Cugel’s Calling ¦ Droke Wood ¦ Storm in a Follicle ¦ The Black Queen ¦
REGULARS:
Editorial ¦ Jack Vance - An Incomplete, Annotated and Illustrated Bibliography ¦ Links ¦
EMAIL:
Cugel’s
Calling
Cugel wandered
the rooms of Pergolo, one time manse of the now despatched Iucounu the Laughing
Magician.[*]
A
certain lassitude hindered Cugel’s perambulations. The goals of his life
had been attained: wealth and power. He was waited upon by sylphs both exotic
and peculiarly plain, learned and innocent. He ate mushrooms from Old
Earth’s deepest bowels; confections so subtle they might be flavoured
air. Petals from flowers blooming once in a thousand-year lifetime scented his
sauces. He drank wines so ancient their grapes had been trodden beneath an
almost yellow sun, and teas brewed from leaves harvested beyond space’s
fuliginous gulfs. His erotic art collection was unparalleled. Orchestras of
awesome ability were his to summon or dismiss at whim. Through mediums of
Iucounu’s he did not fully understand, he conducted brief conversations
with intellects he could never understand. A thousand other pastimes and
delights yet awaited his sampling. Life was easy; but, in spite of all he
possessed, it was not rich. Boredom was the inevitable consequence. What, then,
else?
Speaking
not to the half-dozen nearby sylphs playfully pinching each-other and casting
adoring glances at their master, but more to himself, Cugel said, “For
all its dampness and cold, its distant howlings, its tearing teeth, its
bandits, its uncertain dawns, adventure
is what I miss. My life craves its unpredictability. But what to do? I cannot invent an objective for which to strive
— one must be presented to, perhaps forced upon me. One to tax my
considerable acumen and varied skills.”
Far
beneath Pergolo’s highest tower, Cugel stopped before a bare wooden door
previously unnoticed. Attempting to push it open (and discovering it locked),
he felt a discomforting charge pass up his arm, momentarily congregating about
his brain and blurring his vision before fading quickly to nothing. He stepped
back and motioned an attending sylph forward. Removing a master key from his
spider silk waistcoat, he gave it to the sylph and had her open the door, which
she did without apparent distress.
The
room beyond was utterly black, but Cugel thought to scent magic within its
confines.
Ignoring
the fear that twisted the sylph’s delicate features, he ordered her
ahead. Aided by the
creature’s
inherent azure luminosity he studied the chamber from the threshold. It was
small and empty
save for a
pitted, man-high cylinder, centrally positioned and seemingly of solid iron.
At
his command, the sylph approached and skittishly probed the cylinder with
slender fingers. Nothing untoward occurred. Cugel nevertheless refrained from
throwing caution to the winds at this juncture — how often in past
adventures had curiosity landed him in uncompromising situations? He sent for a
certain amulet that immunised its wearer against sorcery, clamped it about his
wrist, and stepped into the chamber.
Immediately, he
was elsewhere.
Pergolo
had disappeared, as had all material things, including his body. Only the
essence of Cugel remained — a conscious, thinking thing somehow sustained
though flesh and bone were gone. Aware of place and motion even while lacking
sensory organs, it moved at an unguessable velocity through a medium perceived
as a corridor skirting energies that bucked and twisted with terrible power.
Surprisingly,
Cugel’s essence felt no fear at its startling change of environment, only
exultation. True freedom! Boundless! Unfettered!
But
not alone.
Two
others raced alongside it — one familiar, but uncommunicative; the other
unknown, and moved to conversation.
Ah! Noruute has introduced another to his
Betweens. Finally! He grows more confident with his warps. Tell me, Fellow,
when is he going to de-energise?
It employed a mode of intercourse neither
speech nor sign, nor exactly thought, that seemed normal here. In the same
manner, Cugel replied, I fear, Sir, that
I do not know of whom or what you talk.
Noruute! Widener of the Thinnest Spaces!
When is he going to de-energise his mighty machines and bring me back to
substance? I miss the heat of the white sun on my appendages Ha! I miss my appendages!
I remain unclear as to what you... A
thought occurred to the essence. Sir, you
speak of a white sun. You are of a world not Earth, then?
Not Earth? You are mistaken.
But, Sir, the sun is red now, even purpling;
flickering with feebleness. Perhaps only the
At
that, the strange essence’s aspect underwent a rapid, and frightening
transition — anger steeped in obvious madness exploded from it. Speaking
as if another entity had replaced the first, its story poured forth. An eternity! Two eternities! Three! An
experiment he said, and I sat and watched as he twiddled his dials and
depressed his keys! And then I was here speeding through infinity after
infinity. Alone at first, but he introduced lesser creatures — he started
with me and then sent rabbits and cockatoos! But soon there were more people,
and more, until multitudes passed… And departed, for he had deciphered
the maze for them! But not me. He did not know the way out when he put me in
the Betweens! To have him die by my hands... Ha! Hands!
It
paused before continuing in a slightly calmer tone. I watched them come through, conversed with them, explained my
predicament. Noruute was long gone they said, and they were learning new ways
of warping the Betweens. They would soon have me clothed once again in flesh. I
believe they did try to eject me — I recall witnessing the energies
occasionally agitated. But I nevertheless remain. During the Second Eternity, I
think, the travellers began to dwindle in number, before ceasing altogether.
You are the first since the middle of the Third Eternity.
Cugel’s
essence replied in what it hoped was a suitably sympathetic manner. If I am
to exit, Sir —which is by no means certain considering the nature of my
ingress— then can you not depart with me?
