The cards came back, unbidden, still forbidden, hidden within an envelope made of gibbon’s hide and with ribbons inside.
There was a note paperclipped to the cards and I read it aloud into the gloom: “I, too, have a killing power of 87. You must choose again. I have returned your card and mine. Ted”
I checked the cards. Mine: Colossus. Ted’s: Vampire Bat. Mine: Unsullied by pen. Ted’s: The numbers changed, one by one, by hand, to exactly match mine.
I did not understand.
When Toby Vok And The Eggs decided they would be interviewed by email, it became apparent their answers were going to be a little longer than usual. To do them justice, here are their full responses to Senior Hull Musical Express Editor Ted Vaaak’s questions.
To me, Toby Vok and The Eggs is more than just a band, it’s an idea. Is that true for you? What if you don’t all agree with the idea? More metaphorically, who are Toby Vok and The Eggs now: in what ways have the people in the band from the beginning changed in the time of hiatus?
Toby Vok and The Eggs is/are more than a band. They are a band (The Eggs) and a man (Toby Vok). There will be no disagreement among the band for that is not their role. The band’s role is to agree, and to do. My role is to disagree or agree as I see fit, with myself.
Who are Toby Vok and The Eggs now? Who has stayed, who has left, who has joined, and why have they joined?
Toby Vok remains. All Eggs have left, and joined, or rejoined, and releft. The Eggs are beyond names. They have joined for the same reason as they have left. They have been told to do so.
The only change since the hiatus has been a marked increase in deformity, lethargy and hoarsevoiceness among us all
Does political music change anything? Do you want it to? And is that intention for change external, or internal: a changing of hearts, not of social structures? To what extent does Hull and its politics make you the people you are and the band you are? Do you have narratives in your heads for your music? How problematic is it if people listening hear a different narrative?
“The politics of music is the same as the music of politics”. That is a quote. The politics of Hull, now that is a question. A question unanswerable. And uninteresting. And untrue.
I do not believe in narratives. Narrative is the domain of the fiends and ne’erdowells of the written word. The most untrustworthy sort of word.
How did this album come to be?
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Was there a time when you stopped appreciating the opportunity to communicate with people through music? Earlier interviews suggest it’s something you’ve had misgivings around; is that a misreading, and if not, do you still feel that?
Music is not communication. It is music.
As a member of a dance group – 10 men, democratically run – I know full well how hard it is to agree on anything. How do The Eggs operate as a community?
We once tried democracy. Everyone insisted on playing every instrument simultaneously, regardless of the amount of mouths they had. It was a disaster
Do people like me just take you too seriously?
It is impossible.
INTERVIEW ENDS
he took his hand and moved it like it was a bird.
“this is how it went”, he said. he kept moving it.
all of the children looked on and nodded, mentally noting the gestures that he made.
the smallest child, the one that looked a bit unfinished, whispered something that he couldn’t quite hear.
“what’s that?” he said. “you there, with the dungarees. what did you say?”
the child scrambled up and stood bravely in front of him.
“that isn’t how it went”, said the child. “it was more like this”.
he took his hand and moved it like it was a snake.
the children gasped, and one fainted.
They arrived in the post both unordered and unordered. The first was a mystery quickly explained, for within the envelope was a letter, which also solved the second.
“Toby, let us play by post. I have already shuffled. Ted”
I turned to the cards and drew the first one. After much deliberation I made my decision, and composed my reply.
“Ted, I have a Killing Power of 87. Toby”
I attached my card so that he could not accuse me of cheating and sent it back to his infernal address.
And then, I waited.
I became obsessed with every instrument in the world and decided to collect them all. The first problem with this was my belief, based in fact, that each instrument was different from every other instrument, no matter how similar they looked to each other. The recorder was the first instrument I gained a complete collection of, consisting of 7876876378321111222 standard recorders and 3 of those really big recorders. All the others had apparently been destroyed. I blew into each one one after the other for a while and it was quite satisfying knowing that these sounds were mine now. Later I had the three really big recorders destroyed. A strange thrill. The end of a language. I weeplaughed until bedtime.
