HERE IS WAFTING MAN
The Civil Centre of Pilmo is a long tall building which rises to the clouds and beyond, on the top of it being a lighthouse for the warning of high-flying things like things that fly that high, wherein was known to Waft to reside the friend Mervyn of him, who was not the lighthouse keeper. For there was none such. For no reason. But could the Council let such an undesirable property go to waste? Could they blimey, so housed they in its single dwellingness the Mervyn that they saw had been on the waiting list for a zillion millenema and was reputated to turn down every place they proffered, even the most wonderful of hovels in the area of Hogtrough, where many survive for a whole week among the urban gorillas (recommended spelling, though unfair to anthropoid life forms), so they ultimated him. This or shuttit.
Thus came the Mervyn, his anorak wardrobe, sticky-taped spectacles and collection of science fiction paperbacks to the lighthouse on the tip. And that is why.
On the bottom, Wafting Man. From here to there is a thousand leagues, or something, and this upwards, so girded his loins (by the simple act of pulling up his jeans and tucking his shirt in) and processed to the lift, where he discovered, of course, that order was not in. To the staircase, where order was at home, and journey commenced. Supplies in his pockets for the journey were: £3.57, crumpled handkerchief, one stubbornly sticky sweet of indeterminate origin and a phone number written on the back of a beer mat which he didn't know whose it was. Wafter was woefully unprepared, but planned to hunt his suppers on the way. Trogging up the stairs he went, stumf stumf stumf the sound of plimsolls on putty. Singing as he went:
"Trogging up the stairs oh year trogging up the stairs
If I keep trogging up the stairs I guess I'll get somewhere
Trogging up the stairs oh yeah my head is full of hairs"
With him went Druid Woodlice, The Forgotten Man, The Natterjack Toad and Deaf Melon Williams, which made a cheery party of one, for they were all him in his various guises. He was a split personality of five persons, all of whom looked and acted and felt the same, so that however often he became one or the others he was preserved in perfect continuity.
Paused he by a window where he looketh down upon the streets, and the people looked like ants, while the ants looked like people, trotting about in little clothes and hitting each other. Far down on the pavement the paving stones, pave pave pave they went, hence pavement pāv'mЗnt n the action of paving.
Unpaused he and movie on upworth. Soon he was further up than he had been before, and hardly that than yet again, and so on. Forcibly reminded of the Boring Journey Syndrome, seen in lo those many novels wherein persons or people unbeknownst or familiar voyaged even as he did now with many adventures on the way, usually on horsies but sometimes in wheels, he almost faltered, but no, for if so, why then? So uppitty trudged with new string in step, expecting at every niche and cornice first of exciting happenstances. As if! Yet snipper not, for we shall see.
A word of Civil Centre. That word, "trombone". Which makes as much cents as any thick, for even now after all these years, nay, decathlons, nobody really nose. Blueprints, blackprints, fingerprince and aeroplans there may be, but strangely they do not tally Mr Bananaman with actuality, and what would one expect in this universe of Groves and armadillaphants? Post a letter in one of the many few caterpillarbockses wot adorn myriad orifices, and cannot be told what it will be by the time it is deliveranced, if at all. How and who does it get there anyway? It is the doorway to a strange place where it turns up inside somewhere else actually, and many do arrive, yet less are posted as several fear to tread. Very deceptive, yet some seventeenth sense seems to guide the steppes of those who would, who therefore do not. Get the picture? Nor do most, but this is the sort of place, so fret yet not, you have the general.
Tall and strange. If the answerphone switches on unexpectedly, check the ringer; it might be off.
Mervyn opened the window and dragged his mattress to it, then hefting tossed it out. Peering down from above, he watched as it disappeared into the cloud base, noting its trajectory. Then he took the wheelbarrow and threw it after. Open wardrobe; three anoraks, two pairs of socks, spare vest and grundiepance, two shirts, grey corduroys and 37 tank tops in choice of sober hues followed. Several cardboard book boxes marked with felt-tip "SF"; small cuddly mouse, Haxwell; satchel of pens and jotters. Bed, chest of drawers, might as well do the wardrobe as well. TV set (11 inch black and white), small mono record player, all three of his records. Looking around… taking the trowel he had found under the sink he scraped large chunks of wallpaper off the walls, carried them to the window, changed his mind and threw them back at their home, where many stuck with mould. Then it was time, so tying the unfeasibly huge coil of rope to a hook pointlessly and conveniently hammered into the window sill, he legged it; right leg first, then left, and soon he was abseiling down the side of the edifice, still the rope uncoiling beneath him so far down was it.
