The doctor infused with an emulsion of Erconwald’s donkey distillate, brandy and honey, rose revived after a peaceful night’s sleep and was aided with black bag and a broken gold watch to his car. He looked quickly back up at the ramparts and accelerated his two toned blue vehicle down the road.
Clementine reclining on his bedroom chaise longue, a green and blue striped cravat at his throat. Charlene entering followed by the sandy haired gentleman. To place a tray of breakfast, rashers, fried tomato, eggs, pucks of bread and butter and steaming tea. This man his face shiny and pink, smiles so delightedly to see me. Lying here in the slim rays of sunshine. Potentate, landowner and blast victim.
‘I am glad to see you alive after last night. An ember burned through my suit but I am all right. You have such interesting friends and way of life. You have recovered your voice.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I nearly lost mine. I have been outwitted by the whole human race. I hitch hiked when I got off the boat. My luggage was lost or stolen or sent somewhere without me. I ended up with bowler hat faded light blue and a warped cane. Wet and frozen I started to walk and met a little group on the road. I asked their spokesman what was going on. They said they were in search of the truth in this latter day. I asked where they got the money to support this search as I was interested to search with them. They said it would take some time to get me accredited but meanwhile they would make me a temporary prophet and handed me a map of this area. I met your remarkable friend Erconwald up at the crossroads.’
Pouring a cup of tea for this man called Bloodmourn. Whose face and smile cheers one over breakfast. One regrets not ever having let him win at chess. He asks for my bacon rinds. Laid out on a long piece of toasted soda bread. He sits chewing with seafaring blue eyes. A naval man just like myself.
Percival arriving. To take orders for the day. Can’t think of a thing except to have meals in future served right here behind my iron door. Mount Oscar to stand guard. On a spot where he won’t plummet through the floor. And search all visitors for combustibles.
‘Sorry sir, I shall come back. I didn’t know you were engaged.’
Bloodmourn standing. Nervously brushing off his crumbs. His shoe leather grey blotched and wrinkled. A thin orange tweed tie holding the neck of his shirt together. A thick brown sweater under his jacket.
‘Please. I’m just leaving. I would like to walk outside in the garden.’
Bloodmourn bowing and backing out the door. Percival picking up a remnant of a bank note. Looks at Elmer peering up out of his dark eyes. Shakes his finger. Elmer burying his head under his paws and claws.
‘Ah that was a night last night, wasn’t it sir. Now mind you if most of the blast hadn’t gone up the chimney we’d have been kilt dead. Are you enjoying your breakfast of them tomatoes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Never eat them meself. Didn’t someone give me a tomato as a little feller telling me it was an apple and I bit into it and it dripped what I thought was blood and I’ve never been able to bite into an apple or tomato since.’
‘Percival what’s been going on here.’
‘Sir it would take an army of mathematicians playing finger and toe symphonies on abacuses to figure that out. Mr Erconwald himself and the Baron are at the minute in the dining hall repairing windows. This L K L is some kind of dangerous eejit. He should be locked up. Going round he was making a holy commotion in armour boasting of his sexual knowledge after calling us fornicators. Your man Clarence there now beyond who they say keeps his trap shut as well as his trousers, has the very latest in sexual knowledge. Never is he without his handbook of marital technique adjacent in his coat pocket for immediate reference. Now I wouldn’t want to presume upon you sir, but he says sure success comes from varying the stance. Clarence will give you a stream of frank commentary concerning the movements and the caresses, have no doubt about that. Tell you in a matter of seconds what would take a lifetime of hopeless cohabitation to achieve. But sure, sexual ecstasy has no chance in this country with the rain.’
Throughout the late morning and noontime, guests sneaking to the kitchens for snacks. A scent of frying bacon and eggs up staircases and through halls. Bloodmourn with me on a tour of castle grounds. Down moist mouldy tunnels of rhododendrons. Along overgrown paths of boxwood hedges. Traces of springtime. Primroses peeking yellow from sheltery hedgerows. Bracken and heathers faintly growing green. Peering down the sheer cliff sides to the grey boulders and thrashing sea below. Warm sun, air salty and fresh.
Walking along a narrow path over a bramble choked road. Leading back from the meadows to a tall brown entrance. Clementine smashing briars down with a walking stick. Bloodmourn helping to shift the rusted levers and push open the heavy oak gates into the castle courtyard. Behind, the sound of throbbing thunder coming up underfoot. A massive white curly head and pair of yellowing horns smashing aside the undergrowth. And pounding straight for us.
