The Fabulous Beast (14 page)
Read The Fabulous Beast Online
Authors: Garry Kilworth
The Human’s Child
‘He hath a body like a house but a tayle like a ratte, erecting it like a cedar, little eyes but great sight, very melancholly but wise (they say) and full of understanding for a beaste.’
[
17th Century description of an elephant, taken from ‘The Honourable Company’ by John Keay
]
~
In the high and far-off times, O Best Beloved, there were many schools of thought as to how the creatures of the Earth came to be.
One of the two main theories was that a Creator had taken some clay and filled some special empty spaces. Thus there was an empty space which had the shape of an elephant, where nothing else but an elephant could fit. And a space exactly the proportions of a stonefish, and the clay that filled this space resulted in that rather ugly, sqaumous being which now lives in tropical seas. Thus it was, or was supposed to be, with all living creatures. This mythical Creator took common clay and messed around happily as potters do, filling all these empty spaces and baking his creations in the sun.
The second theory drew its credibility from a profession called science, which most thought as being based in common sense. This idea proclaimed that a single cell was brought into being by a secret process known only to sunlight and water. Over time this cell grew this way and that way, forming its own shapes all over the place, sometimes taking into account the local environment when settling on its final form. Thus the giraffe, for example, came to be because he stretched his neck to reach the juiciest leaves at the tops of trees. And the playful crocodile, who enjoyed stretching the noses of elephants, developed these huge snappy jaws with which to tug.
There was a third theory that came along later, rather subversive, which spoke of a party of extra-terrestrials who stopped by for a good time on this green planet of ours, and left some balloons of all shapes and sizes behind. Over the course of millions of years parasitic cells grew on the walls of these balloons, covered them on the outside as well as filling them on the inside. Eventually these peculiar shapes started walking around. Basically, what this theory was trying to say is that we are all alike, in composition: our particular cells just happened to choose different balloons. Some were attracted to the big balloons with tails and trunks and flappy ears, others to the upright long and skinny balloons with arms and legs and rather offensive feet.
Of course, O Best Beloved, we know now those theories are all tosh. We now know what really happened. There was a gathering of spirits, all much the same in essence, but all quite different from one another. Holding council near a great rock these spirits looked around the world and saw that it was empty of moving things. There was plenty of rooted life: trees, bushes, grass – vegetation. Plenty of flora but no fauna. The whale-spirit argued that the sea moved in great waves, and the eagle-spirit mentioned that the wind helped rather flimsy objects to roll around, but the majority of them were not satisfied with this picture. They felt it would be nice if there were creatures out there, warm and cold blooded beings, which trundled around, ate things, rolled each other amongst the rhododendrons, and generally put some dash and colour into the scene.
‘Why don’t we do it ourselves?’ suggested the elephant-spirit. ‘Why don’t we take on solid shape and form, and fill the world with our progeny? Once we’ve got a few years behind us, we shall have multiplied and there’ll be enough of us to fill all the hills and valleys, all the plains and seas, all the nooks and crannies and corners of the Earth. We can all try to fit in with one another, create a sort of life-cycle. We could call ourselves beasts of the field, birds of the air and fishes of sea. Some of us may eat the issue of the others, but that’s all right so long as one
species
we’ll call it, doesn’t try to dominate the planet.’
‘Damn good idea,’ said the mosquito-spirit, ‘but we’ve got to be careful. Once you start putting things into shapes,
different forms,
competition comes along, then struggle, and before you know it we’ll be trying to destroy each other’s descendants and doing the very thing our imaginative friend here, the elephant-spirit, is warning against.’
‘Well, I don’t really believe
that
,’ argued the human-spirit, ‘but what are you suggesting?’
‘All right,’ said the mosquito-spirit, ‘what we do is choose shapes now, but these will be rough casts. The first, and only the first, of our children to come along will have the opportunity to refine those shapes. They must come to us, the Council of Original Creatures, and request the changes. Some of them will be quite happy, of course, with what they’ve got. Others will want radical changes. We don’t all go for what our parents want.’
