the Mysterie of Mount Misery

I arose the next morning, bathed in the guilt that customarily follows my spontaneous ecstasies. Moreover, I had broken the covenant negotiated with the Unspecific Deity before I left the old country. What had I achieved in the new land?, I morosely mused. My soul was as mucky, nay more polluted, than ever; opportunities for reform had been shunned; my antipathy towards the unwashed had prevented me from ministering to them; and with no Suki to correct my path I had become sidetracked by an imagination unfettered by the mere glimpse of a slip.
It was time to refer to the book of martyrs, to learn from those saintly men and women of old who knew how to negotiate their baser instincts and ensure incorruptibility of body and soul. I turned the musty pages to an oft-consulted section, that which recounts the holy deeds of Saint Gleb. Sure he lost his head and his useless body was discarded in brush, but I find inspiration in his fallibility. Unlike his too-perfect brother Boris, he was never popular with the people and whinnied like a girl when martyrdom approached. Yet he still attained immortality and was responsible for some cracking miracles. And in all the pictures I have seen of him, he is tall and slim and wears a dress well, none of which can be said for me. As I said, an inspiration indeed.
My mind thus invigorated I decided to offer gentle chastisement to my body with a flagon of ice-cold water and a brisk walk. The watery sun was a feeble ball that did little to dispel the chill of the air and the freezing breeze that never seemed to consider its welcome outstayed. With something scratchy on, I followed the path from my front door, marvelling at the detritus the neighbours had deposited on my land last night, to the road. More humps had sprouted overnight, so the the road resembled a plague victim's bubo-pocked back. It occured to me that, while the unfortunate recipient of such protruberances could credit their appearance to divine will or unhealthy living, the poor road, and all who travelled upon it, remained entirely ignorant of the reason for the humps' materialisation. I could think of no reason for their being, but comforted myself with the knowledge that it is not for us to question the mysterious ways of the overseer of carriageways.
Musing upon humps had somewhat distracted me. Unthinkingly, I left the road and headed for a green expanse, venturing that this was some sort of recreational area at which the local people could refresh their bodies. The few souls I spied were moving like automatons, circling the grassy area on a chalky path that girdled the park. Many were dressed especially for their perambulations as if it were a special occasion for them to be placing one foot before the other. Granted, they moved so leisurely it appeared that this was the first exercise they had undertaken for some time. Wondering what value they could gain from such a slothful pace, I increased my speed. My breath shortened and my garments began to itch, which was always a good sign. Flushed withe enthusiasm I endeavoured to leave the path and cut across the grass, however, as my first foot sunk I realised that the grass was but a skim of scum thrown across a sinksome clay bog. Effortfully withdrawing my muddy foot, I cursed this land's inhabitants, who perpetually entertain a delusion that this country is not quite the wettest place on earth.
As I was struggling with my mired footwear, from behind my back I heard a deep-throated gurgling. Swivelling around to locate the source of what I now imagined to be a snigger, I saw no one, but this absence was backgrounded by a dark scrub-strewn elevation: Mt. Misery.
I knew then that I was going to have to tackle this loathsome canker.

