by Paulo Tullio
Angry because I felt used. Because my house was no longer my own. I hate to admit it, but angry as well because she was expensive to have around. Not in big things; just in the total of hundreds of small things. She used lots of hot water, the hair-dryer every day, huge amounts of toilet paper that blocked the drains, burnt logs all night since she’d begun sleeping on the sofa, never shut doors or turned off lights – just used resources incessantly. I mean the log pile didn’t get there by accident. It was three full days’ work of chopping and stacking; enough, I thought, to see the winter through. Now I was starting to think maybe not. I just kept thinking there has to be a trade if we’re living together. It has to have something in it for both if it’s to work. I could see what she was getting out of it: a roof, food and warmth. But me? A whole lot of irritation, that’s what. I don’t think I was asking for a lot. Companionship on long winter nights, someone to share things with. She was sharing all right – everything I had – but there was bugger-all companionship. Lots of niggles, arguments, discontent. I had no idea how to put an end to it; I immersed myself instead in my dreams and in my mushrooms.
A lot of things were beginning to gel in my mind, despite the distractions that Clair caused. Disparate ideas began to coalesce, making new connections. I was increasingly drawn to earth magic, shamanism, the old beliefs about Gaia. Monotheistic cosmologies seemed too male-oriented, run by men for men to the exclusion of women. The earth cults all seemed more female, less analytical, more mystical. And yet the female seemed to be the part of my life that didn’t fuse in any way. All my relationships had been unsatisfactory in one way or another. There wasn’t one I could point to and say ‘that one at least was complete’, not even for a day. All flawed.
I prepared the Petri plates and put them into the sterile box. I tidied the kitchen, putting things where Clair liked them to be. I took down a Mason jar from a shelf, picked and weighed out 50 grams of fresh mushrooms. The day was windy but not cold, clouds hurried low over the forest; there was an odd burst of sunlight. I ate the mushrooms, put on a coat and made my way out.
When I was a little boy I had had a recurring dream: I visited an empty house – always the same house. I got to know it well, all the rooms, even the garden. It was not a house that I knew in my waking state, it only came to life in my dreams. Even today I could draw it, make a plan of the interior. I went there so often it became real. Nothing of any import ever happened there; I just visited it and explored it. The same thing had begun to happen with the mushrooms. I kept finding the stone circle. The difference was that this time I felt that there was something to discover. I was sure that there was a reason that the stones appeared to me.
Outside the house the wind was strong. I walked, head bowed, toward the forest, immersed in my thoughts. I sat on a fallen tree at the forest’s edge watching the sky. A jay chattered somewhere in the woods, but apart from that it was quiet. As I waited for the psilocybin to take effect I tried to define where my life was leading me. I had that feeling that there was a purpose to it, all I had to do was discover it. It’s the same feeling that prompts people to embrace religion: the need to feel that there is a point to it all. I had been content for years with the idea that the answer was simply to be a part of it, like a worker bee in a hive. The individual life is of no consequence, it’s the survival of the hive, the particular genetic package, that matters. Now I was struck with the feeling that my life had a purpose; that all the events that had led me to this very spot were destined. A strange feeling, since I had no idea of what that purpose might be.
An urge to see if the stones were visible got me up and walking. Crossing the river once more I saw the shimmering outlines of the henge. There were people, or what appeared to be people in a circle, doing some kind of dance. I approached slowly, with a little trepidation. The only time I’d ever seen people in the circle was when I’d seen Greg sitting in the middle. It was a bizarre sight. A satyr, Pan-like, was holding hands with two women; a circle of three slowly turning to the sound of some unheard music. As I walked up to them they stopped and turned to me. The satyr’s face was Greg’s, the women were White Cloud and Yelena. They looked serious, as though concentrating. It was Yelena who spoke.
‘We knew you’d come.’