At the next landing Wafter found a doorway leading outside. Stepping through, he saw a balcony leading off to the left around the corner, so leftie it was. Over the edge he could see hully-gullies gliding on the winds far below him. He had come a long way in three paragraphs. Truly this was a Boring Journey, for he was already bored, and only the thought of the exhilaration only the companionship of a true cypher ie his friend Mervyn, lest we forget, could keep him going any further; otherwise he would surely have taken the laundry chute, which he had passed ten flights down, and was marked laundry chute for the benefit of those who had never seen such a thing in their lives except in fillums. And which may well have been a mistaken one of those coal chutes, perhaps leading directly into the furnace, so it's probately justice wheel.
Balcony walkway led around the corner, not that there was only one corner; in fact at this level there could well have been several, one not necessarily leading to the next. The wind up here was happily strong, and Wafter lived up to his name (which was Bryn) as he troggled his way ahead. Sometimes in life we are faced with choices, which means making decisions, which means the pissibolity of getting it wrong. Sometimes there are only wrong choices. Wafter was reasonably certain that in walking ahead he was making the right choice for his purposes, the only other options being back, which would take him further from his goal, and down, which would take him further still, particularly if he did it the fast way. However, as he turned the corner, he began to doubt the wisdom of his actions.
A budgie is a good size for a birdie, as budgies like to sit on people's heads, particularly ones with hair on which remind them of nesty bits. A parrot is okay, although their claws do scratch the forehead rather, which is why they tend to perch on one's shoulder squawking hilarious obscenities, and are much admired as accessories. A golden eagle, on the other hand, is not considered desirable in this area, for both its size and predatory tendencies. Luckily this one, whose name was Grendell, had elected to place one foot on either of Mervyn's respective shoulders, and was thus able to crane forward and peer into his lenses.
Mervyn's lighthouse, though low enough for a person to live without supplementary oxygen, was high, but Grendell lived higher still, on his roof; he had grown used to hearing her little scritchitty scratchitty footprints above his sleeping, and it occurred to him now that perhaps she had grown accustomed to him in return. She had the look in her eye of a woman scorned. Ooer, he thought. As he was torn from his rope and dragged into the sky for an awesome display of aerobatics.
A great gringey object faced Wafting Man, its vaguely humanoid travesty serving only to make it gringier. Wafter had not seen the like since the day he travelled with his latterday companion Bordello to the experimental Putting Green the Council had seen fit to erect on a favourite Darkmoor swamp in a bid to entice the public to local beauty spots where they could take in the natural attractions of trees, furze bushes, sheep and rocks, whilst partaking of refreshments from the multitudinous concessions leased out to concerns such as Burgertron and Pizzaville which would surely jump at the chance to fill the properties in the newly constructed Swampland Plaza, a symphony in concrete and chewing gum.
The Two Arnolds, as they were known, had managed to halve every hole by the time they reached the 18th, when Bordello managed to sink a hole-in-one. He had achieved this by first selecting the right club, a putter, out of a choice of the one putter every contestant was issued. His reason for taking this option was that it had a handle, which he could use for holding the club, a sort of sticky-out bit with which to hit the ball, and 2-3 feet of metal in between joining the other two bits together to facilitate the control of the latter with the former. "Ideal," he quoth, and threw away the rotting branch he had found on the road and which he had been using up till now.
Next, he carefully lined up his shot, slowly swung the club back, and keeping his eye safely on the pill slipped on the muddy patch where he was standing, toppled sideways with a cry of "Niblet!" and slammed to the moss, whereupon the club shot from his hand, poked the ball violently in the manner of a snooker cue and sent it shooting across the fairway, rolling up the verge at the end of the green, bouncing off a tree, ricocheting off a pony's head and coming to rest half a millimetre from the edge of the cup.
