Expecting Someone Taller (22 page)

‘I know, I know,' Malcolm muttered. ‘I've heard all that.'

‘Then,' continued the Goddess, ‘you will be aware that the termination of this unfortunate situation must be expedited. It is as simple as that, Mr Fisher.'

Malcolm laughed loudly for rather longer than the remark justified.

‘Your natural reaction, I know, is to protest that the matter is not in your control,' said the Rose. ‘This is self-deception on your part.'

‘Is it really?' Malcolm turned away and counted to ten. ‘Why is it,' he said at last, ‘that everyone I meet these days turns out to be a Goddess? You're a Goddess, she's a Goddess, the housekeeper is probably a Goddess.'

‘Incorrect,' said the Rose.

‘Oh, good. Look, I don't care, I just want to be left alone.'

The Rose continued with the same measured intonation, rather like the Speaking Clock. ‘Correct me if I am mistaken, but you were primarily attracted to my daughter simply because you believed that she was not a Goddess but a normal, ordinary mortal. A somewhat counter-intuitive reaction for a human being, if I may say so; it seems to be a
commonplace of human love that the lover believes his beloved to be in some way divine.'

This, Malcolm realised with a shudder, was the Rose's idea of a joke. After a pause for laughter, which was not rewarded by the expected reaction, she continued.

‘Now that it transpires that she is not a mortal but merely a Goddess, your affection for her should logically cease. You may argue that she loves you . . .'

‘You noticed that, did you?'

‘Indeed. But her feelings towards you are simply the result of unclear thinking and underlying emotional problems, which I fear have now reached a point where the most competent analyst would be unable to help her. By extending reciprocal affection towards her, you will only cause her emotional situation to deteriorate; so, Mr Fisher, if I may be counter-factual for a moment, if you care about my daughter, you must stop loving her. It would likewise be in your own interest to desist, since you are doing considerable harm to your own emotional state which, I hardly need tell you, is by no means satisfactory.'

For the first time, Malcolm felt pity for Wotan. This sort of thing all day long would try the patience of any God.

‘My husband was a similarly unbalanced person,' continued the Rose. ‘His case should provide you with a most graphic illustration of the dangers of embarking on a serious relationship when the balance of the mind is, so to speak, disturbed. In short, Mr Fisher, it is imperative that you abandon your intention of giving the Ring to my daughter. You must set your personal feelings on one side entirely.'

‘Get knotted,' said Malcolm violently. It was no way to talk to a Goddess, but he was past caring.

‘Should you fail to do so, I regret to have to inform you
that you may well be directly responsible for global cataclysm. If my ex-husband were to resume control of the Ring, the consequences for the future of humanity would be at the very least severe, and quite probably grave. You yourself would undoubtedly fail to find the happiness you misguidedly believe would result from a relationship with my daughter; added to which, you would certainly be involved along with the rest of humanity in any potential Armageddon-type scenario that might arise as a result of my ex-husband's ownership of the Ring. In short . . .'

‘Wrong,' said Malcolm. ‘Wrong on every point.'

‘Pardon me?'

‘Where you go wrong is, you think that she'll give the Ring to her father. She won't. Never in a million years. You see, it'll be a present from me, the best present I could possibly give her. She'd never give it to Wotan or anyone else. She loves me, you see. In fact,' Malcolm said dreamily, ‘she'll probably give it straight back again, and then everything will be all right.'

‘I perceive,' said the Rose, rising to her feet, ‘that I have been wasting my time with you, Mr Fisher. You have failed to grasp the significance of anything I have said to you. I can only implore you to reconsider your decision with the utmost diligence.'

‘What do you actually do?' said Malcolm. ‘What's your job?'

‘Mostly,' said Mother Earth, ‘I sleep. My sleep is dreaming, my dreaming is thinking, my thinking is understanding. Consequently, my normal role is consultative, not executive. Only in exceptional circumstances, such as a threat of universal oblivion, do I undertake any active part in the day-to-day running of the world.'

