One Three One: A Time-Shifting Gnostic Hooligan Road Novel (29 page)

No more than several minutes of prostrate drunkenness, such had my doubtful mind anticipated. Nevertheless, upon that very moment that my head under the Doorway the two brothers did pass, lo, did I sever all contact with Everything. Not downwards this time did I pass, not upwards neither. Not forced by bloody compulsion, not stretched upon the rack of years, not splattered like a butterfly between docking ocean liners, not expanded
neither. Instead, through Ingestion was I transferred, through actual Inhalation by Nature herself was I thrusted down through Mother’s porous limestone sinus depths, through her chalk, her flints, through her gargantuan, gynesophical corridors did I blow like ideas far back into the Distant Past.

I rose through the earth like sap drawn upwards by the heat, like a smoky basement fire that strives for its high chimney, like uncongealing blood through a bandage came I ever on. Progressive. Inevitable. Incorrigible. Until at last, like a plant that senses it must push its final way into the world, I detected upon me the glory and the influence of that red sky canopy shining just above me, shining just out of reach. It seemed to me now to be no more than a thin pastry crust away. Thus through that final crust how I nibbled and nudged and pecked and scratched my way upwards until, like a newborn chick, I was thrust by my own volition into New Life, thrust into the grand warmth of that external dome now blazing and ecstatic above me.

Thus, in recovery, did I lie in utter stillness in myself. Thus reconstituted did I hold myself inside the absolute silence of myself and be. Just be. At first I did lie only among myself, I did collect myself, until at last up into one lone person had I been drawn again. Then, as incoming lifestrands rallied – now pulling me together – how I basked in my great bed of feathers and ephedra heads, basked in that fabulous red glow of oncoming nightfall. Now, as life-force through me oozed in glorious renewal, how I stretched and stretched me in a great bodily display of my own self: every muscle in my arms, legs, hips, waist, feet, toes – all of my sinews I pulled forwards then disengaged. All of the muscles of my backbone I twisted tightly into place,
aaargh. Bliss. Then I relaxed them all and laid my torso flaccid again. Hooooargh. How I groaned. Again I repeated this inradiating manoeuvre. Hooooargh. Throwing my head
back
now, I reached upwards as far as my chin could go, then tucked it deeply into my chest until I had fourteen chins, at least. I clenched my fists then unclenched them, staring with intense fascination at both hands. And with this splendid arrival of life’s surging forces, so did I spring into life’s urgent action. Standing now upon all fours atop my bed of feathers and ephedra heads, I was once more the guardian of this great cavern of silence. How I dispelled it now as I barked: Roaaargh! I roared: Rauuughhhhhhhhhhrrrrrr! My lungs shouted out into the night sonic shards of brittle needles, and I heard babies down in the valley crying in response. Let them know I’m fit and well again, this Prince of Ashop. Let them sleep securely; let them know that I am back. For I had been sick beyond sick, near-dead describes my state more truthfully. Garrotted by the Oberst and his treacherous aides, saved only by my father’s own intuition and decisive thinking, I had sunk for weeks thereafter into a dreamless sleep of numbness and terrifying near-death. But this past month, I’ve been on the mend since my savage attack by the damp quartet, and lest they forgot just whom they set upon, Old Tüpp’s punishment meted out savagely point-after-point on their dwindling trajectory. Now, as the victims of magic they crawl and subsist in the creepiest corners Beyond Ashop. The Oberst Reduced in a hillock lies bound, his sycophants three – Hipper, Harland and Humberley – run as streams past his mound. And there shall the four play forever. Unless within the dragon’s den of Great Worm’s Hill they’re drawn. For should through boredom dare they trespass, none shall greet the dawn.