‘Let me handle this Clementine.’
Two footed I ran for my life into the castle courtyard. Bloodmourn taking off his jacket, slipping out of his sweater. Just in time to throw the latter over Toro’s massive head now lowered like a plough skimming over the courtyard stones heading for the slender figure of this rapidly retreating man. Muscles rippling over the expanse of haunch, blood and bulk of this animal.
‘Keep out of the way Clementine I’m in control.’
Clementine jumping, both hands caught on a roof gutter, feet dangling over the ground. Toro blazing forward blindly under the sweater. And sailing through a closed stable door with a splintering and shattering of wood. Bloodmourn practising a cape movement in the hiatus. Slowly a state coach emerging driven forward by Toro no longer with the sweater over his eyes. With a neat hook of the head half the spokes of a rear wheel ripped out. Bloodmourn grabbing Toro by the tail as he reduces the coach to matchwood for ladies matches. This splendid vehicle demolished before I even knew I owned it.
‘Everyone stay where you are. I’m closing the gates. I know how to handle him.’
Toro warming up. Tearing round the confines. Removing two gutter pipes one after the other with a nuzzle of the horn. Arcing a full rain barrel up in the air to crash in watery pieces. Toro now centre courtyard roaring, snorting, pawing the stones. Bloodmourn advancing slowly as he stamps his feet.
‘Bloodmourn please, don’t.’
‘You must show them you’re not afraid. This roaring and pawing is mostly bluff. Get me an umbrella.’
A familiar voice from a rampart. Macfugger his dark red hair combed back, smilingly waving his cap down into the arena.
‘I say there Clementine, just popped in. See you’ve got a spot of bother.’
More faces at the turrets. Heads jutting over the ramparts. Some chewing on sandwiches. High up a hawk quivering. A tightly rolled umbrella landing, Bloodmourn side stepping in a crouch to pick it up. Legs astride unfurling the black folds, he presses the gleaming silk canopy open. Stamping a left foot he advances. With the same implacable daring with which he loses at chess. Toro backing up. His big ivory hooves splayed open over the stones. Bloodmourn’s coat suspended from the end of the umbrella as he advances.
‘A little softening in the throwing muscle, then we’ll cut this animal down a little somewhat. Tut Tut Toro.’
A gasp from the crowd. Erconwald, Putlog and Franz seated together feet dangling over the parapet. The Baron behind them with binoculars. Bloodmourn pausing. Bending to tighten his shoe laces. Just belay my own now and I can just make it up out of harm’s way on these slates. Bloodmourn upright again, lips thin and grim, eyes steely and hard. Toro still backing away, his tail switching over his big curly back. Macfugger cupping his hands to his mouth.
‘He’ll put a horn up your hole.’
‘Toro tut tut.’
This beast crushing the drainpipe on the cobbles, casually turning, hooks it up and flicks it sailing across the yard smashing against a wall. Bloodmourn advancing. Calf muscles twitching through a torn trouser.
Footwork must be his secret. Because if it isn’t he’ll never play chess again.
‘Gad man, keep your feet together, that stance is madness.’
Bloodmourn closing up his feet. Macfugger must know a thing or two about bull fighting. Just as he knows the luxury of crapping beneath matured rhododendrons with a cool fresh wind fanning the bottom after a wipe of a carefully selected leaf. Veins at Bloodmourn’s temples expanded and throbbing. Toro charges. Bloodmourn umbrella at the ready, nipping smartly out of the way as this four footed lethality goes thundering past getting a dig of the umbrella spike in the neck. The grass between the cobbles flattening under the blasts of Toro’s snorts. As he stops, turns and attacks again. One hears that man looks a hundred times bigger than he really is in a bull’s eyes. Which could really scare the bull. But gives him a big target hard to miss.
Faces turning towards the open kitchen doorway. Hands clapping. L K L in armour. Stepping from the castle. Out on the field of valour. A lance held forth. Someone said amid a flurry of mumbled remarks before the blast that ignominy was L K L’s friend faithful and true. Ready to stick with him now that Toro’s great head and bloodshot eyes face his small gleaming metallic figure slowly stumbling forward. Bloodmourn raising an admonishing hand.
