The Exploits of Engelbrecht
The Exploits of Engelbrecht
ABSTRACTED FROM
The Chronicles of
The Surrealist Sportsman’s Club
Maurice Richardson
Gibbon Moon
Copyright © The Estate of Maurice Richardson
Introduction copyright © 2014 Rhys Hughes
Cover Art copyright © James Boswell
All rights reserved. This book and any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Ebook Edition 2014
Gibbon Moon
An imprint of Gloomy Seahorse Press
Swansea, Wales, UK
http://gloomyseahorsepress.blogspot.com
“The Exploits of Engelbrecht is English surrealism at its greatest. Witty and fantastical, Maurice Richardson was light years ahead of his time. Unmissable.”
— J.G. Ballard
“The Exploits of Engelbrecht is a classic that should never have been overlooked.”
— NEW WORLDS
“English Surrealism with the psycho-sexual seriousness replaced by a sense of theatrical fun.”
— BLACK STAR REVIEW
“How do you describe a character like Engelbrecht? Except to say that there are some great one-liners: one of the boxer's opponents has “got a classic stance, hour hand well forward, minute hand guarding his face. They've mounted him on castors with ball bearings, and his footwork is as neat as a flea's.” Or: “there are ugly rumours that Engelbrecht's manager, Lizard Bayliss, slipped that Clock a couple of hundred hours to lie down.”
— INTERZONE
The following is an extract from the Millennial General Meeting of the Surrealist Sportsman’s Club:
…the Id recalled the rugby match against Mars when an impending defeat of approx. 996,481 to 0 was narrowly averted by Engelbrecht’s volunteering to get inside, rather than “on to”, the ball. The Oldest Member, rising, made special mention of the plucky way in which Engelbrecht, swollen to bursting with snake-bite, rode Medusa to victory in the Grand Cosmological against a field that included such formidable opponents as Lady Godiva, Bucephalus and the Night Mare. Lizard Bayliss, speaking as E’s manager, reminded the meeting of the battle with Grandfather Clock behind the gas works which made Engelbrecht “Champion of All Time”; of the occasion when E wrestled all night with the Octopus in a tank of water; of his heroic conduct at the Great Witch Shoot down on the Id’s country estate. Whereupon the Meeting rose like one man and voted Engelbrecht, the Dwarf Surrealist Boxer, “Sportsman of the Millennium” (stormy applause).
Further, in view of E’s celebrity, it was recommended that certain portions of the Records be made available to the public. A sub-committee, under the Chairmanship of that well-known phantom all-rounder A.N. Other, to be set up to prepare a Volume for publication in which Interminable Golf Courses, Voting Witches, and other Surrealist Sporting Phenomena should be adequately represented.
Said committee to be empowered to co-opt the services of Mr Maurice Richardson (Assistant Editor of Lilliput, and crime rationer for The Observer)...
This motion was passed in uproar, with cries and counter-cries of: “Certify them Certify them!—Sane! Sane!”
With love to
Oonagh and Celia
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION BY RHYS HUGHES
THE NIGHT OF THE BIG WITCH SHOOT
TEN ROUNDS WITH GRANDFATHER CLOCK
ROUND THE WORLD IN ONE
A THICK NIGHT AT THE PLANT THEATRE
THE MAN-HUNT BALL
THE ONE THAT NEARLY GOT AWAY
ENGELBRECHT AND THE DEMON BOWLER
THE DAY WE PLAYED MARS
ENGELBRECHT AND THE MECHANICAL BRAIN
DIRTY WORK AT THE DOGS’ OPERA
ENGELBRECHT, M.P.
ENGELBRECHT’S ELOPEMENT
THEY WRESTLED ALL NIGHT
ENGELBRECHT UP!
A QUIET GAME OF CHESS
INTRODUCTION BY RHYS HUGHES
There are few things less Gothic than vigorous physical activity, so the very idea of writing a series of linked short stories that combine the motifs and props of the horror genre with those of sports journalism must surely be the endeavour of an author who wilfully hungers for obscurity and chronic unpopularity.
