Chapter III.9

'You have been très heureux, my friend,' said the Frenchman, 'It is only par chance that my colleagues and I have passed through these woods on the little country ramble. Next time you may not be having such grand luckiness.'

Loofah forced a smile and nodded uncertainly. They had left the clearing via a broad ride through the wood; oak and birch lined their route, an arboreal guard of honour that neither of them deserved. The whoosh of the flamethrower and the whine of the chainsaw were now almost out of ear-shot, and the acrid smell of smoke no longer caught the back of his throat. Nevertheless, the horrors of the glade were still fresh and he saw the tree girl's lovely face in the swirling bark of every trunk they passed.

'Perhaps it is not so wise to be going around on your own,' Dentressangle continued, 'Perhaps it is safer if you are not leaving your friend in the future, perhaps then we can be avoiding these little—how you say?—fracas.'

There was a heavy dampness in the air that promised rain. Loofah stared at the flowing grass, the dancing wild flowers, and the jewelled butterflies, all happily displaying for him in the overcast light, all blissfully oblivious to the dreadful scenes that still flickered on his retinas. He tried not to weep. The Frenchman stopped and plucked a poppy.

'I think perhaps if you had be staying avec the old people—as you have said that you would—then none of this would have happened.' As Dentressangle spoke, he nodded back in the direction of the glade, absently pulling off the poppy's petals one by one.

'Um—I—er—,' stammered Loofah, now wrestling with a least twelve separate serpents of guilt.

'Leaving poor Georgette with the lurcher like that. Is this the way to be treating une jollie fille?'

'I—I had to, Norbert. I had no choice.'

The Frenchman looked up from his poppy and smiled dangerously.

'"No choice"? What is this "no choice"?' he asked quietly.

'Georgette got a little, um, tied up. And while she was away I had to leave—I got a message, an urgent message.'

'A message?'

'About the Hart of Darkness, about where to find it. I had to leave straight away, you see, right there and then. Otherwise I might have missed it.'

Dentressangle's eyes widened and the mutilated flower slipped from his fingers.

'The lungs of shadow?' he whispered, 'You have found the lungs of shadow?'

'Yes—yes, I have.'

Dentressangle stepped closer until his face loomed inches away from Loofah's own—the handsome visage had suddenly drained of colour, with its eyes staring and its cheek muscles twitching under the glossy tanned skin.

'So where is she?' he demanded, 'Be telling me now.'

'She? Um, who exactly do you mean, Norbert?' asked Loofah, with feigned naivety.

'La Femme Double, of course.'

'Oh, her.'

'Come, dites moi. Do not delay.'

'But, I don't know, Norbert, I don't know where she is.'

'You do not know?' said Dentressangle, in a whisper like a cobra's hiss.

Loofah shook his head in nervous confirmation. Then suddenly firm hands were gripping his throat, pressing hard on his larynx. The Frenchman's face loomed closer still, eyes blazing madly.

'You lie! You lie!' he spat, spraying droplets of white foam, 'You will tell me, you will!'

'But the Hart didn't say,' croaked Loofah, 'I promise you it didn't tell me where she is.'

'What? It must have told you! It must! It must! It must!'

Loofah risked strangulation and shook his head vigorously.

'It said I have to find something else—another official.'

Dentressangle's eyes narrowed, filling with suspicion. 'Un autre official?'

Loofah nodded. 'Another animal—a cow,' he croaked.

'So this is what we must be finding now? Une vache?'

Loofah realised his mistake. 'Did I say "cow"?' he said quickly, 'Actually that was wrong—I didn't mean cow at all.'

'Pas une vache?'

'Definitely not a cow,' said Loofah, emphatically, 'The Hart made that quite clear—I remember now. In fact it said that we should avoid cows at all costs. No, it's a horse that we must find. But not just any old horse—it has to be a special horse. The Horse of, er—' three cold drops hit the top of his scalp '—Rain,' he blurted, avoiding the Frenchman's eyes.

'Le Cheval de Pluie,' said Dentressangle, pensively, 'And this horse, he will be telling you where She is?'

'Yes. Well, at least I think so.'

The hands tightened.

'I mean it will tell me,' croaked Loofah, 'Definitely.'

'Définitivement?'

