by Jeff Noon
Barleycorn sighed, like the moon was blinding its eye. ‘I was desiring of the real world.’ His voice was a breathing whisper. ‘Now I find myself as entrapped as always. Reality closes down around my struggle. I have lost the present game. The Dodo is too deep for my kiss. But, perhaps there is another way to make my entrance? A more and surer way? I am suddenly full of a certain desire. Can you believe that?’
‘Go on.’
‘May I fuck your daughter?’
‘What?’
‘Then I will grant you passage, as best I can. I’m sorry. Did I offend you, Sibyl? Please, give me that beetle.’
I handed the Dodo beetle to Barleycorn, who then opened his trousers, producing a sooty prick. A story being told, unfolding. John Barleycorn was bending Belinda over the table. His hands were reaching towards Jewel…digging deep. His cock was digging deep. Jewel was bursting his flesh into long tendrils of deep red blooms: Amaranthus Caudatus. A tropical flower. Barleycorn’s dark voice: ‘If I should take Jewel to my heart, I would have to give an item in return.’
‘What would you give?’
‘Oh, I would think of something.’
His cock entering me, entering Belinda, entering…
Saying good-bye to Jewel.
The bloom that never fades.
Barleycorn coming inside me, inside Belinda. Scorching time. We were being pushed through a cock of stone into a pool of stagnant green. Cupid pissing. The palace melting. John Barleycorn’s hair rising in a swarm of blue. A dark passage; trees whispering words all around us as we ran along passages of fruit. The woods were alive. Pictures…
Lost in the knot garden. The moon was deadened by clouds. Darkness and sweat. Dripping shadows. The hedges were growing in strength around us, closing in like the hole between a woman’s legs. The moon hidden. Darkness creeping. Coyote vanishing into the leaves.
‘Coyote!’ My voice. ‘Don’t get lost, Coyote.’
Fireflies and glow worms were leading the way through a lover’s knot. A woman’s anger was whispering at me from all corners and curves; the maze enclosing. My Shadow flexing. My daughter’s map convulsing into new shapes, changing with each moment…
Barleycorn was…
…a way through the knot…
The map of Manchester on my daughter’s head was turning into the map of the maze.
Barleycorn was helping us. I was reading the tangled passages as they filtered down through Belinda’s body. ‘This way, Coyote!’ called. ‘Keep tight.’
And the hedges rushing by then, as I steered the party. Until…until…
A gap in the wall. Through…
The black lake shimmering before our eyes. No sign of the boat or the boatman. Behind us the sound of branches thrashing the wind. The brass band striking up, far off, with a slow, stunted rendition of Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore.
‘What now, Belinda?’ Coyote asked.
I made my daughter walk a few steps, down into the cold, cold water.
‘I think we swim it.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘You got a choice, Coyote?’
A wicked grin on his teeth.
What a day it has been. What a day! Charon shivered. He was feeling well put upon. Standing as tall and as rake-like as he could manage, which wasn’t easy in a softly lapping boat. Did people think this was an easy job or something? Ferryman on the Lake of Death…maybe they should try it one day! He rattled the few coins he had managed to collect in the last week. He kept them in a pouch under his cowl. They made a tinny rattle. Pathetic! What was a poor Ferryman on the Lake of Death supposed to live on, these days? And yesterday he had…No, he couldn’t even think about it. That strange party. I mean, he’d had strange parties before. I mean, if they pay for this feather, well they were entitled to be strange. But not an obolus between them! Not a speck. That big spotty dog character. That naked girl with the maps and everything. That lump of…of…that lump of stuff! Clinging to the girl’s shoulder it had been. And then clinging to the boat. Ughhh! Horrible. He had promptly commenced to tell them to go to Hell. No obolus, indeed. Hadn’t even heard of the word. Disgraceful. And then…and then…that word from John Barleycorn…
Behind Charon the band started to play.
What?