The Ugly Bones

Was I put upon this earth to be thus tormented? Is the Unspecific Deity playing the role of Magnus Inquisitor? To lose Suki is bad enough, but to have those unfulfilled needs teased out by an unattainable other is torture itself. Disdaining my new enthusiasm, I went back to the port, searching for my beloved Suki. The official being entirely unsympathetic to my plight, and the record of my claim for one lost goat having been apparently mislaid, I endeavoured to locate Suki after hours, aided only by the dim light of the moon and a weak torch.
The port was in a singularly unprepossessing part of town. The authorities, sensing the opportunity to enrich themselves, had seen fit to move all the local reprobates and inebriates into the area and fleece them by levying inordinate charges on their antisocial behaviour. These dregs of humanity congregated around the port, forming themselves into confraternities named after single ruddy canines and overstuffed pigs. They caroused in packs, unaccountably pleased with their state as they stumbled noisily about, shamelessly dressed in defiance of the climate and oblivious to the proximity of deep water.
Judiciously skirting these marauding tribes, I investigated the structures suitable for the containment of livestock. Most of these were policed by a sole character, comically dressed in an attempt at formal wear indubitably dreamed up by an intellectually-starved imagination, who granted passage with a curious tilting of the head accompanied by an arching of the eyebrows. Inside was all light and noise, accompanied by the incessant yakking of dumb beasts, secure in the knowledge that their interlocutors could neither hear nor care for their inane braying. Amongst this crowd of insensate beasts I was not likely to find my cultured Suki. I attempted to exit the barn, but the inhabitants lacked a regard for personal space characteristic of creatures that have spent their entire lives couped up together, and I could not remove myself from the site without a certain amount of unwelcome frisson.
My mind a smidgen excited by the dizzying son et lumiere, I resolved to return to my hut and extract the instrument I had kept shrouded since my arrival in this accursed land. In my home village I had been considered quite the virtuoso, having spent much of my teenage years ensconced in my room practising. The sound of my exertions had brought many offers to accompany me from passers by, but I had always steadfastly maintained that my best performances were solo. That was until I met my fiance, who initially marvelled at my technique but soon demanded to become part of the music making. Though I felt obliged to accede to her demands, I always quietly resented her coming between me and my instrument.
I had decided tonight to ease my heart by composing a mournful ditty to Suki in a minor key. Strumming away, I imagined the shaggy coat of my wished-for capra; yet the lilting melody and engaging rhythm demanded more. Of course there was the cleft hoof, the horny protuberance and uncanny tuft to envisage, the slit pupil that fixes one's attention. Such longing would not bring her to me, I knew, but I half- entertained the heresy that, having failed to secure her by conventional means, my song may lead my beloved to me. I am chastened to say that the sad tune, accompanied by an ever-increasing tempo, transported my imagination to a an unholy realm. In my mind's eye Suki's matted coarse coat became spun gold, receding to a tight bun atop her skull to reveal her sinewy flesh now fattened, smooth and pink, her eyes widened to dark pools, and her hooves cracked into delectable digits which grasped me and drew me toward her. This was not my goat-friend at all but an intoxicating vision of the coffeehouse Lenore. Yet, despite the fearsome transformation, I could not resist her embrace, her warm breath upon my neck and the ferocious heat that emanated from her being, and I relinquished all, collapsing a spent force upon the floor.