"Hard cheddar, old fruit!" consoled Wafter, patting his pal on the bean, and dropping his own ball into tee-off position.
"Slab," moaned Bordello, sitting up grimly with a pluff on his lips and watching as Wafter twisted his club into firing position.
Whereupon the pony, having considered for a few seconds whether being hit on the head with a hard object was sufficient reason to stop munching grass, finally gave up the unequal struggle between consciousness and coma and collapsed to the ground, sending minor shockwaves through the earth, which was enough to topple the Bordello ball into the receptacle.
"Fritjoy!" exclaimed the uncheated one, bouncing to his toes and dancing a little jig, marking a smiling 1 on his jolly scorecard.
"Well I'll be jiggered!" mused Wafter, leaning on his club to consider. "Well, I've certainly got my paper dolls cut out for me now, old melon!"
"Hardtack!"
"Let's give it the old cottage try…"
But upon examining the projected trajectory of his missile, he discovered that his chum was now standing at the back of the green with his back to the sun, allowing his now lengthened shadow to cast itself across the green and part of the fairway, and, still dancing his jig, causing his shadow to wibble about before the eyes of the teeing man and distract his putative computations.
"Scrag off, will ya!" screamed the disturbed one, whose eyes were already beginning to look in opposite directions. Yet as he watched, the head of the shadow drew further back towards the green. Looking up, he saw that Bordello was slowly disappearing in a downwards direction, still dancing and grinning like a cheese sandwich.
As the frugger vanished behind the ridge, Wafter strolled urgently up to the green and stood on the rise staring at the space where his friend had been, which bubbled and glurped appreciatively. Considering for a few seconds that perhaps this was not a good place for a putting green after all, he poked the softly surging mass with his club and saw the end slide rather disgarblingly into the squidge. Feeling it being sucked further, he decided to probe no more and pulled it back, only to find a greeny brownish thing resembling a hand clutching it. Tugging a little harder, he had soon reclaimed what must surely be his companion from the burble, although what was standing before him bore more resemblance to the strange organisms one find making a home in the coffee cup one left on top of the radiator some weeks ago.
"I'll give you that hole then," conceded the Waft.
"Splurf," replied the gracious marsh monster, presenting his benefactor with a generous supply of bog in return.
As they handed their cudgels back to the man in the little green hut, Wafter was inspired to write his famous though little-known song Putting Green Man, which was about the surely joys of sitting in a little green hut handing out putters all day. Bordello, however, was merely inspired to roll about in a nearby stream until he was in a fit condition to travel home on the bus. The pony was fine and awoke feeling refreshed after a nice nap.
And such an apparition as he had seen that day stood before Wafter now. It was unlikely, however, that this could be his former putting partner as after that fateful occasion Bordello had confined himself to Crazy Golf, which was always safely set on cement and had the added advantage of interesting things like windmills and deviously positioned lumps and walls to make play more challenging and frustrating. These doubts were confirmed as the figure spoke.
"I am Grib, Vegetable Matter Man," it proclaimed in sturgian tones, "and none may pass this way without facing the Challenge of Snrq!"
Quaking in his very plimsolls, Wafting Man considered the opportunities offered by the turn-and-flee option; but the Vegmat continued before he had a change to weigh up the weighables:
"Those who take the opportunities offered by the turn-and-flee option will be summarily dispatched by a mighty blow from the dweezil stick I hold in my appendage," and he displayed a knobbly woodish clubbing tool, "while those who fail will be summarily dispatched by a mighty blow from the dweezil stick I hold in my appendage!"
"And if I win?" quavered Waftie, summoning up all his bravado and drawing himself up to his full tippy-toe.
"Then you will be summarily dispatched by a mighty blow from the dweezil stick I hold in my appendage," replied the greeny brownish one.
"Hmmm…"
The reluctant challengee pondered for a moment, then begged clarification.
"Let me get this exactly right," he said, "I wouldn't want to make the wrong decision here. If I lose, I get to be summarily dispatched by a mighty blow from the dweezil stick you hold in your appendage, yes?"
"That is correct."