Charon turned, awkwardly, almost upsetting the boat. Yes! At last. Somebody new arriving. Some passengers. Because the band only struck up when visitors were expected. And what was that they were playing? Some new shit. Horrible racket. One of these days, he would row out to that island and…and…well, never mind that now. He turned back to the forest. Yes! He could hear Cerberus howling for his various doggy parts to come together. Somebody was expected. Lots of oboli, Charon hoped. Not like yesterday, when he had received word through from John Barleycorn himself: the next party go free. Free! Free passage! It was unheard of. This time that was not going to happen. This time Charon would be paid. He stood up, extra tall, extra thin. Menacing grimace. Cowl arranged just so. Perfect!
Oh please, oh please, oh please…let them get past Cerberus. Let them have cakes of flour and honey…
A noise from his back. Sounded like…
No!
He twisted around again, this time just a little too quickly. The boat rocked. What was this? Something on the water there, through the mist, something like a…sounded like a…his neck twisted this way and that, trying to get a better look. It looked like a boat out there. Like a fucking canoe, or something. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘This is my fucking Lake of Death. I have complete and utter exclusive rights to sailing this lake. Get the fuck off my lake!’
The boat just kept on coming. He could see it was a boat now, a fucking canoe. Black and white it was painted. Black dots on a white ground. And somebody in there, rowing towards his jetty. His jetty, mind. ‘No way are you landing here!’ he shouted. And then he saw who the solitary rower was. That girl! From yesterday morning. The one all naked and tattooed with maps. This was all too much. Altogether too much. A return trip she was making? Nobody made a…
‘Hello, Charon,’ the girl said, as she drew her boat up to the other side of his jetty. ‘Give me a hand here.’
What? No way was he going to give her a hand. Let her fall in, for all he cared. But she had already jumped on to the boards, and now the…
Death-shit!
The boat was climbing out of the water. The two oars had clattered against the jetty. Charon watched in amazement as those oars sprouted woody fingers, like twigs, like claws! Big, strong hands of timber sprouting from the deck, clutching at the boards, lifting a heavy-trunked body out on to dry land. The body of that fucking dog from this morning, breaking itself free from the boat’s shape. This really was altogether too much, and the ferryman stepped back as Coyote’s grinning, spotted face came up close. ‘Nice lake, Charon,’ the dog said. ‘A good ride.’ And then a good push from a spotted paw, and the boatman was tumbling over, over the side into the water.
A small cache of oboli sinking into mud…
Time moving through a pine forest.
And then Cerberus was crouching in his glade of dung, howling back at the laughing moon, and then reaching down to bark at the party that stood just outside his clearing.
‘This is my drop-off, Belinda,’ Coyote said to us.
‘What?’
‘The ride’s over.’
‘Coyote?’
Cerberus snapped and growled at the air, plagued by a swirling, tightening madness in each of his heads. But Coyote wasn’t bothered by that show of dripping teeth. ‘The time has come, sweetheart.’ His rich breath was hot on Belinda’s face. ‘This spotty dog is dead already. I’m gonna replace this monster.’
‘But…’
‘No buts. No ifs. Just the road unwinding. You’re taking it now? Picking up the fare?’
‘I’ve got it,’ Belinda answered. ‘Picking up…’
A kiss then, from the flowery hound. Open-mouthed and longing, full of the taste of mint and flame. And Coyo
te was stepping forwards into the glade. Cerberus was coming down at him with fiery jaws. Coyote told that dog-head to go fuck his own dung. I could not bear to look, Belinda neither. The sound of claws digging into flesh as we slipped away into the forest.
Away. Streaming…
Into the forest, the black sheen of Coyote’s cab seen through gaps between trees. The moon shining good for the map, pollen-bright. Finding the path now. Easy moving, keeping the Shadow cool in Belinda’s body. A vicious barking from behind us. Don’t mess this up, daughter. Please. Keep walking. A cool breeze was blowing through the leaves. Nice. Tender it was, that breath. Black cab was just ahead now. I could see a wing-mirror gleaming, the moon caught tight in its glassy embrace. Smooth. No problems. Just a few easy steps through this undergrowth, and then…
The pollen moon in the mirror was eclipsed.
