excerpt
1
Day was a-dawning sluggishly on Saints Eusignius, Nona and Fabius, a Saturday as it happened; like unto a blunt blade scraping at the gloom caked all over our bodies did the daybreak appear, and impotent, too. The bells tolled half-heartedly and a thin film of light clung to the city. Whatever zombies chanced to be around had one last dance together, sniffed at the milky light irresolutedly and then took to the road. An angel unseen to the eyes of this world herded them briskly together, only to urge them on towards another night, and they, impish lot, slouched in the general direction thereof.
The two, Zadic the Armenian and Ioan the Geographere of the Coltia School, abode in their wake staring longingly.
"Pray, tarry a while and don't go, hey!" The Armenian entreated the angel, more as an afterthought. The latter did tarry, and they whiled their time away confabulating about this and that and what not, and in conclusion the angel read to them the letter of Franciscus Craneveldius to Nicolaus Olachus.
"Most excellent Sire, subsequent to my wife's exile-like sojourn in Louvain, and her recent remigration thence, mention was made of Your Excellency, as mention is prone to be made in the course of discussions. Upon which occasion she said: Woe is me, I do remember now I haven't kept my promise, nor have I acquitted myself of the obligation incumbent upon me by virtue of pledging those cheeses last year, when I was ever so keen on knowing divers spices pertaining to Hungarian cuisine, therefore I am determined to acquit myself of the said obligation here and now, by having the victuals fetched from Leyda.
I have sent no matured, solid proviant, but such as be still runny, since, were we to heed medical advice, cheese is all the more beneficial to health as it is closer to milk in its natural state, while solid foodstuffs are hard to be digested by the stomach,” and so on and so forth.
And for a spell they discussed the consistence of nourishment, which way it be most convenient to the body.
"If we ingest nourishment exceeding dense in consistence, then malady will occur,” quoth Ioan, thus proving his erudition. The Armenian availed himself of the opportunity to add something on purgation, and also on bilious stools:
"Bilious stools, it has been proved,” quoth he, "are indicative of an affliction of the pharynx. And it was but recently that I have chanced to encounter an opera singer who had lost her voice. I did inspect her stools for three days on end, and the absence of bile therein was ample proof for me that the affliction was not related to the pharynx, but psychical in nature.”
The angel then told the story of an orator who suffered from progressive bouts of aphonia, after which he did have to take his leave, regretfully.
The two were left alone on the brink of that morning dawning upon the world.
Some rats gamboled round their feet; one of the more adventurous attempted to climb up the Armenian's leg. The latter gave it a rather bored clout over the muzzle and it ran off to join Ioan, who grabbed it by the tail and raised it to the window. The beast wriggled its pink paws, squeaking for mercy.
“Let it go, hey!” the Armenian said. “It saddens my soul.”
But Ioan did not let it go. He placed it on the window-sill and watched as it froze rigid with fear.
“How about eating it, mate?” the Armenian asked in a starved voice. He produced a bulb of garlic from his pantaloons' pockets and showed it to Ioan. “We shall have it stewed.” Ioan pondered briefly then nodded his agreement. The idea cheered them slightly and, fired by it, they caught three more rats and wrung their necks. They eyed their carcasses with glee and the Armenian started to recite some doggerel... Ioan managed to stop him just in time, for a large, inquisitive ear had opened into the wall. They urinated into the ear, spat into it and the ear changed back into a mildewed, wet wall.
“I was a cook in Anatolia for three years,” Zadic said, squatting cross-legged on the floor.
Ioan aligned the three carcasses tidily before him and watched them.
The Armenian picked up the first rat and, pumping up his lungs, blew into its arse until the carcass was twice its original size. He bunged up its orifice with his finger and heaved a sigh of relief. Then he removed his finger and the carcass shot from its skin with a cannon-like boom which startled Ioan.
“Hey, heh, heh!” laughed Zadic the Armenian, and went through the same routine three times more. He ripped open the bellies with a fingernail which he had whetted at length against the wall, and disemboweled them.
“They are not all that plump,” Ioan said, just for the sake of conversation, although he was no longer in the mood for anything at all.
The Armenian stood up, retrieved a tin pan from a dusty corner and placed the three chunks of meat in it. Ioan had already started peeling the garlic and an enticing fragrance reached their nostrils, dispersing any gloomy thoughts. They were interrupted by the arrival of four thugs, dim-eyed from lack of sleep, who beat them up till they were bored, left them both senseless in a corner, and departed.