‘Get him the hell out of the ring.’
Rain falling. Sudden crystal dollops. From swift clouds passing overhead. Hay and pine scented air. Sun in and out. Cobbles glistening. Shimmering rays of a rainbow arcing upwards out of the sea and down into the bleak mountainside. L K L wobbling. The lance dipping downwards. Toro lowering his head. Front hoof striking up sparks as he crushes stone against stone. And charges.
Bloodmourn making violent movements. With much hand wagging at the end of the wrist. Toro gathering speed. L K L’s helmet slipped down on his head. Mercifully make him blind to his catastrophe. He totters leftwards. Small stones now landing previously hoof tossed by Toro into the sky. Large one clanking on L K L. Macfugger frantic waving a large cigar.
‘Joust him one you stupid cunt. Joust him.’
Toro’s head gliding low. Hanging from the small mountain of a neck behind his horns. Someone fainting up on the ramparts. Flesh meeting stone. Familiar sound hereabouts. Bloodmourn standing impatiently dry under his umbrella. Toro skidding on a mossy patch. Going down on his white thick knees and bumping over the cobbles. Macfugger commanding from the rampart.
‘Get him. Dig him with the lance. Now’s your chance. He’s confused. He’s down. For God’s sake then tweak his fucking nose.’
Clementine perched watching from the peak of a barn roof. Carefully shifting and tugging to better and safely view this bull fight. Things slippery up here. Whoops. I’m sliding down the slates. A mad grab for the rain gutter. Got it. Yanked out of its moorings. And crashing on me with clarity. With a crowning of rotting leaves and rain water. Good for the scalp.
‘By God I say there you bloody galoots, save the prince.’
L K L missing with a lunge of the lance, stumbling over Toro. Who rises grunting, tail slashing and shaking himself. One ton of beast peering round slowly for a victim. Be hours of back breaking labour clearing up remains. In moments of terror stay still as a statue. With the maddest of visions. From a more civilized clime. Of an elegant couple one July evening in a park standing at a tiny distance silent in their beige summer clothes eyes reverently directed at their beige elderly dog as he doubled his woolly body near a tree and earnestly and lengthily crapped beige.
Household pillows plopping into the courtyard. Voices shouting get them on to his horns. Toro boring into the white fluffiness. By hoof and horn ripping them asunder. Dismantling embroidered crests in a whirlwind of feathers. Some sucked up Toro’s nose. Bloodmourn ramrod stiff, cape held out. Toro bewildered by the floating whiteness. A throbbing organ dirge from the castle. Putlog gone from the audience. Everyone doing their bit. And a voice now inside the armour.
‘God fuck them and keep them down always.’
Bloodmourn running through a repertoire of passes. Furling jacket. Spinning umbrella. Now still. Waiting. The snow of feathers settling. A mazurka from the organ. Rose waving a red handkerchief. The Baron taking a swig from a flask. On this almighty day. A vine grown up a rake leaning against the wall. Start me out farming. In some peaceful little field. Dig over a sod. Pop in the onion seed. Get cows grazing. So the milk as Percival says can leap up at you out of the tall green grass and buttercups while you stand there with your mouth open and your teeth enjoying a bit of sunshine. He suggested as well I ought to marry. That great wine and good food add confidence to life and a good woman adds everything else. And would stop two wifeless chaps getting down on the same straw together of an evening and feeling around in the dark. Only natural to tug on anything that might come to hand.
Bloodmourn, his shirt tails fluttering in the breeze. Toro backing up a few hoof paces. Feathers blasting out his nose holes. Ears twitching. Bloodmourn with chin raised turning to face Toro over a left shoulder. A stamp of his right foot. A flutter of coat. And comes the onslaught of rippling steel tendons of beef. Hoofs clattering over the stones. Six inmates should be enough to carry Bloodmourn to the cemetery. Choose a coffin to fit from the household supply.
Bloodmourn passing the horn high up across the breast. Shirt torn from his back. Motionless he stands, every inch a sportsman. Again Toro descending. Bloodmourn taking him round and round, closer and closer with the cape. The great beast hobbling down to its knees. Macfugger slowly taking cigar out of his mouth.
‘By jove man, that’s deft. Exquisite. Courageous.’