‘Brilliant,’ said the hornet-spirit. ‘They must argue for the changes and get support amongst the other creatures requesting alterations. I think we can congratulate ourselves here on building in some good safeguards for our populated world. Now, shall we get to it? Oh! Oh! Look at that. The tiger-spirit’s already done it! Wonderful. Burning-yellow ochre with black stripes? Such genius. And those
eyes
. Why didn’t I think of such a
savage
appearance, such a beautiful combination of colours? How profane. How superbly pagan. Now you’ve taken the best first and left me all at sixes-and-sevens. I might just try for
something
close, if you don’t mind tiger-spirit, if just a wee bit on the smaller side.’
And so, O Best Beloved, as you know they chose their shapes. Some were pretty flamboyant, like the parrot-spirit, others more conservative, like the elephant-spirit. Others still absolutely absurd, as with some of the deep-sea fishes or the jungle insects. Above all it was
fun
, O Best Beloved. They enjoyed it. They threw themselves into becoming us with such gusto. How innocent was the world in those high and far-off times. How naïve.
And when the firstborn of the spirits incarnate came along, they wandered the Earth, thinking about themselves, doing things, looking at how they were doing them and wondering what improvements they could make to these bodies bequeathed to them by their parents. Then, as time went by, they went to the Council Rock and requested changes. Some were granted, those which seemed reasonable and had support amongst the other creatures; others were rejected.
The snake’s child went along and asked if it could have a really good singing voice. Snakes that could sing? the question was asked. Already there had been complaints – too late now that it had been granted – about the mosquito’s horrible whine. Snakes could get anywhere, being slim legless creatures which would fit into a small hole. Under floor boards, in the attic, beneath the outdoor kazi. Who would want the thin strains of snake songs coming from the back of the loo?
Most animals, birds and fishes got what they wanted, because most requests amounted to a very small change. Some birds wanted longer beaks. Some big cats bigger claws. The cheetah asked for a bit more speed. The whale a little more blubber. Simple things. Easy for the Council to accommodate. A few were slightly more complicated. The kangaroo’s child went along, speaking for a few others of antipodean ilk, to ask for pouches in which to carry their young.
‘I never had a pouch,’ said the kangaroo-spirit, ‘and I managed to raise you all right without it.’
But parents of those children whose petitions were before the council were excluded from the final vote, since their judgement was impaired by their close affinity with their offspring.
There were some pretty weird requests. One type of snake asked to be able to fly: the ribbon snake. Bats wanted the ability to sleep upside down without getting a rush of blood to the head. The elephant’s child asked for a much longer nose, so that he could drink from a puddle while still standing up. Things like that. Some of them very silly, some encouraging laziness, a few downright ridiculous. Gradually, gradually, the first rush of request for changes slowed to a mere trickle, until it seemed that it was only certain creatures who were going back time and time again. Finally, the Council put a deadline on petitions. All had to be settled by midnight, the seventh day of the third lunar month. Those that were not, were forfeit.
The creatures who asked for the most changes, and got them, were the apes. They banded together as a group and sent along the human’s child, to ask for such things as the ability to walk upright, to eat anything they fancied, to have a cleverer brain than most. Since the human’s child was the spokesman he got the most of these requests, when they were granted, and came out just a little bit better off than his fellow apes. Not that the things he asked for were unique. Kangaroos could walk upright too, along with the basilisk and one or two others. There were a great many omnivores. And as for clever brains, why the dolphin’s child had it over the human’s child, it just couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be mammal or fish.
An hour to the deadline found the human’s child making its way to the Council Rock for the last time. On the track through the dark forest it met the elephant’s child.
‘Are you asking for one more change?’ said the human’s child.
The elephant’s child nodded his big head. ‘I am,’ he replied.
‘Tell you what,’ said the human’s child, ‘I’ll support you, if you support me. How’s that? Whatever I ask for, you stand behind me four-square, and I’ll do the same for whatever it is that you want.’
‘Fair enough,’ said the elephant’s child.
A short while later the human’s child was standing before the Council.