'Absolutely definitely the Horse of Rain will tell me. Don't forget—I am The Seeker; it has to tell me.'

For a moment Dentressangle watched him silently. Then with a smile he released his grip and delicately brushed down Loofah's rumpled jacket collar with the tips of his fingers.

'This is good, this is très good' he said, 'So all we must be doing now is finding this cheval, yes?'

'That's right, all we must do now is find the Horse. Although where we might find this creature,' added Loofah, 'I haven't the faintest clue.'

Fortunately the Frenchman seemed to be something of an expert in equine ecology and, after some minutes of deep pondering, came up with what seemed to be a reasonable proposal.

'A field. Yes, I think that's a very good idea, Norbert. In fact I can't think of a better place to look for a horse.'

Dentressangle smirked proudly.

'And if the horse isn't in the first field that we find,' added Loofah, 'we can look in another.'

'You see, my friend, it is always useful to be having with you a local person, a person who knows the cables. And now we must be starting notre recherche.'

Dentressangle went ahead of Loofah, a white kid-gloved hand holding a white silk umbrella against the rain. His linen suit was perfect, with exactly the right degree of chic crumple, and the hand-stitched Italian brogues—white, of course—seemed completely oblivious to the muddy path. At what stage the Frenchman had managed to change out of his boiler suit and wellingtons, Loofah was not quite sure.

They walked quickly, brushing past the scrubby blackthorn and clumps of cow parsley that grew either side of the path. The bereaved wood was silent now, all noise muffled in the rain; even the birds had stopped singing, respecting its grief. Although Loofah tried not to look at the trees, drooping in the rain, and kept his eyes fixed firmly on Dentressangle's elegantly garbed back, he nevertheless felt their reproach and his cheeks tingled with shame. He knew that behind them a distant column of smoke still rose above the treetops, blending seamlessly into the grey of the sky.

The rain fell steadily, unruffled by any breeze. This, however, was a summer rain and did not chill, and so Loofah did not mind that Dentressangle was not offering to share his umbrella. Indeed, he was glad to be getting wet; it was a purification, a cleansing that would hopefully rinse away his guilt.

He paused for a second, feeling the cold splashes on his scalp and listening to the hollow patter on the sodden leather of his shoulders. Drops and rivulets meandered over his lenses, blurring the whole world into a flowing, rippling aquarium.

Dentressangle swam across his distorted vision, striding ahead down the ride, untouched by either the rain or the silent tears of the violated forest. He was clearly in a hurry, intent on finding his field and his elusive horse. More elusive than the Frenchman quite realised, thought Loofah, bracing himself for a spasm of guilt.

He shivered quickly—though not with guilt—and frowned, touching his neck where Dentressangle's hands had gripped him. On mature reflection he did have to admit that he wasn't cut out for a vegetative existence (at least not yet) and he still remembered Dentressangle's timely appearances at the termite nest and the vicious toilet. Nevertheless, something wiggled at the base of his skull, a tiny little maggot on unease nibbling quietly but persistently at his cerebellum.

An image now played on the shimmering grey screen of the falling rain, of a corpulent figure draped in a marquee-like surplice, purple faced, silently bellowing out her sermon. Though he could not hear what she was shouting, the vision triggered a memory and Loofah stopped dead, the silent words echoing round his skull: 'this foul creature would go from Here to There'. Ahead of him, bent and twisted by the rain on his lenses, Dentressangle hurried away down the path. It was only then that Loofah saw that the Frenchman was being pulled along by a dog on a lead. A bloodhound, it was black and tan with long lolloping ears and was wearing—Loofah squirmed with discomfort—spectacles and a little dog coat in lime green with orange trim to protect it from the rain. The faithful creature sniffed the ground intently, clearly following a scent and obediently leading its master in pursuit of his quarry.

The Frenchman then stopped and turned—and to Loofah's great relief the disturbingly familiar animal seemed to melt away into the rain.

'Hurry, please,' he called, 'or the horse will be galloping away!'

Loofah forced a smile. Of course, he reminded himself as he started forward, dogs were not always as stupid as they looked. The thought was pleasantly comforting and his sense of unease began to dissipate.

'Sorry, Norbert,' said Loofah as he caught up with his companion, 'I was dreaming.'

