The Garden of Unearthly Delights (20 page)

Maxwell
made a show of patting his pockets. ‘Wouldn’t you just know it?’ he said. ‘I’ve
left them all in my other suit.’

Phlegster
nodded politely. ‘Isn’t it always the way? But let us be glad you have
discovered this now, rather than at the city gates, where the guards are less
charitable than I.’

‘Less
charitable, you say?’

‘Far
less. For where I see a noble gentleman — the Governor of Kakkarta, who has
accidentally mislaid his documents — they might see a potential assassin upon a
stolen bed. And, once having slain him most cruelly, they would no doubt send a
legion to arrest the gridster who let him slip past. We can count ourselves
fortunate men today, sir, can’t we?’

‘Indeed
we can.’

‘So,’
said Phlegster. ‘The way I see it, two options lay open to you: return to
Kakkarta and pick up your documents, or leave your magical appurtenances here
in my safe keeping and proceed through the grid on foot. If you carry no magic
you will pass unshredded and not be challenged at the city gate.’

‘Outrageous,’
cried Maxwell. ‘I do not have the time for this falderal. Surely other options
must exist.’ He mimed the jingling of coins in his pocket.

Phlegster
gave Maxwell a hard looking over. ‘None that I know of. Bribery is, of course,
out of the question and violence against my person would serve no useful end. I
have no power to disarm the grid.’

‘If
this is the case,’ said Maxwell, ‘then how would you have arranged for me to
pass safely through if all my documentation had proved to be in order?’

The
little man shrugged. ‘This is a moot point. As clearly you have no such documentation,
it does not warrant further discussion.’

‘Hm,’
said Maxwell. ‘Moot point or not, I have no more time to waste.’ And so saying,
he jumped forward, grabbed Phlegster by the collar of his over-large coat and
hauled him into the air.

‘Let me
down,’ wailed the gridster. ‘This is appalling behaviour.’

‘Be
quiet,’ ordered Maxwell, ‘and listen to me. We are going to conduct a
scientific experiment. I will put  forth a theory. You will test it out.’

‘I like
not the sound of that. Put me down, sir, please.’

‘Take
off your coat then.’

‘My
coat? What do you want with my coat?’

‘It
seems a very large coat, for such a small man.’

‘A
family heirloom, and I’ll trust you to keep your  sizist remarks to yourself.’

‘Very
well.’ Maxwell pulled out the pouch once more and dangled it before Phlegster’s
face. ‘Carry this through the grid for me,’ he said.

‘Impossible,’
squeaked Phlegster. ‘I would be shredded.’

‘I was
not shredded. I merely bounced off.’

‘I
might not be so lucky. The grid is now alert to the presence of magic.’

‘My
theory, in essence is this,’ said Maxwell. ‘I do not believe in some vast grid,
a day’s journey away  from the city. It would have to be manned by hundreds,
no, thousands of gridsters. I suspect that this is some localized phenomenon,
one that you are well acquainted with. One that you exploit to your own ends,
by relieving the gullible of their magical items.’

‘Nonsense.
Stuff and nonsense.’

‘Further,’
said Maxwell, ‘and I agree this is pure guesswork on my part, my theory is that
you can transport items of magical power through the grid by means of your
coat.’

‘Outlandish.
Mere speculation.’

‘We
shall see.’ Maxwell tucked the pouch into the pocket of the little man’s big
coat. ‘I will heave you through the grid. We will observe the results.’

‘No,’
shrieked the little man. ‘I mean
yes.
All right. You are correct. The
coat is invested with an immunity against the grid’s power. Put it on yourself
and walk through. But just leave me here. I am not allowed to enter the garden
beyond.’

Maxwell
shook his head. ‘I have become somewhat distrustful of late. Should you pass
through unscathed, take off the coat, with the pouch still in the pocket, leave
it on the other side and walk back to me. Thus you will have proved that a man
wearing the coat can carry magic safely, and a man without the coat, who
carried no magic, may also travel safely through. I will be satisfied with this
demonstration. I will then step through, put on the coat, step back and drag my
bed through. Then you will have seen the last of me.’

