The Sleep of Bagpuss and other Stories

Asmodeus and Solomon

The Sport of my Mad Mother

I knew my mother loved me because when she caught me smoking she whacked me on the head, but took the fag out of her mouth first

Woody Strode at the Grave of John  Wayne

Woody was the last mourner to leave John Wayne's grave. Some kids watched him from a distance.  He was the main  attraction for them, a big guy, a Captain  Buffalo made immortal by John  Ford. A big man, respected and respectful.

Kit and the Captive

Rob Roy at Sherrifmuir

The Birthday Party 

My dear Claudia, dearest sister!

I shall be delighted to come to your birthday party.  My husband sends his greetings to you and your dear loved one    - who I am sure knows already that my busy man  will not be coming as he has business in Luguvallium. We must also go there at some point , you and I - then we can tell our friends we have seen the most northern town in the Empire! Some Pictish traders have just brought in a fine pair of bears for the Colloseum - much excitement.  Not so common these brutes nowadays - nor the bears!

What else?

 Before I forget, I saw that annoying slave girl you turned into cash outside the brothel owned by that Freedman scoundrel Trimalchio, she  was standing by the burial pit in tears,  no doubt having just laid one of her own there.  

Must go. We shall be together soon my dear. 

Her arms, so soft and long.

War and welcoming as Isis herself, 

Queen of the Morning Star and all wandering planets

Flavius says I write in jerks like Seneca which made me blush! He will be calling me a stoic next!

Your Loving Sister

Descending to the Platform, Kelvinbridge

Lucky moi, I am one of the disabled people of Glasgow who have to use one of the most disabled-unfriendly subway systems in the world.

The last flight down to the platform, oh my goodness. The Outer Line just disgorged its contents so I paused at the top, accepting the rueful commuter smiles and shrugs with my usual quiet grace.

For some reason, The Waste Land popped into my nut.

I called out - 'Stetson! You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!'

But answer came there none. It was a long time ago, after all.

Leonidas at the Hot Gates

"Yes that's my effing head over there. The Purrsian Poofs thought it would be  a good joke sticking me on a pole on  the road to Athens

The difference with them  taking it up the arse and us you say? They enjoy it, mate. They like it up 'em!"

The Bell

The man tied  his boat to the island's landing post. It was once thought the island had been used for burials for  centuries but this was not the case. The first burials were in the 18th century, for the Cameron chiefs and their favoured enforcers only. During the Iron Age  the island  belonged to the Smertean tribe, who burned their dead on the island, casting the ashes into the water.  Other Caledonian tribes avoided the loch - the Smerteans were slavers, and also regarded as uncanny folk, a tribe touched with madness. The lowest goat boy was a superior being to any Lowlander hero. They built brochs for attack bases, not as refuges. Two of them survive, the Glenelg brochs, now some distance from the sea, but in the Iron Age, they were pirate strongholds, haunting the Sound of Raasay like watchtowers on full alert.

The island held, within a small grove, an altar made of bog oak with a hand bell chained to it. Antiquarians had long admired the bell, which was thought to be of Roman origin, and indeed it had been taken from a  Roman war galley wrecked on Skye.

The galley had been part of an exploratory mission round Caledonia, to see if there was anything on the fringes of this scabrous land worth trading for; but there was nothing except pirates and fishermen, often the same people. 

(Caledonia had been a useful source for bears for the insatiable Roman arenas which had already swallowed the megafauna of North Africa, and were brought to the Wall by trappers. But the bears were fewer these days.)

The galley was unlucky. It became isolated during a storm and was wrecked, with all drowning. The Smerteans picked over the corpses, mutilating what was left of the decaying flesh of a lone body, and took what they could salvage, including the galley bell.

It was the bell which had brought the man here. He intended to steal the bell and he had brought bolt cutters to break the chain which held it to the altar.

The chain broke easily. The man placed the bell carefully in his padded rucksack and went back to his boat. It had all gone so easily. He watched a ripple on the loch  about 20 yards out. The locals maintained that the loch had its own weather system, funneling wind and rain from one end to the other. 

The man pushed off. As with most other big lochs, there were old stories about a water horse - an each uisge - that inhabited its depths and ate unwary travellers. But as with Loch Ness, nothing corporeal, apart from fish (some big eels admittedly), had ever been found. 

So it was some degree of shock that, as  the boat came aground, the  man turned and saw sitting behind him the Guardian of the bell, its arms stretching out six feet over the loch each side,  the webbed fingers inviting  him to his final embrace, its face shining and wet and terrible.

