DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Spaceways, v. 4, issue 5, whole no. 28, June 1942

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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 5, whole no. 28, June 1942

Page 8

8     SPACEWAYS

THE RASCALITY OF THE RUSSIAN RUGCUTTER
by
LESLIE A. CROUTCH

"The Russian Rugcutter", read the sign.
I halted and stared at the strange name. I peered into the cobwebby window in a vain attempt to see the interior of the store. This was impossible: the back of the window was a mass of strangely assorted objects. There was what seemed to be a string of bones, very white, dangling from a string; then there were tattered samples of what had apparently been luxurious rugs of all colors of the rainbow.
Interested and having nothing else to do, I twisted the knob and entered. The door opened easily, squeaking like a lost soul as it did. But it closed behind with a decisive bang that sounded triumphant.
The store was empty. By that I mean literally, completely, and dirtily. There was a counter with an inch coating of dust, a chair with three legs and a suspicious-looking white container with a chipped rim. That was all.
I turned to go, and was wrestling with the knob of that blasted door which didn't want to turn, when a faint snipping sound caught my attention. I turned.
I hadn't seen it before, maybe because of the light, but now I could discern in one corner a doorway, masked by a dirty red curtain. It was from behind this the snipping came.
I walked across and pushed the curtain aside. What I saw surprised me so greatly I would have sat down if there had been a chair to sit on.
Sitting in the middle of the room, wielding a huge pair of shears as large as himself, was a little man, perhaps four feet tall, industriously occupied in cutting a beautiful rug into shards. About him were piles of what had been wondrous tapestries, all mutilated beyond hope of human repair.
I stared a few minutes and still he went on with his work.
"What's going on here?" I finally asked.
The little man looked up, dropped the shears, and got quickly to his feet. Suddenly I wanted to laugh. He was cross-eyed, had buck-teeth, was bandy-legged and his wrists protruded a good six inches from his voluminous jacket. His nether regions were enclosed in baggy trousers, his feet in curved slippers, and on his head perched a bowler hat about three sizes too large for him. From below its rim he peered at me intently. Then he turned his head slightly and looked at me with the other eye.
"What's going on here?" he mimicked, stepping toward me. Stepping? It was more like the sidle of a fat duck. Before he halted.
"I saw your sing--"I began, then halted. It was talking to a bowler. He raised his hands, gripped the brim and raised it a couple of inches. He peeped out at me like a mouse from its hole.
"My sign? Oh, yes. Quaint, isn't it?" He then let go and the hat dropped down like the shell of a turtle.
"Look," I began again. Every try talking to an unresponsive hat? "Look--I was curious. What are you cutting these fine rugs for?"
Again the hands lifted the hat. This time he perched it on his ears which were, I now noted, rather pointed like those of elves you see in picture books for children.
"Rugs? Oh, yes, I am hunting, you see."
"Hunting? For what?"
"For the princess. She was lost a long time ago and I must find her before the sun sets or she will be set upon and devoured by the savage beasts that infest the forests."
I looked about. I couldn't see any forests. Or any princess either. Then under my feet I noticed the rug he had been so ruthlessly and buily mutilating. I started. Woven into the material were tiny trees, so life-like I could have sworn they nodded in some unfelt breeze.

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8 SPACEWAYS THE RASCALITY OF THE RUSSIAN RUGCUTTER by LESLIE A. CROUTCH "The Russian Rugcutter", read the sign. I halted and stared at the strange name. I peered into the cobwebby window in a vain attempt to see the interior of the store. This was impossible: the back of the window was a mass of strangely assorted objects. There was what seemed to be a string of bones, very white, dangling from a string; then there were tattered samples of what had apparently been luxurious rugs of all colors of the rainbow. Interested and having nothing else to do, I twisted the knob and entered. The door opened easily, squeaking like a lost soul as it did. But it closed behind with a decisive bang that sounded triumphant. The store was empty. By that I mean literally, completely, and dirtily. There was a counter with an inch coating of dust, a chair with three legs and a suspicious-looking white container with a chipped rim. That was all. I turned to go, and was wrestling with the knob of that blasted door which didn't want to turn, when a faint snipping sound caught my attention. I turned. I hadn't seen it before, maybe because of the light, but now I could discern in one corner a doorway, masked by a dirty red curtain. It was from behind this the snipping came. I walked across and pushed the curtain aside. What I saw surprised me so greatly I would have sat down if there had been a chair to sit on. Sitting in the middle of the room, wielding a huge pair of shears as large as himself, was a little man, perhaps four feet tall, industriously occupied in cutting a beautiful rug into shards. About him were piles of what had been wondrous tapestries, all mutilated beyond hope of human repair. I stared a few minutes and still he went on with his work. "What's going on here?" I finally asked. The little man looked up, dropped the shears, and got quickly to his feet. Suddenly I wanted to laugh. He was cross-eyed, had buck-teeth, was bandy-legged and his wrists protruded a good six inches from his voluminous jacket. His nether regions were enclosed in baggy trousers, his feet in curved slippers, and on his head perched a bowler hat about three sizes too large for him. From below its rim he peered at me intently. Then he turned his head slightly and looked at me with the other eye. "What's going on here?" he mimicked, stepping toward me. Stepping? It was more like the sidle of a fat duck. Before he halted. "I saw your sing--"I began, then halted. It was talking to a bowler. He raised his hands, gripped the brim and raised it a couple of inches. He peeped out at me like a mouse from its hole. "My sign? Oh, yes. Quaint, isn't it?" He then let go and the hat dropped down like the shell of a turtle. "Look," I began again. Every try talking to an unresponsive hat? "Look--I was curious. What are you cutting these fine rugs for?" Again the hands lifted the hat. This time he perched it on his ears which were, I now noted, rather pointed like those of elves you see in picture books for children. "Rugs? Oh, yes, I am hunting, you see." "Hunting? For what?" "For the princess. She was lost a long time ago and I must find her before the sun sets or she will be set upon and devoured by the savage beasts that infest the forests." I looked about. I couldn't see any forests. Or any princess either. Then under my feet I noticed the rug he had been so ruthlessly and buily mutilating. I started. Woven into the material were tiny trees, so life-like I could have sworn they nodded in some unfelt breeze.