I said nothing; I could feel waves beginning in my belly which pulsed through my body and into my brain making the sight before me quiver, like a badly tracked video. I was disturbed to find these two women in my vision – I had rejected them on our only previous meeting as shallow and silly. Now they were here to confront me, I was sure of that. My eyes were drawn to the satyr. He stood about my height, thick hair from the waist down covering his legs but not his enormous penis, which hung, fat and long, above the russet hair. His face was definitely Greg’s, but I couldn’t relate to him as Greg.
I found it hard to make sense of this. Why were these two odd women here with my friend assuming the form of a satyr? The picture before me began to pulse, each beat of my heart made it throb. It was as though the two realities – that of the empty field and that of the stones – were almost in harmony but not quite in phase. Perhaps it was my unwillingness to confront these women that made the vision unstable. I found myself focusing unwillingly on the satyr’s penis, fascinated by its size. As I watched, it too began to throb, growing larger with each beat, until I was staring at a monstrous erection.
The satyr lay on his back, and as though in a well-rehearsed play, the women moved quickly to him. Yelena lifted her skirt and squatted carefully over the massive erection, lowering herself slowly onto it. Almost in time with her White Cloud lifted her skirt and began to squat over the satyr’s face. His tongue protruded obscenely as she sat. I could feel the blood in my temples, I could hear its rush. I watched the bestial thighs rise and fall, heard the women moan. I must have closed my eyes – when I opened them a second later I saw Greg, Yelena and White Cloud sitting in a circle. No satyr, no pornographic tableau.
‘Come and sit down,’ said Greg. ‘You’ve got a wild imagination, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Repressed sexuality,’ offered Yelena.
‘Filthy mind,’ said White Cloud.
They began to laugh in a childish, giggling way. I felt myself start to relax, the throbbing was ebbing away. I walked to the nearest stone and touched it. It was cold, a little damp, and very solid. I came back to Greg and sat down. He smiled at me and said:
‘Maybe deep down you’ve always seen me as a sexual goat.’
I had trouble with this. This was my vision, I thought. The stones, these three, are here because I’m imagining them. I created this reality with mushrooms – and yet here were the creatures of my imagination acting out some buried fantasies of mine, and offering to discuss them – as though they were sentient beings. I’d made sense of my last encounter with Greg at these stones by reasoning him as a ghost. That fitted what I’d seen, and needed no further analysis. A ghost, a spirit, a shade. Whatever. This time he was reading thoughts of mine that even I was only dimly aware of. I knew the stones were not part of everyday reality, I knew Greg was dead and so not part of everyday reality, but these women lived not far from me – in everyday reality. How could such different elements combine here, before my eyes?
‘He’s obviously not getting it enough,’ Yelena said, smiling at White Cloud and rubbing her hand between her legs. She seemed aware of how uncomfortable it made me, and relished it. I looked at Greg.
‘It’s OK, they’re only doing it to annoy,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to look if you don’t want to.’
‘Do you know them?’ I asked.
‘Of course. I met them in the States.’
‘I met them here.’
‘God you can be stupid. Of course you did, I sent them here. You surely don’t think your life is an accident, do you?’
White Cloud put her hand on Greg’s knee. ‘After he died it was me who phoned you. Greg spoke of you and Jane a lot, didn’t you Greg?�
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‘I did. I told them about these hills, the magic of the earth, its history of druids and shamans. It’s a special place, a place of wonder and mystery.’
Yelena sat upon her haunches. ‘It’s a place full of jerks.’
‘Greg, do you know Dave?’ I asked.
‘Dave who?’
‘Dutch Dave.’
‘No, never met him.’
‘Or Clair?’
‘No, don’t know her either.’
I felt relieved. A piece of my life, a thread, that didn’t connect to Greg. Something that I could call my own; something that didn’t fit into these bizarre visions.
‘This is no vision.’ Greg grabbed my hand hard. ‘I can pinch you.’
‘I know Dave well,’ said White Cloud, ‘he’s my lover. We trade, you know. He gives me coke and I give him sex.’
‘While we’re on the subject of sex again, I’ll tell you something else I know.’ Yelena stared at me.
