Lizard World Page 9

  Happy it was, upon our arrival thither, that all this mean while the dam of my poor princess had no-wise tired of her yelping. For the salvages so intently did commiserate her grief, that I did slip into that hovel unespied.

  Having behaved herself thus far, howsomever, my prisoner did now begin to shew her coarse ill-nature. Yea, a-standing in the dark within this hutt, the brute was now so wakened from her drink as to misdoubt my intent and assay her saucy tongue. Gratefully, it did suffice but to kick upon her shank and prod her with my piece: which did so wonderfully perswade her to my purpose that, in a trice, I had chose from out the dragon skins a-hanging roundabout and therewithal beclothed the vile slut.

  “What ho! Milord? Hast thou not forgot my guinea?”

  “Hist! Begone thou wretch!” says I, but vouchsafed him his curst coin, whereby I did rid me of this Simkyn -- and could now, save for the abundancy of flyes, await my prey unvexed.

  Not long it was thereafter that I did hear the rabble come, with noise so passing vile that meseem’d that hell itself did abundantly disgorge. Espying then from behind the hide which served that pig-sty for a door, I no sooner beheld these revellers and their priest a-walking hither with my nymph (barbarously ill-clad and a-wailing in most doleful wise) than I again poked this Satchunk with my pistol and thus prevailed to secret her together with my person in the hay behind the tub -- wherein now the swoln white crokadell did peaceable slumber in the stenchful dark.

  Most fortunate it was that I had hasted. For the instant I had hid, this old arse of a priest did totter into this shite-house with my charmer. How now did my ballocks ache! Yea, I might have spent my seed at once, but that I had far more better plans for taking my enjoyment.

  These plans, howsomever, my prisoner was like to have spoiled. For a-hiding behind that tub next my most still person, this irksome Satchunk now gan so to rustle in the hay that I much feared this priest might hear her noise and find out my lurking purpose. But gratefully the old shit-breech was as deaf as dull and, furtherover, did more concern himself with handling the privates of this dragon. For tho’ I saw him not upon this lewd employment, I did hear the beast a-moaning right enough and did nose the fragrance of its slime.

  But now it was, a cupful of this sap in hand, that this priest did chance to turn about and -- a-standing in the door-stead of this hutt -- upraise his odorous bowlful to the rabble. ’Twas but the chancing of a happy moment. But ere the old sot had turned about again, whilst the salvages did howl their brutish merriment, I had forced this Satchunk up and drawn my princess down to taste of feaverish pleasures in the hay.

  Yet even now did I wait to savour my enjoyment. For albeit at the last I grasped my panting charmer, felt her skin as soft as sarcenett and smelt the perfume of her frighted breath, yet was it still most prudent to keep silent. For presently this priest, that not a rotted dog could vie for most exceeding vilenesss, did in this door-stead turn him back and -- observing then this Satchunk dressed very like to my princess -- seized the worthless bait as I had purposed. This priest, at once,

  a-shouting somewhat of his gibberish, did thereby summon a brace of bare-arst ruffians who, no sooner entering in this hutt, did rudely take the surly wretch in hand.

  Decency forbiddeth that I divulge what now I saw and heard. It suffices me to say that these ruffians tarried not upon their churlish business -- but straightways did march their piteous charge to a massie door in this hutt’s most mirksomest extremity. This Satchunk, alas, tho’ passing dull as cattell, now at the full did apprehend her doom. But albeit she did strike and kick most grievously, ’twas but a moment’s work ere these knaves had unlatcht the fatal door and thrust the creature in. Most unhappily, ’twas not long thereafter that I did see their god come a-running on full tilt, right well-hung and eager of his prey as a bloud-hound for its bone.

  So overmuch impatient was I now for the shitten old bugger to be gone and leave me to th’enjoyment of my charmer, that I very neere attended not at all how this priest presently said his heathen prayers and laid down his cup of slime just next the open door. Indeed, not excessive soon it was ere, a-bowing and a-mumbling, he and his twain of ruffians did now creep arseward out and leave me, at the last, in peace.

