Post by yewtree on Oct 15, 2005 15:00:41 GMT
Heroin is a place you once lived in. It is a dark place, but the velvet decadence of the night lures you back. You wouldn’t want to live there again, but you visit it occasionally, and glance back over your shoulder as you leave. You forget the dark times and remember only the days when you wandered in dream landscapes. Heroin is a lover you once had, whose embrace was like the kiss of death. You fear that kiss, but cannot resist its allure. Her pale lips curve back over her gums, revealing ivory fangs which will suck out your life blood.
These thoughts passed through Robert’s mind as he carefully smoothed out a piece of foil, burnt it on both sides with his lighter to clean it, then dipped his knife into the packet of heroin and made a small heap of it on the foil. Then he took a small chillum from his pocket, put it in his mouth, held the lighter flame under the foil, and inhaled the fumes from the bubbling brown drop of melted heroin. As the first wave of it washed over him, he felt off‑centre, as if his body was out of synch with his aura. This was the moment to slip out of the body and into the astral realm. At first all was darkness and chaos. Huge grainy shapes loomed out of the night, juggernauts with leering faces. They did not seem very friendly, and their world was too heavy for the frail human psyche. They were probably mugwumps, the beings who would crush the life out of you, given half a chance. The gravity of this realm seemed much greater than that of the physical plane, and there was very little light. Robert had visited this place in childhood hallucinations, when he would wake up feeling heavy and unable to move. It was all in black‑and‑white, like a badly tuned TV picture. With an effort of will, he escaped from that place, and found himself in a realm of pale light, full of floating faces, drifting in and out of focus. It smelt of hawthorn blossom. There were translucent beings as well, tall and thin, with pointed faces. Time slowed, and everything moved languidly. Robert became aware of his room again, but the beings were still there when he opened his eyes. They stared at him mournfully. He ignored them and focused on an image of the Morrígan that was hanging on the wall. She was standing astride the river Boyne, holding the bloodstained garment of a dead warrior. Wraiths of mist snaked around her, and a raven flew overhead. Robert heard the voice of the Morrígan, low and sultry. She spoke to him of the paths of the dead, the things that must be retrieved from the depths. He saw the glimmering lights of corpse‑candles in the marshes, and the lost wanderers in the realm of shadows. They were seeking the gate to the hidden realm, the place of light. The Morrígan beckoned to him. He followed her along the bank of the river, until they came to a mound. Two poles decked with skulls and feathers stood in front of the stone gateway of the mound, two uprights and a lintel. He went through the door, stooping low. Here was the entrance to the realm of light, where the underworld sun is reflected in the waters of life. Robert was standing on the shore of a seemingly endless lake. The water was calm and still. The distant hills were blue‑grey in the dreamy light.
Megan sat on a packing case. Everything was ready for Strawberry Fair. She was just waiting for Tim to arrive with the van. She picked up the scrying bowl that rested on the top of one of the open boxes, and smiled ruefully. She had never got the hang of scrying. She had bought the bowl from an antique shop on Gwydir Street, in the hope that it would inspire her, but however hard she had stared at it, it had remained obstinately blank. The shop had been full of potentially magical items. She had found a ring there with a head of the Green Man on it, and an unusual white‑handled knife. She replaced the bowl in the box. Perhaps someone would buy it today.
The doorbell rang. Megan ran to the front door. It was Tim. “D’you like my new tattoo?” he asked, proffering his arm. It was a Celtic knotwork pattern. “It’s great,” said Megan. “Does it go all the way round?” Tim twisted his arm round so she could see. “It hurt, as well.”
“I bet it did.” Megan grinned. “Come in.” They went into the living room and started carrying boxes out to the van. “Bloody hell, these are heavy,” said Tim. “What have you got in here, rocks?”
“Well, there’s a few crystals in that one, yes,” admitted Megan. “Hah ‑ you’re going all New Age and fluffy on me,” quipped Tim. “Me, fluffy?” protested Megan. “Never.”
When all the boxes were loaded onto the van, Megan said, “Just time for a cup of tea, I reckon. Um, Earl Grey? Lapsang Souchong? Camomile? Ordinary? Strawberry and vanilla?”
“Lapsang Souchong? Tastes like burnt rubber if you ask me. I’ll have that strawberry one, please.” Megan rummaged in the cupboard, and found the teabags. They sat on the sofa and drank their tea. Tim rolled a spliff, and they smoked it contemplatively. “I’m going to look for a didge today,” said Tim. “Now who’s New Age and fluffy?” quipped Megan.