The Visitors

I had pneumonia in 2020. The wife, with some difficulty, persuaded an ambulance to come ('You don't understand - he is never ill').

The hallucinations began while I was parked on a ground floor trolley facing a  hospital corridor. The corridor walls were in sharp planes pointing down. I realised that if I could get over there and look down I could see to the centre of the earth.

I fell asleep and came to in a room hooked up to all sorts of stuff and a nice doctor wearing a red dot mask telling me that I had pneumonia and my infection levels were high, indicating that I may have TB also. He placed a red dot mask on the chair, explaining that I should put it on when anyone came in or I got up.

This all made perfect sense to me,  and also to the apparition who rose through the floor beside him, nodding wisely.

These hallucinations are not unusual with pneumonia - mine divided into two camps, those that rose through the floor like my first one and seemed to be aware of my presence and those that walked through the walls and seemed totally unaware of me.

I called them The Visitors. I tried reading extracts from that gnostic masterpiece  Blood Meridian to them -

 '"At night the wolves in the dark forests of the world below called to them as if they were friends to man and Glanton’s dog trotted moaning among the endlessly articulating legs of the horses.”

but no reaction. There was a crack in the wall opposite my bed extending from the ceiling to the corner of the door. Occasionally a little face would appear above the crack, but like all the wall people seemed unaware of me.

[insert pic]

 At the time, I could see the faces of all the Visitors  clearly, but strangely they seem to have faded with time - their faces are now cloudy and grey, featureless, like Melanchthon's personal devils in Hell in the Borges story.

Did I tell you I have a djinn? It was given to me by a Dublin Sufi (don't laugh, this is not funny) who also told me something that spooked me, as I had been told the same thing by a spiritualist several years before - that I was under no protection but that my enemies would suffer. 

(It only occurredto me later that this onbservtaion  because of course who is under protection, and who does not suffer?)

I pointed out I was not a Muslim, but she said that made no difference to the djinn as we are all born Muslim and djinn don't really care much anyway. 'They don't give a djamn', she said, spelling out 'djamm'. Like many mystics she had an awful sense of humour.

(I have only seen my djinn clearly once, dancing in the glittering wake of the Mallaig-Armadale ferry. It was beautiful, vaguely human in form and seemed to be made of crushed winter sun.)

Annoyingly, it didn't interact with the Visitors at all, though one emerging through the floor bowed to my right side, where I feel it sit sometimes. 

We all have company we never asked for, of course. Oh and you over there, my sad stalker, reading every word I write, I will not tell you what is sitting at the foot of your bed as you face another sleepless night.

Borges in Edinburgh

Jorge Luis Borges once visited the poet Alastair Reid in Edinburgh. Unfortunately, the person answering the door made the mistake of asking Borges who he was, always a difficult question for Borges. 

The door is still there. You may walk up to the door, pause and smell perhaps pampas grass, see the man who wrote Don Quixote word for word and created a new novel, hear God tell Borges who he is and who Shakespeare was. 

But really, you had much better move on, for this is the city of Deacon Brodie, Stevenson's model for Jekyll and Hyde, and a chill wind is coming down the street.

The Sleep of Bagpuss

'Bagpuss, It is time', said Emily. 'Wake now, Great One'.

Bagpuss stirred and yawned.

'Again? It seems like only yesterday I awoke'

'Come. Come see how the mice are, Lord.'

So Bagpuss looked at the mice for several millennia and said 'My goodness, they are tiring little creatures, always making things that fall apart and they build them again. And always gay!'

Emily, wandering in the gardens  of space and time, heard Bagpuss and came back to his side.

'You are quoting Yeats again, Lord. Spare me the gyres.'

'But you know I like mouse poetry, my dear.'

Emily knows.  Her eyes are full of stars.

For Bagpuss is Brahm, and Emily is Kali, and all shall be changed when Brahm wakes again. And what worlds does Brahm dream into being? What can it be but Us, and This? 

THE MESSY MISSION OF WALTER THE WULVER

Walter the wulver lived in a grassy mound on the largest Shetland island, Mainland. He had lived there for centuries, and like all wulvers, had no issues with humans, which is perhaps surprising as Shetland wulvers are a species of werewolf. Far from preying on humans, however,  wulvers actually left food at the doors of poor Shetlanders. They were regarded by other werewolves as pretty weird.

When the realm of Faery decided to normalise relations with the human inhabitants of Albion back in 1963, wulvers were naturally to the forefront of the Great Reconcilation, as a Brownie chieftain rather pompously described it.

So, when a Robin Redcap was discovered wandering in a discombulated state on the island by the local postwoman, Effie, she quite naturally took the creature to Walter, who met them outside his house.

