“Yes and very nicely made, aren’t they?”
“Extremely sinister. But we can’t imagine anyone using them. Such a person would need enormous hands.”
Castor lays his own hands on the table. “Mine are normal.”
And so they are, right now.
1 Huw Rees, Kate Ronconi, Stuart Ross, Monica Konggaard, Neil Woollard, Richard Cowell, Dai Godwin, Nick Moore... The list is endless, not quite endless perhaps, but endless all the same. Not quite the same, agreed, but just enough. And not quite just, unjust in fact. This is called wordplay but it’s an obscure example, best avoided.
2 Little guitars played in tropical lands.
The Plucked Plant
Castor Jenkins has a bad habit of advocating outlandish ideas and even his mildest beliefs are routinely uncommon. If you ask him about the Primeval Soup he’ll insist it was leek and potato. He denies the existence of the colour purple, the number seven and the note G#. Once he went to great lengths to prove that mice are related to parsnips. The list is long and disturbing, not quite as long and disturbing as one of his neckties, but sufficient to elicit cries of dismay from the average citizen of the town of Porthcawl.
Given the extreme oddness of his concepts, it was with some relief that his friends greeted his relatively mundane announcement that reincarnation was his afterlife philosophy of choice. With Castor it was more than a question of faith. He knew that reincarnation was the correct theory because he remembered several of his previous lives. He was, so he claimed, an inhabitant of Ancient Greece. When pressed for details, he provided them in exchange for beer. In his slightly slurred words this is the story he told:
“I was a disciple of Pythagoras and I lived in a commune in a garden and it should have been a pleasant existence but I wasn’t a particularly nice person. A quick historical lesson might be appropriate here. Pythagoras wasn’t just that mathematical chap who devised the theorem about the square of the hypotenuse, he was also the founder of a mystical cult. His followers had to be sober, celibate and vegetarian, and fully committed to the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, which is a fancy term for reincarnation.
“Anyway, I was such a bad person that I wanted to kill myself, because I thought it was the only way to prevent myself doing more damage to the world I lived in. But suicide seemed a terrible sin. I thought about hiring someone else to do the job, a freelance cutthroat or unemployed executioner, but I didn’t want to pass off the responsibility. The guilt was mine, the judgment also, and it was only fair that any bad karma in the offing was mine too. I couldn’t endanger the souls of any poor assassin with the task.”
“Hang about!” protested Frothing Harris. “Did they have the notion of karma in Ancient Greece?”
Castor drained his glass and sighed. “There’s evidence that the Pythagoreans were influenced by Buddhism and that’s not as unlikely as it sounds. Greece had trading links with India.”
“Continue with the tale,” said Paddy Deluxe.
“Well then, I was stuck with an insolvable problem. How does one kill oneself without committing suicide? I fretted over this question for weeks, months, years; and all that time I continued not being a nice person but hiding it well, so that nobody in the commune ever suspected there was anything malign about me. The answer eventually came to me and it surprised and delighted me because it was so easy. It was a three-stage solution. The first stage involved making no changes to my present character, none at all.”
“You remained a bad sort?”
“Thoroughly. I continued to be what I was, a hypocrite, a cheat, a sly and devious manipulator of my fellow human beings. I grew old and my body twisted to match the shape of my mind, but still I felt no remorse. At last I died, asking forgiveness from nobody, for it was important to my plan that I didn’t weaken at the final moment. The chill of extinction sprang up in my bones. My flesh decayed, became food for worms and nourishment for roots under the soil.
“My body was gone but my soul soon found a new home. The walls of muscle and nerves that had imprisoned it were now broken and it rose like vapour from a fresh cup of tea and departed my grave. Because I had existed meanly and acquired lots of negative karma my soul was reborn in a lower form of life. I had calculated my nastiness precisely to achieve this aim. The mathematics of evil are complex but I was a Pythagorean and knew exactly what the square of hypocrisy is worth3.
“I was reborn as a humble plant, a simple herbaceous biennial growing along a riverbank, just one among many other kinds of flora in the region. The sun shone on my lacy triangular leaves, the wind combed spiderwebs out of my little white flowers, clustered in umbels as they were, songs both dire and lovely were sung to me by frogs and birds, other pastoral things occurred involving shepherdesses and pan-pipes. The situation was utopian.
“This was the second stage of my solution. I was a good plant and committed no crime against nature, and so it was clear my karma points would be replenished and that after death I might expect rebirth as a human being. Over a period of centuries transmigration is a jerky process, a soul being knocked down the ladder of evolution, then getting back up, only to be knocked down again, and so on. Progress around the cosmic playing board is rarely smooth.”
“You make it sound like a game of backgammon,” commented Frothing Harris, “with a soul as the solitary piece that keeps getting captured and sent to the bar until it can re-enter when the roll of dice is favourable.”
Castor considered his words. “Sent to the bar,” he echoed. Then he nodded and added, “The next time it happens, make mine a double whisky. With a beer on the side. Now where was I? Yes, I was a good plant. I had an earthy odour reminiscent of mice or parsnips, which is what first led me to suspect they are related in some way, and that’s also a hint as to what kind of plant I was. Shall I give you another clue? The lower half of my stem was streaked with red or purple. Does that help? Well, I was often mistaken for fennel, parsley or wild carrot. I contained several alkaloids including coniine, conhydrine, pseudoconhydrine and atropine. Conium maculatum was my Latin name.”
“I’m not a botanist,” glumly stated Paddy Deluxe.
“Nor I,” admitted Frothing Harris.
“No matter. The day of my death was pleasant and sunny. I had saturated my inside with my favourite drink of rain from a pre-dawn shower and now I was ready for a busy schedule of photosynthesis combined with supporting the weight of resting butterflies and the larvae of the silver-ground carpet moth. But suddenly my existence was cut short by a thumb and five fingers. Yes, I was brutally plucked from the ground by a hairy hand! I later learned what happened to my body but at the time I knew nothing, because my soul was already drifting upwards in search of a new rebirth venue. It found one quickly enough. That’s one of the things souls do best.
“My poor body was carried in a sack to a workroom in the cellar of a house. First my leaves were plucked from my stems one at a time and cast into a stone mortar, and then a heavy bronze pestle mashed my remains to pulp. Water was added until I became a solution. I was poured into a glass bottle, sealed with a cork and shaken, and finally balanced on a high shelf in a cool alcove. There I remained for many years while my soul grew and matured in a new body. Because I had been a good plant, accumulating lots of positive karma, I was reborn as a human being. I was back to the man stage!”
“How can a plant be good or bad?” protested Paddy Deluxe.
“They can’t steal or cheat or lie,” added Frothing Harris.
Castor Jenkins rolled his eyes in mild exasperation. “It’s a question of attitude. When I was a plant I had a fine attitude, very diplomatic and easy going, utterly at peace with my environment and neighbouring vegetation, respectful