Ioan was the first to come round. He couldn't for the life of him remember where he was, so asked the Armenian. Ioan's voice persuaded the Armenian to open the huge Cyclops-like eye he had bang in the middle of his forehead.
He blinked it in confusion. “Don't know, hey!” He tried sorting out his eye for a while, but in vain. Ioan said, from one side:
“Those afflicted with a disease in keeping with their constitution, humour and age, and with the season as well, are under a lesser threat.” But this did not put the Armenian's mind at ease in the least. He looked upon the world in confusion from his orb and the vile world thrust its way in, startling him.
Seeping through the wall masonry, a large bird billowed into the room. “Who's this here bird, hey?” the Armenian asked as an afterthought.
The bird Settled before them, cross-legged, and watched with compassion.
“I am Ulysses-the-Bird!” he said after a while, and folded his wings in errant wise.
2
The sky turned aubergine and it began to snow, sparse, melancholy flakes. Large, wolf-like creatures started to howl at their distant approach across the fields. It chilled them to the marrow of their bones.
The Bird screwed his head into his rusty armor and said:
“There has to be an inn not far from here!” They clanked their iron suits and moved to one side of the field. It was a strange afternoon: frost descended on their armor like a cloak welding it together. The flurry of snow softened their footfalls and mellowed their thoughts. After a while Ioan said: “That's how it snows over Albion!” “Let's drop this topic altogether!” the Bird said, and there was blood lust gleaming in his eyes. The others succumbed to his mood and turned their thoughts from the snow.
A fortress-like inn loomed suddenly before them. They took their time to study it, somewhat confused. It was built of red brick. The red turned to crimson with the cold. Everything seemed to be in good order, though apparently abandoned. A bugle-like sound shattered the Silence. But nothing happened and they plodded on, almost happily.
Suddenly, something stirred on the walls surrounding the inn. A distant shot rang out from the battlements of the inn; a puff of white smoke rose into the sky and a slug clanged to a stop against Ioan's breastplate.
“What's that, hey!” Zadic started at the noise.
“The lot in the inn are shooting at us!” Ulysses-the-Bird said.
Things were stirring inside the inn: weather-beaten shutters were lowered over windows, gates closed slowly, shut by invisible hands. The musket went off again, with a boom, shattering the silence as before, a puff of white smoke hanging in the air. A red-hot slug fell sizzling into a puddle at the Armenian's feet. They stared, stupefied, until the Armenian finally said:
“They almost got me!”
Ulysses-the-Bird clack-clacked his bill and said:
“We must make ready for the fight!”
“We are going to fight them!” quoth the Armenian as he unslung his harquebus from his back and planted its forked rest firmly in the mud. Ioan unfurled a tattered banner and placed it next to the rest. For a moment they stood dumb-struck in admiration of its limp flutter.
The crowd in the inn fired once more, a volley this time, and slugs whizzed by, whetting their appetite for the fight.
“They've no idea how to shoot!” quoth the Armenian. “I am going to shoot. Now!” He fumbled in his haversack and eventually came up with gun-powder and a sizeable shot. Ioan computed the wind velocity and the range, which he communicated to the Armenian. Bored with all this, the Bird had sat down in the mud to watch them. The Armenian tipped the right amount of powder into the muzzle, fitted the huge harquebus into the fork-rest and asked Ioan: “Now then, can you see anything?” Ioan, who was scanning the inn through the telescope answered:
“They are about to fire.” Which they did. Their slug hit the Bird's flask and a trickle of wine started to drip onto the ground. The Bird jammed a claw into the puncture and stopped the leak. A round of cheering drifted over from the inn.
“C’mon, hey, let me have the telescope for a spell, hey, so I can see for myself!” quoth the Armenian.
He took the telescope and searched for a worthwhile aim.
“I’m going to shoot for the weather-cock!” he said after a while, somehow bored.
“Have you spotted that bearded fellow?” Ioan asked.
“He’s not worth such a big shot!” the Armenian resolved.
He slumped over the harquebus and started to take aim in a way that suggested skill and incompetence at the same time. The bird flapped his wings with boredom.
“Hold it, hey,” quoth the Armenian, “I can’t aim!”