Impossible; exits are personal and
particular — a fact Noruute learned only after he slipped me Between and my corporeality became unavailable for
mapping! But there may yet be some capable of assistance. Noruute and those
that followed him could not pull me out, but They might. I have seen Them, and
I know They always watch me. They stand outside the corridor, you see, amongst
the energies...
As
suddenly as before, the strange essence —chronologically as well as
characteristically schizophrenic— returned to its earlier good humour. But your doors are opening. I bid you
farewell. Please, tell Noruute how I long for the taste of a good beeswing!
A
disturbance it was powerless to avoid appeared before Cugel’s essence,
and again he was elsewhere.
He lay upon a
soft shelf of grass, looking up into a clear cerulean sky so profoundly deep
that for a moment gravity did not impinge upon his awareness, and he thought
himself falling into the firmament. A cool breeze whistled softly about him,
and instinct warned of the lateness of the hour.
He
rose to find himself halfway up the side of a shallow vale, looking down to its
expansive floor. There, nestled either side of a wide river amongst well-tended
farmland, were two villages planned in quite the most startling and
contemporaneously amusing fashion Cugel had ever seen.
Candidly
put, they gave the appearance of monstrously erect phalli proudly pointing in
opposite directions along the riverbank. Orchards were scrota; narrow, precisely
arranged homes and other buildings suggested shafts (even down to long urethral
central streets); large, near-circular, and immaculately tended lawns provided
bulbous glandes.
Rising
from the centre of each glans were gigantic dildos, one squat and endowed with
almost painful-seeming protuberances, the other slender and smooth, flowering
out to an ellipsoidal tip. Both were considerably taller than the loftiest
structures in either village.
What
kind of society would create such preposterous follies? Penis-mad half-wits or
savages? The quality of the villages’ construction belied such
possibilities. What then? And how would these people react to strangers from
outside their valley? One thing was certain, there were no places such as this within
even rumour-distance of any of the far-flung locations Cugel had previously
traversed.
There
was sound behind. He turned to find the sylph who had crossed the Betweens with
him standing beside a pitted cylinder similar to that at Pergolo. Imploringly,
she raised a strangely translucent hand, her eyes overflowing with the love
instilled in all Cugel’s servants. He was moved. She would be frightened
after her ordeal. He reached to touch the creature’s slender fingers, but
his hand passed through hers with only a light tingling sensation.
Pergolo’s magical influence upon the sylph was gone, nothing now binded
her to this existence. Even as Cugel watched, she faded slowly from sight. He
thought to see her distraught face mouth a word, but did not know what it was.
She
was gone.
Cugel
approached the cylinder, to discover that no amount of poking or fingering
could induce a reaction from it.
He
turned back to face the vale. The sun was setting, spreading its ancient light
amongst horizon-hugging cloud like the richest red wine spilt upon rumpled
silk. The soft breeze became a trifle sharper and a mournful howl sounded from
over the vale’s rim. Phallic planning or no, it would be wise to be
amongst whatever civilisation the villages offered before the sun departed to
bathe the Earth’s other face in its feeble rays.
As Cugel
approached he witnessed the first lights glow. Windows and streetlamps shone a
uniform deep amber, lending the villages a fey and strangely sorrowful
appearance now their preposterous planning was hidden by his lower elevation
and the gathering gloom.
Passing
through cultivated fields and skirting scrotum orchards, Cugel entered the
nearer settlement. He was relieved to discover twilight activity as he would
have expected at any village. People exercised pets or made late purchases from
the few stalls yet open along the urethral street, while others conversed in
small groups. Children played riotous games in side-alleys or up trees,
awaiting the call for bedtime. None wore headbands bristling with phallic
images or ceremonial dildos strapped about their waists; no men walked naked,
compulsively masturbating, and no women openly awaited the attentions of such
men. All seemed quite normal.
An
inn would be the best place to learn of the peculiarities of his location.
There would be fellow travellers there, amongst whom questions would be less
likely to draw unwanted attention. He enquired of a local the whereabouts of
such an inn and was answered (in unnotable accent and after his rich apparel
had been studied without comment), “The Proudly Erect is the best in
Ithyphal.” Directions followed which Cugel proceeded upon.
As
he walked, Cugel questioned the bubbling exhilaration which had never
completely departed him since the Betweens. He was an unknown distance from
familiar lands with no ideas as to possible return transport. He carried little
of value. He had no food. He was alone. And what of the village itself? Though
his assuredly practised subconscious hinted at no such thing, sinister small-community
secrets were not thusly precluded. Who knew what reception strangers might
receive from a people who regarded the male genitalia so highly? Cugel smiled.
Now, was this not the adventure he desired? The stifling halls of Pergolo were
gone. Predictability was gone. Monotony gone. His blood pounded. His senses
were alive to all sensible. He was strong and vital. He was Cugel the Clever!
The
Proudly Erect’s exterior proved promising: three stories, with a wide
patio overhung by trees decorated with ubiquitous amber lanterns.
Twilight’s
coolness predicting the night’s cold, the patio was empty. Cugel entered
the inn.
It
was spacious and reasonably well appointed. Booths lined a back wall, sturdy
tables and chairs covered the paved floor up to a long and well-stocked bar.
Yet more amber lamps, half shuttered, afforded restful dimness without
dinginess. It was perhaps a quarter full of customers, alone and in small
groups. Cugel’s entrance caused little stir.
From
a service hatch behind the bar came the glorious smell of frying sausages.
Cugel had dined not two hours earlier upon cephalopods from an unknown ocean,
but that wonderfully familiar and redolent aroma had him ravenous as if he had
fasted for days. He approached the bar and its somewhat overweight tender, who
acknowledged Cugel’s presence with an unimpressed nod that left the
traveller a little irked.
