Spinetinglers Anthology 2008

by Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  He wasn’t going to university. There would be no PhD, no scientific breakthrough or miracle surgery, no concert pianist or prime minister.

  Ethan had decided to live instead.

  They had accepted his decision in grave silence, and their unvoiced disappointment had torn him down more effectively than all the anger, tears, and emotional blackmail that they could have used, had they loved him any less than they did.

  There was so much in the world to be appreciated, and Ethan was spiritually inspired to appreciate it. He’d left home at eighteen with a rucksack and two hundred pounds. He’d picked a road at random and stuck out his thumb.

  There had been women on his travels. He was known by name in almost every brothel in Europe, it seemed. He’d shagged his way around the world, eaten every conceivable delicacy, stood atop mountains, and drunk the oceans dry.

  And then, of course, there were the drugs. Opium in China, hashish in Morocco, peyote in Mexico, LSD in San Francisco. You name it; Ethan had snorted, swallowed, smoked, popped, sniffed, chased, or injected it. He had screamed into the face of God after drinking Verona juice in Venezuela, and awakened ten days later, emaciated and caked with shit, strapped to a stinking, bug-ridden mattress in a far away hovel. He’d almost died of dysentery.

  What a fucking rush.

  But what if anything, had he learned? Ethan was quick but he still never quite figured it out. The big lesson, that hedonism dulls the senses. You can only take so many stimuli, before the brain begins to close down and ignore them. So to get the same buzz, you have to go further, take more, and do more.

  So he did.

  Spiritual greed is greed nonetheless. His body had suffered. At twenty-seven, he looked like a man of fifty. Only his eyes betrayed his true age. They burned in their darkened sockets like emerald flares. He would not live a long life. But it would be a life to make the gods envious.

  At the peak of his own self-destruction, he’d been sitting, or rather slumping, in a bar in Reykjavik, listening to a silver-bearded, academic piss-head rattling on about how the Viking invasions of Western Europe were still affecting world politics. His absinthe glass was empty; this made him sad.

  “If we still had it,” the piss-head slurred, “we could rule the world.”

  Ethan picked his forehead up from the table.

  “Had what?”

  “Tiw’s cup.” Piss-head belched. “Tiw’s fokking cup!”

  “What?”

  “The Berserkers.” Piss head’s eyes rolled in their sockets. “The Viking warriors, feared by everyone. They drink from Tiw’s cup and go completely fokking insane. They run into battle naked, and kill everything that moves. The recipe was lost. If we still had it....’ His voice trailed off, his drunken stupor victorious.

  Sometimes the smallest of things are significant. The discarded cigarette that begets the forest fire. The irritating glint in the foaming rapids that entices the salmon to the hook.

  Ethan was caught. His bored spirit had found new hope in the small promise of a stone yet unturned. It stirred once again, engaging the help of his rusty but still remarkable intellect. He spent the next few months in libraries, museums, and Internet cafes, looking for references to the magical brew known as Tiw’s cup. He found manuscripts, extracts, and historical notes that pushed him into lateral avenues of folklore, botany, and neurochemistry. There were new languages and dialects to absorb, places to go, people to see. Ethan’s life turned around.

  It took four years, but in the end, a small sheet of paper held the sum of his relentless enquiries. He had it, Tiw’s Cup, the recipe for divine madness. The ingredients were surprisingly easy to obtain. Common sense dictated that they had to be freely available throughout Western Europe. Psilocybe mushrooms formed the basic juice, Lobelia, Wormwood, and Lopium followed, although the quantities varied with each account, chuck in a little Hemlock and garnish with a pinch of ergot of rye. There seemed to be no real complexity involved. The reason for this was simple. It didn’t work. He’d locked himself away in a hostel room and thrown the key out of the window, because he didn’t want to risk hurting anyone. Having cooked it all up, he downed it in one gulp, wincing at its bitterness. He’d buzzed for the next six hours, had a few strange visions, laughed until his ribs ached, vomited liberally, and then fallen asleep. All in all, it was nothing that he hadn’t done many times before.