But now, from my great cavern’s entrance, I recognised the
signs of impending nightfall across my community: the dwindling fires of the cooking ovens all along the valley below, the returning home of the sacred daughters along the headwaters of Odin’s Sitch, even the bringing in of the royal straw bedding for my father Old Tüpp. And I noted a chill in the air. Then, I spied across the floor of my cavern my great fire roaring up from that deep circular hearth expertly excavated into the basalt floor. How inviting were its dancing flames, were its crackling logs. Already lit, already built up large by the dwarf known as Dràwf – already fearsome. That dwarf must know of his master’s pleasure. Jumping down from my raised stone bed, I pulled my finest robe of sheep’s wool and ephedra twine around my shoulders and walked to my cavern’s entrance, screaming out for the dwarf into the pitch-black night. Quick as a flash he was at my side, staring nervously.

And with that, the horrified dwarf hared off down the hillside to plan future fires for my enjoyment. Now, over to the great bath I strode. Here, I tore out three great, damp stringy strips of shredded ephedra from the thick pasty tidemark that had gathered upon the bath’s sides. Then, hanging them over my left
shoulder, I returned to the heat of the roaring fire, where I rolled up the shortest of the strips – fulsome, soggy and warm, perhaps no longer than my forearm – into a fat, sticky patty which I sank my teeth into, wolfing it down with all the lust of a young child newly encountering blackberries. Slurp, it was gone. Then I walked over to the dish, a large human-worked concavity upon the summit of a waist-high stalagmite, where a delicious paste of honey and ephedra had been prepared for me. I took the two ephedra strips and laid them in the paste, then used my stone grinder to bind it all together. Then I dipped both hands into the paste and tucked in, downing the lot in moments.

Outside, where the flattened outer chamber now roofless leads directly to the sky, I heard at the great entrance beyond my cavern home the ubb-ubb of conversation and walked out to investigate. Aha, these were the winning candidates for my new Select: all had been brought here tonight in preparation for tomorrow’s early start. Yes, tomorrow would I strike out for the ephedra fields of N. Abbadon, for the kingdom of Old Ball that lay far, far to our north. My preparations for this new adventure had long danced around dreams of building a fine new Select, each man stronger and younger than my previous band. Not twenty or thirty this time. Perhaps five at most, even four at a push. Drive them hard, keep them few. Pick the smart ones out and make them smarter. My disastrous sea journey to Abbis had brought about the unnecessary early deaths of many great Ashopian heroes. Lost also, therefore, on the high seas of the Vanquash: the dreams of the young heroes still sat at ma’s apron strings. Who would their replacements be? Where would I travel to find them? How much I missed all the lost members of my brave Select. None had in Navio served Old Tüpp without first having achieved great fame for heroism in
their own district. But as I reminisced about the lost ones, so my heart grew full of faith at the prospect of these new enlisters. And over the weeks, so the tests of strength and feats of endurance had knocked down and down my Select list until at last my preferred number had finally been reached. Four only. Never again shall Ashop deplete its resources just for the sake of grandness and traditions. At last the four winners came before me, but only as performers of excellence and still without names. I asked each one from what source would he draw his new name? Predictably, each winner had chosen to invoke the memory of their district’s own lost Select hero, thereby imbuing their own new name with importance and meaning to their own people.

Now the first of my new Select approached my throne and kneeled. Before me was a giant with fists as big as hams and shoulders like an Abbadonian Bull Angus. He said that from his own village came my former warrior: the Select known as Might, whom I had great affection for and whom I had lost upon the Vanquash Sea.

Then the second of my new Select approached my throne and kneeled. Before me now an ash-white, sunbleached, iceberg giant: huge. He said that from his own village hailed my former warrior: the Select known as Quash, whom I’d had great affection for and whom I had watched grow deadly ill and die upon the Vanquash Sea.

The third of my new Select approached my throne and kneeled. Before me now a tall rugged birch of a youth whose taut, wiry frame did carry a long and sharpened wooden spear which, so he claimed, could not be rammed into the waters of any lake hereabouts without yielding at its tip a fine fish meal. He said that from his own village hailed my former warrior: the Select known as Pike, whom all had known as the greatest freshwater fisherman in all of Ashop before he was taken by the Vanquash Sea.

