Defiled Earth and other tales Page 8

  “Why the ominous undertones? You know how prudent I am with my money.”

  “I know your finance management skills all too well, Charles. You hold onto money like a three-fingered man holds sand. That’s why I must emphasise that you keep your dealings purely on a financial basis.”

  I pondered Oscar’s words for a moment. It wasn’t like him to be so melodramatic. Garstang, a stone’s throw away, gestured a sighting of game in the distance. I’m going to have to go, Oscar. Another couple of pheasant have been sighted and I don’t want to go home empty handed.”

  Promise me you’ll conduct your business carefully with this man, Charles. I have heard things about him.”

  “I cherish your concern, Oscar. Don’t worry. I’ll tread carefully. And once again, thanks a million.”

  I finished the call and sighted the pheasants. To my great delight I bagged both with two bursts. A good morning’s work indeed.

  ~ ~ ~

  We found Mandrake’s abode perched on top of a wooded escarpment. It brooded, vulture-like, as if surveying the hair-pinned ascent that led up to it. I had expected something a bit more grand. A gothic mansion, perhaps. As it was, the structure presented itself as a dilapidated, red brick affair with crumbling masonry. A sick, desiccated wisteria clung to the ruddy edifice with tendrils resembling a dead man’s fingers.

  I told Bradshaw to wait in the car until I returned.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” I said, “but you can listen to your jazz and help yourself to cigars.”

  “Very good Sir,” he replied.

  “Oh, and Bradshaw?”

  “Yes Sir?”

  Lay off the hip flask, I want the Bentley devoid of scratches upon our return home.”

  He gave me his scolded bloodhound look—one with bloodshot eyes to boot. But he knew I wouldn’t countenance him drinking on the job.

  I climbed the leaf-strewn steps to the verandah and knocked on the weathered door—only once, the force of the knocker threatened to stove in the rotting wood. It was opened almost immediately by a hawkish man with coir-like sideburns festooned around his cheeks.

  “Mr Renshaw. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. The accent was foreign, although the precise geography eluded me. At a guess I would have said South African, but I’m not an expert in these matters.

  “Glad to meet you too, Mr Mandrake.”

  “Do come in,” he continued, holding the door and waving me through with a magnanimous flourish. “You are what the English term a chip off the old block. It’s been, what, five years since your father’s passing?”

  “That would be about right,” I said. “Did you know him well?”

  Mandrake paused and rolled his tongue in one cheek, as if dislodging a morsel of breakfast. “Not in the conventional sense. We were members of the same society, and bonds can be forged in our enclave stronger than those between brothers. Knowing you are his son persuaded me that I should meet you. Otherwise, I would have declined.” Mandrake’s mouth broke into a smile which somehow failed to infect his rheumy eyes.

  He led me down a musty, windowless corridor lit by candles. The smell of beeswax mingled with that of mothballs. Spider webs draped from the ceiling like gossamer veils, suggesting an inhabitance that spanned centuries.

  At the end of the corridor, he stopped. “This is my sanctuary,” he said at last, turning a large key in a heavy oaken door.

  “Sanctuary?” I said, casting out a verbal hook.

  “It exists to protect my menagerie from the outside and, in certain cases, to protect outside society from them.”

  The words were not lost on me. I swallowed involuntarily.

  Pulling the door wide revealed a stainless steel divide directly behind. Mandrake touched the surface at several points in rapid succession, sometimes with two fingers, sometimes with more. I had no hope of memorising the sequence and it occurred to me that Mandrake knew this too.

  The divide slid laterally with a faint whoosh.

  “You have some impressive technology at your disposal,” I said as we passed through.

  “Technology both ancient and modern,” he replied. Then, pausing in the gloom beyond: “Before we go further—a few protocols.”

  I listened intently.

