by Jeff Noon
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…
Belinda falling head first into the pool of darkness, her lips quenched by piss.
Golden showers…
Tuesday
9 May
Golden showers…rain dripping onto a plate of meat. Belinda was sitting at a large, square table laden with fruit and flesh. She was pushing a fork into a thick, barely cooked steak. The meat was alive with pink worms. In Belinda’s other hand a knife, with which she sliced off a portion. And as that meat touched her tongue I came alive to her insides from my fountain-fall, feeling the juices flowing, and the worms moving over her lips. It took all my Shadow-power to force my daughter’s hand away from her mouth. Don’t touch the meat, my sweet. Don’t eat.
It was raining inside.
I looked through my daughter’s eyes.
Where were we? This room…
Its walls faded into the distance, patterned with mist. A slight drizzle fell from the ceiling. Yellow droplets. Clouds were partly obscuring the chandelier. The light was buzzing with static, electric blue. The noise of flies, hungry for flesh. Lichen grew on the wet surface of the table. Maggots were scrambling through the blue cheese, and worms were in the meat. Pewter mugs of heavy wine were set beside each plate. I was resting my Shadow inside Belinda, who was sitting at one side of the table. She was dressed now in a velvet gown. Coyote was sitting at our left-hand side, digging in with slack jaws to a plate of raw pork. Jewel was perched on the table itself, lapping with a fat tongue at a bowl of sour-creamed rice. How sad it made me to see them eating, and how useless. To eat in the Underworld, didn’t that mean staying there, forever? Wasn’t that the story? Persephone the flower girl was sitting cross-legged on the table, leafing through a stolen A–Z map of Manchester. Its pages were sodden, rain-dappled. To my right, an empty chair. Opposite Belinda and myself, across the vast reaches of the table, sat a young man with shining midnight blue hair and skin the colour of soot.
‘Good day to you, Madam Jones,’ he pronounced in a velvet voice. ‘Welcome to the feast.’
‘I can’t move. Why can’t I move?’
‘I trust you had a pleasant journey? I took the liberty of covering your daughter’s nakedness. After all, it is your own nakedness now.’
I tried to get Belinda to her feet. Her body felt like lead.
‘You are here at my bequest, and you will leave when I have finished with you. I cannot guarantee the state you will be in. Welcome to Juniper Suction, my travellers.’
Neither Coyote nor Belinda seemed to respond to his overtures, and I realised then that the man was speaking only to me; his voice of soot was drifting over the Shadow. ‘Quite right, Madam Jones,’ he responded. ‘How astute. The others are helplessly in my control now. There remains only your good self. But I see that your given name is Sibyl. Yes. Splendid! I like that. A nice touch.’
‘You’re John Barleycorn?’ I asked. ‘I saw your face on that snake in the forest.’
‘I must thank you for the safe return of my wife.’ He smiled at the young girl on the table.
‘We didn’t bring her.’
‘My dear Persephone can be very resourceful. But, how rude of me. You were enquiring about my name. I think, in your country, they call me Fiery Jack? Is that correct? Or else Jack O’Lantern. Or else the devil himself, Satan, the serpent. Hades. Ah, the endless bounty of the human imagination; it finally comes to rest in a few chosen words. Sir John Barleycorn.’ He savoured each syllable as though each was a piece of fine meat. ‘John Barleycorn. Yes, that is my favoured name. I am your very own god of fermentation, the spirit of death and rebirth in the soil. I am your wine. Really, the stories you people come up with. But does it matter? Names are for small humans. Does a flower know its name?’
Once again I tried to make Belinda stand up from the table, but some darker, stronger force was hindering me.
‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ Barleycorn’s eyes burned into my daughter’s flesh.
‘You have no right to keep me from…’
‘Please. Don’t…try…to do…anything. You will only cause me to…’
His gaze was hurting me.
‘I must apologize, madam…’ A little light returned to his eyes. ‘…for my previous remark. It is most ungentlemanly to swear at the dinner table.’
‘You have a powerful Shadow, Mr. Barleycorn…’ I was trying to please him, to gain time.
‘I thank you for the compliment. Unfortunately, you will never please me, Sibyl, and you will never gain time. Yes, I know every little thought, every pathetic, human emotion that travels through your skull. But really…I am whatever you want me to be. To Coyote I’m a dog-flower king. To Jewel I’m a good father. To Belinda, a good lover. For all their wilfulness, they make rather easy targets, I’m afraid. Look at them. Can you not see how easily controlled they are? Helpless within my grasp. Finally, after long years of struggle, I get some real living, breathing humans to converse with, and they turn out to be mere playthings. Perhaps you will prove yourself a worthier guest. My dear Sibyl, whatever shall I be for you? I was quite fascinated, you know, by your presence in the forest some days ago. I’ve always wanted to talk to a…erm…to a Dodo. This is the correct phrase, I believe? Or maybe you would prefer Unbeknownst?’
‘I haven’t come here to talk.’
‘You haven’t come here for anything. You are here because I deemed it so. Now please, stop struggling, and pay me some respect. After all, I’m one your greatest creations.’
‘You have to stop the fever, Barleycorn. People are dying.’
‘Sibyl, I do believe you’re lying to me. You no longer have any interest in the outside world, in reality. People!’ He breathed the word as though it were a curse. ‘It is your son—this ugly, little swine who now dines at my expense—it is he that you want to save.’
‘Yes…’
‘Louder, please, and more pronounced.’
‘Yes. Please don’t let my Jewel die.’
Barleycorn smiled. ‘It is quite remarkable, your journey. No, really. To save your daughter like that. To give yourself up to her. Such a long fall it
must have been. Belinda was quite ready to meet her death.’
‘What gives you the right to interfere with human life?’
‘Did you not enjoy the entertainments, Sibyl? The fifty-headed dog? The boatman? The brass band? The knot garden? Of course you did. You had fun working your way through the puzzles. This is an unexpected pleasure for me, you must realise that. I ordered Coyote to bring my wife back, and he brings along some…‘extra luggage’ I believe he calls it? Well, I’m glad. It gets very lonely sometimes. I just want to entertain you, Sibyl, as best I can, in the tradition to which you are accustomed. After all, isn’t that why you invented me? Now eat. Enjoy the repast.’
He scooped up a portion of meat with his bare hands and placed it against his tongue. I could feel the hunger in Belinda’s mind, but she was in my control now; my daughter would go hungry for a while yet. She was captured here, as were Jewel and Coyote. I was the only one still resisting Barleycorn’s charm. I could not even speak to my daughter any more. I took the opportunity to study John Barleycorn. He really was very beautiful…
Tight, dark skin revealing perfect bones. Eyes of night, filled with a silken weariness. A thin blade of a nose. Pinched nostrils. Thick, glistening hair which he now pushed a grease-stained hand through. A carefully trimmed goatee beard. A tailored jacket the colour of ink. Crisp white shirt. A bootlace tie knotted with a skull and crossbones amulet. Late twenties, early thirties. He had the look of a predator, but I knew this was only Belinda’s projection. Full, sullen lips, perfect for love, a bruised love.
‘Shall we now praise that mysterious process,’ Barleycorn announced, ‘whereby the fruit of the vine is changed into wine, which, in turn, transports the human mind to a more exciting realm. Let us drink.’ He raised his glass and we all followed suit, even young Jewel and Persephone; I could feel the blood-red wine dripping down my daughter’s throat. Too late, too late…I was too late to stop her from swallowing. How strong was this wine? How could I escape its river of warmth and comfort?