  There had to be some missing ingredient or at least an aspect of the preparation that formed a catalytic effect. For weeks, he returned to his precious photocopies. Manuscripts, legends, and the odd-learned dictation formed the core of his research. After hundreds of ever decreasing mental circles, there was one in the end that threw him a lifeline.

  A photocopy of a single historical reference, which, at first glance, had seemed too superficial to be of any importance, but being the man that he was, he had copied it anyway. The key it seemed was in the phrasing. It said simply “the drink was made for each warrior...” at least that’s the way he’d interpreted it. Ethan wasn’t that hot on the use of redundant Scandinavian possessive terms. This implied that the brew was customised to suit the individual. But, how the hell was that supposed to happen? He threw the papers down and sat in silence. Ethan’s intellect, powerful as it was, seemed lost. As his thoughts ground slowly to a halt, a small light went on somewhere inside him, and in the silence, his heart screamed the answer.

  Blood.

  When he’d drunk the Verona juice, the shaman who made it told him to breathe into the mixture, otherwise it wouldn’t work, because the spirits of the tree wouldn’t recognise him. Ethan had laughed, but blown into the pot anyway. He knew nothing of spirits, he just wanted the buzz.

  He’d read various accounts of druids and witches, using blood to bind potions to specific people. It was common practice in medieval medicine and in some areas of the world it still is. There was a downside, of course, the risk of severe allergic reaction. Everything’s fine the first time you take it, but take it again, and you’re dead. The problem is that you don’t know whether you’ve reacted or not until it’s too late.

  He knew he was right this time. He felt it with the firm certainty that always accompanied the solution to a difficult problem. He would make the potion again, but this time, he would add his own blood.

  Over the next few days, Ethan had found a more suitable venue for his grand experiment. He’d been out in a small patch of woodland hunting among the roots of the old birch for Psilocybe mushrooms. The September weather had put a thick layer of mud and leaves on his already distressed training shoes, and the clothing that he habitually wore, jeans and a loose-fitting sweater, were proving of little help against the cold damp air. As it started to rain, he’d looked up from his quest to find shelter. He’d noticed the old house then, set back amongst the thickest part of the wood. It had been well and truly abandoned, though Ethan could barely imagine why such a formerly grandiose place had been left to decay. Perhaps the owner had more money than sense.

  On closer inspection, the house proved to be empty, as Ethan had suspected, although still quite secure. This would be a good place. Quiet and secluded, away from everyone and any possibility of disturbance. And, if he became sick, well, he’d just have to deal with it. A bottle of brine was guaranteed to empty his stomach within minutes if needed. He’d bring some with him.

  He’d returned to the house two days later. It was twilight, and the air was cold. He’d already prepared the brew minus the blood. He’d brought a razor blade for that job. Ethan wasn’t fond of pain, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices. Unfortunately, he’d found the house to be more secure than he’d initially estimated, but there was an outhouse around the side that may have something in it that he could use to pry open a window. As luck would have it, he found an old toolbox that held various bits and pieces perfect for a spot of breaking and entry.

  Having levered open a small window, he climbed inside. The smell of mildew greeted him as he sneaked into the hallway looki
ng for the stairs. This house could be safely categorised as spooky or possibly borderline creepy. His mind flicked back to his childhood, watching TV with his parents. Tales of mystery and imagination. “Not for people of a nervous disposition,” the announcer had said every week before the program began. Talk about the power of suggestion. That single phrase had scared him far more profoundly than the incredulous rubbish that had followed for the next hour. Ethan chuckled to himself, as he mounted the dark staircase. He knew well that anticipation often has more effect than reality, but the adrenalin was already focussing his attention on the slightest of movements.