With
a proud toss of his long black hair[†],
Cugel said, “Good evening. You are the innkeeper? Good. I require a
comfortable bed in a single room that will remain unoccupied save for me
throughout the night. I would be woken an hour after sunrise to breakfast upon
whatever best you offer. Immediately, however, a flagon of cider and a plate of
those sausages I hear sizzling behind you, plus salad and soft bread, would all
be consumed with relish.”
The
innkeeper nodded again, now smiling slightly. “The Proudly Erect can
indeed offer all you desire, Good Sir. At cost.”
“You
will be paid on the morrow, with an amount exactly satisfying service
given.”
“Well
and good, Sir, well and good. Yet I hesitate, and will explain why. In my
reckless youth your outlandish though obviously expensive outfit would be
enough to ease all suspicion, and I would trust to receive payment in the
manner you specify. However, being older, fatter, and a little wiser for past
dupes, I no longer believe fine clothes necessarily denote fine morals.”
Cugel
bridled. “I can assure —”
Sighing
heavily, the innkeeper interrupted. “Sir, pay up front or bed in the
Urethral.”
Privately
observing all hosteliers to be a breed apart, Cugel sighed and unclasped the
amulet from his wrist and offered it up for inspection. “This is powerful
protection against sorcery. Notice the precious jewels and quality
workmanship...” Eventually, a deal was struck. Cugel had his bed for the
night, his stipulated meals, and a fair amount of coin beside. He chose an
empty booth, to which a small girl delivered his cider and later his sausages,
which proved eminently satisfying.
Halfway
through his meal a middle-aged man dressed in travelworn breeches and shirt
asked, “A fellow visitor to Ithyphal? Would you care for conversation and
a wonder or two?” Cugel gestured towards the seat opposite. Here was the
opportunity he had been hoping for, and there were certainly questions to ask.
The
visitor sat, carefully laying a weighty-looking casket at his feet, called for
more drinks, and introduced himself. “I am Jofuul Tyroon, of
Firade
was unknown to Cugel, but he thought it prudent not to mention the fact.
“I am Cugel. A traveller.”
Jofuul
waited expectantly then smiled as Cugel continued eating in silence.
“Sir, you exhibit overmuch caution. I harm none save those who would harm
me. Let me see... Both your garb and alien accent, not to mention your weird
name, suggest a ‘traveller’ of considerable achievement — and
I am no hodophobe. The amulet you traded Drilt only adds to your distinction.
Incidentally, it was worth far more, though Drilt won’t know that.”
Cugel
glanced at Jofuul, listening for the warning wail of his subconscious. All was
silent. He shrugged, and commenced to slice his last sausage, “Its powers
had died.”
Jofuul
raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. But it was a thing of the ancients —
and they built to outlast even the dark of the sun. I know a little of such
matters. So, as you forbear to divulge your own tale, you will hear
mine.” With disarming confidence, he settled back into the worn velvet of
the booth’s cushioning. “Since an early age, the ancients have
fascinated me. We have only Past now, Good Cugel; the sun’s imminent
demise precludes Future. And what a past! The things learnt! The achievements!
Amazing! And yet more amazing, tragically so, is that we have forgotten these
wonders and merely wait, stagnant, for the end. Where are the geniuses of Past?
The visionaries? The leaders who could fire a populace’s imagination? One
with the dust now, or departed for fresher worlds to glorify. All that is left
to remind us of their time here are trinkets and toys, often incomprehensible
to us, amongst which we sift, pondering functions and higher aesthetics.”
He
took a breath to calm his seemingly sincere ardour. “I have a cousin who
mines beneath Yunbit Hills for salt, which he sells to Twk-men. Often in those
damp depths he comes across such remnants as I love, and, knowing my pleasure,
delivers them to me. Usually they are of little use save as subjects for
speculative thought and conversation. Sometimes, however, they are yet possessed
of the ability or appearance imbued at their making. Not believing such things
should be hidden from the world in obsessives’ collections, I take them
on my travels, asking only a few coins for their exhibition and demonstration.
After, they return with me to Firade and the shelves of a small museum I curate
there. Your amulet I believe to date from the era of the Hemispheric Sorcerers
— it and its like were employed by lesser sorcerers to aid their
masters’ campaigns for the globe. If I am correct, it is quite
valuable.”
Back
at Pergolo there was a shelf full of similar amulets, so, assuming his return,
Cugel was not overly concerned with the waste of one.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “Its powers are gone; and it
remained only as a means with which to acquire lodging.”
Cugel’s
honed instincts hinted at nothing dishonest or clandestine in Jofuul. He even
felt himself warming to the man. He decided to relate his change in
circumstance, giving pertinent references to Pergolo and Almery that grew, at
his listener’s insistence and continued supply of cider, into a retelling
of many of his past adventures.
When
he had finished, Jofuul sat back, his mouth wide in a smile of open wonder, his
eyes sparkling in the amber lamplight. “Cugel, my friend... I stand in
awe of you! Such a saga! Such adventures! The exotic names weave incredible
visions in my mind! The creatures you have met... I will be honest, I am
jealous. Ah, but. Were our roles reversed, would I have reacted with quite the
alacrity, instinct, and dare I say panache natural to yourself? I think not,
and so would probably not be here today.”
Cugel’s
cider-boosted pride swelled at the compliments, “You are a judge of
character to rival Harok, He Who Chose One From Five Thousand Cloned Virgins.
And, though I suspect you would not be the incompetent you hint at, you are
right to suppose that you and others of lesser wit than I would have likely
succumbed to the dangerous encounters I survived.”
