The Cutlers of The Howling Hills
Michael Summers
A Tale of Cutlery, Toads and Epic Poetry
Copyright 2014 Michael Summers
1st Ebook Edition
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Chapter 1 - A Page
A wilderness is a page. On this page there are hilltops, green and hunched over cold rock, arching up into the morning light. Rolling under the dawn sky, the hilltops hold a town, and in this town there are a thousand half-souls. Life is as hard as it is short, as short as the hobbled forms that tilt against the wind and brace out onto the rubble-cobbled streets. There is the steam of morning kettles, the mourning for another day, the first cigarette. And here, in the breakfast hours, life really starts to bite. People look out their windows and wonder what the weather may bring.
On the last page you will find out.
Chapter 2 - St. Collywobble's
Far away from the town, high upon the Howling Hills, the wind hit the walls of St. Collywobble's and rose to cry hag-like over the slates and chimneys of its rooftops. The monastery was built on the principle that bricks were like people: filigree was weakness and to be avoided at all costs. So each block was sturdy and precise, laid out in a simple rectangle and buttressed against the foul winds by sturdy limbs of sandstone.
In a cell, on a plain bed of bare wood, lay Bulkington. His was a slight, almost shrivelled form, hewn by early mornings and a spare diet into something reminiscent of a scarecrow. His clothes were large and empty-seeming, barely held together save for darning thread - a meagre defence against the elements. With cheeks that were hollow and a brow wrinkled in a pious way, he looked as though a natural intelligence had some time ago petered out in him; under his eyes there were bags full of weariness and his neck seemed to be losing a fight with gravity.
Bulkington's spiritual constitution, like that of the monastery, was built on simple and strong principles; he was, to the roots of his soul, a good man. Yet at this moment, as the sky rushed with the first whisper of dawn, Bulkington was feeling angry. Through the half-dark of the small, austere cell he looked across to the shelf above his reading desk, to the small, bulbous form that perched there with an air of grimness and solemnity. The first rays of the rising sun cut through the single window, which was aligned to catch the light of dawn. The sunlight hit the brickwork of the far wall and crept up, up over the skirting board, over the furrowed, damp-pitted stone, over the flocs of algae and moss, over the woodwork of the desk that stood short and stock against the wall, and over the illuminated, immaculate manuscript that was open on Bulkington's favourite chapter. And further up the wall the sunbeams crept, until they illuminated something less immaculate, something cobbled from nodules of slime and unctuous rolls of green flesh. As the sunlight hit this terrible creature, its eyes grew wide, swivelled around the room, and its mouth opened and closed.
Each cell had a toad. Bulkington stood up, walked over to the basin in the corner and washed. He looked out of the window for a moment, out across the valleys, to the distant sunrise. Then he pulled on his cassock and sat down at his desk. He stared at the text before him, eyes only half focused. It was always like this when he first went to read the texts. His mind was not sharp. And then, like clockwork, the Collywobbler Toad landed with a gelatinous flop onto the desk. Its neck pulsated and it crawled across to sit in front of Bulkington, eying the text. Then, deep down in its throat, it started to hum. The sound grew louder and louder, until it seemed that the walls pulsed with it. The familiar sickness grew in Bulkington's stomach, for the Collywobbler's chant was well known to induce the most unpleasant feeling of nausea in all who heard it. So it was that Bulkinton's eyes fell queasily upon the writing before him and thus began this and every day's reading. Bulkington loved to read.
At midday Bulkington filed along the shadow-pooled corridor to the refectory and sat silently at his place. To say that the refectory was crowded would be misleading; there were many monks in the refectory, all lined up in neat rows at long, wooden tables, but each sat alone in a pool of silence. At each place lay a bowl of gruel, filling the room with a smell like damp cardboard, and at each place there was a single, dull-metal spoon. At least that was how things should be. How they had been for the past thirty years. Only now, there was no spoon at Bulkington's place. He looked around helplessly, but the bell rang and those around him wordlessly conveyed the gruel to their mouths. Bulkington sat miserably, and when the bell rang again he was just as hungry as ever. He stood up and turned to leave, but found himself face to face with the Abbot, who smiled beatifically.
