21 March
I am there! Last night we sailed into Kitoozh Bay. The moon was bright, the wind as gentle as a butterfly’s breath, and we easily avoided some wicked rocks near the entrance to the bay. Perhaps it was a night illusion, but in the moonlight I thought I saw the remains of a dozen wrecked ships, washed up on those rocks.
When we tied up at the quayside, between two very ancient (and deserted) ships, the crew let out a mighty cheer. I was hailed as a hero, clapped on the back, and toasted with arrack.
"Why was I afraid?" the captain asked the wind. "We should have come here years ago. We shall visit again." (At least, that is what he may have said: our two impressions of Greek do not quite coincide.)
The city seemed deserted. Not a soul came out to meet us. Early-to-bed must be the custom here. The captain posted a guard, but no light was seen, nor any sign of habitation. The captain - a little disconcerted at the lack of populace - asked me if I wanted to stay here, and offered to take me on to Stavropol. He will leave at high tide this morning, he said. I declined his offer, of course. Limbo is my goal, not Stavropol. The captain tried to tempt me with stories of fleshly excesses, but achieved the opposite effect.
This morning, Kit Mut Gar was fearful again, in a great hurry to leave, lest the wind should turn against his ship. Surly sailors unloaded my two stout trunks, and Damitry’s shabby sack. Before we knew it, the Kamsamah had cast off its lines, and was sailing off to the harbour mouth. From a distance, it was quite an elegant-looking little ship. I noticed that the wind was from the east. So much for the myth that the winds of Batrony are always on-shore.
As I and Damitry watched the departing Kamsamah, Kit Mut Gar came to the stern, and waved at us - in triumph it seemed. In one hand he held something long and black and hooked. My umbrella!
"How dare you!" I shouted. "Return it immediately, you miserable cur!"
But the Kamsamah was already too far away for him to hear. I watched it sail slowly towards the head of the bay, gingerly skirting the centre reef. As I watched, the blue sky became suddenly grey: dark cloud appeared overhead, rapidly filling the sky. A wind ripped into me, blowing spray into my hair. As I struggled for the shelter of a building, the waves were so tall and the air so filled with spray that I could no longer see any sign of the Kamsamah.
"Did you forget the weapon?" Damitry asked sadly.
"Of course not!" I raged. "It was strapped to my smaller trunk. That thief must have pulled it off!"
"You are foolish!" said Damitry flatly. "To be in this country with no weapon."
"I need no weapon," I observed. "Except my tongue. But I am very angry to lose that umbrella." (This time I said the word in English, which of course is also Latin.)
The waterfront buildings at first seemed to have no doors or windows, but on exploration we found doors at the side - all locked - and windows at the back - all boarded up. On the bare seaward walls, symbols are painted, in the Batronian syllabary. Consulting my translation of Guillaume, I was able to convert the words into our own alphabet:
- Item: Pigauroni [a tavern]
- Item: Cogawox [shipping agent]
- Item: Vakithini Onawetonu Jikonewetoke [Damitry had no idea what this might mean]
There was no sign of life on the wharf or the city, except a few dead dogs - but are they are a sign of life? I was a little surprised that not a soul came to greet us (apart from a peeping rat), but Damitry explained that Batronians are late risers at this time of year. The sun would have been very low in the sky - had it now been covered in clouds.
THE PORT OF Kitoozh
Surrounded on three sides by steep, barren hills, and on the other by its deep bay, Kitoozh is a dramatic city at which to arrive by sea. Today, we have glass, and the skyscrapers (as much as nine storeys high!) have windows, but in E. Lear’s day, the quayside buildings held blank walls facing the bay. Doors and windows were confined to their sides, to escape the nonstopping wind.
We walked around Kitoozh, which was many times smaller than Constantinople. Its plan is the shape of a capital G. The land, flattish near the wharves, slowly rises up, becoming steeper and steeper. At the point where the buildings would overbalance, they give up. That is the edge of the city.
For several hours we strolled around, but did not see a living soul. I fancied that I saw a few insects peeping out at us from various large cracks, but Damitry averred there were no such insects.
The tallest building had a tree growing from the top of it. This building, seemingly made of a single lump of stone, had neither windows nor doors (though some were painted on), and was shaped like an irregular wedge. I took it to be a castle, but Damitry informed me it was the famous Rock of Kitoozh. The painted doors and windows were to mollify evil spirits.
Opposite it was a Mostelunio (monastery), where I hoped to stay. Damitry says that in this country there are two kinds of accommodation for travellers: bawdy-houses and monasteries. The former are dirty, noisy, and overheated; the latter clean, deathly quiet, and cold. Equipped as I am for camping, I shall opt for monasteries.
