Twisthorn Bellow Page 7

  “Thanks, boss!” Twisthorn chewed a knuckle. “How about—like a pot calling the kettle an old boiler?”

  Cherlomsky slammed his fists on the desk. “No, no! Too feeble. Must I take absolute responsibility for everything around here? More savagery is needed! Let me demonstrate how it should be done. Ready? It’s like the pot calling the kettle French!”

  Twisthorn whistled thinly through sore lips.

  Abortia clucked her tongue. “Never take a break from work, do you, professor? You never let up . . . ”

  Cherlomsky snorted. “Why should I, silly girl? The valiant struggle is endless, so must I also be endless! That doesn’t mean I don’t have an end. My end may not be in sight, but it exists and it is dedicated utterly to the British cause! Do you think our enemies ever sleep or take a ‘break’ from trying to heinously distort, disrupt or even French-ify the universe? Don’t you realise that gross non-British elements are everywhere, especially in lands beyond Britain, but also within Britain, not just in Wales, Scotland, Devon and other outlying British regions but even in the beating heart of London, capital city of Britain?”

  Abortia felt battered by this outburst. Yet there was something about his attitude she didn’t understand.

  “But you’re not British either! I know you have been naturalised but you weren’t actually born here. From the evidence of your name, I guess you’re probably of Jewish stock, from somewhere east of Germany but west of the Urals. I’m guessing that Bessarabia or maybe the Ukraine was your birthplace. Am I right?”

  Cherlomsky erupted. “Jewish, you say! How dare you? My father was a Hiwi and won an award for his pogroms! Silver cup with ‘4848 killed in 48 hours’ etched on the side!”

  “That’s 101 per hour, or 1.683 every minute,” said Twisthorn, proud of his reliable mental arithmetic.

  Abortia blushed. “Didn’t mean to cause offence . . . ”

  “Too late. I am offended!” snapped Cherlomsky. “And my mother was an Austrian corporal. Had to pretend she was a man. She wasn’t gassed in the war, so she did it to herself.”

  “Just to be on the safe side, boss?” asked Twisthorn.

  “No, on the winning side!”

  “Fascinating and moving,” said Abortia.

  * * * * *

  Twisthorn was given a special commission by the Queen, probably just a punishment duty masquerading under another name. He had to find the merman responsible for the museum thefts and drag it back to Agency headquarters for torture and execution, but he also had to capture a sack of demonic flour that was haunting a windmill in the Fenlands. Despite the rough toil this promised, the golem relished a chance to visit the Fenlands, a region of marshes and muddy riverbanks. There would be silt and clay everywhere. Just one day in such an environment, he winkingly confessed to Abortia, would be like making love to the landscape.

  They were in the mail-room, opening the latest batch of letters, parcels and circulars the postman had brought. The postman was a pleasant chap despite the shirt with horizontal blue stripes that he wore, his bicycle and the onions. Twisthorn wondered which corner of Britain he came from. It clearly had to be a place where the locals thought it satirical to dress as a clichéd form of Frenchman.

  Cherlomsky said, “As you’re going to the Fenlands, try also to kidnap that skeletal ploughman who has been causing mischief in the grounds of Cambridge University. It’s on your way. Might as well kill three vultures with one lump of fool’s gold . . . ”

  Twisthorn hadn’t heard that saying before.

  “Sure thing, boss . . . Merman, sack of possessed flour, ploughman . . . I don’t anticipate any difficulties.”

  “Good.” The professor turned and left.

  Abortia opened one parcel with a knife. The sniffer had let it pass but she hadn’t bothered to subject it to an X-ray scan. The entity that jumped out of the box was a teapot.

  “But it’s alive!” protested Abortia.

  “How can that be possible? Who are you?” cried Twisthorn.

  The teapot clattered a grim lid.

  “My name is Tiktac Spittlegit. I am not French but I hate you. I will destroy you. My mission is to finish the unnatural life of the golem called Twisthorn Bellow. I will carry out this duty with extreme prejudice. In modern society prejudice is deemed an undesirable trait in people, but I am not human. Prepare to die!”

  “Another blooming robot!” lamented Twisthorn.