"Not hungry?" said the Abbot. He was a man who seemed to have been chiselled out of marble, for his skin had a bloodless sheen to it and his features a certain kind of statuesque solidity. His expressions were controlled to the point at which they were completely autonomous from any true emotion that still lingered behind his deep, dark, grey eyes.
Bulkington lowered his head.
"Don't worry," said the Abbot. He produced an apple from the folds of his habit and offered it to Bulkington. "Take it," said the Abbot.
Bulkington boggled and put the apple in his pocket. Before it disappeared amongst the coarse folds of cloth he noticed that it was dappled red and green in a way that was beyond appetizing. He had vaguely heard of food other than gruel, but had always treated such tales with fear and loathing.
The Abbot maintained his smile and put his hand on Bulkington's shoulder. "Would you care to join me for a walk of the cloisters?" he asked. It was not really a question.
The cloisters would have won some kind of award had anyone inclined to give awards ever seen them. They were full of ornate wooden carvings and exquisite stained-glass windows that caught the morning sun and set colours dancing on the tapestries that lined the far wall. The light seemed to sanctify the very air and with it the cloisters were somehow more than wood and glass. They showed that creativity was possible.
"You are aware that once you have donned the cassock you are bound to remain within these walls until your last day?"
Bulkington nodded.
"Unless," said the Abbot, "there is some dire and pressing need for you to leave. Temporarily."
Bulkington walked along, unsure of whether to nod or shake his head. He had never heard of such a concept before.
"The point is," said the Abbot, seeing Bulkington's bewilderment. "That over the centuries time erodes everything but faith."
Bulkington nodded. This was good, solid, familiar ground.
"Everything," said the Abbot. "Look at this floor, Bulkington. It's a good foot lower in the middle than at the edges. Footsteps are as powerful as a sledgehammer over the centuries."
Bulkington studied the floor with dedication. It was true. The stone curved in a smooth arc from wall to wall in smooth contrast to the straight rays of sunlight that poured in through the stained-glass.
They turned a corner and the abbot stopped. He faced Bulkington. "You had no spoon today at breakfast."
Bulkington looked up. "No spoon," he said.
The Abbot smiled kindly. "Cutlery, like everything in life, is fleeting," he said. "God deigned man's days to be numbered; in his humble and imperfect imitation man has designed the spoon also to be temporary."
Understanding dawned on Bulkington's face. "A parable for life," he said.
"No," said the Abbot. "A shortage of cutlery. Bulkington, we need more spoons."
"Oh," said Bulkington.
"You are to go forth in search for spoons, taking only a sturdy staff to fend off those that would not use spoons."
"Oh?" said Bulkington interrogatively.
"Mainly wolves," said the Abbot. "And the occasional
bear. You may also come across the terrible Snarlgruber as well."
"Oh," said Bulkington miserably.
"But look on the bright side," said the Abbot, grinning. "At the end of it you will have a whole range of spoons to choose from. Every cloud and all that. Now be a good chap and eat your apple; you set off this afternoon. The nearest town is thought to be a mere two hundred miles away."
And so it was that the door of the monastery closed with a shudder and Bulkington stepped out onto the windswept turf that mottled the Howling Hills. All around was dull green, stretching down into the mists of the valleys. There was the ever-present moan of the wind and a cold that was driven by it into Bulkington's heart. He pulled up his hood, leaned on his staff and set forth across the wilderness.
Wolves. Bears. The terrible Snarlgruber. What were things coming to? Bulkington longed to be back at his books, for he was never happier than when he was reading. Oh, there was the nausea from the toad's rumblings, certainly, but that was par for the course. The Collywobbler Toads were a necessary part of the monastic life, serving as they did to teach the monks humility, forbearance, mental fortitude and a whole list of other good qualities. So what if there was a little queasiness?