This one had a stout but low door, and a few small windows, very high up. I knocked and shouted, but to no avail.
Damitry was quite perplexed. This city was clearly Kitoozh, but it was utterly deserted. "What can have happened?" he kept asking himself, meanwhile smacking himself between the eyes to improve his sight. Despite this improvement, I was the first one to see a sign of life: smoke rising from a chimney.
We rushed to the house - which was built at a slight angle, parallel to the ground beneath it. The door was bolted from the outside. We shouted through it, then, hearing no response, undid the bolt and proceeded inside. The room was a kitchen, in a state of disarray. Wooden plates, with scraps of food, still lay on a table. The last embers of the dying fire gleamed in the near-darkness. But nobody was there. We checked the beds, in case everybody was dead - but the beds were empty planks, with no trace of occupants, nor even bedding.
We decided to climb the cabbage-shaped hill. From the city side, it was not too steep. There we would look for people in the city below.
Plodding up that near-vertical hill, all was calm at first. But suddenly, a cloud came overhead, and without warning a terrible wind struck us, forcing us to our knees.
We staggered back down to the quay, wondering what to do. There seemed to be nothing for it but to leave the city, on a road which we had noticed ziggling and zaggling across distant hills and over a pass. But without porters or packhorses, we could not transport my trunx - and I was reluctant to leave them behind. I was robbed in this way in Albania a few years ago, and have since harboured a great mistrust of empty towns. I expressed my fears to Damitry, who (as usual) had a solution.
"I shall make secret marx on your trunx," he said. "It will protect them utterly."
Taking out his left forefinger, he licked it a little, then drew this symbol in the dust on each trunk: a shoe inverted on top of a triangular spiral.
"A very evil mark," said Damitry. "Nobody will dare to touch these trunx now, till I remove the mark."
As we had no other choice, we left that deserted city on foot. Damitry carried his pitiful sack of possessions on his back. I carried nothing.
The way to the hill road lay around the bay, so we walked around its shores. As we approached the point where the road turned inland, we were hit by a mighty gust of wind. The cabbage-hill was no longer sheltering us. On the harbour beach to our right, a strange assortment of flotsam was being washed up. I noticed a strange piece of seaweed: black and flaring, with a curved hook on one end. Gripping that hook was a fish-nibbled human hand.
With an unearthly cry of joy I bounded down to the beach and into the water a little. I had it! Twirling it over my head again and again, the unwanted hand bounced over Damitry. But he could not object: I had refound my umbrella.
"Marmaduke Wiggs and Sons, Little Rathbone Street," I said, reading its label aloud. "By appointment to the Royal Navy."
Damitry looked blankly at me: I was speaking English - a foreign language to him. "Speak Batronian!" he commanded, ever the stern phrase-master.
I took out my handkerchief and blew my nose with a flourish.
"There could be many black umbrellas," Damitry pointed out. "Shall I try it?" He took it from my hands, and flicked the catch. Silently, a small branch fell from a nearby tree. Damitry was satisfied.
"May I have my umbrella back?" I asked.
"I look after it for you," he declared. "Too heavy!"
"Don’t waste it!" I pleaded, as Damitry shot unnecessary holes through rocks, puzzling many generations of future travellers.
I too was puzzled - by that hand. Could a crew member have desired that umbrella so urgently that he crept up behind Kit Mut Gar and severed his hand with an axe? If so, the crewman had miscalculated, because the umbrella had fallen into the sea. Or was it the hand of some drowning man, who seized at the umbrella only to have his hand bitten off by a large fish? I preferred not to think about this. Whatever the circumstances, I was happy that I again had my trusty umbrella.
We walked up the hill on that zigzag road. Towards the top of each ziggle it became steeper and steeper, than, on the zaggle, it actually went down a little at first - creating an attractive pattern on the hillside.
Pausing for breath at the top of the first ziggle, I looked back at the city of Kitoozh - just in case all its inhabitants had returned from (say) an early-morning fishing expedition. The wind was strong now, blowing hard in my face, but there was still no sign of life below.
"Behold!" cried Damitry.
I followed the point of his finger. There, among the wild foam at the harbour mouth, heeled over on the rocks, lay the remains of the Kamsamah. A torn sail fluttered frantically from a broken mast. Even as we watched, it ripped itself off, and was blown onto some spiky rocks a little closer to us. Not a sign of human life was visible.
"Wrecked!" said Damitry. "The wind must have turned, just as they passed the harbour mouth."
