last. Lost your marbles, brother. Been pointing at Caesar for three days. Talking about the facts.’
‘I remember now - or some of it. Thought I was ill and sat here idle for half a lifetime. Kicking through grapes to the lavatory. Even read Five Weeks in a Balloon .’
‘That was just yesterday, brother. Before that you were padlocking birds to branches. Sat naked playing a bassoon. Went to bat for the big issues.’
‘Doesn’t sound like me. Didn’t shoot anyone?’
‘Not a soul, brother - strangest part of the whole affair. How you feeling?’
‘Like a dog in amber,’ Snapper croaked. ‘And what’s all this about the facts?’
Father explained Snapper’s plan to record the cosmic truths and Snapper gave a snort of disbelief. ‘What else did I do? Flatten the boy’s spider with a chestnut pan?’ Failing to notice Father’s mournful look, he roared with hilarity.
When Snapper shot a peaceful dove from an awning we knew he had recovered, but each of us harboured a strange and secret concern. Snap’s brain was a wasteland shunned by its owner. Could such a hulking grotesque change fundamentally for even a moment? It’s said god blathers profundities to village idiots - Snap may have gained temporary access to these higher levels of incompetence during the fugue state. Though we rarely discussed it, we were all gung-ho for new information - the present circumstance was a lesson in that it first required us to confess we never got any. This took a rare courage.
Adrienne bit into a stick of celery. ‘I’m for knocking him senseless,’ she vouched, crunching, ‘till he has another fit and spills the beans. If he knows anything of use we’ll be sandboys - if not we’ll be as pig ignorant as before.’
Father climbed into the treehouse, where Snapper was inspecting the discarded skeleton of a fly. ‘I think I speak for us all when I say we’d like to know just what the hell you think you’ve been doing these last few days.’
‘I’ve told you brother,’ spat Snap, whacking the fly with a mallet. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘But brother,’ said Father, looking with distaste at a fossilised starfruit. ‘What happened to you was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, like being shot and falling from a wrought-iron balcony. Did you find nothing here? No note or message?’
‘All I found was a hopelessly blurred photograph of a sobbing clown.’
It seemed the truth had been lost like a poodle in a riptide. ‘So you’ve been amusing yourself at our expense,’ said Father. ‘To salvage anything of worth we’ll have to retrace your sinister footsteps from that moment to this. Now I’m getting out of here - these conversations have been fatal to sturdier men.’
The meandering trail led toward the village, the entire household following the thoughtful Snapper through a wake of smashed lobsters. Father pointed to a stile. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘I remember standing here and shouting “Watch it!” to a passing merchant before punching his teeth out.’
‘Good, good. Anything else?’
‘Over the hill there, I seem to recall delivering a flying roundhouse kick to the head of a docile gran.’
‘Is that all?’ Father fumed.
‘Attached a slow-worm to my ear and entered the village. Bought a corduroy otter in the corner shop.’
‘And what were you thinking about?’
‘Same as ever. Elves and ash.’
‘Elves and?’
‘Ash,’ repeated Snapper.
The finch of perplexity perched on Father’s sill.
In the village Snapper showed us where he had loaded up a diecast crossbow pistol. It was all coming back to him, he said. ‘Sprang out pronouncing a scream. Shouts of alarm. Pell mell. Clueless. Knife. Gore. And that’s when the fighting started.’ He pointed to a frazzled strand of kelp, laughing uncontrollably. ‘I stood there bellowing like a Harryhausen cyclops. Had the presence of mind to keep my arms parallel with Mercury’s declination in the sky and ...’
The signs were not
‘I remember now - or some of it. Thought I was ill and sat here idle for half a lifetime. Kicking through grapes to the lavatory. Even read Five Weeks in a Balloon .’
‘That was just yesterday, brother. Before that you were padlocking birds to branches. Sat naked playing a bassoon. Went to bat for the big issues.’
‘Doesn’t sound like me. Didn’t shoot anyone?’
‘Not a soul, brother - strangest part of the whole affair. How you feeling?’
‘Like a dog in amber,’ Snapper croaked. ‘And what’s all this about the facts?’
Father explained Snapper’s plan to record the cosmic truths and Snapper gave a snort of disbelief. ‘What else did I do? Flatten the boy’s spider with a chestnut pan?’ Failing to notice Father’s mournful look, he roared with hilarity.
When Snapper shot a peaceful dove from an awning we knew he had recovered, but each of us harboured a strange and secret concern. Snap’s brain was a wasteland shunned by its owner. Could such a hulking grotesque change fundamentally for even a moment? It’s said god blathers profundities to village idiots - Snap may have gained temporary access to these higher levels of incompetence during the fugue state. Though we rarely discussed it, we were all gung-ho for new information - the present circumstance was a lesson in that it first required us to confess we never got any. This took a rare courage.
Adrienne bit into a stick of celery. ‘I’m for knocking him senseless,’ she vouched, crunching, ‘till he has another fit and spills the beans. If he knows anything of use we’ll be sandboys - if not we’ll be as pig ignorant as before.’
Father climbed into the treehouse, where Snapper was inspecting the discarded skeleton of a fly. ‘I think I speak for us all when I say we’d like to know just what the hell you think you’ve been doing these last few days.’
‘I’ve told you brother,’ spat Snap, whacking the fly with a mallet. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘But brother,’ said Father, looking with distaste at a fossilised starfruit. ‘What happened to you was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, like being shot and falling from a wrought-iron balcony. Did you find nothing here? No note or message?’
‘All I found was a hopelessly blurred photograph of a sobbing clown.’
It seemed the truth had been lost like a poodle in a riptide. ‘So you’ve been amusing yourself at our expense,’ said Father. ‘To salvage anything of worth we’ll have to retrace your sinister footsteps from that moment to this. Now I’m getting out of here - these conversations have been fatal to sturdier men.’
The meandering trail led toward the village, the entire household following the thoughtful Snapper through a wake of smashed lobsters. Father pointed to a stile. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘I remember standing here and shouting “Watch it!” to a passing merchant before punching his teeth out.’
‘Good, good. Anything else?’
‘Over the hill there, I seem to recall delivering a flying roundhouse kick to the head of a docile gran.’
‘Is that all?’ Father fumed.
‘Attached a slow-worm to my ear and entered the village. Bought a corduroy otter in the corner shop.’
‘And what were you thinking about?’
‘Same as ever. Elves and ash.’
‘Elves and?’
‘Ash,’ repeated Snapper.
The finch of perplexity perched on Father’s sill.
In the village Snapper showed us where he had loaded up a diecast crossbow pistol. It was all coming back to him, he said. ‘Sprang out pronouncing a scream. Shouts of alarm. Pell mell. Clueless. Knife. Gore. And that’s when the fighting started.’ He pointed to a frazzled strand of kelp, laughing uncontrollably. ‘I stood there bellowing like a Harryhausen cyclops. Had the presence of mind to keep my arms parallel with Mercury’s declination in the sky and ...’
The signs were not
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