  “No respite,” sighed Abortia.

  But this one was different. It could transform itself into any domestic object at all, anything that might typically be found in a kitchen, bedroom or lounge. In other words it was an automatic master of disguise! And as the golem approached with raised fists, ready to smithereen the thing, it demonstrated its unique ability.

  First it changed into a kettle, then a nutcracker, broom, mate gourd, empty jar of instant coffee, corkscrew, tank of compressed helium, ZX Spectrum computer, bottle of shampoo, telescope, indoor sundial and a Philip José Farmer novel—an early one, The Green Odyssey. Twisthorn was bewildered by these rapid changes and quickly lost sight of Tiktac Spittlegit. What could he do?

  His solution was to smash everything in the room.

  Except Miss Abortia Stake . . .

  “Goodbye Tiktac,” sneered the golem.

  “Good . . . bye . . . ” wheezed a packet of broken biscuits.

  Twisthorn stirred it with a foot.

  “Wish he’d stayed as that Farmer novel instead. I’ve run out of reading material. I’m aware The Green Odyssey had only lukewarm reviews when it first appeared. All the same . . . ”

  Abortia said, “That reminds me. I bought a present for your birthday. Forgot to wrap it. Here it is.”

  The golem took the offered rectangular object. It turned out to be one of those carefully arranged sequences of paper sheets that by the precise positioning of varied marks can—without the slightest hint of magic or psychic forces—convey a coherent narrative. In other words, a book. A Philip José Farmer novel in fact, Lord Tyger, often considered to be one of his most polished works.

  “But it’s not my birthday for another six months!”

  “Odd. I heard a rumour the date had been changed. Don’t know where that rumour came from . . . ”

  “Oh wait a moment. I started it!”

  * * * * *

  The creature with the forked beard and the panpipes lurked on the roof of the building, its pointed ear pressed hard to the tiles. Its hearing was so acute, its distractibility so obtuse, its nosiness such a reflex, that it heard every word that passed between golem and embryo. It chuckled. Then it waited for the occupants of the room below to depart. They did so. With a gleeful flourish it raised the syrinx to its mouth and blew softly. The tune it now played was so archaic that trilobites had grooved to its debut on the Paleozoic music scene.

  It was a magic melody that made events happen at a distance. Or so it was rumoured by mongers of rumour. In fact it merely set up sympathetic vibrations in objects it was aimed at that caused them to move, go wrong or do other things. Usually.

  Resonant frequency that’s called . . .

  When the tune was finished, the creature nodded to itself and capered along the roof to an overhanging branch that belonged to a tree standing outside the compound. This was its point of entry, also the place where it kept its haversack of supplies.

  Opening the bag, it peered inside. Wrapping paper, string, stamps. All in order. But then it frowned. Now it needed to remember how to make a parcel. A long-lost skill! But just like riding a bicycle, nobody ever really forgets. The creature frowned, then sat on the wrapping paper, groped for handlebars that weren’t there.

  Try again. Plenty of time. No rush.

  Coincidentally, Twisthorn left for the Fenlands on a bicycle. Cherlomsky had come to wake him on Sunday morning. With a yawn the golem sat up in bed and rubbed bleary eyes.

  “I’ve just had a message from Scarydung Chinwag and . . . ”

  The golem blinked.
“Who, boss?”

  “Scarydung Chinwag. The government minister who is responsible for funding the Agency. He’s our intermediary with the Queen. It seems she’s getting impatient for results.”

  “I’ll go now, in that case. Funny how our enemies and our friends have almost interchangeable names!”

  “Agreed. How observant of you, Twisty!”

  While the golem was away, the remaining team-members went about fairly mundane business, interviewing potential employees and selecting a few, even signing contracts.

  Twisthorn telephoned the professor three days later to report success. The merman had been hiding in an estuary called The Wash and was now in the golem’s custody. Cherlomsky urged him to hurry back. The Queen and Scarydung Chinwag needed a major success story to quell the recent food riots that were flaring up simply because there wasn’t any food! The British public can be so ungrateful . . .

  “On my way, boss!”