He fussed around the harquebus for a while and, when everybody least expected it, a thunderous boom shattered the quiet. The Armenian flew up in the air and landed flat in the mud followed by the harquebus.
“Hit!” Ioan said calmly, looking through the telescope. “That unfortunate weather-clock has been blown to smithereens.”
Zadic the Armenian heaved himself to his feet and asked for the telescope to observe his handiwork.
Ulysses-the-Bird, who could see without the aid of a telescope, said:
“The bearded fellow has passed out with fear. Now they are rubbing his temples with vinegar.”
“So I see!” the Armenian said happily. “We’ll blow them to pieces! We’ll shoot one more time and they’ll surrender. I’m going to take pot luck this time.”
“No!” quoth Ulysses-the-Bird.
“All right, then!” quoth the Armenian, “I’ll aim for the lock on the gate.”
He retrieved the harquebus, scraped off some of the mud and asked Ioan to make the computations.
“As soon as you fire, we'll storm the inn and take them prisoners,” quoth Ioan and applied himself to his calculations.
“The bearded fellow has come round!” the Bird said, “and he's flailing his arms like mad.”
“I'm going to singe his beard,” the Armenian said, “as soon as we've stormed the place.” He was covered in mud which had started to cake, giving him an unsightly, white crust. Another volley was fired from the inn; tiny white puffs coiled up to the sky. The slugs buzzed angrily past their ears like flies.
Ioan gave the Armenian his calculations and the latter prepared to fire. Just as before, the Armenian flew up in the air and fell into the mud with the harquebus beside him. The Bird shouted “Hurrah,” and charged. Ioan unsheathed the huge sword dangling at his side, looked at the Armenian and said:
“Let's go!”
The Armenian drew his broadsword, brandished the blade which glinted in the cold and echoed:
“Let’s!”
They made for the inn side by side. Ulysses-the-Bird led the charge, yelling like one possessed. They could see a gap yawning in the gate; the icy air rushed past their ears, whetting their appetite for the fight.
As thou hast ordered me, so have I done. The season now being Autumn and the weather fit for travel, I have given pursuit to the three without further delay. Yestermonth I followed the road to Târgoviste and called in to rest at each and every inn that chanced upon the way. My eyes and ears were wide open and keen, which led sundry folk to remark: “There goes a spy.”
Yet I took no heed of them, with the exception of one whom I had to denounce on account of his being too garrulous. He babbled incessantly: “There goes a spy, there goes a spy, there goes a spy!” thus attracting the attention of whoever happened to be there. The month was November, as I have already mentioned, and in the course of my progress I had heard as well as seen that the enemies of the Rule are exceedingly many. In consequence, the practice of impaling offenders, skinning them alive, tearing their tongues out, lopping their arms off, gouging their eyes out, having them nailed down as well as other practices that keep us safe from our foes, such as jailing, confiscation, transportation, precipitation from the tower should be increased fourfold if we are to forestall the onslaught of ill-wishers. I have counted and marked all the ones who defied Thee and, in my estimate, their numbers run into ten thousand or thereabouts, counting only those unearthed in the inns I actually stopped at.
Unable to track down the three anywhere, I made my way towards Craiova, availing myself of this year's last spell of clement weather, to hunt for them and, having come upon them, hoping to be able to dismount before Thee with their heads in my satchel, thus making Thee glad and willing to pay the fee which is due to me, as agreed, on my return from the Land of the Turk.
I stopped at inn after inn. At one of these, a nobleman down on his luck mistook me for a revolutionary agent and asked me to stay at his house. He let me know he was ready to rise in arms against the Rule, but was uncertain whom to associate with. Having drunk his corked wine, I told him he was stupid and entered his name on the Black List under the heading of those to be precipitated from the Tower. But though I have searched high and low, nowhere could I pick up the trail of the three, no matter how much I paid or how frequent my inquiries. I have, nonetheless; stumbled upon foes without number plotting against the Rule, some fifteen thousand of them in my estimate, not including Craiova, where I have not yet set foot.
I am writing to Thee for Thy information. Still not finding the three, I moved on to an inn kept by one of our men and chanced there by the end of November, at the time of the first sleet, when a wintry weather of sorts seemed to have set in. Some even say Winter is no longer Winter as it used to be, because of Thy folly turning all things upside down. Such words are spoken and believed by all and sundry, so I have not entered their names on my List. But if Thou hang anybody at random, Thou wilt be certain to have hung one of Thy foes.