The
unconscious insult went seemingly unnoticed as Jofuul openly mused,
“Think of the lineage of a man like yourself, Good Cugel! What
philosophers, warriors, romantics, it must boast!”
Perhaps
taken aback by the rather sudden change of conversational tack, Cugel was
sullen in his response, “My parents were farmers, as were their parents.
And likely theirs. And theirs. And
—”
“Indeed,
indeed. But greatness has been known to often skip generations — what of
those further back?”
“Well,
what?”
“There,
undoubtedly, lie the seeds of your rare character. Do you not wonder as to the
Cugels of the past?”
“Rarely.
He of the present most concerns me.”
“Of
course,” Jofuul nodded, “But what if I informed you of a device
beneath this table that allows glimpses into its operative’s
ancestors’ lives? More, permits limited conversation with them. Would
that perhaps perk your interest?”
“I
have heard of certain plant extracts that offer similar experiences.”
“Ah,
but they warp and twist the mind, leaving the experience wide open to
interpretation. With my Ancestral Converser, you remain lucid and sober —
fully in control of all your faculties. You see actuality, not
dreamstuff.”
Cugel
glanced at his half empty beaker. Sober? In truth, his head was beginning to
swim. The thought of his bed was suddenly a demanding one.
Jofuul,
taking Cugel’s silence as encouragement, reached below the table for the
casket. It was roughly the shape and size of a child’s torso, grey, and
featureless. He split it in two. One half’s interior was shaped to accept
a spread-fingered hand, the other was solid with obfuscate blue glass.
“For
a man such as yourself, my friend, I am most tempted to allow you to sample the
wonder without payment. But all proceeds help fund my little museum. For a tiny
amount of the money Drilt gave you can talk to the Great Ones of your past.
And, by the by, I think I know why the cylinder at... Pergool(?) neutralised
your amulet. It was a transportation device actually operating without magic,
of the Age of Teknology preceding the Collapse of Physik — a time only
passingly hinted at in the oldest records.”
The
thought of the Great Ones in Cugel’s past was not important. The Age of
Teknology was not important. Last night had been spent gambolling with his
sylphs, and this morning he had been woken early for more of the same. Elated
freedom was gone, leaving only tiredness. Bed was everything.
So,
simply to appease Jofuul and thus more quickly achieve his mattress, Cugel paid
over a coin and, as directed, placed his hand in the receptacle. At his
flesh’s contact, it glowed pink. The glass flickered with azure sparks
which coalesced to form familiar features — his father, limned in blue.
The image collapsed and reformed as his mother (for a fleeting moment, Cugel
thought to smell pies bronzing in a huge oven, and heard a child’s voice
question, “But Mother, aren’t deodands derived from true
men?”). Collapsed again to form another face, and another, all with
features at least hinting at inquisitive noses, sharp cheekbones, and drolly
turned lips.
“When
one takes your fancy, apply pressure with your third finger,” said
Jofuul, “When you would speak to a selection, press with your
thumb.”
A
woman’s face, very beautiful and framed with long hair, looked up from
the blue glass. Cugel’s third finger pushed at the receptacle too
strongly - it skidded to the side and into a beaker. Too late, Jofuul shouted a
warning. Cider spilled over the device
The
blue glass went black, then a red deeper than the sun’s. As Jofuul and
Cugel -wet hand still within the
receptacle- watched in fascination, it began to vibrate inside its half of the
casket. “It will shatter!” exclaimed Jofful.
But
it did not. Another image, unaffected by the vibration, formed deep within its
crystalline depths, and rushed up towards the two watchers.
Objectively,
the image’s content was not overtly unsettling, merely strange. A man of
late middle age, dressed in clothing of highly outlandish cut, sat before a
table upon which a small mechanical contraption —comprising even rows of
queerly marked studs and a semicircle of minute hammers— slowly spewed
white paper at the ministrations of the man’s fingers. Behind him were
shelves filled with various brightly spined books, save for the topmost, which
supported an ornament of peculiar design — a glittering spiral afloat
above crystal, both suspended in some clear mineral.
However
it was not the scene’s uncommonness that set the fine hairs along
Cugel’s spine to rising, that caused his heart to beat faster and his
lungs to snatch quick, shallow breaths. There was an unfathomable, terrifying depth to the man and his surroundings
that went beyond the limits of sight. Cugel’s subconscious, silent
before, now screamed. He knew this man to be a creator of worlds, infinitely
important to the Dying Earth in general and, somehow, himself in particular.
Without
volition, Cugel’s thumb pressed into the receptacle.
There
came a soft chime. The man looked up from his device, stilling his fingers.
Light from a sun much younger than that wobbling about their world bathed the
man’s calm features as he looked into Cugel’s eyes.
“Your
hair is as lank as ever, Cugel.” His voice, emanating from the glass, was
low yet clear. Cugel could not reply. The supreme power and importance of this
man left him awe-struck.
“Come,
Cugel the Clever, it is unlike you to be at a loss for suitable
response.” A smile twitched at the man’s lips.
Cugel
at last found his tongue. “Great Sir, you have me at a disadvantage. How,
I do not know, but you are privy to details of my life though I know nothing of
you. Yet...”
“Yet
you feel you know everything of me, though the knowledge is just outside
reach.” The man paused, then seemed to think aloud, “Some say,
Cugel, you are my greatest. Certainly you were the most entertaining. There
have been, and will be, others, but you, my quick-witted, opinionated, boorish,
selfish, petulant, greedy, glorious
man, will outdo them all.”
“You
are the Creator then,” said Cugel, “All.”
