rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第13部分

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nge　that　such　a　chamber　should　exist　and　that　such　a　collection　of　books　should　exist；　then　it　was　stranger　still　that　each　was　the　work　of　one　single　author：　Edgar　Allan　Poe。
　It　was　certain　that　if　any　of　the　Swan's　patrons；　who　knew　only　Dave　the　postman　while　remaining　totally　unaware　of　Dave　the　mystic；　had　viewed　this　outré　sanctum；　they　would　have　been　forced　to　re…evaluate　their　views　regarding　his　character。　If　they　had　witnessed　the　man　who　even　now　sat　upon　the　dais；　hands　locked　into　the　lamaic　posture　of　meditation　and　legs　bent　painfully　into　a　one…quarter　lotus；　they　would　have　overwhelmingly　agreed　that　the　term　vindictive；　grudge…bearing　wee　bastard　hardly　applied　here。　Here　it　was　more　the　case　of　vindictive；　grudge…bearing　wee　lunatic　bastard　being　a　bit　nearer　the　mark。
　Small　Dave　began　to　whistle　a　wordless　mantra　of　his　own　invention。　His　eyes　were　tightly　closed　and　he　swayed　gently　back　and　forth　upon　his　cushion。
　He　had　e　to　a　decision　regarding　this　camel　business。　He　would　ask　help　from　the　master　himself；　from　the　one　man　who　had　all　the　answers；　old　EAP。　After　all；　had　he　not　invented　Dupin；　the　original　consulting　detective；　and　hadn't　that　original　consulting　detective　been　a　dwarf　like　himself？　Certainly　Poe；　who　Dave　had　always　noted　with　satisfaction　was　a　man　of　less　than　average　height；　hadn't　actually　put　it　down　in　black　and　white；　but　all　the　implications　were　there。　Dupin　could　never　have　noticed　that　body　stuffed　up　the　chimney　in　Murders　of　the　Rue　Morgue；　if　he　hadn't　been　a　little　short…changed　in　the　leg　department。
　Small　Dave　screwed　up　his　eyes　and　thought　'Sprout'。　It　was　no　easy　matter。　Ever　since　he　had　first　bee　a　practising　member　of　the　Sacred　Order　of　the　Golden　Sprout　he　had　experienced　quite　a　problem　in　ing　to　terms　with　the　full　potential　power　of　that　wily　veg。　His　guru；　one　Reg　Fulcanelli；　a　greengrocer　from　Chiswick；　had　spent　a　great　deal　of　valuable　time　instructing　Dave　in　the　way　of　the　sprout；　but　the　wee　lad　simply　did　not　seem　to　be　grasping　it。　'Know　the　sprout　and　know　thyself；'　Reg　had　told　him；　selecting　a　prime　specimen　from　his　window　display　and　holding　it　up　to　the　light。　'The　sprout　is　all　things　to　all　men。　And　a　law　unto　itself。　Blessings　be　upon　it。'
　Small　Dave　had　peered　around　the　crowded　greengrocery；　wondering　at　the　mountain　of　sprout　sacks；　the　caseloads　and　boxfuls　cramming　every　corner。　'You　have　an　awful　lot　here；'　he　observed。
　'You　can't　have　too　much　of　a　good　thing；'　the　perfect　master　had　snapped。　'Do　you　want　two　pound　of　self…enlightenment　or　do　you　not？'
　Small　Dave　hadn't　actually　reached　the　point　of　self…enlightenment　as　yet；　but　Reg　had　assured　him　that　these　things　take　a　good　deal　of　time　and　a　great　many　sprouts。
　Dave　contorted　his　face　and　rocked　ever　harder。　Ahead　of　him　in　the　blackness　beneath　his　eyelids　the　mental　image　of　the　sprout　became　clearer；　growing　and　growing　until　it　appeared　the　size　of　the　room。　Reg　had　explained　that　to　ascend　to　the　astral；　one　had　to　enter　the　sprout　and　bee　at　one　with　it。　When　one　had　reached　this　state　of　cosmic　consciousness　all　things　were　possible。