Bulkington strode over the uneven ground, nervously on the lookout for things with empty stomachs and the means and inclination to fill them. The sun was growing dim and crimson when he saw a solitary figure, ragged against the skyline. Bulkington reasoned that two people could fend off a pack of wolves better than one, so he set out for the distant figure.
"Hello there!" cried Bulkington when he was a few paces away.
"Is it?" replied the figure. "Over there you say? I always thought it would be under some volcano or something, or possibly just an allegorical device, a means of conveying a moral message through the medium of hyperbole."
"What?" said Bulkington.
"What?" said the traveller.
There was silence for thirty seconds.
"I come in search of spoons," said Bulkington.
The grizzled man smiled. It was not a pleasant sight. There was something about that smile that indicated that gingivitis for this man was not a medical condition but a way of life. "You have come to the right place. I am a travelling cutler, roaming the Howling Hills and selling my wares to all in need of utensils, with the occasional witticism thrown in for good measure."
Bulkington sighed in relief. "Good, that'll save me a walk. How much for a bag of spoons?"
"How much have you got?" enquired the cutler.
"Two and a half groats," said Bulkington.
"Two and a half groats it is then."
Bulkington swapped the money for the bag of spoons. His eyes narrowed. "It's a bit convenient that I go on a quest for spoons and suddenly bump into an itinerant spoon merchant isn't it?"
"Somewhat, somewhat," said the spoon seller. "But you're going to forget all about that and return victorious with your spoons." The spoon merchant waved his hand in a meaningful way.
Bulkington shrugged. "I suppose so," he said.
"Good."
Bulkington stood in the Abbot's office. The Abbot looked at the spoons on his desk and grinned. "Good job, my son. You shall have the brightest and best of the spoons."
"What, that one?" said Bulkington.
"No, that one's mine," said the Abbot. "Here have this one."
Bulkington looked unhappily at the tarnished piece of cutlery before him. "Have you ever been outside the monastery?" he asked the Abbot.
The Abbot raised an eyebrow. "My spirit has never strayed from these walls," he said.
"What about the rest of you?"
"There is nothing apart from the spirit," said the Abbot, firmly.
"Why is there a half-crazed spoon merchant wandering about fifty yards from the front gate?"
Again the Abbot raised an eyebrow. He now had a surprised look on his face and no eyebrows left to raise. "There is?"
Bulkington nodded.
The Abbot lowered his eyebrows. "Spoons abhor a vacuum," he said after a moment's thought. "It is in the nature of cutlery to seek equilibrium."
This seemed unsatisfactory to Bulkington, but the Abbot followed by saying, "Now return to your cell and contemplate the texts for the next six hours."
There was no arguing with that. Bulkington bowed his head. He returned to his cell.
Bulkington did not sleep that night. When the sky was just starting to pale he found himself staring at the coarse stonework of the ceiling, watching as a fly crawled along upside down, sucking up whatever it is flies suck up from the occasional patch of algae. As the sunlight arched through the window the fly took flight, buzzed in a few aimless spirals and meandered towards the far wall. There was a disgusting sound and the fly disappeared into a mass of grey-green. The Collywobbler Toad had had its breakfast.
Bulkington got out of bed and got dressed. He eyed the toad and thought of the interminable nausea that accompanied its humming. He looked out the window at the Howling Hills, out over the valleys to the distant horizon. And, in the distance, he saw a lone, lank, haggard figure trudging along with a bag over his shoulder.
Bulkington looked at the toad.
He looked at his sciatica-inducing wooden bed.
He looked at the cold, grey stones of the walls.
He looked at the lifeless, meaningless letters of his book.
He looked at the... he looked at the... he realised there was nothing else to look at.
He looked out the window again.
