Vurt 2 - Pollen (34 page)

The pack of dogs were there for us, waiting. At our sight they rushed towards each other, forming their various shapes into one terrible body, which licked and snarled at the air. Each of its mighty jaws dribbled black venom. Snakes slithered through its steely fur. Dog shit covered the ground in a smoking carpet. Beyond the jaws of this beast lay an ornamental wrought-iron gate embedded in a thick growth of pine trees. The fifty-headed dog growled at us, and then lunged forward, foam dripping from its array of teeth.

“Jesus!” Belinda fell back, taking Jewel with her.

“What want, dog-head?” Coyote asked.

“My name is Cerberus. I’m the guardian of the forest.” One of the many heads came close up to Coyote’s face, spat some juice at him, and then said, “Flour. Flour and honey. Honey and flour. Cakes of honey and flour? Got any?”

Coyote turned to us: “Anybody got cakes of flour and honey?”

We shook our head.

“Got anything?” the beast growled.

“Naked totality, dog-head,” Coyote answered.

Dog-head snarled viciously, whipping his faces around like a fairground ride.

Coyote growled back at Cerberus. “I’ve got a set of teeth made out of Manchester’s maps. You want to take a chance?”

“We’ll take anything.”

Coyote snapped forward and dug his teeth into the leader dog’s neck.

Cerberus howled like a dog from Hell. And then composed himself into a puppified picture of calm. “That will do.” Whimpering. “Pass through to the next gate.” And then the mighty creature dissolved into its separate parts: a humiliated pack of wolves that slinked off into the darkness, leaving the glade clear for moonlight and travellers.

Coyote opened the iron gates at the far side of the clearing and we entered a bleak pine forest. The air was sharp with the tang of resin, hard needles crunching under our feet. We were walking a well-defined path between the tree trunks. The path curved like a snake, so that we lost all sense of direction. But still, the sense of being led.

We could hear the sound of water slowly lapping ahead of us, and eventually the tree-line gave way to an immense lake of purple water. Fronds of violet mist were playing in half-human shapes over the surface. We were standing on the lake’s blackened shore, watching the moon reflecting in gold on the ripples. At the centre of the lake a small island held a creamy bandstand. Amidst its flowered columns a brass band was playing a deathly, mutated version of the national anthem, Ferry Across the Mersey. This is the land that I love, and here I’ll stay, until my dying day. Shards of brassy light were catching on the trombones and the trumpets as they blew. Beyond the bandstand, over on the other side of the lake, glimmers of light could be seen in the sky, as though shining from distant eyes. In front of us a rowing boat was knocking gently against the boards of a weed-covered jetty. In its bow stood a black-cowled figure, as long and as thin as the boat itself. “Good evening, my deathly travellers,” this figure announced in a cracked voice. “Welcome to Juniper Suction. Lost your way in the dark, have you? Well, well, never mind. Quite understandable in these parts.”

Coyote asked him his name.

“My name is Charon,” he replied. “I am the ferryman of Lake Acheron. Presumably you are seeking passage?” Coyote said that we were. “Oh splendid, I do love a good passage! Have you your obolus?” Coyote looked at us, we looked back. Coyote asked the ferryman what an obolus was. “What’s an obolus!?” His voice was spluttering now. “An obolus! Don’t tell me they didn’t… you mean to say… they didn’t put an obolus in your mouth… when you died? Your relatives? Oh dear, that is most unfortunate. Most unfortunate. How in hell’s name did you get past Cerberus?” Coyote told him that Cerberus the many-headed dog had wanted hardly anything for the passage. “Hardly anything! Outrageous. I shall have to have words. Really, this is against all the rules.” Coyote asked Charon if an obolus was like a cab-fare. Charon looked puzzled, so Coyote explained to him what a cab-fare was. “Yes! That’s it! Exactly. A cab-fare. An obolus is a fare. Now we are finally getting somewhere. So, have you a fare, an obolus? Really, they should have placed one in your mouths. One silver coin worth exactly one sixth of a drachma. Any luck?” Coyote shook his head. “Anything at all then? Anything to give as a… as a cab-fare? Anything?”

Jewel slithered down Belinda’s body and then clambered between Charon’s legs into the body of the boat.

“Hang on a second,” Charon squealed. “What’s that lump doing in my vessel?”

“He’s hitching a ride,” Coyote answered.

“Well get him out of there!”