After this I moved onto the triangle. Accomplished with minimum of fuss. The scratchglove. There were only five and I already had four of them. When the fifth was delivered it was still filled with blood. The whalehorn took longer. I was not just content with the alreadyexistent but the existpotentials hidden in the throat of every whale in the world.
Only once I got to the glass of water did I have problems. Each glass is unique, that is my belief. And each different amount of water poured into each creates a new instrument, uncopyable by any other glass. An infinite amount of instruments in each glass. I was lucky that there were a limited amount of glasses, which I bought immediately and took to my cavern. Then I strode back and forth in thought. Eventually I tired and I sat in my mobility scooter and let the robotic controls drive me back and forth in thought. That was a long night, as they all are on Venus.
But by the morn I had proven the problem soluble. I hastily assembled a time machine and took each cup back and forth through the portal with me, each time through adding slightly more water, until eventually I had completed my task. Cups of water sparkled under the lights all the way to the end of vision. Not just mine but yours as well. The end of all vision. I gave each cup a single flick as I passed, marvelling at the clearness vibrations undulled even by the timeconfusions I had wrought upon their molecules.
The time machine later also proved useless in the sacking of my band, replacing each member with myself, and each instrument with whichever instrument I cared to choose from my collection, even sometimes the same one multiple times.
I might buy drums next.
In Peterboro I met the man with clicking hands. Visibly extended they gripped his cane and pipe with infernal vigour as he strode through the crowd. I stopped him, grinning, and listened to his arms. The signal ran loud and clear through each and every vein and artery, morse code like they used in the war, morse code like they used to speak before words and accents and slang and rhymes.
He shrugged himself away from me but I followed and followed, down to the river and beyond. I kept my distance, but I knew he was tracking my progress because every few minutes he would dart into an alley or through a hotel foyer in attempt to shake me off. Eventually he began to tire, and I made my approach.
All I wanted was to listen to his arms, but now I have blood on my hands and the sounds have stopped.
This is not a confession.
The hatch clacked open, then clacked closed, and all that had changed in my lair was that now a piece of paper sat on the mat. I glanced at it, then stared, then tried ignoring it, but nothing worked. It just sat there, on the mat, silently. It was intolerable. And inconsiderate. And intellectually baffling. Who could this letter be from? Who would dare try and contact me using such archaic means in this world of robolectrics and wormcodes, this world of temporary constellations and laseretchings on the face of the moon, this world of subliminations and allusionics, this world of bellowed yelps and aggressive wallpoundings. So many methods of communication, so little time to master them all.
(I have mastered four of them, of course, but the bellowing and pounding are beyond my gentle nature.)
After lunch I turned my attention back to the mat, and the letter that there was sat. It had not moved, nor even opened itself up to me like a flower tempting me with its pollen and nectar. It was resolute in its laziness. Just trying to imagine a society based upon such an unwelcoming method of talking made my brain hurt. By my reckoning, such a society would be the preserve of hunchbacked giants trapped in copper towers, lightning striking the tower over and over again in a fury, the hunchbacked giant safe within, laughing at nature’s weakness, but not willing to test their arrogance and venture outside and face its power. Instead a network of lightning impervious creatures would have been enslaved, made to slurk and nester their way through the undergrowth, delivering missives from one hunchbacked beast to the next, each written in a childish scrawl, their pencils held inexpertly in their massive horrific fists, all the fingers wrapped clockwise round the shaft of the pen, their thumb the other way, like an overgrown child holding a club. Their tongues would loll from their mouth as they scrawled. I expect also they would be bearded, or women. The postcreatures would wear tattered uniforms and speak a language more beautiful than anything the tower giants could ever comprehend.
After dinner, tea, and finally eveningfed the letter was still there. Worn down by a day of worrying and fretting, I reached down and picked it up from the floor, ripping the envelope open with my claw.
It appeared it was from Ted. I began to scream.