‘Far
too complicated,’ complained Phlegster. ‘Put on the coat and bugger off. I will
say you stole it. Perhaps the Sultan will let me off with a flaying and some
minor amputation. Or possibly I will just flee to the south. They say Kakkarta
is very nice at this time of year.’

‘At its
very best,’ said Maxwell, hoisting Phlegster higher, swinging him about and
freighting him towards the invisible wall of the grid.

‘No!’
shrieked Phlegster. ‘Have mercy.’

Maxwell
examined the ground that lay before. There was a clear straight line burned
into the grass.’ It stretched away in either direction, vanishing amongst the
giant broccoli trees. It was all that signified the location of the grid’s
invisible wall.

Maxwell
took a step back. Swung a substantial boot, kicked Phlegster in the squirming
bottom and propelled him through the grid.

There
was a blinding flash. And a most alarming sound. The sort of sound that
bluebottles make when they hit the electric wire on those things with the mauve
lights that butchers have in their shops.

But
hideously amplified.

Maxwell
covered his face as Phlegster exploded into a million fragments. Ribbons of big
coat trailed away in all directions. Little bits of charred carcass trailed
with them. There was a lot of smoke.

Presently
it cleared.

Maxwell
fanned at his face. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Well, I suppose I can’t be right every
time.’ He peered beyond the line of burnt grass and was most surprised and
somewhat heartened to observe the magic pouch, lying there amongst a
smouldering lump or two of Phlegster and looking none the worse for its travel
through the grid.

‘That’s
handy,’ said Maxwell. ‘Now I wonder how the bed might—’

But his
wondering was brought to an abrupt end by a stone that bounced off the back of
his head.

‘Ouch!’
cried Maxwell, springing around.

Several
small men were approaching. They wore big coats, had pink candyfloss hair and
carried stones and stout sticks.

‘He has
murdered Brother Phlegster,’ shouted one.

‘Pushed
him with magic through the grid,’ shouted another.

‘Let us
put him to a slow death,’ shouted a third.

‘Just
hold on,’ yelled Maxwell. ‘It was a mistake. I had this theory, you see.’

But the
little men did not seem anxious to hear of Maxwell’s theory. And as Maxwell
looked on, others appeared through the trees, some carrying nets, some long
staves with pointy ends. There were shouts regarding the use of a ‘maggot box’
and red-hot gelding tongs.

‘Well,
if you’re not prepared to listen…’ Maxwell turned, held his breath, closed
his eyes and then leapt through the grid.

14

Maxwell plunged through
the grid, rolled over and came to rest on the grass beyond.

Unsinged
and intact.

He
picked up the pouch and ran.

Shouts
and threats and stones and staves followed Maxwell, but the kin of the
ill-fated Phlegster did not. They remained on their side of the invisible
border, fearful to step across.

Maxwell
ran till he could hear their cries no more, then slumped onto a grassy knoll to
gather his breath and his wits.

He was
quite fed up with this new world. He’d done more running during the past few
weeks than ever before in his life — and always for his life. If he ever
succeeded in retrieving his soul, Maxwell promised himself, he would pursue
some quiet, unrushed occupation, such as mushroom growing or the keeping of a
hermitage.

Maxwell
flung the pouch to the ground, raising a howl from Rushmear.

‘Silence,’
Maxwell puffed and coughed, ‘ungrateful buffoon. Yet again I have saved your
life, while you loaf about in the bag.’

Rushmear’s
response was a torrent of abuse. And Maxwell, in fury, raised a boot to staunch
it for good and for all.

His fine substantial boot
cast a fine substantial shadow over the pouch. A fine substantial
black
shadow
it was. Crisp at the edges. Clearly defined. Maxwell brought his foot to a halt
an inch above the pouch.