  You are about to see sights which will beguile and alarm you. I assume that your request for an audience means you are not of a squeamish or incredulous disposition. But nothing can prepare you fully for what you will see. I must impress upon you that under no circumstances should you approach any of the stock without me being present. You will see much to pique your curiosity, but don’t let it get the better of you. I must also insist there is no bodily contact. That means any form of greeting, petting or tactile gesture—this may seem odd but, believe me, you will be tempted. The specimens imprint themselves on their owners through touch. Many of them know this, and many have been here a long time. Some are desperate to be in the outside world again. If you should transgress regarding this rule, you will be obliged to purchase that specimen.”

  I exhaled. “Message received loud and clear, but can I ask a question?”

  “Ask away. I will endeavour to give you a clear answer, although there are some things that must simply be accepted rather than understood.”

  “Fair enough. These specimens, where do you ... acquire them?”

  The first question most people ask,” he replied. “They can’t be found in any taxonomic catalogue or scientific paper. I inherited many. This is, after all, a family business. Others were discovered and captured in lands afar, then smuggled across borders via diplomatic corridors kept open by the Society’s network. A small number were bought from other collectors and some were not so much captured, as summoned.”

  “Summoned?”

  “Yes. These are the rarest and most expensive specimens. You wouldn’t find them on any terrestrial continent.”

  Mandrake clearly had a penchant for the melodramatic and this last statement was delivered with a steely glare. “Shall we proceed?”

  We passed through two further doors into an atrium of sorts.

  An animal smell tainted the air and dust motes danced in the light rays coming from a barred window, high up. In the distance I heard a guttural roar, echoing and mournful. A primal rush of adrenaline infused me and I had to resist an urge to run back through the outer door.

  The outer chamber contained what I can only describe as cells, each large enclosure fronted by reinforced glass. Some were lined with straw, others with carpet. Only one seemed to be inhabited. On a ledge, carved out of the basement rock, perched a small crouching beast. It was somewhat humanoid in form, its features childlike, with skin pale as chalk. From its back a pair of black, leathery wings folded over in a span that almost touched each opposite wall.

  I gasped. “It’s magnificent.”

  Mandrake nodded. “A sylph. From a line traced back to Paracelsus.”

  At the sound of our voices, the creature looked up from its preening and swooped to the floor. I stepped back automatically as claws protruding from its wings scrabbled at the glass. It was obviously female. Six breasts were pressed flat against the glass along with a swollen abdomen. It cocked its head to one side, fixing its gaze on me with obsidian eyes.

  “Is it pregnant?” I asked.

  “Yes, I keep this one for breeding purposes. As long as they are trained properly, sylphs make perfect aerial guards. I sell a lot on the continent.”

  I marvelled that Mandrake spoke of such a market existing for these exotic creatures. There was clearly a stratum of business lying undetected by conventional authorities.

  “Do you like it?” asked Mandrake.

  “It’s amazing,” I replied, “but not quite what I’m looking for.”

  “And what precisely did you have in mind?”

  I hesitated, not so much because I hadn’t given mind to my requirements, but more because I didn’t want to look
foolish in vocalising them.

  “Come now,” Mandrake chided. “You must have given it some thought at least?”

  I grimaced. “Well, it may seem odd, but I want something that is useful about the house yet exotic in appearance. Something that will provide companionship in the empty building I call home. Does this sound eccentric to you, Mr Mandrake?”

  His shoulders shook with laughter. “Mr Renshaw. You come to a menagerie of the strange and grotesque, willing to pay good money for something which the average man in the street would be embarrassed to admit even thinking about. And you wonder if you are eccentric?”

  “Yes, well,” I said “when you put it like that ... “

  “Do not take offence. Your desire for the bizarre would only seem ridiculous if such exotica didn’t exist. No, I understand your predilections. I have spent the largest part of my sixty years bent on providing for such extravagant tastes. Now, come. I think I have something in the domestics section that may catch your eye.

  We stepped through an arch into one of several corridors sprouting off from the atrium. The cells here were more luxuriant—or as luxuriant as you could get if you were placed behind bars.

  “These enclosures,” I said. “Are your specimens ever given time outside them?”

