Last Orders

Floating up the ladder of insobriety
We climb to all-time lows.
Or the peaks of depravity?
Carelessly we tread the thin blue carpet
In tight-knit slippers,
And never stray the beaten track.
Not much.
Under the influence of all their Buds
The company of fools set sail their vessels,
Though the ship is parked outside.
Heavy curtains of Best Bitterness
Impair our already bloodshot distinction
Of left from right
From wrong,
As full-to-brim with foolhardy Courage
Like sheep we flock from the field of play,
And gaily we gambol
With life and death. The stakes?
A CHOICE OF TWO PRESTIGIOUS DESTINATIONS !
A long-stay return at Her Majesty’s pleasure;
Or a one-way ticket to an early grave.

HAIKU

High upon my star,
I watch the constellations
Twisting from afar.

They’re circulating
Fast, now slow. Now fast again
In spirals of time.

The web of threads of
Jewels of light and dark and bright,
Pin-point-punctures night.

A lone moon shines pale
Its lunar luminescence,
And somehow I’m sad.

But I smile in thought
As the galaxies revolve;
Memories I have.

Uncomfortably Glum

A: Hello? Is there anybody in here?

Just grunt if you can hear me. Tell me I'm not alone.

Come on out. No need to look around.

If I could help you cease the rain, get back on the road again...

Relax, you need a resolution first.

A baseball bat or axe.

Show 'em what it means to hurt.


B: There is no pain, only the reeling
The distant ripsaws of the horizon
They are only drumming through the rain
Their tongues recoil, but I don't fear what they say.

I'm out for a while, for no good reason
My mind melts just like a blue lagoon.
Now I'm out of season once again -
I can't refrain, will not be undermined, this is not here and now.

I have become uncomfortably glum.

(A soul-wrenching heartstring interlude ensues, but dissipates anon, paving the way for the emotional holocaust to come)

I have become uncomfortably glum.

A: No way, not such a little prick!
For me no more lah-de-dah
Though you might deem me kinda sick

Take a stand now. You won't believe what's lurking, what broods.

That should get you going with the flow.

Get up, it's time to grow.

B: This is no game! You are concealing
The constant whipstroke, always disguising!
You are hardly cutting through the haze.
The drips ooze, but I don't care for dismay.

With eyes of a child, I fought the creeping hints,

Out from dark corners of my life.

I burned the books of shit gone wrong,

I could not pull my finger out in time

The chance is blown, the bleeding's done.

And I have become uncomfortably glum.

(A wailing array of spinal powerstrokes entrances the beholder for several minutes, enticing and inciting to rise to heretofore unimagined levels of spiritual tangibility, culminating in a crescendo of temerity and aplomb, before fading into blue-grey mists of introspect and solemn self-condemnation, leaving only a semi-lucid nebula of silent gloom.)

The Hound, by our resident literary deity, L.P. Hovercraft

And still I am haunted by the distant baleful baying,
The ceaseless patter of tiny paws,
And scratching of claws
As if at the very doors
Of my sanity.
O Heinous Fate!
That daemoniac howling that doth pierce my sleep
(And my waking)
As a rapier traverse my soul.
Would that the cohabitants of my residential abode
Return from their fortnight
Of post-nuptial respite,
That I may be free of this canine crooner!

Quote of the Day

"And what charnel horrors will lurk
In the dank recesses of the Mind?
What fell Daemons shall gnaw and gnash and claw their way
From the recondite morasses of stagnant Memory,
And into our Waking Fear?"

- L.P. Hovercraft

The Most Singular Case of Mr. James Phebes

The Most Singular Case of Mr. James Phebes.


"This is hardly indicative of psychiatric dysfunction, Mr. Phebes!” exclaimed Dr. Fleming, trying to sound reassuring, but none too convinced himself. What his most recent patient had just told him had hit a nerve, or to be more precise, hit him like a sledgehammer. For nearly two weeks now, Phebes had attended regular sessions with Dr. Fleming and had, since the first visit, struck Fleming as a rather singular case. It had all started fairly normally - with one or two exceptions - but Fleming soon came to realize that James Phebes was far from being a “textbook lunatic.”



Session One


At 38, Jack Fleming had been a psychiatrist for some twelve years, and business, though at first somewhat slow for an energetic, straight-out-of-Harvard postgraduate, had been steady enough to pay the bills, and even to keep up the payments on his ’67 Camaro (Viper Red, of course.) New York was not short of fruitcakes, but making a name for himself as a shrink was tough going. As the years went by, things picked up and he moved to a larger apartment where he set up practice, and one might even say that times were good.

Now, however, times were far from good, and the debts were piling up. Patients were few and far between, and Fleming was lucky to make the end of the month without going overdrawn. The Chevy, needless to say, was long gone.

A knock at the door, and with a start Jack looked up from his electric bill which, incidentally, he had spent the last twenty minutes staring blankly at. Again a knock, this time a little louder, and Jack stood up and went to the door. Peering through the peephole, he saw a man of middling height, around his own age, with shoulder-length black hair. He was shifting slightly from side to side as if apprehensive, but did not appear distressed or unstable. Jack opened the door on the chain and looked out at his visitor.

“Dr. Fleming?” Enquired the man.

“The same.” Replied Jack.

“I came for… therapy.”

“Practice opens at ten a.m.” Replied the doctor. “And it’s only…“

“Five past.” Came the retort.

Fleming glanced hurriedly at his wristwatch, uttered a slight laugh as if to say “Heh, so it is, oops!” and assented that the stranger was indeed correct. He closed the door, removed the chain and opened it again, beckoning the man to come in. Stepping inside, the man pulled his dark trench coat more tightly around him as if he were cold, but out of politeness Jack offered to take it. The visitor seemed glad of the offer, and handed over his coat.

“I hope I’m not imposing too much,” he said in a calm, well-educated voice, and glanced at he doctor’s feet with a knowing smile. Again a muffled laugh as Fleming realized he was still wearing his slippers.

“Please, take a seat, Mr…”

“Phebes.” Said the man, hardly giving Fleming time to finish his sentence. “Thank you.”

As the visitor made himself comfortable in one of the malt brown leather armchairs, Jack nipped into his living quarters and slipped on some slip-ons, making the most of these few moments to compose himself and not appear quite so flustered and taken-unawares.

“Well, Mr. Phebes, I always like to start off on a relaxed note. My name's Jack. May I ask yours?" He extended his hand.

“James.” Replied Phebes, but otherwise remained motionless. Jack was wholly unperturbed by this, and sat back into his armchair. It was quite normal for patients to appear unfriendly or unsociable at first - breaking the ice was part of the job – but what was unusual was the fact that Phebes had not been referred to him by any other doctor or hospital, but had rather come of his own accord, and this was what now lingered momentarily on Jack’s mind. Of course, it was not unheard of for patients to seek help for themselves – the old adage that “if you know you need help then you can’t be that ill” was of course the biggest load of crap since Trial by Fire. But the fact remained that most patients were referrals, and for one reason or another it was rare for them to actively seek help.

