ONE
A Bush in the Hand
From behind an encircled shadow, an emerald dot emerges, eminent upon a tapestry of perfect night. As we traverse the void, the three moons of this rare cosmic jewel come into view; flashes of yellow, orange and green, locked in a drunken dance of the ages.
Onward to the enchanting orb, and through its wispy green clouds. We sweep over a turquoise ocean, glittering beneath a jadeite sky. Downward we go, and an olive shoreline rises to meet the gentle waves. Mossy forests open up to verdant pastures and gorse-rich briars across this monochrome marvel of the universe. This is Planet Barmpot.
Sweet birdsong fills the air above palatial homes, and as we move on, the formal gardens give way to the hum of industry and crowded streets. On the outskirts of the city, a lone cottage sits atop a tree-strewn hill. Beyond the cracked, curved tiles of its weatherbeaten roof, mildewing furniture fills the garden, butting up against a lonely path that runs down through the woods.
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Separating the winding gravel from the hedgerows and trees, a crude drainage ditch runs with the remnants of the afternoon showers. Something is here, among the undergrowth. He thinks his name is Toadspill Splatplane. If he’s right, he’s also Chief Poet to the Royal Court. And this is no place for someone of such standing to be.
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He had woken up in ditches before, he recalls. But he’d always been able to scramble out and make his way home eventually. Not today, however. Even if he could have scaled the meagre embankment, his current quandary would, alas, not be solved by a shower, strong coffee and a hearty fry-up.
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Looking in the mirror that morning, he’d taken extra care with his flowing mane and the positioning of his fine lace ruff. A dandy-looking chap, if he’d thought so himself, ready to knock their stockings off with his latest verse. Now, though, he doubted that he was any kind of chap at all. Where once he’d had arms, there were branches, and his golden locks had been replaced by leaves. To all intents and purposes, Toadspill Splatplane was now a bush.
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Yet he could see, with clarity despite the gloom, the banks of the ditch looming over him, and still hear, acutely, the buzz of insects heralding the fall of night. And the smell of the rotted log nearby; well that had knocked out whatever must be acting as his nose some time ago, thankfully.
Eyes and ears were no more, but in their place leaves were picking up light and vibrations, with a dutiful brain determinedly turning them into sounds and images, just as it always had. As for where his brain now actually was, that was certainly going to take more time to figure out and, in any case, there were rather more pressing matters to attend to.
Toadspill had always thrived on company, or more specifically an audience, so this isolation was unwelcome to say the least. Nobody had come this way since his unceremonious arrival, and time seemed to be trickling by as if it was rubbernecking at his bizarre predicament. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There had been one visitor that night; of the four-legged and furry variety. It would have been better if it had stayed away.
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Despite no longer possessing the strength or dexterity to climb out of the ditch, he had at least been able to shuffle back into the surrounding foliage, where it was looking increasingly likely that Toadspill was going to spend the rest of the night. Resignation had firmly set in, and was already opening the door to dejection, when his misery party was unexpectedly interrupted by a faint murmur further down the hill. Wishful thinking it almost certainly was, but he could have sworn it was a voice, and that it was getting louder.
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Footsteps, undoubtedly, were approaching. The walker’s pace was erratic, as if they were the only participant in a three-legged race. His words were clearer now. Toadspill lifted his leaves to tune in, eager to learn more.
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“Planet Barmpot, a beautiful misty green pearl?” said the stranger, in a way that suggested the phrase didn’t exactly come from the heart. “More like a monochrome rock full of idiots,” he continued. “Got … to … get … away.” If he’d still had a throat, Toadspill would have gulped as the figure, who was entirely alone yet fully engaged in this debate, stopped dead on the path, directly above him.
“Ah, still, at least the skies are clear,” he said. Toadspill observed the speaker’s silhouetted figure appreciatively arching his back to get a better look at the heavens. “The stars are bright tonight. Especially that one.” The man pointed at his target with a teacher’s certainty, dropping a parcel he’d been casually holding in the process. The dull thud of the package upon the path seemed to mark a change of mood.
“You... you far-off beacon to better things!” The voice was becoming a growl. “D’ya know what you are, star? You’re a precious gem just out of reach. Do you hear me? Do you even care?” Bellowing now, the stranger began jumping on the spot, as if trying to headbutt the cosmos with every word. “You bejewelled, nuclear-powered whore, tempting me when you know how unattainable you are! And the same goes for you… and you! All of you! Utter bastards!”
Feeling quite strongly that an intervention was in order, Toadspill had an irrepressible urge - for the first time since his current dilemma had befallen him - to speak. The shock of this peculiar plight had, until now, largely numbed his mind, which had not served him well upon the occasion of his canine caller.