'There is no time for the dreaming, my friend. Every moment has great preciousness—even as we speak the powers of evil may be closing on their goal-mouth. But soon we are out of these horrible woods and in the lovely open champs, where you will be showing to me the cheval magique.'

Dentressangle glided away from him, hardly moving his legs but travelling at a surprising speed.

'It's funny, isn't it?' Loofah said, trotting through the wet grass beside the path, struggling to keep up, 'All this business about travelling from here to there.'

'"Funny"? What is this "funny"?'

'I mean all this stuff with the double woman. It seems such a great big palaver for a simple little journey.'

The Frenchman stopped and turned to face him.

'A great big pavlova indeed, my friend,' he said, 'with the cherries on the top. And for this you must be thanking Monsieur Stobart.'

The subject clearly struck a chord with the Frenchman. As he warmed to his theme their pace became more sedate, Dentressangle gliding down the path, wrapped in his reminiscences, with Loofah stumbling along beside him in water filled shoes, with wet trouser legs slapping against his calves.

'In the times of the past, the going from one place to the autre was easy then, as easy as the going from one chambre to another. Ah, the magic of the voyage, my friend, the visiting of les amis, the seeing of the world—both of them.' The Frenchman paused, his face alive with remembered joys. 'You see, the travel gave a certain—how you say?—je ne sais quoi. We were special in those days, we voyageurs, we had privileges, we had power, we counted for quelque chose.'

Dentressangle gazed into the middle distance and smiled a misty smile.

'Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end…'

'But they did?' asked Loofah, after a few moments of sorrowful silence.

The Frenchman sighed and nodded. Then a black cloud darkened his brow.

'Because of one,' he said quietly, 'one who was wanting it all for himself.'

'Mr Stobart.'

'The greediness destroys tout.'

For a few moments they walked in silence as the Frenchman brooded.

'But what exactly did he do?' asked Loofah, eventually.

'The treacherous pièce de merde has committed foulest of all the wickednesses, the worstest of all the outrages to be imaginé.' Dentressangle stopped walking and turned to face Loofah. 'Yes, I know it has the hardness to be believing of, but what I speak about is—' he swallowed and shuddered '—fissure—split—schism… La Grande Schism.' The Frenchman was breathing hard now, almost choking on his words. 'Where once there was unité now there is division, where once there was one, now there are…'

The Frenchman's voice trailed away as his face drained and his eyes became distant, filling with an unearthly fear and loathing. Although unsure of the exact meaning of what he had been told, Loofah himself shivered, as if wafted by the chill stale air of a freshly opened tomb.

'And so now there is no more voyage, no more fro and to,' Dentressangle went on, coming back to the present, 'The greedy one controls it all now, a fat toad squatting across all the bridges that have once been ouvert to all. All the power in the one pair of hands, all the profit à lui.'

'But you said before that he lives over there.'

'His connections avec ici, this gives him great power over là. For yes, like all monopolistas, he is a très powerful homme. And also a greedy one—he cannot bear that anyone else is trespassing onto what he thinks is his.'

Dentressangle paused and looked hard at Loofah with narrowed eyes.

'Which is where you are coming in,' he said.

'Me?'

'You see, my friend, the monopoly is not quite being complet—this the government is of course not permitting. And so there is one bridge that he is not controlling, one last route from ici à là—a bridge that only you can be finding.'

'The Woman?'

Dentressangle nodded. 'She is the snake that can be biting the fat toad, my friend, She is the one who can be kicking the strutting little turkey cock off his dung heap.'

Two-headed serpents, obese toads in pin-striped suits, and corporate plutocrats with wattled turkey features tumbled through Loofah's grey matter in a blurred cascade of confused metaphors.

'Norbert,' he asked after a pause, 'what happened to the others?'

'Les autres?'

'The other ones who travelled, the other special people.'

'Oh, them,' sneered Dentressangle, 'They were très stupide and they got everything they were deserving.' He spat onto the grass. 'That, my friend, is what has happened to them,' he added, with vicious finality.

The rain pattered pleasantly on Loofah's scalp and little rivulets trickled playfully down his cheeks and neck. He sensed that his window of opportunity for enquiry had closed, at least for the time being. This did not over concern him—as ever, the little new information he had managed to acquire had largely served only to increase his bewilderment.

