Fantastic Metropolis

Darktree believes the world is flat; his crossing of as many lines of latitude as fingers on a leper has not disabused him of this notion. On a flat Earth, according to geometry’s laws, which Darktree knows are harsher than the Old Bailey’s, the distance between the top of a tower and a distant object is greater than between the object and the base of the edifice. Something to do with angles—mysterious powers which lurk in all corners, even on the smooth puszta.

This is why, when he wants to spy movement on the horizon, he does not climb onto a roof, but strains his eyes at ground level. Now he can see them; proud and furious men, plumes waving on Hussars’ hats, sabres curved like tilted smiles. He has just eaten; his stomach is full. Thus at this crucial moment, he is too hoarse to direct the defences. Hannah takes an early break and emerges to join him. Her belly is never really stable. “Vigyázat!” she warns. And his digestion nods in agreement. The soldiers will offer no quarter; indeed, the brigands cannot expect even an eighth. Hussars are parsimonious.

Roused by the percussive rhythm, Darktree’s followers break open an emergency supply of firearms and swarm out of the tavern, vainly seeking high ground from which to snipe. The guns are old-fashioned models; only Darktree feels remotely comfortable with them. Indeed, he considers them a little too modern for his taste—but this is no time for the niceties of aggression. Blood must be spilt—Hungarian blood is sweet, fermented on the vein and mixed with sundry sherries.

The battle is something of a disappointment at first. There are few orotund speeches from either side. And what is the point of a fight with no verbal exchanges? When the Hussars begin firing, some of the brigands are so bored they roll over and fall asleep. Darktree curses. “Somnolent wretches!” None of the Hussars seem sleepy. Gunpowder smoke strides over the vista. Sabres cut this yellow fog.

If his followers refuse to help him properly, Darktree realises, he will have to sort matters out himself. Something rare happens now: he is granted an idea. He turns on his heels and runs into the tavern. The few wakeful bandits cry out in dismay. “Hova megy?” They think him a coward, leaving them in the thick of it. When the Hussars reach the first rogue, they slice his sense of betrayal into twelve segments. They butcher with inaudible apologies; they seem embarrassed.

Inside the tavern, Darktree finds his bag of muffins and feeds them to Hannah, who has followed him behind the bar. She gulps them quickly, understanding his plan at once. Her stomach begins to churn; in the warm marshes of her belly, vapours swirl. “That’s it, girl!” Darktree shouts. He reverses her toward the main window.

The Hussars and surviving bandits are startled to see a booted foot kicking through the lovely stained glass. It is followed by the rear end of a horse. The combatants scratch their headwear in confusion. Where is that bubbling noise coming from? Does the tavern contain a steam engine? A hand reaches out and pulls the mare’s tail.

There is a burst of gunfire. Explosive shells are blasted from that horse’s backside at a rapid rate. The Hussars are blown off their mounts and catapulted into the air. They mill in panic. Some of them charge the tavern, only to receive direct hits which turn them into crimson shreds. Now the Plain is pitted with craters, creases in the ironed puszta which fill with blood and gore.

Darktree works Hannah’s tail like a crankshaft. With each hairy tug a mortar-like muffin is emitted. The whistling of the cakes is deafening in the humming chaos. Darktree sweeps Hannah’s rump across the thrashing ranks of his foes. Her derrière steams and he cools it with a jug of ale and reloads her with the last remaining cakes. Finally, her bowels click emptily, the ammunition exhausted. But it is enough: not a single man outside is left alive. Sabres rest like shed frowns. Hannah has done her duty, in both senses of the word.

Darktree steps out of the tavern and surveys the carnage. There are so many bodies! What will he do with them? Too numerous to bury—his arm would drop off while digging the graves. Nor can they be cremated; it is well known that Hungarians are not inflammable. But if he leaves them to rot, his conscience will be annoyed.

“Available materials,” he mutters to himself…

The extension to his tavern is completed within a month. There are enough bodies to built a lounge next to the bar and a skittle alley with femurs and skulls as gaming equipment. Soon this honest business becomes the most successful csárda this side of Debrecen. As owner, Darktree has a jovial air; he moves amongst his customers dispensing winks. Hannah is a very popular barmaid; the punters are enchanted by her lashes. Any man who pinches her bottom is banned for all time.

Darktree should be content, but he is lonely again. His stomach can share jokes with his patrons; his head is neglected. The idea of leaving it all and trying on the guise of footpad grows ever more appealing. But where will he obtain enough sand to fill a bag?

He tries charging an admission fee of one thousand grains, but even this is too expensive for the local drinkers. Taking his empty sack, the one used to store his cakes, he peers into its depths. When he emerges, the tavern looks different. Able to see objects inside other objects, he is appalled at what confronts him. Trapped just beneath the décor of the building, a monstrous seagull bickers.

He rides out with Hannah onto the Plain. Alone he holds up a train, hoping the driver will neglect to stop, crushing him beneath the wheels. But this is a vexing life—the fool obeys Darktree’s commands and slows the engine, jumping down and opening the doors of the freight cars. The bandit is overwhelmed by the glitter of innumerable hourglasses. Hannah expresses her approval in metaphrastic Latin.

Raising his nautilus, Darktree plays his entire oeuvre. It does not take very long. While marooned, he wrote eight songs; the number seemed apt. Desert island etiquette permits no more than this. When it is over, he uses the flute as a mallet to smash the timers. He collects the sand in his bag. There is just the right amount.

With a cry of delight, man and horse gallop off into the west. Over the puszta, quilts and bolsters roll like tumbleweeds. There is an old Hungarian saying appropriate for the occasion, but Darktree does not know it. Nor does his head care. Indeed, there is only one region of his body which is truly sorry to be leaving, and it is too choked with tears to say goodbye—“Viszontlátásra!” Darktree clutches his side and winces as he rides. He has an upset stomach.

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The last two, and longest, installments of “The Darktree Wheel” can be read in Leviathan 2, available directly from the publisher, The Ministry of Whimsy Press.