Harry Cavendish (2 page)

‘Hi!’ said the cow, picking herself up from the floor.

‘Hi!’ said Cormack.

She looked slimy and red, as though she were wearing an afterbirth, and immediately began to lick herself all over to make herself more presentable.

When she was clean, she was mostly black with some white spots, and exactly the same as an Earth cow, resembling most closely a Fresian.

‘So what are you in for?’ said the cow eventually.

‘Why is everybody asking me that?’ said Cormack.

‘Something to hide? Anyway,’ said the cow, adjusting herself on the cell floor and finding her bearings well enough to stand up. ‘Pleased to be meeting you.’

‘I’m Cormack,’ said Cormack.

‘And I’m a Zargonic cow,’ said the cow. ‘I’m one of the Pantheistic Syllogists. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Pantheistic Syllogists?’ said Cormack.

‘Yes. Pantheistic Syllogists,’ said the cow. ‘Have you heard of us? In your little backwoods corner of the Universe? The Pantheistic Syllogists?’

She was fully recovered from her fall from the ceiling, and was strutting about now, cockily thought Cormack, making a small circle of the cell.

‘Can’t say that I have…’

‘Only the most desperate and committed band of desperados and freethinkers in the entire known Universe. That’s why they’re trying to stamp us out, innit?’

‘It is?’

‘Yeah – me and my friends - the other cows.’

‘You’re all cows?’

‘Not all cows. But my chapter is cows.’

‘And they’re coming to get you?’

‘The Zargons. Yeah. They’re coming for us. One by one. They come to our pasture, where we has our meetings… meetings is mostly Tuesdays. That’s when we discusses stuff the most. Pantheistic syllogisms mostly. But could be most anything. We free-for-all after five o’clock. Anyway, theys come for us. “Here pretty, pretty cow,” they says. “Here pretty, pretty cow and come with us.” Some of them does have straw in their hands. Big, bunches of freshly mown straw. “Here pretty, pretty cow,” them does say.

“Take the straw. Take the lovely straw.” And, you know, that straw does be so tempting that we does go with them. And we does forget our pantheistic syllogisms, and our discussions, and they does carry us all the way to the slaughterhouse to slit our throats and make steaks from our buttocks.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. That’s why I’m here. Having a dangerous discussion, I was. I was affirming a disjunct in the style of modus tollendo ponens. Was affirming it to Desmond, I was - Desmond’s another cow. And that’s when they came: “Here pretty, pretty cow. Here pretty, pretty cow.” Freshly mown straw, it was. Smelt like heaven.

‘Now, I says to Desmond. The first premise is pantheistic in that it asserts God moves through nature, and is one with nature, and nature and God are the same thing, and the second premise must be opposed to that one, and the two must form the only possible alternatives, so that we can affirm the disjunct classically. Hence, I need a second premise along the lines of, ooh… I says, now here’s where it gets tricky – maybe God being a Zargon… Now, Desmond wasn’t happy with that premise at all, quite rightly, because the two premises together don’t represent the only possible alternatives… And that’s when they started: “Here pretty, pretty cow. Here pretty, pretty cow”…with the rustling of the straw. To stop the dangerous conversation. The syllogisms, you understand. And they led me far, far I tell you, Cormack. It is Cormack, isn’t it? With their wicked straw and vigorous rustling. Right into the mouth of a Zargonic Prison Whale. And here I is. With you. That last part - coming through the stomach lining up there. That was not pleasant I can tell you.’

Cormack listened to more in the same vein for a while, and went back to sitting on the floor with his head in his hands.

The Emperor of the Zargons was now at his bath, lying in the topmost tub of a cascade of tubs in the vast Imperial Bathroom that stretched a full five hundred yards along a flank of the Imperial Palace. The water was very hot, steaming like a bouillabaisse, and filled with unguents and crystals and perfumes and salts.

He was enjoying himself hugely, scouring his back with a loafer and singing folk songs to the silent hive-mind.

It was one of his great pleasures to come here and bathe. His office was burdensome, the people that surrounded him tiresome, the great duties and responsibilities of State hung on him heavily, but in the Imperial Tub he could relax and be at one with nature, nude and utterly alone, excepting his throat cable and his hive-mind.