James Phebes, although - as it has been stated - visibly somewhat apprehensive (which was perfectly normal for anyone visiting a "nut doctor") seemed very lucid and quick-witted. His dark eyes gleamed with an inherent alertness and intelligence that could not fail to inspire interest, and even respect. His pale complexion and scruffy hair had no doubt been exaggerated by the windy New York November morning; his dark brows were perhaps a little prominent, thus enhancing the blackness of his eyes, but on the whole he appeared quite normal. This “Visual Once-Over” as Jack unofficially termed it, could sometimes reveal clues as to a patient’s condition. Some had wild, darting eyes; others hunched shoulders or backs in varying degrees, or disproportionately short legs or torso; sometimes speech impediments, nervous tics or other peculiarities were evident which, while not denotive of mental illness per se, in Fleming’s experience could occasionally point in one direction or another as far as preliminary diagnosis was concerned. Phebes, however, was far less of an open book, as Jack Fleming was later to discover.

“So tell me, James,” began Jack amiably. “Why do you say you need therapy?”

“I say, Dr, Fleming --”

“Jack, please.”

“Jack. I say that I came for therapy, not that I need it. Nor that I particularly want it. Rather that I came to get to the bottom of an issue that has been weighing on my mind now for some time; one that, if my fears are not unfounded, only you can help me with. No, thank you.” he said, before Jack could put his offer of coffee into words. “Bad for the nerves.”

“Very well, James. In your own time, at your own pace.” Jack again relaxed back into his armchair. James followed suit, and proceeded to relate the motives for his visit.

“Bear with me, Doctor Fleming. Hear me out, and you will without doubt form a professional opinion that will help you unravel the mysteries of my mind. Only then will I be free of my torment; I am convinced of it."

During the conversation that ensued, and the subsequent thrice-weekly sessions, Jack Fleming was to realize that James Phebes was the undisputedly most singular and extraordinary case that he had ever had the misfortune to investigate.



Session 2

“I was lost during my childhood. All I remember of my early school life was thinking that none of it was really happening. I recall being made to stand facing the wall in the playground for doing something wrong, and thinking that I shouldn’t really be there – that I wasn’t really there, and I kept going to walk away, half knowing that nothing would happen if I did, because I wasn’t really there. But something held me there, kept drawing me back to face the wall. It sounds strange, but I remember so clearly that everything was so hazy, like a white mist that surrounded me a few meters away on all sides.

“When I was about seven or eight, I realized – or at least thought then – that everyone but me had an identity, a personality carved in stone. I knew I too had to have one, but didn’t know where to begin. I spent the next few years of my life in a whirl of confusion, an absolute social misfit, but nevertheless breezed through the academic side of school. I got a scholarship to another school, but that was probably the beginning of the end. I became more and more socially isolated, and began to think that it was me who was at fault, even though I had done nothing to provoke the blatant shunning by my peers, and their constant psychological – and sometimes physical – attacks. ‘Feeble Phebes’ they called me. I ended up hating my own name. I knew that they were the evil ones, and that I didn't deserve my lot, but could not for the life of me see where I had gone wrong. Perhaps I should have been evil, like them?

“At high school I fell in with the ‘wrong crowd’ as my folks used to say. They were the only ones who didn’t seem to reject me. Didn’t seem to like me either, but this watered-down sensation of half-belonging was all I was going to get. ‘Course, they were all dropouts too, but no-one ever picked on them ‘cos they were the ones who did most of the picking. We’d go out, get drunk, smoke weed and generally act like assholes. But I was always the one who’d be on the butt-end of their sick practical jokes – and sometimes worse. They were the sort of kids who, in the absence of anyone else to pick fights with, would take out their Neanderthal instincts on the ‘runt of the litter’. At least three of them laid into me on at least one occasion, and still I came back for more.


“I remember once we ripped out a streetlight in the park,” continued James. “And all the lights in the street behind us went out!" He chortled briefly, paused, sipped his tea and continued: "Another time, the plan was to break open the wishing well near the lake, but there I got really spooked. The fact of actually stealing something was just too much. It wasn’t the ‘stealing people’s dreams’ thing, rather the loathing of what it all entailed, not to mention fear of being caught – something that those idiots never felt. I half wanted to be like them, but at the same time despised them and everything they did. I was a good kid, not some two-bit white trash petty criminal! So I said fuck ‘em! And I gradually closed myself off from them and clawed my way slowly down into my hole. I was never entirely rid of them, and now and again they would still pick on me, but after a while even they seemed to think me weird and would steer clear of me like the Plague. Fine by me, assholes.”

Jack glanced sidelong at James, with a look of genuine compassion on his face. He felt within him a murmur of sorrow - an urge to console the boy who James spoke of and somehow set him on the right track, to ward off the disaster before it befell him. If only he had…

_________________________________

Session 3


“I always had this ability to just learn things." Said James, sipping his camomile tea. “It all just went in, you know, without having to study or revise much for exams. That really pissed most other kids off. Small-town smart-ass troublemaker proves that blue blood isn’t everything! Heh.” He laughed a mite bitterly.

A smile came to the corner of Jack’s mouth. “Sounds like someone I know.” He echoed James’s laugh.

“Sure, I wasn't the number one either,” continued James, “but as I said, I didn't have to try very hard. My folks called it uncanny, but the way I see it, if something interests you then it just kind of stays, you know what I mean? Math, science, languages, all that stuff was a piece of cake. Humanities was the only thing I couldn’t handle. Religion, or ‘Scripture’ as they called it, Geography, History - all crap, useless crap. Sure, some of it might have been OK if it hadn’t been for the asshole teachers. The history guy used to take us for P.T. too, and he would whack us with tennis rackets and throw basketballs at us to make us run faster. So, as you will no doubt agree, he could go fuck himself in History class. Then in the next grade there was another History guy who was screwing Mr. Hussey the Biology teacher.” His teacup was halfway to his mouth again, but he paused to laugh momentarily. His face dropped and he resumed: “Both those fat queer bastards had it in for me. Hussey used to lay his hand on my shoulder in an amiable manner.” He paused again and seemed to drift for a moment, then snapped back into full swing.

Jack, however, at this juncture felt his concentration slightly disrupted as he momentarily entertained the vague memory that he, too, had had some similar experience at high school, though evidently it had not been of such great import as it had for James.

“I aced high school despite most of the teachers’ sincerest doubts – and disappointment - and got a scholarship to Harvard.”

“You were at Harvard?” Interrupted Jack, his curiosity piqued. “What major?”

Phebes replied only with a look as if to say, “All in good time, now if you don’t mind I was talking.”

“Please, continue.” Said Jack, and settled back into his chair.