'The weather Anglais,' mumbled Dentressangle crossly, though completely dry under his umbrella. He held his hand out, watching closely as a few drops splashed onto his palm. 'It rains the cows and the horses.'

Loofah held up his own hand, puzzled. A large drop hit the ball of his thumb and exploded in a splash, the centre forming a tiny shape before it collapsed. Another landed in the centre of his palm and this time he recognised the momentary liquid figure—it was a tiny cat, curled in a ball. Then two drops hit together, forming miniature transparent dogs—mongrels as far as he could determine—that were there for a split nanosecond before collapsing into dribbles of rain water. Loofah smiled, then laughed. Next it was Staffordshire bull terrier wagging its tail, followed by two little Persian kittens, gambolling together on his forefinger.

'Norbert,' he called, looking up, 'it's not cows and horses at all, it's…'

But Dentressangle was already twenty paces ahead, gliding quickly away down the path.

Although Loofah walked quickly, squidging through the wet grass in his sodden shoes, the Frenchman was always ahead of him, gliding as effortlessly as before, though this time with urgency, as if being viciously spurred by some invisible demonic jockey.

The rain had now stopped and over the ride ahead the solid slab of grey was weakening, beginning to crack and already showing the first thin slivers of blue. The trees seemed happier in this part of the wood; these were larches with bright green foliage, soft like cat fur, and although their branches drooped this was with languor rather than sadness. The wild flowers of the ride also seemed distinctly cheerful, thrusting their newly laundered blooms into the air. There was a fresh scent of pine in the air as if the wood had been spring-cleaned by a conscientious housewife, and the beginnings of birdsong began to trill around the foliage.

Even Loofah himself felt lighter, at long last washed free of the miasmas that had haunted him since the murder of the tree-girl. Filling his lungs with the pine-fresh air, he brushed his hand through the leaves of a willow-herb, sending an entire menagerie of droplets splashing onto the grass below. There was still, of course, one fly in his ointment, namely how to manage the Frenchman and his inevitably futile search for the non-existent equine official. From the perspective of his newly elevated mood, however, this seemed like a reassuringly tiny fly in his ointment, a problem to be tackled in some unspecified and as yet unreal future. And so there was a distinct spring in Loofah's step as he hurried to catch up with his companion, who had now disappeared from view over the top of a low rise ahead.

Sadly, as it turned out, Loofah's new-found sense of well-being was cruelly ephemeral and, no more than moments later, the tiny fly had grown into a shiny fat bluebottle, wriggling obscenely in his previously near-pristine unguent. For he had reached at the crest of a low ridge and at the bottom of the slope in front of him the ride ended in a wooden fence behind which, spread out in all its unwelcome green glory, was a field. And in the middle of the field—Loofah groaned audibly—stood an animal, happily munching grass. He blinked twice, hoping to turn it into a cow, but the dark mane remained, sweeping elegantly down its neck, and the udder refused to appear. At that moment, as if on cue, the cloud finally parted and the horse was caught in a beam of sunlight, dazzling gold against the residual grey of the rain; it was an equine star upon its very own stage.

Dentressangle had stopped a few yards short of the fence and was staring, mesmerised, at the horse.

'Voici,' he said, as Loofah reached him. His voice was little more than a tight whisper.

'Yes, Norbert, it is a horse—or at least I think it is.'

The Frenchman said something he didn't catch.

'Although it might not be the right horse,' Loofah went on, 'In fact it probably isn't. It looks like a very ordinary horse to me.'

But when the horse walked forward a few steps to a fresh patch of grass its solar spotlight moved with it, as if to deliberately belie his words.

'No, no—look!' hissed Dentressangle, fiercely. With a frisson of fear Loofah remembered firm hands at his throat and a penknife blade poking into his belly.

'Yes, I can see,' he stammered, 'But we mustn't get too excited—it's almost certainly the wrong, er, colour. In fact, I remember now—the Horse of Rain is supposed to be…'

Dentressangle grabbed his arm and pointed furiously, stabbing the air with his finger. 'Not the cheval, you imbécile—' the Frenchman's voice was frantic '—look at the drinking cup.'

Squinting through his rain-smeared lenses, Loofah followed the pointing finger. The galvanised horse trough was a yard or so inside the fence, nestling innocently in a bed of tall protective nettles. The metal was still wet from the rain and gleamed in the brittle light. A large black slug crawled along the rim, enjoying the fresh damp air.