Spliff inhaled and tea imbibed, they walked out to the van. The gearbox protested horribly as Tim put it into first. They drove out past the Botanical Gardens, onto Hills Road and past Parker’s Piece towards Midsummer Common. Looking out of the window of the van, Megan could see that the day was going to be a fine one. There was a bit of fog, but the sun would soon burn it off. As they arrived at Midsummer Common, a marshal directed them to Megan’s pitch, and they began to unload the van. Various other traders had already arrived. Tantalising smells were coming from the row of food stalls. “Fat Vegan Heaven” had arrived, and there was a sushi stall, a tandoori stall, and many other styles of food. Megan put up her tent and began to unpack her wares and arrange them on her trestle table. A midnight blue crushed velvet cloth formed the base of her display, and she put boxes underneath to vary the height. Then she arranged crystals and incense all over it, with the scrying bowl in the centre, surrounded by Tarot cards and bags of runes.
The vision receded and Robert’s awareness gradually drifted back to his physical surroundings. He became aware that the room needed tidying, he had a terrible thirst, and he had not eaten for twenty-four hours. To cap it all, he was suffering from the constipation usually experienced by users of opiates, and there was probably no fibre in the house. He decided to go out in search of sustenance. Then he remembered that today was the day of Strawberry Fair, and decided to go. He lit a small piece of dhoop in front of the picture of the Morrígan, got dressed in dark green jeans and a green silk shirt, and left the house. It was June 6th, and the Moon was in conjunction with Venus, the Sun and Mercury were in Gemini, and Mars was keeping a low profile in Taurus. Robert walked down Mill Road. He used an ash staff bound at the top with copper wire and surmounted by an enormous piece of polished malachite. It was a fragment of the paperweight with which a disgruntled palace guard had assassinated the mad Russian Tsar who wanted to slaughter the wild bison of the Polish forests to make britches for the Russian army. He was wont to say that the guard had unwittingly become the world’s first eco-warrior, since he had saved the bison from extinction. He pondered the magical significance of the malachite crystal, and caressed its sinuous green lines as he strode over the bridge from Romsey Town. As he walked over the bridge, a man in full Tibetan mountain clothing strode by on the other side of the road. Robert was used to these unexplained occurrences, such as the fairy rings closely resembling the hoof-prints of a celestial horse on Parker’s Piece (slightly to the north-west of the lamp-post with the four cast-iron fish on its base which always has REALITY CHECKPOINT recently painted on it).
As he passed Seventh Wave, Robert saw that the pixie who lived in the magical bookshop had been throwing the candles around again. It was always more active just before the Full Moon, he remembered.
It was a beautiful day, and the wind was making the leaves of the plane trees on Parker’s Piece shimmer in the sunlight. Some joker had impaled a bicycle halfway up a lamp-post. There was an unconfirmed rumour that there were more bicycles than people in Cambridge, but it was probably just another urban myth.
Robert walked along East Road, past the college of knowledge, left into Burleigh Street, and cut through into Newmarket Road, arriving at Midsummer Common just in time to see the procession of Hare Krishnas who always processed through Strawberry Fair, chanting and jingling. He chanted a mantra of Shiva under his breath. He stopped to admire the beautiful wooden bowls made by the woodturner from Norfolk, and bought a gnarly burr-elm one.
Semi-naked hippies cavorted on the grass. The smell of spliffs and incense wafted across Midsummer Common. The sun beat down and its light was broken into myriad pieces by the wavelets on the river. It glanced off mirror shades and tie-dyed dresses, and burnished cropped heads and hennaed dreads. Robert wandered amongst the stalls, perusing the merchandise, relaxing into the great crowd of hippies, punks, new age travellers, and locals who had gathered for the Fair. There were Tarot readers, rune readers, and stalls selling crystals, incense, dream-catchers, furniture, pottery, clothes, books, CDs, and antiques. He visited the Bedouin tent that made an appearance at every festival. Its vast hessian expanse looked like a cave mouth full of treasures. He heard the sound of zydeco drifting across the Common. It seemed to be coming from the blue marquee. He wandered over and went in. It was a local band, Baron Samedi and the Swamp Thangs. Nick Winnington was on washboard and percussion.