“Of
you and yours, yes.”
“I
ate you once, when I was hungry.”
This
response was obviously unexpected. The man gazed at Cugel, now himself without
a word to utter. Gradually, however, the corners of his mouth rose, higher than
before, his lips separated, and he began to laugh.
He
still laughed when Jofuul reached across and snatched Cugel’s hand from
the receptacle.
The
image winked out of existence. The glass was obfuscate once more, and still.
As
if awakening from deep sleep, bleary eyed and muggy-headed, Cugel looked up at
his companion. “Why did you do that?”
Jofuul
rubbed a hand over the short bristles of his chin. “That plain of
existence is not for us to see, perhaps even know of. It was over and above us.
Beyond... I... Higher laws were being broken.”
Tiredness
suddenly overcame Cugel. He sagged into his bench’s padding. “I
will retire now. Too much has happened for one day.”
He
rose, somewhat shakily, hardly seeing Jofuul wipe down his Ancestral Converser
with a cloth, hardly hearing him say, “And I too, Good Cugel, to see if
this can be repaired. Perhaps we will meet tomorrow?”
But
Cugel had already left the room and was slowly climbing the inn’s stairs
to his bedchamber. Once there, he fell upon his bed, murmuring for his sylphs
to undress him and dowse the light.
Cugel awoke to
the sound of Drilt’s voice accompanied by polite tapping at his
chamber’s door, “An hour after sunrise as stipulated, Sir. Your
breakfast awaits in the Common Room.” The innkeeper coughed politely
before adding, “We serve a strong cider at the Proudly, Sir, and you
downed a fair amount of it last night. But its quality is high — a cold
swill will clear the mud from your brain, and our breakfast tea will take the
fur from your tongue. Good morning to you, Sir.”
Cugel
heard his footsteps descend the stairs, the clang of pots as a door was opened,
and then silence.
Squinting
at the orange sunlight that seeped through the amber windows, Cugel rose slowly
from his bed. At a beautifully patterned ceramic bowl filled with water, he
gave himself the suggested swill and was almost immediately refreshed. Aided by
a long mirror, he adjusted his sleep-dishevelled garments as best he could
(tutting at the occasional cider stain), and departed his chambers for the
Common Room.
The
breakfast laid out for him was without needless extravagance and looked quite
excellent. The sight of it readily quelled any queasiness that remained as a
result of the night’s drinking, and he ate with gusto.
At
his third fruited bun, Jofuul joined him.
“Good
morning, Good Cugel. The air is somewhat cool, but what more can be expected
from so tired a star? Your head is clear?”
“Aye,
thanks to Drilt’s instructions.” Cugel took another bite of his
bun, and looked warily at Jofuul. “I would not have expected such
joviality at a second meeting.”
“Ah,
my Converser. A trifle. Less than that
— a night afore a roaring fire has dried up the last vestige of
apple, and it works as previously.”
“Still,
I must apologise.”
Jofuul
shook his head. “Sir, last night you only strengthened my belief in, and
further proved the power of, the ancients. For that I must thank you.”
“Very
well. Tea?” Cugel gestured to the steaming pewter pot; Jofuul thanked him
and poured out a cupful. For a while, they ate and drank in silence, which
Jofuul presently broke.
“Manners
dictate that I, familiar with these parts as I am, introduce you, the stranger,
more properly to them. So, will you, Adventurer Cugel, accept me as guide to
Ithyphal and Priapus?” At Cugel’s steady gaze, he added, “I
offer, of course, without thought to monetary gain.”
“In
that case my friend, I accept. These villages... Even I have known nothing like
them. I had meant to ask of them last night, but was... Distracted.”
Jofuul
frowned, “Sir, I would rather we spoke no more of those... Distractions.
For the sake of both our well-beings.” His cheerful smile returned,
“Now, if you will consume that last bun? No? You are satiated? Then
perhaps I...?”
The old sun
shone down upon the two figures as they leisurely progressed along
Ithyphal’s urethral street: one, a middle-aged man of intelligent feature
and common if travel-worn clothing; the other younger, pale and lanky, moving
with a peculiar bent-kneed stride and wearing somewhat extravagant garments
streaked here and there with yellow.
Cugel
looked about as they walked, a slight smile playing at his lips.
He
was wide awake now, clear-headed, and returned to the mood of the previous
evening. The air was fresh, the sky a blue to lose oneself in. Possibilities
were endless, stretching onwards enticingly. He broadened his smile in the
direction of a pretty but obviously harassed young mother dragging two bawling
infants along the thoroughfare. She scowled back suspiciously.
The
denizens of this village appeared as a thousand others he had seen in
Earth’s further reaches, but their history, as Jofuul enthusiastically
related it, was startlingly singular.
An
unrecorded number of centuries ago a village —Ithyphal according to the
Ithphalions, Priapus to the Priaps— was founded in this rich valley at
the foot of a phallic spire of granite, beside the clear, fish-full, river. The
village prospered respectably, until, without warning, its sharply angled
rooftops became perches for thousands of large, red, prodigiously beaked birds[‡].
For two days they thronged the rooftops before the reason for their loitering
appeared — a giantess entered the valley downriver and strode
undeviatingly into the village. There she raised her skirts, stood over the
strange granite spire, and proceeded to relieve her gigantic desires with a
regular squatting motion. During the satisfaction of her lusts the original
village was greatly damaged and there were injuries among its populace. But the
giantess caused no direct harm, and, at her climax and consequent departure,
there were those who could smile at the sheer absurdity of the circumstances.
Still others, eyeing the granite spire and the amber resin slowly solidifying
about it (residue of the giantess’ passion and now food for the
feverishly pecking red birds), saw the possibility of profit.
