10.

  Mrs. Tiggy-winkle

  Kierkegaard Book-Burning Ceremony Proves Danish Philosopher’s Unpopularity

  Chancellor Yorrick Kaine last night officiated at the first burning of Danish literature with the incineration of eight copies of Fear and Trembling, a quantity that fell far short of the expected “thirty or forty tons.” When asked to comment on the apparent lack of enthusiasm among the public to torch their Danish philosophy, Kaine explained that “Kierkegaard is clearly less popular than we thought, and rightly so—next stop Hans Christian Andersen!” Kierkegaard himself was unavailable for comment, having inconsiderately allowed himself to be dead for a number of years.

  Article in The Toad, July 14, 1988

  I was dreaming that a large chain-saw-wielding elephant was sitting on me when I awoke at two in the morning. I was still fully dressed, with a snoring Friday fast asleep on my chest. I put him back in his cot and turned the bedside lamp to the wall to soften the light. My mother, for reasons known only to herself, had kept my bedroom pretty much as it was from the time I had left home. It was nostalgic, but also deeply disturbing, to see just what had interested me in my late teens. It seemed like it had been boys, music, Jane Austen and law enforcement, but not particularly in that order.

  I undressed and slipped on a long T-shirt and stared at Friday’s sleeping form, his lips making gentle sucky motions.

  “Pssst!” said a voice close at hand. I turned. There, in the semidark, was a very large hedgehog dressed in a pinafore and bonnet. She was keeping a close lookout at the door and, after giving me a wan smile, crept to the window and peeked out.

  “Whoa!” she breathed in wonderment. “Streetlights are orange. Never would have thought that!”

  “Mrs. Tiggy-winkle,” I said, “I’ve only been gone two days!”

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said, curtsying quickly and absently folding my shirt, which I had tossed over a chair back, “but there are one or two things going on that I thought you should know about—and you did say that if I had any questions, to ask.”

  “Okay—but not here; we’ll wake Friday.”

  So we crept downstairs to the kitchen. I pulled down the blinds before turning the lights on, as a six-foot hedgehog in a bonnet might have caused a few eyebrows to be raised in the neighborhood—no one wore bonnets in Swindon these days.

  I offered Mrs. Tiggy-winkle a seat at the table. Although she, Emperor Zhark and Bradshaw had been put in charge of running Jurisfiction in my absence, none of them had the leadership skills necessary to do the job on their own. And while the Council of Genres refused to concede that my absence was anything but “compassionate leave,” a new Bellman was yet to be elected in my place.

  “So what’s up?” I asked.

  “Oh, Miss Next!” she wailed, her spines bristling with vexation. “Please come back!”

  “I have things to deal with out here,” I explained. “You all know that!”

  “I know,” she sighed, “but Emperor Zhark threw a tantrum when I suggested he spend a little less time conquering the universe and a little more time at Jurisfiction. The Red Queen won’t do anything post-1867, and Vernham Deane is tied up with the latest Daphne Farquitt novel. Commander Bradshaw does his own thing, which leaves me in charge—and someone left a saucer of bread and milk on my desk this morning.”

  “It was probably just a joke.”

  “Well, I’m not laughing,” replied Mrs. Tiggy-winkle indignantly.

  “By the way,” I said as a thought suddenly struck me, “did you find out which book Yorrick Kaine escaped from?”

  “I’m afraid not. The Cat is searching unpublished novels in the Well of Lost Plots at the moment, but it might take a little time. You know how chaotic things are down there.”

  “Only too well.” I sighed, thinking about my old home in unpublished fiction with a mixture of fondness and relief. The Well was where books are actually constructed, where plotsmiths create the stories that authors think they write. You can buy plot devices at discount rates and verbs by the pint. An odd place, to be sure. “Okay,” I said finally, “you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, counting the points out on her claw, “this morning a rumor of potential change in the copyright laws swept through the BookWorld.”

  “I don’t know how these rumors get started,” I replied wearily. “Was there any truth in it?”

  “Not in the least.”

  This was a contentious subject to the residents of the BookWorld. The jump to copyright-free Public Domain Status had always been a fearful prospect for a book character, and even with support groups and training courses to soften the blow, the Narrative Menopause could take some getting used to. The problem is that copyright laws tend to vary around the world, and sometimes characters are in public domain in one market and not in another, which is confusing. Then there is the possibility that the law might change and characters who had adjusted themselves to a Public Domain Status would find themselves in copyright again, or vice versa. Unrest in the BookWorld in these matters is palpable; it only takes a small spark to set off a riot.

  “So all was well?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “Starbucks wants to open another coffee shop in the Hardy Boys series.”

  “Another one?” I asked with some surprise. “There’s already sixteen. How much coffee do they think they can drink? Tell them they can open another in Mrs. Dalloway and two more in The Age of Reason. After that, no more. What else?”

  “The Tailor of Gloucester needs three yards of cherry-colored silk to finish the Mayor’s embroidered coat—but he’s got a cold and can’t go out.”

  “Who are we? Interlink? Tell him to send his cat, Simpkin.”