‘Yes, but what do you actually
do
?'

‘I advise people,' said Mother Earth.

‘Like the United Nations does, you mean?'

‘There is, I suppose, a degree of similarity.'

‘You're still fired. Now get out of my house.'

‘Mr Fisher,' said the Rose, sitting down again, ‘before I go and attempt to reason with my daughter, on the unlikely chance that she might listen to sense, let me explain to you the nature of what you call love. It is a purely functional system in the human operational matrix. With the lower animals, the urge to reproduce is a purely instinctive thing. The human race, being rational, requires a distinct motivation to reproduce. It has therefore been programmed to process the reproductive urge in a unique way.'

‘Just out of interest,' said Malcolm, ‘did you design the human race?'

‘Correct. As I was saying . . .'

‘Ten out of ten for the Ears and the Eyes,' said Malcolm, ‘the Feet and the waste disposal system not so hot. Friday afternoon job, I always thought.'

‘You are thinking of the hardware, Mr Fisher, which is the result of the evolutionary process, and for which I claim no credit or otherwise. My work was entirely concerned with the software, what you would call the feelings and the emotions. As I was saying, the human race needs a reason for everything it does, a reason it can understand within its own terms of reference. Love, companionship, sympathy, affection and understanding are simply the rewards that human beings must receive if they are to be motivated to do something that creatures of their intelligence and sophistication would normally regard as below their dignity. There are so many better things they could be doing. How long does a human being live, Mr Fisher? Between
seventy and ninety years, given optimum conditions. Without some powerful motivating factor, they could not be expected to devote a major proportion of their extremely short lives to the creation and education of other human beings. Therefore, it was necessary to provide them with an incentive, one which they are programmed to accept as worthwhile. Love is nothing, Mr Fisher. You would do well to ignore it completely.'

With that, the English Rose departed, leaving Malcolm alone. His only reaction to these revelations, straight from the horse's mouth, was that it was a dirty trick to play on anybody. But the fact remained that he was human, and he was in love, and that nothing else mattered. If that made him a fool, then so be it; blame the person who invented the state in the first place. But he knew all about love; it was as real as anything else in the world and he could not deny its existence. He resolved to find Ortlinde and give her the Ring at once.

But she wasn't in the library, or anywhere in the house. Perhaps she had gone away. Perhaps her mother had sent her away, or taken her away by force. In his confusion, Malcolm did not use the Tarnhelm to take him to where she was; instead, he ran through the house and grounds calling out her name at the top of his voice. At last he saw someone sitting on the riverbank and ran across. The figure turned and, to his despair, Malcolm saw that it was only Flosshilde.

‘Have you seen her?' he panted.

Flosshilde could not read people's thoughts like Malcolm could, but she could guess who he was asking after. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘I saw her just now down by the little wood, where you get that nice view over the valley. Not that she's looking at the view, she's sitting there looking at her feet again. Size six, at a guess. Mine are size four.'

‘Thank you.' Malcolm turned to go, but the Rhinedaughter called after him.

‘Well?' he said. ‘What is it? I'm in a hurry.'

‘I know,' said Flosshilde sadly. ‘I've just got back from Valhalla. I was trying to get Wotan to send her away.'

‘Not you as well.'

‘It's for your own good.' Malcolm scowled at her, and she felt suddenly angry. ‘Well, it is. But I failed. Wotan tried to turn me into a hedgehog and it was all for your sake.'

‘A hedgehog? Why a hedgehog, particularly?'

‘Fleas and things. But he didn't manage to do it for . . . for some reason or other.' Flosshilde had been wondering what had prevented Wotan from making that transformation. The one plausible theory she had come up with was what had given her hope.

‘I'm sorry he failed,' Malcolm said, and started to walk away. Flosshilde waited till his back was turned, then deliberately pushed him into the river.

