The Book with Twelve Tales Read online

  He took two steps towards the creek

  and stopped. The kowhai crowns were veiled

  with dabs of snow. The whekis quivered.

  Far away the hills turned blue

  and glittered cold. A kea flew

  across the moonbeam. Ao shivered.

  Heroes who had gone before

  had not returned, or never found

  the longed-for Happy Hunting Ground.

  He closed his little eyes. He saw

  Hapopo, Rona, Hina, Iwi,

  Pa and Tutaua, whose stories

  pictured all their fatal glories –

  heroes every little kiwi

  knew by heart and soul. He thought

  of death by sunlight, death by water,

  death by man, the angry slaughter

  disappointed spirits brought

  on those that crossed them; snow and rivers,

  waterfalls and grasping roots,

  lightning, thunder, guns and boots,

  coughs and sneezes, flushes, shivers,

  flu and footrot, wonky wings,

  plain exhaustion, broken claws,

  blindness, deafness, baldness, sores,

  corns, exposure, sunburn, stings,

  and all the various diseases

  known to kiwis. Humpf, he said.

  Let’s go. He hupped his little head

  and started – heart attacks and wheezes,

  freezing, burning, madness, shocks,

  feather-droop, hallucinations –

  stop! Whatever dark privations

  lay in wait, whatever knocks,

  whatever trials, whatever tests,

  he’d see them through. So Ao tramped

  across the ferny clearing, stamped

  around his family’s family nests

  and struck across the ponga flat

  against a gentle, freezing wind

  and flapping piupius, grim, determined,

  overloaded, pitapat

  over a barky, icy mound –

  and there, before the first tawhais,

  he saw before his very eyes

  the shining Happy Hunting Ground!

  The lawns were packed with kiwi brothers,

  just like all the stories said.

  Ao scratched his little head

  and waddled back to tell the others.

  The Tale of Lawrence of Arabia post mortem

  Made by stabbing pins while under the influence of nicotine at the automatic writings of T.E.Lawrence as recorded by Jane Sherwood (British Library Ref. TESh1959385/6786544.45/34556/prb/JSHL/12.23456701223445543222.16)