'How did you get to Shetland sir?' said Walter.

'I have no idea. I fell asleep in the old Roman fort at Ravenglass and woke up here.  Some wizard's idea of a practical joke I suppose.'

'I see. Do you know many wizards?'

'I used to work for one back in the day, oh hundreds of years ago. Sir William de Soulis he was called. The neighbours came for him in the end, with pitchforks and torches. I took to the Lowther hills, had a wee bolt hole above the Roman fortlet at Durisdeer. Moira Shearer is buried a few yards away, we often chatted. Red Cap and Red Shoes, eh?

[insert pic]
'I see' said Walter. Robin Redcaps were trouble, and had to be escorted to the Redcap Rehabilitation Refuge way down in the haunted land of Dagenham. 

'I'l leave you two to get acquainted', said Effie, as she retreated, blowing Walter a most unprofessional  kiss (Effie and Walter belonged to different realms and he was many hundreds of  years older but  were fond of each other, and as the Firbolg of Finisterre observed, nothing wrong with that, mate.  Indeed, apart from the age difference, perhaps not that different from some human/human relationships)

'Come inside', said Walter ushering the Redcap in and seating him by the window (which Walter had never quite got used to, but nonetheless appreciated as an act of kindness from the Lib Dem Shetland Council). 'Can I get you anything to eat, or drink?'

'Do you have a rabbit?'

'I only eat fish, fruit and vegetables'.

'Oh. Oh well'

'I can offer you some dried cod. My cousin in Iceland brought me some a few weeks ago, along with dried, buried shark, which was truly abominable, threw it out.  And of course I have oatmeal.'

The Redcap shuddered. 'The dried cod please. Food for the gods, if not for the cods, eh?' (Redcaps loved puns, not the biggest reason for fearing them, but certainly a perfectly valid one).

They caught the mail boat to Inverness where they boarded the London train. The Railway Guard examined Robin with polite concern.  'Is the Redcap with you sir? I assume you have it under some sort of compulsion or geas?'

'Dont worry', said Walter. 'He will cause no trouble'

'I am perfectly safe', said Robin, flashing his shiny white teeth. 'These days I mostly eat vegan food, from Wheatrose and Bestco', he giggled.

There were not many Redcaps in Albion. It was gossiped in Faery that most had decanted to a more accomodating neighbouring dimension, possibly the water horse realm, which had quite a permeable border (leading to some long-term interdimensional confusion at Loch Ness).

The journey down through North Albion was uneventful, though when they reached the Border (the ancient Debatable Land between North and South Albion) Robin got restless - this was, after all, traditional Redcap territory. The first Redcaps had preceded humans across Doggerland  after the glaciers retreated and had reached Albion somewhere around Berwick way.


Do you know the story of the gay unicorn and the princess? said the Redcap,  drumming his claw-like fingers on the table

'Of course. There are several versions I believe'.

'I know the true version (this delivered with a grin).'

'Please do keep it to yourself, sir.'

'I got it from Sir William, and whispered it one day in a passing breeze to Sir Walter Scott, as he walked the Eildon Hills. Quite disturbed him when I got to the end.  Went home and slept uneasily and said to his daughter something had disagreed with him, and he was right. It was me.'

After some diversions they finally arrived at Dagenham. (Dagenham is a place of old magic, and  uncovenanted powers, and  diversions to this uncanny place are normal).

Here the ancient Forest of Hainult, one of the great woods of Europe, haunted by Wild Hunts and such creatures as the Black Shuck, had been making a comeback since the 1960s

A few miles from the railway station, our travellers found themselves standing by what looked like an industrial estate, with what looked like a manor house, rather incongruosly attached. This was their destination - the Redcap Rehabilitation Refuge. 

They looked at the Information board. 

'Oh my, they are going to put on a show, 'Wacky Wedcap Waces', shuddered Robin - who suddenly said 'Oh no,and then disappeared in a puff of smoke. To Walter's astonishment, a young human woman emerged, coughing fit to burst.

'Oh god', she said, 'the spell is broken. My apologies for using you like this, Walter. I should, indeed must, explain. My name is Betty Brunskill and I am not really a redcap. I write exposes for the Guardian. I am here to write about what really goes on in The Redcap Rehabilitation Refuge.'


And what does go on in the RRR,I hear you say, Dear Reader! Well, that is
TO BE CONTINUED

And Burbled as It Came

The boy was lost in the dark wood. He had found the Tree of Heads (two of them fresh, he noted) but had followed the wrong branch of the Green Stream into a meadow with blood-red flowers.