When he emerged from the blue marquee, still visualising the swamps and bayous of Louisiana, he wandered down to the river, where he saw a magnificent contraption made out of the reconstituted parts of abandoned bicycles, which was actually a giant musical instrument played by the children, with drums, bells, whistles, and chimes. Near the river he found a stall set back under the trees which attracted him because it had ivy and honeysuckle growing around the frame of the ancient Vango tent which housed it. The plants were growing out of terracotta pots placed either side of the tent. Robert went in, and saw a woman with long dark hair in a deep red dress. She smiled at him. He smiled and bent to examine her wares, silver jewellery, goblets, and bowls. In the middle of the display was a bowl which was strangely familiar. He picked it up, and she drew in her breath, but said nothing. He looked up at her enquiringly. She said, “Go ahead.” He held the beautiful bowl in his hands. It was of a different style to the others, and the Celtic design etched on its rim was slightly worn, though it clearly represented running stags with intertwined legs and interlocking antlers. To his surprise, a low humming filled the tent, and the bowl was filled with mist. In the mist there appeared the image of a sword, faintly glimmering. The woman came quickly from behind her trestle table and closed the tent flaps.
“So it is yours,” she said. Robert was silent for a moment, and then he saw a weeping woman holding the bowl standing over the body of a Celtic chieftain, his sword still bloody in his lifeless hand, lying among other slain warriors underneath the ramparts of a hillfort. The vision faded, and he saw the dark-haired woman in her orange tent gazing intently at him.
“What did you see?” she asked. He explained what he had seen.
“What about the sword?” she asked.
“That is what we have to find. That is the sacred bowl of the Dobunni, which you have found,” answered Robert.
“How can we find the sword?,” asked Megan.
“Are you a practitioner of magic?” asked Robert.
“You might say that I have occasionally dabbled,” replied Megan modestly. “My family are cunning folk from Reach. We have lived at the end of the Devil’s d**e since it was made by the Saxons.”
“I have studied Kundalini Yoga and alchemy. My father was a strego from Tuscany, and my mother was an Irish witch,” said Robert.
“Do you live in Cambridge?” asked Megan.
“Yes, I live in Gwydir Street, near the Cambridge Blue,” said Robert.
“Ah, the People’s Republic of Gwydir Street, last bastion of revolution against the hegemony of the Gown,” mused Megan. “ I have a little house near Lammas Land. Me and my cats, Myrddin Emrys and Lloyd George.”
Later, they sat in the garden of the Cambridge Blue, drinking pints of Hopback Summer Lightning and discussing magic and politics. A blackbird sang in the tree overhanging the graveyard at the end of the garden.
These thoughts passed through Robert’s mind as he carefully smoothed out a piece of foil, burnt it on both sides with his lighter to clean it, then dipped his knife into the packet of heroin and made a small heap of it on the foil. Then he took a small chillum from his pocket, put it in his mouth, held the lighter flame under the foil, and inhaled the fumes from the bubbling brown drop of melted heroin. As the first wave of it washed over him, he felt off‑centre, as if his body was out of synch with his aura. This was the moment to slip out of the body and into the astral realm. At first all was darkness and chaos. Huge grainy shapes loomed out of the night, juggernauts with leering faces. They did not seem very friendly, and their world was too heavy for the frail human psyche. They were probably mugwumps, the beings who would crush the life out of you, given half a chance. The gravity of this realm seemed much greater than that of the physical plane, and there was very little light. Robert had visited this place in childhood hallucinations, when he would wake up feeling heavy and unable to move. It was all in black‑and‑white, like a badly tuned TV picture. With an effort of will, he escaped from that place, and found himself in a realm of pale light, full of floating faces, drifting in and out of focus. It smelt of hawthorn blossom. There were translucent beings as well, tall and thin, with pointed faces. Time slowed, and everything moved languidly. Robert became aware of his room again, but the beings were still there when he opened his eyes. They stared at him mournfully. He ignored them and focused on an image of the Morrígan that was hanging on the wall. She was standing astride the river Boyne, holding the bloodstained garment of a dead warrior. Wraiths of mist snaked around her, and a raven flew overhead. Robert heard the voice of the Morrígan, low and sultry. She spoke to him of the paths of the dead, the things that must be retrieved from the depths. He saw the glimmering lights of corpse‑candles in the marshes, and the lost wanderers in the realm of shadows. They were seeking the gate to the hidden realm, the place of light. The Morrígan beckoned to him. He followed her along the bank of the river, until they came to a mound. Two poles decked with skulls and feathers stood in front of the stone gateway of the mound, two uprights and a lintel. He went through the door, stooping low. Here was the entrance to the realm of light, where the underworld sun is reflected in the waters of life. Robert was standing on the shore of a seemingly endless lake. The water was calm and still. The distant hills were blue‑grey in the dreamy light.
