fenwick - 8. blind primal desire

by minette de montfort

illustrated by danny delacroix and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here for previous chapter of fenwick

click here to begin fenwick

click here to begin the 14th princess

reader, have you guessed what happened next? we left beckwith, the fearsome and dignified butler of castle morwyn, lying facedown in some sort of indescribable and by us so far undescribed muck, and the unfortunate muggleton - at this point, the chief protagonist of our plain, or as plain as we can make it, tale, having burst through the protective hedges of the said castle morwyn, approaching the gate - more properly, the front door - of the castle, quite unaware - as he was largely unaware of everything - of beckwith's prone presence. what happened next was foreordained, as everything in this world is foreordained, whether it be told in a plain unvarnished tale like this the one i am telling, or the most overelaborated one told to the accompaniment of a full orchestra in the finest opera houses of london or paris or dublin, attended by the most respected and dignified citizenries of these bustling metropolises in all their most resplendent finery. yes, respected and dignified, for the respected and dignified - not to mention the wealthy and celebrated and cosseted - must have their tales - often the same tales - no less than the downtrodden and wretched and faceless of the earth. it may be rightly understood that the downtrodden need their tales to get them through their desolate existences, but why should the great of the earth attend to the same stories, even as they flaunt their glory? can it be that in the great echoing cavern of onrushing oblivion that we call "the universe" there is no difference between the highest and the lowest, no more difference than between a termite, about to be devoured by an aardvark, and an ant, about to be devoured by a southern tamandua. reader, we digress, and we apologize. there should be no digression in this plain story we aim to tell. and so it was foreordained that the mighty beckwith should lose his dignity in the blasted and root-bestrown and pestilentially infested heath that constituted the "grounds" of castle morwyn ... dignity! a sage has rightly said that love makes the world go round, but dignity puts it through its paces and keeps it in line. for many survive the loss of love - many survive well enough without ever having it to lose - but who can survive the loss of dignity? let the greatest king or emperor or conqueror appear on a white horse or a raised throne, and no matter what his triumphs or what is laughingly called his service to the state, if, while accepting the plaudits of the multitude, his wig blow off or his drawers fall down, and he will be remembered forever for this unlucky accident and for nothing else... such were the ruminations of beckwith as he attempted to rise, to extricate his foot from the root which seemed to livingly encircle it. time was of the essence. so far as he could tell none of his good-for-nothing underlings had stirred themselves to accompany him down the stairs and out the door and so none had witnessed his humiliation . he pushed himself up on his hands. the foul essence covering his face dripped onto the ground, sending up a miasma that blinded him anew. just as he was about to gain the traction to rise to his feet, he was smashed to the ground again by a heavy oblect falling with dead weight across his back - the living carcass of poor muggleton, who in his haste to reach beckwith, to help him to his feet and also inform him of the plight of poor costermayne who lay half dead - or perhaps now entirely dead - on the other side of the hedge muggleton had so precipitatively broken through , had just tripped over some rock or bottle or shrub, or had perhaps slipped on one of the numerous slimy worms or grubs who slithered restlessly over the morwyn grounds, day and night, in fair or foul weather - in any event muggleton, as he fell over the horizontal body of beckwith, had managed to give himself a great clout on his own head with his stout walking stick, the very same walking stick which had heretofore served him so handsomely, as he walked the face of the earth, one foot in front of the other, first one, then the other, an excellent and time honored mode of proceeding, which we have already made the reader acquainted with, at hopefully not excessive length. the clout on the head with the walking stick - the stick snapping back one way, muggleton falling forward precipitously and with the force of dead weight in the other producing a most prodigious whack, hardly to be duplicated by the most scientifically trained pugilist smacking some poor sod tied to a lamppost smack in the gob - muggleton as he pinned beckwith back into the muck he had so desperately tried to arise from, was out cold. muggleton’s hat flew off his head and spun around in the muck and grass like a top before coming to a stop. beckwith, now all unconscious of dignity or anything except a blind primal desire - are all primal desires blind? - to somehow once again to stand upright upon the earth - had the wind completely knocked out of him. even in his blind state beckwith at first had the sense to conserve his strength for his attempts to throw the unconscious muggleton off of himself. but as the day wore on, and the sun began to go down behind the high hedges and darkness to fall and his efforts were for naught, frustration got the better of him and he began bellowing like a wounded moose. his savage cries finally caught the attention of the chambermaid he had been chastising when fate led him to first notice muggleton’s progress through the hedge and across the grounds. getting up from the chair she had been sitting on while waiting his return - for no servant in the castle, even the oldest of them - especially the oldest of them - would dare to simply walk away from beckwith before he was done with them - she approached the window and leaned ever so cautiously out of it. the sight that presented itself to her eyes - insofar as she could see anything in the encroaching gloom - perplexed her acutely, and she stayed hanging out the window for some time wondering what to do, and whether to investigate herself - for she was only a chambermaid -or to seek assistance - but from whom, other than beckwith himself? - and in any event, she feared to leave her post before beckwith returned to complete her dressing down. was the creature crying out so frightfully perhaps devouring beckwith? were the cries of beckwith being devoured? though the moon had not yet risen, might beckwith himself been transformed into the creature? meanwhile, in other rooms of the castle, admiral morwyn and aunt morwyn and various other moywyns were being served their tea in a most slipshod manner, and were clamoring for beckwith to come to their aid. where was the fellow? and you, reader, may be wondering, what of costermayne, left outside the hedge in the deepening gloom with a hole in his head? and what of fenwick? what progress was he making? to be continued