The fourth and final member of my new Select approached my throne and kneeled. Black bearded was this blue-eyed giant and broad as any house: a whipmaster was he. In his right hand he wielded as his whip a nine-foot-long Black Sea snake. He said that from his own village hailed my own former whipmaster: the Select known as Lash, whom I had watched drink seawater and die upon the Vanquash Sea.

And thus without too much ado was my new Select formed. Ready for travel abroad and each of them capable. That night
before we left for the ephedra fields of N. Abbadon, in praise of the gallant losing contenders, I allowed them to join in the victory party before returning to their own districts of Ashop. My pitchouers of piss of course I denied to them, but now I appreciated our young heroes, and no more would I allow Old Tüpp’s kingdom to haemorrhage its homegrown warriors so pointlessly. Knowing now the exhausting perils of travel, I congratulated my new Select once more but reminded them of the importance of sleep tonight. It was already darkfall, so I bade them all good slumber and my dwarves led each new member to their sumptuous cave lodgings nearby.

Abroad again was I, abroad and refreshed at last from my arduous journey to N. Abbadon and standing now waist-deep in the yellow ephedra fields of Old Ball the Sky-King. What a worthy journey! What an ephedra crop at journey’s end! What drinks! What food, what paste, what taste! I speak only in praise and wonder at the Abbadonians’ endless uplands of prime ephedra growing space: bountiful harvests, benevolent winds and all running clear to the North Sea coast. How my thoughts grew in these far-reaching and open landscapes! Farmers of Luno)))! Radiant northern-most glories! In truth, the valley fastness of my own land of Ashop had prepared me not for the openness of the Abbadonian horizons, where Old Ball’s fields often ran unchecked across several plains and ridges at a time, terminating only at the heads of streams or blocked by the herds of wild Angus longhorns that roamed the river valleys of the Dee, Urie and Don. What creatures! What colours! What size!

Too long is the list of watercraft that bore me to N. Abbadon, and too arduously circuitous the water route. But, despite the current trend for Danish methods of sea travel, under no circumstance could I have engaged my own party in a sea voyage, for trust I had none. Thus were high-ways, hollow-ways and local water-ways my only choice. Nevertheless, still too many were the men who died to bring me here, though mercifully none of my new Select did perish. Surely unnecessary
upon those local rivers were the many human sacrifices, most of which obtained due not to ingrown tradition but more often on account of some noble traveller’s own jitter: a sop, no more than a reassurance paid for with a life. But considering of the geography and the grand adventure necessary to bring us here, still had we reached our far-flung destination with comparatively few losses. How very contrary are the feelings that rivers inspire in our land bodies. How very slow to return to its calm is the sap of our bodies once flung about upon watercourses. But sitting insensible in riverboats for days on end, high upon ephedra’s peak, none can say this river ride was worse than any mild flu. Moreover, when I visited the glowing ephedra fields of N. Abbadon, I was so awestruck by their natural beauty and vast size that I recognised instantly how in need of travel were our highest Ashopians. For surely only by comparison with the achievements of others can we understand what we Ashopians ourselves have truly achieved. Therefore was my own journey to N. Abbadon still worthy of account, if only for other Ashopians.

My account of N. Abbadon must commence, however, with a description of Old Ball himself. For this great Sky-King had knowledge of the planets and their satellites: therefore he knew spheres also. Living in the north where Luno))) flew low, Old Ball had concentrated all of his greatest efforts in understanding precisely the movements of that great orb as he danced and bedazzled his way westwards through the night sky. How sharp were the Sky-King’s explanations!

