less distance to jump. Captain Nothing laid down his sword gently, to avoid puncturing the rubber, removed his helmet and joined the exodus. His plan was to retrieve the sausage from the tavern and employ it as a canoe, a use which even the maker, Dewi Gutstuff, would be proud of. He jumped down, landed outside the graveyard and started running. He glanced back once. As more and more of the spectators jumped down, the weight on the rubber wall decreased. He saw that Mondaugen was one of the last to leave. He was on the very edge when the stadium sprang back to its original shape, catapulting him high into the air. Still clutching his trident he vanished in the direction of Lowri’s house.