At the Molehills of Madness by Rhys Hughes

Author:Rhys Hughes [Hughes, Rhys]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Gloomy Seahorse Press
Published: 2015-07-06T21:00:00+00:00

The Crippled Gollywog’s Fox Hunt

“Tally ho!” cried Lady Upton, as she flicked a whip over the choirboys. The pink-faced lads struggled to pull her chariot off the path and onto the fields. The scythes on her wheels sang as they mowed down the grass verge, lopping off the ears of startled rabbits. She inhaled deeply and nodded to herself. It was a perfect day for a hunt. The morning air was cleaner than a vicar drowned in milk.

“Should be a good chase.” Desmond Lewis, the newly crowned King of Essex, balanced precariously on his electric hobbyhorse and adjusted a monocle carved from amber. Scratching thistles to death with his beard, he plunged through a hedge, motor whining in protest. He mounted a bale of hay and squinted at the pale horizon. “There’s the blighter! Look at him go! Like a monkey from a cannon!”

Limping over the stubble of the harvested field, a tiny figure was waving its arms and peering over its shoulder in terror. A small poodle yapped at its heels, jumping up to worry the shredded fur which trailed from its rump. With damp eyes, King Desmond amended his simile: “Like a frog from a crossbow!” He was a perfectionist. Taking a theodolite from a pocket, he calculated the distance.

Lady Upton frowned. “That tail seems loose. I hope Burton stitched it on properly. Standards have dropped. You can’t trust tradesmen to do the simplest jobs these days. Swine!”

“He used copper wire and no anaesthetic. I think the dog has had a bit of a chew, my dear.” The King smiled benevolently and tightened the strap which held his crown in place. “I’ll have him roasted on the fire later. Burton, that is, not the dog.”

“Who let Fluff out in the first place? I shall have words with the staff. No dogs on hunt days, it makes it too easy. Might as well sit at home and hire mercenaries to capture the prey.” She sighed and glowered at the retainers and valets who panted to keep up with her. Pikes, axes and maces clattered like cymbals in a poisoned orchestra as the footmen tripped into each other. Attired in rusty armour, they resembled rotten teeth fleeing a jaded palate. Intolerantly, she cracked her whip. “Last one to get here is a big crusty pie!”

The choirboys slumped in their harnesses and waited for the valets to rejoin the chariot. Lady Upton lashed out at this indolence, cutting pallid flesh to ribbons beneath soiled vestments. A soprano wail issued from the bruised lips of the castrati.

The youngest choirboy swallowed his tears and warbled, higher than a bursting stomach, a hymn of praise.

“Ave Maria indeed! I’ll ‘ave whoever I like,” leered King Desmond. Lady Upton giggled at the jest but the beauty of the melody soothed her hatred and she eased on the whipping.

When the footmen finally reached the side of the chariot, she blew the hunting-horn and jerked her reins. By now the victim had managed to shake off the poodle and was mounting a stile into an adjacent field.

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