King of Morning, Queen of Day (41 page)

“The deeper your Adversary pushes her roots into the Mygmus, the more powerful she becomes, the more the boundary between present-state and Mygmus-state become uncertain. It may not be tomorrow, it may not be next year, next decade, but a time is coming when the distinctions between reality and Mygmus become so tenuous they vanish altogether.”

Lami took up the thread. Fingers exhaled a pale tree of aromatic smoke from her scar.

“We’re talking the collapse of consensus reality, of our comprehension of a universe of space and directed time. Cause and effect would cease to exist; present time, past time, and future time would cease to be discrete entities; everything would exist simultaneously and eternally. Things would happen, events occur, objects be created and decreated without any causation or reason.”

“Chaos,” Sumobaby said. “Utter chaos.”

“But how?” Enye shouted. “How how how? You never tell me how. My God, I’m supposed to save the universe, and you won’t even tell me how I can get through next week.”

“Help from beyond comprehension,” said Moonface, grinding out the roach on the cardboard floor with the heel of his Doc Marten’s. “Your own mythoconscious talent is the only thing that can help you. Somehow, somewhen, it will provide you with a weapon.”

“And Shekinah,” said Lami.

“Shekinah,” Sumobaby whispered, and Cello moaned a minor chord, and Fingers folded her hand-head tight, into a gesture that spoke more eloquently the word
danger
than any words ever could.

The name of Shekinah was one the Midnight Children mentioned often; one which, when questioned, they hid from Enye’s light in some deep dark casket of sorrows. But there were hints and allusions in the Rooke archive.

If we accept mythoconsciousness as an altered state akin to hypnosis, dreaming, drug hallucination, may it not be possible to artificially induce it, as these other states may be artificially induced? In the past I had success in inducing a mythoconscious state through hypnosis; admittedly, in a naturally highly mythoconscious individual. Might it not, through artificial means, be possible to stimulate the mythoconscious talent we all possess, even in subjects as singularly insensitive as myself?

I think the answer may lie in the use of drugs. The sacramental use of narcotics has a central role in many religions
—
not in the least Christianity. After all, alcohol is the most abused narcotic. The mystical experience seems common to all religions, and depends largely on the use of disorienting media (in Hinduism, repeated mantras: in Zen, the psychic assault of repeated questions; in Sufism, the physical act of whirling; in Christian hermeticism, extreme physical sensation through the mortification of the flesh) to induce altered states of consciousness.

They mythoconscious state is closely allied to the mystical state. It might be possible, using some form of psychedelic drug, to break down the walls between consciousness and mythoconsciousness, between present, aware state and Mygmus.

It is a very gentle kind of psychedelia methinks; certainly contemporary synthetics are too powerful and too crude. I rather favour older, more natural drugs, from fungi and the leaves of certain plants. Fungi seem to hold out particular promise—there are a number of specimens that can induce psychotropic hallucinations.

Saul stirred in his massive sleep. Umble-grumble:
Whajja readin’?

“Nothing. Nothing, Go back to sleep. Little lawyer’s got himself a busy day in court tomorrow.”

Mr. Antrobus knocked on her door before the shower-and-muesli hour next morning, wondering if she knew of anything untoward going on in the rear laneway.

No, should she have?
(Liar.
And to dear Mr. A.)

Only that he had heard funny noises last night as he was putting the cats out. Like dogs. But not exactly.

The nihilistic November rain was still raining raining raining down as she walked across the scablands toward the smudge fire of the Midnight Children.

“It’s a drug, isn’t it? Hannibal Rooke’s mythoconsciousness enhancing drug.”

“Mythoconsciousness
creating
…” Moonface’s correction was cut short by the touch of Lami’s hand on his sleeve.

“We’ve got to tell her.” Those of the Midnight Children capable of assent agreed. Wolfwere scratched under her blanket at her crotch. Lami pulled her human torso close to the fire, zipped shut the leather biker’s jacket over a raggedly cut-off cerise leotard. “What the Rooke archive doesn’t tell you is that Hannibal Rooke needed assistants in his experiment to find his mythoconsciousness drug. Five of them. One was a psych post-grad, one was a doctor of chemistry, one was an undergrad pharmacist, one was an anthropologist researching sacramental narcotics among Orinoco Amerindians. And one was a med student.”