  “Okay.”

  There was a pause.

  “You didn’t come all this way to tell me bad news about Kaine, copyright panics and cherry-colored twist, now, did you?”

  She looked at me and sighed. “There’s a bit of a problem with Hamlet.”

  “I know. But he’s doing a favor for my mother at the moment. I’ll send him back in a few days.”

  “Um,” replied the hedgehog nervously. “It’s a bit more complex than that. I think it might be a good idea if you kept him out here for a bit longer.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked suspiciously.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” she burst out, reaching for her pocket handkerchief. “I thought the Internal Plot Adjustment request was to sort out the seasonal anomalies! All that death in the orchard, then winter, then flowers—”

  “What happened?” I asked again.

  Mrs. Tiggy-winkle looked miserable.

  “Well, you know there has been much grumbling unrest within Hamlet ever since Rosencrantz and Guildenstern got their own play?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, just after you left, Ophelia attempted a coup de état in Hamlet’s absence. She imported a B-6 Hamlet from Lamb’s Shakespeare and convinced him to reenact some of the key scenes with a pro-Ophelia bias.”

  “And?”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, “they retitled it: The Tragedy of the Fair Ophelia, Driven Mad by the Callous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”

  “She’s always up to something, isn’t she? I’ll give her ‘Hey nonny, nonny.’ Tell her to get back into line or we’ll slap a Class II Fiction Infraction on her so fast it will make her head spin.”

  “We tried that, but Laertes returned from Paris and lent his voice to the revolution. Together they made some more changes, and it is now called The Tragedy of the Noble Laertes, Who Avenges His Sister, the Fair Ophelia, Driven Mad by the Callous and Murderous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”

  I ran my fingers through what remained of my hair. “So . . . arrest them both?”

  “Too late. Their father, Polonius, was in a ‘have a go’ mood and joined in. He also made changes, and together they renamed it: The Tragedy of the Very Witty and Not Remotely Boring Polonius, Father of the Noble Laertes, Who Avenges His Fair Sister, Ophelia, Driven Mad by the Callous, Murderous and Outrageously Disrespectful Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”

  “What was it like?”

  “With Polonius? Very . . . wordy. We could replace them all,” carried on Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, “but changing so many major players in one swoop might cause irreparable damage. The last thing we need right now is Hamlet coming back and sticking his oar in—you know how mad he gets when anybody even suggests a word change.”

  “Right,” I said, “here’s the plan. This is all happening in the 1623 folio edition, yes?”

  Mrs. Tiggy-winkle nodded her head.

  “Okay. Move Hamlet—or whatever it is called at present—to a disused Storycode Engine and fire up The Penguin Modern Hamlet so that is the one everyone in the Outland will read. It will give us some breathing space without anyone seeing the Polonized version. It won’t be at its best, but it’ll have to do. Horatio must still be on Hamlet’s side, surely?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Then deputize him to Jurisfiction and try to get him to convince the Polonius family to attend an arbitration session. Keep me posted. I’ll try to keep Hamlet amused out here.”

  She made a note.

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  “Not unless you need some washing done.”

  “I have a mother who will fight you for that. Now, please, please, Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, you must leave me to sort out Kaine and get my husband back!”

  “You’re right,” she said after a short pause. “We’re going to handle this all on our own.”

  “Good.”

  “Right.”

  “Well . . . good night, then.”

  “Yes,” said the hedgehog, “good night.”

  She stood there on the kitchen linoleum, tapping her paws together and staring at the ceiling.

  “Tiggy, what is it?”

  “It’s Mr. Tiggy-winkle!” she burst out at last. “He came home late last night in a state of shock and smelling of car exhaust, and I’m so worried!”

  It was about three in the morning when I was finally left alone with my thoughts, a sleeping son and a pocket handkerchief drenched with hedgehog tears.

  11.

  The Greatness of St. Zvlkx

  Goliath Corporation Implements “Distraction Reduction” Program

  Accusations were growing yesterday that the corporation’s drive to increase productivity would result in the loss of civil liberties. This was strongly denied by Goliath, who commented, “We don’t see bricking up the million or so windows in our ten thousand work facilities as anything less than a positive step forward. By removing windows we aim to help the worker who might be suffering from interest-in-work deficit disorder to higher levels of self-help and greater productivity. We also think that it will save thousands of gallons of Windex and the estimated six hundred deaths suffered by window cleaners every year.” Accusations that the corporation was “nothing short of a bunch of bullies” were met with a three-hundred-page writ for defamation, delivered personally by very big men with tattoos.

  Article in The Toad on Sunday, July 3, 1988

  From humble beginnings in 1289 to a fiery end in the autumn of 1536, the towering beauty of the Great Cathedral of Swindon was once the equal of Canterbury or York, but no longer. Built over at least four times since then, the site of the cathedral was now occupied by a temple of another kind: Tesco’s. Where monks once moved silently to prayer beneath vaulted cloisters, you can now buy Lola Vavoom workout videos, and where the exquisite stained-glass east window once brought forth tears from the coldest heart, there is now a refrigerated display boasting five different types of smoked sausage.