  “Keep to the left side of the road, my boy.”

  “Sure. This isn’t France!”

  No figure with a forked beard lurked on the roof this time, listening to the exchange. It was busy with other matters, with string and scissors. In its nature-loving hands a plan was taking shape, a shape in the shape of a parcel. Shapes are potent!

  Night eventually fell. Owls hooted. The days were getting longer, the nights warmer. Early summer.

  There was the sound of a buzzer . . .

  “Someone’s at the gate,” said the professor. “It ought to be Twisty, but he has his own set of keys and would just walk in without fuss. See who it is, will you, Miss Stake?”

  Abortia did as she was bid. Waiting at the tungsten gate was a prodigal foot with uncut grimy toenails.

  Abortia escorted it inside. “Dancin’ Daze’s here again, as the summer evenings grow,” she said sourly.

  Twisthorn also came in. “I’ve got my flour, I’ve got my plougher, I’ve got my merman who knows.”

  “Put them in the corner,” instructed Cherlomsky.

  * * * * *

  The Agency received more mail on Mondays than on any other day of the week. The owls that flapped overhead didn’t like Mondays. They wanted to hoot the whole day down. Twisthorn didn’t care for them much either. The day, not the owls. He liked owls. He had an unconfirmed feeling they were good at backgammon, he couldn’t say why. One day he intended to find out for certain, somehow.

  He stood in the mail-room with Abortia, Hapi and Dancin’, and sighed as he opened a letter. “The writer of this epistle,” he said, “advises me in a brusque manner to reproduce with myself. I’ll write back and tell him I’m infertile. That’ll shut him up!

  “What are you doing?” cried Abortia. “You shouldn’t open mail until it has been passed as safe by both the sniffer and X-ray scanner. Please wait for me to switch them on!”

  She did so. The professor walked in.

  “Someone’s stealing the thorns from the briars that grow on the other side of the perimeter fence!”

  “Why would anyone do that, boss?”

  Cherlomsky shook his head and reached down to pat Dancin’ Daze on the heel. He had taken a fancy to Hapi’s wife, with the hand’s approval, but nobody knew how far the relationship had progressed. With a smile he surveyed the mail-room.

  “Busy as ever! Let me help you . . . ”

  Despite his position of authority he wasn’t too proud to muck in with his underlings. He selected a large parcel that Abortia had processed and opened it with deft fingers.

  He recoiled, trying vainly to pinch his silver nostrils together. “What the hell? This parcel stinks!”

  “Yes, but the mechanical sniffer has passed it.”

  “Something’s moving inside!”

  “Yes, but the X-ray scan revealed the box to be empty.”

  “Fair enough! But what on earth can be making such a dreadful smell? I’d better reach my hand in to investigate . . . Argh! What’s happening? I’m being attacked by a goat-man!”

  “It’s the god Pan! I recognise him!” cried Twisthorn.

  “Hide behind this overturned table!” shouted Abortia, overturning the table in question, turning it into a shield. The professor jumped behind it, Hapi and Dancin’ close behind.

  “You too, Mr Bellow!” added Abortia.

  “No way! I won’t run from a smelly old anthropomorphised goat! I’m a golem, the strongest in town . . . ”

  “He’s a god, Twisty! Come here!” ordered Cherlomsky.

  Twisthorn did as he was bid. Pan raised his flute to his lips, aimed it at the table, played a few notes.

  Briar thorns clattered against the surface.

  “Flechettes!” cried the golem.

  Cherlomsky shuddered.

  “The innovative rogue is using his set of panpipes as a fully automatic repeat-firing blowpipe—a Gatling flute! So we’re stuck behind this table until he runs out of thorns!”

  “We can wait it out, can’t we, boss?”

  The professor was about to reply in the affirmative, but suddenly notes of a horrid consistency began to waft across the room towards them. Pan was attempting to drive them from their place of sanctuary by playing the kind of music that was most unbearable to the heroes. The melody he had chosen for this recital, if it can be termed as such, pounded itself into their minds, agitating their synapses.

  The professor was aghast. He trembled.