In my mind I saw the bodies of the men, impaled on those needle-sharp rocks: sailors who had carried my trunks only a few short hours ago. Nobody could survive those wild waves; the ship must have perished with all hands. I even felt a little sorry for Kit Mut Gar (who played tolerable pinochle) despite the umbrellaic incident. Perhaps this country was as terrible as everybody had told me.
"You are marooned!" Damitry remarked.
"But so are you."
"No, this island is my home. Though it may take me a week or more to reach ----, which is near the north-eastern shore."
"To reach where?" I asked, puzzled.
"My home village, ----."
I begged him to name it again. He merely breathed in: a tiny gasp, with neither vowels nor consonants. Batronian can be a very trying language.
Late in the afternoon, weary from our hill-climbing exertions, we reached the pass. I looked back at Kitoozh, to check for any signs of life. There were none. I saw only a pale-grey G-shaped city, arrayed around its large oval harbour.
An hour later, we were through the pass, and found ourselves looking down a valley on the other side. There in the distance, arrayed around a large oval abyss, lay a pale-grey G-shaped city, identical in size and layout to the coastal one - except that everything was a mirror image: the G was back to front. Smoke fluttered from innumerable chimneys, and even from this height I could see movement in the streets.
"Aha!" said Damitry. "Now I remember an old song. There are two cities of Kitoozh, the winter city and the summer city. Twice a year, all the inhabitants leave one for the other."
"But why?" I asked.
"Why not?" Damitry responded.
We beamed at each other, the mystery solved, and ran pell-mell down the road to Upper Kitoozh.
Just as we had left Lower Kitoozh by a road around the harbour, here we arrived by a road around the abyss, which seemed to be a gigantic (though defunct) mine. Several surly-looking people, with Tartaric faces, strolled past, ignoring us. "The Kitoozhenos are not renowned for their friendliness," Damitry remarked. But I was more interested in a passing curious beast of burden: it resembled a horse, except that it was much larger, had three legs on one side and two on the other, and its tail was almost the same size and shape as its head.
"That must be the cinquus," I remarked, staring after it. Guillaume de Cavuchonne had written of these irregular five-legged creatures. I had interpreted this as the wild exaggeration of a drunken crusader. I saw now that I should have to reconsider.
NOTE ON THE TWIN CITIES OF Kitoozh
The cities are, as far as possible, identical. The streets have the same names, and the buildings are identically placed and of the same design. Unfortunately, nature has not been fully co-operating: a gigantic abyss in the inland city substitutes for the bay in the coastal one.
The abyss has no name, so inhabitants cannot refer to it. To them, it is simply not there. Perhaps this explains why the unwary are constantly falling into it. It is so deep that the bottom cannot be seen, but occasionally the faint cries of the dying can be heard from far below.
In winter, when the inland city is deserted, the abyss in some years fills with water and overflows. Ancient bodies are washed out. This is not a good time to visit.
The city of Upper Kitoozh was indeed identical to the lower city; even the buildings seemed identical (though reversed). The signs on the buildings were identical too - but, interestingly, not reversed.
We soon found the mirror-image of the monastery, with the low door and the high windows. Opposite it, instead of the castle-like rock, was a deep wedge-shaped hole of equivalent size – a minor abyss. At the bottom of this small abyss, men were working, with shovels, mining the brown soil and putting into sacks on donkey’s backs, to take a precarious spiral path to the top. The smell was very pleasant indeed.
"That is a chocolate mine," Damitry informed me, pointing out the guards that protected the top entrance from the hordes of children who were sniffing the air.
I knocked at the massive door of the monastery. After a long wait, it creaked and opened a crack. A slightly Asiatic face peered out. Its owner wore a black leather cassock, and had three arms, two of which grew from the same shoulder. Apart from this, the most remarkable thing about him was his hair, which projected two feet in all directions, but particularly up. Into this hair, coloured feathers and strands of grass were woven.
"Olonsha!" he said in a loud whisper (though I could tell he didn’t mean it wholeheartedly).
I was accepted, but Damitry was repulsed. "Sinner!" screeched a white-haired monk, pointing a white-haired finger at Damitry. The latter was not at all put out. He laughed, extravagantly twirling my umbrella. "I shall stay elsewhere. Perhaps at that brothel, on the far side of this mine." He waved at two women, watching us from an upstairs window. They waved back. At least some people are friendly, I thought. The white-haired monk certainly was not.
"I shall need my umbrella now," I told Damitry, as he prepared to depart.