fenwick - 7. a man not to be trifled with

by minette de montfort

illustrated by danny delacroix and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here for previous chapter of fenwick

click here to begin fenwick

click here to begin the 14th princess

admiral morwyn was not the only witness to muggleton's bursting through the hedge -for needless to say it was indeed poor muggleton who burst through the hedge - for who else could it have been? - i put it to you - reader, if perchance you exist, we are not here to play tricks on you but to tell a plain tale as plainly as possible - the good old fashioned way, around the hearth, around the campfire, at the old roadside inn as the landlord prods the embers with his blackened poker - blackened by centuries of low smoke and weary travelers tales - all hastening to the same end - oblivion - but to proceed - we will tell our tale - because every tale must be told - no matter how dreary or boring - yes, every tale must be told - and will be told - every song must be sung - down to the last repeated chorus - every dog will have his day - every cat will have his nip - though at night they all are gray - every nip will have his tuck - every tuck will have his friar - every friar will have his fat jolly nun - every fat jolly nun will have her flask of ale at the bar of the old roadside inn where the travelers tell their timeworn tales - their tales that must be told. yes, tales that must be told. but not by muggleton. no, not by muggleton. muggleton was given his chance, his chance to tell his own tale - and a sad enough tale it was, to be sure - and he made - i will not say a complete hash of it, no, not a complete hash, but by god, we have to get on with it, don't we? so we will nor hear from muggleton again - we will hear of him to be sure, for he is part of this sorry tale - that must be told regardless - as all tales must be told - but not from him. on with it, man, on with it. admiral morwyn was not the only witness to muggleton's bursting through the hedge - beckwith, the butler who ruled castle morwyn with an iron hand - or with a rod of steel, or perhaps with a rod of steel in his iron hand - or in his iron fist, i believe that is the correct term - a tale should be told in correct terms - what, i ask you, is the point of telling it otherwise? - beckwith happened to be looking out the window - i should say, a window, as there was more than one window in castle morwyn - it could hardy be called a castle, could it now, if it only had one window - beckwith happened to be looking out of the window of the red room - called the red room for what the saints only knew what reason, as there was nothing particularly red about it though there may well have been in the mists of time - beckwith had happened to glance out the window in a moment of exasperation while berating a particularly incompetent chambermaid - who must have been particularly incompetent or lazy, or both, to distract him in this manner as all the chambermaids, indeed all the servants in castle morwyn were lazy and incompetent if not totally moribund - and in glancing out the window - a window - at that moment - he chanced to see poor muggleton at the very moment he burst through the hedge onto the very ill-kept grounds of the castle. this in itself was remarkable as beckwith, as i may have already given some indication, was not a man to be looking out windows when the day's work was to be done. as the only living creature in the castle with a molecule of sense, except for some dogs, cats, rats, mice and spiders - there were some fearful spiders in castle morwyn, capable of giving the cats and rats a fair challenge - responsible for the supervision and shepherding through the day of a castleful of barely sentient morwyns and lazy and good for nothing servants - beckwith was not a man to be trifled with or to waste his time on trifles. this fellow now - muggleton of course, known to you and me, dear reader, but not yet to beckwith who had never set eyes on him before- and would have remembered him if he had, for he had the memory of a lion or tiger or some great ravenous beast of the time before the prophets - this fellow stumbling across the roots and brambles of the shamefully ill-kept grounds of the castle with leaves and twigs and cockleburrs from the thick hedge - and the hedge, for all it was poorly attended to, somehow remained as thick as a morwyn's skull - something to do with the endless rains in