The Smell of Telescopes by Hughes Rhys

Author:Hughes, Rhys [Hughes, Rhys]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Tartarus Press
Published: 2013-12-17T20:00:00+00:00

The Yellow Imp

The tavern into which my verger had ventured to make an unseen entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately penurious condition, to pay for a drink and meal, was one of those hovels of commingled turf and granite which so quaintly obstruct the vales of Shropshire, no less in fact than in the fancy of Professor Housman. To all appearances it had modified its management very lately, for the name of the landlord on a plank over the door was daubed in still wet paint. Slipping into the shadows, we established ourselves in one of the narrowest and least cosy corners, away from the barrels and the fire, where we might sit for free, resting our weary limbs and increasing our smugness by observing the denizens of the realm. The fittings, however, proved even more absurd than the faces and it was with maximum difficulty that I convinced myself they were not products of walrus artifice. Each wall was hung with canoes, snow shoes, bagpipes and other adjuncts of the polar regions. In addition, a harpoon protruded from a beam above the bar, fastened to a string which vanished through an open window and continued south as far as the horizon, like a communal washing line for dirty tricks.

While I was engaged in reluctant contemplation of these foul items, my verger busied himself with requisitioning pints of beer and plates of cakes from unsuspecting patrons. Whenever one rose to relieve himself in the privy, my furtive assistant crept forward to gather up the abandoned fare in his two billowing sleeves. Wrapped in murk, we were beyond suspicion and it was amusing to compare the barbarous oaths when the simple beings returned to empty tables. Yet there was something about the tavern, apart from disfigured décor and clientele, which niggled me: a memory adrift in the pond of my subconscious. The familiarity of a poor (rather than bad) dream (for there is sensation in panic and this was purely mundane) with lids wide open; one of those hypnagogic visits to tedium’s own aunt. In other words, I felt that I had been here before, but the place disagreed, and without such endorsement my senses doubted themselves, as they ought to, for they were up to mischief in other areas. My reveries were constantly disrupted by the floor, which seemed to vibrate under me, and the mutant brambles and other feeble flora of the whereabouts slid past the window. The local beer was clearly very potent.

I confided in my verger, who inquired, “Ever been to Shropshire before?” I was forced to admit I’d passed through, on my way to Hyperborea, but did not tarry in any inn, preferring to be out. At this he pouted his bottom lip. “Then the county has been to you.”

I sighed. “Anything is likely in my horrid life.”

“Except happiness and ease, Gruffydd.”

Truth had been uttered. A domain as glum as this might well seek me out. As my readers are already aware, unless they

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