Since the weather is bad, as I have mentioned, I have sought refuge from the elements at this inn awaiting Christmas, which is nigh at hand. Wasting no time, I have copied out in a neat hand the Lists I have compiled while combing the country. The inn-keeper himself dictated to me another fifty new names of the most dangerous kind, telling me also that in the town of Craiova you have foes without number. Still, I do not think their number is more than ten thousand. Herewith follows the List of those saying that.
The acrid gunpowder smoke dispersed reluctantly, gradually revealing scraps of the world unnaturally visited by winter. The reddish bulk of the inn emerged pathetically before their belligerent eyes. From the ramparts, someone’s listless hoot boomed out towards them, and they sadly marched into battle. Further off, a gate creaked open, and a fellow holding a huge key in his hand started shouting abuse at them, and mocking their undaunted strut. Then he swung the gate fully open, and one by one, dogs frothing at the mouth came out like just as many solid calves, barked briefly at the sky resembling a burst drum skin, and the whole pack made for them.
“These here dogs are of the breed named mastiff!” quoth the Armenian calmly.
“I know!” quoth Ioan as he came to a halt.
Ulysses-the-Bird was somewhere in front and still hurrying towards the inn in his bulky clanking armor.
“They’re by far the most vicious! They’re bred by crossing a wolf with a stymphalid!” quoth the Armenian.
Sparse snowflakes started to descend, freezing the landscape into stillness.
“Lullius was the first to classify them, in 1480, according to the size of their fangs; no one has given any further thought to them ever since,” quoth Ioan. He then hailed Ulysses-the-Bird and the latter ground to a standstill like some intricate mechanism, and having them stopped, swiveled his head round.
“Ay!” quoth he, but did not wait for a reply.
A huge mastiff had flung itself at Ioan’s gullet. It was floating through the air, its jaws snapping with desire.
“Jump!” quoth the Armenian.
And Ioan jumped as high as he possibly could, a hand’s breadth off the ground, and the beast’s muzzle clashed against his steel breastplate, a wave of ululation rent the air, and the animal collapsed into a heap at the victor’s feet.
“In ancient times, stymphalids came to be enamoured of wolves,” quoth Ioan “it was much later, though, that they suffered themselves to be fecundated by them, around the year one thousand,” then the steel of his sword flashed through the air, and the first of the mastiffs froze rigid for ever. A flimsy stymphalid emerged from his body, laughed breezily in their face, then cheerfully flew elsewhere.
“Was that not a stymphalid, by any chance?” quoth the Bird, who in the meanwhile had joined them.
“Indeed it was!” quoth Ioan, glancing at the pack which had strategically regrouped further off.
“Then I’m going to chase her!” quoth Ulysses-the-Bird, and with one hop eased himself out of the armor, then took to the wing clumsily.
“That’s a hell of a bird to be sure,” quoth Zadic the Armenian in admiration.
The mastiffs lifted their muzzles skywards and started whining sorrowfully in the Bird’s wake. For an instant, all things kept as they were, then the battle was resumed with even greater fierceness. The Armenian killed a mastiff with his short sword which he expertly shove through its ribcage, and as the steel reached its heart, the mastiff said:
“I surrender!”, spun twice around its muzzle, then flopped to the ground in defeat. The stymphalid in it would not come out no matter how urgently the Armenian pleaded with her resorting to kicks and even words. Two other mastiffs came at him from behind, plunging their fangs into his greaves, and he had to turn round. Seeing that he was about to turn, the mastiffs were taken with cowardice and turned tail. He did manage to thrash one of them, though, causing it to leave the battle field on three legs. The other one returned after its precipitated run, looked into the Armenian’s eyes and snarled. Meanwhile, Ioan had himself killed one more mastiff and was fighting two others, which had cornered him badly. The Armenian cast a glance at the mastiff before him, which smiled back pathetically, then glanced sideways at Ioan, saw how miserably he fared, and with one leap came to his side, reached out his sword-fitted arm as far as he could, and leashed at the nearest of Ioan’s mastiffs, lopping its tail off. The mastiff he had abandoned gave another snarl and hurled itself into battle yelling:
“May the best man win!”