'It's, um, very nice, Norbert. But if you're thirsty, it really might be better to wait until we find a tap.'

'Fool!' spat Dentressangle, digging his fingers into Loofah's flesh, 'Can you not see the foul creature of hell that is poisoning tout that it touches?'

Comprehension clicked into place.

'Oh, you mean the slug.'

'Ai-ee!' Dentressangle screamed, covering his ears. 'Do not even be saying of that word!'

'But, Norbert, it's only a harmless little slu—.'

'Silence!' The whole field jolted with a shock of sharp pain across Loofah's left cheek. He staggered two steps backwards, stunned, staring blankly at the Frenchman's contorted face.

'This is not the right cheval—come, let us go. I am knowing of another field, a better field with a better horse.'

With this, Dentressangle spun away from the offending invertebrate and headed up a path beside the fence, moving with panic-driven urgency.

Loofah lightly touched his cheek, where a perfect image of the Frenchman's hand was etched onto his skin in stinging pain. The slug had now left the rim of the trough and was now calmly slithering down the side, oblivious to the upset it had caused. As he watched it head towards the cover of the wet nettles, Loofah became aware of a memory involving these controversial molluscs that lurked just out of reach at the edge of his mind, enticing but insubstantial. There were several of the ghostly creatures, each the size of a small car, shimmering and glistening in the silvery light. Were they crawling in formation, in a circle perhaps? He tried to see more clearly, forcing his memory beyond its fragile limits—but then the image was gone, evaporating into the damp air.

The whole field was in sunlight now, which had turned the grass to a shimmering sea of emerald upon which the horse wandered, a four-legged Messiah. The slug, sparkling like a black jewel, was disappearing into the nettles. Though it had cost him a slap across the face, the innocent mollusc had won him precious time. Loofah turned slowly away and set off in reluctant pursuit of his companion, still haunted by strange sensations.

Where the path eventually emerged from the wood there was a stile in a barbed wire fence, beyond which lay Dentressangle's second field. This was a large and irregular meadow, infested with ragwort and thistle, and dotted with scraggy blackthorns and decrepit pollard willows. The grass was close grazed, splattered with puddles of green slurry and churned to mud around the trees and bushes.

As he approached the stile, where the Frenchman was waiting for him to catch up, Loofah scanned the field nervously. But apart from a couple of pink rabbits nibbling thistles on the far side, there was no sign of animal life.

'No horses, Norbert,' said Loofah, trying to sound regretful.

'There are more fields,' grunted Dentressangle, as he stepped lightly over the stile, 'Come, hurry yourself up, you are going too lentement.'

Following the Frenchman, Loofah climbed onto the stile, bracing himself against the swaying of the foot-piece and the rubbery undulations of the cross-bar. But he hesitated before stepping down on the other side; for here the stile was lapped by a swamp, a miniature Passchendaele of black mud, its shell-hole hoof prints filled by the recent rain to form a thousand tiny lakes, liquid blue mirrors of uncertain shape that fused and divided ceaselessly like indecisive amoebae.

'Um, Norbert,' called Loofah, 'I'm actually a bit stuck here.'

The Frenchman was already gliding effortlessly over the mud towards the grassy shore on the far side. He turned, saw Loofah balancing precariously on the pitching stile, and rolled his eyes.

'What is this? The great Monsieur Le Seeker afraid of un petit bit of mud?' he sneered, and carried on his way.

Loofah cursed silently. Not a even the smallest splash had besmirched the cuffs of the Frenchman's trousers nor the white leather of his shoes, even the soles of which seemed to be pristine. He looked down at his own poor slip-ons, already sodden from the wet grass, and he knew they didn't stand a chance.

While the stile redoubled its efforts to unbalance him, bucking and rolling like a storm-tossed lifeboat, Loofah scanned the ground for some as yet hidden path of solid ground. Seeing nothing but mud and water, however, he gritted his teeth and started to step down.

Then something moved in the mud, writhing quickly above the surface. An escaped anaconda, thought Loofah pulling back with a start, or perhaps a Twix-fed nematode. It appeared again and he saw that it wasn't a snake or a worm, but an arm, a naked human arm.