The trials of young Worm

A tormented week has passed and I have been tardy in communication. Young Werther never had it so rotten, but then he had a fetching blue coat and yellow breeches to sport. I, having packed only light vestments for the sunny climes I was promised, am faced with frozen extremities and a sluggish spirit unless I don the ubiquitous black uniform of this town's inhabitants.
I ventured in to town some days past, wrapping a gaily coloured scarf about my neck as protection from the icy gusts that spring from nowhere, violate every crevice of one's being, then dematerialise before one can utter a startled ejaculation. For reasons lost to me now, I sauntered down the town's main street in search of an outfitter who could satisfy my need for some warm vestments. I observed the foolish locals who seemed oblivious to nature's depredations, ambling with curious garments that neither offered protection from the climate nor a modicum of modesty. Certain folk paraded about in breeches that were neither full nor half sized, ending at centre-calf as if to advertise to all their status as village idiot. Others had placed slabs of vulcanised rubber beneath their feet, displaying their toes to all as if metatarsals were one of the finer aspects of the Unspecific Deity's handiwork and not something that should be shrouded and not mentioned in polite conversation.
The first clothing store I came across was bathed in a light so unwelcomingly harsh as to discourage from entry but the most aesthetically challenged. From the footpath I observed that its wares were made of the nastiest fibres, poorly assembled by indentured labourers into unlikely shapes and accordingly absurdly overpriced. It proclaimed itself to be a gentleman's outfitters but its market was clearly the youthful lout straight from the academy who knew no better than to purchase two of their vile shirts, one for his role as an office boy, and another wipe-clean version with a diamond pattern to wear down the pub on a Friday evening to get splattered in viscera.
Bypassing this establishment, I happened upon another clothing store but, as I could not see past the dreary mass of black and grey garments clouding the entrance, I continued my traversal. It was then that I noticed my colourful scarf was attracting the attention of the locals. Several ladies would turn their heads, but as my glance met theirs, they would lower their eyes modestly. Others, less soberly attired, stared straight at me, their gaze fixed on my neckwear, unable to comprehend what was clearly a category error. Approaching gentlemen would tug their companions from my path, so as not to risk collision. Feeling uncomfortable, I abruptly turned off the causeway into a coffee shop. Now, you know, dear reader, that I would not normally enter an establishment dedicated to the supply of stimulants, those exciters of mind and body, but I was soon to learn that this was a test the Unspecific Deity had designed especially for me.
About me were ridiculously high tables, beneath which were tucked equally ridiculously lofty stools, upon which were perched caffeine reprobates like drunken parrots , greedily slurping the last of the froth from their sinful mugs. I was soon to learn that not only are the people of this land enslaved by the wicked bean, they have not the moral fibre to take it straight. All of their nasty addictions must be adulterated by excretions from the vile udder and all manner of superfluous sweeteners. I begrudgingly respected the real citizens who tossed back the hot black stuff with no need for effeminate additions.
The narrow long room was swathed in gloom and permeated by an incessant thump that I initially took to be the labours of neighbouring constructioniers. In weeks to come I would hear this racket emanating from all manner of retailers, who appear to believe that inflicting the percussive thump and repetitive ostenato on its clientele will assist in the sale of their wares. I was about to turn tail and depart this sulphurous den when my pivoting head caught glimpse of a blinding light at the bar. There, surrounded by the detritus of man's baser appetites, stood a vision of feminine purity in a filthy smock. Her hair shone like straw in a dung heap, and though her mouth was nothing to speak of, her coal-black eyes roughly grasped my lapels and impelled me towards her. Upon closer inspection I reasoned that she was no Suki, and she was a little on the short side, but reason was cast out by the force of desire I felt, such urgent longing I had not felt since the accident with the jam and my fiance's white dress. I had taken a path in the opposite direction since then, forswearing the carnal appetite and all its worldly complications, but here was something so compelling I was willing to abandon my dusty route. This all passed in a second and I was able to reassert myself. I dare say I felt a touch of satisfaction in the rapidity of my self-correction.
A gruff voice behind me caused me to turn. I expected it to berate me for my foolish moment of capitulation but instead it questioned my right to claim possession of masculinity whilst wearing a colourful accoutrement. I was prepared for such a preposterous argument, having been warned about the tenuous grip this country's inhabitants have on identity and their constant childish need for reinforcement, but before I could summon an 'I say' with which to begin my riposte, she behind the bar took up my defence, effortlessly commanding the voice's owner to remove himself from the premises and questioning, rather gratuitously I thought, the magnitude of his reproductive organ. Strangely, the voice offered no defence and sullenly stalked out the door.
Normally such a display of coarseness, especially from the mouth of the fairer sex, would have me reaching for a book of corrections with which to bludgeon the miscreant into submission, but there was something special about this voice. For this was no slack-jawed mumbling resident, but a creature from a far more sophisticated realm, in which was entertained the possibility that there could be more than two vowels. I knew my resolve was crumbling, but her nasal whine began in my fetid imagination to resemble the celestial chorus. I was able to jerk myself back from temptation to compos mentis, quickly turn and leave this lounge of enticement, just glimpsing in my rapid departure the name on her badge.
I resolved to purge myself that evening with a hunk of stale bread and a mug of icy water. I fooled myself that such privations would cleanse my soul for the hours ahead, but I found myself awoken from my restless sleep by the eerie sound of the goats' nocturnal gambols on Mount Misery. I fearfully report that their baleful wailings no longer sounded like my lamented Suki; instead, I recall with a shiver, they increasingly resembled the rhinal rasp of my coffee-house temptress, the lusted-after Lenore.

