The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [498]
Within a few moments, it was all over. Sitting on the ground and dressed in a rough habit tied with a rope at the waist was a grubby man with a scraggy beard and exceptionally bad teeth. He blinked and looked curiously around at his new surroundings.
“Welcome,” said Joffy, the first on the scene. “I represent the Idolatry Friends of St. Zulkx and offer you protection and guidance.”
The thirteenth-century monk looked at Joffy with his dark eyes, then at the crowds who had gathered closer to him, all of them talking and pointing and asking him if they could have their pictures taken with him.
“Your accent is not bad,” replied St. Zvlkx slowly. “Is this 1988?”
“It is, sir. I’ue brokered a sponsorship deal for you with the Toast Marketing Board.”
“Cash?”
Joffy nodded.
“Thank ?*&£@ for that,” said Zvlkx. “Has the ale improued since I’ue been away?”
“Not much. But the choice is better.”
“Can’t wait. Hubba-hubba! Who’s the moppet in the tight blouse?”
“Mr. Next,” interjected Lydia, who had managed to push her way to the front, “perhaps you would be good enough to tell us what Mr. Zvlkx is saying?”
“I . . . um, welcomed him to the twentieth century and said we had much to learn from him as regards beekeeping and the lost art of brewing mead. He . . . um, said just then that he is tired after his journey and wants only world peace, bridges between nations and a good home for orphans, kittens and puppies.”
The crowd suddenly parted to make way for the Mayor of Swindon. St. Zvlkx knew power when he saw it and smiled a greeting to Lord Volescamper, who walked briskly up and shook the monk’s grimy hand.
“Look here, welcome to the twentieth century, old salt,” said Volescamper, wiping his hand on his handkerchief. “How are you finding it?”
“Welcome to our age,” translated Joffy. “How are you enjoying your stay?”
“Cushty, me old cocker babe,” replied the saint simply.
“He says, ‘Very well, thank you.’ ”
“Tell the worthy saint that we have a welcome pack awaiting him in the presidential suite at the Finis Hotel. Knowing his aversion to comfort, we took the liberty of removing all carpets, drapes, sheets and towels and replaced the bedclothes with hemp sacks stuffed with rocks.”
“What did the old fart say?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“What about the incomplete Seventh Revealment?” asked Lydia. “Can St. Zvlkx tell us anything about that?”
Joffy swiftly translated, and St. Zvlkx rummaged in the folds of his blanket and produced a small leatherbound book. The crowd fell silent as he licked a grubby finger, turned to the requisite page and read:
“ ‘There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of this, and only in consequence of this, a great tyrant and the company named Goliathe will fall.’ ”
All eyes switched to Joffy, who translated. There was a sharp intake of breath and a clamor of questions.
“Mr. Zvlkx,” said a reporter from The Mole who up until that moment had been bored out of his skull, “do you mean to say that Goliath will be lost if Swindon wins the SuperHoop?”
“That is exactly what he says,” replied Joffy.
There was a further clamor of questions from the assembled journalists as I carefully tried to figure out the repercussions of this new piece of intelligence. Dad had said that a SuperHoop win for Swindon would avert an Armageddon, and if what Zvlkx was saying came true, a triumph on Saturday would do precisely this. The question was, how? There was no connection as far as I could see. I was still trying to think how a croquet final could unseat a near dictator and destroy one of the most powerful multinationals on the planet, when Lord Volescamper intervened and silenced the noisy crowd of newsmen with a