Read Online The Affair of the Chalk Cliffs by James P. Blaylock - Free Book Online Page A

Queen, who had taken the form of an immense jackdaw wearing a tall golden crown. Other memories flitted through his mind—a trip to Surrey in a cart drawn by a pig, a flight over London on an enormous bullet fired out of a cannon on Guy Fawkes day, a descent into the depths of hell where he held a long conversation with a crestfallen devil who looked very much like himself. He knew that he had been insane and that he was now in the hands of his enemies, but whether for hours or days he couldn’t say. Nor could he tell in which direction the wagon traveled, only that they moved at a moderate pace, bumping and jostling along over an ill-maintained road.
    After a time the driver reined in the horses, and all was momentarily still. St. Ives closed his eyes, feigning sleep. The gate of the wagon clattered downward, and as the night wind swirled in around him there was the swishing sound of the canvas being drawn back. The wagon dipped on its springs as someone climbed aboard, and then there was the sharp reek of ammonia under his nose, and his eyes flew open involuntarily. A voice said, “That roused the bugger,” and immediately he was dragged bodily off the back of the cart and dumped onto the ground, still bound.
    For a moment he lay there, wary of being kicked, but the men—the Peddler Sam Burke and the man with his arm in a sling—walked off and left him to his own devices. He sat up, grateful to breathe clean air, and looked up through the trees at the moon riding at anchor amid a flotilla of stars, which told him that they were traveling south. Beachy Head , he thought, smelling the sea on the wind now. It was pretty much the same moon that had risen last night—only a few bare hours having passed since he had been taken. They weren’t on the Dicker road by any means, but were on a broad sort of path through the forest, little wider than the wagon.
    In a small clearing nearby, his companions had set up a low table, with a Soyer’s Magic Stove alongside it, the wick already lit. The Peddler was just then filling a kettle with water, which he set on the stove, and then from a basket he took out candles, a teapot and cups, a loaf of bread and a piece of what looked like farmhouse cheddar, all of which he set out on the table, arranging it neatly, as if he took particular pleasure in what he was doing. He lit the candles and nodded with satisfaction.
    The other man watched him with a derisive scowl. “A man would think you were a miserable sodomite with those pretty ways of yours, Peddler,” he said.
    “Some of us are what they call civilized, Mr. Goodson,” the Peddler told him. “My old mother was particular about serving tea. She had the idea that it was proof positive we were descended from angels rather than the much-lamented apes. ‘I’m on the side of the angels,’ she’d say, taking out the china teapot. She didn’t have the pleasure of knowing you, of course, Mr. Goodson. You might have changed her mind for her. Cup of tea, Professor St. Ives? Rather later than is customary, but we make do in our crude way.”
    St. Ives saw no reason to answer.
    “Ah, I forgot that you were bound hand and foot, Professor. Not at all conducive to holding a teacup. We might untie our captive friend’s hands, Mr. Goodson. Loop a noose around his neck first, however. Then you can lead him into the trees so that he can relieve himself in Mother Nature’s waterless closet. The tea should be steeping by the time you return. We’ll give the Professor something more fortifying—a restful glass of brandy, perhaps.”
    “Get your old mother to lead him into the woods,” Goodson told him, nearly spitting out the words. Then he stepped across to the short-legged table, picked up the entire cheese, and took a great bite out of it, spitting the chunk into his hand and setting the cheese back down. He stood there chewing like a cow and glaring at the Peddler, who calmly removed a long clasp knife from his pocket, opened it,