His face fell, and he began to whine. "But tomorrow I shall hire a cinquus and a man, and return to the lower city to collect your trunx. We shall not be back till after dark, and the moon is full, and there will be bandits and monsters in the hills. Pray do not leave me weaponless."
I suggested he should find his own weapon. Without my umbrella, I feel a little unmanned. But he carried on so much that in the end I let him borrow it, on the strict understanding that he must return everything to me first thing on Thursday morning – the day after tomorrow. I do not fancy my umbrella staying at a brothel - though Damitry assured me he will not let any female umbrellas debauch it.
The monk led me into a bare stone room, devoid of any furnishings. Some boys, also with exclamatory hair, followed us.
"Stay here!" the monk told me in Batronian, and shooed the boys away.
I sat on the cold stone floor, and leaned against a wall. Though the accommodation was Spartan, at least the room was clean. I was visited by the Abogome - a dolomphious mountain of a man, so fat he could scarcely move. His face was so wide that he had two mouths; the groove below his nose ran all the way down to his chin.
"Olonsha!" he said out of one mouth, while the other breathed. A drop of liquid dripped down his nose-groove, and off his chin to the floor.
We conversed in a mixture of Greek and Batronian. I told him of my plans: to traverse the island (particularly the famous Bay of Death), to write about it and paint it, and to extol its virtues on my return to England.
"You are mad!" he told me.
"I know!" I exclaimed. "Everybody tells me that." I waved my hands around my ears, and made duck-quacking sounds as I hopped around the room.
He frowned in disapproval, and said something I did not understand.
"Runcibilitude!" I exclaimed, in a high-spirited sort of way.
The Abogome had no arms, as far as I could tell; a shapeless cloak covered his upper body. "Zok!" he called. A one-armed monk entered, stood behind the Abogome, and scratched his neck anti-clockwise.
The Abogome warned me: I should be torn apart by cannibals in the central plain of Batrony, swallowed by sharks on the east coast, and eaten by giant flies in the north. As well, I should be drowned in the Gromboolian river, beheaded by the non-Orthodox religious, disembowelled by the Mithraists, and murdered by brigands everywhere. And of course, if I did manage to reach the Bay of the Dead, I should be dead myself.
It all sounded very cheerful. I was grateful that so many people would pay such attention to me. "There is one thing I should like to know," I said, by way of conversation. "And that is why there are two identical cities of Kitoozh."
"It is obvious!" said Zok (who till now had not said a word). "In summer the winds are too strong for anybody to bear at the port, but in winter the snow lies too deep for anybody to bear in the valley."
"And why is this city the reverse of the other?"
At first, Zok and the Abogome both denied that this was true; then they conceded that it was to confuse the enemy. As to the nature of this enemy, they could (or would) not say, except that there were fearsome things in the hills, and that I must not venture there.
I shall ignore the Abogome’s advice, of course. During my travels, I have found it best to ignore all advice. Had I ever acted on advice, I should be in miserable London: wet, wretched, and ill.
22 March
After enduring a stiff night on a stone bed in the monastery, then being woken by the baying of monks at dawn (without the merest sniff of chocolate), I ventured out into the streets of this singular city.
Thousands of people were streaming toward an area completely tented over: an enormous bazaar. The sight of me seemed to inspire fear among some of the traders, and amazement among others: whether because of my height, my pinkishness, my clothing, or my European features I am unsure. They were even more amazed when they found I could speak some words of Batronian - though I could understand very little of what they said, in this mêlée.
I was amazed at the variety of people and clothing. Some were dressed entirely in huge baskets, with small holes for their faces and arms; I gathered that these were priests. Many of the others were misshapen in one way or another, with too many or too few limbs, heads, or other excrescences. Some women looked more like cats, with furry faces and whiskers. (Their skirts were so baggy that I could not tell if they also had tails.)
A smelly little man accosted me as I watched a pair of cinquii in their pen, offering to sell me the two of them. I tried to explain that my guide was already buying one. The nasty man laughed aloud when I told him how much money I had given Damitry for this purpose. Rubbing his fingers rapidly, he immediately offered to sell me both cinquii for the same price. Then another man came along, claiming to be the real owner of the animals. While the two shouted at one another, I melted away through the crowd that had gathered around us.
Though the arguing livestock dealers did not notice me leave, others did. A dozen people followed me, offering to sell me all manner of things. To escape them, I suddenly ducked behind a sheet of canvas, separating two tents. There I was accosted by an evil-looking man in an artificial turban.