The
village was rebuilt (farther from the spire). Samples of the residue were
tested and treated in various fashions and found to make an excellent and more
easily malleable alternative to glass. The spire itself was examined and
opinions voiced on contour adjustments that would increase the giantess’
pleasure and thus the residue-yield at her assumed reappearance. And so the
village settled back into its previous routines, slowly increasing in size and
wealth through the trade of fish and farm produce, quietly, almost smugly,
awaiting its patroness’ return and a hoped for boost to its economy.
And
on her return all were happy to note her obvious appreciation of the
spire’s new design — her ecstatic groans and whimpers reverberated
from one side of the valley to the other, and the residue at the spire’s
foot was triple that of before[§].
It was duly farmed and processed into glazing or blown and carved into
ornaments and jewellery, to be traded at considerable profit.
The
giantess returned before the turn of the year —earlier than
previously— to leave a harvest similar to her last. More adjustments were
made to the spire. At her next call the residue doubled. Trade increased. The
village’s fortune was secured for a further three generations before the
Fateful Division took place.
The
Dildo Sculptors, as they were known, enjoyed highest standing in the village.
It was they who forever strove to increase the pleasure of their gigantic
patroness, cutting fluting here into the spire, cementing knobs and ripples
there to its shaft, tapering or broadening the “glans” in just so a
fashion. It was they who made the village’s fortune, perhaps it was
inevitable, therefore, that disagreement occurred between the two most
respected.
“You
see,” informed Jofuul, “Each Sculptor favoured a different spire
design with which to pleasure the giantess at her next visit. When this
previously occurred an amalgamation of the opposing notions had been agreed
upon, but this time both Sculptors claimed divine inspiration — each
forwarding an Absolute Dildo that would satisfy the giantess’ lusts as
never before. Further, both claimed that were their designs merged the
resulting spire shape would pleasure their patroness less than a pile of damp
seaweed.”
The
two argued until they verged upon blows before it was decided to build another
spire on the river’s opposite bank to allow each his artistic freedom.
Thus was the contemporary situation born as the Sculptors’ followers
encamped themselves about their idol, dividing the village populace, and over
the ensuing years the village itself, in two. At each consequent visit, the
giantess was given a choice of sexual relief, her decision increasing one
villages fortunes while debilitating the other; ensuring that neither rose
supreme where a single settlement could have grown to be labelled
“town,” then, perhaps, “city.”
“And
there, Good Cugel, is the history of your exceptional surroundings.”
The
pair had wandered to the edge of the river separating the villages. Two thirds
of what had once been a bridge of some grace rose from either bank, each
garishly painted in generations of graffiti wittily insinuating or foully
insulting the inhabitants of whatever village it yearned towards.
“I
have never heard the like,” said Cugel. “Highly bizarre.”
“And
sad,” said Jofuul. “Sad that, now, at the end of all, Man devotes
so much of his remaining allotment of Time to petty bitterness.”
“That,
I think, is not unusual,” said Cugel. “Such is
“Ah.
Yes. Such is
For
a short while both contemplated the ruins of the bridge and the profundities it
represented.
Presently,
Jofuul took a deep breath to regain his usual good humour.
“But
what now, for you, friend Cugel? Where now in our Dying Earth?”
Where
indeed? What was his quest? To return to Pergolo? But once reinstated in his
fabulous manse (doubtless after many an adventure), what then? Days of
indulgence and luxury before wanderlust again agitated his spindly shanks
beyond the walls of Almery. His was a spirit that could not be lulled unless
constantly stimulated by experience.
“I
would travel home, I suppose. But not yet, Good Jofuul. Let us walk a little
further. In fact, lead me to the heart of Ithyphal — I would see one of
these fabulous dildos at closer hand.”
And
so the two walked the length of Ithyphal to its glans clearing. There rose the
phallic spire of rock, tower-tall. Covered in peculiar arrangements of
amygdaloids, sagittates, bacciforms, guttates, digitate clusters, blunted
uncinates, swollen pyriforms and allantoids. It was the penis of a monster
seemingly more a thing of pain than intense pleasure. At its base were a
growing group of villagers gathered around a man wildly gesticulating and
shouting incomprehensibly. The pair drew closer and Jofuul let out a shocked
gasp. “Kaleen, it is Kaleen!”
“And
who is Kaleen?”
“My
friend, Kaleen is Ithyphal’s Sculptor High. All hope that it will be his
efforts which seduce the giantess at her next visit — the Priaps have had
her three times in succession now. If this display concerns what I think... Come,
we must learn more.” They joined the group.
Kaleen
squatted on the floor; a slight man dressed simply in smock and sandals.
Littered about him were wisps of sandy hair to which he systematically added, tearing
clumps from his bleeding scalp. He stopped shouting to rock gently backwards
and forwards in silence. For a few moments the villagers stood about, shocked
into quiet. Next they took a startled step back as the Sculptor High suddenly
leapt up and resumed his racket, pulling viciously at his hair all the while.
“It’s better! Theirs’ is better, you simples! She will go to
them! Again! It will be their dick
she takes betwixt her thighs! Their
glans she floods with juices! I am beaten, and therefore Ithyphal is beaten!
Bested! Bested! Be —”
Kaleen’s
bounds had become too wild — he slipped, caught his head against the base
of the spire, and fell senseless.
Cugel
had barely noted the scene. Almost since setting foot on the village’s
glans he had found himself fascinated by the spire. For all of its grotesque
ripples and swellings, he yet saw it as a thing of potential grace; and when
one considered its use...
