For The Snark WAS A Boojum, You See
Roy Stead
Copyright (c) 1990
Slithering and sliding, it came out of the darkness. Relaxing for a moment, its tentacular form took on the appearance of a dark, malignant cat; a cat with too many legs and unusual suckers at its extremities. The eyes, though. The eyes were bright, sharp and definitively cat-like. The only remaining question was: What did it WANT?
Oozing its way towards him was the creature he had seen so many times before. In nightmares and on cinema screens, it had haunted him relentlessly, the stuff from which nightmares are made. Harold thought back to that morning...
The paper was delivered, miracle of miracles, earlier than usual, and Harold was finishing the Environment section when a classified ad caught his eye:
Make Your Dreams Come True
For only 40 Pounds we
GUARANTEE
to realise your wildest dreams.
Tel. 071 495 1265
Harold was surprised, and perplexed. Although he had been a quantity surveyor for over a decade, in his heart he still yearned to realise his youthful dream of emigrating to the long-developed Lunar colony. Besides, he supposed, even on the Moon they must SURELY have some quantities which he could make a living by surveying? Forty pounds, though...
Ten agonising minutes later, Harold had decided that he could lose nothing by simply phoning the company.
"Hello? I'm ringing about your advert in today's `Guardian'."
"You mean the Dreams, Inc. Special Offer advertisement, Sir?"
"Yes, that's the one. `Make your dreams come true.' I suppose *ha ha* that it's some sort of elaborate practical joke, yes?"
The voice sounded wounded, "`Practical joke,' Sir. I assure you that our methods are..."
"You mean this is for real? Hmmm. What does `realise your wildest dreams' mean, anyway?"
"If I could just take your name, Sir, perhaps you would be free to attend a session this afternoon?"
"Well, I'm not too sure. The money. Forty pounds. Well..."
"I assure you that all monies are payable only on satisfactory completion of the contract, Sir."
"You mean, that if my dreams don't come true, I pay nothing?"
In the manner of a superior maitre d', the voice relaxed as it effortlessly replied, "Sir has grasped it precisely, Sir."
Two hours afterwards, Harold was sitting in the offices of Dreams, Inc., waiting to meet the company director. There was nothing dream-like about the reception area. On the contrary, the room was almost dentist's-waiting-room-like in its drabness, providing even aged copies of `Punch' to complete the effect. After a while, Harold was ushered through a small, painted-wood door into a short corridor. Ahead was another door, oaken in appearance, which bore a traditional, brass nameplate:
Directore, Dreames, Yncorpyratted
The darkness crouched against one wall, almost a living thing in its intensity. Harold nervously appraised it, then dismissed childhood nightmares from his mind as he walked to the door. Nonetheless, he edged past the inky patch as he approached the door, never once turning away from its blackness lest some Lovecraftian horror break its surface. As he sidled by, it happened.
Slithering and sliding, it came out of the darkness. Relaxing for a moment, its tentacular form took on the appearance of a dark, malignant cat. A cat with too many legs and unusual suckers at its extremities. The eyes, though. The eyes were bright, sharp and definitively cat-like.
Oozing its way towards him was the creature he had seen so many times before. In nightmares and on cinema screens, it had haunted him relentlessly. The Stuff from which dreams are made. The thought jolted Harold back to his senses. Perhaps this malformed horror was the manifestation of his dreams promised by the advert.
Harold, hand reeking trepidation, stretched out an arm toward the octopoid abomination in automaton fascination. What WAS it? His hand brushed the surface, but he felt nothing as it passed that Serling-inspired boundary which confronted him. A sharp yelp of pain restored his deadened faculties to conscious control and, in an abrupt movement, Harold almost teleported to the now-open oaken door. He stepped through into...
Lewis Carroll oft warned of the dangers of a meeting with a Boojum, leaving the nameless Baker's fate as ample warning to all those tempted, by curiosity or perverse predilection, to search for Snarks in the wildernesses of the world. He did not, however, proffer much advice on how to deal with such an unexpected encounter.
The courtroom was unique in its grotesqueness. It HAD to be. Such a distorted jury box only could have been devised by a mind whose owner had spent much of his life dabbling in illegal and proscribed substances, a practise much frowned upon in Society. The lines of the benches seemed ill at ease in the current dimensions, and were visibly attempting to escape into some forgotten corner of space-time. Harold hoped, fervently, that they would be successful, and that the jurymen -- the word is applied loosely -- would follow rapidly.
The collection of... beings in the box is best left undescribed. But, if you must, picture a messy accident involving a duck-billed platypus and a bicycle pump. Now picture the result gesticulating wildly for you to take the stand before a judge whose sole qualification for the task seems to be his shape: that of a huge, white, curly wig. With eyes.
Harold took the stand, only to have a large Bible placed in his right hand. The Bible gripped his arm before turning to him, and rasping, "Recite The Oath, dummy!" Glancing down, Harold noticed that the book had... protruberances. Not arms, as such. Nor, if Harold was honest with himself, could he say that it possessed any facial features. Nevertheless, it continued to stare at him, after the manner of a basset hound on acid. An ANNOYED basset hound. "The Oath, idiot. Say it!"
"Er. I swear to tell the Truth, the Whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth, So help me..."
"What's that?" interjected the book, "Read the OATH from the card in front of you, fool." Harold looked around briefly before seeing a card which positively had NOT been there before. He read, disbelievingly:
"I swear to tell the truth. Or part of it. Or something I believe to be the truth. Or not. As I may decide. So help me, God."
The scene faded. An office presented itself. The scene faded. A white rabbit bounded past, clutching a pocket watch and loudly exclaimed. The scene faded. "I'm late! I'm late!" the aardvark screamed. Scene fade. A huge ball of string rolled past. The string was knotted in several places, and one of those knots hurtled towards Harold, or possibly the other way round. The scene faded.
The dentist's waiting room returned, and Harold looked up into the eyes of a young man, dressed in a doctor's white coat. The man looked about thirty, had shoulder-length blond hair and wore a stethoscope around his neck. Leaning over Harold's prone body, he whispered seven words which engraved themselves on his memory:
"Harold, Man. You have some WEIRD dreams!"
Roy Stead is a research assistant in quantum astrophysics at the English University of Sussex. His hobbies include water skiing, Zen Buddhism and searching for cats. His collection of cats is reputed to be amongst the largest in the Western world, though none have ever been seen by reliable witnesses. "Iggy," a grey-green Persian once did not appear on BBC Television's "Tomorrow's World."
roys@cogs.sussex.ac.uk