  He checked out the bathroom. No water, just grime on the mildewed shower curtain and pus-coloured lime scale where the bath tap had once dripped. There were dead flies on the windowsill and hanging by the legs from the rotting lace curtain. The toilet bowl was dry and coated with dirt, but at least he’d have somewhere to shit and puke, should the need arise.

  The bedrooms were next. Each one was much the same as the others with its high ceilings ornate with intricate plaster covings and pale squares on the walls where pictures had once hung. He chose the one nearest the bathroom; it was as good as any. The window overlooked a small roof that would serve as an escape route, if needed. He tried to open it but found his strength insufficient for the task. He went back downstairs for the toolbox and having loosened the reluctant sash frame, he put the tools away in the corner.

  He fished two tee light candles from the pocket of his jeans and placed them on the floor. He lit each one carefully, with a dark blue disposable lighter that he’d carried around for months. He had to tilt the lighter right over to get to the short wick, and he cursed aloud as he burned a finger on the tiny yellow flame. The house seemed to shudder at his voice, as if sound itself had become a thing long forgotten.

  As each of the tea lights warmed through their flames grew slightly brighter and the room became alive with dancing shadows, and although they couldn’t possibly have had any significant effect on the temperature of the room, Ethan would have sworn that he felt warmer and more comfortable.

  He sighed heavily, and the flames flickered, and the shadows danced. He reached into his other pocket and retrieved a small jar. He was glad to take it out because it had been digging into his hip as he moved. He had no idea of the dosage required or how much blood he’d have to put in. Perhaps only a few drops would suffice, perhaps not. He unscrewed the lid of the jar and placed both jar and lid carefully on the floor between the candles. He reached into his back pocket to claim the razor blade that he’d wrapped in several layers of paper. He unwrapped the blade, and it glinted in the pale candlelight.

  Holding his left hand over the open jar, he approached the base of his thumb with the blade. He hesitated, unable to make the cut. He cursed his own cowardice.

  “It’s just subconscious self-defence.” he assured himself. “Just make the fucking cut.”

  He swiped at his hand, hoping to somehow cut himself by accident. Oddly enough, this actually worked, although he had to keep pinching the pitifully shallow wound to milk the liquid out. He managed two drops, watching each one adopt the shape of a swirling toroid, as it penetrated the relatively clear liquid in the jar. He stirred it in with his finger.

  So, then, this was it. He raised the jar, as if making a toast. He imagined for a moment that Tiw, the Norse war god, had opened a lazy eye to witness an event not enacted for over a thousand years. A mild shiver played along Ethan’s spine.

  “Tiw,” he spoke aloud, “It’s been a while. Can you still do it?”

  He gulped down half of the brew. At least two of the ingredients were potentially lethal, so if he survived the next hour, he’d consider drinking the rest then. He sat back and waited.

  Five, ten, fifteen, and then twenty minutes elapsed. Ethan became impatient, then frustrated. But something was happening. Nothing special, just his heartbeat, slowing but becoming louder, almost audible. Some of the alkaloids in the brew were depressants, so it was no great shock that his cardiac rhythm was affected. But it was loud, very loud, fearfully loud. His vision grew foggy, as if a mist had descended on the place. He expected more, flashing lights, voices perhaps but nothing materialised, and after a while, the beat of his heart subsided. His disappointment turned to desperation, as he picked up the jar and threw the remaining brew to the back of his throat. He slammed the jar against the wall, where it exploded into twinkling fragments. Hitting the floorboards hard with his fist, he swore into the empty room.

  His knuckles, grazed by the impact, began to sting, but this sensation was short-lived and quickly replaced by something else, something totally out of context and unexpected.

  Pleasure.

  A warm, relaxed and almost orgasmic sensation sprouted from his injured hand and expanded out toward his elbow. But it didn’t stop there. It reached his shoulder, increasing in intensity, almost burning.