Megan sat on a packing case. Everything was ready for Strawberry Fair. She was just waiting for Tim to arrive with the van. She picked up the scrying bowl that rested on the top of one of the open boxes, and smiled ruefully. She had never got the hang of scrying. She had bought the bowl from an antique shop on Gwydir Street, in the hope that it would inspire her, but however hard she had stared at it, it had remained obstinately blank. The shop had been full of potentially magical items. She had found a ring there with a head of the Green Man on it, and an unusual white‑handled knife. She replaced the bowl in the box. Perhaps someone would buy it today.
The doorbell rang. Megan ran to the front door. It was Tim. “D’you like my new tattoo?” he asked, proffering his arm. It was a Celtic knotwork pattern. “It’s great,” said Megan. “Does it go all the way round?” Tim twisted his arm round so she could see. “It hurt, as well.”
“I bet it did.” Megan grinned. “Come in.” They went into the living room and started carrying boxes out to the van. “Bloody hell, these are heavy,” said Tim. “What have you got in here, rocks?”
“Well, there’s a few crystals in that one, yes,” admitted Megan. “Hah ‑ you’re going all New Age and fluffy on me,” quipped Tim. “Me, fluffy?” protested Megan. “Never.”
When all the boxes were loaded onto the van, Megan said, “Just time for a cup of tea, I reckon. Um, Earl Grey? Lapsang Souchong? Camomile? Ordinary? Strawberry and vanilla?”
“Lapsang Souchong? Tastes like burnt rubber if you ask me. I’ll have that strawberry one, please.” Megan rummaged in the cupboard, and found the teabags. They sat on the sofa and drank their tea. Tim rolled a spliff, and they smoked it contemplatively. “I’m going to look for a didge today,” said Tim. “Now who’s New Age and fluffy?” quipped Megan.
Spliff inhaled and tea imbibed, they walked out to the van. The gearbox protested horribly as Tim put it into first. They drove out past the Botanical Gardens, onto Hills Road and past Parker’s Piece towards Midsummer Common. Looking out of the window of the van, Megan could see that the day was going to be a fine one. There was a bit of fog, but the sun would soon burn it off. As they arrived at Midsummer Common, a marshal directed them to Megan’s pitch, and they began to unload the van. Various other traders had already arrived. Tantalising smells were coming from the row of food stalls. “Fat Vegan Heaven” had arrived, and there was a sushi stall, a tandoori stall, and many other styles of food. Megan put up her tent and began to unpack her wares and arrange them on her trestle table. A midnight blue crushed velvet cloth formed the base of her display, and she put boxes underneath to vary the height. Then she arranged crystals and incense all over it, with the scrying bowl in the centre, surrounded by Tarot cards and bags of runes.
The vision receded and Robert’s awareness gradually drifted back to his physical surroundings. He became aware that the room needed tidying, he had a terrible thirst, and he had not eaten for twenty-four hours. To cap it all, he was suffering from the constipation usually experienced by users of opiates, and there was probably no fibre in the house. He decided to go out in search of sustenance. Then he remembered that today was the day of Strawberry Fair, and decided to go. He lit a small piece of dhoop in front of the picture of the Morrígan, got dressed in dark green jeans and a green silk shirt, and left the house. It was June 6th, and the Moon was in conjunction with Venus, the Sun and Mercury were in Gemini, and Mars was keeping a low profile in Taurus. Robert walked down Mill Road. He used an ash staff bound at the top with copper wire and surmounted by an enormous piece of polished malachite. It was a fragment of the paperweight with which a disgruntled palace guard had assassinated the mad Russian Tsar who wanted to slaughter the wild bison of the Polish forests to make britches for the Russian army. He was wont to say that the guard had unwittingly become the world’s first eco-warrior, since he had saved the bison from extinction. He pondered the magical significance of the malachite crystal, and caressed its sinuous green lines as he strode over the bridge from Romsey Town. As he walked over the bridge, a man in full Tibetan mountain clothing strode by on the other side of the road. Robert was used to these unexplained occurrences, such as the fairy rings closely resembling the hoof-prints of a celestial horse on Parker’s Piece (slightly to the north-west of the lamp-post with the four cast-iron fish on its base which always has REALITY CHECKPOINT recently painted on it).