"Come this way, sir," he whispered. "An interesting animal is being sold." Seizing my arm, he led me around a small black tent. An elderly woman stood outside it, calling out something I did not understand. As soon as she saw me, she pointed at me, and my turbanned friend pushed me forward. Though I bore a stout stick, and my money-bag was well-folded under my belt, I hesitated to enter.
"What’s in there?" I hissed to my companion, whose name was Nazram.
"A girl. An exceptional girl, sir. A marvel."
"What do you take me for?" I roared. I had no wish to be robbed by a whore.
I looked inside, along with many of the crowd - who had refound me. A woman stood in there. At least, I presumed it was a woman: she was wearing a shapeless cloak, and bending over, so that long hair fell over her face.
"Look at this!" exclaimed the old woman, raising the cloak indecently high. "Two legs! Two arms! Two hands! Perfectly formed!"
"No breasts!" shouted a rude man in the crowd. "Too young to be useful!"
"They will soon grow!" snapped the aunt. "Show your face, Mazinta!"
"Leave me alone!" snapped the girl, not looking up.
"Only three ducats," Nazram hissed to me.
"Only two!" hissed the aunt.
"Another for myself as commission," he whispered to her. "I found this buyer."
I was revolted. "Why is this poor girl being sold?" I asked.
"Her father is ill, and needs a potion. They have no other way to raise so much money. The girl is almost a woman, and skittish. She needs a husband."
"I need no wife," I put in.
"She could be your servant."
"I have a servant already."
"Then she can be your guide," Nazram continued. "She has travelled from the eastern coast. The aunt has brought her here to fetch a higher price. The family comes from a village near the Bay of Death."
This intrigued me. Guillaume had mentioned the Bay of Death: the Limbo referred to in ancient tracts. He had asked to be taken there, but nobody dared accompany him. They had warned him that it was impossible to reach, that any who reached it would be killed, and that it was also impossible to leave. Finally, the resident of a nearby village had helped him to reach the Bay of Death – though he did not say how.
"I shall be visiting the Bay of Death," I observed.
"It’s impossible to reach the Bay of Death," the aunt said.
"You can look down on it, from Pelagiboo, the cliffs above," the girl volunteered. She lifted her face a little, and a nose appeared among the long hair. Her aunt took the opportunity to push the hair back, and reveal the girl’s face. An attractive oval face, with a soft oriental nose, and dark almond eyes.
The crowd gasped at the beauty of this face - or its regularity. Most others had imperfections, such as two ears on the same side, a nose pointing up instead of down, and the like. At first I thought it odd that I was not more upset at this - but in any crowd, how often does one see a whole face? When heads obscure others, abnormality is less noticeable. It is much more disconcerting to see a lone person with irregular features.
I noticed that the girl’s aunt had too many fingers on one hand, counterbalanced by too few on the other. Her face, though well shaped, was disfigured by a birthmark on one cheek.
I was wasting my time here, I realized. I’d hardly seen anything of the city yet. I decided to seek an audience with the Murgatroyd (equivalent to mayor), and ask his advice for a guide. I moved away from the tent.
Behind me, the aunt complained to Nazram, lamenting her loss of the two ducats.
"Never mind," Nazram told her. "The old police chief will pay two. That will leave one for you."
"Not him!" screamed the girl. "I’d rather kill myself!"
"Whatever you fancy - but not till after he’s paid us," Nazram advised her.
I left them to it. If in my travels I’ve learned one lesson, it’s that even an Englishman cannot hope to alleviate all the suffering abroad.
In the afternoon, accompanied by a surly monk, I visited the Sirosio, as they call their town hall. The Murgatroyd was ill, and the Murgatrolley (his deputy) was reported to be extremely busy with a cheroot, and on no account to be disturbed. I am to see him tomorrow.
I wandered around the city for an hour or two, noticing interesting sights to paint - if only I had my painting things with me. The surly monk began to bang his teeth together, which Damitry has told me is a sign of angry impatience. Finally I agreed to return to the monastery.
As we passed near the bazaar, I heard a commotion. Women were screaming, and men were shouting. I stopped in amazement at the sight of one man: he was almost as fat as the abbot, but that was the least grotesque thing about him. Below his dark blue gown were three legs: a very fat one in the centre, and two thinner ones stabilizing him on the outside. It was the top of his body that was the most curious, however. I couldn’t determine whether he had two heads, or whether it was a single head, riven down the centre. He had four ears, two noses (partly joined), two eyes (on the outsides only), and as for mouths, none was visible.
His two hands were enormous. One held a stick, and the other tried to drag a woman, dressed in the usual lumpy leather cloak. She had only two feet, well-shaped at that. Her hair was tied around her face, like several others I had noticed. (I presume this is a form of veil.) She reminded me of the girl being offered for sale in the tent this morning.