He was beginning to form a general impression of James Phebes and his possible condition. How many times had he seen people who, embittered during their childhood, had shut themselves off from the outside world to a greater or lesser extent, or spent their life running from certain situations? Paranoid Personality Disorder. But it was of course far too early to jump to any conclusions, and there remained the fact that Phebes had come of his own volition - something that paranoiacs rarely tended to do. And besides, James Phebes was hardly backward in coming forward with his life story, and showed no sign of the sociological impairment so common among these patients. Either way, Jack felt sure that everything would come to light in good time, and that psychotherapy was almost certainly the key - a cup of tea and a chat, as opposed to antipsychotic drug treatment. Just the way he liked it: Jack Fleming had always been unwaveringly convinced that the first step towards recovery was for the patient to become aware of their own condition, or at least partially conscious of it. This had been the key to some of his most significant successes: the patient had to want to be cured; just as a drug addict or pathological gambler must have the desire to rid themselves of their Nemesis, so did the mentally infirm need to actively strive for their own recovery. The obvious complication was that in the vast majority of cases the illness itself was also the veil that blinded the victims to their very own plight. Neuroleptic medication was certainly an aid in the process, but Jack fervently believed that in most cases the answer, as did the question, lay within the patient himself. All the doctor had to do was to get inside the patient’s mind — like the criminal psychologist who ‘becomes’ the serial killer in order to think like him, discover his modus operandi and weed him out. Jack had to find out James’s modus operandi and weed out his illness from the inside.
______________________________

Session 4


“I was - or at least thought I was - deeply religious. When I was a kid I attended mass every Sunday, and even sang in the school choir. I was sure, as all Bible-thumpers are, that God was good and would always lead me on the right path; that faith in Him would save me from myself and all other evils and cure all ills. God is everywhere and everything, whether you see Him or not. Faith…” he trailed again slightly. “Well, to this day I couldn’t tell you if He exists, but I can confirm that if He does, He is by far and away the most selfish, sick-minded fuck the world has ever seen. ‘Faith’ they say! ‘Have faith, and the path to glory will be revealed to you.’ FUCKING BULLSHIT. Does He honestly think that anyone in their right mind could unconditionally devote himself to something that shows not the least sign of even existing? Of course,” he interpolated, “I wasn’t in my right mind, was I?” He trailed off for a few more seconds. “At the time of my direst need and deepest hope He left me floundering like a grounded fish on the isolated jetty of life.” James’s face had taken on a reddish hue, as if flushed with an inner loathing. His brows seemed even more prominent – his eyes more deeply set beneath them.

Jack looked unflinchingly at him. His suspicions of paranoia were now more firmly rooted than ever, now with inklings of schizophrenic undertones and very likely Borderline Personality Disorder. His sudden outbursts of bad language and apparent mood changes could be indicative of this. What still puzzled him, however, was the patient’s apparently acute self-knowledge. With every new session, each new account of Phebes’s past became more and more vivid, expressive and even violent. It was as though he was verbally reliving the events conducive to his final breakdown. Yet in spite of all this he always seemed so very lucid – so much in control – and would always leave Dr. Fleming’s practice in a state of absolute normality, as if in recounting so vehemently the story of his suffering, he had spent all of the pent-up anger and woe that had led to it. At the end of each session, he would pay in cash, leaving it in an unsealed envelope on Jack’s desk. So what was it that he wanted Jack to ‘get to the bottom of’? If James Phebes knew so much about his own illness and its triggers, why come to him? After a few moments' thought he put it down to fear of rejection - or even previous rejection - from a sanitary institution. 'If you know you need help...' James no doubt needed to convince Jack of his illness, so that he would then file an official psychological report that would grant James the help he needed.

“So what do you do when God forsakes you? You still believe in Him but He’s left you out to dry? Evil, that’s what. Satan. You know he exists too, and maybe, just maybe he will listen to you. You know it’s wrong, but no other fucker wants to know, so you start talking to him, lying awake at night, alone in your bed - alone in the world - trying to find out if he’s been watching all this time. And sure enough, there he is, just waiting for you to say the word – waiting to pounce on your godforsaken soul and suck you down into the pit.”

Phebes's complexion darkened, and Jack felt a kind of shiver as if of some latent fear that had been aroused by these chilling words, but James’s voice suddenly took on a lighter note:

“Hell, I don’t know if it was really him or not. All I know is that something compelled me to do away with it all - to end my suffering by the only means left to me. And I damned near did. Only fear stayed my hand – a very rational, lucid fear of eternal damnation and suffering – the very thing that I had fought so long to escape. So why play straight into Satan’s little trap? Why give the fucker the satisfaction? No, not me! I would find my own way out and show the fucking lot of them!” He seemed a little out of breath, and after a few moments that seemed like whole minutes, he gulped down the last of his now cold tea, staring blankly at the floor.



Interlude


Jack had been constantly preoccupied with the mysterious case of James Phebes, even in his own spare time. Another, perhaps petty, niggle had come to bother him: he was working on the assumption that James did indeed need psychiatric help, because he himself had said so. Well, at least implied it. What if his problem was more similar to that of Ganser Syndrome, or so-called ‘Prison Psychosis’? In these cases, the patient ‘faked’ the symptoms of psychosis in order to achieve some ulterior end, and although the condition they were ‘faking’ did not actually exist, the fact that they were doing it could indeed be demonstrative of some form of pathological or psychological disorder. Another explanation for this was mere ‘malingering’ with a view to a reduction of a sentence or other leniencies, but what possible motive could James have for this, especially when he was paying Jack such good money? “I don’t know how or why it started,” he had said during the first session, “But I just wanted it to stop.” “Everything and everyone around me had it in for me." He had stated during the second. "Nothing went right in my life, and everything that went wrong was my fault. Teachers, parents, classmates – above all classmates – everything they said was an attack on me or something I had done.” These were clearly the statements of a paranoid delusional, but whatever James had suffered as a youth, he seemed to have totally recovered save the brief ejaculations of rancor while recounting his tale.

And all the while, Jack had been trying – to date in vain – to get inside James’s mind. He felt a great empathy for his patient, seeing much in him that reminded him of himself, and thus his lack of tangible progress was all the more upsetting to him. He felt a distant pang of something that seemed to connect the two, as if at times James was relating Jack’s own life experiences, and yet he could not quite put his finger on it. He also prevented his mind from wandering too far in that direction, as his attention needed to be unerringly focused on his patient if he was to 'get to the bottom' of his condition.





Session 5


“When I was twenty–five I was referred to the university counselor, and he just seemed helpless, like he was out of his depth with me. He got me an appointment with some psychologist who just riled me up more than anything. The first session was a farce, and in the second I nearly ended up punching him. I didn’t even bother going to the third. I knew I needed help, but what could I do when everyone who was supposed to know what to do just made things worse? All the so-called experts, and they didn’t know shit. They only knew what they'd learned in their fucking text books. They didn't know about me! How the fuck could they know what I was thinking? What was happening inside my mind? I knew I was ill, but they were the ones whose job it was to find out what, and how to deal with it, but they were all fucking losers. So I lost hope. I resigned myself to the fact that I was an angry, paranoid little prick who everyone was out to get. I already told you I'd tried religion, drugs, petty crime, and even ‘black magic’ but inside me I knew it was useless to hide behind ‘third parties’ and that I had to face my demons. But the demons were too many and too strong. They smothered me day and night with their mockery and hate. I was defenseless against them, and the world had abandoned me to my own private hell. And then I guess came the turning point in my life - the moment when I finally submerged myself in my own waking nightmare. I guess it is the brain’s built-in defense mechanism that went too far, and became a self-destruct system. Paranoid delusions are a prime example of the mind’s ability to create a whole new world to ‘shield’ its owner from reality.”

