The Smell of Telescopes by Rhys Hughes Page B

syllable identical to the intolerably dulcet tones of his own throat. Thus I am condemned to be always haunted by his presence, indeed to live within an abstraction of his likeness, his mocking voice calling out to me, ‘Humberto, you are an oaf’, in a constant cycle of trudging through nested grief. But I persist because Ugolino hinted that a secret door might lead to freedom. I search in vain; a cruel jest.”
    The visitor puffed his cheeks at the hearth, frowning as the dead embers refused to burst into new life. I stooped to pat his misshapen head and he shivered at my touch. Stroking a squonk is an action not so very far removed from brushing the cheek of a distraught cloud.
    “You wonder why there are no flames in my grate? Another prank! He has stacked firewood in the cellar, but the moment I drag it up here, I see it is merely painted pterosaur bones. Only the food retains its character; indeed it improves with conveyance, possibly to accord with the law of cosmic balance. For every disappointment there is a small joy. But how callous of me to speak of joy in your presence! Also too many joys combine into one irregular lump which has much in common with wretchedness. I despise such joys!
    “My wife does little to comfort me. Ugolino turned her into a blunderbuss and mounted her on the mantle, in both senses of the verb. She may be discharged once, and after that her life is gone. By blowing out my brains with her, I also commit murder and doom myself to Hell. I have had enough of earthly torments and care not to substitute them for those of a supernatural character. Now allow me to show you my extensive library; it is my major ease. Here is a bestiary bound in the sloughed skin of a tazelwurm. It contains a chapter on your kind. Permit me to read aloud its fustian descriptions.
    “Ah, you are too modest to entertain such a notion. That is why you are so reticent. Very well! I shall satisfy myself with a single observation: the squonk may never be caught, for the moment it is bagged it dissolves entirely into a puddle of tears . If this be true, Señor, then we are polar opposites, for here I am always snared, but my endless lamentations do not result in such a reprieve. Indeed they seem to leave a desiccated wedge of indestructible dejection behind, totally arid and dry, who yet manages to drip another tear down his overlong nose.”
    A shadow passed across the window, a large globe which dropped out of a cloud and began to drift toward my castle. I saw a rudder and propeller, eager faces peering over the side of a basket. My guest rubbed his hands and nodded to himself. Then he reached for his curious medallion and lifted it to his eye. I now saw that it was a miniature form of camera obscura , such as are employed by certain painters in the Spanish Netherlands.
    Before I could inspect this marvellous apparatus—which is what I assumed was expected of me—a blinding flash disordered my vision and I fell back, clutching my head. The squonk lowered the machine, cast a glance at the sky and hopped back across the boards. In a moment he had turned the latch and was standing on the sill, waving to the aerial sphere, whose occupants duplicated his communication with considerable vigour.
    “Have I offended you, Señor?” I cried, aghast. Another slate fell into the void. It occurred to me that I had been a complete boor, offering Oloroso instead of Rias Baixas . I turned to dash the despicable bottle on the stones of the hearth, but a harrowing absence grated on my consciousness. The blunderbuss was gone! Then I understood the nature of the trick that had been played on me.
    My wife had been abducted for a souvenir!
    I rushed to the window, but it was too late. The flying orb had drawn level with the chamber and the squonk jumped into space to meet it. My outstretched fingers brushed the warts on the back of his head, and then he had landed in the basket, the blunderbuss tucked under one arm. Ballast was discarded;