"Leave me alone," she screamed. "I’ll kill myself."
Behind the two-headed man, another woman screamed back. "It is your duty!"
When the other woman came in front, trying to pull the first woman towards the two-headed man, I noticed the birthmark on her cheek, and realized it was indeed the aunt.
At that moment, the girl saw me. She screamed more loudly than I thought possible; the two-headed man relaxed his grip, and the girl flew over to me, grasping me around the waist.
Everybody came to me. They were all screaming except the aunt.
"You see?" she accused me. "You should have bought her, to save her from this."
The girl was howling now, uttering words that I could not understand at all. The monk was trying to pull her away from me, and her aunt had her by the hair. The two-headed man stood nearby, looking disgusted. It is truly amazing how much disgust can be expressed with an additional nose.
"She’s a devil!" he called (from his neck).
The girl screamed loudly, as the monk hit her with a stick, to disentangle her from me.
"I want my money back!" said the two-headed man. "Two ducats!"
"I have only one!" the aunt screamed, punching the girl to loosen her grip, but hitting me instead.
I could stand it no longer.
"Look here!" I shouted, realizing too late that I was speaking English. "I’ll pay the two damned ducats if you all leave me alone."
All the noise stopped, and I repeated myself in Batronian. The girl stepped back, and parted her hair to look at me. I put my hand deep inside my breeches, and fumbled in my money-bag, withdrawing two small silver coins. It was, after all, only a third of the amount asked for a pair of cinquii. Prices are low here; in England, that sum would scarcely buy a sashicle.
I gave the coins to the two-headed man, who accepted them in his enormous hand. It was larger than both of mine together.
"Thank you, sir," his neck said, with enormous dignity. "I shall buy a wife elsewhere. This one is no good." Turning abruptly, he clip-clopped away like a horse, alternating his steps between the fat centre-leg and the thin outer legs.
The aunt was weeping, perhaps with relief, and the girl was embracing her. Nazram appeared out of nowhere.
"My commission, sir, if you please," he whispered. "One silver ducat."
"Get away from me, sir, God damn you!" I shouted. "You’ve had your commission. I owe you nothing."
The monk muttered something, obviously in support of Nazram.
"You are a cheat, sir," said Nazram. He waved a fist threateningly near my face, and ran off after the aunt.
I sighed with relief, and continued on my way to the monastery, walking rapidly, with the monk hobbling after me. Though he had two legs, only one was graced with a foot, and he could not walk well.
Behind us, the women were shouting again. I ignored them.An Englishman can accomplish only so much in one day.
Already I am tired of this city and its rapacious people. As soon as Damitry rejoins me, we shall leave immediately for Mount Oggodoggo.
One of the older monks here, though now lame, travelled widely in his youth. He was most interested in my plans, and offered me various pieces of advice. From his description, I drew a map. He marvelled at my notebook and my pencil, but when he realized what a map was, he exclaimed loudly in amazement.
Other monks came running. Rapidly the old monk explained, gesturing at my notebook. The others looked on, silent, disapproving.
"It is nothing! Only what a bird would see," said one. The others nodded.
"As for those huge letters on the ground, I have never seen such a line," a suspicious monk remarked.
"And birds have no souls," remarked another. They all glared at the lame monk, as if he too were a soulless bird.
23 March
My arrangement with Damitry was that he should call on me early this morning, at the monastery. The monks’ howls woke me before dawn, but well after sunrise Damitry still had not arrived. Crossly, I ventured out, skirting the abyss of the chocolate mine on the way to the brothel on its far side. I rapped on the front door with a stick. Drowsy voices complained from inside, but nobody opened the door.
So I walked around to the back of the brothel, expecting to find a stable and a newly-purchased cinquus, on which Damitry and I would ride. There was indeed a stable, but no cinquus: only several donkeys.
This made me anxious. Could the brigands have captured him? My umbrella, in which he seemed to place so much faith, is of course no weapon at all. It was obviously a pure coincidence that a bird had died and a leaf had fallen. All creatures die, I reminded myself - and when they die, they fall.
Noticing that the back door of the brothel was wide open, I ventured in, a little anxiously. I have tried to avoid such places after some bad experiences in Belgium, when I was young and foolish.
"Excuse me!" I ventured, knocking on a door.
A snore answered me.
I tried another door, and was answered only with giggles of several pitches.
At last, an old woman came out from a dark hall behind me. Her greenish hair was wound in a spiral, at the top of which a live toad perched.
"You want a woman?" she said.