10 June - The Silence of the Goats

The Unspecific Deity be praised for all your kind words and offers of assistance. Another goat would be much appreciated. I trust you, dear correspondent, are aware that only a female goat will serve my purposes. I shall do my best to ensure that your good deed will not go unrewarded in this world.
Until I take receipt of Suki II I am at the mercy of the local people. On the first morning I rose late - though still in the dark, as Mount Misery casts a terrible day-long shadow over the entire valley. My miserations of the previous evening dispersed by the deep sleep I had enjoyed and my natural positive disposition returned, I resolved to start my life in the new world with a freshness of spirit. Unfortunately my goatless status cast me at the mercy of my fellows, so I set out to the nearest dwelling to see if I could borrow a cup of milk or a chunk of bread to break my fast.
As I approached the house I was struck by the flimsiness of its construction. The building appeared to be made of some unnatural substance; it was enveloped in a material as smooth as sandpaper but most unbecoming in appearance, which puzzled me no end as their appeared to be a surplus of decent timber in this land. The wind, which had again whipped up, veritably howled through the gaps in the dwelling, emitting a displeasing cry that brought to mind my beloved Suki's cries for ministration. Then a dog sprung at me from I know not where, a vicious bullet-headed brute that was obviously kept only for its threatening appearance and unsocial behaviour. As its teeth sliced through my rude garments and into my leg, a characterless shout rang out from the crude structure, berating the hound for its actions. The dog took no notice of such a feeble display of husbandry and continued to worry at the sinews of my disintegrating calf.
I say, I ventured, is it possible that you could emerge from your dwelling and remove your sentinel from my bleeding appendage? Your verbal instructions seem to have little effect.
After what seemed an eternity, during which the recalcitrant canine continued to gorge on my second favourite body part, the door swung open and the owner of the voice materialised in the doorway, a full-figured vision of humanity sunk to such depths of dissolution that it was impossible for me to sex the creature. A remnant of rolled parchment hung loosely from one side of its mouth as it struggled through a small mountain or large hill of drained receptacles towards me, its progress further impeded by an ill-fitting sack of a nightdress and monstrously fluffy footwear. It burbled yet more incomprehensibility at the hound. This verbiage had the same effect as its previous effusions.
Do you think, I addressed the hulk (not knowing where to look, unsure of which was the more distressing sight - this perversion of the Unspecific Deity's handiwork or my diminishing leg), you could manfully intervene and detach the assailant? My words had sparked a flash of something novel in the resident's deep-set eyes, a glimmer of something (intelligence? comprehension?) that had not been experienced before, and it lumbered forward, grasped the dog by its truncated tail and began to pull. The result of this action was more pain and less leg. Realising that it was up to me if I wished to continue a bipedal existence, I executed a manoeuvre I sometimes applied to Suki when she got a little frisky and plunged my thumbs into the beast's eye sockets. With a pitiful yelp its jaws disengaged, the dog dropped to the ground, spun a semi-circle on its round behind, then righted itself on four legs and sped away in an erratic trajectory, here and there colliding with the array of vehicle parts, limbs of children's toys, kitchen utensils and general effluvia scattered about the place before hurtling into a shed.
Charity, to which I am no stranger, would dictate a sympathetic response to my dilemma, yet instead of offering words of apology or queries as to my well being, the stranger began to utter a series of justifications for its animal's assault. From what I gathered - which was only every other word, as their flat tone and insistence on elongating each vowel beyond reason, inventing tripthongs beyond the imaginings of the most learned linguist, battered my delicate ears - the beast's decision to sink its teeth into a questing Brethren was a form of expression, like painting with watercolours or tooting a tin whistle I surmised, that it should not be denied. Apparently, this same desire to allow the animal to achieve its fullest potential denied the use of an attachable chain or the construction of an enclosure. While I marvelled somewhat at the elaborate lengths people will go to to justify their laziness, my aching leg interfered with my desire to argue the point so I dragged myself home, projecting over my shoulder at the receding blob the meanest looks I could muster in my agonised state.
I spent the rest of the day in my rude hut, stale tack in hand and Suki on my mind. Dr Mugg had supplied me with a small dose of opiate before I left. Knowing how I relied on its analgesic effects following the unfortunate incident with my once-betrothed father's mechanised pitch-maker, he handed over a small vial, assuring me that the pharmacopoeia in the land to which I was about to venture was very meagre. It is so poor, he added, that the locals are reduced to relieving the pain of everyday existence by rolling up wild-growing grasses in the pages of their holy books, setting them on fire and ingesting the resulting clouds. Most popular of all, he said, leaning over with a conspiratorial gleam in his occluded eye, is a local beverage so utterly lacking in flavour and palpable effect that vast quantities need be consumed. Then, realising that they have just consumed an improbable amount of this vile swill, the locals are so disillusioned with themselves that they viciously assault one another in an orgy of self-disgust. The most self-loathing of these swillers will coat the streets of their town with their stomach's contents, advertising their abject nature in a twice-weekly ritual.
Upon hearing this I resolved to guide the poor souls back towards clean living. But this would have to wait for another day, I mused as I downed the vial's contents. I must have fallen asleep for I could hear the plaintive cry of Suki as clearly as if she was in her customary position atop the table, awaiting her daily rubdown. Sitting up in my bed, I looked about the darkened room for my goatly companion. I called out for her, using our pet name only she would recognise, but she did not approach. Her cry continued, so I stumbled from my cot and dragged myself over the rough floor. Her voice, however, did not arise from the house, but from outside. Slithering to the window I peered out. The moon was full, but still no Suki was visible in the illuminated landscape. My eyes, following the lead of my ears, were directed to Mount Misery, which retained its darkened mien in the lunar light. What I saw on its miserable slopes filled my heart with terror. For there, silhouetted against the moon, was not just one but a whole company of horned goats in ghastly chorus, mockingly bleating my lost Suki's tune.

