by S. B. Davies
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
The Hive Queen’s voice carved strange images of sound across the allotments as Engineer recited the bewildering stanzas of the profane verses, its dark imagery of violence and glimpses of ancient history that unknowingly spoke too much truth.
The poem ended, Engineer stood in silence listening to the closing movement of the Lament of the Lost. The final notes faded and with a glistening eye, Engineer spoke.
‘I understand there is a tradition of awarding small motifs to those engaging in desperate battle. I honour this.’ He waved his hand and all through the crowd a small golden medal in the shape of a squid rampant appeared on chest of the surviving combatants.
‘Even in sadness, practical matters pertain. I have established funds; The Trellis Memorial Trust to support dependents of those lost in defence of the allotments. It is a small thing, yet life goes on. Goodbye.’ Engineer disappeared.
Surprise, delight and a certain relief spread through the crowd. Painter raised his arms to bring quiet.
‘Unexpected and in ways welcome as it is, this interruption is complete. Let us return to the ceremony. Would the torch-bearers please come forward.’
Humans and Palaver stepped out of the crowd. Each carried a long torch made of bound hazel twigs dipped in scented oil. Each lit their torch from a brazier and formed a circle around the giant pyre. The torches formed a halo of wavering light as the wind pulled the flames into writhing shapes.
A pounding noise disturbed the silence, like drums in the deep, and from the barbican galloped a Dog of War, Azimuth rode carrying a huge torch that blazed in the night. As the Dog of War approached, it slowed to a walk and the torch-bearers made a gap in the circle.
Azimuth stood in his saddle and raised the mighty torch in one hand and with an unintelligible yell of anguish he threw the torch. It tumbled, shedding embers, to land high on the pyre. The other torch-bearer followed and a chandelier of cascading flame descended on the oil soaked wood. The flames caught and grew, spreading until all burnt with a fierce yellow light.
Soon the pyre blazed and the torch-bearers withdrew as the heat grew unbearable. Only the Dog of War stayed, a dignified statue silhouetted against the conflagration. Eventually it turned away as its hair started to singe.
The crowd watched in silence until the pyre collapsed and even the shape of the huge Dog of War could no longer be distinguished. In the marquee away across the field, Brass Neck started playing ‘My Way’ and a singer for the Huddersfield Choir finally put paid to the nightmare of the Frank Sinatra version by singing it properly.
Painter stayed while the crowd drifted away to the Wake and watched the flames die down to embers.
‘Now time for beer,’ said a deep voice.
‘Aye, Enoch, you’re right,’ said Painter turning round, ‘Time for beer and song. Do you know ‘Closing Time’ by Leonard Cohen? It’s a good song for a night such as this and I’m sure Dave would’ve appreciated it.’
‘I learn. Come, before Landlord gone.’
‘Don’t worry big man. We have scarfed every barrel of decent beer in Huddersfield.’
‘Won’t be enough,’ said Enoch.
They wandered towards the light and music of the Wake, the ground in front lit by the glow of the pyre and the stars bright in the dark night over Huddersfield.
The soldiers looked on, standing guard in the cold night, seeing flashes of mayhem every time the Marquee tent flap opened to allow a reveller to stagger out to relive themselves, or a returnee now ready to face to the excess that skirted the edges of hedonism. Boisterous singing, bearing little resemblance to the tune belted out by Brass Neck, assaulted the peaceful vale and the clang and clink of barrel and glass spread far.
Inside, the party divided into distinct factions. The mournful drunken formed quiet angry clots, while the emotion charged exuberance of the Palaver captured the dance floor and others watched in surprise.
Mrs Yorkshire was the only woman to brave the giant mosh pit of Palaver in the centre of the marquee. Perhaps it was the Sherry she drank by the pint, or may be the after effects of battle, but she tore her blouse off and screamed defiance at the bemused Palaver. Her cleavage was an impressive sight, if a bit hairy.
When band stopped playing for the first interval, Enoch shouted for swords and the Palaver arranged themselves in a circle preparing for the ancient ceremonial dance of “Too Many Blades”. One or two enthusiastic members of the crowd were discouraged from joining, but Painter had special dispensation.