‘What is it that you want now?’
‘Well,’ said the human’s child, ‘as you know I speak for the apes, in general, and we would actually like opposable thumbs on our hands.’
‘What for?’ asked the Council.
‘To make tools for digging and ploughing, for planting seeds to grow our own food – things like that.’
The dolphin-spirit spoke up. ‘I’m not sure that wouldn’t be very dangerous. After all, you already have a very clever brain, you walk around – one might say
strut
if one were to be unkind – all over the planet, even venturing onto the seas in that hollow log you call a boat. We’re getting horribly close to having a creature who could dominate the rest of our children. Tools is it? I for one am against it. I don’t like the sound of
tools
.’
‘But tools are perfectly innocent. It’s just that I’ve developed a taste for exotic foods and I need tools to grow them for my family, when it comes along. Also, I need to sew garments, because even though I’ve got
some
hair on my body, it’s not enough to keep me warm in the winter months.’
‘These seem legitimate things to ask for,’ argued the dog-spirit, ‘I have no objection to opposable thumbs.’
‘Nor I,’ said the cat-spirit, ‘for it seems to me a creature has to feed and clothe its young. The human’s child is not fast on its feet, can’t travel great distances like the camel, is quite vulnerable to enemies and the elements in that thin skin, and has no terrible weapons like a falcon’s beak, a shark’s teeth, or a lion’s talons. You have to give him
something
to ensure his survival as a species.’
The Council were undecided. Half were willing to grant the request, half were against granting it. Finally the Council said, ‘If you can come up with some support from other children . . .?’
The elephant’s child immediately spoke up. ‘I think the human’s child should be given what he wants.’
‘So it is asked for, so it is done,’ chorused the Council, gravely. ‘Next! Hurry, for midnight is almost on us.’
‘I would like some camouflage colours,’ said the elephant’s child.
‘What for?’ asked the mite-spirit. ‘You’re so huge. Why would you want to hide? On land you’re the largest creature and should need to fear no other over the whole Earth.’
‘It’s not for me, it’s for my children,’ said the elephant’s child. ‘They’ll be prey to tigers and lions. You’ve no idea how savage the big cats can be when they’re hungry. They jump on your back and rip you about with those big claws! That’s not so bad for me. I have a thick skin now, growing thicker by the day. And I grant I’m big. But my babies will need time to grow the protection they need. Camouflage colours, please.’
Again the Council were undecided. They requested support. The elephant’s child turned to the human’s child.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t give it to him,’ said the human’s child, without a blink of his eye. ‘He’s got enough already.’
Midnight showed in the heavens. The Council disbanded for the last time, thanking each other, saying how well they had done to populate the Earth with such multi-hued creatures of fur, feather and scales.
‘A mobile work of art,’ said the fox-spirit. ‘It lifts your heart to see it in motion. And how well everyone fits! All good creatures in all the right places. No one of them lording it over the other. A good job, indeed!’
The elephant’s child and the human’s child were left alone. The human began to walk away from the rock, or perhaps
strut
might be a better word. The elephant called after him, ‘You cheat! You betrayer!’
The human flexed his new opposable thumbs, knowing his intricate brain was capable of inventing fantastical devices. He lifted up his hands, closed one eye and sighted along a pair of lined-up index fingers. The elephant felt very uncomfortable under this squint-eyed scrutiny and backed away. Then something appeared on the features of the human. It was that other thing which had been requested by the two-legged creature and was unique to him alone out of all the creatures on the Earth.
‘One day you’ll regret you made those remarks,’ said the human, the
smile
on his face. ‘You’re a big target.’
La Belle Dame Sans Grâce
There are few ways left to us to reach that Otherworld, the land of Faerie, in this age of technology. The creatures who live in that strange time-place which has always existed alongside ours do not like machines. They actually despise the wheel, let alone anything that followed it. These days we have cars, aeroplanes, mobile phones, computers, televisions, and all the rest of the modern junk. This ensures they want very little to do with us. It’s a sad state, but that’s the way it is.