  darkness rent

  with interludes

  but having flickered

  I could no longer

  fumbled

  in the dimness

  a ribbon of boys

  on bicycles meadows

  I thought

  hedges and trees

  where I came upon

  a convenient and

  rested my nakedness

  finding a shop where

  ready-made garments

  were a very

  unhappy region in the

  physical way

  I know only

  too well

  the volcano had

  disappeared but

  a young man

  from which a

  wide area of glowing

  is hardly possible

  in this place

  jumped the gap

  between us like

  an electric spark

  by such means

  horrid emanations

  in spite of

  setbacks of the promise

  a good deal

  of suffering now

  the agony

  the lucidity

  the new vigour

  so perhaps

  red-hot pincers

  is already

  some years

  and the drop

  we shall attain

  must be

  naturally we started

  from a higher

  there are

  ships here

  the desert has all

  so thinking

  I had climbed

  another set

  of inexorables

  so as not

  to get hurt

  muddy colour

  pleasant

  nor to feel

  I cultivated what

  goes wrong on earth

  divided in space

  whatever light

  too intense

  so each must

  and stay

  I begin now

  it is a vast

  maybe warped

  solitude and savour

  too blind and weak

  and around the issue

  yet a fever

  of impatience

  unless I bludgeon

  the books

  I could make here

  clean clear lovely

  an exact replica

  of it and

  for as long

  or short a time

  whichever

  manifestation of

  a riper

  so here I am

  but that I know

  I should be

  this sheer

  never know

  to whom

  I am

  strongly therefore

  fascinate me

  my old habit

  is a fluid state

  in the flesh

  print bind and tool

  even as

  he cannot easily

  bear the higher

  conditions and

  withdrew it so

  that his illumination

  broke the silence

  we agreed to

  not to be

  I can see now

  to love or

  to risk all

  I could

  value apart from

  to each and all

  I failed

  so lamentably

  a stream

  of pure joy

  us mere receptors

  this and much more

  I suppose

  paid for by

  the upshot many

  lives paid poisoned all

  this and that

  I did I

  bear on my own

  body will

  exonerate me

  our work here

  is a I need

  to be far more

  let me try

  fail his tests

  another outcome

  immense ages

  there is only

  as we are

  this is the crux

  of the mystery

  the past

  unrolls for me

  the framework

  of beauty to

  his youthful years

  clearly divine

  plan I can see

  so know it

  a certainty

  so I for one

  see clearly stranger

  forms this

  great end

  what is

  it makes no sense

  some of my

  friends from

  being a mere

  there is a quiet glow

  at times he grasps

  quietly and sanely

  into which

  at first and

  his charming wife

  I remember

  the hazards

  one can better

  and hope in the lost

  I suppose one may

  be a

  too-common problem

  there are few

  and were loath

  to leave him

  the agony of

  tedious to describe

  remain in coma

  this is where

  will be among us

  all behind

  I may seem

  grass tre
es and flowers

  true I do not want

  or any particular

  or perhaps

  it would be mere

  to explain how

  and a good

  deal of travelling

  for instance

  there is certainly

  so we are intensely

  among those who

  am I orientated

  since one

  wonders whether

  who have their

  lives and ignored without

  speculating upon

  its ascent and

  its probable return

  I watch all this

  the mere

  the conditions

  the further

  the known facts

  the chaotic

  the guarantee

  the love

  the Absolute

  a better

  lesser gods

  a more limited

  ground

  of all

  being

  finally

  spirit

  there

  have been

  adequate

  but since

  not yet

  The Ferret of Shalott

  Part 1

  On either side the M1 lie

  Long lines of towerblocks, bright and high,

  That crowd the earth and poke the sky,

  And through their feet the road runs by

  To much-more tower’d Raddlescott.

  And up and down the lorries go,

  Gazing where the chimneys blow

  Round a new-town there below,

  The new-town of Shalott.

  Washing darkens, windows quiver,

  Little breezes cough and shiver

  Through the cars that run forever

  By the new-town like a river,

  Flowing down to Raddlescott.

  Four glass walls and four glass towers

  Overlook a pot of flowers,

  And the shaking flat embowers

  The Ferret of Shalott.

  By his window, near the road,

  Roar the red containers, tow’d

  By straining trucks: and freight and load,

  Bus and van and taxi flow’d,

  Snarling down to Raddlescott.

  But who hath seen him wave his hand?

  Or at the window seen him stand?

  Or is he known in all the land,

  The Ferret of Shalott?

  Only postmen, posting early,

  In amongst the carparks daily,

  Hear a song that echoes barely

  From the towerblock, winding sparely

  Down to tower’d Raddlescott.

  And by the moon the policeman weary,

  Plodding in the shadows airy,

  Listening, whispers, ‘’Tis the scary

  Ferret of Shalott.’

  Part 2

  There he plays by night and day

  Computer games in colours gay.

  He has heard a whisper say

  A curse is on him if he stay

  To look down to Raddlescott.

  He knows not what the curse may be,

  And so he playeth steadily,

  And little other care hath he,

  The Ferret of Shalott.

  And moving through a TV clear

  That stands before him all the year,

  Shadows of the world appear.

  There he sees the M1 near

  Roaring down to Raddlescott.

  There the traffic’s eddy whirls,

  And there the choking diesel-swirls

  And the slowly stalking girls

  Pass onward from Shalott.

  Sometimes a bunch of rowdies glad,

  A shivering drunk, unsure and sad,

  Sometimes a shiny lager-lad

  Or long-haired girl in black boots clad

  Goes by to tower’d Raddlescott.

  And sometimes in the TV blue

  The ladettes stagger two by two.

  He hath no pretty girl and true,

  The Ferret of Shalott.

  But in his game he still delights

  To imitate the magic sights,

  For often through the howling nights

  A funeral, with screams and lights

  And music, went to Raddlescott.

  Or when the moon was overhead,

  Came two young lovers, lately wed;

  ‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said

  The Ferret of Shalott.

  Part 3

  A stone’s-throw from his dingy wall,

  She rode out of the shopping mall:

  The sun shone on her carryall

  And flashed upon the bicycle

  Of sweet Forget-Me-Not.

  Saint Christopher discretely lay

  Upon her bright décolleté

  And sparkled as she biked her way

  Beside obscure Shalott.

  The Raleigh emblem glittered free,

  Like to some shape of stars we see

  Hung in the endless Galaxy.

  The silver spokes spun merrily

  As she rode down to Raddlescott.