“You.”

“It’s a long and fairly uninteresting story. The research finally culminated in a combination of drugs that stimulated those areas of the hippocampus that seemed connected with human chronoconsciousness. Rooke tried it himself, of course. We took notes, shot a video. There’s nothing to see on the tape but an old man in a wheelchair raving on, but he claimed that under the drug he was capable of perceiving the mythlines, the lines of human psychic energy that generations of faith and belief have laid down across the physical landscape—more, that he had generated some ill-defined proto-phagus. The official experiments ended there—he may have tried it again himself, privately. It wouldn’t surprise me. He was murdered soon afterward.”

“You think he may have created his own murderers?”

“We think his breaking through to partial mythoconsciousness signalled his presence across the mythlines to the phaguses. And to the Adversary. He knew her personally, you see.”

“Shone out like a bloody great lighthouse,” Sumobaby swore, almost religiously.

“Why kill him?”

“Because a mythoconscious individual—any mythoconscious individual—is a threat to them. Some of them hold the pseudolife they’ve been given very dear indeed.”

Suddenly Enye knew what question she must ask: a question she had known she must ask from the first time she had been brought to this dismal huddle of shacks, a question she had always known was never appropriate, never right. Until now.

“Lami,
why are you as you are?”

Fingers expelled a great shuddering sigh from her tracheotomy wound.

Even as she asked, Enye knew the answer Lami would make.

“We took Shekinah.”

“Why?”

“After Rooke’s murder, we took it upon ourselves to try and heal the damage the Adversary had done.”

“And you broke through…”

“A massive overdose…”

“And touched her reality-shaping power.”

“Drew it down into us. And were reshaped, according to our subconscious hopes, and fears, and whims, and fantasies.”

“Dear sweet God.”

“We thought at first… I don’t know, God knows what we thought: we thought we’d all died and gone to hell, that’s what we thought. We thought we were going to be this way for always, that’s what we thought. We didn’t know the change only endured during darkness. Even so, it was enough to make sure that we couldn’t live in society any longer; not people who are men, and women, and God, even
dogs
by day, and things like you wouldn’t even dream in your worst nightmares by night. God, men used to think I was beautiful.”

She wept. Moonface drew her to him. Small solace. Her tears ran down the curve of his crescent face.

“You know you can bring us back,” he said. “You know that. You have the reality-shaping power. You have the ability to heal and restore to harmony. You can change us.”

“I would. Don’t you think I would, this instant, if I knew how?”

Fingers held out a small transparent plastic sachet in the palm of her left hand. Inside was what looked like a year’s supply of toenail clippings and bleached pubic hair.

Shekinah,
she breathed through the hole in her throat.

Shekinah: the Radiant Presence of God.

“No, I can’t. What if, what if…”

“You have to. Yours is not the great gift. Yours is the lesser gift, and it must be tuned, and amplified, and trained,” said Sumobaby.

She ran from the cardboard shelter, through the long grey rain of November, away from the railroad viaduct and the heavy night freights shunting and clunking over the points. The plastic envelope remained where she had dropped it, on the roach-scorched cardboard floor.

She found Mr. Antrobus sitting on the stairs. He had been crying. When she asked him what was the matter, he began to burble and blubber again. He had never been ashamed of his tears, Mr. Antrobus. One of his cats had not come home with the others when he had banged his fork on the side of the cat food tin. Unheard of. Something amiss. He had gone out to look, calling
Tigger Tigger here puss puss puss
and rattling a favourite little jingly toy. He had found the body in front of Mrs. Blennerhasset at number three’s garage.

“Horrible, horrible, horrible,” he said. “All torn and smashed and ripped apart. It looked as if something had tried to eat him. Poor poor little Tigger. What kind of thing could do that to a poor little cat?”

Enye did not like to answer.

Omry will tell you Lycra is
the
fabric of the decade. Omry wears black stretch one-pieces with boots and ridiculous quilted micro-bomber jackets. Omry looks like a testimonial to the joys of totalitarianism.