this godforsaken stretch of country no doubt - plastered all over his unprepossessing person - could beckwith trust one of the footmen or grooms or groundskeepers - all of these designations being somewhat more than whimsical as whether they were called "footmen" or "grooms" or "groundskeepers" they were nothing more than lazy worthless rascals and parasites who could not be trusted to do the simplest things once out of one's sight - to waylay and ask him his business? he could not. with a grim expression - though this description may be more than a bit superfluous as he always had a grim expression - let us say, then, with an even more grim expression than usual - beckwith left the chambermaid to her dirty tray and marched out of the red room and down the cobwebbed corridor to the rotting staircase, down three floors of increasingly dusty stairwell and out the front door - which he opened himself rather than waste precious time attempting to summon one of the layabout lackeys to open it for him - and out into the air. the air! if there was one thing beckwith had in common with the other inhabitants of the castle it was a sincere and abiding aversion to what is laughingly called "fresh" air - as if air that has blown over the whole foul human-infested earth could be said to have anything "fresh" about it by any stretch of the imagination - the air, at once sickeningly warm and yet with something of the cold clamminess of the tomb about it - smacked him in his gray gob like a dead flounder wielded by a champion batsman - but what he could he do, what could anybody do in his situation but carry on, yes, carry on. "you there! " beckwith cried to muggleton, who was making his way across the blasted and littered landscape of the castle grounds with an increasingly bewildered expression - increasingly truly the operative word as bewilderment was the very essence of muggleton's being as well as his face to the world. muggleton appeared not to hear beckwith's salutation. nor even to see him, though he stood plainly in front of the castle gate. "halloa! you there!" beckwith cried again. there was nothing wrong with beckwith's voice, as he regularly exercised it berating the staff and the morwyns. exasperated, beckwith began to move toward the oblivious muggleton. he had not gone three paces when he tripped over an exposed root and landed with a dreadful thump face down in a particularly disgusting mess of some sort. a dead animal, perhaps? something even worse? something that the sun was no longer shining on, as beckwith's head was now effectively shielding it from that entity. in any case, beckwith had at least succeeded in attracting muggleton's attention, and muggleton now came running as quickly as he could - which as the reader may have surmised was not very quickly - and quite heedless of the myriad traps and pitfalls the grounds held - reader, you can guess what happened next. * that's enough for now, thought minette. her left index finger was getting sore from tapping at the old typewriter. not too bad, she thought. minette didn't think she had ever heard of beckett before the contest. but she had been given copies of his books and had started to read them in order. she had not liked "murphy" so much, but liked "watt" better and that was the book she was trying to imitate. she got up, leaving the sheet of paper in the typewriter and went to the window and looked out. sari, minette's regular day guard, was lying on the bed and followed her with her eyes. "are you through?" "yes, for now." sari could not read or write and so, unlike some of the other guards and maids - a few of whom were virtually writing the books - was little help to minette in writing her assigned novel. she felt bad about this, and liked to be helpful by at least listening to minette reading it aloud to her, and being encouraging by laughing in what she thought were the right places. "you want to read it to me?'" "thanks, maybe later." minette stared out the window. the morning was overcast and windy, and looked cold. "you want to go out?'" sari asked her. "is anybody out there?" "no, but this is the time rosalind usually goes out." "fuck rosalind. you have just as much right to go out as she does." "i don't want anybody getting mad at me." "helga even said she didn't want rosalind getting to think she had a special time reserved. if you want to go out, let's go." "um - all right. it looks cold, though. we should bundle up." 8. blind primal desire