The mind was within its box, perched besides him, buzzing fearfully, frightened of electrocution.

‘Don’t pull so hard on the cable now, Sire,’ the million nano-bots said. ‘If our box were to fall into your tub, the results would be catastrophic.’

‘You would blow up.’

‘And you would be electrocuted.’

He continued his song but with less vigour now, the hive-mind having disturbed his good mood.

After some exaggerated movements with the loafer, so as to confuse the hive-mind into thinking he might snag the throat cable, he rose with a sigh from the tub and rubbed down the small Imperial Personage with the small Imperial Towel he had left on the floor earlier. When he was dried, he pulled on his purple stockings, the Imperial Codpiece modelled for a conch shell that hid a winkle, the long robes of green and gold - the vain trappings of State, as they seemed to him now, in his forty-eighth year - mere baubles and rags.

His mind, or at least the part of it that he controlled, returned with displeasure to the serious matters of State.

‘What have we done with that McFadden creature?’ he said at last. The thing had been bothering him.

He was so excited that someone else had got a message from God, a confirmation of his sanity as it were, and then, when the McFadden creature hadn’t talked, it was so disappointing.

‘He is in the Prison Whale.’

‘Is he talking?’

‘Only to the cow.’

‘There’s a cow?’

‘The Prison Whale insisted on consuming a cow as a complement to the main course. We had to comply.

The Whale has such a sensitive digestion and is so gigantic. We didn’t want it to break from its moorings.’

‘I did so want to hear what God had told the McFadden creature.’

‘Yes, I did too. We all did. Always good to hear from God. And the burn on the McFadden creature resembles exactly the mark that is mentioned in the Ancient Texts, Sire.’

‘So he could be the one?’

‘It is best not to take chances. If word were to get out, it might cause us problems.’

‘We must kill him then. But torture him first. Make him talk. Do you think a Prison Whale is really up to the task? They’re such dreadfully slow-witted creatures.’

‘You yourself commanded he be eaten, Sire.’

‘I did? Well, I’ve changed my mind.’

‘To what, Sire?’

‘Quite like to torture him myself,’ said the Emperor, floating the suggestion quietly, and it hung in the air for a little while as though it were contained in a soap bubble blown from his mouth, until the hive-mind got a grip and said, ‘But how would we get him out alive, Sire? Nobody has ever been removed from a Prison Whale alive before.’

‘Let’s ask the Whale for a favour,’ said the Emperor.

‘I’m not going anywhere without the cow,’ said Cormack.

‘You know this is not going to be very pleasant for me either,’ said the Prison Whale. ‘I am almost certain to die from a gastric rupture with you half way down my lower intestine. But orders from the Emperor are one thing, and orders from my organization quite another. And I have confirming orders from my organisation.’

‘The cow cannot stay here. If I have to go, she is coming with me.’

‘Why, thankee,’ said the cow. ‘We have only met for such a short time, and you does be so pleasant and warm toward me, innit.’

‘I have come to think of you as a friend,’ said Cormack. ‘In spite of your udders, and your stupidity, and the other differences between us. I will not leave without you.’

‘Why, thankee,’ said the cow again. ‘You does be so pleasant and warm toward me, innit.’

She started rubbing her pale, bony flank against Cormack’s leg.

‘You know, one does one’s level best as a prison whale,’ said the Prison Whale, his voice as loud as ever but now with a tremulous overtone. ‘One ingests and digests, and really one is doing an awful lot of the Zargons’ dirty work for them, and one tries to maintain a positive mental attitude throughout the whole disgusting business, keep the whole act going, you know: the barking out of the commands, the military bearing, the contempt for the clientele. One tries to do it all with a very real conviction, and it really can be a lot to ask, to act in that dignified manner, whilst performing the whole messy, confused and painful process of the actual administration of justice, far removed from your lawyering and your soliciting and your judging; and in spite of it all, being a prison whale can be a rewarding life…and to die like this, like a goat who’s swallowed knicker elastic – damned undignified! A rotten end to a distinguished career!

‘However, orders is orders.

‘I will erupt you, and your friend, the cow, through my lower intestine, explode you from my backside, and suffer the consequences.

‘May God spare your insufferable little lives and may He have mercy on my poor, benighted soul.’