He
raised it. Examined the shadow. Peered up at the sky.

Up at
the sun.

It was
no longer red here. It was gold, pure gold.

Maxwell
gaped and blinked his eyes. The garden all around was bathed in golden light.
It wasn’t the light of the old sun he’d known before the time of the great
transition. This was rich and mellow, softer. Quite beautiful, in fact.

Maxwell
jumped to his feet, narrowly avoiding the accidental stamping flat of Rushmear.
He glanced to left and right, espied a suitable tree and, without further ado,
clambered up it.

From a
high branch he stared off towards the way he had come. The line marked by the
grid was most apparent, creating the effect of a clear glass barrier that rose
endlessly into the sky. And beyond this: a world of red.

‘By the
Goddess.’ Maxwell shook an awestruck head. ‘The Sultan must control the very
sun itself. Not a man to be taken lightly. But possibly one who might . .

A
sequence of thoughts moved into his mind.

Maxwell
kept these thoughts to himself. They were great thoughts these. His greatest
yet, and not thoughts to be bandied about without care. Imagineering thoughts
were they.

And
he
the Imagineer.

Maxwell
climbed down from the tree, his head abuzz with plans and stratagems. He had
twenty days. Surely enough for what he had in mind. First priority was food,
and to eat, certain risks must be taken.

Maxwell
snatched up the pouch. ‘Rushmear,’ he said, ‘I am going to release you. I have
protected you for long enough. Now you must take your share of responsibility.’

Rushmear
was speechless.

‘I have
formulated a plan,’ announced Maxwell, untying the pouch, ‘and because you
enjoy my favour, you will have but a small part to play in its execution. Great
wealth will be yours for the taking, so rouse yourself from your comfortable
repose and let us be on our way.’

Maxwell
turned the pouch upside down and gave it a shake. It was quite a sight to
behold, the enormous horse trader pouring from the tiny bag. He thumped to the
ground on his great fat arse and sat there rubbing his eyes.

‘Now,’
said Maxwell, ‘first things first. We should  eat before we go any further. As
you have knowledge  regarding what may be safely consumed, hasten to the task
of finding us some breakfast.’

‘What?’
Rushmear blinked his eyes, gawped up at the golden sun, glared at the man in
the white suit and climbed ponderously to his feet. ‘Now just you—’ But he said
no more. A look of alarm appeared on his face. He clutched at his hind quarters
and rushed off into the trees.

Presently
he returned, sighing deeply and rebuttoning his trousers.

‘I hope
you’ve washed your hands,’ said Maxwell.

‘I will
shortly, to get the blood off.’

‘Spare
me your threats, Rushmear, we do not have the time.

‘I have
nineteen days,’ said Rushmear. ‘You less than a minute.’

‘Such
ingratitude. After all I’ve done for you.

Rushmear
threw himself at Maxwell. Maxwell ducked nimbly aside, pulled from behind his
back the length of branch he had torn from a tree during Rushmear’s absence and
struck the horse trader a devastating blow to the head with it.

Rushmear
collapsed in a groaning heap. Maxwell stepped astride him, branch raised in
both hands. ‘Swear allegiance to me or I bust out your brains.’

‘Never!’
Rushmear brought up a knee that caught Maxwell in the cobblers. Maxwell
staggered forwards and trod on Rushmear’s face. The big man grabbed his ankle.
Twisted it. Maxwell fell heavily to the ground. The big man rolled over to claw
at Maxwell’s throat. Maxwell hit him again with the branch.

Rushmear
sank back, holding his head. Maxwell sat gasping, his hands at his groin. ‘This
is getting us nowhere,’ he gasped. ‘How many times must you be told? One man
alone cannot succeed.’

‘I’d
rather throw in my lot with the devil himself.’

Maxwell
snatched up the branch. ‘Then let me send you to him. I have no more time to
squander on your welfare.’