At this Jack was aghast. As James's narration reached fever pitch, his standpoint became more that of a psychiatrist that that of a patient. Was he actually diagnosing his own condition? More shockingly still, he was quoting almost word for word one of Jack’s most firmly held theories on the metaphysical causes of paranoid schizophrenia. His heart thumped audibly in his head, but he strove to focus on James.

“Then came meltdown. Blackout. FUBAR. All the things that ever went wrong were put right. All my dreams were suddenly realized – my prayers answered. I graduated from Harvard, started a career in my chosen profession, worked hard and achieved success. I had never aspired to fame and fortune – merely to lead a normal life, to be accepted as a person and as a professional. In an instant was fulfilled my very own, perfectly mundane American dream: my home, my own practice… my Viper Red 1967 Chevrolet Camaro.”

James was panting, and Jack was sweating and reeling in a dizzy fever. He felt his world was coming down around him. “This is hardly indicative of psychiatric dysfunction, Mr. Phebes!” he thought he had said, but his voice had failed him utterly.

“What major, you asked me? Well you’ve guessed it, Jack. Psychiatry! Just before my twenty-sixth birthday I passed out of reality, not of university! Sure, I studied the major and wrote the thesis, but the rest of my life is a lie, a trick played on me by my own twisted psyche to protect me from myself. The job, that apartment, the Chevy – all the designs of an alternate personality that would inherit my mind and body, and be what I believed I could never be – normal, respected, accepted. A parasite that would live in perfect symbiosis within me, yet gnaw gradually away at me and my will to fight it. And that parasite is you, Jack. You are a figment of my imagination, just like everything else that has happened for the last twelve years! I have come to save you from yourself, to show you who you really are. Who better to pull you out than your own self? There is hope, Jack. James. I am that hope – the part of you that remains in touch with reality; the piece of the puzzle that remains firmly in place while all the others lie scattered around you. The rest is up to you, James. Build on this small block which I have revealed to you – reconstruct the jigsaw of your life. Get inside. Make the patient aware of his condition. The first step has been taken; the road lies ahead, and only you can walk it. Get up and walk, James! Don’t look back, for Jack has hit the road!”

With that he stood up, placed an empty envelope on the desk, took his trenchcoat from the stand and left, closing the door behind him.

Jack felt he would pass out. His head was spinning, his vision a kaleidoscope of images past and present, real and imagined? Try as he might to fight it, something within him knew it was all true. He grasped at nothing, his world fell black…

___________________________________________________________________


In his tormented reverie, Jack hovered high above himself in a room a mile high, peering down through monochrome mists into a small room where sat himself. Not his alter-ego nor his eidolon, but himself. James Phebes. He, Jack Fleming was the alter-ego – he was the impostor that had outstayed his welcome. He zoomed quickly down through a tunnel of black-and-white blur and came to a halt before his host. He sat staring blankly up to one side, his body twisted horribly, his left arm gripping the armchair as if his very soul depended on it. His mouth moved as if conversing with an invisible interlocutor. He nodded and smiled and gesticulated spasmodically with his right hand, and three men dressed in white stood watching him, spectres half-faded into the surrounding brume. It was a baleful sight. The mists swirled around them both and rose above them like white noise, and as they rose Jack felt a dark veil being lifted from his eyes and from his mind. The fog soared upward, whisking Jack with it, and left James to himself and to his world.


The End
_________________________________________________________________



Epilogue


“Well, Jack,” said Dr. Willard as Dr. Fleming entered the observation room. “Looks like your ‘studying’ paid off!”

Fleming hung up his trench coat, took his white coat from its hook and donned it with an air of solemnity. His dark frown overshadowed his even darker eyes, giving him a decidedly distressed appearance.

“Who’d have thought it?” Exclaimed Willard. “Twelve years of Catatonic Schizophrenoid Delirium without so much as a hint of improvement, and in five easy installments you manage to smoke him out! I’m glad I found you! Oh, and I liked the envelope. Nice touch!"

Jack Fleming was not feeling quite so jocular. After all, it was on his masterclass and best-selling reference book “Inside Out: A Proactive Approach to Psychiatrics” that Phebes had based his entire thesis. From that thesis, Phebes’s private memoirs and psychiatric casebook, Willard had drawn up his plan of action: to track down Jack Fleming - the man who James Phebes’s brain thought he was - that he might get inside James’s mind and ‘smoke him out’. Indeed, Fleming had done just that, but he now felt inexorably tied to James Phebes, and even somehow responsible for his plight.

“Look on the bright side, Jack." Said Willard, seemingly reading his thoughts, “If it hadn’t been for you, we may never have got him back. Get inside. Make him aware. That was your theory, and you pulled it off!”

“He would have been a good psychiatrist.” Said Fleming detachedly. “Not the best, perhaps, but good nonetheless.”

“He had an exemplary beau ideal.” Replied Willard warmly. “Your contributions to our profession are unparagoned. I gleaned from his memoirs that you were quite a deity in his eyes before..." He fell silent. Phebes had idolized Jack Fleming as the kind of successful physician that he desired to be, and his tormented brain had done the rest. And little wonder that a budding young student should want to take after such a pioneer in his field! Willard felt Fleming was more than aware of this, and that he need not dwell on the matter.

Peering in at Phebes through the one-way observation glass, Willard saw him now less contorted, his expression less intense. He had loosened his grasp on the armchair for the first time in twelve years, and a glimmer of lucidity had returned to his eyes. “There’s still one thing bugging me though, Doctor Fleming,” he said pensatively, still looking through the glass. “If it hadn’t been for that one tiny detail, I could have found you years ago and put an end to all this. What on earth made you change your name to Jack Fleming?”

Dismailed

Chapter One

"Sire!" Glared T'Mhet, hardly able to control his ire. "Seer Siminis has foretold unmeasured woe arising from our failure to act. The Cuirass must not fall into enemy hands!"

"Seer Siminis is a wizened old fool!" yelled Azzamán, slamming his fist down onto the table. "He has also foretold the downfall of our kind, yet that is hardly likely given our mastery of the Art! Let the Seekers take the Cuirass, for it shall return to us unscathed and untapped. They have not the means to harness its power, for they are weak and timorous. The Cuirass would dominate them and they should be its thralls, not its masters. To march forth from Sissa in its search would be more perilous than to await its return. Think of the consequences of so diminishing our defenses here!"