The two traditions are in opposition but unlike many things that are poles apart they don’t combine well. In fact they don’t blend at all. And yet Maurice Richardson somehow makes the unnatural collision work. More than anything else, his Engelbrecht stories are funny; and their oddness never seems awkward.
I am at a loss to find much, if anything, to compare this book to, either before or since it was issued as a limited edition hardback in 1950 by the legendary publisher Phoenix House. It is a work of fantastical fiction that fitted into no known category back then and has subsequently inspired few imitators. Yet it is rarely forgotten by those who encounter it.
The Exploits of Engelbrecht is the living breathing definition of a ‘cult book’, a work read by only a small number of people who get wildly enthusiastic about their discovery and try to spread the word. The word generally falls on deaf ears but occasionally a new convert will be won; and so the cult perpetuates itself.
Some illustrious figures are proud members of this particular cult. The most vigorous, Michael Moorcock, was the one who first alerted me (and many other devotees of imaginative fiction) to the existence of Richardson and his book. I think it was in 1986 or thereabouts when I bought Moorcock’s The Opium General, a collection of stories and essays, which included the article ‘Starship Stormtroopers’, in which Moorcock made the claim that no other writer, not even Borges, could much the density of invention of The Exploits of Engelbrecht. As a reader awestruck by Borges, this was staggering news to me. It was in the days before online bookshops and I searched in vain for years in second-hand outlets for a copy. I knew it had been reprinted once, in 1977, by John Conquest, but no bookseller had heard of the title.
On the single occasion I met Moorcock in the flesh I questioned him and learned that the reprint had failed to sell in just the same way the original 1950 edition had. The world simply had no use for such eccentric reading material. Finally in 1993 I managed to secure a battered copy of the first edition. I devoured it and so marvellous and inspiring did I find it that I eventually ended up writing my own collection of Engelbrecht tales, the first of which I impulsively began late one evening in the autumn of 1999 when I was somewhat under the influence of cider, finishing the last one the following summer. These stories didn’t find a publisher for another eight years, despite Moorcock’s generous support. My book, Engelbrecht Again, remains an obscure sequel by an obscure writer to an already obscure original by an underrated genius. Copies are still out there and if you feel like buying one, I won’t stop you...
But the world is a strange place. One person who did notice my book was Richardson’s daughter, Celia, who got in touch with me. From her I learned that there seemed to be a very slow but significant surge of belated interest in her father’s magnificent creation: for instance, that a French translation was planned (it has now been published). I was delighted to correspond with her. I already knew that Savoy Books had published a third English edition in a limited deluxe format with extra material and all the extremely clever illustrations (by James Boswell) that had accompanied the first edition, but sales had been exasperatingly poor (I had spoken to Mike Butterworth of Savoy on this point); now sales seemed to be picking up. Was something happening? Was the dwarf surrealist boxer being given the proper chance he deserved at long last?
Thanks to Celia (to whom Richardson dedicated this volume) The Exploits of Engelbrecht is now available as an ebook. This is the first low cost edition of this cult classic ever to be issued. My hope is that it will reach more people than the previous three restricted and expensive editions, and that it will encourage interested readers to seek out more work in the less frequented corners of the World of Imaginative Literature. Perhaps they will chance on Felipe Alfau, W.E. Bowman and Jacques Sternberg too, and other writers of astounding ability who are all too frequently overlooked.
But Richardson is here at least; and his book is tremendous. The language is reminiscent of Damon Runyon; the special effects come courtesy of Bram Stoker; the humour is half Music Hall, half sharp satire; there is a flavour of Saki and perhaps Beerbohm and maybe even Huxley; but all these factors and allusions and possible influences are gripped tight by a muscular aesthetic; and the Midnight Hour Realm of ghosts, ghouls and witches is balanced, most unexpectedly, by the shady world of boxing match fixers and nightclub bouncers. Why not find out this and more for yourself?
