Gauntlet of Gorgons
Now the Id purred like a cat which has been swallowed by a dog, the dog by a horse, the horse by an elephant, the elephant by a whale, the whale by a whirlpool, the whirlpool by a dying star, and the dying star, with difficulty, by a mouse.
“This is no ordinary gauntlet! Oh no, my friends, for the room yonder contains two Gorgons, brought over from Greece in crates with the marble frieze from the Temple of Apollo at Bassae. They aren’t supposed to be here at all, but they fell asleep in the ruins and the archaeologists thought they were part of the original structure. They are dormant and harmless during the day, but at night they stir and anyone who catches a glimpse of them turns instantly to stone!”
Engelbrecht wanted to dispute this. “Gorgons? Weren’t they slain by that Percy chap?”
The Id held up a burnished shield, or maybe it was a wardrobe mirror, which are easier to obtain, and angled it across the threshold so that the light from Chattox went in and the chamber’s reflection came out. Whatever is in a Gorgon’s face that literally petrifies a man doesn’t work when bounced from a shiny surface. Don’t ask about the physics of this, because even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you. I saw rows of ancient vases, carved figures of nymphs, exquisite metopes and pedimental sculptures, and lounging on either side of a reconstructed tomb, a pair of hideous monsters with reptilian scales, yellow tusks and hissing snakes for hair.
The Id lowered the mirror and popped an olive into his mouth. “True, one of the Gorgons was killed. Her name was Medusa. But her sisters are immortal and are ready to play. Which of you will be the lucky one?”
And he spat the olive-stone into the crowd. Most of us recoiled, but Skeletal Bartholomew and Louis Aragon misunderstood the meaning of his words and dived to catch it. They assumed it offered an exemption from the game. They each managed to pinch an end of it as it span through the air and an undignified tussle followed as they sought to pull it from the other’s grasp. Naturally the Id decided to select them both, which was an outcome neither was too pleased about, especially as it seemed a redefinition of the luck mentioned earlier. I wasn’t distraught to witness them treated thus, for they had never been wholly committed to surrealism and were probably the most disposable members of the club.
Engelbrecht spoke up: “Just a pair of volunteers for the run? Let’s make it a three victim race and get some proper betting going!”
The Id nodded languidly and I fretted at the dwarf’s impulsiveness. There was so little flesh on him he wouldn’t even make a decent garden gnome if petrified. But it was too late to save him now. I noted that Tommy Prenderghast and Chippy de Zoete had joined the gathering at last and were already calculating survival odds on the runners. The rules were simple enough. It was a case of dashing into the room and coming out through the door on the other side. Skeletal Bartholomew’s knees knocked violently as he was forced over the threshold. His technique was pitiful and the betting reflected this. At such long odds it was worth a very minor flutter and I laid a penny on him, but he didn’t manage six yards before turning to granite.
“No good squinting at them through your lashes,” the Id remarked. “I believe it was the elder sister, Stheno, who got him. Well, it’s another addition to the stock of exhibits.”
I wondered for a moment whether he had a little business venture going with the curator, but my speculations were interrupted by Louis Aragon, who covered his eyes with his hands, loosed a wild sort of howl and accelerated into the room. He didn’t get much further than his predecessor. In fact he ran straight into Skeletal Bartholomew, knocked him over and shattered him. He regained his feet but slid on the rubble so that he was no longer pointing in the right direction. Then he proceeded to run in tight circles, the circumferences of which, if joined together in a straight line, might have sufficed to carry him to the exit. Finally he froze in his tracks.
The Id sniffed. “Sandstone, I believe. It was the younger sister, Euryale, who bagged that one. No good peeping at her through a gap in your fingers. Now who’s next?”
I turned to bid Engelbrecht farewell and shake his hand, but he was engrossed in a conversation with Tommy and Chippy. They were hunched over the Roman wax tablet on which they’d been calculating odds with a stylus and when they separated I saw how the terms of the bet had changed. Now they were offering odds on a runner’s demise. In the light of what had happened to the previous contestants, this was suspicious. But there was a rush to lay bets and I admit I was caught up in the mercenary mood and staked the entire contents of my pocket against him reaching the far side. Not that I wanted him transformed into a mineral, you understand, but it seemed ludicrous to waste such an easy opportunity to recoup my earlier loss.