  And from her arms two bracelets hung,

  A shining stud shone in her tongue,

  And as she rode her earrings rung

  Beside remote Shalott.

  All in the blue and smoky weather

  Smoothly shone the saddle-leather;

  The hair-grip and the hair-grip feather

  Fluttered like a flame together

  As she rode down to Raddlescott;

  As often through the shrouded night

  Below the starry clusters bright

  Some shining meteor, trailing light,

  Moves over still Shalott.

  Her high, clear brow in sunlight glow’d,

  In burnished blurs the pedals trode,

  From underneath her helmet flow’d

  Her icecream curls as on she rode,

  As she rode down to Raddlescott.

  And from the bins and from the green

  She flashed across the TV screen.

  ‘Tirra lira,’ by the green

  Sang Forget-Me-Not.

  He left the game, he left his chair,

  He made three paces down the stairs,

  He saw bright windows everywhere,

  He saw her waving, icecream hair –

  He looked down to Raddlescott.

  Out flew the games and floated wide,

  The TV cracked from side to side:

  ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried

  The Ferret of Shalott.

  Part 4

  In the stormy east-wind straining,

  The teeming car tail-lights were waning,

  The canal in its banks complaining,

  Drearily the low sky raining

  Over tower’d Raddlescott.

  Down he came and found a car

  Abandoned by the lightless Spar,

  And sprayed across the bumper bar

  da Ferret of Shalott.

  Lying, dressed in tracksuit white

  That loosely flapped to left and right –

  The rain upon him falling light –

  Through the noises of the night

  He glided down to Raddlescott.

  And as the headlights veered along

  The yellow-lighted streets among,

  They heard him singing his last song,

  The Ferret of Shalott.

  Heard a sad song, dark, unholy,

  Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

  Till his blood was frozen slowly

  And his eyes were darken’d wholly,

  Turn’d to tower’d Raddlescott.

  For ere he reached, upon his ride,

  The first house by the canal-side,

  Singing in his song he died,

  The Ferret of Shalott.

  Under tower and balcony,

  By walkway and by gallery,

  A gleaming
shape he glided by,

  Dead-pale between the houses high,

  Silent into Raddlescott.

  Along the precinct out they came,

  Holding high their lighter-flames

  And round the car they read his name,

  da Ferret of Shalott.

  Who is this? And what is here?

  And in the bright apartment near

  Died the sound of party cheer

  And they hugged themselves for fear,

  All the girls of Raddlescott.

  Forget-Me-Not mused a little space.

  She said, ‘He has a lovely face.

  God in his mercy lend him grace,

  The Ferret of Shalott.’

  Rabies!

  A true story

  1 A decision on a day off

  I woke up, got up, and walked purposefully towards the Council Bus Depot. It was a warm, white day and the streets were puddled with last night’s rain. The city walls were perfectly black. The statue of Atatürk looked especially big in the morning light. I read the Bus Information for a while, but couldn’t decide what to do. I waited on the pavement, hoping that something would move me to choose where to go for some unaccountable reason. I stood in a puddle as the morning got warmer and whiter. Nothing happened. I splashed back to the Institute and looked at my map. I changed my shoes and had some tea and decided, eventually, to go to Ergani.

  It comforts me now that I did not climb, at first, on the Ergani bus on some happy impulse which I might have mistaken for my own unconscious heart. I had seen the town before, from the bus to Elazig, a month before and remembered now that I had liked the look of it and the greenbrown hill behind it. There was nothing, then, very deep in my choice: the events that were about to unfold can, therefore, be put down on the roll of accident and chance.

  2 Ergani and its greenbrown hill

  I got off the bus and walked purposefully through the small streets of Ergani until I reached the back of the town, which lay at the foot of the greenbrown hill. It was warm and the ground was puddled with last night’s rain. The hot air, heavy with liquid, drew the plants, grass and blossom into their fullest ripeness, in which they shone like wax. The tarmac road ended and became a path scooped out by cartwheels. Men on horseback galloped, muted by long grass, into the fields on either side of me. I began to climb the hill.

  The long, zigzag path was cut through bright brown earth and neatly lined with stones. In faroff fields that climbed the hillsides, shepherds sat on rocks amongst their sheep. I could see the shoulders of their capes swinging gently to and fro like the wings of aeroplanes.