  “Those that have been well trained, yes. Also, those that pose no threat to society. However, it wouldn’t do if some of the more feral specimens escaped.”

  “Has that ever happened?”

  “Only once—a long time ago. It is not an occurrence I remember with pride. It left a host of victims behind.”

  “Do you still have this creature?”

  Mandrake halted, staring at the floor as if deliberating something. “No.” His voice was flat. “When you find yourself in possession of a rabid dog, you deal with it the only way one can under such circumstances. The same goes for my specimens.” He looked at me with sorrow in his eyes. Then, like the wind moving a cloud from the face of the sun, a smile appeared.

  “But rest assured, Mr Renshaw. My facilities and protocols have prevented anything like that happening since.”

  We continued down the corridor, stopping every so often to view the occupant of a particular cell.

  “You must see this one,” Mandrake said, stopping beside a well-lit enclosure. “This is a Ghillie Dhu. I call him Pollard.”

  “As in the tree-pruning practice?”

  “That is correct. I had him brought down from Scotland.”

  The cell was overrun with foliage and greenery. Bracken and nettles carpeted the floor while small trees arched into a canopy overhead. Mandrake whistled twice, using a descending cadence. “Here he comes.”

  Like a chameleon appearing in a magic eye picture, a spindly, bipedal form stepped forward from in front of a birch sapling. Its flesh was as tree bark, knotty and powdered with green lichen. Branches spoked out from its neck and head while dark hazel eyes, more earthy than the leaf-mould beneath its feet, peered at me from underneath hooded brows.

  “Ghilli, Feasgar math,” Mandrake said. The creature nodded in response. Mandrake then proceeded to speak in a lilting Gaelic tongue. As I watched, the Ghilli gestured with gnarled fingers, forming simple shapes that Mandrake seemed to understand.

  “It can converse?” I said, softly.

  “Indeed it can. Its vocabulary is pretty limited, but it understands enough to follow instructions, and is loyal enough to be trusted in the grounds surrounding this house. In the mornings it tends to the three acres of woodland I have, cutting up deadfalls in the autumn and forming brash piles in the summer. I’ve seen a remarkable increase in the wildlife since he started working for me.”

  “What does he eat?”

  “Oh, grubs, worms, beetles, frogs. That sort of thing. He forages for himself and is reasonably self sufficient.”

  “Remarkable,” I said.

  “There’s more to see,” said Mandrake, clearly revelling in his husbandry.

  We passed some smaller cells as we moved down the long corridor. Increasingly, the denizens were separated by bars rather than glass. I marvelled at the proliferation of form and function that Mandrake proudly revealed to me. Here was a diminutive, rat-like quadruped—apparently useful for retrieving things from small places; while over there was a long-fingered sprite, capable of weaving simple garments from spun wool. The more I saw of this menagerie, the more I knew that I wanted one. Only one would not be enough—I knew this about myself. Like generations before me, I was a collector and connoisseur at heart—and here I had discovered the most sublime of curios for my attention. The Wilshaw Club would be impressed. I would be fulfilled.

  We had nearly reached the end of the line of cages when we heard a shout from the entrance behind.

  “Mr Mandrake Sir,” said a portly dwarf of a man. He was dressed in blue overalls and trotted towards us with a shambling gait. “There’s a phone call for you.”

  “Frammery,” said Mandrake, shielding his eyes from the sun beaming in from the high windows. “I told you we were not to be disturbed.”

  “I’m sorry Sir, but it’s your buyer from Eastern Europe. Said it was important.”

  “Ah, you must excuse me,” said Mandrake “but I must take this call. A rather important transaction is held in the balance.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I said.

  “I won’t be long.” He turned to go, then said, “Remember—no contact with the specimens.”

  “I nodded. “Understood.”

  Once Mandrake had left, I gravitated towards another cell. I was like a child at a fairground, joyfully anticipating another surprise.