  I took my seat and placed Friday on my lap, and he wriggled while I looked around. The car park was full of eager spectators. Some, like myself, were sitting on the especially constructed tiered seating, the rest standing behind barriers on the asphalt. But everyone, sitting or standing, was facing a small fenced-off area sandwiched between the shopping-trolley return point and the ATM machines. This small area contained a weathered arched doorway, the only visible remnant of Swindon’s once great monastic settlement.

  “How are you doing?” asked Joffy, who, as well as being a minister for the GSD and several other smaller denominations, was also head of the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx.

  “Fine. Isn’t that Lydia Startright?”

  I was pointing at a well-dressed female reporter readying herself for a broadcast.

  “She’s about to interview me. How do I look?”

  “Very . . . ecclesiastical.”

  “Good. Excuse me.”

  He straightened his dog collar and walked over to join Lydia. She was standing next to her producer, a small and curiously unappealing man who was so unoriginal of thought that he still considered it cool and desirable for people in the media to wear black.

  “What time is old Zvlkxy due to appear?” the producer asked Joffy.

  “In about five minutes.”

  “Good. Lyds, we better go live.”

  Lydia composed herself, took one more look at her notes, awaited the count-in of the producer, gave a welcoming smile and began.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is Lydia Startright for Toad News Network, reporting live from Swindon. In under five minutes, St. Zvlkx, the obscure and sometimes controversial thirteenth-century saint, is due to be resurrected here, live on regional TV.”

  She turned to indicate the weathered pieces of stone, previously ignored by thousands of shoppers but now the center of attention.

  “On this spot once stood the towering Cathedral of Swindon, founded by St. Zvlkx in the thirteenth century. Where the wet fish counter now stands was where St. Zvlkx penned his Book of Revealments containing seven sets of prophecies, five of which have already come true. To help us through the quagmire of claims and counterclaims I have with me the Very Irreverent Joffy Next, head of the church of the Global Standard Deity here in Swindon, speaker at the the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx and something of an expert in things Zvlkxian. Hello, Joffy, welcome to the show.”

  “Thank you, Lydia,” said Joffy. “We’re all big fans of yours at the GSD.”

  “Thank you. So tell me, what exactly are the revealments?”

  “Well,” he began, “details are understandably vague, but St. Zvlkx wrote a number of predictions in a small book before he vanished in a ‘cleansing fire’ in 1292. An incomplete copy of the revealments is in the Swindon City Library, but unlike the work of most of the other seers, who make vague and sweeping generalizations that are open to interpretation, St. Zvlkx’s predictions are refreshingly specific.”

  “Perhaps you could give us an example?”

  “Of course. Part of Zvlkx’s Revealment the First tells us that ‘a lowly butcher’s son from the town of Ipswich will rise to be Lord Chancellor. His name shall be Tommy Wolsey, and he will be inaugurated the day before Christmas, and shall get only one present, not two, as should be his right. . . .’ ”

  “That’s uncannily accurate!” breathed Lydia.

  “Indeed—existing letters from Cardinal Wolsey indicate most strongly that he was ‘vexed and annoyed’ at having to make do with only one present, something which he often spoke about and might have contributed, many years later, to his failure to persuade the Pope to grant Henry VIII an annulment of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon.”

  “Remarkable,” said Lydia. “What else?”

  “Well,” continued Joffy, “Zvlkx’s Revealment the Second told us that ‘it shall be known as the “Sail of the Century”—an armada of over a hundred ships smelling of paella shall cross the Channel. Fire and wind will conspire to destroy them, England shall remain free.’ ”

  “Not quite so good,” said Lydia.

  “I agree,” replied Joffy. “Paella wasn’t invented until after the Spanish Armada. There are the odd mistakes, but even so, his accuracy is astonishing. Not only do his revealments include names and dates but also, on one occasion, a reliable phone number for a good time in Leeds. By the end of the sixteenth century, St. Zvlkx had been afforded that rare hallmark of unbridled Elizabethan success—the commemorative plate. By the time of his next revealment a century and a half later, his supporters and followers had dwindled to only a handful. But when it arrived, this Revealment the Third catapulted Zvlkx back into the world’s headlines: ‘In seventeen hundred and seventy-six, a George King numbered three will lose his mind, his largest colony, and his socks. The colony would grow to be the greatest power in the world, but his mind and his socks will stay lost.’ ”

  “And the fourth?”

  “ ‘A man named after a form of waterproof shoe shall trounce a short Frenchman in Belgium.’ ”

  “Clearly Waterloo—and the fifth?”

  “ ‘The evil yet nattily dressed aggressors known as Nasis, whose fear has polarized the nation, will be ejected from these islands by—and I know this sounds really weird—the colony that was mentioned in prediction three. And Denis Compton will score 3,816 runs for Middlesex in a single season.’ ”

  “Uncanny,” murmured Lydia. “How would a thirteenth-century monk know that Compton batted for Middlesex?”

  “He was, and indeed might be again, the greatest of seers,” replied Joffy.