Few
other subjects were as close to his heart.
The
villagers looked at each-other in despair, “What hope now? The other
Sculptors have not a sixth of his talents. What hope?!”
This
last plea roused Cugel from his admiration. He stepped forwards.
“I
am Cugel the Clever. Reliably consider me expert on the pleasures of the
female, gigantic or otherwise. Will you allow a suggestion or two...?”
And so Cugel
established himself in the
Cugel
revelled in his new vocation: the satisfaction of directing his under-sculptors
in carving and augmenting the spire to his exact specifications, the admiration
he received from Kaleen, Jofuul, and the villagers as the rock took shape
according to his demands... The attention to be had from certain of the village
women, curious to see how much else he knew about female intimacies. There were
other perks, too. At the banquet held to celebrate the revelation of his
completed masterpiece he was asked many times if scaled versions of his efforts
could be produced, and so offer humans a taste of the giantess’ future
rapture (all assumed she would now choose Ithyphal’s dildo over that of
Priapus). The very next day, once his head had cleared, Cugel sent his designs
to a local carpenter and had the required items carved — to almost
instant acclaim. Further, at the suggestion of Jofuul, crates of the dildos were
delivered to neighbouring villages and towns, and met with equal though more
discreet success. A sample was even delivered to Priapus, but there its
reception was less than cordial.
And
so the days passed. A happy time for Cugel (with both loins and an artistic
ability he never knew he possessed occupied to the full), marred only by a
night-time disturbance three days before the expected arrival of the giantess
and his creation’s ultimate test.
He
was woken in the early hours —where he now lived in the luxurious
near-mansion the Sculptor High traditionally occupied— by Kaleen, who was
in a state of considerable agitation. He told Cugel that a team of Priap
saboteurs had been caught climbing upon Ithyphal’s spire, attacking it
with hammers and chisels. Though they escaped their discoverers (righteously
wrathful under-sculptors drinking in a nearby tavern), damage to the spire was
thankfully found to be nothing more than a few scratches here and there about
the shaft and proud glans, easily patched. “They know they have
lost,” said Kaleen, “They resort to these low tactics from pure
despair. Prideless Priaps!”
“Only
three days and you allow this!” shouted Cugel. “Would you have the
giantess shag that... That... Priap prick?!
You will mount a guard, Kaleen, day and night. No-one from now until the juice
falls[**]
is to be let near it! Three days, Kaleen! Three!” (Weeks later, during a
moment of tranquillity Cugel employed to review recent events, he found himself
surprised at the anger he had then felt, and somewhat ashamed of his unfair
scolding of Kaleen. He wondered at the reason. Could it be dildo design was as
close as Cugel the Clever had ever come to a calling? Was it possible that, had
circumstances turned out differently, he could have happily lived the rest of
his life under the decrepit sun as the Sculptor High of Ithyphal?)
Three
days later in the last of afternoon, the whole of Ithyphal gathered about the
spire at a long-established safe distance to await the giantess’
appearance. Cugel himself stood to one side with Jofuul, Kaleen and his
under-sculptors, graciously accepting the praise, congratulations, and salutes
of villagers and visitors alike even though his creation was yet to be proved.
In Cugel’s mind this was a small matter — he was nothing short of
certain of his design’s ability to satisfy its target’s desires.
Reports that all work on the Priapic shaft had ceased days ago because the
Priaps had lost every hope of wooing the
giantess, was
only an unnecessary confirmation Cugel’s spire would take her to realms
even a mind her size had never dreamed of. So too was the tight circle of
Voyeur birds that waited about the spire, motionless and trancelike. Even they
blessed Cugel’s efforts.
At
a nudge from Jofuul, Cugel looked across the river separating the two villages.
There were the sorrowful Priaps. Seemingly the whole village had gathered on
the opposite bank to gaze quietly, but intently, at the goings-on in Ithyphal.
Cugel essayed an elaborate wave to them, but received no response.
“Haha!”
said Kaleen, who now also noticed the Priaps “Such gluttons for
punishment are they! What for them now but dismal failure?”
Jofuul,
however, was more considered in his response. “I am not so certain, Good
Kaleen. They do not look as a crowd expecting disappointment, rather they
—”
At
that moment there came a shout from the edge of the crowd, which quickly split
to allow a young lad, sweating and panting, to dash up to Cugel and say,
“Sculptor High, I have seen!”
Cugel
knew the ancient ceremony, “What have you seen, First Scout?”
“The
Lady comes. I felt her thundering and hurried step, and presently beheld her
glorious head beyond the turn of our beautiful valley.”
“And
what look was in her eyes, First Scout?” asked Cugel.
The
lad laughed, and, departing somewhat from ritual, replied, “Her cheeks
are a-flush, her mouth a-pout, her eyes wide and a-sparkling like new-born
suns. The Lady knows what she’s after, and has come to get it!”
The
Sculptor High laughed good-naturedly at the lad’s enthusiasm and sent him
on to his friends. The crowd murmured apprehensively, looking down to where the
valley kinked for first sight of the giantess.
Presently,
there came a thud. Cugel wondered if it were his heart. Then there came
another, and another, and he knew the sound for what it was — her
footsteps. They grew louder, shaking the ground. The frequency increased. Was
the giantess trotting? Now running? “Eager indeed,” murmured Cugel.
And
then, precluded by a dromond-like right foot, she appeared in full splendour at
the valley’s bend.