‘What’s that?’
‘You had a wank thinking about me.’
‘What?’
‘You did, didn’t you?’
‘How do you know that? Maybe you imagined it.’
‘No. You do all the imagining. Do you want me to tell them what you imagined between us?’
‘No. Please don’t.’
It was true. My thoughts and fantasies seemed to be common currency in this world. It was true, I had thought of her – but I don’t expect, or look for, sense or reason in fantasies. I’ve fantasized over huge, obese women, but I don’t think it translates into the world outside of fantasy. I didn’t find Yelena attractive; it was an aberration of the moment. Once again I was irritated that a woman had some power over me.
Is that what celibacy is about? Sex and secrecy. If you have a secret and want to keep it, then you offer a weapon to anyone who finds it. I’ve always tried to keep my life an open book for this very reason. If everything you do is known, then you can never be blackmailed on any level. Openness is power; secrets are time-bombs waiting to explode into your life.
‘OK, Yelena,’ I said, ‘tell them.’
She looked at me carefully, the same look that I’d seen her give White Cloud over the dinner table.
‘You really want me to?’
‘Yeah, sure. Go for it.’
‘No. Maybe not.’
Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I saw a blush, or the beginnings of one. I felt elated – the shame was no longer mine. Certainly it wasn’t hers, but it didn’t feel part of me any more either. Funny how so small a thing can be a liberation.
‘That’s good,’ Greg said to me, ‘never be afraid of truth.’
White Cloud stood up and held out a hand to Yelena. They stood together for a moment, and then kissed for what seemed like a long time. They walked off, hand in hand.
‘I met them at a party.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I thought they were, that they were, a bit shallow.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I mean, if they’re friends of yours, maybe there’s more to them than I thought.’
‘There always is.’
‘What?’
‘More to it than you think.’
Greg got up and stretched. He yawned and I noticed his teeth were no longer black and broken. He pushed his hair back, just as he always did. He saw me looking.
‘Happy to see me?’
‘You know I am. It’s just that I get confused sometimes. I’m not sure on what level we’re meeting. You know, whether you’re really here or whether I’m imagining it.’
‘Comes to the same thing really, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it?’
‘Of course. If I can say things that surprise you or are new to you then it’s a fruitful meeting. For both of us.’
I hadn’t thought of that before. It hadn’t occurred to me that these meetings with Greg may have been curious to him too.
‘Remember the last time we met here, in the circle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remember we went to the house and Jane was there?’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Well, when I thought about it later I thought that somehow I’d become a part of, or I’d got inside your memory of things. I mean, the house looked like mine, but it wasn’t.’
‘Is that a question?’
‘No, but I want to know this. Was that, is this, your memory – your experience – or is it mine?’
‘Some’s mine, some’s yours. What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know.’
We sat still, in silence. Imps were running around and between the stones. Like cartoon imps, small and darting.
I see them occasionally when I’ve eaten mushrooms. I don’t know what they are or what they do, but they’ve never done me any harm. They’re just a part of that world and I accept them as that. I wondered whether Greg was aware of his death.
‘Greg?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you think about death?’
‘No more than you think about life. I just accept it, like you accept living. Think about it, all your questions – the ones that dog your days – are about life. You hardly ever think about death.’
‘That’s true, I suppose. I can’t really think about death; I don’t know what to expect.’
‘No one does.’
We lapsed into silence again. I was trying to control the effect of the mushrooms, fearful that a lapse of concentration might make Greg disappear. I wanted him there, I needed him to help me through this. So many threads seemed to connect directly to him. Whatever was happening to me, he was a part of. It was Greg who broke the silence.
‘Who’s Clair?’
‘She lives with me. Well, not like a lover – she lives in my house.’
‘Why?’
‘I wish I knew. She just sort of moved in.’
‘Just sort of moved in.’
‘I know, it’s stupid. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Anyway she needs somewhere to stay.’