"A man!" I said. "His name is Damitry."
Her toad blinked in surprise.
"He has not paid his bill!" she raged. "He returned last night with two wooden boxes."
"And a cinquus?"
"Yes. He stole one of my girls and left this city, stopping only to drink a bottle of ooblick. He told me he would come back last night, but another girl told me he would not. All he left behind was one wooden box - but that was only because the cinquus could not carry him and the girl and two boxes."
"Those boxes are mine," I said. (I wanted to ask about my umbrella, but could not, because Batronian has no word for it.) "And was there a black pointed instrument?"
"Come and see," said the woman. As she turned to lead the way to another room, her toad wriggled around to face me.
On the floor was my smaller chest. It had been prised open. My painting equipment and clothes were scattered around the room. Damitry had taken the large chest, with most of my expeditionary equipment – such as my runcible spoon, my coppery gong, my nutcracking sugar-tong, my pintacle, my bezulion, and other practical necessities of life.
My umbrella was not there.
An unclad, bulging woman appeared at the door, yawning loudly. She confirmed that her friend had left with Damitry, who had both paid her friend handsomely, and threatened her with a dangerous English stick that he had secretly won.
My heart fell: I had been abandoned, and my umbrella stolen. I did not care so much about the other equipment, but an Englishman without an umbrella can scarce survive.
But I try to be cheerful. At least I have my paints, my brushes, and my paper. At least I shall not be deprived of a living.
I had to pay several ducats, in settlement of Damitry’s debt, before I could recover my chest and my things. The yawning woman helped me re-pack, with much unnecessary brushing of her plumper parts against my person.
A bull-like man carried the trunk for me, around the chocolate mine to the monastery. On the back of his head was a large white horn; I was unsure whether this was part of his body, a sort of hat, or a sort of wig. I did not dare to ask.
And now I had to buy another cinquus, and find a new guide.
I returned to the bazaar, looking for the pair of cinquii I found yesterday. In that maze, I could not find them - but I did find another cinquus. On the spur of the moment, I immediately bought it - for six ducats. I suspect I paid too much, but the creature’s mournful look reminded me of the late Captain Kit Mut Gar. In not-entirely-fond remembrance, I named the creature Kit Mut Gar.
But I still needed a guide. As I had an appointment to visit the Murgatrolley, I thought I should ask his advice.
Seated at his huge red desk, the Murgatrolley seemed completely normal, with the same number of facial features, arms, and fingers as most people in the rest of the world. But when he stood to greet me, I started: his feet grew directly out of his knees. On each knee were two feet, one facing forward and one back. He wore a crimson robe with a gold belt, and a silly little gold cap with a crimson tassel.
He complimented me on my mastery of the Batronian tongue, and poured me a cup of lukewarm blue tea, into which he stirred much honey and a sugary coin. We sat on fat cushions in one corner of his office. With his short legs, he was far more comfortable than I.
I spoke of my itinerary. I tried to ask him if there were maps, but I did not know the word. I attempted to describe a map. He laughed loudly at such an absurd notion: "A picture of the land, as if seen by a bird far above, with names written on it? Hahahahaha. Ridiculous! Impossible! Birds cannot read."
First of all, he told me, I must visit Mount Oggodoggo and pay my respects to the ruler of Batrony, the much-feared Patrakond, or religious despot. This would take three days, he said. After that, I should return to Kitoozh.
"But I want to see the rest of your country," I said. "The north, and the east." (I did not bother to mention the Bay of Death.)
He shook his head slowly in a circle, indicating his disagreement.
"You are mad," he said. "If you go there, you must have a guide."
"That is exactly what I want!" I exclaimed.
"But you will never find one," he added. "The people of this city are very sensible; they would not dream of travelling. Nowhere is free of villainous brigands, there are no roads, no roads have no signposts, and no signposts lead to nowhere. So I am told."
We parted on excellent terms, however, and I promised to visit him again should I return to Kitoozh, to tell him about my travels.
As I left the Sirosio, I decided I did not need a guide. I am managing well enough with my Batronian - at least that scoundrel Damitry taught me the rudiments of the language. I may not have my coppery gong, my pintacle, or my bezulion, but the want of them makes my baggage more portable. With my trusty five-legged mule, I shall explore this isle. I may get lost, but no matter. I have adequate funds - thanks to the fair Lady Jones - and even if I spend (or lose) them all, I can perhaps make a living juggling paintbrushes.
Feeling quite cheerful about my new decision, I returned to the monastery to take my leave. After shaking heads with the Abogome (shaking hands is considered unclean), I left him a silver thaler for my stay. This, I was told by the old monk last night, was the correct amount to give.