  Neere so bigge as hartichoakes were her tawny bubbies and the softness of her privy hairs was like to pigeon-downe. But to come streight away to the point -- now, amidst the scratching of the hay and the swarming of the flyes and the wondrous pungent odours of the beast, I took the juicy wench. Yea, and not over-greatly much, it grieveth me to say, did she struggle for her virtue. Indeed, it should have spiced my pleasure more had she played the harlot less. Howsomever, the sudden panting of her fear amidst the dolorous death-shrieks of this Satchunk did so salt the taste of my enjoyment, that not since I had ta’en my cousin Belinda in the barn or my brother’s pious lady in the very pews of her chapel, had I known such abundant excellency of sport.

  Not full soon did I tire, nor not once onely did I hearken to the call. But like to a man who doth at the last feast after long hunger, I did rest me betwixt dishes the more to whet my tongue for the meat and sawce thereafter. Thus it was, athirst from this arduous employment and a-lying next this creature in the hay, that I of a sudden did laugh aloud to think that for my present splendid sport I could thank my cousin Fawncey, that compleat asse of whose pretty rhimes and talk of honour I had sicken’d half to death. For had he but stopt a-whining o’er his sister’s maidenhead, I never would have blinded him at the duel, nor filched his sottish book, nor read aught therein about elixir, nor come this devilish far just to thrust my dram of seed in this winsome salvage wench.

  Now doubtless ’twas this sudden thought of Fawncey and his book, with all its prattle of alchymic dragons and elixir, that -- together with my thirst -- did make me look upon that cup of slime just next the open door. Aye, and the more I did look upon it and smell its savour, the more keenly I did thirst and think that if this indeed should be elixir, then therefore I need not die nor rot like common swine. But, instead, I my self might become a wondrous kind of god, showered with gold, worshipt by salvages -- and all this would be mine for the mere taking of a poet’s book, the which in a poet’s hand is but a wad of worthless frippery. Thus did I reason upon that eventide so passing long ago, whilst this salvage wench lay next me in the hay and all the world was young, soft flesh and the rising tumult of desire. Much might else be said of my travels and adventures, of all my sundry and oppressive trials thereafter. But for now ’tis quite sufficient to relate that this cup lay within the reaching of my hand -- and such were the allurements of its smell and the ardour of my thirst that I tarried not, but forthwith seized and drank the immortal licquor.

  Book III.

  The Host

  America, 2007

  &

  England, 1689

  The Duel

  When Phoebus last I saw emblaze the dawn

  And drops of dew bepearl the emerald lawn

  And tulips -- yellow, indigo and red --

  In Zephyr’s breath bestir with nodding head,

  On Honour’s field I could not chuse but face

  A churl who durst a sister’s name disgrace.

  When I had seen the flint-locks primed and cock’d,

  The rake-hell’s civil bow, the eyes that mocked,

  And seconds at the proper distance stood

  Whilst winged chor’sters twittered in the wood,

  When I had watched my boots betread the ground

  And number’d out my steps and turn’d me round,

  When Honour bade me lift my pistol bright,

  The dark Earl fired off first and all was night.

  -- Selwyn Herbert, Lord Fawncey

  Chapter I.

  In which the Dentist makes a friend.

  Smedlow had no sooner put down the last vellum page of manuscript, than once again the full, miserably depressing weight of his predicament settled down upon him, aching like sudden tonsillitis in his throat and spread
ing a sick pang in the bottom of his belly. Already the narrow shaft of daylight from the window above him was rose-tinged with sunset and the once-distinct outlines of the room -- the green limestone walls and floor, the cobwebbed gilt sedan chair, ruined harpsichord and long-abandoned privy stool -- were yielding to the dark of lengthening shadows.

  “Hey-Hey!”

  Who said that?

  “M-Mister-Mister!”

  At first terrified that the monster woman -- or, even worse, that moronic Lem -- had somehow found him out, Smedlow reluctantly looked up. So overgrown by white hair that it seemed to belong to an upright kind of sheepdog, a face he’d never seen before was looking down at him -- grinning and nodding toothlessly in what seemed to be a rapture of pathetic hope.