Darkness, suddenly. Eyes blinded. Please, no…
The forest twisting root and branch around us, making a solid mesh. The cab was shut off from sight. The trees were closing above our heads. The moon dying away into sadness, and the world was only a tight clearing in the middle of a lowering wood. The leaves were wet and sulking, as though drenched by rain. But there was no rain in the forest, so that wetness must have been tears. The weeping wood. And I knew that pain, then, for what it was. A mother’s pain. This forest was Persephone’s mother. Demeter…
And then she spoke to me, that forest, in words made out of leaves: ‘I will not allow this. Persephone is my only child. She is my life. She must have air. She must breathe again, the breath of earth. Do you hear me? Do you care to? You call yourself a mother, and yet you allow your children to die. What nature is this?’
The world growing smaller as the trees crept inwards until they were pressing sharp thorns into Belinda’s flesh. Pain shooting into the Shadow.
This was no good. This was not what I wanted to happen.
‘Belinda?’
A voice. A young voice of flowers. And some small pink buds growing on one of the branches, just over there, towards where the cab was waiting. Persephone’s voice, it was. ‘Belinda, this way, please,’ the voice was saying. And then, ‘Mummy, please.’ Like she wanted to please everybody. The pink buds bursting open, accelerated; ruby red flowers growing amidst the tangled branches of Demeter. Love lies bleeding. ‘Mummy, please, do this for me. I’ll die if I go back to the real world.’ Why was Persephone helping me? Why? Demeter’s leaves were crackling in the wind, turning as golden as the moon, as though Autumn had come early, and then drifting down to the forest floor, the undergrowth. A mother’s sad voice in the falling. A mother giving in to a daughter’s wishes. Was that the sacrifice? Vibrant red flowers were opening until they filled Belinda’s eyes with grains, and Belinda was just blossoming through that halo of petals, into the black cab, landing. I was not asking the why or the wherefore, I was just turning the key that Coyote had left in the ignition. A cold-hearted turn from the engine, spluttering into nothing. The key, again. The key, the key. The cab’s innards as slow as death. There was no fire down there in the black bowels. No way home. Turning the key, turning…
Cold shivering. One dead engine. Through the windscreen I could see that the bonnet was all cracked open against the trunk of an oak tree. Busted. No deal from the black cab, no way through. My fists were banging against the steering wheel, as though by that method I could work the cab into life. Jesus, I had animated a dead daughter, couldn’t I start a dead cab?
‘Here, let me.’ A voice from the seat beside me. And when I turned…
John Barleycorn was sitting in the passenger seat, holding the black Dodo beetle in one hand, his other working the car key with sooty fingers. ‘I think I can manage it,’ he said. His hair was dancing, slithering through the cab, touching at my face with soft whisperings. I saw now clearly that his hair was made out of a thick swarm of flies, but their touch did not repulse me; I found in those soft wings a caress of saddened love.
‘Why are you helping us?’ I asked. ‘You made Persephone and Coyote find a way through for us. Why? You wanted to kill me a few moments ago.’
The why and the wherefore of a nearly missed death.
‘You’ll find out,’ Barleycorn replied. ‘Exchange rates, Sibyl. The old road is closed to my sperm. This is my new way through to your world.’
‘You’ve taken Jewel,’ I said. ‘What are you giving in return?’
‘There is a feather-story told in ancient Africa, of how a young warrior wanted to take the chieftain’s daughter for his bride. The chieftain told the warrior that first he must kill a lion bare-handed, only then could he take the daughter for his own.’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘The fever is the lion. You’ll find out.’ That same dumb answer. ‘You’ve proven yourself worthy. Keep driving.’
‘What?’
‘Here you go…’
The black cab engine was stammering back to life as John Barleycorn leaned over to kiss me. That kiss had a thousand flavours. Death and life and green feathers, all mingled up together.
A noise then, from the passenger compartment of the cab. ‘What the fuck is going on here, Barleycorn?’
Barleycorn broke off from the kiss, and then twisted around to view the new passenger. ‘You’re rather late for the party, my friend,’ he said.
I also twisted around to see who was there.
Columbus…
‘You promised me a new map, Barleycorn,’ Columbus said. ‘Now you’re wanting to stop the fever.’
‘Columbus, don’t be angry.’ Barleycorn’s reply.
‘Don’t be angry? I’ve worked all of my life for this moment, and you’re telling me not to be angry. I’ve not finished the new map yet. Maybe you’re forgetting my power, Barleycorn. I control the ways between the worlds. And no way is this girl getting back to reality.’