fenwick - 6. the castle

by minette de montfort

illustrated by roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here for previous episode of fenwick

click here to begin fenwick

click here to begin the 14th princess

admiral morwyn stood looking out the north facing window of the "conservatory" on the top floor of castle morwyn, as had been his wont, at that particular time of day, for as long as any living morwyn, or any of the servants, could remember. behind, him "aunt" morwyn, so called because she was the oldest of the numerous aunts - all the others of whom had to make do with proper names - "aunt sophie". "aunt jane", etc - asked him, "what are you looking at, out that window?" "i am looking out the window." "i know you are looking out the window. but what do you see, looking out the window?" "what would there be to see?" "whatever is out there." "it has not been my experience that there is a great deal to see out there." "you are testy this morning, admiral. have you not had your breakfast?" "it is not morning. it is afternoon. the sun has reached its zenith, as is it is inclined to do, and is now beginning its pitiless descent into oblivion. an oblivion all too short lived, as it will be back to do its mischief again tomorrow, all too predictably." "i asked you if had had your breakfast. i did not invite your tiresome philosophical musings." "observations of the sun's path hardly qualify as philosophy." "they did in babylon and chaldea. and perhaps in assyria and the minoan empire as well." "perhaps," agreed the admiral. "but not in today's world." "today's world! what an expression! what other world would it be, but today's world?" the admiral did not deign to answer. he stood silent, continuing to look out the window. behind him aunt morwyn remained silent also. the subject of the admiral's breakfast was forgotten, or at least no longer alluded to, which is not the same thing. is anything ever totally forgotten? a question which has perplexed, or at least engaged philosophers in times ancient and modern. "modern!" what an absurd concept. reader, we take a stand with aunt morwyn, in regarding the word as totally ridiculous. human language is a dark overgrown jungle in desperate need of judicious pruning. at least ninety percent of the words which clutter it should be eliminated. what better place to start, than with the word "modern" ? reader, if you exist and wheresoever you be, we promise that that word will no longer deface this narrative. to continue. aunt morwyn and the admiral continued their silent observations, the admiral of the world outside the castle, and aunt morwyn of the admiral's back. they were old hands at both of these occupations - silence and observation. the sun continued its pitiless descent into short lived oblivion. after an eternity - eternity! another word to be consigned to the dustbin! reader, consider it consigned. … aunt morwyn ventured to observe, "soon it will be time for tea." the admiral nodded, without averting his gaze from the spectacle outside the window. "the servant who brought the tea yesterday… or was it the day before….", aunt morwyn began. the admiral interrupted her. "a servant did indeed bring tea yesterday. and the day before. and the day before that." "i was referring to a particular servant. the one that brought tea yesterday. or perhaps it was the day before." "so you can tell the servants apart?" "sometimes. especially if one is male and wearing trousers and one is female and wearing a dress." "indeed." more time elapsed, or passed, or evaporated. "and what was there, about this particular servant, that so excited your interest," the admiral ventured at last. "i am afraid i have quite forgotten. you caused me to lose my train of thought." if aunt morwyn was expecting an apology from the admiral for causing her to lose her train of thought, she did not get one. "if you have a problem with the servants, you should take it up with beckwith." at the admiral's intonation of the word "beckwith" a chill fell over the room and down the spines of aunt merwyn and the admiral himself, even though it had been he who uttered the name. beckwith was the chief butler at the castle, and ruled both the servants and the morwyns with an iron hand. "yes," aunt morwyn replied after a pause, "beckwith will know what to do. if i recall the problem i had with the servant - if it indeed was a problem, and if i can recall which servant it was, and whether it was a man or a woman, and whether it was yesterday or the day before or last year, then, yes, perhaps i shall consult beckwith. but, then, beckwith is a busy man and does not always take kindly to being addressed regarding what he considers trifles." "indeed he does not," agreed the admiral. more time elapsed, or passed, or evaporated. the sun, softening its assault just a bit, continued on its path. "i see something," said the admiral. "i should hope you do. for what indeed, would be the purpose of looking out a window if one did not see anything?" "i see a man." visitors were not common at the castle. both the admiral and aunt morwyn would have been hard pressed to remember the last one. "oh? is he coming up the path?" "no, he is crossing the lawn. he seems to have burst through the hedge." "not some sort of tramp or beggar, i hope." "it is difficult to tell, as he is covered from head to foot with leaves and brambles from the hedge. he is coming closer now, and picking the leaves and twigs off his person with one hand and waving a stout stick distractedly in the air with the other." "i ask you again - i put it to you directly, my dear admiral - does he look a vagrant or beggar?" "i should say - as a tentative observation - that he attempts to present himself as a gentleman, but not quite successfully." "not quite successfully?" "now that he has continued his progress, and i have a better view, and can make a better judgment, i shall revise my estimate and say not at all successfully." "then he is not quite out of the top drawer?" "he does not seem to be out of any drawer at all, " the admiral replied emphatically. 7. a man not to be trifled with