T'Mhet went to retort, but held his tongue; though the fire in his eyes matched even that of his lord Azzamán." As you wish, Sire." He bowed and took his leave. "Who is the wizened old fool?" he muttered to himself, and set off towards the Temple of the Seer.
____________________________________

"Such ire shall be thy perdition, Brother T'Mhet." Muttered Seer Siminis as T'Mhet descended the carven sandstone stairway leading down inside the Temple. Siminis knelt facing away from the entrance, and had not even looked up upon greeting his visitor, engrossed as he was in his Array. With frantic, circular swings of his arms he described circles, lines and icons in the wide shallow basin that was the Array, pausing only to grasp more handfuls of sand from urns on either side of him, flinging it into the Array and again tracing wild symbols and designs with his withered hands.

"The Sands have spoken," crooned the old seer, "and they foretell untold woe and suffering, should the --"

"What am I to do, Siminis?" T'Mhet cut him short. The ancient seer was prone to theatrics and unnecessary repetition of his divinations.

"Control thy ire, boy," he said sternly. "Rage not! Act with haste! Seek out thy enemy! Regain that which has slipped thy grasp!"

"But I shall need an army to scour the Land! Yet without the consent of Lord Azzamán none shall aid me, and the Enemy shall prevail."

"Enough of thy snivelling!" Exclaimed Siminis, and he swung round abruptly to face T'Mhet, his lank grey hair wrapping itself around his face as he spun. It was a daunting sight: the haggard old figure of Seer Siminis - dressed only in a dirty grey toga - knelt on all fours like a savage dog, stared through the bedraggled locks of sand-ridden hair with pupilless eyes of black onyx -- his age-marred visage ablaze like that of a drunken madman. Yet despite their blank appearance, T'Mhet knew that those eyes pierced his own and thrust like knives into his very soul. If T'Mhet felt shock or fear at the sight he did not show it, but would not have needed to.

Seer Siminis was old - almost as old as Sissa - but as he grew in years so did he in sight; though blind since childhood, the old man's vision was far-reaching indeed, defying both distance and time, and his voyances never faltered. However the seer was given to eccentricities -- as it has been said -- and esoteric gifts are not without detriment. Thus his forecasts were often subject to varied interpretation. Differences in opinion and other discrepancies were the cause of much discord amongst the Elders of the Chamber, and it was one such altercation which led to Lord Azzamán's shunning of Siminis and all his ways.

"The time for esoteric nonsense is at an end!" He had declared. "A so-called art purportedly mastered by one man is no art at all, but a fallacy. The troubles of our times call for a keen eye and swift decisions, not the rantings of some half-sane mystic! For every vision of yours that has granted us true insight, another has led us into peril, and for why? For your inability to clarify to the Chamber the contents of your delusions! If you cannot -- or will not -- speak with transparency of your findings, then counsel us no more! We shall send forth scouts throughout the land to bring first-hand accounts of all that errs abroad, and with the one true art -- The Black Art -- we shall prevail against the Believers, the Seekers and the Infidels alike! Begone!" From that day, the Chamber heeded no more the counsels of Siminis, torn as they were between fear of blindness and fear of Azzamán's wrath.

_________________________________________________


The colour faded from the old man's face and his hunched figure relaxed. “A keen eye and swift decision, Brother,” he said, now softly. “I have seen the way, and now thou must act swiftly. Go forth now -– thyself and no more than three others, lest thy covey be construed as mob. Thou must also part in silence and obscurity -– the twilight hour shall be thy veil. Pay heed! The sands have spoken! Beyond the sands of Sissa lies thy quarry, beyond the Sands of Time. Beware! for he who dares curb the Sands of Time will be blind to their slipping away within his very grasp!”

At this point Siminis’s voice seemed to dwindle to an incoherent murmur, though perhaps it was T’Mhet’s ear that failed -- the words of the mystic were seldom comprehensible in their entirety, even to T'Mhet, yet seemed to evoke clouded images of their inner meaning in the mind of the hearer. Now T'Mhet wandered through vast lands, far beyond the desert to which he had been born, and further still to realms seemingly unknown to his kind. Flocks of dry birds made of sand flew in unison through the cold nebulous air and disappeared from view into a bank of white fog…

He was drawn out of his trance by the touch of Siminis's hand upon his shoulder. Blinking, he saw the old man’s face before him, eyes closed and smiling warmly. “Go now." He said calmly, and embraced T’Mhet like a son. "One day thy father shall thank thee. Make haste!”


At eventide, as the overground activity of Sissa drew to a close, T'Mhet and his three most trusted servants set out northwards across the sands of Sissa on a journey from which they might never return.

By nightfall, the eyes of the Watchers would be upon the desert; the ever-vigilant scryers of earth and Aether - watching for signs of outsiders or, more importantly still, of the Dark Ones. The eyes of the Watchers were keen and unobstructed by darkness; the light indeed was foul to them and hindered their vision, and thus they watched not by day. To march forth by day would be less likely to attract attention, but there was ever the risk that some townsperson might raise the alarm. Some folk worked on the surface above the underground city of Sissa, and the band’s departure could scarce go unheeded.

And so by darkfall T'Mhet and his unlikely entourage had trudged half a league to the north, and beyond the encircling dunes that would now hide them from view. Their sally would not go unnoticed for long, but none would dare venture after them -– not least because Lord Azzamán would soon be mustering all available hands for the defense of the city. Heedless of the Seer’s hazy visions, Azzamán, ninth Lord of Sissa had himself foretold that the Cuirass would one day return to the Desert City of its own free will and, although not without bloodshed, it would again adorn the breast of its rightful owner. And how he craved that bloodshed! By that very blood spilt in the great battle, would Sissa be restored to its dark glory! The hordes of the dead would rise up and serve unwaveringly the will of Azzamán!

Wenaiah

Dumana skulked furtively beneath the ornate bowers of tula trees and vibrant pergolas of yawana and fliir. The ancient forest of Bellakura was a place of legend, held in awe throughout the land for its myriad species and vistas of beauty both poignant and surreal. At another time, she would have marvelled at the strands of light that streamed through the forest roof, tinged with hues of magenta and celeste by the leafy canopies, sparkling like mountain streams as glitterflies dashed amid them. Some other time, she might dance and lay at ease among the verdant arbours, and swim in the limpid pools in the Garden of the Gods.

But this was no time for sightseeing.

Many from her party had already disappeared – abducted by some invisible force and no doubt murdered in some lightless corner of the woods. Now Dumana edged cautiously through the thick undergrowth, desperately seeking egress from Bellakura, and above all trying not to be espied by whatever evil had decimated her fellowship.

Keeping as close as possible to the surrounding trees, Dumana sidled through the glade with her back to their trunks, glancing nervously up, right, to the left, so as not to miss the slightest flicker of unexpected movement. Her heart pounded, and she fancied that it could be heard above even the twitter and jibber of the forest fauna, and rustling of the vegetation.

She rested a moment against the trunk of a thick, treelike plant with five green spiralled stems which delved into the ground as roots. They stood, arced as if straddling some unseen obstacle, forming a small tent-like space beneath the plant. Dumana mused that hiding therein would not help her escape from Bellakura. Its canopy was of several crimson leaves the size of floor-rugs, with pale green edges upturned to retain and channel rainfall. In the centre posed a great fleshy flower, lurid pink in colour, which pulsated slowly and heavily as the plant breathed in the forest air. This was the waranna, known – but not to Dumana – as the Sentinel of Wurla, the God of the earth.