　A　bead　of　perspiration　rolled　down　to　the　end　of　Dave's　upturned　nose。　He　could　almost　smell　the　sprout；　it　was　so　real；　but　he　did　not　seem　to　be　getting　anywhere　with　the　astral　travelling　side　of　it。　He　took　a　deep　breath　and　prepared　himself　for　one　really　hard　try。
　Downstairs　in　Small　Dave's　ancient　enamel　oven　the　now　unfrozen　filet　mignon　amoureuse　was　beginning　to　blacken　about　the　edges。　Soon　the　plastic　packets　of　sauce　which　he　had　carelessly　neglected　to　remove　from　the　foil　container　would　ignite　causing　an　explosion；　not　loud；　but　of　sufficient　force　to　spring　the　worn　lock　upon　the　oven's　door　and　spill　the　burning　contents　on　to　the　carpet。　The　flames　would　take　hold　upon　a　pile　of　Psychic　News　and　spread　to　the　length　of　net　curtain　which　Small　Dave　had　been　meaning　to　put　up　properly　for　some　weeks。
　Small　Dave；　however；　would　remain　unconscious　of　this　until　the　conflagration　had　reached　the　point　which　sets　schoolboys　dancing　and　causes　neighbours　from　a　safe　distance　to　bring　out　chairs　and　cheerfully　await　the　arrival　of　the　appliances。
　It　is　interesting　to　note　that；　although　these　things　had　not　as　yet　actually　e　to　pass；　it　could　be　stated　with　absolute　accuracy　that　they　would　most　certainly　occur。　That　such　could　be　so　accurately　predicted　might　in　a　way；　it　is　to　be　supposed；　argue　greatly　in　favour　of　such　things　as　precognition　and　astral　projection。
　Small　Dave　would　argue　in　favour　of　the　latter；　because　by　some　strange　freak　of　chance；　while　his　physical　self　sat　in　a　state　of　plete　ignorance　regarding　its　imminent　cremation；　his　astral　body　now　stood　upon　a　mysterious　cloudy　plane　confronting　the　slightly　transparent　figure　of　a　man　in　a　Victorian　garb　with　an　oversized　head　and　narrow　bow　tie。
　'Mr　Poe？'　the　foggy　postman　enquired。　'Mr　Edgar　Allan　Poe？'
　'Small　Dave？'　said　that　famous　author。　'You　took　your　time　getting　here。'　He　indicated　something　the　ethereal　dwarf　clutched　in　his　right　hand。　'Why　the　sprout？'　he　asked。
　
　11
　Norman　had　returned　to　his　kitchenette；　leaving　his　camel　snoring　peacefully　in　the　eaves　of　his　lock…up　garage；　its　head　in　a　Fair　Isle　snood。　He　surveyed　the　wreckage　of　his　precious　equipment　and　wondered　what　was　to　be　done。　He　was　going　to　need　a　goodly　few　replacement　parts　if　he　ever　hoped　to　restore　it。　It　was　going　to　be　another　quid　or　two's　worth　of　postcard　ads　in　all　the　local　newsagents：　'Enthusiast　requires　old　wireless　sets/parts；　etc。；　for　charity　work。　Will　collect；　distance　no　object。'　That　had　served　him　pretty　well　so　far。　And　if　the　worst　came　to　the　worst　then　he　would　have　to　put　in　a　bit　more　midnight　alleyway　skulking　about　the　rear　of　Murray's　Electrical　in　the　High　Street。