“Do it yourself.”

Charon made a move towards Jewel, but that zombified son of mine had melted his shape into the boat’s shape. He could not be removed. The boat rocked like crazy. Charon nearly fell into the water. “This episode is getting on my nerves,” he squealed.

“Get rid of the hitcher,” Coyote said. “Or else take all of us.”

Charon looked up and down the shore, as though nervous, and then said, “Oh, very well then. Hop in! Quickly, quickly! Before somebody sees. Really, it’s too much, giving passage for no payment. No flaming cab-fare! Do you think I can run a business like this? Well, do you?!”

So it was that we came to be, the four of us, passengers on board a thin blade of a boat that threaded its way through thick, sluggish water. The moon was the only light, an orb of pollen shaded by the mist that danced around our journey. The twin oars of Charon made the only sound, apart from the muted ballad that crawled from the central island. The band played the same song over and over, slowed down to a dirge, as though playing that tune was some kind of dire punishment. Charon was sitting in the stern, skeletal hands peeking out from his cowl, each clenched around an oar. He worked the water effortlessly, despite his evident lack of strength. Coyote was in the bow, Belinda in the middle of the boat, myself inside Belinda, and Jewel peering over the edge of the vessel, looking down into the water. He made a sneeze, just a slight one. He was definitely feeling better, that was obvious. But what would he be like when we got back to the real world? Wouldn’t his fever come back then? And maybe even the worse for this journey? And where was the real world anyway? I had only dim memories of what I had been. The Vurt was working on my Shadow, erasing the feelings. Everything was very calm, very still and timeless. The moon, the lake, the darkness, the sound of the oars, the sad-hearted tune of brass. The wraiths in the mist. Belinda’s hand was trailing in the water…

“Please!” Charon cried. “No touching the lake. Thank you.”

“Why not?” Belinda asked.

“Because it might eat you.”

Belinda’s hand moved back to safety, and it wasn’t until we were over halfway across, and the brass band was just a soft trail of whispers in the past, that she spoke again. “Coyote?” she said. “Any idea what’s going on here?”

“This is a story riding,” Coyote answered. “The story of dog-many-head. The story of water-cab-driver. The garden will be black and deep-rivered. Little Sir John is waiting. I can feel him waiting for us.”

The ferryman pulled us to shore. “This is the drop-off point, Belinda,” Coyote said. “Are you staying cool?” I made Belinda affirm her coolness, and then we clambered out of the boat. Jewel climbed back into Belinda’s arms. Coyote turned to Charon: “You’ll keep the clock running?” he asked. The ferryman spat into the lake and then replied, as though he knew exactly what Coyote was saying, “Nobody comes back, buddy. There ain’t no return trips.” The boatman laughed, and then pushed off from the quay.

Quietness falling over us.

Only the faint gasp of each oar entering and then leaving the water, entering and leaving, until the waves died down into stillness. The brass band a frosty shimmer in the air, and then fading to silence. The moon sliding behind a cloud.

Darkness. Darkness was a breathing flower.

In front of us the high wall of a hedgerow. It grew to twice our combined heights and above its tall ramparts we could see pale light shining in the air. Belinda told Coyote to grow himself taller than the tallest plant, and to just peer over that wall of flowers. He snarled at her for a second and then tried it. Even before he was halfway to the top, the plants closed in, forcing his body downwards. After the fifth attempt he gave up and told Belinda that the story didn’t want him to see above the trees.

“You’re pissing me off, Coyote.” Belinda said. “I really thought you could take us through.”

Coyote was silent for just a moment, as his nose petals worked the scent-paths. Then he set off walking, choosing the left-hand route, skirting the hedge. The three of us followed him, all bungled up together. Ages, we travelled, or so it seemed. Time was malleable. It could have been merely seconds. Eventually we came to an opening in the wall. Or the wall opened up for us. Or we opened up for the wall.

Whatever. Something happened. Something happened slowly, too slow for thought. A dark space between two worlds. A night path between hedgerows. We looked down into black mirrors; paths bled off from paths, like wayward sentences in a convoluted tale. Fireflies flickered through the gaps between words, between leaves.

“Needing the A–Z of maze-map, Belinda,” Coyote said.

Belinda told him that we should just keep moving: “Like, what the fuck? Let’s chance it.”