He collided like a rock with the Armenian, managing to topple him to the ground, then, flexing its jaws, looked for his throat. The Armenian rolled about in the mire seeking to crush the mastiff under the weight of his body, and when he did realize he had been unsuccessful, the mastiff was once more on top of him, its jaws gapping threateningly at the flimsy expanse of neck emerging from the steel cuirass. The Armenian gazed upwards, at the sky resembling a smoked Amsterdam lens whence snow was descending slowly and sadly. By that time, Ioan was also flat on the ground and two mastiffs were trying hard to slip the protecting steel armor off him.
The inn rang with cheers, and a banner was flown above the ramparts, by way of encouragement to the mastiffs.
The jaws gaped wider still, somewhat lazily, snapped in the air once, warningly, then sprang then sprang open once again.
Ioan twisted his body all of a sudden, and straining briefly plunged one of his spurs into the popping eye of a mastiff, which turned tail and ran with a great deal of ululation, then took out his pistols in anger and the second mastiff collided with a slug the size of a walnut wreaking havoc with its entrails, subsequent to which the mastiff collapsed in defeat.
The Armenian had a look at them jaws, made the sign of the cross with the tip of his tongue against his palate and quickly shoved his fisted gauntlet into the mouth of the mastiff in an attempt to stop death for a moment. At the same time, Ioan fired his second pistol and the mastiff collapsed into itself as if into a snug eternal void. The Armenian rose heavily to his feet, his hand locked between the clenched jaws, made use of his short sword and soon enough he had a huge mastiff head for a hand, watching him with watery eyes. Confronted with the sight, the remaining mastiffs ululated their defeat and pledged themselves into bondage for life to the two. The cheering died down on the ramparts and the banner was lowered for a spell. A sound was heard in the air from somewhere, like unto a wet bed-sheet hung in the wind.
List of those saying that:
Radu Gaba said that it’s not good.
Gheorghe Iuruc said that Long live the Revolution.
Ioniţă Sufletrece said that it was better under the Turk.
Serafim Mutu said aught of the law of babes.
Ghiţă Pănescu said that there is no salt.
Satir Ţăranu said that the Ruler’s a thief.
Nae Ionescu said that it’s better in Albion.
Manu Gheorghe said that he has gold sovereigns five.
Ioan Alexandrescu said that he has bad dreams.
Ioan Dedu said that he no longer pays the Tax.
Vasile Lungu said that he had enough.
Vasile Guţoi said that that’s that.
Vasile Pahonţu said that to hell with you all.
Vasile Lepădatu said that there is no God.
Vasile Prună said that he slaughters his cow.
Vasile Cocoş said that he’s having no children.
Vasile Tobearcă said that he’s got no underwear, that’s why.
Vasile Blidaru said that he’d rather be a gypsy.
Vasile bonjescu said that he’s going to France.
Vasile şonţu said that had he but a gun and a tinder too.
Gheorghe Zgârceanu said that don’t mess around with them Greeks.
Gheorghe Epitis said that it’s good.
Gheorghe Zatu said he’d rather say nothing.
Gheorghe Hera said that he takes to the forest.
Gheorghe Caragic said that it could be worse.
Gheorghe Vizulea said that it’s a laugh.
Gheorghe Zăbavă said that every other year there’s an outbreak of the plague.
Gheorghe Totoroază said that the plague is long overdue.
Hadrian Hartic said that balls to the Rule.
Hadrian Viziru said that it stinks.
This, as I’ve already said, is the List. There are more as yet uncompleated on divers grounds related to your requests regarding proper order and fluent form. The weather is once again bad, and since yesterday I’ve been already busy with the list of those who did harm to the establishment, by doing nothing whatsoever. It is a rather long list and hard to tail on, but the weather is luckily convenient for exactly this kind of pursuit, Winter having almost come as early as November, and as it is generally known, the month of November is the most suitable of all when it comes exercising the plume and the lucubrations of the mind. The inn-keeper does his very best to assist me by contributing his opinion, but he is dim-witted and rather a sluggard, so he’s just getting in the way most of the time, but he is one of ours, nonetheless, and full of real – of such there is great shortage. He’s otherwise an honest man and a good squealer.