"If I turn and flee, I get to be summarily dispatched by a mighty blow from the dweezil stick you hold in your appendage?"
"It is so."
"And, if I manage, presumably against all the odds…"
"You presume with a commendable degree of accuracy."
"Thank you… if I somehow, by a heroic display of avoiding defeat, manage to win, I get to be summarily dispatched by a mighty blow from the dweezil stick you hold in your appendage?"
"You show an outstanding grasp of the situation."
"In that case," and here Wafter's degree in Lateral Thinking and Irrelevancy came into play, "I am compelled to refuse the Challenge of Snrq."
Grib lowered his mighty dweezil stick and gringed.
"Oh, all right then. Fancy a game of Ludo instead?"
"That would be most welcome if circumstances were other," answered Waft, "but alas, I am currently engaged in the Boring Journey Syndrome and must continue on my quest to see my friend Mervyn, who lives at the very tippimost of this edifice in the very lighthouse in which he resides."
"Well, mind how you go."
"Thank you, I will."
And brushing past Vegetable Matter Man he voyaged on, disappearing with a cheery wave into the in door beyond his new friend, while the previously mentioned Mervyn, only the air resistance keeping his glasses on his face, was currently sweeping upwards by means of eagle.
it was a matter of seconds for Grendell to reach her destination, which was her nest, where she deposited her burden and settled down to groom him with her beak.
Mervyn was now higher up than when he had begun his descent. Peering over the edge of the nest, which was apparently made out of branches, railings and bits of carpet, he could see just a few feet below him the rope dangling out of his previous domicile's window. It seemed he was in a bit of a pickle this time.
As was Waft, who found himself wading across a pickle field, the spices seeping into his plims as he sploshed. Further on he was weaving through a cheese plantation, listening to the cheesefinches in the cheese trees; and later still he passed a bread mine.
As he paused by a river of tea he pondered, watched by a beavole who was basking in the light of the fluorescents. My, thought the beavole, there's an intriguing specimen of biped, and observed with interest as the creature turned and retraced its steps. Returning to its contemplation of the mysteries of life, the beavole, being a mattress of surmise, was therefore unsurprised to see the Waft return munching on a tasty sandwich, breaking his journey only to scoop up a delicious steaming helping of river in a handy mug he had harvested from a nearby allotment.
Wafter was living off the land.
Mervyn was living in fear, as every time Grendell shifted in her nest she came close to knocking him out. This would never do! He couldn't stay here, good heavens there was only one room! It simply wasn't good enough!
"Grendell," he began, having read the name on her collar, "Much as I appreciate your kind hospitality, I really must be going now. I wonder if you could give a ha… a claw in getting down to that rope hanging just a little way down?"
Grendell fixed him with one beady eye.
Mervyn supposed he couldn't really expect a golden eagle to understand English. Maybe if he tried Italian? An idea he rejected, as he didn't understand Italian himself. Well, nothing adventured…
No sooner had he dangled a leg over the edge than the horny beak of Grendell plucked him back again. It seemed she wasn't going to let him go. And quite frankly I have no idea how to get Mervyn out of this, so he could well be stuck here for quite some time.
Or so it seemed, but at that moment the Eye in the Sky of local radio station Pilmo Talk came hurtling out of the clouds and nonchalantly buzzed the lighthouse.
Grendell let out a great sqwark and, with as good an expression of fury on her face as has ever been achieved with a beak, launched herself into the air and assumed attack position.
This, of course, was the chance Mervyn had been waiting for all of, ooh, ten minutes at least since his untimely abduction, and he lost no time in swinging himself over the side of the nest. As he began plummeting through the air, the last thing he saw being Grendell furiously wrestling the helicopter, he just had time to wonder if perhaps he hadn't been a little too hasty before not quite grabbing the rope as he dropped past it.
Still, there was a lot of rope yet, and he was almost completely sure that with his experience of sky-diving his chances of gliding close enough to the wall to seize the lifeline were pretty much in the region of absolutely nil, which was also the pretty much the region in which resided his experience of sky-diving. Even now he was somersaulting completely out of control; but he was getting quite a lot of experience of the effects of gravity, which was a start.