  “The unscrupulous villain! He’s playing ‘All Along the Watchtower’ in the style of the Jimi Hendrix cover version of the Bob Dylan original! It’s simply too much to bear!”

  “Horrendous, boss!” agreed Twisthorn.

  Pan reached the end but didn’t pause before replaying the song. This time the effect was worse. “There must be some kind of way out of this place,” said the golem to the chief.

  “There’s too much confusion!” shrieked the professor.

  “I can’t get no relief, boss!”

  With a shriek of wild abandonment, Cherlomsky ran from under cover and tried to reach the nearest door. Pan stopped playing and reloaded his flute with thorns. He puffed them out with great force. Most missed their target but a dozen did puncture the professor’s clothing and some of those ripped open the flesh beneath.

  The professor gained the door, but it was locked.

  He fumbled with the handle . . .

  Pan calmly reloaded again, sprayed more thorns in his direction. Hapi and Twisthorn exchanged glances behind the security of the table. It was obvious the professor was doomed unless they did something fast. So the disembodied hand poked a finger and thumb above the protective edge of the shield and clicked loudly.

  Nothing happened. Pan was a god.

  Gods are immune to telekinesis. Everybody knows that.

  Twisthorn was exasperated.

  “It’s up to me as usual!” he muttered.

  What could he do? If he ran out he would be shredded with thorns into strips of dead clay. But he couldn’t launch an attack from here because he didn’t have his kpinga. He thought about that weapon wistfully, the lovely death-dealing tangle with a missing blade.

  Missing blade, missing finger . . .

  He looked at Hapi and the answer came to him . . . Without even asking permission he picked up his friend, wind-milled his arm and hurled Hapi directly at the nature god!

  Hapi knew what was expected of him.

  As he rushed through the air he reached out to snatch the syrinx out of Pan’s grasp. The god gasped.

  Hapi landed safely in the corner, but he was sure that Pan would take revenge on him for this insult.

  Instead of which, the god broke down!

  Pan collapsed to his knees and began blubbering, the rainbow-flecked tears pouring over his cheeks.

  Twisthorn grasped the situation instantly.

  Because Hapi had four fingers instead of five, Pan hadn’t recognised him as a human hand. No, he’d assumed Hapi was a giant spider that had been cut in half in a vivisection experiment. So the god was
overwhelmed with sorrow, unable to move!

  Twisthorn stepped out and strode over to Pan.

  Then he tied the god’s hairy hands securely behind his more hairy back with string from his own parcel.

  * * * * *

  It didn’t take long to work out the details of Pan’s plan. The god’s earlier use of resonant frequency had broken internal components in the sniffer and X-ray scanner, putting both devices out of action. So when Pan hid himself inside a parcel and posted himself to the Agency—the best way of getting inside the compound buildings—he didn’t have to worry about setting off any of the alarms.

  But Twisthorn and his colleagues had simply assumed the parcel had been passed as safe, rather than that their equipment was faulty. It was a lesson to be less reliant on machines in future, the golem told himself as he took his place for dinner.

  The others were already sitting down.

  “One thing I forgot to tell you, boss. I only realised it myself after I did some research on Pan. During the incident with the witches in the forest, I said that Pan hadn’t been playing on his pipes, just moving his lips over the reeds. I was wrong.”

  “Yes, Twisty? But I didn’t hear anything!”

  “That’s because his melody was drowned out by a second tune, a tune with an unidentifiable source.”

  “Another nature god? Surely not . . . ”

  “No, boss. That other tune sounded like it came from a saxophone and it was so appropriate in the context of thirteen young lovely naked ladies that I assumed it was a natural accompaniment and it didn’t register in my consciousness. Sorry, boss!”

  “Don’t fret. It can happen to any golem!”

  Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of dinner. Pan was still in chains but he had enough latitude of movement to prepare meals. He shuffled in from the kitchen and served what he had prepared. With a loud cheer, the professor tucked in. He raised his fork to his lips, chewed slowly, and then his face fell.

  Pan’s mushroom risotto was terrible . . .

  “Back to square one!” he lamented. He pushed his plate aside. Then he seemed to derive courage from a secret source. “But one day we will get a decent mushroom risotto here!”