　Norman　picked　his　way　amongst　the　tangled　wreckage　and　pondered　his　lot；　it　didn't　seem　to　be　much　of　a　lot　at　the　present　time。　It　was　bound　to　cost　him　big　bucks　no　matter　how　it　went；　but　at　least　he　had　the　satisfaction　of　knowing　that　his　theory　was　at　least　partially　correct。　The　evil…smelling　ship　of　the　desert　lodged　in　his　garage　testified　amply　to　that。　But　there　was　certainly　something　amiss　about　his　calculations。　They　would　need　a　bit　of　rechecking；　it　was　all　a　matter　of　weight；　all　very　much　a　matter　of　weight。
　Norman　unearthed　his　chair　and　slumped　into　it。　It　had　been　an　exhausting　day　all　in　all。　As　he　sat；　his　chin　cupped　in　his　hand；　his　mind　wandered　slowly　back　to　the　moment　which　had　been　the　source　of　inspiration　for　this　great　and　wonderful　project。　Strange　to　recount；　it　had　all　begun　one　lunchtime　in　the　saloon…bar　of　the　Flying　Swan。
　Norman　had　been　listening　with　little　interest　to　a　discussion　between　Jim　Pooley　and　John　Omally；　regarding　a　book　Jim　had　but　recently　borrowed　from　the　Memorial　Library　upon　the　Great　Mysteries　of　the　Ancient　Past。　The　conversation　had　wandered　variously　about；　with　Pooley　stating　that　in　his　opinion　Stonehenge　was　nothing　more　than　scaffolding　and　that　the　builders；　some　megalithic　forerunners　to　Geo。　Wimpey　and　Co。；　had　never　actually　got　around　to　erecting　the　building。　Doubtless　a　pub；　he　considered。
　Omally；　nodding　sagely；　added　that　this　was　the　case　with　many　ancient　structures；　that　their　original　purposes　were　sorely　misinterpreted　by　the　uninspired　scholars　of　today。　The　Colosseum；　he　said；　had　very　much　the　look　of　a　multi…storey　carpark　to　him；　and　the　Parthenon　a　cinema。　'Look　at　the　Odeon　in　Northfields　Avenue；'　he　said；　'the　fa？ade　is　damn　near　identical。'
　Norman　was　about　to　make　a　very　obvious　remark　when　Pooley　suddenly　said；　'It　definitely　wasn't　built　as　a　tomb。'
　'What；　the　Odeon　Northfields？　No；　I　don't　think　so。'
　'Not　the　Odeon；　the　Great　Pyramid　at　Giza。'
　'Oh；　that　body。'　Omally　nodded　his　head。　'Surely　I　have　read　somewhere　that　it　was　the　work　of　them　extraterrestrial　lads　who　used　to　carry　a　lot　of　weight　back　in　those　times。'
　Pooley　shook　his　head。　'That　I　doubt。'
　'What　then？'　Omally　asked；　draining　his　glass　and　replacing　it　noisily　upon　the　bar　counter。
　Pooley；　who　could　recognize　a　captive　audience　when　he　saw　one　queuing　up　for　a　one…pint　ticket；　ordered　two　more　of　whatever　it　was　they　were　drinking　at　the　time　and　continued。　'It　was　the　ticking　of　the　old　Guinness　clock　up　there　which　solved　the　thing　for　me。'
　'Oh；　you　consider　the　Great　Pyramid　to　have　been　a　pub　also？'
　'Hardly　that。'
　'Then　might　I　make　so　bold　as　to　inquire　how　such　a　humble　thing　as　the　Guinness　clock　leads　you　to　solve　a　riddle　which　has　baffled　students　of　Egyptology　for　several　thousands　of　years？'
　'It　is　simplicity　itself；'　said　Jim；　but　of　course　it　was　nothing　of　the　sort。。　'The　ticking　of　the　Guinness　clock　put　me　in　mind；　naturally　enough；　of　Big　Ben。'
　'Naturally　enough。'
　'Now　as　you　may　have　noticed；　Big　Ben　is　a　very　large　clock　with　a　pendulum　so　great　that　it　would　easily　reach　from　here；　right　down　the　passage　and　into　the　gents。'
　Omally　whistled。　'As　big　as　that；　eh？'
　'As　big；　and　this　huge　clock　is　kept　accurately　ticking　away　by　the　piles　of　pennies　placed　upon　that　pendulum　by　the　builders　of　the　thing。　Am　I　right