Kindly step this way, Ladies and Gentlemen...
THE NIGHT OF THE BIG WITCH SHOOT
I’ll never forget the time I met Engelbrecht, the surrealist boxer, and I don’t suppose he will either. We were both staying down at the old Id’s place, Nightmare Abbey, for the Walpurgis Night Witch Shoot. It was long after breakfast when he arrived and I’d gone to bed, so we didn’t meet till supper, just before the shoot. We found we’d drawn stands next each other for the last drive of the night. Engelbrecht seemed a pleasant enough little chap—a dwarf, of course, like nearly all surrealist boxers who do most of their fighting with clocks. It was his first Witch Shoot and he was keen and, I thought, a little nervous.
I don’t know if you’ve ever shot the Nightmare coverts, but the last drive on Walpurgis Night is something special, quite a to-do. The vicar with Bell, Book and Candle and holy water spray leads the choir through the cemetery and they beat about among the gravestones shouting: “Hi cock! C’mon out of that, granny! Get crackin’ there! Only another half hour till daybreak.” Then you hear them yell: “Witch over! Mark Warlock! Wizard on the left,” and what with the screeching of the witches and the whirring of the broomsticks there’s row enough to put up the devil himself.
That drive ought by rights to make the heaviest contribution of any to the night’s bag, but the churchyard is on a cliff and the shooters’ stands are at the bottom, down by the river, so if there’s anything of a wind—and there nearly always is—the witches come rocketing over at a fearful angle, and unless there’s a moon—which there generally isn’t by then—you’re left with nothing to shoot at except a screech.
Sometimes it’s so darned infuriating the amount of game that gets away that the Id swears he’ll have searchlights mounted on top of the church tower. But of course he’s only fooling. He’d never do such an unsporting thing as that. I mean to say shooting witches by artificial light is definitely barred. I’ll never forget the row there was the night Tommy Prenderghast bribed the head keeper to set fire to Gallows Wood, which is another very tricky covert. I must say the light, as all that dry bracken flared up, was marvellous; it gave you a simply tophole shot as the witches came over silhouetted black against the red glow. I blazed away with the rest, but there was barely time to get in a left and right before the old Id came cursing and swearing along the line, telling us the shoot was off and we were to go straight home. He sacked his head keeper on the spot, and when we got back to the Abbey Tommy Prenderghast found his bags had all been packed and a huge black Fly was waiting to take him to the station to catch the milk train to London. I need hardly tell you he wasn’t asked there to shoot again.
For this last drive Engelbrecht, the surrealist boxer, and I had drawn the best stand of the lot. They call it the Island Stand. It’s a narrow strip of earth sticking up in the middle of the river, overgrown with nettles and brambles, old bedsteads and the intestines of worn-out agricultural machinery. You get to it by stepping stones. There’s a bend in the river just there, and the other side is the steep sandstone cliff or bluff on top of which is the churchyard, so the guns on the island are right out in front of the rest and get first shot at the covens as they come over. It’s the finest witch stand in England, and they say the splash as the witches plop into the water all round you is the most exciting sound in the world for a witch shooter and one he never forgets.
There’s always a goodish wait before the start of the drive, so I strolled over to Engelbrecht, to ask him how he’d been getting on.
I’d been having pretty poor sport myself. Indeed my bag was practically empty except for a little runt of a warlock, not worth stuffing, and the handle of a broomstick which I was taking home as a souvenir. Luckily I hadn’t got a bet on with anyone about the weight of our bags or I’d have had to try the Kaiser’s trick. The Kaiser, as I expect you know, came to stay with the Id’s grandfather, and they bet on their bags at the witch shoot. The old Id’s bag was the heavier by a brace of Worcestershire Warlocks, and the Kaiser, who was always a very bad loser, was absolutely livid, so much so that on the way home he shot his host’s grandmother to level things up. It wasn’t considered very sporting of him, although there was no doubt the old girl was a witch all right.
