The Smell of Telescopes by Rhys Hughes

watched in mordant amusement as Edgar scurried in beside her, and roared off. She placed the long knife on the dashboard. They bounced back down the lanes they had driven up. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
    “Nothing!” Edgar squirmed uneasily on the seat. Before long, they came across a tractor lying on its side in a ditch. A broad man dressed in a black cassock, with a dog-collar, was kicking the exposed engine. Blades and bovine flesh lay tangled together.
    Annabel slowed the car and wound the window down. “Can we help you Reverend?” She was astonished when the huge figure turned round with a mouth full of highly imaginative oaths.
    “I was off to Applaud My Death,” he said, when he had recovered his composure, “but ran into this ridiculous creature. Harry Spleen rang me earlier to tell me that a travelling couple were sitting in his kitchen. The woman is a virgin, apparently.”
    “I see. Well we can’t help you there, I’m afraid. We don’t know any virgins.” She stepped on the accelerator and screeched away. Back on the main road, she pulled into a lay by and turned to face Edgar. “You told that thin man I was a virgin! How could you?”
    Edgar was apologetic. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve never seen a wicker man before. The chance was too good to miss.”
    “But I’m not a virgin!” Annabel shook her fist at him. “I might not even have burned properly. What would you have done then? Siphoned some petrol from my car?”
    Edgar laughed. “They wouldn’t really have set you on fire. All that is just a metaphor. Country-speak. You don’t really believe that they burn virgins round here? You’ll be telling me next that you think all these place names actually mean what they say.”
    “Don’t they?”
    “Of course not!” Edgar wiped tears of mirth from his cheeks. “What? Purloin My Liver and Grind My Bones and Applaud My Death? They’re just colourful similes. Like the names of the drinks and the food. It’s all an elaborate act. Tradition, you see.”
    “Well the landlord of the Plucked Eyeball had obviously had his eyeball plucked. And that Shepherd’s Pie really did taste of smock and crook. How do you account for that?”
    “Coincidence. Anyway, what about Purloin My Liver and Applaud My Death? Nothing happened in any of those places that could possibly be linked to their names.”
    “Well your liver was stolen for a start.” Annabel blinked and clucked her tongue. “I saw it happen.”
    “What?” The shadow of a doubt crossed Edgar’s face. His fingers prodded his side. A sudden horror enveloped his features. He gazed at Annabel with terrified eyes. “Where?”
    “In the pub. A dwarf stole it. I thought you knew.” She picked up the knife from the dashboard, held it up to the sunlight for a moment, and then thrust it deep into Edgar’s side. She worked it backwards and forwards and then pulled it out. No blood followed. She pointed at the gaping wound and the empty space beyond. “See?”
    “It’s true!” Edgar was incredulous. He pulled the wound open and thrust his fingers in. After some minutes of groping around within, he gulped and clutched at Annabel. “But without a liver I’ll die!”
    “Of course.” Annabel returned the knife to the dashboard and once again started the ignition. “Perhaps I can sell your body to a local brewery.” This time she made no attempt to avoid the carcass of a sheep that lay in the path of her car.
    Edgar began moaning. A little while later he fell silent. Reaching over, Annabel checked his pulse and smiled. Then she took both hands off the steering-wheel for an instant and burst into spontaneous applause.

The Squonk Laughed

    The title of this story should also be its final sentence. Let me set the scene and tell you how it happened. 
    A blunderbuss above an unlit hearth; a stack of pterosaur bones within it. And I, glass of sherry in hand, ragged slippers on a low stool, reclining at my unease in starched