The Smell of Telescopes by Rhys Hughes Read Free Book Online Page A

a Severed Torso for me,” added Annabel.
    The barman drew the pints. “Travellers eh? Off to the Fair at Grind My Bones? Should be good this year. A wicker man stuffed with virgins. Reverend Cleaver grew them himself: real virgins!”
    Edgar remained nonchalant. “Sounds fine.” He knocked back his pint. “We’ll give it a try.” He seized Annabel’s glass, drained that one as well and handed money over the counter. “Have one yourself.”
    “Very kind of you sir, don’t mind if I do!” The barman poured a foul green mixture. “Crucified Toad. I brew this one myself.” Instead of placing the glass to his lips, he held it under his cheek and lowered his prolapsed orbit into the murky depths. Once immersed, the eyeball took on a life of its own; it rose and fell in slow circles, refracted to hideous dimensions by the viscous fluid.
    Outside again, Annabel smirked. “What an odd fellow!”
    “Not at all; we’re in Shropshire now,” Edgar reminded her. “Look, sorry for hurrying you on. But I’d hate to miss that wicker man. These are real country ways! Cream teas and brutal prejudices!”
    Annabel started the engine and pulled out onto the road. “What’s so special about burning virgins? Why not teetotallers or bank-managers or poets? Why not travellers for that matter?”
    Edgar chuckled softly. “It’s just that virgins are flammable. Most people aren’t. It’s like pebbles and coal.” He consulted the map. “Grind My Bones is the next village along. Left at the fork.”
    “I see.” Annabel turned a sharp left and followed the road between towering hedge rows. Conditions grew steadily worse; the car began to bounce and shudder. She cleared her throat. “What did your pint taste like? Mine tasted like squeezed abdomen.”
    “I know.” Edgar nodded to himself. “Mine was sort of waxy. Real ale, you see. None of that fizzy rubbish we get in the city.” He leaned out of the window. “I can’t see any wicker man. I can’t hear any virgins screaming either. They do scream, don’t they?”
    “Perhaps they just whimper.” Annabel cursed as the road became a mud track. They reached a dilapidated farm-house and saw it was a dead-end. “We must have come the wrong way.”
    “That’s impossible. Stop the car and I’ll ask directions.” Edgar waited for Annabel to pull up and then jumped out of his seat. The front door of the farmhouse was covered in human hands nailed to the rotting wood. Edgar prised one of these hands loose and rapped on the door with it. Bolts slid back and a thin man peered out.
    “Yes?” The man blinked at Edgar. His eyelids worked upwards; his eyes had obviously been put on upside-down.
    “Is this Grind My Bones, or anywhere near it?” Edgar asked. “We’re off to see the virgins burn.”
    The man sighed sympathetically. “This is Applaud My Death. You must have taken a wrong turning.” He squinted at the map Edgar offered him. “Oh no, you don’t want to be trusting them old things. The men who draw them are liars.”
    “Really?” Edgar rubbed his jaw.
    “Besides,” the thin man continued, “you’ll be lucky to see anything roast today. The wicker man’s been cancelled. Reverend Cleaver’s virgins all caught the pox and died. He hasn’t been able to rustle up any more. Why do you think I’m at home?”
    A sudden idea struck Edgar. He whispered something to the thin man. The emaciated fellow chuckled and rubbed his palms together. “In that case you’d better come in and have a bite to eat. I’ve got some Minced Grandmother in the pantry, or you can have Basted Forehead.”
    “What’s the traditional local dish?” Edgar asked.
    “Shepherd’s Pie with vegetables. Real shepherds: crook, smock and dog. Watch the splinters. The vegetables are brain-dead poachers. Or you can have Poacher’s Pie with brain-dead shepherds.”
    Edgar walked to the car and returned with Annabel. They followed the thin man into the interior of the farmhouse. They sat