Gareth Skettlebones: The Tourist

Gareth had a modest selection of tea in his pantry. He had picked up the habit one day after he had met a wizened, passing yogi. The fellow had been wandering from place to place, preaching something or other, with nothing but a wooden bowl with which he begged for scraps. This yogi, Gareth had seen, and duly appreciated, was a master of presentation; his grasp of self-imagery was formidable and a true commitment to the act simmered under the yogi’s snow-white brow. To the eye unattuned to the conceit, here was a wrinkled, sun-baked aesthete who was but a step away from enlightenment, but to Gareth, most wise of the ironically initiated, he was an artist. His craft was belied by fingernails just a tad too manicured, the unassumingly stylish moccasins (true yogis would’ve worn sandals), and the tangle of white hair that mimicked unruliness under stale command.

Our modest lich was, understandably, enamoured with this dervish. Many of the denizens of the graveyard had flocked to him as he hobbled through the black iron-wrought gates, paying not so much a glance to its grimacing gargoyles. He had settled down besides one of the badger’s fires, warming his soft hands and declared that he would trade stories of the paths he had tread and the worlds beyond in exchange for food and shelter, maybe tidbits of antiquary and vintage clothing. At this the animals rushed to collect their assorted haberdashery. Bert the marsh rabbit had found a darkened wooden pipe carved into the shape of a trout, tapping out the ashes of its last use by his late uncle; upon hearing that this pipe had such a heritage as to have actually been used, the yogi snatched it up, and reaching under the drooping folds of his breast, produced a small cloth packet, tamped it with rustling brown tobacco. He winked at the marsh rabbit, puffing on the pipe.

“I only smoke Drum.” And then he launched into his story.

“Well, young woodland fauna, do I have a story for you! This one I had picked up during a spiritual journey through the wild lands of Siam, where I travelled for a year whilst on sabbatical before picking up my studies abroad.

Now, they tell of a beast, in those parts. I forget exactly what the name was, but it is monstrous, truly. It descends from beyond the mountains, sometimes from across the sea, at the beginning of summer. The locals, enjoying the sun and absence of rain, gazing out across their sea as blue as sapphire, or their pools of crystal jade, are accosted by this beast. But what of the nature of this beast, I hear you gasp?” The yogi licks his lips, flicking the tassels of his mighty, snowy beard, neatly (but not too neatly) trimmed alongside the gradient of his crown.

“It is a pink beast, fleshy and vast. It shies from the sun and shoulders enormous sacks of booty from across the forests. Nestled amongst the stolen idols and shrine ornaments are packets of food from its own cave; this beast will crawl up the local’s mountains, find the biggest temple they can, and then deliberately empty the contents of their sacks over it. They often carry stolen writing utensils and carve crude words into the faces of the native gods. Such foul creatures.

“Well, many years passed. These beasts descended the mountains every year in search for plunder and to rape their women, throwing cheap coin at them in return for the service, as if they were whores! But one man, a local fellow of short stature and modest income, had had enough. He was going to fight back, to vanquish this beast. But he knew that if he struck one, he’d be killed on the spot, for the beasts are fickle, and easily provoked, and their bloated size dwarfs his own fragile frame.” The yogi paused, packing his pipe with more tobacco and sprinkling little brown shaving across his lap. The entire graveyard was gathered around the old man; many of the coffins had opened, the lifeless fellows within peeking out, phantom ears turned towards the gathering. One friendly skeleton passed a packet of popcorn around a mass sepulchre, clacking his jawbones.

“This intrepid fellow decided that, to rid his people of these beasts, he needed to find their home. So he set off into the mountains, climbing high, then low. Eventually he chanced upon a vast complex of buildings, what seemed to him a palace. Monolithic steel birds cooed around the palace courtyards, flashing with some internal light. But ah! he saw them, the beasts. The gushed from the mouth of these birds like some fetid torrent and pollution. He pitied the creatures that had born them, but now an idea alighted in his provincial mind. He scurried across to one of mechanic avians, and stowed himself away inside. Soon he felt a feeling of speed and rushing and he could hear the shriek of the birds as they, presumably, mated with him tucked away inside. Eventually he emerged from its belly and there he was, the home of the beasts.”

By now, the sun had died low, and the fire need some fuel. Bert tossed on some logs, inadvertently singeing Brecht the Woodpecker’s feathers, much to his chattering fury. The other animals shooshed him, and the yogi continued:

“It was time, he felt, for revenge. But how would he go about doing it? Well, he started with their women. He set up a little shop on a street corner, and put up a sign declaring himself ‘open for roughhousing’, as they put it. Sure enough, voracious young females came loping towards him, their enormous fatty bodies clapping with every step. Curiously, they say, many of the beastly woman's children were much darker than them, and their hair tightly curled like the material used to secure the flaps of their tents. The native fellow assumed that that was just what their young looked like, and began to indulge himself in this strange country’s women.

They were peculiar, these women, but insatiable. In due time, however, he began looking for new ways to reap havoc amongst the beasts. He found himself in front of a vast art gallery, thronged with people. There was an air of sensibility that even he could detect. Everyone was so immaculately dressed, he saw, and smelled so fusty. Before him, however, spread the most amazing painting he had ever seen.” The yogi cleared his throat. He looked at the fire and smiled, almost laughing to himself.


“And do you want to know what he did?”


They all nodded, eager.


“He got out his iPad and took a fucking picture.”