A small, brightly-coloured scaly rodent scurried past her, leaping as it went, trying to catch glitterflies in its tiny jaws. Startled by this sudden activity, Dumana stumbled backwards and fell through the gap between the waranna stem-roots, ending up flat on her back inside the shaded enclosure. Having lain deathly still for a few moments, listening for any sign that her fall may have attracted unwanted attention, she brought herself up to her knees, brushed off her simple furskin garb and laughed to herself in silence. The rodent leapt, caught a glitterfly in mid-air, and then scuttled off into the woods with a wheezy giggle of satisfaction.

The Gunungi were not given to jocularity, much less in times of danger, yet Dumana had always been somewhat estranged from her fellows. A keen and fierce huntswoman, she was respected more by the Chieftains than by her peers, who found her dreamy and airy, given to fantasy and far too much of an aesthete. Thus it was that Dumana had been sent – along with three score others – to reap the fruits of Bellakura for the Chieftains’ whim. The party had set out ten days hither, from their homeland of Gununga, to the forest of Bellakura at the foot of the Gunungi Mountains. Their charge was simple: to enter Bellakura - known by others as the Garden of the Gods – to hunt and entrap the singular species therein, and return them to the Chieftains as viands for their delight, trophies for their chambers.

Viewed from the soaring heights of Gununga, Bellakura was a mere patch of radiant green, dotted and speckled with tiny points of colour. By day, the changes in weather all across the land could be observed from Gununga, but Bellakura wore the eternal golden halo of a sun that never ceased to bathe her.

Dumana had always wondered at this place of such apparent beauty, and as a child would sit for hours on the northeastern foothills of Gununga, casting her imagination deep within the woods and living out all kinds of fantastic daydreams therein. Dumana was lithe and agile, slim yet strong, and easily surmounted the tests of skill and huntsmanship set for her by her elders. While other children underwent additional training, she would steal off to gaze at the distant aura that to all but the Gunungi was Bellakura. Her whimfulness had not gone unchastised, and she had suffered many beatings at the hands of her elders; the mountains were a perilous place, fraught with precipitous chasms and vicious beasts - no place for a lone child to be wandering unattended. Yet for all her dreaminess, Dumana was ever alert, her bright eyes ever vigilant, her ears and senses keen. Many times had she outwitted the mountain cats and other cunning creatures of her homeland, and had returned home unscathed and often with a prize for home or hearth. But still the beatings. The Gunungi were harsh and ruthless with both quarry and kin; and rightly so, for their livelihood depended upon their ability to survive many hardships and dangers, and such distractions could spell her demise. But the Chieftains had become greedy and capricious, and lusted after new tastes and trophies. And so the expedition to the forest at the foot of Gununga.

Dumana had rejoiced at the chance to set foot in that place of her dreams, to live out her ultimate fantasy. But now, lost deep within the verdant woodlands of Bellakura, she was at a loss. Was this very place, which had fascinated and enticed her as far back as she could remember, to be her doom? The strange and wonderful new surroundings enchanted, yet engulfed her. The myriad-coloured cupola dazzled and dizzied her, left her bewildered and disorientated. The incessant peeps and warbles of the wildlife both lulled her and set her nerves on edge; her years of training would serve for nothing here. And all the while the intangible feeling that she was being observed.

Ever since she and her company had entered the forest at dawn that day, she had had that feeling of being watched - the eerie sensation that some nameless entity knew that they were there, and that it did not approve of their presence. And now, mere hours later, her companions had all but vanished. Tamika - her lifelong friend - and Rorlin, Zein and A’M’ath, had been two steps behind her at one moment – the next they had vanished without trace. Did the very forest have a will of its own? Had it taken back what they had reaped from it, like for like? Throughout the morning, several other groups had suffered the same fate, and now Dumana knelt in solitude beneath the great waranna flower, and winced with grief.

A sudden movement some way off to her left made her start, and she clutched at one of the stem-roots, crouching and peering out to see what stirred beyond. A rustle of leaves, a hurried shuffling sound, and into view came three of her comrades – Wara, Zemel and Keyn. They were rushing confusedly through the undergrowth, frantically looking behind them as if pursued by some fearsome predator. She tried to call out to them, but before she could utter a sound, the huge bulb-like mass of the waranna flower heaved above her, drawing in a mighty breath, and let forth a horrific whooping sound that resounded across the forest like a siren-horn on high. The Sentinel of Wurla had spoken. The hapless three stumbled past, mere inches from Dumana as she watched, helpless, and in the blinking of an eye were gone. From just beneath the leafy surface of the forest floor came a net of fine thread - barely visible to the naked eye - which whisked them up, up towards the roof of the forest at breakneck speed; muffled gasps, and a brief flurry of sibilant noise from far above, and seconds later all was over bar a shower of many-coloured leaves which wafted back down to the ground from whence they had come. For what seemed like an eternity, Dumana held still, glancing nervously upwards and around. She had not realised that the forest had become momentarily silent, but now the hums and warbles resumed; the breeze once again brushed the gilded fronds, the glitterflies went about their business.

So there was more to this place than met the eye. Something - but more likely someone - was indeed watching them, and had laid fiendish traps for them throughout the wood. The hunters had become the hunted, and had been far outwitted at their own game. How could they have been so foolish? And how had she gone as yet unscathed? Indeed, she had spent the last two hours sidling cautiously against the trunks of trees and larger plants, where these nets could not logically be laid, but earlier in the morning she had been striding boldly with her comrades through the glades and clearings, searching for game. Why had she been spared? In truth, she had not lifted bow nor blade against any of the woodland creatures, having been mesmerised by the beauty of the julula bird, with its indigo plumage and red dorsal antenna which when at rest gave it the appearance of a splendid painted lily (it was in fact part flora, part fauna.) She had stayed her hand when confronted with the graceful slinking form of the catlike halabeena, with its golden leathery hide and dark, almost human eyes. Could the watchers in the woods have shown her mercy for this reason? It was not mercy that had stayed her hand but awe, bewilderment and fascination. Given time to become accustomed to these new environs, Dumana could have slain their occupants more deftly than any other. But alas, she had not been granted such boon.

She spun swiftly round as a waft of warm air brushed her nape. Her knife swung up from her hilt, and in a flash was poised at a hair’s breadth from the intruder’s neck. In the same instant, she felt the pressure of two sharp points nudging at her back, and knew that her assailants had the upper hand. She relaxed her stance in defeat, threw her blade to the ground. Before her stood a most curious character. Olive-skinned, of middling stature; legs shoulder-width apart, arms crossed, torso turned slightly to one side, head coyly cocked to the other. And adorning the slight, fay-like visage, the most unbefittingly huge grin that Dumana had ever seen.