Arrrooogaah’ yelled Enoch, hurting the ears of the spectators, and the dance began.
They stomped hard, shaking the tent and moved in a complex swirl of twists and leaps. Sword clashed constantly in a bewildering storm of blades, the whole a whirling complex of huge bodies and deadly steel. They chanted strange words, traditional and sombre, their feet banging out a driving rhythm. In the midst of it all Painter danced with fierce abandon, often grabbed by a Palaver and thrown back into position, before a six foot long blade cut him in half. He was singing something that caused tears to roll down his face.
In a finale of blurring blades, the Palaver met as one in the centre and with a deafening roar of ‘Arrrooogaah’ they dropped to one knee and plunged their blades straight into the ground. They knelt in a circle surrounded by sword hilts protruding from the earth.
The whole tent was silent. Enoch, in a quiet voice, spoke the names of the fallen. He stood, solemnly raised his hand in the air, and said.
‘The fallen; remember them always.’ He waited for a long moment and then shouted ‘Now we drink.’
The Palaver roared approval and the party started again. The band kicked off with “King of the Road” and Enoch helped himself to a barrel of Timothy Taylor.
Fergus woke and wished he hadn’t; rolled up in a blanket, dew soaking his hair and his head pounding. Once again his enthusiasm was misplaced; red wine had a nasty bite. He smelt coffee and clambered to his feet in search of the source.
A large billycan, suspended over the fire on a tripod, steamed in the cool morning air. Fergus pick up a tin mug from the edge of the fire, ditched the cold dregs and dipped it into the black brew. Finding an opened tin of sweetened condensed milk he poured in generous measure and watched a galaxy swirl in his cup. The first sip started a smile and the second fixed it there. It was a beautiful morning just not warm yet. He hunkered down in front of the fire; the blanket around his shoulders formed a tent that kept the chill from his back yet let the warmth play over his front. Around him people bustled; watering horses, packing up bedrolls and generally being useful.
Abbey emerged out of the crowd, ‘You might want to get dressed.’ she said.
Fergus was naked under the blanket and it didn’t bother him. He felt utterly comfortable in present company.
‘For some reason squatting, wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire seems completely the right place to be,’ said Fergus, ‘I think after breakfast I will return to normality, until then, the noble savage thing is on.’
Abbey gave him a look he was familiar with from his teenage years. ‘Breakfast was over an hour ago. If I were you I’d start looking for your clothes; you flung them far and wide last night. We leave in a few minutes, you want to come?’
‘Hey, how can you think about leaving me behind?’
‘We brought you to get access to the Dark Library. You don’t have to stay; the catacombs are an hour’s walk.’
‘Give us some aspirin gorgeous and I will follow you to the end of the Earth,’ said Fergus ginning.
Abbey smiled. ‘Ca
n you ride?’
‘You offerin’?’ Abbey gave him a look.
Fergus laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I can run.’ He stood up and slapped his thigh.
Abbey was silent for a moment. ‘I saw your pants over there.’ She kept her eyes level, looking Fergus straight in the face and pointed.
Fergus turned to look and quickly looked back at Abbey.
‘Ha, caught you looking,’ said Fergus.
‘Oh shut up and get dressed. Show off.’
Fergus smiling at his little victory strode off in search of his clothes.
The Tuatha all packed up and organised for a trek across Steppe or Alp seemed disappointed when after a brief mile, the whole party stopped and dismounted. The Noggin spent ten minutes sniffing, nodding, and planting small sticks in the ground. With much hand waving and pointing to notes it wrote and stuck on the embedded sticks the Tuatha knights were organised.
Fergus was bored. The slightly green sky was full of fluffy white clouds, promising light showers and the soft breeze brought summer smells of grass and wildflowers; a lovely day for getting down the allotment and finally sorting out the petunias or possibly hoeing something. Not the day for sitting on a horse watching line-dancing, which is the only way Fergus could describe what went on before him.