As I was writing and compiling all this, the fourth hour of the day has crept upon me, and at about this time the inn-keeper came and told me to lay aside the work troubling me and have a look out of the window for unexpected foes and without number advance upon the inn. I left my desk and, calmly, did look out of the window. Outside the snow was lazily sifting upon the world and a gray pathetic light clashed against my eyes. Look out I did, yea, at the inn-keeper’s incessant urging, yet all I saw was but the falling snow filling the window and dispersing in my sight. Calmly, I asked the inn-keeper to give me the spy-glass I have purchased with a view to inspecting the world at close quarters and which is of such great use to me. Nothing looked unlike other times when, fatigued with my toil, I would go to the window to rest my eyes from the exertion of writing. I took hold of the spyglass and, adjusting its length accordingly, had a look. The spy-glass, as Thou well know, is designed in such a way as to allow one looking from afar to see as if one was there. As I was adjusting my spy-glass, the inn-keeper succumbed to panic and said that it’s all over and many such terrible things, and at a point he even dashed out of the room somewhere and came back with a Turkish scimitar which he flailed around vigorously, thus hindering me greatly in my spying pursuits. I told him to pull himself together and reassured him I would indeed take over were any real danger to befall us. He said I could take over any time as far as he was concerned, and calmed down after a fashion, thus enabling me to have a look. No hint of fear did assault my senses as I watched, on the contrary, the joy brought about by proximity was starting to pervade my soul like other times. And making diligent search I caught a glimpse of them next to a coppice serving no purpose that verged on the inn’s grounds. There were one hundred of them, of thereabouts, and heavily armed, too, inasmuch as they even had a cannon which they were on the point of using against us. Knowing only too well what a cannon stands for, I felt a belligerent thrill taking hold of my soul. And searching them further, I saw the wick on fire and that large black hole engulfing my vision. A flash past all description proceeded out of it as a cannon-ball the size of a child’s head was already whizzing in our direction.
It landed somewhere on the rooftop, crashed through the tiles into the attic, and from the attic it dropped into our room, a hot harbinger of death. For a while it continued to roll with its initial momentum all over the room toppling things right and left, and eventually stopped at my feet smoking profusely. The event caused the inn-keeper to faint, and for a while I was hard put to resuscitate him, but resuscitate him I did, nonetheless.
Fearfully, he approached the cannon-ball, and examining it for a while, said:
“There’s something here, don’t know exactly what…”
Having laid my spy-glass aside, I drew closer. Tucked in a cannon-ball hole, a scrap of paper was visible, still issuing smoke. I picked it up, and as I unfolded it I could easily read these words:
“Surrender, you cowards!”
Darkness descended rapidly upon them, while from the inn enticing culinary smells were wafted along into their nostrils by the wind, and the Armenian had even the lingering sensation that he had indeed heard a bottle being skillfully popped open, as well as the gurgling sound it makes upon being poured down a thirsty throat.
“You’ve been imagining it all,” quoth Ioan after a while, and cast a gloomy look around him.
“Could be,“ quoth the Armenian, his mouth watering audibly as he thought of the feast them blighters in the inn were having.
Ulysses-the-Bird sat on his own studying the stymphalid which he had imprisoned in a thin jar secured with a rag tied over its mouth.
“Forget that damn stymphalid, hey!” quoth the Armenian, “for night has been creeping upon us.”
The stymphalid joined in, her voice muffed by the glass wall, to the effect that yea, he should let her be, then spat in the Bird’s direction. The bird laughed and gave the jar a few shakes, banging her head against its walls and dazing her. Then turned to the two, saying: “We’ll have to set up camp!”
Listlessly, they started digging a bivouac for themselves, and after a while, overcome with boredom they sat down on the heap of earth they’d dug out. Ioan produced his flask and passed it around for them to take heart. The inn was astir with the noise of reveling, and a peal of laughter they heard did jaundice them greatly. The mastiff-slaves-for-life-dogs raised their heads and started howling sorrowfully. The Armenian got to his feet and gave them a sugar loaf he chanced to have in his pockets, to munch on it and be quiet. The dogs thanked him for his gift and happily commenced to lick the sugar. The stymphalid in the jar demanded some sugar herself, and the Armenian let her have a piece.
They huddled together, and an ugly night rolled upon them, engulfing them, crushing their vision way too far removed from things all too familiar and sad. The stymphalid started saying her prayer, then happily went to sleep in a corner of her jar, after priorly repeating several times half-wittedly:
“Some be in the jar, some out in the cold; some be in the jar, some out in the cold; some be in the jar, some out in the cold!”