Omry works as a dispatcher with a bicycle courier company. Omry will tell you the bicycle courier is the street-level ground-zero hero of the decade. Jimmy Dean in chamois padded shorts. Life in the bus lane—live fast, the under the wheels of an anonymous German-something car with Catcon. Omry would be in the coronary care unit if she cycled more than two blocks.

Omry insists people call her Om. Omry will tell you that it has significance for the new decade which will be an age of transcendence and peace and general niceness to all living creatures. Omry’s real name is Anne-Marie. She comes from the north lands, where the accents can make good morning sound like a declaration of war. It is the only place outside China where it is possible to have a conversation entirely in monosyllables. Everyone still calls her Omry.

Omry is a Purveyor of Organic Holistic Naturopathic Compounds. Omry will tell you all her merchandise is guaranteed One Hundred Percent Natural and Organic No Synthetics No Additives no colourants no preservatives no added sugar sodium-free high in fibre low in cholesterol fully biodegradable. Omry is a pusher. A vendor. A peddler. A dealer. Omry does it for the money. Omry specialises in odd fungi and unusual highs. Some of the wrinkled scrotumlike things in her antique apothecary’s chest are so abstruse the police aren’t even certain if they are bustable.

Omry is Enye’s supplier. Enye learned about Omry from the Midnight Children. Omry is possibly the only person to have seen them in their light-of-day manifestations. Or then again, maybe not. Omry takes orders on the office fax machine. For a Purveyor of Organic Holistic Natural Compounds, Omry is surprisingly technophilic. Enye expects to hear that she takes all major credit cards. She calls 0800 BIKEBOY and is gratified to hear “A Short Trip in a Fast Machine” as background music, a pleasant change to the usual digi-beat and scratch-sample Omry purports to like.

“One hundred grams each, okay,” Omry says in her flat, spadelike northern accent. “It’ll be a day or so to get that much together. This stuff is hard to come by. Just what does it do, anyway, huh?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, my little scrap of Lycra.”

The bathroom-cabinet Shekinah factory is a lot more sophisticated than it was in the early days
(early days:
she finds it difficult to believe that it has been just over a year since her grandmother’s funeral). Macerate in industrial alcohol, set to dry on silk screens in the airing cupboard, mix to a paste with crushed chalk and a binding medium and roll into nice little pill shapes on the wooden pharmacist’s pill paddles she found in a Saturday antique market along the quays. They pass quite convincingly as Vitamin C in the right bottle.

Omry will tell you she places a high value on harmonious and mutually fulfilling customer-client relationships. Omry delivers on time, every time, exactly as ordered. In a day or so, Mr. Antrobus comes aknocking at Enye’s door with a small padded envelope which he accepted,
in absentia,
from a punky but cute bicycle courier. Also, a bouquet of flowers from Enye’s young man. He does hope there is nothing the matter. Would she care to discuss it sometime over tea and pikelets? Which, Enye realises, she would, very much. She would love to pour it all out in slops and spills over Mr. Antrobus’s worn paisley carpet under the watchful eyes of his cats and Greek sunsets; would love to have half the burden of hurt and uncertainty borne by another’s shoulders; but instead she stuffs the flowers into a vase and sets the two hundred gram packets of obscure fungi in a glass beaker of alcohol in the microwave low setting for half an hour or so.

She will need Shekinah, much much Shekinah, if she is to reach out with her mythoconsciousness to hunt her enemies through the twist and twine of the mythlines.

It is poor strategy to allow yourself to be led around by the enemy. This is the meaning of the term “to hold down a pillow”
—
not permitting your enemy to raise his head. To suppress the enemy’s useful actions and permit only his useless actions. This is the way of strategy.

Is your enemy’s spirit flourishing or waning? Observe his disposition and thus gain the position of advantage. This is what it means to “know the times.” Once you know his metre and motivation, you may attack in an unsuspected manner.

All things collapse when their rhythm is disrupted.

Think of the robber trapped in a house. The world sees him as a fortified enemy, but we see with the eye of “becoming the enemy.” He who is shut in is the pheasant. He who enters to arrest is the hawk.

You must appreciate this.

Consider this deeply.

Study this well.