face sawn off
first.’
Porrig
now chewed upon his chilly fingers. ‘But,’ he said, between chewings. ‘That is the movies, of course. In real life it’s more likely that a burglar has
broken in and is…’
Porrig
didn’t finish that sentence. If he had, then the words he would have chosen
would probably have been: STEALING MY STOCK!
Porrig
was up from the bed in a flash. And he was across the room in another flash.
And in a third flash he had the bolt drawn and the door open. And in a fourth
flash, he was standing on the landing with his fists raised and a furious look
on his face.
There
might well have been a fifth flash, but this one would have been particularly
fleeting as it involved Porrig looking down and seeing that he no longer had a
landing to stand on and was falling very fast into something deep and dark.
A hole,
perhaps?
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Porrig, which is what you do when falling into something deep and dark (a
hole, perhaps). Then, ‘Oh,’ as he was standing now upon a wooden floor,
unscathed. And dark it was no more, because a light shone all around. And
Porrig looked and Porrig saw and Porrig did not then believe at all in what he
was seeing. As it were.
Porrig
stood on the polished floor of a bookshop. But it was not his bookshop, neither
was it The Flying Pig. This bookshop was old, centuries old, if a bookshop it
was. It had more the look of one of those monastic libraries. Ancient leathern
tomes with burnished hasps and locking bits. Scrolls of parchment. Vellum pages
bound with silk.
Porrig
caught what breath he could. He wasn’t dreaming, he was sure of that, but he
wasn’t at the bottom of his stairs. He was somewhere or other that he shouldn’t
be and he knew, just knew, that he wasn’t alone.
Porrig
peered down a long aisle of musty old volumes. Something was moving, and it was
a something, rather than a someone.
Porrig
screwed up his eyes. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not having that.’
The
something had a quality of not quite being there. It wavered and it wafted, it
went in and out of focus. It was wraith-like, it was ghostly, it was— ‘It’s a
pig,, said Porrig. ‘It’s a fucking pig.’
The
pig, for such it evidently was, turned its snout towards Porrig, made a most
obscene noise and vanished.
Who did
that?’ someone shouted. Who has offended the pig?’
Porrig
ducked away behind the nearest stack of books. ‘I am dreaming,’ he whispered. ‘Pig
equals pork sausage. It’s always pork sausages in my dreams. And I don’t even
like pork sausages.’
Who
offended the pig?’ The voice was louder. The voice meant to know. Porrig ducked
and slunk away. There was quite a lot of away to slink to. The bookcases and
tables of scrolls and racks of paper and piles of old parchment went on and on
and on.
Porrig
broke into a run and, some time later, breathless, scared and quite pissed off,
he sat down on the floor. ‘Just reason it out,’ he said, between gaspings. What
has happened to you? Have you fallen into some parallel world, or down a hole
in time, or through a crack in the clouds—’
‘Or up
your own arse,’ said a voice.
Porrig
jumped to his feet. Who said that?’
‘I did.’
‘Where
are you?’
‘I’m
here, but I’m not coming out.’
‘Then
don’t. Just tell me where I am and how I get back to where I came from.’
‘Use
your key. You did bring your key, didn’t you?’
What
key?’
‘That
would be a “no”, I suppose.’ Where are you?’
‘I’m up
here. But I’m not coming down.’ Why not?’
‘Because
you’d get yourself all in a state if I did.’
‘Of
course I wouldn’t. I mean, you’re not a pig, are you?’
‘Of
course I’m not a bleeding pig. How dare you?’
‘Then
come out.
‘Okey-dokey.’
There was a scuffling amongst the books above Porrig’s head and then something
small and definitely on the strange side climbed slowly down and stood before
Porrig.
Before
and a good way
first.’
Porrig
now chewed upon his chilly fingers. ‘But,’ he said, between chewings. ‘That is the movies, of course. In real life it’s more likely that a burglar has
broken in and is…’
Porrig
didn’t finish that sentence. If he had, then the words he would have chosen
would probably have been: STEALING MY STOCK!
Porrig
was up from the bed in a flash. And he was across the room in another flash.
And in a third flash he had the bolt drawn and the door open. And in a fourth
flash, he was standing on the landing with his fists raised and a furious look
on his face.
There
might well have been a fifth flash, but this one would have been particularly
fleeting as it involved Porrig looking down and seeing that he no longer had a
landing to stand on and was falling very fast into something deep and dark.
A hole,
perhaps?
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Porrig, which is what you do when falling into something deep and dark (a
hole, perhaps). Then, ‘Oh,’ as he was standing now upon a wooden floor,
unscathed. And dark it was no more, because a light shone all around. And
Porrig looked and Porrig saw and Porrig did not then believe at all in what he
was seeing. As it were.
Porrig
stood on the polished floor of a bookshop. But it was not his bookshop, neither
was it The Flying Pig. This bookshop was old, centuries old, if a bookshop it
was. It had more the look of one of those monastic libraries. Ancient leathern
tomes with burnished hasps and locking bits. Scrolls of parchment. Vellum pages
bound with silk.
Porrig
caught what breath he could. He wasn’t dreaming, he was sure of that, but he
wasn’t at the bottom of his stairs. He was somewhere or other that he shouldn’t
be and he knew, just knew, that he wasn’t alone.
Porrig
peered down a long aisle of musty old volumes. Something was moving, and it was
a something, rather than a someone.
Porrig
screwed up his eyes. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not having that.’
The
something had a quality of not quite being there. It wavered and it wafted, it
went in and out of focus. It was wraith-like, it was ghostly, it was— ‘It’s a
pig,, said Porrig. ‘It’s a fucking pig.’
The
pig, for such it evidently was, turned its snout towards Porrig, made a most
obscene noise and vanished.
Who did
that?’ someone shouted. Who has offended the pig?’
Porrig
ducked away behind the nearest stack of books. ‘I am dreaming,’ he whispered. ‘Pig
equals pork sausage. It’s always pork sausages in my dreams. And I don’t even
like pork sausages.’
Who
offended the pig?’ The voice was louder. The voice meant to know. Porrig ducked
and slunk away. There was quite a lot of away to slink to. The bookcases and
tables of scrolls and racks of paper and piles of old parchment went on and on
and on.
Porrig
broke into a run and, some time later, breathless, scared and quite pissed off,
he sat down on the floor. ‘Just reason it out,’ he said, between gaspings. What
has happened to you? Have you fallen into some parallel world, or down a hole
in time, or through a crack in the clouds—’
‘Or up
your own arse,’ said a voice.
Porrig
jumped to his feet. Who said that?’
‘I did.’
‘Where
are you?’
‘I’m
here, but I’m not coming out.’
‘Then
don’t. Just tell me where I am and how I get back to where I came from.’
‘Use
your key. You did bring your key, didn’t you?’
What
key?’
‘That
would be a “no”, I suppose.’ Where are you?’
‘I’m up
here. But I’m not coming down.’ Why not?’
‘Because
you’d get yourself all in a state if I did.’
‘Of
course I wouldn’t. I mean, you’re not a pig, are you?’
‘Of
course I’m not a bleeding pig. How dare you?’
‘Then
come out.
‘Okey-dokey.’
There was a scuffling amongst the books above Porrig’s head and then something
small and definitely on the strange side climbed slowly down and stood before
Porrig.
Before
and a good way
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