“What now, hey?” quoth the Armenian eyeing the stymphalid melancholically. Then turning to the Bird: ”What’s this here stymphalid’s name, hey, the one you keep in the jar?”
“She did tell me, but I forgot,” quoth the Bird. “Diana, methinks.”
Hearing her name, the stymphalid lazily opened one eye, puncturing the dark like a glow-worm and addressed the Bird:
“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” quoth the Armenian, “I just wanted to know what your name was.”
The stymphalid opened another eye, paired up with the first one, then as an afterthought resolved herself into a single eye, lantern-like in the night, shedding its light upon their tired, grimy, bristly, serene faces.
She next resolved into a mouth that said:
“Now you know, and if you know, what use is it to you?”
“What is the population of Albion?” Ioan asked grimly as he sat on the earth heap and left himself sinking into that moist and loosened soil.
“Twenty two million three hundred and forty thousand and seventeen!” came the stymphalid’s prompt answer adding to Ioan’s grimness.
“How come this pathetic stymphalid knows such things as the population and census in Albion, hey?” The Armenian asked as he came to sit down between Ioan and the Bird, sinking into the earth as if into some goodly chair heaped with soft cushions for the express purpose of sitting.
Ulysses-the-Bird gave a laugh, and his laughter rang like a sorrowful croaking rippling throughout the night. Ioan opened his mouth and said:
“Stymphalids were accomplished geographers from the very beginning. When they were created by one that created them, he said let them be geographers and it was so.”
“We were always passionate travelers,” the stymphalid said, “yet this here Bird is now holding me captive in this jar of his.”
“Do keep to your jar and shut up,” quoth the Bird, “for we’re troubled enough as it is!” and as he uttered “enough” they were all reminded of the whys and wherefores of it all, and a fresh upsurge of belligerent zeal stirred in their frozen limbs.
The Armenian got to his feet and declared:
“I shall fire my gun!”
They were seized with superfluous excitement, to such an extent that Ioan took out his telescope and for a spell peered into the darkness, while the Armenian pointlessly exerted himself, constantly repeating:
“I shall fire my gun again, I shall fire my gun again and again, and once again,” while Ulysses-the-Bird flailed his clipped wings in a vain flutter as if he wanted to take off spinning in place as he strained.
He eventually said: “I have got an idea!”
From within the jar, the stymphalid mocked him in a high voice.
“Do keep quiet, hey,” quoth the Armenian, “and let’s hear him out.”
“And why should I keep quiet, may I ask?” the stymphalid said. “After having the gall to put me in this jar, you go on to demand of me to keep quiet. I am a scientist, as you well know, and accustomed to say what I want to.”
“Say it then,” quoth Ioan, bored stiff with all that babbling.
“Just a moment!” the stymphalid said as she took the shape of an exquisite Napoleonian tricorne. “France!” and when she went on to say how many inhabitants, how much asparagus, how much wine.
“This is a provocation!” quoth Ulysses-the-Bird, his Greek blood started to boil in his veins.
Ioan got to his feet, went up to the jar and shook it till the stymphalid reverted to her original shape.
“Let’s have a vote!” the stymphalid said as she changed into a hand that shot up in agreement.
“Just leave her to her own devices, hey!” quoth the Armenian. “Now let’s hear that idea.”