2 June

Nothing in my fever-tosst somniloquies has prepared me for the awful spectre of Mount Misery, a mist-shrouded canker ominously glowering at my wretched frame. My feeble flame flickers, straining to draw sustenance from fuel that is, like everything about me, perpetually damp. The fire my fellow, it nears its spluttering end; the ensuing darkness will bring conclusion to my pathetic attempts to document my first hours in this gloomy land.
Though you may not believe it, I stumbled ashore with my spirits aloft. Nothing, I counselled myself, could be as terrible as my passage here. The vessel was a creaking hulk with tiny slits in its exterior passing for windows. Even if one could make out something beyond the greasy smudges left by desperate fingers and unkempt hair, it was only that unremitting grey that passes for colour in this part of the world. The air did not circulate but sat around, outstaying its welcome like a fat cousin. The ablution area was fashioned from left over space behind the scullery - I've seen more roomy broom closets, and the company would have been more amenable and of a more pleasing odour.
For when I say the vessel was fit only for livestock, I am being unfair to the brutes of this world. Beasts dumbly bear the vicissitudes of the universe; they seldom take refuge from their fate in the evils of fermented beverage. I pleaded with the steward to be quartered in my rightful place, on the fore deck with the merchants and people's advocates, they whose only vice is a mean sherry in the evening - but only after a grueling day in service of humanity. I insisted that there was an error in the paperwork; the Brethren would not countenance their representative quartered with society's dregs. Behold, I pointed out, they continually jabber ill-educated nonsense, hold second-hand opinions on the terpsichorean merits of a cipher whom they address by Christian name but have never personally encountered, wantonly consume the poor victuals desultorily thrown before themselves and have not the will to control the inevitable digestive consequences. Certainly, when I arrive at my destination questions will be asked. The Brethren will not stand for such miscegenation. My rant had little effect and I was forced to endure the rest of my journey engulfed in a plebeian miasma.
Understandably, then, I alighted the vessel convinced that the worst was behind me. I was a little disconcerted by the atmosphere that greeted, nay ambushed, me. Dr Mugg had informed me that the colony air would aid my recovery but all I encountered was a damp thug that snuck up behind me and threw a thick blanket of suffocating moistness over my head. It smelt of a rotting vegetation that had spent too much time sitting around engaged in mindless pursuits. My priority was rescuing my baggage. I was able to take a tiny selection of my precious books on board - these had become slightly damaged by the need, brought about by space restrictions and suspicion of my fellow-travellers, to secrete them on my person (later I realised that I should have hidden them amongst the safety instructions and advertisements for cut-price wares in front of me, for no one dares venture there) - but I was most keen to rescue Suki, my beloved goat, from the hold.
Suki was to be my animal saviour in the new world. Supplier of nourishment, guardian of the crops from the ravaging vermin that swarm over the land, beast of burden (I have a patent on a goat-operated plough), and constant companion, it was to horny Suki's face I looked in my hours of greatest need. It was distressing, therefore, to learn that she had been lost in transit. The locals, who seem to treat all matters with the greatest of indifference, were little concerned and refused to allow me to search the hold. They uttered a peculiar phrase that I did not totally comprehend because the vernacular mortally bastardises the English language, but in essece they said that the universe could be balanced and all wrongs emended if I filled in a three page form. How this was to locate my precious Suki I did not know, but I deferred to their superior judgement, counselling myself, though now it feels more like kidding, that they must be competent people to reach such an official position.
Passage to my new residence had been formalised weeks ago. I waited an eternity, but nothing turned up. A passing character - who may have been an inebriate, but it is difficult to tell if his slurred speech was the result of alcohol or merely being reared in this land - informed me that a national event was taking place and such was the level of participation that almost everyone would be secluded in their dwellings for the duration. I dragged my heavy chest, the wheels having fallen off the moment they touched the ground, to a dimly illuminated sign bearing the news that a form of public transport would soon arrive to take me to Mount Misery. I would still be standing there now if I had not been offered a ride by an unaccountably cheery figure, who lent out his vehicle to offer deliverance from the fierce gale that had unexpectedly whipped up and threatened to separate me and my hat. I felt not in a position to refuse his offer of passage to Mt Misery, though soon I was in fear of my life, seated in a vehicle piloted by a man in leave of his senses. The driver appeared to have as little sense of self-preservation as he did of passenger comfort, hurtling around corners oblivious to other traffic, attempting (apparently) to hitch his vehicle to that of another to form a long train- all the while cursing the inability of others to match his prowess.
I had heard from a university chum a concept of time relativity popular in the more atheistically inclined sections of the intelligentsia, in which time is not a constant controlled by the Unspecific Deity as Universal Watchmaker, but that it operates differently in varied locations. I concluded that time in this land moved at a quicker space, that people here had shorter lifespans that would be considerably diminished by waiting those few extra seconds to confirm if a manoeuvre could be executed safely. I supposed that life in such a land, though it be initially discombobulating, would be immeasurably more exciting and vital, and that Mt Misery may be just the tonic I need to awaken my deadened soul. I now know that supposition to be the musing of an idiot.