Suddenly his left foot went down under him—sensing his inattention, the stile had seized the moment. For a moment he was poised, fighting for balance with windmilling arms. Then, with a sudden upthrust of the foot-piece, it had him. Trees and blue sky arched over his head and the swirling mud rushed up to meet him.

As it enfolded him in its wet embrace, the dark mire kissed his face, caressing his skin with its cold sticky flesh. It sucked at the leather of his jacket and his jeans, while worming its wet fingers between his. He struggled to get up, but it pulled him down; slender arms wrapped around his shoulders and tight fingers gripped his jacket. Pushing out blindly with his hand, he met a firm thigh. Then a body pressed against him, lithe and slim, squeezing mud breasts against his chest. Something pulled at his belt buckle and a cold hand slid under his tee-shirt. As he twisted away to escape these intimate attentions, a female groin was thrust against him and strong legs wound around his hips; it was then that Loofah became aware of something sweet and viscous trickling into his belly. He felt wet lips at his ear and another pair of mud breasts sliding against his cheeks—and a warm buzzing tingling through his flesh that seemed to sap his will to resist. His struggling began to wane and, caressed by slippery hands and gripped by strong slim thighs, he was slowly pulled down into the warm swamp. The hot mud oozed into his veins and up his spine to bubble gently in the base of his skull.

'Merde!' gurgled the mire and something yanked fiercely at Loofah's jacket collar. The ensuing tug of war was furious but brief. For, though the mud hands and limbs clung to him with a frenzied desperation, it was in vain and with a violent slurp Loofah was hauled out of the morass by the cursing Frenchman. As he was dragged backwards by the collar onto firm ground, frantic arms reached out for him and naked bodies rolled at the surface of the swamp, twisting and thrashing in frustration.

'You, my friend, are a mess,' said the Frenchman, unceremoniously dumping him on the grass, 'A full of disgrace mess.'

Loofah took off his mud-curtained spectacles and light flooded in. A blurred Dentressangle was standing beside him, delicately wiping spotless gloved fingertips on a white handkerchief. He was clearly disgruntled, though not a speck of mud sullied the shine of his shoes or the bluey whiteness of his clothes. By contrast Loofah was caked from head to foot, resembling a chocolate-coated human candy bar with only the blinking white of his eyes to give him away.

'So. Yet again Norbert Dentressangle has been saving you. J'éspere that you are being more grateful this time.'

Loofah wiped his glasses on a tuft of wet grass and peered back at the swamp. A last torso writhed at the surface, with a muddy hand cupped over one breast.

'To be frank, Norbert, I'm not grateful at all,' he said, with an edge of petulance, 'I actually rather liked it in there.'

Dentressangle stopped preening and looked up. 'You are liking of the mud ladies?'

Loofah nodded, blushing secretly under his mask.

'My friend,' purred Dentressangle, suddenly all silk and honey, 'Why have you not said that you were feeling in this—humeur? But see, there is no need to be getting yourself all messy avec les filles de boue, not when you dear friend Norbert Dentressangle is being close at foot and—how you say?—willing to obligate.'

As the Frenchman sidled up to him, pressing bluey white linen against his generous mud coating, Loofah looked wistfully towards the swamp where the last breast had sunk away to leave an ordinary hoof-churned patch at the edge of a field. But half-way through his inward sigh there came, in the ooze-choked caverns of his brain, a flash of dazzling light.

'I have to admit,' he said, 'that I do feel a little frisky.'

'My friend,' simpered Dentressangle, and slipped an immaculate gloved hand inside Loofah's mud-heavy jacket.

Loofah, however, removed the errant hand, shaking his head. 'I'm sorry, Norbert, but it won't work for me like this. I'm afraid you'll have to change.'

'Change? You are not liking the suit?' said Dentressangle, his voice hurt, almost resentful, 'It is by Paul Smith. Myself, I think the cut is very fine, especially the trousers.'

'The suit's great, Norbert. It's just that I'm a little—how shall I put this?—conventional.'

'Ah, I am understanding now. It is not the cut of the trousers, but what is inside them. But this is put to rights in no time.' The Frenchman smiled lasciviously and leaned forward to nibble a muddy earlobe. 'You wait here, mon petit, I will be back before you can be saying Mrs Robinson.'