As he hit the water, Malcolm's mind was filled with images of the fate of Hagen, whom the Rhinedaughters drowned, and he instinctively turned himself into a rowing-boat. But the water was only two feet deep at that point, and after a moment he turned himself back again. For all her grief, Flosshilde could not help laughing.

‘Shut up,' Malcolm snapped.

‘I didn't mean it unkindly,' giggled Flosshilde. ‘That was very resourceful of you.'

Malcolm had got his shoes and socks wet. He applied to the Tarnhelm for replacements. ‘You just watch it in future,' he said sternly.

‘You watch it,' said the Rhinedaughter. ‘And look at me when I'm talking to you.'

It was true that Malcolm was looking at his shoes, but only to see what the Tarnhelm had provided him with. ‘Have you been listening to us?' he said furiously. ‘When we were talking just now?'

Flosshilde sat down on the bank and combed her long hair with an ivory comb that Eric Bloodaxe had given her many years ago. ‘No,' she said, ‘I've got better things to do with my time than listen to that sort of rubbish.'

Malcolm sat down beside her. ‘Go on, then,' he said. ‘I'm listening.'

‘I went to see Wotan,' she said, putting the comb away. ‘I tried to get him to call Ortlinde off. But he said he could-n't. I don't know if he was telling the truth or not, actually. Because if you go off with her, you'll be terribly unhappy, honestly you will. Even if it does work out, and you give her the Ring and she accepts it and all that . . .'

‘How come everyone knows about that?' Malcolm said bitterly. ‘You must have been listening.'

‘It's the most important thing in the world right now,' said Flosshilde gravely. ‘What do you expect? Like it or not, you're dealing with the Gods now. I know you don't like us very much, but we're important people. But never mind about the world and things like that. I couldn't care less about the silly old world, or the Ring, or anything. If you go off with her, you'll be utterly wretched. She'll make you miserable, I know she will.'

Flosshilde tried to open her mind to make it easier for him to read her thoughts, but apparently he wasn't interested.

‘How the hell could you know?'

‘Because you're not like that. You think you're in love with her, but you're not. You think that because she's in love with you, you've got to be in love with her. It doesn't work like that.'

‘You're talking nonsense. It's not like that at all.'

‘Shut up and listen, will you? You don't understand the meaning of the word Love. It's not that great big romantic thunderbolt you think it is. You saw her, you fell for her, your heart went mushy inside you. That's all totally silly; it doesn't happen that way. You don't know the first thing about her. How could you, you've hardly got two sentences out of her since you met. What are the two of you going to do for the rest of Time, sit around staring at your shoes, trying to make conversation? You both think you're in love, but you're deceiving yourselves. She thinks she's in love because she's always been treated like a piece of old cheese, and then you come along, looking like Siegfried himself, the most important man in the world, and start adoring her. And you fell in love with her because she's there and you thought she was a human being and so she counted. There's me, you thought; a real live girl, not a Goddess or a water-nymph, is actually in love with me. Whoopee, I'm not a failure or inadequate or as boring as hell, let's get married.'

‘Have you finished?'

‘No. You're stupid and silly and romantic, and you deserve to be miserable all your life. What sort of a world do you think you're living in? You're only fit to mix with Gods and fairies. You don't stand a chance in the real world.'

‘Now have you finished?'

‘You think you're strong and marvellous, don't you? But you're as blind as a bat and they're leading you by the nose. It's them, don't you see? It's Wotan's grand design, and you've fallen straight into the trap. I thought there was more to you than that, but I was wrong.'

Malcolm did not even bother to unravel this skein of
metaphor. He stood up and walked away. When he was safely out of earshot, Flosshilde began to cry. As she sat weeping, her sisters put their heads above the water.

‘You're just as bad as he is,' said Wellgunde.

‘What sort of a world do you think you're living in?' sneered Woglinde. ‘You're stupid and silly and romantic, and you deserve to be miserable all your life. Very well put, I thought.'

They laughed unkindly and swam away.

 

‘Hello,' said Ortlinde.

‘Hello,' said Malcolm. ‘What are you doing here?'