One Three One: A Time-Shifting Gnostic Hooligan Road Novel (14 page)

Almost dead many times, lost to the sea thrice and dragged along by dragons of the deep, now home in safety at last – at last – I ascended slowly the steep hillside up to my great bed of feathers and ephedra heads. Oh, that sleep could overtake me now, soften my pummell’d brows into patty cakes of knead dough, lay them gently in ovens and a-way they would rise. But I am Bjond and as heir of Old Tüpp had I now to pin a right Old Tail on the king’s belovèd aristocracy. No sleep until that time. For I knew that beyond my bed stood a noble throng awaiting descriptions of my walks abroad. Thrilling descriptions – please us, Soeur! But what to tell that Beloving Congregation? And what to leave out? That was for me now, in my abject exhaustion, the most difficult decision. And so? And so must I make good account of my walks out in another’s ephedra fields. Ah me, I had commenced that journey abroad with stout Select a-plenty, all but one now lost on the seas between Ashop and the Vanmark. Foul streams! Fouler lies that now I must tail and weave. Ah me, let the hoodwinking begin.

But unbeknownst to my thrilled congregation, none of my stout Select had ever reached the Vanmark, all of them drown’d on that perilous outward journey. All but one, and even he that now stood at my side stood in body alone. This poor broken giant of a man whom all called Star of Navio, no swimmer was he but with luck had engaged a sweet sea current to safety. Dashed firmly upon the sandy coasts of The Umberland, still in the limits of Ashop Without at least in law, poor Star had – by his grand dress uniform – been recognised and given succour in his hour of near death. But the remainder of my stout Select? All had perished upon the Vanquash Sea, stolen in storms and baken in hot weather, all scorched upon and dried to death as drifting became our only form of navigation. And so, in solitary silence had I arrived at the steep sides of Abbis, not as an heir of Ashop but as a victim of the sea. Baken and blistered like my
own Select had I been. But taken on high by the priests of the Great Ab, soon in luxurious ephedra and foodstuffs did I flourish. At least this part of my tail on my noble audience I could happily pin.

The crowding forward of my aristocratic congregation, the glimmer in each of their eyes, their open mouths anticipating: now was my opportunity to declare our great windfall.

Inside my head I faltered briefly, suddenly. For I had also seen from the summit of the Abrig great clouds of dust rising. This was the dust of the Boers on their endless Cattle Chase between
Old Oslow and Brest. Busybodies, I call them. Some say these Ut-Trekkers have made chase since the earliest cattle migrations, but that was not my concern. May we Ashopians never suffer as others suffer from the Boers’ endless Chasing, endless Chasing. Though one day perhaps we Ashopians shall fall victim. For already do the In-Trekkers chase their cattle down the Linkin land south of our Umber Estuary. How to escape their ways? But although my desperate journey to Abbis had mixed up success with failure, still on offer to Old Tüpp from the Great Ab himself were those vast ephedra fields between the rivers Kennat, Ash and Thund. And with that fact alone did I now hoodwink my credulous congregation. I had never imagined that sleep could be so welcome, or that these faces I had taken for granted would feel so necessary to my wellbeing.

But even the darkness black as pitch could not douse my raging brows. In my head? Great clouds of dust: the cattle were trampling our ephedra fields. Either that I witnessed within the darkness of my own temple or the many deaths of my brave Select, each one of them dragged off by the sea before my helpless eyes. Again and again and again, until I wished no more for my own company, but still sleep could not break through. Finally, at dawn in prickly combination came as partners Sleep
and
Wakening. Thus, though simmering upon my bed of feathers and ephedra heads, still was I joined there by the eighteen ghosts of my stout nointeen Select. But then a dreadful noise, a stark commotion at the entrance of my cavern chased sleep even further away. An unsolicited visit from an uninvited guest or guests?

Then out of the gloaming stepped a vicious quartet, one brandishing aloft a torch of burning tar, whilst the other three supported a great heavy slate magnificently etched with symbols and meaning. The torch bearer – none other than the Oberst himself – held his black tar blazing against the carved slate, which was itself borne up for perusal before my eyes by his three accomplices, Hipper, Harland and Humberley. I rose from my bed, my ephedra brew in hand, and – pointedly ignoring the heavy carved slate – peered out across the hillside as several dozen more torch bearers ascended towards my cavern. Ah me, what had been begun this night? Upon the slate inscribed right large were accusations against my conduct, of blasphemy against Old Tüpp, of sham inventions and of acting – this worst of all – in Imitation of Old Dam herself. But though just roused, the sleep still round my eyes, nevertheless was I instantly combative and enraged.

Outrageously then did the Oberst’s accomplices act. The knave they called Hipper did wield a garrotte! Whilst Harland and Humberley lumbering approached me, and without ado threw upon me a net!

Then in quick response to my wit came a deep-seated laugh, a belching guffaw summoned up from the jowls of a mighty one. For now at last had the great line of torches arrived at my cavern entrance. And stood at its head was my father Old Tüpp himself.
And
without his Contraption! Now, how my four persecutors did quail and blanch! Stout guardians of Ashop, the king’s a veritable giant of a man! For Old Tüpp without his Contraption did stand fully head and shoulders even above myself!

But such was the fierceness of my father’s swift interjection that the terrified Oberst – now fighting for more than just his own political life – did grab the leather garrotte from Hipper and himself hoist it over my head, dragging me backwards by my neck towards the great stone bath. And even though I flailed and thrashed in desperation, more desperate were the Oberst’s straits and thus he did by his actions tighten the garrotte and therefore drag from me all but the last lingering remnants of breath. Dragged along by my neck alone? I do not deserve this fate. But although Old Tüpp’s torch bearers overwhelmed my persecutors, still I lay garrotted, lifeless, dead yet somehow still living … somewhere. Then did I experience the great horned coronate of my father crouching over me. And over me Old Tüpp did dump great pitchouers of ephedra brew, then cradled my soaken head and shoulders in those great royal arms of Ashop. Was I dead here? I knew not. In my present state, I knew not. For the greater life streams enflamed by these pitchouers of ephedra had riled up within me another Me Remote. And thus did I entirely fade out from Ashopian view, stimulated and enflamed, possessed by a mission Grand and New.