Bloodmourn smiling. Bowing. Toro rising befuddled, wobbling centre yard. Pushing his head into the black gleaming remains of the coach. Just to make sure it was there. Time for me to make for these half open doors. To get inside. And up on this stack of turf. While Toro’s standing staring, giant ribs heaving in and out. And blood dripping from Bloodmourn’s chest as he advances.
‘Tut tut, Toro.’
Toro backing up two paces. Great pink scrotum wagging between back legs. This matador advancing closer. Tiptoeing now over the horns. A finger pressing down on the curly flat surface between Toro’s eyes and giving him a prod on his moist nose. As the massive head slowly lowers. Bloodmourn dropping his cape, casting aside his umbrella. And raising his hand for silence.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. I would like to dedicate this brave but confused bull to my host Mr Clementine. If someone will throw me a sword I will dispatch him.’
‘Impostor. Backslider.’
L K L shouting out of his metal casing. As he encounters a lonely area of wall. Punching his mailed fist against the grey blocks of granite. Rose sporting bald patches across her head throwing a hanky fluttering down. The clink of coins on the cobbles. Bloodmourn stepping back from this quietened beast. Picking up Rose’s red cloth and wiping blood from his breast. To tie the fluttering rag around his throat. Standing baring a slender concave chest, nobbly shoulders and thin white arms. Macfugger leans out over the parapet.
‘I’ll fetch the proper blade to you my good man.’
Toro making wee wee. Big splash out of his big hose. Toro moving. Low slung balls trembling from his undercarriage. It did not take him long to reach Bloodmourn. At the height of his popularity. Attended now by gasps. At the overt staggering horror. Bloodmourn caught neatly mid arse mid horn. Lobbed upwards. Blocking a momentary ray of sunshine. And landing with a clatter of broken slates flat faced on the roof above me. Down which he slides. To thump into my mound of turf fallen out the door. The man called Bligh strutting obesely into the arena, bellowing at the crumpled Bloodmourn.
‘For the love of God man the least you should do is let the picadors weaken the throwing muscle with a few pikes before you try a cup der grace.’
Toro pausing. Head swinging. Moaning out low tremorous growls. Bligh heading for an open shed. Nips in and out again with a hay fork. Toro surveying the ring. As this new nuisance approaches menacing two rusty prongs, sleeves ro
lled up and a sneer across the face.
‘Now how would you like this fork a foot deep in your carcass.’
Toro stretching out legs and twisting his neck back to lick a rear haunch. Bligh advancing. Macfugger in riding breeches and boots at the kitchen entrance with a sword. Bloodmourn rising unsteadily on the turf pile. A dirge thundering from the organ deep inside the castle. Putlog must be watching through a periscope. Toro’s tail standing out stiffly. A plop plop on the cobbles from his rear. The horned head lowering. Bligh throwing the fork. Hitting Toro mid shoulder.
‘That’ll teach you.’
The beast rearing up with a roar. Bligh crouching, bulging legs astride and arms held out. Hay fork shaken with a shrug from Toro’s shoulder. As he gathers his thousands of muscles together and commences them towards Bligh. Who abandons the wrestlers stance, turns and runs, fists churning and knees pumping high. Lickety split over the stones. Toro gaining. Breathing down on the Bligh arse bouncing ahead. Now caught and elevated between Toro’s long white lashed brown eyes.
Bligh aloft travelling towards the rust coloured kitchen door just closing. As this pair of combatants come hurtling towards it. Laughter erupting inside. The impact of Bligh shuddering through the castle. A wasp’s nest falls from under the eaves. Toro rounding on Macfugger who dips a sword tip into Toro’s hide. Bligh struggling up holding his head between hands. Bellowing as he slowly turns in a circle of rage.
‘Who did that. Closed that door. Could have killed me. I’ll find out. If it takes till I’m lying waiting for him in heaven he’ll have the shit kicked out of him soon as he strolls in the gates.’
Macfugger backing nimbly away poking his sword at Toro’s nose. Bligh beating his fists against the kitchen door. L K L half sitting propped against the well pump. Sunlight bright. A lark rising singing into the sky. On the rampart a black hunting hat, Lady Macfugger yellow gloved peering down into the arena. Wind blowing back her long hair. Her finely knuckled hands when she poured tea. Dreamt of her smiling. Taking off her coat. The pin out of her silk white scarf at her throat. Her shirt off. Her lips and teeth coming near me. Her breasts. Her belly. Her husband. Is out there. Making a declaration to the audience.