“Ho! mountain lady!” exclaimed the personage with a comically gallant flick of his oily black tresses. “Forgive my intruse, but rarely do we make host to comers from beyond!" His tone was strangely flippant and high-pitched, yet sincere in overall effect. Dumana could not help but feel somewhat bemused by his whimsical positure and singular manner of speech. And that broad, beaming smile; those eyes so dark, so very bright – surely they could mean her no harm? The strong, sinewy physique was that of one adept in the arts of stealth and combat – and he had indeed approached Dumana boldly yet undetected – yet she felt somehow at ease, unthreatened by his presence.

“Fellows!” he beamed, “Home your jousts, unmenace the mountain lady!” At once the pressure softened at her back, and she turned to see two other young men of similar aspect - spears butt-end to the ground in one hand, the other perched theatrically at the hip. Through the gaps between the waranna roots, she could see that each wore the same dazzling grin of their comrade. Dumana could not help but laugh aloud, but checked her outburst to avoid offending her captors. Though moments earlier she had been stifled with apprehension, she now felt strangely at ease.

“Long have we scrutined you from on high, mountain lady!” said the first. “You and the other comers from the mounts of beyond."

“What has become of them?” demanded Dumana, suddenly remembering that these must be the culprits of her comrades’ fate. “Who are you, and what have you done with my fellows?” Her fists clenched, her eyes darted for her blade. The man before her remained still, his wide smile held in place.

"Quiet, mountain lady. Clasp not ire nor arm! Your fellows have been rised to the lofts of Bellakura, and soon will be downed to Her soil. They have travested Her, and thus must plenish Her anew.”

“What do you mean, plenish Her anew?" cried Dumana indignantly. "What have you done with them? Are they dead? Tell me at once, or I shall slit you where you stand!”

A chorus of spirited laughter from all before and behind her left her off-set and confused. “The mountain lady does feist and fume!" they laughed. "And even now, pent and three-to-one, does she threat and warn!” Again they laughed.

“You may mock me, forest dwellers, but I am Dumana A'M'tui, huntress of Gununga, and I could slay you like crag-rats with my bare hands!"

“Verily, that may be," chortled the first, "just as you slayed the julula, the halabeena, the lyfa and the kiu? Our fate is to be that of the gurgamota, or that of the scented waif? Ha-ha! Then so it be! The mountain lady shall gaze us and awe, and homewards shall we wend unmenaced!" All three of the forest people chuckled heartily. “No, mountain lady, you shall slaught us not, as you have frained to slaught our wards. Mazed by their beauties, you did home your arms.”

“They posed me no threat," retorted Dumana, cautious to occlude all hint of acquiescence. "But you have beset me as a beast, and I shall fight you as such! Hah!” She struck as menacing a pose as she could muster, but her lack of conviction was all too evident; her hosts’ impregnable jocularity had at last whittled down her fiery determination to frustration and childlike chagrin.

“Cease your feist and fume, mountain lady.” said the first, calmly and with more warmth than irony. “Do not disgrunt. We are the Koppi, the tree-people; I am Wendu, and this is our home. While guesting here, you shall be unthreatened; rest easy and enjoy. Come!” He hopped out of the shady enclosure of the waranna stems, and beckoned her to follow suit. She did so, and as she blinked in the pervading streams of sunlight, the three Koppi applauded and stamped their feet in approval. Now, in the scintillant light of the glade, Wendu beheld Dumana and himself was a moment awed, for she was beautiful indeed; her lean physique, her golden-hazel eyes and finely-chiselled features, and although visibly accustomed to life in the harsh conditions of Gununga, this gave her a boyish, rugged appeal.

“Come!” repeated Wendu, and all three grabbed vines hanging from nearby trees, wrapped them tight around their forearms. Wendu motioned for Dumana to do likewise, and at his gesture all four were hoisted high into the treetops and above the very canopies. Up, up, and Dumana shrieked with fright and hung on for dear life. In seconds they were standing on a wooden platform overlooking the glade from whence they came, but so far above it that it could barely be discerned through the gently swaying foliage just below. Dumana heaved a sigh of relief and tentatively released the vine, looking anxiously around and down, ensured her footing was safe. The Koppi clapped again in delight.

“Welcome to our tree-town, mountain lady!" said Wendu, beaming. “From here we scrutine and vigil Bellakura fair.” Looking around her to all sides, Dumana could see dozens of similar ledges attached to the sides of the trees, each with vine ladders leading up to further platforms joined to boardwalks, catwalks and gangways, in turn interconnected by vine bridges spanning many yards, and on to still more piers, scaffolds and balustrades as far as the eye could see. Dotted around at irregular intervals were squat, turret-shaped huts with reed-thatched roofs, a mere five or six feet in width and height.

This was the tree-town of the Koppi, the watchers of Bellakura. Centuries earlier, when the world was young, a throng of pilgrims had come to Bellakura to seek out the last vestiges of the Gods in the World. The peregrines had settled in the Garden of the Gods, and sworn to protect what they believed to be one vast living entity - the very embodiment of Bellakura, "The Gardener," the Goddess of Nature. So long had they dwelt there, so far-removed were they from their former kin, that while other races of the World had progressed and established more advanced lifestyles and semantics, the tree-people of Bellakura lived and spoke as they had done since ere they first set foot in her verdant bounds. Candid, almost childlike in nature, the Koppi knew only of the forests – oblivious to all that erred abroad – and were fiercely protective of the living Goddess with whom they were one.

“You expect explications!” said Wendu softly. “Follow!” And he flitted across one of the rope bridges, hopped onto the platform at the other end and stood beckoning. Gingerly, Dumana stepped onto the bridge and teetered a moment unsure. But she was nimble and fleet of foot, and it was not long before she was making her way across to the other side, with only the merest hint of quaver. Wendu climbed a ladder leading upwards to the top of a tree much taller than those around it, and into a small thatched structure like the huts below. Having followed him up, Dumana could now see – through openings around the structure - the entire forest laid out around her; vast, sprawling and beautiful, the brilliant crowns of emerald, aquamarine and jade, dotted with topaz, cyan and a thousand other tones of colours – some familiar, others bizarre. Above the tops of the trees, at a similar height to that of this turret, could be seen hundreds of other constructions of like appearance.

Countless times had Dumana gazed upon this place from afar, and now in its very midst she found herself entranced, dumfounded and mazed. “Now you see, mountain lady, why we must deavour to keep Her safe and salved." Wendu's tone was calm and serene. “She is great and kind, and vigils us as we vigil her. Her fruits aplenty, but not without bound. Balance is the key – the laws unwrote - take and give, don and doff. Many cycles the stars have gyred, many comers been and went, and the Koppi have ever tained the balance. Those who spect the laws unwrote are not scathed, but those who turb Her balance must plenish her anew. To this end, your fellow-comers, for they did turb and scathe Bellakura and Her childs.”