As he passed Seventh Wave, Robert saw that the pixie who lived in the magical bookshop had been throwing the candles around again. It was always more active just before the Full Moon, he remembered.
It was a beautiful day, and the wind was making the leaves of the plane trees on Parker’s Piece shimmer in the sunlight. Some joker had impaled a bicycle halfway up a lamp-post. There was an unconfirmed rumour that there were more bicycles than people in Cambridge, but it was probably just another urban myth.
Robert walked along East Road, past the college of knowledge, left into Burleigh Street, and cut through into Newmarket Road, arriving at Midsummer Common just in time to see the procession of Hare Krishnas who always processed through Strawberry Fair, chanting and jingling. He chanted a mantra of Shiva under his breath. He stopped to admire the beautiful wooden bowls made by the woodturner from Norfolk, and bought a gnarly burr-elm one.
Semi-naked hippies cavorted on the grass. The smell of spliffs and incense wafted across Midsummer Common. The sun beat down and its light was broken into myriad pieces by the wavelets on the river. It glanced off mirror shades and tie-dyed dresses, and burnished cropped heads and hennaed dreads. Robert wandered amongst the stalls, perusing the merchandise, relaxing into the great crowd of hippies, punks, new age travellers, and locals who had gathered for the Fair. There were Tarot readers, rune readers, and stalls selling crystals, incense, dream-catchers, furniture, pottery, clothes, books, CDs, and antiques. He visited the Bedouin tent that made an appearance at every festival. Its vast hessian expanse looked like a cave mouth full of treasures. He heard the sound of zydeco drifting across the Common. It seemed to be coming from the blue marquee. He wandered over and went in. It was a local band, Baron Samedi and the Swamp Thangs. Nick Winnington was on washboard and percussion.
When he emerged from the blue marquee, still visualising the swamps and bayous of Louisiana, he wandered down to the river, where he saw a magnificent contraption made out of the reconstituted parts of abandoned bicycles, which was actually a giant musical instrument played by the children, with drums, bells, whistles, and chimes. Near the river he found a stall set back under the trees which attracted him because it had ivy and honeysuckle growing around the frame of the ancient Vango tent which housed it. The plants were growing out of terracotta pots placed either side of the tent. Robert went in, and saw a woman with long dark hair in a deep red dress. She smiled at him. He smiled and bent to examine her wares, silver jewellery, goblets, and bowls. In the middle of the display was a bowl which was strangely familiar. He picked it up, and she drew in her breath, but said nothing. He looked up at her enquiringly. She said, “Go ahead.” He held the beautiful bowl in his hands. It was of a different style to the others, and the Celtic design etched on its rim was slightly worn, though it clearly represented running stags with intertwined legs and interlocking antlers. To his surprise, a low humming filled the tent, and the bowl was filled with mist. In the mist there appeared the image of a sword, faintly glimmering. The woman came quickly from behind her trestle table and closed the tent flaps.
“So it is yours,” she said. Robert was silent for a moment, and then he saw a weeping woman holding the bowl standing over the body of a Celtic chieftain, his sword still bloody in his lifeless hand, lying among other slain warriors underneath the ramparts of a hillfort. The vision faded, and he saw the dark-haired woman in her orange tent gazing intently at him.
“What did you see?” she asked. He explained what he had seen.
“What about the sword?” she asked.
“That is what we have to find. That is the sacred bowl of the Dobunni, which you have found,” answered Robert.
“How can we find the sword?,” asked Megan.
“Are you a practitioner of magic?” asked Robert.
“You might say that I have occasionally dabbled,” replied Megan modestly. “My family are cunning folk from Reach. We have lived at the end of the Devil’s d**e since it was made by the Saxons.”
“I have studied Kundalini Yoga and alchemy. My father was a strego from Tuscany, and my mother was an Irish witch,” said Robert.
“Do you live in Cambridge?” asked Megan.
“Yes, I live in Gwydir Street, near the Cambridge Blue,” said Robert.
“Ah, the People’s Republic of Gwydir Street, last bastion of revolution against the hegemony of the Gown,” mused Megan. “ I have a little house near Lammas Land. Me and my cats, Myrddin Emrys and Lloyd George.”
Later, they sat in the garden of the Cambridge Blue, drinking pints of Hopback Summer Lightning and discussing magic and politics. A blackbird sang in the tree overhanging the graveyard at the end of the garden.