Indeed, since the industrial revolution fairies and mortals have, for the most part, gone their separate ways.
However, there are one or two people – myself included – the name’s Jack by the way – who still seek ways of crossing over. Explorers of Otherworld. The rewards can be well worth the risk. And there is a risk. If you’re caught over there the chances of spending the rest of your life as something bulbous and loathsome, covered in warts, are pretty high. It follows then, that prolonged searches for fairy gold should not be one of your expedition goals. One should enter, snatch whatever is lying around, and get out quickly. Believe me, whatever it is, it will have value: some wonderful use here. A pebble, feather, leaf, or twig – anything. You will discover it has amazing powers.
I make it sound as if I’ve done it a hundred times. I haven’t. It’s incredibly difficult to cross over. God knows I tried a thousand times since that first visit, and failed every one of them. Except the last. That’s how I know it’s still there. You only need to go once to feel the power of the place. Awesome is a much-used word these days, but that’s what Faerie is – awesome. It overwhelms you with its fragrances, its scintillating atmosphere, the clarity of its sounds. The environment is charged with high magic: it crackles like static electricity. You touch a tree and sparks of magic jump to your fingertips. There are also unnamed strangenesses in the air: many, many strangenesses. They flit through your mind or touch your spirit, too flimsy to hold onto, leaving faint uncomfortable tinges of enchantment behind.
So, how does one get there?
First, I told Charlotte I was going sailing on Loch Tay, in the Highlands of Scotland.
‘I won’t be gone long,’ I said. ‘Back next week at the latest.’
Charley didn’t ask to come with me. She’s not very good at physical activities, being unusually clumsy and uncoordinated. Not her fault, of course, but she can’t kick or bat a ball without losing her balance. It doesn’t matter. She’s just made that way – or was. If I took her on a boat she’d fall in the water stepping into it.
No, I certainly didn’t want to take Charley on such an expedition. She’d probably trip up was we fled for the boat with a dozen angry fairies behind us, itching to bewitch our backsides. She’s beautiful and I love her dearly, but she is a hindrance sometimes. And the one thing you don’t want to bring out of the Otherworld is an unwanted spell. I think I’ve said that before, haven’t I? It bears repeating.
So I went alone, as usual, as planned. I hired the same ancient clinkerbuilt rowboat from a creased old Scot named Tam who lived in a croft on the edge of the loch. The older the boat, the better. It was one of those craft that had been built by the grandfathers of grandfathers. They last centuries, if maintained. Then I waited for the right ambience. I needed a swirling early-morning mist, no wind of course, in which I could drift and hope for a landing. Such mornings are not uncommon and in the late autumn I duly found myself on the placid waters of Loch Tay, the plash of my oar the only sound in the world.
One such grey dawn I was drifting idly through the mist, hardly even touching the surface of the water with my oars. My head was full of things other than expedition goals. Like an angler who has not had a bite in a long long time, I had drifted in my mind too, and was thinking about Charley’s birthday and the gift I needed to buy. Suddenly a dark wedge of land loomed out of the Scottish mist to starboard. It seemed to speak to me immediately, without words, without any sound at all.
My heart leapt and started beating faster. I knew success was nearby at last. I had only visited that land once before, in my childhood, quite by accident. But I knew it when I saw it. I
felt
it. These were the shores of Faerie. At last, after scores of such expeditions, I had found my way back to that wonderful place. The last time I had come, after being lost on a Yorkshire moor, they had caught me – and let me go. A child who has crossed over by accident is not regarded as a threat. However, I was now an adult and fully responsible. Scottish fairies are packed with menace and especially vicious towards Sassenachs: I could not afford to be caught this time. In and out. I had to be there and gone.
‘Here I go,’ I cried, the fear in me quite real. ‘Something quick and easy to reach . . .’