The Abogome frowned at it.
"I understand there is also a servant’s debt," he said. "One ducat."
"You have been misinformed," I said. "That is a mistake."
"Nevertheless," he countered. "The monastery would receive a third of that ducat."
"If the monastery accepted that," I pointed out, "it would be involved in the slave-trade. Is that proper, for a monastery?"
He was cross. Instead of answering, he wrinkled his lower lip. I tried to imitate this, but may have been unsuccessful - judging from the strange look he gave me. A third of a ducat is two thalers, according to Damitry. I’d have paid him that for accommodation, but I’ve already wasted two ducats on that girl and her family. I want nothing more to do with them.
THE CURRENCIES OF BATRONY: IN 1854 AND NOW
When E. Lear visited Batrony, the traditional monetary system was still in use:
8 dozinki = 1 dogshead
34 dogsheads = 1 dram
21 drams = 1 dinar
X dinars = 1 ducatoon (where X = the number of days since the last full moon; this encouraged the early repayment of debts)But also...
1/3 of 1 ducat = 2 thalers (by common agreement)
and
Y dinars = 1 bezant (where Y = the number of days before the next full moon; this was to assist the poor in their repayment of debts)
And also (chiefly in the south)
Z ducats = 1 ducatoon (where Z = the number of full moons till Christmas; this helped to avoid sumptuary excesses).
The modern monetary system is simpler by far: 194,824 Coupons to the US dollar - though (retaining a valuable link to tradition) this varies with the phases of the moon. With our current inflation, the kopeck is no longer used. Nor are there coins - only banknotes. The value of each note is equal to its serial number. For example, a note numbered 72889 is worth 72,889 Coupons, or about 35 cents (U.S.). Ignore the numbers in large print on the notes, e.g. 1,000: these are now the serial numbers. If you find several notes with the same serial number, do not be alarmed. This is intentional: it conserves numbers, many of which are rare and valuable.
When modern Batronians visit other countries, they are surprised to find extremely few different notes. In Batrony, every note has a different value. This is very useful when making a purchase. No matter what the cost, there will exist an appropriate note, somewhere.
With the help of several monx, leather straps, and a long basket I purchased yesterday, I hung the basket between the legs of Kit Mut Gar, and transferred my things into the basket. A basket between the legs prevents the cinquus from bolting.
With difficulty, I climbed (via the swinging basket) into the saddle. Though the people of Batrony are small, the cinquii are larger than any horse I’ve seen. My steed, though old and slow, was well-mannered. With the lightest pull on the reins, it moved into the street, plodding steadily and unevenly to the edge of the chocolate mine.
People screamed, and ran out of the way.
Surely it will not fall into the abyss, I thought. The street at this point was wide, and I had at least a minute to contemplate falling in to that gigantic mine. All around me, people were laughing and crying. Their sense of humour seemed a little excessive. I pulled the reins sharply to the left, but to no avail.
Fortunately, the cinquus at last decided to take a more oblique approach. I sensed something move behind me, and looked around.
To my dismay, Kit Mut Gar had gained a second rider. How, I do not know, because we had not stopped since leaving the monastery.
"What are you doing behind me?" I asked her sharply.
"I’m your guide," she muttered. "My name is Mazinta, in case you’ve forgotten."
"Look here, I don’t want you. I paid that money to get rid of you, don’t you understand?"
"You bought me," she said. "Now you must keep me. How shall I eat?"
"Your aunt should feed you."
"What are you doing so close to the hole?" she screamed. "Get over!" She kicked Kit Mut Gar violently on his left side, and he lurched a few yards to the right - even closer to the abyss.
But after a few seconds, the kick had its effect, and the cinquus decided to travel parallel to the street.
"My aunt is taking the medicine back to my father," Mazinta continued, pushing aside her veil of hair. "She’s rid of me now. It was time for me to marry, but I will never do that."
"How old are you?" I called back, incredulous. She was only a child, surely.
"About a hundred and eighty," she admitted.
On Batrony, they count their age not in years, but in full moons. At about 13 moons per year... I calculated in my head, to vent my anger. Arithmetic has never been my forte. Finally I figured that she was about fourteen. I wondered if I could sell her to somebody else, to get rid of her. Perhaps not a hideous man, like the two-headed monster of yesterday - though he was extremely civil when I refunded his money. Perhaps I can sell her to an elderly woman, as a servant.
"You’re lucky I’m here," she said. "You can’t even control a cinquus. How would you ever find your way out of this city?"