  “Hey-hey! M-mister- Mister!”

  What could only have been a large white marble glimmered in a socket where there should have been an eye -- a fact made considerably more unpleasant by the lurid flickering of a sooty lantern.

  From the hole in the ceiling through which Smedlow himself had recently fallen, a makeshift ladder -- made of sticks and ropes and suspenders -- came tumbling suddenly down.

  His new buddy up there (was it the imprisoned reporter Darrell Butz?) had an exceedingly large, exceedingly fat, grey rat sitting on his shoulder. What looked like several black beetles were crawling through the wild mop of his hair and up his scraggly beard.

  Although every goddamn bit as charitable as the next guy, ordinarily Smedlow didn’t have much time for wackos, a species whom he regarded as potentially dangerous and somewhat less than human: but this was a wacko with a ladder.

  A moment later Smedlow had climbed back up into the tunnel -- and his new companion was hugging him close and giving him a good whiff of his breath. His upraised lantern exposed filthy toenails, shredded bell-bottoms, a beaded necklace, a Peace button, and a flowered polyester shirt, circa 1968. The huge rat nibbled on the tip of his outsized collar.

  “I - I caw-caught a spar-row once,” the little man said at last, but apparently overcome by this nostalgia combed blistered fingers through his beard until he chanced upon a huge, black, crawling bug. “Pret-ty lit-tle spar-row,” he continued and he must have had some molars, for he shoved the beetle to the backside of his mouth where now it crunched unpleasantly. “But NO-NO-NO,” he said, moaning and swallowing, “I could-NOT-make-it-LIVE!”

  His large white marble face remained stoically impassive, but a teardrop trickled from the corner of his watery eye.

  “But now,” he continued, wiping away the tear, “now I - I got my rats like Mister Bob here: just helpin’ ’em to get three square and being a goddaddy to their little ones -- well, that takes a whole lotta time. And then -- and then I got my collection, see. You like bottles? You ever see a Moxie bottle? One time,” he whispered slyly: “I even found -- I found . . . a brassiere!”

  “IS THERE ANY WAY OUT OF HERE?” shouted Smedlow.

  “Oh, oh, now, mister, it-it ain’t nothin’ at all you can’t get used to. Oh, no, no, it ain’t. And us? Well, see, that, that’s . . . the real good part: you and me -- you and me -- we’re . . . gonna be friends. And that Earl -- no, he ain’t quite so bad. When they took my eye, you know what? He, he gave me smokes -- yeah, and . . . and matches. And a Coke bottle. Not near so bad as Lem and that big woman.”

  They scurried now through a bewilderment of tunnels, the unfortunate Darrell Butz scrabbling on all fours ahead of him like a deranged rodent through the labyrinths of madness, pausing here and there to sniff out grubs and mouse nests, his flickering lantern exposing slumbering snakes and glimmering bottles, while Smedlow (wondering how he would ever -- ever -- manage to escape) lagged miserably behind, hurting his already bloody fingers and kneecaps and coughing through the dust of leaping shadows.

  He must have fallen asleep and slept a very long time, for when he awoke there was twilight in the tunnel and Darrell Butz was hovering over him, sobbing as if he had died. At length they climbed down into what Smedlow immediately recognized was another narrow cell, obviously Darrell’s own personal lair. For here, the lantern’s light revealed a bed of hay overspread with fouled sheets and a lopsided linoleum table supporting a tarnished fork and a lump of something dead. Junk of every variety -- a tricorn hat, several mildew-spotted corsets and ancient-looking panties, but mostly bottles, bottles of every size and shape and color -- cluttered the slippery floor.

  “This here,” said Darrell, gingerly picking up one of them, “this here’s that Coke bottle I was tellin’ ya all about. . . . Earl, you know, he . . . he was real, real sorry, but -- on account a Old Hattie bein’ half-blind and her ma cookin’ for Mr. Edgar back in Richmond -- well, Earl, he . . . no, he just . . . didn’t have . . . any kinda choice but to give her my old eye.”