Such knowledge of the planets and the spheres had the Sky-King that he understood even their magical dimensions, their innermost workings. And thus from rough balls of sandstone, whetstone, even basalt did Old Ball construct many perfect spheres, true! Every one made by the hands of Old Ball. Even during our dinner conversations was the Sky-King at his toil, always shaping, scraping, filing, always grinding, moulding, buffing. Until inevitably from his great palms would emerge yet another of those exquisite carved balls! Magic, nothing less! Some of them he rendered with dextrous angled designs inscribed upon their faces; others he decorated with magical divisions upon their faces. Before my journey north, no knowledge had I of Old Ball’s extravagant gifts. For nothing of their kind had ever come through Ashop – such curious items being far too rare to have been transported even outside their own local districts. But there upon the conical judgement hill of Inch, all-the-while sat atop his extravagant wooden throne, Old Ball would carve these magical artefacts while holding court, his bubbling mind forever spouting forth new streams of highly stimulating ideas.

In truth, the remote authority that pervaded my father’s own methods of rule had prepared me not for this frankness and openness of Old Ball’s ways. Moreover, the exploratory methods of Old Ball’s kingship inclined him always on an upward trajectory onwards and towards the next stage of humanity’s learning. Thus the king wished at all times to surround himself only with the most prime examples of Abbadonian achievements, i.e.: the use of Luno))) in river and sea navigation, the
use of Sunno))) in ephedra growing, and the understanding of the sphere itself, the ball, the circle that has no end. To this exploratory end, then, did Old Ball run not with like-kind, run not with others Grand and Ancient, run not with the coronated and the castellated. Instead, Old Ball entangled himself with as rum a bunch of characters as never would have even been permitted to set foot in Old Tüpp’s kingdom, let alone been afforded the chance to sully his own pristine dining room! Ah yes, Old Ball’s grand dinners wherein I did meet every last one of those most favoured of his court.

And what outrageous nicknames Old Ball did apply to his favourites! Names destined for kings were, in the topsy-turvy world of N. Abbadon, summarily applied to Old Ball’s most unregal of associates. His favourite fleetmaster was a drunken brawler nicknamed by the king ‘Old Keig’; his favourite sky-watcher was a wall-eyed wanderer named ‘Old Reign’; Old Ball’s favourite bullfighter was a crippled giant that the king called ‘Old Bourtreebush’. It was as though Old Ball was saying by his actions that Abbadon’s finest heroes stood outside the rules of life in the wider world, that their experiences and successes placed them outside the laws that elsewhere by tradition placed upon important thrones only hesitant old dodderers. Indeed, it was here at the dinner table of Old Ball that the greatest Abbadonian ideas sprang forth, and here that the latest myths were dispelled. Time-honoured traditions that none other would dare to test? Old Ball brought them all to account with neither fuss nor flourish. Indeed, the Sky-King – at our first dinner together – praised my decision to travel along river routes only. Moreover, Old Ball displayed none of the world’s current obsession with Danish sea travel, ascribing its success mainly to the Danes’ own hard work, their persistence and more than a modicum of luck.

Such spirited monologues were never far away during a dinner with Old Ball. Moreover, on that first splendid night of our meeting, the Sky-King’s vigour, vim and keen dialogues had extracted from my head more new ideas and possibilities than any sage or teacher that I’d ever before known. How uplifted were my thoughts by Old Ball’s methods and ways, by his dynamic progress, his inclined trajectory, his generous quizzing of every mind that passed before him. In this state of eternal curiosity did Old Ball ensure that he would retain always his independence, retain always his reputation for seeking new truths. Oh, and the cauldrons of ephedra mead that flowed! Oh, and the patties of ephedra that we chewed! Bright yellow sheaves abounded throughout N. Abbadon: spectacular achievements!