  Many years ago, before the turbulent waves of adolescence overtook me, Aunt Clarice took me to the annual fair. It was always held on the August bank holiday. Mother had never listened to my entreaties on these occasions. I would beg and plead for her to take me, but it never did any good.

  “Those fairs are full of scoundrels, tinkers and lowlifes. I will not hear of it, Charles,” she would say. Such was Mother’s disdain for plebs that I was sure she would have cheated death another year, simply to avoid the ignominy of being buried in the same common earth as the rest of humanity.

  Aunt Clarice was different. She was not a believer in the divine right of the upper class to rule. She would never pass one of the homeless, squatting on the pavement, without dropping them a tenner or two; and Thursdays would find her helping out at the local food bank.

  So it was, that in the year of my twelfth birthday, Mother and Father had chosen to spend a month at their villa in Italy. I hadn’t been invited. They apparently needed space and time to relax without the burdens of parenthood weighing them down. This struck me as quite peculiar, being an only child, but Aunt Clarice was at pains to stress that I wasn’t ever any bother.

  A month of freedom it was, then—both for my parents and for me. Aunt Clarice attended the fair to sell her preserves and cakes to raise money for multiple sclerosis. Goodness knows she was rich enough to simply give them a small fortune, but she was always the one for a hands-on approach. After an hour’s stint on the stall looking after the cash box, she gave me ten pounds and the liberty to spend it however I wanted.

  I visited one attraction after another. The coconut shy ate my first three pounds, but I was more thrifty at the water guns and ring-a-prize stalls. One picture and a toy rabbit later, I was just about spent up. Then I heard a voice calling from a tent entrance.

  “Roll up, roll up and see the bearded lady, marvel at Baco the dwarf, be amazed at the conjoined twins.”

  Looking back, I’m surprised the PC brigade still allowed such attractions to tour the country, but here they were. The stall-holder went by the name of Pasternak and swore the bearded lady was Madam Gustika’s grand daughter no less, so I gave him my last fifty pence and stepped from daylight into a canvas-shrouded world of the fantastic. How long I spent in there was anybody’s guess, for it seemed that time poured like molass
es as I looked in wonder at Mr Pasternak’s oddities. They didn’t seem to mind my bemused observations, indeed the bearded lady winked at me as she sat back on a chaise-long and pulled on her cigarette holder.

  Why did I find them so fascinating? I have pondered such matters for years now, but I felt a kinship with them. That they were somehow—other. Apart but not aloof. There was a pride in their bearing. As if to reinforce this, I remembered how the human trunk, a man with neither arms nor legs, seemed entirely relaxed as he was fed grapes by the dwarf. Their camaraderie was entirely unforced. As that day ended, I found myself a changed person.

  That same sense of connectedness now drew me like a lodestone to another cell. The creature I saw within was a peculiar blend of the grotesque and mundane. A grey body, seemingly chiselled from limestone, was sat relaxed in an armchair and garbed in a smoking jacket. I was amused at the way it looked up at me from its book—a copy of Melville’s Moby Dick—as if to say why shouldn’t a golem be able to read the classics in the comfort of its own home?

  I was so absorbed in this new curiosity that I literally jumped back at the sound of a whispered voice close by.

  “It only pretends to read, thou knowest.”

  There, holding the bars in an adjacent cell was a woman. At least, I thought it was a woman. She looked down at me from a height through pupil-less eyes. As I gazed up, a distant memory was called to mind. A time when I had seen a painting of the Norse goddess Freya, towering above her subjects. The face, now peering out from billowing, frost-white hair was reminiscent of a coffin and I shuddered helplessly. Her skin was ivory. Her lips ashen. I was entranced.

  “You can speak? I said, befuddled.

  “It is as thou sayest.” Her voice was like broken ice, cracking under a winter sun. “Hast thou come to claim me?”

  My mouth attempted to form words, but all I could manage was a pathetic croak.

  Then she smiled. Not an unpleasant smile, but one that promised both sweetness and bedevilment. I could not shake off the notion that I was at the tip of a precipice and about to fall.