  “IS THERE A WAY OUT?” repeated Smedlow, but Darrell’s head was now cocked to one side, his ear pressed to the muzzle of the large rat sitting on his shoulder. A grin of concentrated depravity, such as one would expect from a creature drawing pictures in a public lavatory, slowly overtook his toothless mouth.

  “M-mister Bob here,” he said at last, “he, he was tellin’ me that, well, he don’t mind, no he don’t mind at all if you was, well, you know . . . to take a feel a some a them frilly . . . panties . . . . Some a them panties,” he whispered, “is real silky.”

  “A WAY OUT? IS THERE A WAY OUT?”

  Apparently only now grasping the significance of the question, Darrell thrust out his hand -- and lowered his head as if avoiding a mortal blow. Terror cowered in his one blue eye.

  “Oh -- oh, now mister, you, you don’t wanna . . . you don’t wanna . . . go . . . DOWN THERE!”

  “Down where?” said Smedlow.

  “Oh no, m-mister, no . . . no, the waterworks is a . . . is a . . . real BAD PLACE. Mosher Poe, Old Mosher, he’ll . . . No, you don’t wanna go . . . down THERE.”

  Chapter II.

  In which friendship is tested.

  In the cavernous chamber below them, barely visible above the surface of a stagnant canal, six filmy eyes floated in an algal scum. But upon the stone ramp leading upward to the landing from the water’s depths, another bloated alligator was fully visible -- except where a reptilian tail, wrinkled human back and mass of matted hair lay sprawled in sleep on top of it.

  “The waterworks,” whispered Darrell, “is where old Mosher comes . . . a-courtin’ . . . to his womenfolk. Earl . . . he calls it . . . the bedroom of Leviathan.”

  Hunks of rotting meat, among which Smedlow was not slow to recognize the jawbones and horns of a departed goat, littered the blood-smeared floor. Uncertain of their purpose, he pointed where nets and ropes and huge rusted pulleys hung from rusted hooks above the water’s edge.

  “Oh, that there,” answered Darrell, tugging at his sleeve, “is where they hauled in all the gators before they was milked . . . now . . . now how’s about, you and me, we go back . . . to see about them . . . panties?”

  “THE WAY OUT?” said Smedlow with exaggerated slowness as if he were speaking to an outright moron.

  “Oh now, mister, you don’t wanna --”

  “The way out?” persisted Smedlow.

  “There,” said Darrell miserably, his black fingernail pointing to the far corner where green muck gurgled out beneath the teeth of an iron portcullis.

  As often happened to him in moments of unusual stress, Smedlow now became aware that his heart was pounding wildly, his underarms were flooding, and that he was beginning to gasp for breath -- all familiar elements of his body’s habitual betrayal. This was all the worse because the time for deliberate action was obviously at hand: there was, after all, no way of knowing how long the creatures down below would stay harmlessly asleep.

  Terrified of dislodging a rock or that the sudden gasping of asthmatic panic would wake the sleeping monsters on the floor below, he lowered himself down with cautious fingers, his socked toes feeling blindly for footholds between the rough-hewn boulders of the cellar wal
l.

  Stepping down onto the cellar floor, his foot crunched something wet and vile. An inquisitive rat, pausing for a moment from his feast, squeaked at his arrrival. But otherwise silence reigned in the twilit chamber -- except, that is, for the open-mouthed snoring of the reptile-man.

  That repulsive old monster lay sprawled upon his consort dead ahead, his human cheeks and eyelids blanketed by flies, his green-scaled tail traversing the rump of his reptilian cow, before dipping down into the green scum of the algal water. There, floating snouts and eyes crowded in the foreground, leaving the farthest reaches of the channel at least apparently free of menace. Still, the very idea of plunging into that water was enough to make him think of turning back. Otherwise, he would actually have to swim under that portcullis.

  Almost by themselves, his feet began to walk forward. Unfortunately, nothing prepared him for the old gent’s indescribable odor, nor for the close-up look at the place where the unsavory whiteness of his tummy gave way to the reptilian scaling of prodigious green genitalia. In an agony of slow motion, trying not to gasp for breath, Smedlow tiptoed past among rats and rotting meat.