  “Fucking hell!” Ethan gasped. His body grew hotter, his skin felt inflamed, irritated. Soon the heat became unbearable. He tore at his clothes, scratching at the flesh of his stomach as he pulled at his sweater. Again, the orgasmic wave began from the scratches pouring into his loins and down his legs. “Shit, shit, fucking Jesus shit!” Ethan pulled off the rest of his clothes. He had to get naked, to cool off, or he’d explode. He stood motionless in the cold darkness, totally internalised. He knew what this was.

  Sensory transference. It was common enough with LSD. The brain confused the sensory input streams and misinterpreted everything. You could see sounds as colours, and hear colours as tones. Pictures and words became the same thing, mingled and indistinguishable. But this was different. Pain into pleasure? He slapped himself across the face and the wave started immediately. Blasts of hysterically intense sensations pushed into the nerve roots in his teeth and ears, flashing like lightning in his mind’s eye. Ethan became ecstatic. Laughing maniacally he slapped himself again, caving in and falling to his knees under the relentless pressure of orgasm after orgasm. His knees hit the floor and pleasure burst forth like liquid fire, engulfing his testicles. He could sell this stuff. He would be seriously, fucking rich.

  He dropped forward onto all fours. His skin was reddened and he was sweating profusely. As his hands touched the floor, the waves started, immersing his head and neck in spasmodic jolts of ferocious pleasure. So, it wasn’t just pain that triggered the pleasure response, Ethan noted. It was any tactile sensation at all. A sickness fell upon him, as he crouched in the darkness. A side effect of the lobelia. His stomach heaved, but nothing came up, and as his abdomen cramped, the wave sprouted again. This time, it washed him away.

  “Fuck this is good.” Ethan groaned, barely able to hold himself up. He reached for a piece of the broken jar and with some hesitance, jabbed it into his thigh. The pleasure wave hit him so hard that he lost control of his bowels. But it wasn’t the same as before. A different type of pain generates a different sensation of pleasure. Slaps and bangs were good but cuts, Ethan thought to himself, cuts were totally, fucking groovy! He jabbed the glass shard into the same wound and then twisted it. He howled and fell, rolling onto his back and giggling hysterically. He shit himself again and then ejaculated. Breathing hard, he rolled his head back and forth on the floorboards, feeling the powerful pleasure response now subtle, in comparison to the electrifying jolts leaping from his gushing thigh. He watched the blood expand across the floor, caring nothing for it. Then, he caught sight of something that may as well have been the Holy Grail.

  “Oh, yes.” Ethan laughed. “Come to daddy.” It took approximately seven orgasms to reach the toolbox, but it was going to be worth the effort.

  “So what have we here?” Ethan giggled, heaving open the rusted lid. He picked out a large hammer, nodding his approval. He splayed his hand out on the floor and slammed the hammer down hard on his index finger. He collapsed instantly, all his strength blasted away by a pleasure so intense that he would have cheerfully died right there. He gathered himself up and
hit it again and again.

  “Fight it Ethan,” he moaned, “you can take this shit all fucking day.” He launched a frenzied attack on the rest of his fingers but in the end, it still wasn’t enough. Hedonism dulls the senses. He kept hitting, though just to make sure, right up until he spotted the pliers.

  He reasoned carefully as he picked the heavy rusted grips out of the box. If busting a finger sent him to heaven, then pulling a tooth should fire him straight up almighty God’s arse, and out of his mouth. He chose a large molar. At least then nobody would notice the gap. His plan misfired, but in a good way. Instead of gripping the tooth and working it loose, he squeezed too hard and the tooth shattered. His eyes rolled back and his arms fell limp at his sides. He knelt for a while in a pool of hot urine, convulsing softly. When he finally became lucid, he went straight for another molar, but something inside him shouted “fuck it,” and in a twenty-second flurry, he smashed every tooth in his head and began grinding the stumps together, while choking on the pieces. He did indeed fly up God’s arse.

  Having no more teeth left him at something of an impasse. What he wouldn’t have given for a litre of boiling water and a rubber tube. Then, he remembered the razor blade.

  “Cuts are good.” he reminded himself, “Cuts are our friends.”