Cugel
had of course seen renderings of the giantess (of varying ability and
interpretation), but they were as nothing compared to her actuality. She was
simply magnificent. Were she of human proportion (the valley walls reached only
to the height of her upper arms), she would be considered a creature of rare
beauty and grace. Eyes the deepest black, cheekbones high, hair long and of the
richest copper tones imaginable, body —clothed in a long dress of jade
denim— slim and lithe and carried with understandable pride. She appeared
as one in her mid-twenties, but Cugel knew she had never been recorded
otherwise since her first witnessed visit to the valley. Most felt that on the
day of her birth the Old Sun would have been a notably less spotted and
yellower star.
Though
not quite a run, her step was hardly slow, and the giantess rapidly covered the
farmland between her and the villages. And then, huge yet strikingly
proportional frame eclipsing the sun from Priaps and Ithyphalions alike, she
halted before them. Towering ever up, a foot planted securely on either side of
the river, she surveyed what each village offered for her carnal delight.
A
fissure-like frown creased her forehead as she looked upon the Priaps’ unfinished
efforts — which disappeared upon sight of Cugel’s spire. For the
first time in written history, she let out a giant moan of anticipation.
With
one stride she scattered the flock of Voyeur Birds, with another, the spire was
lost beneath the folds of her denim dress. She bent her knees slightly, her
eyes lidded. She rocked gently to and fro. Then, barely controlling her shaking
limbs she squatted further to allow the blissful penetration.
She
moaned again in obvious ecstasy, and began to grunt deafeningly as she settled
into a regular squat/ rise motion. The crowd cheered; the Voyeur Birds flew
crazy acrobatics around her hips. Cugel was raised upon the shoulders of Jofuul
and Kaleen to bask in the adulation the villagers poured upon him...
...In
the next instant all had their hands to their ears, the Voyeur Birds scattered
towards the valley’s walls, and windows and lamps shattered in both
villages. Cugel was dropped unceremoniously to the ground.
The
giantess was screaming.
The
sound was unbearable, rising into a roar of pain and fury. She rose abruptly
from the spire and stepped aside. Roaring her wordless pain, she looked
incredulously at what had been the object of utmost pleasure.
There,
in the puce rays of old, setting Sol, Cugel’s spire glinted not with the
glorious amber of the giantess’ lubricating fluids, but with smears of
deepest red that trickled slowly down from what had been teasing bumps and
tickling nodules, but were now clusters of tiny metallic spikes.
She
stopped screaming. For full seconds, all was silence. The crowd looked from
spire to giantess, giantess to spire. She herself stared fixedly at the dildo
and her blood already congealing on its spined shaft and glans. Her heavy
breath drew in and out rapidly. All watched as her hands moved slowly to her
crotch to gently press. All winced in sympathy as she herself winced in renewed
pain.
And
then all ran for their lives as the viciously wronged leviathan gave full vent
to her rage.
With one
super-powerful push, the spire was snapped in two. A short leap and she was
amongst the buildings of Ithyphal. Walls were kicked away, roofs torn and inner
floors punched through. Handfuls of villagers and tourists alike were dashed
against the ground. A cloud of dust rose into the air, obscuring the nearly set
sun, and still her anger was not sated she stamped and crushed and punched,
intent on raising the village to the ground.
Cugel
ran with the others, knowing all the time that, were he not first caught up in
the giantess’ hand and powered back into the ground, he would surely be
buried beneath falling masonry. An instinctive thought entered his brain. He
knew of only one potentially safe place. He stopped running.
A dromond-sized
foot thundered down behind him on the urethral street, the hem of the
giantess’ dress swept by in a cloud of near-blinding grit. A quick,
bent-kneed dash and a nimble hop, and Cugel was clambering up as quick as his
arms could pull. He reached her hip and there paused, wrapping himself as best
he could in the heavy denim. He surveyed the destruction (still meted out
without sign of abatement). Hardly anything remained now but rubble and
corpses. Ithyphal was utterly destroyed.
There
came a shout, and Cugel looked up. There, hanging in much the same fashion as himself
was Jofuul, white and grey with plaster and dust.
“How
goes it, Good Cugel?” he asked, with a poor effort at joviality.
Cugel
could not reply, his mind would not properly process events.
“Hold
on, my friend, her anger still mounts, and Priapus remains standing. This
atrocity has yet to be properly accounted for, I think.”
Jofuul
was correct. Kicking through the scrotum orchards as if through grass, the
giantess bellowed her continuing fury. With three strides she crossed the river
and laid Priapus to waste. Cugel and Jofuul could only watch the repeated
destruction and slaughter, both willing their maddened steed to calm herself
before the demolition and genocide was complete.
It
was not to be. Only when Priapus and its denizens were as those of Ithyphal did
she cease her raving to breathe deeply for a time. Then she strode off; unaware
of the two passengers suspended from the dress at her hips, towards the rich
spilt wine of sunset.
[*] Cugel would have preferred to use the statement “dead” in concern with Iucounu, however past association and the uncertain circumstance of the magician’s disappearance prohibited such surety. For Iucounu the Laughing Magician no joke could be carried too far.
[†] Hair which, even after the magically-acquired attentions of some of the greatest coiffeurs in history, nevertheless remained quite lank.
[‡] A few villagers attempted to dislodge these feathered visitors. However, such was the nonchalance with which their efforts were ignored or gracefully avoided that they were quickly dissuaded and came instead to regard the birds with amused respect.
[§] On a whim, a sample of the giantess’ ornithological vanguard, christened Voyeur Birds, was slaughtered for consumption. Though most found the resulting roasts rancid, a few declared the birds “distinctive” and “unusually palatable,” and persuaded respectable restaurants of neighbouring settlements to include them on their menus. Most, however, were content to leave the birds to their share of the giantess’ bounty.
[**] A colloquialism.