I had some difficulty in finding Engelbrecht at first, as the nettles were taller than he was. I couldn’t catch what he said as his teeth were chattering so with cold, but his loader whispered into my ear: “The little gentleman’s a guid plucked un, sir, but he’s a verra puir shot. He couldna hit a sitting wizard.”
I haven’t told you yet about these loaders, but they’re rather important. The fact is that all the loaders at a witch shoot are chaplains. They have to be, of course, in order to finish off any witches that get winged. Sometimes it’s difficult to get hold of enough of them for a big shoot, and the Id has to scour the country far and wide.
I’d never seen Engelbrecht’s loader before, but that didn’t signify anything. My own loader was a very old retired prison chaplain, so old I felt ashamed to be keeping him out of his bed, and when I got back to my stand and found he’d fallen asleep with his old head on my game bag I simply hadn’t the heart to wake him. I loaded both my guns with No. 3—silver witch shot—took a swig of holy water from my flask and stood at the ready with ears cocked, listening for the first thwack of the choir-boys’ sticks against the gravestones in the churchyard up over the sandstone bluff.
Presently I heard it. Then came the first screech, followed by another and another and another. I yelled to Engelbrecht to get ready and put my gun up to my shoulder. There was no light to speak of and I missed with both barrels as the first coven went over. I tried a snap shot at something that whizzed by, and missed again.
Then suddenly the moon broke through the clouds for a moment and I managed to get a shot at a big witch who came rocketing over very high. There was a terrific double explosion on my right which sounded as if Engelbrecht had loosed both barrels at once. Maybe it was poaching a bit, but I liked his keenness. Then silence for a second. Then I heard a whirring, screeching noise like a power-dive, and caught a glimpse of a huge black figure spinning down, broomstick hopelessly out of control. And then there was an almighty splash just in front of Engelbrecht’s stand.
I distinctly remember feeling rather relieved that the witch had fallen nearer Engelbrecht than me because I should have had to send my poor old loader into the river after her.
I start
ed to run over to Engelbrecht, but an iron bedstead caught me by the foot, and after a nasty tussle threw me heavily into a bramble bush. I lay there with my ankle hurting like the devil, unable to move. I could hear a confused muttering coming from my right. “For heaven’s sake send your loader in after her,” I shouted to Engelbrecht. “What the hell’s he waiting for? We don’t want her to float down stream and have someone else claim her. Besides, she may only be winged.”
There was more muttering. Then Engelbrecht shouted back: “He refuses. Says he’s unfrocked. An unfrocked college chaplain…!”
Well, of course, that did put rather a different complexion on things. An unfrocked chaplain is no more qualified to retrieve a witch than you or me. I shouted back to Engelbrecht telling him I’d broken my ankle and couldn’t move, and he was to come over and wake my loader. But he couldn’t have heard me, because the next moment there was a loud splash and I heard the unfrocked chaplain cry out: “Lord have mercy on us! The little gentleman’s gone in after her!” And as I lay helpless on my back in the bramble bush I took off my hat to Engelbrecht, the surrealist boxer, the pluckiest dwarf I ever knew, and the boldest lay witch-retriever since Beowulf went into the Mere after Grendel’s mother.
What happened after that was just what I’d feared. I’ll spare you the unfrocked chaplain’s hysterical running commentary by which I was able to follow the course of the struggle. The witch, it appears, was hardly winged at all. Our flak had merely made her lose control of her broomstick and drop it in midstream. When Engelbrecht swam up to her she’d just come up from diving for the stick and had it in her mouth. She caught Engelbrecht by the scruff of the neck with one claw, hauled him on to the bank, and clouted him with her broomstick. Then she popped him into his own game bag, straddled her broomstick, which was fairly dry by now, and took off flying low upstream away from the guns. It all happened before you could say Jack Ratcatcher.