fenwick - 5. good souls, fellow creatures and chums

by minette de montfort

illustrated by roy dismas

special thanks to Prof. Dan Leo for his editing efforts

click here for previous episode of fenwick

click here to begin fenwick

click here to begin the 14th princess

one day, or so we are told, the sun will disappear. or burn out. or something like that. disappear, burn out, is there a difference? strange to say, such considerations often occupy my mind. often occupy it for quite long stretches of time in fact, quite irrespective of my surroundings or my so-called circumstances. and did even when i was a schoolboy, much to my discomfort at the hands of my schoolmates. i was forcefully reminded of the imminent - or perhaps not so imminent disappearance or burning out of the sun, as the case may be - by the said sun's most forcefully beating down on my head as i stood by the side of the road to b----------, watching the disappearing form of fenwick as he strode forcefully, without so much as a look back or a by your leave, in good - nay perfect form, one foot in front of the other, first the left, then the right, absolutely the proper form to take a walk or for that matter even an evening stroll - though as i previously indicated it was far from evening, with the sun, which showed no sign at all of burning out or disappearing, banging down on my poor head - only nominally protected as it was by my hat - not a bad hat, quite in the latest style inasmuch as i was able to judge of such things, but hardly a pith helmet or up to the task of doing a pith helmet's work if it comes to that, fenwick as i said heading down toward the horizon and over it on his way to b--------------, there to enjoy a glass at the hostage and crawfish - was that really the name of the pub - the hostage and crawfish? - to be sure i had not written it down when he pronounced it, hardly thinking it necessary at the time, even if i had a pen and paper handy, and i am not one of those gentry who find it necessary to burden myself with those appurtenances when i am only going for my morning walk, the hostage and crawfish, yes, a singular name, but perhaps not for the town of b------------, for who knows what sort of name they find proper or useful, and it did to the best of my poor memory seem to be the name fenwick had indicated, and who was i to doubt him? who was i doubt him? indeed. i had my pressing concerns to occupy myself. such as - who was i, and what was i doing here on the side of this dusty road, so far, so far from my nicely kept - small to be sure, but very nicely and neatly kept room in mrs flanagan's rooming house - a good soul, mrs flanagan, a good soul, everyone agreed she was a good soul - and she charged a reasonable rent, yes a very reasonable rent, as she was a good soul, yes a good soul, whatever were the precise definition and wider implications of that term, she was always lighting candles, she must have been a good soul. and i - was i a good soul? i could not recall anyone ever applying that singular terminology to myself - but then, who knows what one's fellow creatures - curious term that, "fellow creatures", even more curious than "good soul" when you stop to think about it - who knows what one's fellow creatures think of oneself at any given moment in time or if they think of one at all, eh? unless you happen to be the lord mayor or standing for election to parliament, and the citizenry are encouraged to write scathing letters to the irish times about your moral character and fitness for high office and the letters are actually printed - so they must have taken some thought - but about your moral character and fitness for office, which is not the same as one's actual "self", is it? let alone your soul, good or not as the case may be. and then the lord mayor or the prime minister of ireland or the king of sweden could fall down and break their necks and no one would give