Toadspill wondered, however, whether he could speak. How foolish not to have tried already! The ability to communicate would, of course, favour his chances of securing aid. But, then again, he wasn’t altogether sure he wanted the attention of this would-be astronomer. After all, the man had already launched both barrels at the innocent stars above, and Toadspill was much closer. He decided, however, that there wasn’t really any other choice, when the alternative was prolonging this foul-smelling imprisonment.
“What’s your problem?” The words came out loud and clear, and, much to Toadspill’s delight, in his own inimitable, lyrical tones.
Startled by this voice from nowhere, the stranger instantly spun on his heels. “Eh? Who’s there?”, he yelled, seemingly half in embarrassment and half in pant-wetting fear.
Toadspill hadn’t thought this far ahead. How could he possibly reply? Just what was he supposed to say? Though well-schooled in etiquette, a first encounter between bush and man was some way out of his comfort zone. He cogitated. An honest appeal of the “Would you pick up an old bush and supply him with a strong drink, there’s a good chap?” kind wasn’t, he suspected, likely to yield success.
“Down here, in this ditch.” Better to break it to him slowly, he thought.
“I’m in no mood for games,” replied his interlocutor, snappily, squinting right at Toadspill now. “Get out from behind the bushes and show yourself.”
Here goes, thought Toadspill. ”I’m one of them.”
“You’re what?”, came the response.
“The bushes. I’m one of them.”
After a moment’s pause, the debatable saviour-in-waiting made a decisive grab into the gloom, aiming straight for where he thought the voice was coming from. This succeeded only in snagging one of Toadspill’s roots, which hurt every bit as much as a vicious tweak of the little toe. In retaliation, Toadspill immediately whipped one of his branches at the offending hand. There was a sudden yell as a reddening knuckle retreated after its owner, who was scrambling back towards the path.
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“You were twisting my roots!” said Toadspill, somewhat miffed to have been introduced to this new sensation. Realising, however, that this did little to advance his cause, he was readying to forgive the minor injury and call the infuriated star-spotter back when he abruptly experienced weightlessness.
Flying clean out of the ditch, he’d already hit the ground skidding before reports from his roots came flooding in to announce he’d been booted up the nethers. If he’d still possessed tear ducts, Toadspill’s leaves would have been streaming. Without them, a resounding groan had to suffice.
Not that the stranger noticed. He was too busy laughing at the whimpering form now before him. “Ah well,” he said, still cackling. I really must be going. I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you, but I’m not a liar. Bye, then.”
“No, hang on … please!” Toadspill was desperate. “Aren’t you even curious?”
“About what?”, replied the stranger, impatiently.
“The damn talking bush in front of you,” snapped Toadspill, incredulous that the whole sentient foliage thing didn’t appear to hold any interest for this exasperating gentleman at all.
“Not particularly. I’m not in the habit of striking up conversations with people, never mind the undergrowth,” he replied, flatly.
Time to change tack, Toadspill thought. He paused, as if to give himself a mental run-up, before saying softly, “And what about your nuclear-powered whores?”
“What?”
“The stars,” he said, with an air of wonder befitting a lyricist of his calibre.
“I know what they are!” snapped the man. “What about them?”
“Don’t you want to reach them?”
“So you heard all that, then?” He sounded uncomfortable now, and shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.
“Hard not to hear, really,” said Toadspill, seeing the chance to press his case. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, dear fellow. In fact, I can help you get out there, into space.”
“Claptrap! You’re just a bush. The best you could do for me would be providing kindling for a fire … and it would be a pitiful one at that.”
“I haven’t always been just leaves and branches, you know. I’m Toadspill Splatplane, Court Poet to the Chief Barmpot and Holder of the Sacred Rhyme.”
This attempt to impress was met only by a shrug. “How are you going to get me off this planet? You couldn’t even get out of that ditch!” His tone had regained its scornful edge.
“I work for the government, old boy.” Toadspill waited until he saw the words register, before adding in a dramatic whisper, “I can source us a shuttle.”
This clearly landed, as the man leaned in, pushing knots of greying purple hair away from his eyes. “What? With those twiggy excuses for arms?” he sneered, and then, sounding more intrigued, added, “But the government, you say?”
There was a tingle in Toadspill’s trunk. It was good to know he was still capable of feeling excitement like this. He may jolly well have him, here! “Yes,” he said eagerly. “I assure you that the appropriation of a craft will not present a problem. I know things. Places! And people! Until this morning I was at the heart of the Royal Court!”
This finally seemed to hit home. Encouraged by the slackening of his new friend’s shoulders, Toadspill went on. “Look, this has really been a very traumatic time for me. I can get you off this planet; you have my word. I would be delighted to explain further but please, not here.”
“OK then, come on,” said the man with that mean chuckle of his. “If nowt else, you can hide the dry rot on my windowsill.”
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