‘I need this woman to help me make the new world happen.’
Columbus laughed. ‘This road is closed.’ And then: ‘What’s that noise?’
I heard it too, a soft slithering through the air from all directions.
‘Barleycorn, no!’ screamed Columbus. ‘Don’t do this to me.’
And then all the windows of the black cab were broken as four bullets flew together towards a single target, high speed. All four of them pounded their way into Columbus’s skull, the North, South, East and West of him. He screamed again, and then his head exploded. A crown of thorns. The black cab was blood-map-splattered.
‘There you go, Columbus,’ John Barleycorn whispered. ‘Bullets coming home to roost. That’s the end of your story. Excellent ending!’
‘Did you make that happen, Barleycorn?’ I asked.
‘Why, it would take a very powerful creature to make that happen. What do you take me for?’ He laughed then and leaned closer to me. ‘Come visit me, Sibyl.’
‘What about Jewel? And Coyote? How will they survive?’
‘They’ll survive. And when you’re ready, so will you. Free passage. A taste of wine. You hear?’
‘Give me back the insect.’
John Barleycorn fed the Dodo beetle back to my lips. I swallowed it whole.
Dreamless I was, once again. The fluttering in my stomach. Thankful for that.
The fight over.
And then the cab was moving into free space, under my Belinda’s command. John Barleycorn vanished from the passenger seat. Only the hot breath of his dark-lipped mouth remained. I looked over to the forest one last time. The moon was a glistening droplet of pollen, and the black-hearted leaves were shaking against the edge of the garden, marked by the stone columns with their twinned angels, the boy and the dog. Oh God! I was receiving the message at last: exchange rates.
Of course…Belinda had taken two lovers.
Christ! How would I cope with it? How would Belinda cope?
I noticed a pack of Napalms on the dash. I stuck one in my mouth, lit it, read the pack message: SMOKING IS NOT GOOD FOR PREGNANT WOMEN, REPEAT
, NOT GOOD—HIS MAJESTY’S MUTANT DAUGHTER.
Oh well, one last drag. Black cab gliding away towards home…
Home. Manchester. The new map turning into the old as I travelled backwards. The fever coming to rest against the edges of love. The black cab travelling into St Ann’s Square where the people were already dancing on air at the lessening of the fever. Roberman was parked there, almost as though he was waiting for our return.
I climbed out of the cab inside Belinda’s body and fell into the arms of the robodog driver.
‘Belinda, you made it!’ Roberman barked over the Shadow.
‘Yeah,’ Belinda sighed. ‘We made it.’
Monday
28 August
Rise and fucking shine, prisoners! That’s right, you guessed it. This is Radio Strangeways YaYa. In the living world it’s 4.00 a.m. on a bleak, August morning, and the whole of Manchester is sleeping. Unfortunately, for us outlaws, it’s time to leave our clotted beds. Wakey, wakey! This is Doctor Gumbo himself, at the feathery controls. Exercise time. Down to the yard-feather, you lot. Double quick. Boy, am I loving this! Wanita-Wanita, come close to me. Oh please, stop whining, you prisoners. We’re here in the Vurt. All together and forever, in the feather. Pollen count is down to a sad 29, and still falling. This first record goes out to Chief Inspector Kracker over in dream-cell number nine. It’s by The Move, and it’s called I Can Hear the Grass Grow. Keep stretching, Vurtbirds. May the flowers of love come visit you. On visiting day. There ain’t no such fucking day. Hah, hah, hah, hah, hah!
Autumn came early that year. By the end of August most of the trees had shed their leaves and the ground was hard and brittle with frost. Inspector Zulu Clegg left his desk at the Bottle Street cop station at 12.30, deciding to take an early lunch. He walked out into the cold air, bought a beef sandwich and a paper, and then went to sit at one of the benches in Albert Square.
He was the only person there, it being too cold for the usual lunchtime crowd.
Halfway through the sandwich, his mind nodding off in the middle of a story about how the new Safecabs were proving such a success, he heard footsteps approaching, cracking against the frost. The person sat down on the bench, some feet away from him, and, when he looked round, Clegg saw that it was a young woman.