Now it is my own estimation that the greatest development
of Old Ball’s sky worship manifested in the playing of The Ball Game, a spectacular hilltop event that brought together all of Old Ball’s sky knowledge. Some early Tale-men have suggested that the fleetmaster Old Keig invented The Ball Game on the beaches of N. Abbadon, a claim never refuted by Old Ball himself. Those early reporters tell of a deadly storm, which had pushed the Abbadonian Fleet a full three days off course – the sailors were desperate. It is said that when the holy rivermouth of the Dee was at last espied with the aid of the rising of Luno))), their fleetmaster Keig – on reaching land first – threw himself down upon the sands of Gask and kissed the ground in gratitude. Then, Keig had his huge low-sailed, two-masted raft of Iberian balsa dragged high upon the dunes of Gask. Next, his men angled his raft just-so, thus enabling Luno))) to appear to dance between its two masts. Finally, Keig took a few good steps back, placed upon this hallowed ground the inflated pig’s bladder that every Abbadonian sailor employs for a lifesaver upon the hostile seas, and kicked that Sphere so accurately that it flew – so they say – between the two masts and soared all the way to the Moon. Thereafter, every returning fleet picked up on this Good Luck practice, the accurate kicking of the ball becoming a requirement for all sailors of the Abbadonian Fleet. Old Ball himself encouraged this new tradition of precision kicking by setting atop every southwesterly N. Abbadonian hill a copy of Keig’s balsa raft, but affixed into the earth in longer-lasting spruce, that every future sailor of the Fleet might practise at home and in advance what might be expected of him. Thus, through the openness and forward-thinking attitudes of the Sky-King to the ideas of others more humble, did N. Abbadon thrive. Thus, through Old Ball’s canny decision to gather around himself always a succession of New Thinkers
and Doers have N. Abbadonians continued to sizzle with progress and new ideas.

And so at last on my final day in Old Ball’s splendid company: a treat! Did I know perspective? Did I know judgement of distance? Did I know how time travels? If not, could I be shown it? I did not know any of the aforementioned, or so I thought. But I would very much like to see it all. And thus, armed with two bladders of the finest Abbadonian honeyed ephedra mead, did we upon that final day walk up to meet the Hatton of Ardoyne, a venerable lunar observer whose own hilltop observatory had been set up N. Abbadon-style with the two tall spruce masts. Hatton himself, however, had chosen to enhance his goalposts midway between with a great flat-topped rectangular boulder, which mirrored the mountainous horizon. How curious! How great their motivation! Why, the whole community must have rallied for the moving of such a behemoth!

Now did the Sage-King describe to me how time could be conflated by the misuse of horizons and perspective. He said that Hatton’s great table stone would outwit Luno))) and entrap the shining one as he travelled along the edge of the horizon. Old Ball explained how expertly placed ball players fabulously clad
would, at the rising of Luno))), pitch the Sky-King’s geometrically worked stone balls across Hatton’s spruce masts, thus causing the shining one through curiosity to follow the same trajectory. I smiled in wonder at this process, but I knew not what either man meant by his words. But then, as time moved on and those specially invited few began to gather around the northern slopes of Hatton’s great masts, a veritable new world of experiences opened up to me. Here at the great masts now danced white-painted acrobats making wheel shapes and back flips. Incredible. Now, in preparation for the emergence at the west of the rising of Luno))), were great stone balls being pitched with great accuracy across Hatton’s tall masts: sympathetic magic intended to lure Luno))) into the same actions.

And thus it was that this Prince of Ashop was, at the rising of Luno))), set up as the Principal Observer lying recumbent upon my back across Hatton’s great table stone. How divine the night sky! How gentle the wind high atop these slopes of N. Abbadon. But as the balls flew over my head and Luno))) approached nearer and nearer, so I wished that I had better understood Old Ball’s instructions. Perspective? What is perspective? And so it was that this Prince of Ashop – being wholly ignorant even of the concept of perspective – misunderstood the accuracy of the stone balls being pitched across his recumbent
form, misunderstood the lethal nature of these sacred carved spheres, mis understood entirely the overall goal of Old Ball and his Lunar party, and – filled to the brim with ephedra’s own sweet love – did through sheer childlike excitement now raise up his enthusiastic form better to view this fantastic Abbadonian display. The results? Catastrophic and instant! First one stone ball dealt me a crusher to the temple; next another missed me almost but cracked nevertheless against my forehead. Thus, smiling like a newborn witnessing fireworks and still wishing to witness Time Travel was I snuffed out.