And so saying, the Prison Whale distended its stomach in one almighty flatulation, and Cormack fell to the floor and felt himself being slimed from above and below and the side as well, and there was an roar as though a jetliner were passing close to the side of his head, and then, thankfully, all went black until he woke up on the floor of a vast ice-lake in the Sumerian district of the state of Palanka, Zargon 8, and saw his friend the cow standing strong amidst the ruptured entrails of the dying Prison Whale, which had been dragged onto the ice from its berth in the sea and was howling and moaning and writhing in its agony.

***

‘Leave the cow!’ said the largest and closest of the eight Zargonic Guards. ‘In fact, where the hell did the cow come from? It’s him we want,’ he said, pointing at Cormack.

Cormack was flat on the ice.

The Prison Whale was still in its death throes, thrashing about on its side and spilling a vast pool of blood all around Cormack and the cow, making it hard for the Zargons to get close.

‘Don’t you worry,’ said the cow to Cormack. ‘See there!’ She was pointing to a point on the horizon where Cormack could make out nothing except small twiggy trees that formed a spiky halo around a pool of water. ‘Pantheistic Syllogists!’

Cormack looked closely and thought he could make out a single cow.

‘Get back from the cow!’ said the leader of the Zargonic Guard.

‘Have no truck with the cow!’ said Cormack angrily.

‘We have orders to take you to our Emperor.’

‘I will come quietly. With my friend the cow.’

‘I say,’ said the cow. ‘You does be so kind to me. I really does appreciate it.’

The Guard approached the pair of them, but backed away a little when he caught a whiff of the stench that surrounded them.

‘Guards!’ he shouted to a group of men around him. ‘Arrest the prisoners!’

The Guards made to go forward, but as they did there came an almighty trembling and a rushing of wind, and it was as though the horizon had blurred and shattered and become a wave, rolling out across the splintered ice.

‘The final flatulation of the Prison Whale!’ shouted Cormack to the cow. ‘It’s now or never! Come on, cow!’

Cormack jumped on the cow’s back and pumped her thighs with his ankles.

‘Well, well I never!’ said the cow. ‘Never in all my years!’

‘Move cow!’ said Cormack.

‘Well, I never…’ repeated the cow, still not moving.

‘Let us get out of here!’ shouted Cormack

‘Not so hard with the ankles,’ said the cow.

The Captain of the Zargonic Guard sucked in icy breaths and watched the performance for a while: the boy on the cow; the cow standing still and transfixed in a kind of ecstasy; the boy kicking the cow; the cow cooing soft moos; the boy beating the cow in frustration; the cow panting hard. And when he could bear it no longer, he reached for Cormack, handcuffed him, and led him into the small spacecraft that was prepared for them.

They didn’t bother restraining Cormack in the spaceship, there being little he could do by way of escape, but the cow they were more wary of. The Guards had identified her as something malevolent, and, much to her protestations, they confined her in a section of the hold right at the back, near the escape hatch.

Cormack had been given special treatment and was dressed in a grey jumpsuit and given boots to wear.

He sat towards the front of the main bridge, in a huge commander-style chair, tempted to bark orders and play with the consoles.

The Captain of the Guard sat opposite on a similar chair.

His name was Proton, and, shed of his enormous rubberized armour, he was surprisingly affable. He sat with his legs lifted on the console, a glass in his hand, wiggling it so that the ice made a merry chink.

He was a Zargon, which is to say a human, perhaps forty years old, with close-cropped brown hair, flecked with grey, and a small military-style moustache. His eyes were distant and glazed, focused on something far behind Cormack’s head.

‘Care for a drink?’ he said. ‘Cormack, isn’t it? Mind if I call you, Cormack?’

Cormack said he didn’t, and he wouldn’t mind a water, which Proton ordered from the galley.

‘Only water? Nothing stronger? Shouldn’t really myself, of course, especially not on duty.’ He had a pleasant tone to his voice, Cormack thought. Confidential. A bedside manner.

‘Hell of a day though,’ he continued. ‘Needed a little snifter. You know, sometimes you’ve got to bend the rules to suit the occasion. Are you sure you’re OK, though? Expect you really want one too. It’s quite all right. Would appreciate the company.’

‘No, no. I’m fine,’ said Cormack.