Fugue 18 - Spring/Summer 1999 (No. 18)

glish garden. Hedges all around us. With so many gaps between their branches and leaves the wind rushed in with such alacrity the crates of pig food slid across the floor and the skin of the pigs themselves froze, hairs protruding in stiff little tufts.

At least we still had my wood-burning stove to keep us warm. And Ulfred reassured me that if the stove should also retreat to its roots, the consequences would, for once, be to our benefit. Why? Because the root of the word stove, extufa, referred not merely to something we expect to fmd in a room, but to a room itself: a particular room set aside for taking a steam bath and by the 16th century to any room heated by a furnace.

As if in obedience to Ulfred's words, the stove disappeared a few minutes later; to my delight, I realized that once more I had a room, complete with ceiling, floor, and-most important-walls.

No more hedges. And a considerably diminished chill, enough so Margaret felt warm enough to remove one of her shawls. So great was our relief that we barely noticed when the bread pudding gave way first to lumps that resembled those ugly wens that occasionally disfigure a face, then disappeared completely from the bowl, replaced by a short man with an enormous paunch.

"Ah yes," Ulfred sighed, "the pudding has chosen to retreat to the Westphalian puddekand Gaelic putac. Both refer to swollen bellies or what we call paunch. Especially if the swelling is caused by an excessive intake of alcohol."

"Chosen?" I asked. Did the words actually possess enough power to discriminate between various roots and select the one most appealing? My question led to a heated discussion of the ancient conflict between fate and free will, Ulfred defending the power of the will, Margaret and I more inclined to credit fate.

We were on the threshold of a new interpretation of the Oedipus myth, one that melded Freud with Calvinism and quantum mechanics-the latter my contribution-when the short paunchy man broke in by announcing that his name was Durril. And he'd appreciate it if we could get him some beer, preferably a lager.

Explaining that we had no beer, I offered him tea but withdrew 85