That cannon-ball had made a large hole in the ceiling and I did consider that hole in an attempt to figure out its purpose in my mind, and having failed to figure it out I moved on to the message. Those words: “Surrender, you cowards” were constantly before me and appeared to have been purposely put there in order to cloud the sound reason of whomever happened to read them, and that was exactly what had happened to me, as for a while I was no longer able to judge clearly, so indignant was I, and so puffed up. I paced the room distractedly, and even kicked at the cannon-ball, rolling it off from the place it had come to rest only to discover underneath a scorched patch somewhat like the pone left by an iron which a slothful tailor forgot on the leg of some trousers. The inn-keeper looked at the scorch-mark and started lamenting the damage, like a true nincompoop thus managing to disturb the thoughts I was entertaining as to what should be done. I told him off, and in the course of speech the calm necessary to all beginnings did gradually take hold of my mind, my soul and my body. Because, as Porcesius says, three are the makings of man, and likewise of God. And as I have already said, my mind did clear up, my soul did calm down, my body was strengthened. And being thus perfect, and free from any ferment of addling interference, my mind proceeded to conceive The Art of War. Once again, through my spy-glass inspected the nearly one hundred trouble makers, and even counted them – I had been accurate enough to say one hundred. A cocky sort of fellow in their number was bawling something out, steam issuing from his month in accordance with the length of his words, and inspecting that vapor I did find out he was ordering the cannon-ball crew to aim for them weather-cock and fire. As soon as they were ready, fire they did, and by their state of excitement subsequent to the discharge, I could tell they had hit the target indeed, so there goes our weather-clock. Once again I did look, but because of the snow that had started to fall once again, there was not much I could see anyway. I turned to the inn-keeper and ordered him to bolt the gates and shutter all the windows, then, ignoring the danger, I scrutinized the attackers. There they stood in battle order amidst the tumbling snow, and it was but a light matter for me to recognize in their array the famous Macedonian phalanx. Attack was obviously imminent. I proceeded to assemble my weapons, two Turkish pistols, a wheel-lock with a range of some five hundred feet, a straight English sword which I flashed through the room as I lunged and parried in order to flex my muscles and whet my appetite for battle and, finally, a dagger. I loaded my gun, tucked my pistols into my belt, the sword was tucked under my arm, and the dagger, glinting intermittently in the obscurity of the room, I clenched in my teeth. Pleased with myself, I excited the chamber. For quite a while I made but random progress, as it was pitch dark and I was unfamiliar with my surroundings. At some point, as it happens, I did blunder into an enticingly redolent larder. I laid down all the things that occupied my hands, and sparkled my tinder-box. Several fragrant hams hanging on hooks were swinging past my head and an interminable length of sausage was intertwined with them. In a corner, a brace of pheasants were hanging from their tongues, their tarnished plumage a sight for sore eyes. On solid shelves, tier upon tier of choice big apples were snugly arranged in soft nests – reddish in color, sweetly fragrant, juicy – and next to them, more fragrant still and somehow different, too: peaked, yellowish and waxen, lay the pears. Large bunches of full grapes, of powdery complexion, were hanging from a rope like overflowing breasts sagging with the burden of sorrow from across the border of another season into our frigid Winter. Slabs of bacon like bricks spilling out of their moulds were hanging oppositely, their red reminiscent of better times, in some Swabian small town with women fat and sallow and freckled and good-natured, their aprons like fresh pools of rippling cool. And sparkling my tinder again and again, I came across a candle of white wax forgotten in a handy candlestick. Lighting it up, I took stock of the place. The candle shed a pallid whitish glow, and as a sizzling drop of wax fell on my hand, I was aroused from my reverie. The spell cast by that larder was thus abruptly broken and turned sour; gun-powder smell ousted all other odors, and the color of blood, that sticky red endorsing the mystery of men locked in combat, ousted whatever other colors might have been there. My weapons were strewn all over the floor. I picked them up, and a fresh upsurge of belligerent determination crept into my eyes and my flesh. So off I went, yet prior to my exit, I blew the candle out – the white and haughty and relentless candle…
At length, Ioan lit a lantern which he had been constantly carrying around no matter what, most of the time to no purpose at all, a bell-shaped hole gaped into the night, and they entered that white icy hole like some event they had anticipated, elated and exalted and eternal
“How, out with it!” quoth Ioan’s darkness–decapitated-body. The Bird lowered his beak into the light and pronounced:
“We are invincible!”
“Ay!” quoth Zadic the Armenian.
“And as yet, we have not in ourselves the strength it takes to die!” added the aforementioned beak.
Ioan withdrew from the light, and the light streamed his frame, imparting its brightness to him. He stood there like a king, dripping with light, light forming into pools around his feet, a kind of unconcerned, illuminated Henry.
“We are chagrined,” quoth he, “by the complexion of this war we wanted not!” quoth he.
They yielded to this particular train of thought for a spell, as one yields to a wave of unexpected joy, and when it passed away, there came a homing pigeon of the kind used in wars for delivering urgent messages, and alighted amidst the brilliance.
“Where Eurypyus ruled, from the isles of Calymna,” Ioan thought of himself, “They came in thirty ships to fight at Troy,” he thought to himself.
English version by Florin BICAN
from A Handbook of Incidents, Bucharest, 1984