them a thought any more or write letters to the irish times or the times of london or le monde - perhaps one final round of particularly fiery missives saying good riddance. as for me, i never give the lord mayor or the prime minister a thought. where was i? the sun. i was wondering about the sun, if it would ever stop burning. not today, i decided forcefully - insofar as i was capable of forceful thought, or indeed of any kind of forceful behavior, physical or mental. "physical" or "mental" indeed - another consideration to stop the brain for indefinite stretches and cause it to stare through the vacant eye into vacant space until rudely recalled to one's so-called "surroundings". but do they really surround one? are they not filled with holes through which the abyss gan be glimpsed? glimpsed? fenwick. i had no more glimpse of fenwick. unlike the sun, he had quite disappeared. over the hill - actually over a very flat horizon, a very flat horizon indeed - and far away. the madness of following him - what had possessed me, what had possessed me to think i could relieve the neverending tedium of my wretched existence for even one day, for even one tentative sally forth from the implacable round of my assigned and appointed routines. it was time to go back to town. or was it? had fenwick said he would stand me a pint at the hostage and crawfish? did i want a pint? did i want to see fenwick again? here at least, were questions i could answer. i turned around. i looked back down the road. i recognized none of it. it looked very long. had i really walked down it? why? oh, why? i heard a voice. "help me." it was costermayne. i had forgotten about him. "help me." i stepped behind the bushes where fenwick and i had dragged him and looked down at him. fenwick had indeed been justly judicious about his own marksmanship, as there was a hole the size of a half crown in costermayne's forehead. "help me." costermayne looked straight up at me. i hardly knew what to say. "you seem in rather poor shape, costermayne. with that great bloody hole in the middle of your head." "muggleton - muggs - good old muggs. my dearest chum." his voice was surprisingly clear. "i hardly think we were 'chums,' costermayne. though it was a long time ago." "ah, you forget. but there is nothing like a bullet in the brain to sharpen one's memories. help me, muggs! at least help me up!" i looked back over my shoulder at the now enticing road. "and if i help you up, can you walk?" "no, no, you must help me! we were chums, muggs, like brothers! i mean, a brother is only flesh and blood, but chums were lads together, isn't that splendid, ha ha! help me here, and we will share a good laugh together some day, over a pint!" "yes, but can you walk? i can't carry you." "no, no need for that. just let me sit up. and then you can go for help." "back to town?" "no, no. only to my cousin's castle - castle morwyn," "there is no castle around here." i was beginning to feel dizzy, and was certain that the bullet in his brain had affected costernayne's judgment. "yes, yes, it is just behind that great hedge there, and over the moor. castle morwyn - filled with morwyns. old morwyn, young morwyn, admiral morwyn, reverend morwyn - plenty of morwyns! a morwyn to suit every taste! " "in a bloody castle?" "well, they call it a castle. it's a building, a building. the years could have been kinder to it. not exactly a schoolboy's notion of a castle, or an american's. come, muggs, there's a good chap, it is not even a mile away!" "on the other side of the hedge you say? can they give me a glass of water?" "water? ha, ha! a glass of whatever you desire, old fellow! old morwyn will blow the cobwebs off his fabled wine cellar for you. i guarantee it! or he will feel the rough edge of my tongue, that he will, ha ha!" i sighed. i noticed a shadow at my feet. was it my imagination, or was the day finally beginning to wane? 6. the castle