Wandering lost through the knot garden of a thousand flowers, a thousand cuttings and corners. Every blind alley ending in darkness, studded with the warm blur of fireflies. The moon came back, peeking out from behind a ragged cloud, showing us just how lost we were.

“Don’t you know about labyrinths?” Belinda asked. Coyote shook his petals. “Well, you know, I thought you would. Jesus, aren’t you supposed to the best-ever cab-driver. What’s wrong with you?”

“Belinda, you’re starting to get on my nerves,” Coyote petal-growled.

“I mean, aren’t we supposed to take every left turn, or something? Or maybe pick up a thread of gold. Follow a trail of bits of bread or something. Something like that? Or maybe we just wander around in circles forever? Is that the key? Well?”

Coyote had no answers for us. Twice we arrived back at the entrance way. Each time we set off again, this time hoping for a new route. You have to picture this clearly: a nude girl with a map tattooed on her body, a dog-plant whose very bones were roads, a Shadowcop passenger with infinite knowledge of the bad routes to take, a Limbo-child who had found a forbidden way back to life. And all of us lost in a simple garden maze. And when the moon tucked itself back behind a new cloud, and the garden was tainted with fog, and the hedgerows were closing in tighter around us, what could we do but fall despondent? Belinda was starting to protest now, about how Jewel was weighing heavy on her shoulders. But just then, one more turning to the left, a light could be seen. There was an opening in the hedge some few feet away, and the pale wavery light was shining through the gap. We rushed towards it, hoping for a…

The lake stretched out in front of us. A third time. The moon, the same moon. The same lake. The same old tune from the bandstand. Not heard, just felt; dust motes in the air. We turned back to the maze. The same dark-breathed mouth was waiting there.

“Cab-Dung!” was Coyote’s cry.

“I thought we were part of this story?” Belinda said.

“The green-road keeps changing, is what.” Coyote’s eyes were hooded with leaves. “The map is too fluid, it keeps changing every step we make. There’s no clear way through…”

A firefly glittered, zooming from petal to petal, and then set off in a lantern flight into the knot garden. “Catch that fly, Coyote,” I made Belinda say. Coyote sent out a nimble-twigged branch, caught the fly in his soft petals. His Dalmatian flower was illuminated.

“Maybe we’re following the wrong flower,” I said through my daughter’s voice. Inside I had drawn the connection between that firefly’s flight and the way in which my Shadow had worked in the new Manchester map. You must always follow the fire. Coyote let loose the shining insect. It flickered away into the hedgerow. We set off at a pretty pace after the darting flame. Corner to corner we ran, curve to curve. Following. The hot path of small wings, a fiery map. Jewel was struggling to keep a hold of Belinda’s neck, so quickly we were moving now. Left, and then left again. And then left. And then left. Left again, tracing the fire through the darkness. And again left. And left once more. Left from there. Left at the next turning. Left again. Left. And then left. Left, left, left. Turning and twisting. Left, and then right, just the once. And then once more, to the left, a final left, and then…

Cupid pissing.

A stone baby perched on an ornamental fountain, dribbling into a pool of green stagnant water. Small willy in tiny fingers. Thin trickle of water from the carved penis. Small, stubby wings sprouting from his bleached shoulder blades.

The centre of the labyrinth. A common or garden fountain in a circle of flowers. No grand palace. No John Barleycorn. No way through. Only the soft trickle of water flowing over stone, over lunar shadows, over faint gaspings for breath. The wind playing, gentle at the pool.

The firefly headed directly for the cupid’s flow, got drenched there, and then fell, wings sodden, into the algae.

“What now, Big Dog?” asked Belinda.

“We follow.”

It was simple. We follow. We take a drink from that fountain. We follow Coyote who was already dipping his face into the piss stream. Drinking. Jewel jumped from Belinda’s shoulders, straight into the pool, and then opened a wound in his soft flesh, so that the urine could find a river.

“You’re all still here,” Belinda said.

“Maybe waiting,” Coyote answered, his petals bright under moonshine. “Maybe Barleycorn is still waiting. Let all passengers drink.”

It took some doing, Belinda so reluctant, but eventually I forced her along the Shadow, to step into the water. Our naked feet cold from the bath. Pushing her mouth into the urine. Drinking deep, drinking. And then the tiny sculptured penis growing to a monstrous size. Hands of stone. Two strong hands, one on each shoulder, forcing Belinda’s mouth towards the fat bulb of the cock, which was now turning into soft and purple longings…