‘How chivalrous of you. You know your problem, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘You let things happen to you. You’re not an actor, you’re an observer. Things and people come to you and you just accept it. You never make things happen. Your life’s like a silhouette; it’s defined not by what you do but by what’s been done to you. It’s a negative image.’
He was right. I’d only ever drifted into things, never plunged. I realized I wasn’t in control. It was stupid, I know, all I wanted was a little simplicity in my life, some harmony and peace. Clair was the antithesis to all that. As I thought of her I realized that I’d have to deal with her when I got home. Her rages, her shouting. Why was I so weak?
‘I have to go now.’
‘Why, Greg?’
‘It’s time, old buddy. We’ll meet again.’
He walked off slowly, leaving me with my thoughts. What strange path were the mushrooms leading me down? Talking with the dead, watching fantasies materialize. Maybe this is the stuff of insanity. Maybe. This at least had some kind of logic. The real world had none of that. That was a truly insane world. Depends on where you stand, I suppose. I could survive so long as this crazy world remained only in my head; as long as I could still function in the real world.
But that’s the problem, I can’t keep it a secret, I don’t want any time-bombs waiting to explode in my face. I can exorcize this madness, if madness it is, by exposing it, externalizing it. It’s not such a crazy way to live. All I’m doing is exploring other worlds” no more than any of us do each night in our dreams.
A movement at the far end of the field caught my eye. As my eyes focused on it I could see a file of people walking toward the henge. They were intoning a strange high-pitched chant. Five men led the group, dressed in what looked like gowns of thick, green felt. They wore oak leaves woven through their long hair. They approached the central trilith, and each in turn laid his sprigs of oak on the stone
s. The chant continued, and the five men took up position around the centre. As they sang I began to notice that each of the stones was surrounded by lines. I could see them as clearly as isobars on a map. They swirled and eddied and then appeared to settle. Each stone was surrounded by lines, some ran around the stones in spirals up to the top. Each of the five men appeared to be standing in a whirlpool of lines. Still they chanted, now more rhythmically, and with each beat of the chant the lines around the stones began to throb. The song had been imperceptibly getting faster and as it reached its crescendo the whirlpools of lines at the feet of the men suddenly rose up and enveloped each of them, just as they had the stones. The men quivered as the encircling lines embraced their bodies. Almost as one they shrieked; a high, long, piercing call. The lines disappeared and all five fell down, as though the swirling lines had been their means of support. The spectators ran up to them and bathed their faces with water. One by one they stood up and then joined hands. They remained in silence for what seemed an eternity, faces turned to the sky. Then quietly they unlinked hands and filed away, followed by the spectators.
I realized that all through this encounter there had been no wind and there still wasn’t. I looked up at a nondescript sky, an even grey. The stones were still pulsing, glowing with an ethereal light. I went to the trilith in the middle and stood, surveying the alignments. With no sun, no moon, no stars, it was a fruitless task. I put my arms around a pulsing stone and shut my eyes. I could feel an energy in it, tied to somewhere beneath the ground. The stone was like a prism, focusing the energy, drawing it upwards and outwards. It was like being strapped to a rocket; a sudden rush of energy propelled me up into the sky. An unfamiliar landscape lay below; where my house was, there stood a long, low, thatched building; the henge was directly below me. There were no roads, no other houses. Forests stretched in all directions with the odd clearing scattered between them. Two of the clearings appeared to be tilled, another held tethered long-haired cattle.
A plume of smoke rose directly from the longhouse, nearly vertical in the still air. I saw a herd of huge elk in one clearing, the enormous antlers of the males clearly visible even from a height. I felt no fear, no exhilaration, just a sense of being an observer in a foreign land. I floated, arms and legs outspread, feeling the gentle passing of the air on my cheeks. I closed my eyes and wallowed in it, felt my spirits soar as my body had. When I opened my eyes again I was looking at the same dull sky, my back was pressed to the ground. I was in the field in front of my house, and there was no stone circle. The wind was blowing in gusts, my coat was wide open and I felt cold.