The Smell of Telescopes by Rhys Hughes Read Free Book Online

Myfanwy by. And it still remains uneaten in my pocket. The day I meet her again will be the day I take a bite; the day I encounter Owain ap Iorwerth will be the day I beat him to death with it. It is tasty and solid enough for either eventuality.

    “And that tale is absolutely true,” I told the blue dwarf, “which is why you shall never succeed in removing my trousers or my soul. I suggest you run along and torment someone your own size. I spy a woodlouse down there; it has a waist more your size.” 
    “You fool!” The blue dwarf wriggled out of my grasp. I could see now that he was not really a dwarf; he was standing on his knees. When he arose, he was almost my own height. He pulled off his wig and his coat and stood there before me with a wide blue grin.
    “Myfanwy!” cried I.
    “Yes, you fool!” she returned. She reached into her pocket and took out a blueberry pie. “At last we meet again! I have been searching for so many years. Our trousers and souls were indeed jumbled; you have mine and I have yours. That is why I asked you to remove them. Now we can be married and live in near bliss for months!”
    I shook my head. “A disguise, eh? I suspected this all along.” I pulled off my own wig and removed my own coat. “I am not Gruffydd after all; I am Owain ap Iorwerth. And I have come to take you away with me, to claim your love and your baking talents!”
    Myfanwy threw back her head and laughed. “Exactly as I planned! You have fallen into my trap!” She removed her new wig and took off her new coat and it was Gruffydd himself who now glared at me. He shifted the blueberry pie in his hand and prepared to lunge. “At last I shall be avenged! I have waited long ages for this.”
    “Ha!” I screamed. I followed his example; I pulled off my new wig and discarded my new coat. And then I jumped off my stilts and snatched the blueberry pie from his trembling fingers. “A blue dwarf!” he cried. “What is the meaning of this?”
    I reached forward and pulled the tinted spectacles from his nose. At once he understood. He bellowed: “You are not a blue dwarf at all. You are a yellow imp!” I nodded and raced back to the market.
    The bottom has dropped out of the trouser market; there is no longer life in souls. Blueberry pie is the new thing. Sometimes we resort to devious tactics to get it.

The Purloined Liver

    “Purloin My Liver,” said Edgar. 
    “I beg your pardon?” Annabel frowned and steered around the carcass of a sheep. Flies rose in a dark cloud.
    “The village.” Edgar folded the map and gestured at the collection of thatched cottages. “Purloin My Liver. An old market town. Stop in that pub and I’ll buy you a drink.”
    Annabel assented and parked off the road. As she stepped out into bright sunshine, she gazed at the signpost that hung from the side of the building. “Odd name for a pub!”
    Edgar shook his head. “We’re in the sticks now. This is rural heritage.” He followed her gaze upwards. “The Plucked Eyeball? Sounds rather quaint to me. I like it.”
    Annabel shrugged and followed him inside. The bar was deserted and gloomy. The warped beams of the low ceiling forced them to crouch down to avoid striking their heads. “Anyone home?” Edgar cried.
    The barman appeared from the cellar. “What’ll it be?” He was a grotesque figure, obese and hunched, a meerschaum pipe in the shape of a screaming skull protruding from his mouth. His dirty moustaches drooped like dying vines. A single, bulging, working eye rolled endlessly in its socket; the other dangled loose on his cheek. “What do you have on cask?” Edgar inquired mildly.
    The barman rested his gnarled hands on the unlabelled pump-handles. “Leprous Pustule, Purple Haemorrhage, Garrotted Baby, Witch Burn, Eat My Cousin and Twisted Ear.” He turned to another part of the bar. “This is Severed Torso, a sour cider. Bloodless Zombie is a pale ale.”
    “A pint of Twisted Ear please,” said Edgar.
    “Half