Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

‘Maybe,’ whispered Chegory, ‘it’s power’s almost dead. Maybe it can’t kill its host even if it wants to. Even if it wants to go home.’

In any case, whether Chegory was with demon or without, he was still a hunted animal, so it was best that he wait and do nothing. He was safer here than elsewhere.

He waited.

In time, he was found. By one of the small, omnivorous black pigs of Injiltaprajura. Which snoinked at him, then went on its way. Later, he heard something in a nearby tree — a tree he might find himself climbing to be out of the way of vampire rats if he was still in Thlutter come nightfall.

The intruder in the tree was only a small monkey. It reminded him of one of the theological disputes current in the conversation of Injiltaprajura. Had some deity created monkeys as a cruel caricature of humanity? Or had humans been created as a cruel caricature of monkeys?

Since Chegory Guy adhered to the evolutionary heresy, he cleaved to neither side of the argument. But, if he had been forced to choose, at that moment he would have said it was more probable that humans were created as a most unkind parody of that less uncivilised beast, the monkey.

What was the point of being human?

Was it worth the struggle?

Particularly when one was an Ebrell Islander, faced with death and disaster at every turn?

What was life but the grim endurance of this sullen flesh? Moist armpits which must be scratched. Sweat and stench. Lust and appetite. The ravings of the blood. Lungs which must of necessity intercourse promiscuously with the very air, that atmosphere which intermingles freely with the outbreathings of dogs, pigs and vampire rats. What is life but an endless battle against fleas, lice and bedbugs, and, rarely to be forgotten for long in Injiltaprajura, nature’s abomination, the relentless mosquito, persecutor of sleep and tormentor of dreams?

No wonder the demon was homesick! No wonder the demon wanted to go home! They probably didn’t have these things in the World Beyond: sweating armpits, legs which ached from carrying empresses, hangovers, the hunger of an unbreakfasted and unlunched stomach.

‘What are you thinking of, Chegory dearest?’ said Shabble.

‘Of killing myself,’ said Chegory sullenly.

‘Oh, you can’t do that!’ said Shabble in alarm. ‘Don’t kill yourself, Chegory! I should be lonely.’

‘I’ll kill myself if I want,’ said Chegory. ‘It’s my life.’

‘Ah,’ said Shabble slyly. ‘But then you’d never know what happens next.’

It was a telling point.

On Untunchilamon, anything could happen next.

Of course, we all know what would have happened to Chegory in any properly ordered society. He would have been caught! Then punished! Then killed! For he had leagued with a demon in defiance of the demon’s would-be destroyer. Worse, he had made a criminal conspiracy with a delinquent Shabble. As for that Shabble — what did that Shabble deserve?

Why, that Shabble rightly deserved at least ten million years of the most intensive algetic therapy imaginable. For it had innumerable crimes to account for. Trespass. Infringement of personal privacy. Kidnapping. Unlawful imprisonment. Terrorism. Exceeding a velocity often luzacs per arc in a speed-controlled corridor. Disobeying a lawful and legitimate order from a duly authorised dorgi. Attacking a dorgi worth over fifty million drax. Consorting with enemies of the state. Wantonly and maliciously impersonating a loyal servant of the state, namely Anaconda Stogirov, Chief of Security of the Golden Gulag.

The list goes on and on. Without limit, without end. Cruelty to animals. Displaying by night a light bright enough to have the potential to interfere with official astronomical observations. Communication of privileged state information to unauthorised persons. Impersonating a deity. Espionage. Treason. Disorderly conduct. Contempt of court. I could be here all day reciting the names of this Shabble.

Fools!

You think that this is a joke. It is no joke. Anaconda Stogirov lives. That alone is proof that the Golden Gulag is not yet dead. It can be revived in all its glory. Once Stogirov knows that a Shabble yet resides on Untunchilamon and a functional therapist likewise, then the Gulag will soon be resurrected in all its glory. Then it will be I, I, I who will take the credit. Who will be Lord Axeblade, king of executioners.

My just reward!

[One does not like to be called a fool. Nevertheless, rather than react to the insult with a childish display of petulance, it is better to analyse the Originator’s claims dispassionately. As I stated at the outset, on my own visit to Untunchilamon I myself never sighted either this Shabble or this Downstairs. On the other hand, I was not looking for either. Furthermore, it must be admitted that the Chief of Security who presently serves Aldarch III in Obooloo is a woman named Anaconda Stogirov. That in itself proves nothing, but suggests that a supplementation of our data base is in order. In short, I recommend that we send further spies to Yestron, despite the lamentable fate which has met the best and the bravest to date. Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]

[One notes with interest that the Text suggests that ‘drax’ denominated a unit of exchange in the days of the Golden Gulag. Names often have very, very ancient origins. These vocables oft survive bereft of any known meaning. A case in point is the personal name of our beloved Redactor Major himself. Soo Tree, Redactor Subminor.]

As Chegory Guy was not living in a properly ordered society but in Injiltaprajura, he remained (for the moment) at large, contemplating life, death and eternity.

Life felt, at the moment… almost worthless. Yet something made it worthwhile for Things from Beyond to pact with sorcerers so that they might in measure enjoy this very flesh, this world of sensation. Sometimes, indeed, they dared as much as to venture to this aspect of the Possible to take full possession of one human’s liberties.

Chegory reminded himself that he was tired, hungry and hungover. These conditions were not necessarily permanent. Good times would come again. Parts of this very day had been good, had they not? Yes. His triumph in a trial of strength when he had carried the Empress Justina all the way from the pink palace atop Pokra Ridge to the entrance of the Analytical Institute on Jod. Few people on Untunchilamon could have done as much.

There would be other good times in the future.

He must live for them.

Thus, slowly, Chegory shook off his attack of thanato-philia. He watched the downplay of sunlight as it sifted through leaves and vines. He watched an outsplattering arc of water from a fountain playing on broadspan banana leaves. Then he was suddenly struck by the extraordinary beauty of the banana tree. He had seen a thousand banana trees in his time but he realised he had rarely seen one. He had never really looked to see this thing so complex, so remarkable, impeccably unique. Thick stiffness of uprising yellow green patterned with complex brown mottlings on plant disease. That thick stiffness broadening and softening into the fullness of green leaves yielding and rebounding under the staggering waterdrops from the fountain’s out-spray.

Chegory s mil ed.

Then climbed up the gully till he reached a place where he could look out over the Laitemata. On the waters a canoe was making its way toward the western end of the harbour. Not a problem, even with a carpet of dikle still covering most of the water: for the paddlers could break up that carpet by the simple expedient of pounding it with their paddles till the thixotropic substance shattered into liquid.

Out in the Laitemata lay the bloodstone mound of the island of Jod where the white marble of the Analytical Institute shone bright in the sun. Beyond that lay the red sands of Scimitar where coconut trees outfurled their fronds. Beyond that yet again, beyond the last reef rocks, the unlimited seas.