The Noggin was a mover; it stood in front of the line of knights, hands on hips, then jumped right, pushed forward from the hips and stepped forward, push, jump back, jump to the right and start again. It moved like a small frenetic haystack. Fergus could imagine the movements fitting right into a disco beat; the Tuatha De Daanan though had never boogied, bopped or even waltzed, their timing was awful and it drove the Noggin to distraction. It bounced up and down, nodding and waving its hands at Bran, one of the least synchronised. When it starting tearing its hair out, Fergus took pity, dismounted and walked over to the despondent creature.
‘Need help big man?’ asked Fergus.
The Noggin scribbled furiously on its pad and ripped the note off with a flourish.
‘Must move together at same time’
The knights took advantage of the pause in the proceedings, stopped line-dancing and started chatting. Fergus scratched his chin. It was a big call, getting warriors to strut their funky stuff. However, drunken men managed it; all it needed was a banging tune with the right beat and a little organisation. Fergus rolled his mind back to the dark days of his youth and 70’s revival nights at the local village hall. A cheap light show, warm larger in plastic glasses and a dance floor packed with men, beer bellies hanging out over elasticated waistband jeans, all sitting on the floor and moving in perfect synchronisation to a hideous song.
‘Hey girls,’ shouted Fergus.
‘Hey boy.’ replied Abbey.
‘Don’t be like that, I need your help.’
Abbey and Boadicea sauntered over to Fergus.
‘Do you remember a song called ‘Oops upside your head’?’ asked Fergus.
‘Vaguely,’ said Abbey, ‘Not my thing, but it I’ve heard of it.’ Boadicea looked blank.
‘I want you clap your hands in time and sing the hook. It goes like this.’
Fergus started singing and clapping his hands. His enthusiasm made up for lack of soul, groove or even a hint of funk.
After a few faltering starts and a lot of cajoling from Fergus, the scowls on the knight’s faces disappeared and a certain amount of boogie wonder came upon the land. Hips started to sway and steps bounced rather than plodded. The Noggin started to shake its head, as the line finally danced, jumps came together, pushes synchronised, and Abbey and Boadicea belted out the words as they clapped their hands over their heads and sashayed to the beat. As they grooved, the line moved forwards and to the right and as it moved the world slowly changed.
The knights noticed it first; when they pushed they felt resistance. Some faltered; Fergus started shouting the words, interspersed with yells of encouragement. The Noggin started moving slowly in front of the line of knights, moving its hands in small précises arcs. A gentle breeze sprang up; it was warm and smelt acrid. It seemed brighter, as if the sun had appeared from behind a cloud.
The Noggin ran back in front of the steadily moving line of knights, over to Fergus and the girls. It reached up and grabbed Fergus’s hand. It was shaking its head and gesturing for them to follow.
‘What? Now? We go now?’ asked Fergus.
The Noggin shook its head furiously and pulled Fergus hard. As he lurched sideways, Fergus yelled to Boadicea and Abbey.
‘Come on we have to go; right now!’
Led by the Noggin, ducking under the outshot arms of the syncopating slayers of the first Tuatha groove battalion, they scurried along. Fergus could feel growing warmth as he struggled against the syrupy resistance of invisible forces unknown to man. To Noggin, they were just the everyday mechanics of opening a maintenance hatch in a closed portal. He could hear Boadicea yelling something, but the noise was muffled and indistinct. Then suddenly they were through and the dry heat hit him like a waft of air from a furnace. There was desert in it and strangely a hint of swamp.
Fergus stumbled, caught himself and looked up at a dirty orange cliff, topped off by a blue white sky. He stood on hard packed sandy soil in a wasteland of scrub and grass. He recognised the place; it was Uluru, or as it used to be called Ayers Rock.
‘What are you doing you idiot?’ shouted Boadicea.
‘Sorry?’ said Fergus, a little disgruntled that their successful traverse of a portal closed for millennia met with such disdain.
‘We haven’t brought the knights or the camping equipment or even food and water. This isn’t a picnic; we could be searching for weeks.’