The meadows were exposed, not a place to linger. He retraced his steps, resting his left hand on the pommel of his sword, as he passed a large and ancient grave - obviously of one of the Early Men,  the fabled ancestors who lived beside and fought the creatures of the woods and meadows.

He came to the point where the stream bisected, cursed his carelessness at reading the signs - there was, marvellous to relate, an actual arrow painted on a rock - and walked on. The deed had to be done quickly. Making your way back out of the forest as the darkness closed in would be an unchancy business

The forest stretched from the Ice Sea in the north, to the white cliffs overlooking the thin strip of Fog Water from Doggerland, its dominance punctuated by mountains and meadows

And there it was:  the path opening out, a sound of whiffling, then the eyes of green flame, and the Jabberwock burbled as it came.

The Kirk Memsahib

Here she comes, her eyes missing little as they sweep the street. She gives you a friendly greeting, eyeing you up and down for an amusing anecdote for her creepy peers.

They are in all religions of course, ventilating their frustrations on the weak, and will be with us until the ground opens and swallows them.

Two pigeons land beside us, canoodling.

'Vermin', she hisses, her eyepits alive with the hate and joy with which she watched poor Janet Horne burn in Dornoch in 1727. Westminster shortly after passed the 1735 Witchcraft Act, which, as the Kirk protested, prevented God's servants from burning God's enemies.

A local man, it is said, afflicted by pity, saved Janet's disabled daughter from the waiting flames, thus attracting the wrath of the god botherers. They would love that power back. Beware.

A Romantic night in Paris

Well it was all ending much as he had hoped, he was in bed with a beautiful woman he had met just a few hours ago.

He was about to comment on the light being left on, and banter about switching off, when  he remembered - 'I know this story!

'Do you my dear?'

Yes -Le Fanu isn't it? You stretch out your arm across the room and switch the light off!

'Ah we have a different ending this time, cherie'

And good god, it was different.

The Disaffected Pharmacist

'Hot out there, my friend'

'Too hot for me'

'Well walk in the shade, then'

'I expect I will;

- I got to the door, but could still hear him, warbling away in the back.

'Walk in the shade, then'

The Local Bulls

The Shinty team have  their own pub table, at which they sit and drink, boasting to each other of their fabulous (in all senses) exploits. Their women have the table next to them, drinking soft drinks.  They are there to drive the drunks home. And play at engaging each other in conversation.

I see two of the men later, rolling on a kitchen floor in a mock fight, What they really want, of course, is to stick their tongues down each other's throats But they cannot and their grief is palpable.

Nelson Mandela finds a misprint in Macbeth

Nelson Mandela yawned and farted. He derived great comfort from the disguised Shakespeare here on Robben Island. (In the years to come his future great friend Queen Elizabeth, with her customary fine perception, will describe Mandela as 'that most gracious of men'. But that will be then. This is now.

(Elizabeth herself liked fart jokes and was fond of the apocryphal story that had her apologising to Mugabe when a horse farted in his face,  with Mugabe responding ' It's quite all right, I thought it was the horse, ma'am'.

Anyway.

Mandela rubbed his eyes, looked away from the page for five seconds, then lookd back. Goodness,  it  was still there.

Doctor. [Aside] Were I from Duninsane away and clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here.

[insert pic of Robben Island Bible]

No doubt about it, the text said 'Duninsane', not 'Dunsinane'.

He checked the imprint page. This was an Indian printing of the Collins Alexander text. 'Bugger' he thought. 'When I get out of here...'

The Narbonne Gate

I heard him before I saw him, quite a shock I say, playing Hava Nagila on his wretched accordion, a tune I had last heard played some months back by another Roma busker, in Byres Rd. 

He was standing beside the Narbonne Gate, smiling at all who passed. I would guess he was not the first Roma to play Carcassonne, a city that must have seen many gifted troubadours and trouveres, of whatever caste or clan. And many not so gifted of course.

I thought of Girault de Bornelh for some reason, wonderedi f he had been before the gate in his unchancy Plantagenet time - 'And soon it will be dawn. ' Reis glorios indeed.

I will enter the Gate soon, give the Roma some Euros and a condescending smile. But now I am taken with the view of the Massif Central, a thin trail of smoke feom a village, perhaps a village where the maquis and the local Protestants  once sheltered Jews in WWII. Much consumable history, hereabouts.

The Roma guy smiles at me. He knows how quickly it can change. We are all subjects of the Princes of Outremer. High on the wall, I can see the patchwork of Roman bricks catch the sun.

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