The boat’s prow crunched on a gravel bottom. I leapt over the bows and ran up a sandy beach to a mossy bank. Looking around me quickly, all I could see in the mist was a single tree. I ran to it quickly, trying not to panic. First I looked up into its branches, hoping to see something there. Nothing . . . nothing . . . Next I tried to reach a branch, to break it off, but twist and turn as I might the damn tree would not give up so much as a twig. Finally I searched the ground around the base of the trunk, and YES! there was an overripe piece of fruit, not unlike a peach, lying nestled in exposed roots. Just as I snatched it up I heard a sound to my left, and turned to see a creature there.
At first glance it appeared to be a scarecrow made of glittering tin foil folded into and around crisp brown paper. But I knew it was a fairy. Amazingly lean and angular it stared with wide, sparkling, magenta eyes at this audacious mortal, stealing from its orchard. I believe we were both so shocked neither of us moved for a second. Then I was away, my feet flying, leaving the fairy screeching like a wounded tropical bird.
I fairly flung myself into the rowboat, thus shooting it out onto the waters of the loch. I had always promised myself I would not panic in such a situation, but of course I did. It took me twice as long as it should have done to get the oars into the rowlocks, but I managed it, and was soon cutting through the water and parting mist. Once I knew I was safe I collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the boat, still clutching my prize. I had done it. I had been into Faerie and come out with treasure!
The lump in my hand felt mushy. When I was able to inspect it, I saw that the actual fruit had fallen away, leaving just a brown, dimpled stone. That was fine. There was no way I was going to eat food taken from the Otherworld anyway. My mind is quite capable of imagining what horrors of transmutation might lurk in the side effects of swallowing fairy fruit. What I had left though, was the kernel of that fruit. I did not know what this nut would produce for me, in the way of magic, but it would do something amazing of that I was sure.
Charlotte seemed delighted to have me back.
‘Did you enjoy your sailing?’ she asked. ‘I hope you didn’t drink too much whisky up there – I know you and your single malts.’
‘I drank
some
whisky,’ I replied, kissing her lightly and then smiling. ‘Not too much.’
‘Well, I’m glad to have you back. I missed you. I was getting lonely.’
‘I’m glad about that. I missed you too.’
‘Oh,’ said Charley, her face twisting into a mock grimace, ‘by the way, I broke your inkstand – I’m really really sorry. We’ll get it mended.’
My heart sank. ‘My antique inkstand? Oh, Charley. You can’t mend something like that.’
‘I know. Oh dear. I’m very very sorry.’
I forgave her of course, but cursed her clumsiness.
That inkwell was a prize I won for one of my articles in the press. Did I tell you I write? Usually about wildlife. We live in Glasgow because I like city life, but I get away most weekends to the countryside, both north and south. The English lakes aren’t far away, and of course Scotland has acres of open space. Last week I did an article for
Natural World
about motorway kestrels – you must have seen them hovering over the verges? Why does a raptor choose a motorway verge to hunt its quarry? But I don’t want to bore you with my conclusions here – read the article if you’re at all interested in such matters.
I put the pip, or kernel, whatever, on the blotter inside my writing bureau and left it there for days. At first I was very excited, opening the bureau every five minutes. Nothing happened. Was it just an ordinary peach stone after all? I couldn’t think so. I didn’t want to think so. And the truth was, when I held it in the palm of my hand it felt very much like an egg that’s about to give birth to a chick – I could feel something pulsing lightly within. But it actually didn’t realise my hopes of producing magic, not at that point in time. It wasn’t until I thought about it and said to myself, ‘Of course!’ remembering it was actually a
seed
. What I had to do was plant it and see what came out of the earth.
So I planted it at the bottom of our small garden and tried to forget about it, since autumn had almost matured into winter.
The damn thing shot up like a – well, like one of those quickened plants you see in a fast-frame movie, under a sky where the clouds race each other. Fortunately Charlotte had gone to her mother’s way down south in Hampshire and wasn’t witness to this astonishing phenomenon. By the time she came home the tree was there in its full maturity.
She did of course express a great deal of surprise.
‘Where the heck did that come from?’
‘I – er – I bought it. Cheap. They thought they’d never get rid of it. The nursery guys planted it for us.’