It was uncharacteristic of Bulkington. He had slipped out of the monastery whilst the other monks were still at their morning readings and had walked out over the moorland, shivering in the early chill and stumbling over the wet grass. As he approached the cutler, he waved.
"Good morning," said Bulkington.
"Distinctly average," said the cutler, "but thanks for the sentiment."
"You're up early," said Bulkington.
"Force of habit," said the cutler. He laughed at this, although Bulkington couldn't figure out why. "You're after some spoons?"
"No," said Bulkington.
"How about a tea towel?" the cutler held up an off-white tea towel with the inscription "I Visited the Howling Hills and Now I'm Back to Washing the Bloody Dishes."
"That's stupid," said Bulkington.
"Of course," said the cutler. "So am I."
There was silence for a few seconds. The wind howled over the crags and grass, and the sun seemed lost on the horizon. At last Bulkington spoke, more out of awkwardness than anything.
"How come you're wandering about out here? The nearest town isn't for over two hundred miles."
The cutler tapped his nose. "Trade secret," he said. "I've got a great set-up, don't you worry. I'll leave the spoon business a rich man."
Bulkington thought for a moment. "Have you wandered far?"
"Everywhere that is devoid of cutlery," said the cutler. "It is in the nature of cutlery to seek equilibrium."
This phrase struck Bulkington as being somehow familiar. He continued. "What's it like in the next town?"
"Bleak, depressing and with a profound lack of interest in cutlery."
"And the next town?"
"Bleak, depressing and with a profound lack of interest in cutlery."
"And the next?"
"Bleak, depressing and with a profound lack of interest in cutlery."
"What's the furthest place you've ever been to?"
The cutler's eyes narrowed with thought. "Oh probably somewhere like Borczowia."
"What's it like there?"
"Bleak, depressing and with a profound lack of interest in cutlery. There's also a single-celled alga there that gives you terrible food poisoning."
"So, by and large, the Howling Hills is as good as it gets?"
"Oh, there's always the Great Shining City of Knerb."
"What's that like?" asked Bulkington.
"Never been there," said the cutler, "although I suspect the
name is ironic. Apparently it's even worse than Borczowia."
Bulkinton sagged. "I suppose I'll just go back then."
"Jolly good," said the cutler. He watched as Bulkington turned to go. "Only I should add," said the old man, after Bulkington had taken a few steps, "that if you really want to know what's in that book of yours, all you have to do is put that toad on your window ledge as the sun rises."
Bulkington turned round.
"What then?"
The old man laughed and started tramping along, shaking his head. "You'll see."
Bulkington didn't sleep a wink that night. He was knotted with worry over what the mysterious cutler had said. Who was he to question the wisdom of the writings? Bulkington, of all people, knew the texts very well. In them was contained the wisdom of the Scurrilous Sages of the Five Kingdoms. The Scurrilous Sages had been men of renown, great spiritual wisdom and a proclivity for playing polo with parts of their enemies that their enemies would really rather still be attached. They had brought the Toads to the Howling Hills from the far lands of the South, where Sometimes It Stopped Raining. It had ever since been a most important aspect of the monks lives to tend to the toads and ensure they rumbled along all day, for it was said that the texts were of such power that the reader's intellect must be humbled by the nausea that the Toads induced. Bulkington agreed with this. It all made sense. Only the nausea, day-in, day-out...
He tossed and turned. Eventually, as dawn was near, he got out of his bed, got dressed and paced back and forth across the cold stone floor. He put his hands in his cassock pockets and found the apple still there from when the Abbot had given it to him. He pulled it out and, hardly thinking, took a bite. It tasted delicious, sharp, sweet, aromatic.
He took another bite.
It was better than gruel.
He took another bite.
Better than nausea.
He took another bite.
Better than sitting down to breakfast in complete silence.
He took another bite.
With a tarnished spoon.
He swallowed the last of the apple and walked over to the toad. Reverentially, he scooped it up with two hands. With a slow, careful gait he walked over to the window ledge and set the toad down on the sill.