“Such a dreadful thing to happen suddenly to a young girl.”
“Indeed, one expects it to happen with folk of our age, but a young teenager dying of a heart attack. Dreadful!”
“But was it a heart attack, dear? I heard they said it was natural causes, for want of something better.”
“Well, whatever it was it’s a crying shame, poor young thing.”
“Hmm, I had a cousin who died just like that long ago in der war. I think it was greed that killed her. But dat was many long years ago. Aah mein poor Elma, no wait, it vas Helga. I get mixed up, you know, Helga, Elma, all so long ago… .”
4
Satan, the Devil, Beelzebub, Old Nick,
he’s always ready when we find good,
to work some wicked trick.
What is truth, where is it at?
Don’t dare ask Henry Mawdsley that!
It comes to me as no surprise,
that Henry Mawdsley always lies.
Truth to Henry Mawdsley is like a hot ice cream.
Truth to Henry Mawdsley is just a passing dream.
Truth to Henry Mawdsley is a sausage that has legs.
Truth to Henry Mawdsley is a bunny rabbit’s eggs.
Truth to Henry Mawdsley is a chunk of lead to bounce.
Truth to Henry Mawdsley is the ton that weighs an ounce.
Truth to Henry Mawdsley is an undiscovered beast.
Truth to Henry Mawdsley is the North Pole, pointing East.
Ask anyone in all the world, they’ll tell you with a sigh,
“Even when he’s fast asleep, Henry has to lie!”
The Lies of Henry Mawdsley
They said Henry Mawdsley was an inveterate liar; sometimes they said he was an habitual liar; more often than not they said he was a born liar. Henry liked that last one; he chuckled at the thought of himself at the tender age of one week, standing up in his cot to spout out fibs at his amazed parents.
Henry was very proud of being a liar—not everyone could tell good lies; it took practice. All those years of learning to keep a straight face while telling a totally fictitious saga, of trying to look completely truthful while telling an untruth—not easy. However, Henry had taken to his chosen calling like a dog to a string of pork sausages.
Folk who did not know him were inclined to believe his lies. What irked Henry was that those who knew him also knew not to believe him—teachers, parents, school friends and neighbors, and people of that ordinary everyday honest ilk. In fact, the longer Henry Mawdsley lived and the more people he got to know, the less his fictitious fables were apt to be believed.
Until the day that Henry Mawdsley met the Devil.
Truth to tell, it was not a dramatic encounter by any stretch of the imagination. Henry was sitting on a park bench one morning, late for school as usual. Deep in his lying heart even Henry had to admit he was not the world’s most successful student. To him math was a mystery, biology was a bafflement, and a single page of the English written word appeared to his eyes as some obscure Sanskrit squiggle. Like a drowning man to a straw Henry grasped at any excuse to avoid education; trouble was, he had used up every excuse several times. Scuffing the gravel path alongside the bench Henry dug among his mental store of wild untruths, trying to think up a suitable whopper. His mind had latched on to the old blazing house fire story, in which he rescued a small infant whose parents had taken so long weeping upon his shoulder and congratulating him that the whole incident made him late for school. If Mrs. Benson (Henry’s teacher) did not believe him, then she could look for herself in the evening papers, where it would probably be reported in banner headlines, unless the silly reporter forgot to put his story in.
The old man sitting at the opposite end of the bench nodded to him. “No school today, young fellow?”
Henry shook his head sadly.
“No, not today. They’ve found deathwatch beetles in the floors and ceilings; the place could collapse at any minute. I ‘spect it’ll be at least three years before the repairs are finished.”
The old man pulled a lighted cigar from his overcoat pocket and puffed away reflectively. Henry tried not to show surprise as he asked the kindly looking old man, “How did you do that, with your cigar I mean?”
“Oh, just the odd bit of magic.”
Henry nodded understandingly. “My father’s a magician, you know.”
The old gentleman raised his eyebrows at this remark.
“A magician, you say. What name does he go under?”
Henry kept his face straight. “Er, the Great Majikio.”
“Hmm, I think I’ve heard of him. What’s your name?”
“Tex Dangerfield,” Henry lied. “What’s yours?”
“Oh, nothing as romantic as yours, Tex, just plain old Nick Lucifer.”
“Nick Lucifer, not a bad name for a magician. Can you teach me any tricks, Mr. Lucifer?”
“Why? Doesn’t your father teach you any of his tricks?”
“Only one or two simple ones. He’s gone off to Australia to do shows on TV for the eskimos over there. I haven’t seen him for ten years or so.”
Nick Lucifer tossed his cigar into the lake. It turned into a piece of bread and a passing duck gobbled it up.
“I might be able to teach you a trick or two, Tex, but how will you pay me for the lessons?”
Henry had to think about this for a moment.
“Now and then Dad sends me over some Australian money. He’s got loads of it. It’s called pesetas. I could give you some of that, any bank’ll change it.”
“Hmmm, Australian pesetas, I’m not so sure. Besides I’ve got all the money I need, I’m reasonably wealthy.”
“Oh I see. What do you want then, Mr. Lucifer?”
The old man reached behind Henry’s ear and pulled forth a scroll of old-fashioned-looking paper.
“I’d like your name on the bottom of this, Tex.”
“My name, what for?”
Mr. Lucifer tipped his hat back upon his head. A small black horn showed; hurriedly he straightened the hat.
“It’s called a Soul Ownership Form H, zero, T. After a week your soul belongs to me.”
Henry brightened up. “Ha! So that’s what Sole Ownership means. Like when I lose my math book in school, Mrs. Benson says that I must find it because I alone am responsible for Sole Ownership of my math book.”
Nick Lucifer scratched the pointed lobe of his ear.
“Er, something like that, Tex, but this form actually states that your soul belongs to me after a week. It’s got nothing to do with math books.”
Henry was only half listening. Digging his hand into his coat pocket he tried to produce a lighted cigar, but the only thing he could come up with was a wad of fluff-covered chewing gum. That was good enough. He popped it into his mouth as if he had performed a marvelous trick.
“You want my soul?”
Nick Lucifer explained patiently. “Yes, your soul. It’s not as if I’m taking something you can feel or see, like your football or skateboard. Look, tell me, have you ever felt, seen, or even heard your soul?”
Henry shook his head. “Can’t say I have, but why d’you want it?”
Nick Lucifer produced a brimming glass of his favorite port wine from out of thin air, and sipped reflectively.
“You could call it a foolish old man’s hobby, really. I’m a soul collector.”
“Like stamps and beer coasters and that sort of thing?”