‘But it’s winter! What did they use, pickaxes? Jack, for heaven’s sakes, it can’t possibly survive. This is the wrong time of year.’
‘Well, it didn’t cost much, so nothing lost.’
‘Didn’t cost much, but they sent a gang of men to plant it?’
I shrugged and changed the subject.
Christmas came and went. New Year – or Hogmanay as they say up here – followed suit. I watched the tree with keen eyes, waiting for something to happen. Charlotte had to go down south for a long time. Her mother had reached that point in life when her mind was failing. Charley was a dutiful daughter and had decided to spend some time with a parent who was rapidly deteriorating into senility. It gave me time to observe the tree, find its secret, and use that knowledge. And find it I did, once spring arrived and showed me the tree’s special powers.
The fairy tree was shunned by the bees, but not the birds.
What I witnessed astonished me – I was happy to be astonished at last – but the sight also sent icewater down my spine.
Birds that come into my garden are in the main sparrows, starlings and the occasional blue tit or robin. Just ordinary garden birds that twitchers call lbjs – little brown jobs. Nothing very exciting at all. I was watching through the kitchen one bright morning as I sipped a cup of tea when a starling landed on the bough of the fairy tree. It seemed to become glued there, its claws stuck fast by a blob of sticky amber sap. But then I nearly choked on my tea. The bird began fluttering wildly, trying to escape, as the fairy tree
absorbed
it whole.
That’s exactly what happened. The starling landed on an adhesive patch of oozing sap and was then gradually drawn lock, stock and tail feathers inside the branch on which it was trapped.
The fairy tree swallowed it.
When I rushed out I could find no trace of the starling on the bough. Not a mark or stain. I went back into the house and observed other birds landing on the tree. It was always the same. They stuck, they struggled, flapping their wings and presumably trying to wrench their little claws from the branch, all to no avail. Each tiny sparrow, every oily starling, and the occasional robin, was sucked into that tree.
Perhaps this tree lived on blood, bones and feathers? A carnivorous plant? There were such things in the wild, though not quite so startling as this tree, with its insatiable appetite for garden birds. But not just birds. I witnessed a silly cat which had climbed up into the branches slowly disappearing into an invisible maw. One moment the terrified creature was pulling and tugging and making a terrible racket, then its legs were gone, next its furry torso spiked with fear and rage, and then finally only its head rested in the crutch of the tree. This part too slowly sank from view with a final
meow
of despair.
‘My God, it’s a bloody monster,’ I said to myself. ‘It’s a flesh eater!’
This was not what I expected from a fairy peach stone. I had imagined riches, or some special magic which would lead to fame and wealth, something of that sort. A tree which grew diamonds or rubies. A tree which would give me magic green fingers that would enable me to become a famous gardener. A tree that grew silver and gold leaves. A tree that would bloom with incredible fairy fire, so that people would come from far and wide to see new colours, new flames.
Not a tree that
ate
things. Gobbled up birds and cats.
Of
course
I was disappointed.
Shortly afterwards I had to go down south to spend time with Charley and her mother.
When I returned ahead of Charlotte the first thing I did was inspect the fairy tree, to find there were blossoms, some of them huge. I watched closely over the following period, during which the real magic of the tree was gradually revealed to me. As the petals fell away, the fruit ripened not into peaches or anything like – but into exotic-looking birds. Birds of fantastic hues and plumes and magnificent crests. They emerged from their membranes fully fledged, rising into the air with majesty and grace. Never had I seen creatures move so elegantly They were striking in appearance and wondrous in flight as they soared away. The tree took in little brown jobs and turned them into birds of paradise.
I was in raptures, but by the time Charley came home, all the fruit had ripened and the enchanted birds had flown.
Even the common housecat had emerged, like a small jade tiger, its claws glinting silver, its eyes flashing emeralds, its coat with a sheen that would have brought envy to the heart of the most glorious of panthers in the wild. It came down from that tree and loped away into the autumn sunset with infinite poise Where that cat went after leaving the tree, I have no idea, but I imagine the fairies came to reclaim their own. Truly that feline did not belong in this mundane world.