Fergus shrugged and nodded toward the Noggin. It ignored them, stomped off towards the cliff and started sniffing.
Fergus kept himself busy weaving straggly branches and grass into a coolie hat. The sun was fierce and the top of his head was suffering. Abbey and Boadicea sat cross-legged under a scrub bush looking glum.
When the Noggin returned, it handed them a note.
‘Cargo bay door locked. Need another way.’
It marched off without looking back. Fergus plonked his coolie hat on his head and followed.
‘Come on, we’re on a mission remember,’ shouted Fergus.
‘No,’ said Abbey, ‘We were on a mission, now we’re waiting for a rescue party. Do you know how long you can survive in the Australian outback without water and proper clothing?’
‘You have to work with what you’ve got. At least this way we can find the main road and possibly get some help.’
After half an hour, Fergus was flagging. The Noggin seemed immune to the heat despite a coating of hair suitable for an ice age mammal. Abbey coped, but Boadicea struggled in her leather armour and heavy boots. They rounded an outcrop and at the base of the cliff in a shaded cleft was a pool of water. For a moment Fergus though it must be a mirage, before his rational brain told him he was an idiot.
‘At least now we have a chance,’ said Boadicea and started stripping off. Fergus watched and she discarded her helmet and armoured jacket, then struggled out of a pair of tightly fitting leather dungarees. She threw them to the ground.
‘We can tie the legs and make a passible water bag.’
‘That’s brilliant Boadicea,’ said Abbey.
Fergus just stared at Boadicea’s lithe body in a stocking made of sheer black material. Boadicea stared back.
‘Seen enough rugby boy? Cousins remember?’
Fergus smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll remember all right. I never expected to see you like that.’
‘All warriors wear silk under their armour. It protects against wounds and arrows.’
‘Whatever you say gorgeous.’
‘Love the hat. It makes you look so ethnic.’
‘Keeps me coolie, baby. Um, Boadicea, seriously, do you want to swap my shirt for that armoured jacket. It’ll be cooler.’
‘You’ll offer to carry my sword next.’
‘Fergus Loaf. If I wanted to be treated like a girl, I’d have stayed home and embroidered tapestries of fluffy bunnies. I am a warrior. I’ll wear my armour and carry my sword until someone takes it from my still warm, bleeding body. However, I am prepared to accept the loan of your jeans.’
‘And as you’re so willing to help Fergus, you can carry the water bag,’ said Abbey smiling.
Feeling outnumbered Fergus looked to the Noggin for support, despite that its gender was a mystery to all but another lucky Noggin. It shrugged and started tying knots in the legs of the leather dungarees.
Sweat dripped down Dave’s face as he scrabbled up handfuls of leaf mould and earth from the bottom sizeable hole he knelt in.
‘Are you going to lend a hand?’ asked Dave.
‘Nah, wasting your time mate. There’s no seepage, so no water,’ said Trev.
‘I tell you there’s water here, right at the bottom of the shaft. They use it to move around in.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Hungry Joe. ‘I ain’t breaking my fingernails. If there was water there, you would have found it by now. You’re off beam mate.’
Dave stopped digging, stood up and put his hands on his hips.
‘So you’re just going to stand there and die of thirst? How much water do we have left?’
‘Dunno about ‘we’, but me, Toomey and Hungry have got a few mouthfuls left,’ said Trev.
‘Bloody Australians, no grit.’
‘Don’t come it Pom, we just don’t like wasting our time and energy on a wild goose chase.’
‘Damn it!’ said Dave, stamped his foot and disappeared like a stage magician straight into the ground. A faint yell came from the hole, it receded rapidly.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Hungry, ‘Where’d he go?’
‘Down,’ said Trev, ‘must be cavitation, or perhaps a cave. I suggest we go a bit careful.’
Trev lay down and crawled to the edge of the hole that now had a dark Dave shaped hole in the bottom. He peered in.
‘Darker than a cave full of arseholes, can’t see a bloody thing. Hang on a minute.’ Trev took a deep breath and yelled down the hole.
‘Sooooooeeee’