The baby screamed and whined. At least I think it was a baby. I have never actually seen one. This thing was sort of crab shaped with an opening along three of its edges, from which scraps of paper keep fluttering out along with the aforementioned cries. I tried to shove the scraps back into its maw but it was like trying to press two magnets together when they don’t want to go together at all. It was quite distressing.
I looked around to try and get some mother’s attention but I was alone again, so there was nothing to do but listen really. I tried to imagine its bleatings were music but of course they weren’t music. Crab-shaped babies are not capable of music. Even Ted knows that, and Ted can’t even count.
It was around midnight when I decided to unscrunch some of its vomited scraps and look at the text printed thereon. I have never really had any interest in words, thinking them the weakest of all the forms of modulation, but these words, when spoken aloud in the glorious sonorous multitone mellifluousness of my voice, were so beautiful they changed something within me. I began to weep.
Was this the beginning of fatherhood?
I was getting changed in the dressing room in preparation for the evening when Ted Vaaak’s unctuous son appeared. I was furious at first but then remembered I was currently shirtless and exposed and stepped hastily away from him and pressed my back to the wall so that he would not be able to see. But he had already seen
“What’s that, Toby?”
“What’s what?” I replied, nervous in the way that I always am when questioned by young Egrehelm.
“You’ve got a hole in your back.”
“Don’t be absurd!” I barked. “A hole! Madness!”
I pushed against the wall even harder, hoping that perhaps the vacuum would cause me to stick and I would not be able to be pulled away, like when a snail gets fastened irretrievably to a window. But Egrehelm’s hands twisted me away and I was left there, exposed.
“See, there is a hole. I told you.”
I was glad he was behind me so I could not see his face. I just stared down at the floor in shame.
“There’s music coming from it. It’s… it’s beautiful.”
I knew what was coming next. It always happens like this. That maddening piper within me. I cursed her, despite all that she has taught me.
I felt Ted’s son’s hand upon the rim of the hole.
“It’s so dark. How far in does it go?”
“Quite far,” I replied blankly. I was already distant, advance shock setting in in expectation. I was barely now even Toby, reduced by my nakedness and helplessness to a lesser creature, such as a robot or a human.
He pushed his face in next, and I heard the whirl of the blades that lurked just beyond the event horizon, and then Egrehelm was no more, just assorted lumps of meat tumbling down towards the ætherphone at the heart of the void, their approach toward its central mast producing a delicate rhythm. It was, as he said, quite beautiful.
Or at least I assume that is what happened. Due to having a regulation neck and an immortal fear of mirrors I have never seen my back hole, nor especially whatever it is that exists within. But I have conducted tests and conclusions have emerged.
The wizard-king’s face fell, then un-fell, then re-fell as he battled with emotions he could barely comprehend.
“It can’t… it can’t be?”
I pulled a tablet PC from my oversized pocket and asked for the wizard-king’s wi-fi password. Navigating swiftly to the Wikipedia page for God, I made a few edits and watched as the trapped man in front of us reduced in size, changed colour and began to throb. Four seconds later, my edits were reverted by a vigilant administrator and God returned to his usual size.
“You have somehow harnessed Wikipedia in this cavern, and got it stuck on the God page”, I told the wizard-king. “You have done something peculiar, but unimpressive.”
The wizard-king began to cry. “Now I won’t be able to use God’s power to destroy Earth’s moon, even with your assistance”, he bellowed softly. I was taken aback.
“What on Earth made you think I would help with such a barbaric, vile plan?” I was genuinely distressed. I love the moon like a child loves clowns, or like a duck loves another, similar duck that it has grown affectionate toward.
The wizard-king took hold of my tablet PC, adjusted himself to my customised Linux-based operating system and guided the still-open browser to the page about me, Toby.
“Toby Vok is a legendary musician and warlock from Hull (or thereabouts) who hates the moon and all that it stands for”, I read. Curses! I had been the victim of a cruel practical joke. Checking the edit-history for the page, I found that it was none other than a “T. Vaaak” who had performed the edit in question. I began to laugh, even as the wizard-king continued to sob beside me, his powers oozing uselessly from his eyes.
“You got me this time, Terald. You got me good.”
THE END