Dumana shook her head in disbelief. “So you killed my kinsfolk for taking from the forest? That is not balance, it is vengeance! I demand you tell me what you have done with them!” At that moment, another of the Koppi pulled himself up into the turret, and moved towards the outlook. Dumana now saw that she was female, and was carrying a thin pipe some two feet long. Dumana also became aware that in the neighbouring turrets, others had assumed similar positions. Suddenly, a faint whooshing sound could be heard coming from below, rapidly coming closer. Simultaneously, the Koppi raised their pipes to their lips, and poised as if aiming them as weapons. To her dismay, moments later Dumana saw before her a net like that which had ensnared her fellows, and within it struggled frantically four more of her misfortunate kin. Among them was Helek, her cousin. Dumana let out a stifled cry, “No!” but it was too late; a brief flurry of sibilant noise, and all were still.

“Helek!” she screamed, and her hand went to her scabbard, but the knife was not there.

“Fret not," said Wendu, “for they are at rest and unscathed. Your other fellows were venomed and have ceased, but these do not share the same end. They are merely drowsed, and when they are waked, they will oblive these last moments.”

“Then what will be of them?” cried Dumana, fighting back tears of woe and rage. “And what of the others? Venomed and ceased! You have murdered them, and now you have even more wicked plans in store for these four! One of them is of my very blood!” Desperation and mazed frustration tugged at Dumana’s heart and at her voice; she knew that aggression was futile, and yet her ire compelled her to act. At the same time she felt strangely disinclined to avenge her departed kinsmen, as if the whole situation had a meaning, and that bitter as it might be, this was how it had to be.

“You must understand,” said Wendu fervently, and gently touched Dumana’s shoulder. She turned and looked him in the eye for the first time since they had left the forest floor. His dark eyes still gleamed with seemingly inherent benevolence, but in place of that perpetual grin was an expression of the purest sincerity and love. “You have scried the beauties of our home – we have noted your awe and maze and loathness to take up arms, and I note in you a feeling still deeper than regret – that of love. Is it not true that you ail and quaver at the thought of Bellakura’s decline? Should you not be merrier in Her vigil than in Her slaught?” As he spoke, the netted captives were slowly lowered down to the forest floor. "They will return to the mounts of beyond with tales of their loss, and all shall hark and heed and tread no more these bounds.”

True it was indeed – these brief hours within Bellakura, though fraught with angst and peril, had seemed to quench in her an unheeded thirst – an innate longing to be as one with her world - to be cherished and nourished, and in turn to cherish and nourish and offer up her very being to this oneness. She had indeed felt loathness to cull the creatures before her, and had subconsciously begun to question whether such acts were not a travesty rather than a right.

Reflecting now upon all that had occurred, and the firm yet serene words of Wendu, Dumana became absorbed in thought. Gununga seemed somehow vague in her mind, somehow foggy. All her life she had unquestioningly played out her role in Gunungi society, and for what? What meaning had that life? She remembered her hours of solace on the foothills, gazing across at Bellakura; her waking reveries in which she wandered and marvelled at she knew not even what; the call of her kin; the beatings... Was there not a higher meaning to her existence? To all existence?

As her vision cleared Wendu stood before her, solemn yet serene, smiling warmly. From way below she heard the scampering of many feet and voices as if in distress. Helek and his fellows parted for the hills and looked not back to the forest. The Gunungi never again set foot in Bellakura, believing it cursed and tainted with unseen witchery. Dumana was at last resolved. The expectant yet confident gaze of Wendu’s met hers and she smiled, though she blinked back a tear from her eye.

“Come, sister." Said Wendu, holding out his hand. "Be welcome among us. Behold your new home!" And together they descended the vine ladder to the tree-city below.

_______________________________________________

In the weeks and months to follow, Wendu would verse Dumana in the ways of the Koppi and the laws of Bellakura. Many hours they spent together each day, and great love grew between them; though flourish or bloom it did not, for although Wendu was not altogether uncomely, Dumana had found her true love, and harboured no desire for another. “Wenaiah” she was called by her new kin, which was “lithe from afar" and she was loved by them as an equal - no more and no less, neither shunned nor revered.

And so Wenaiah lived out her days – and they were long – in the garden of her dreams, the Garden of the Gods. Her stealth and dexterity stood her in great stead as she put them to use now not as a means to kill, but to protect and nurture the halabeena, the waranna, the hooj, the thruspid and the scented waif. Rejoice she did as she wandered freely among the tula trees, and swam in limpid pools ‘neath vibrant pergolas of yawana and fliir.
_______________________________________________

Bundle Near the Bin

(To the tune of “Candle in the Wind”)

Goodbye normal jeans.
Though I hardly wore you at all,
You had the nerve to hole yourself
While I inside you crawled

I crawled along the woodwork,
Stuck a splinter into my leg
And ripped you on the breadbin
While reaching for the jam.

And it seems to me you lived your life
In a pile on the floor,
Never going to the wardrobe -
Left behind the door.
And I would’ve liked to have thrown you,
But I was just a kid -
And mother wouldn’t let me, ‘cos they cost her 20 Quid.

Holeyness was tough -
The only role you ever played,
Dodgy wood created a super-scar,
And pain was the price I paid.
Even though you’re dyed,
Oh, the name still spoiled you -
All I ever had to say
Was that I’d rather go round in the nude.

And it seems to me you lived your life
In a bundle on the floor;
Never folded up and cared for like the others in the drawer.
And Mum would’ve liked to have sewn you
But I’d rather be rid -
Your style died out long before the weekend ever did.

Goodbye normal jeans,
Though I never liked you at all,
I had the grace to wear you once,
And do as I was told.
Goodbye normal jeans,
Only got you less than seven days ago,
But see you somewhat less than fashionable -
Just not ‘The In Thing’, you know?



And it seems to me you lived your life
In the corner of my room;
All screwed up beside my school socks
And my undies too.
And thank God I’ve never shown you
To the other kids,
The novelty wore out long before
Your label ever did.

And I never would’ve chose you
Oo-oh ‘cos I was just a kid……
My interest ran out long before
Your colour ever did.

Elegy Written in the Winnowing Hall Graveyard

The churchbell tolls the oncoming of doom,

The lowing herd wind no more o'er the heath,

The plowman, bleeding, cries out in the gloom,

And leaves the world to darkness and to death.

Now fades the lingering dusk and turns to night,

And all the air a foetid pungence holds;

And where the Pestilence wields its moaning blight,

A thousand poisons cull the distant folds.

And yet, from yonder dark-enshrouded tower,

A mournful howl does to the moon complain –

As one, unseen, invades Their secret bower,

Usurps Their ancient solitary reign.

Loose Ends

How long’s a piece of string?
And where’s the scissors?
I s´pose time must account for something,
But anyway, who’s counting?

There’s only so much you can’t do in a day
Isn´t there? Surely.
Or is that indefinitely?
Perhaps I just can´t see the join.
Perhaps I’m looking too hard.

An overdose of hindsight -
To what end?
My own personal Minotaur,
Or back to Square One?
There´s only so many ends a ball of wool can´t have
Isn’t there?

But anyway, who’s counting?

Descarriado

Lost for reason, lost in books,
I'm lost in time and Spain
To hang like ham on tenterhooks,
Vocation lost like rain.

To walk the streets of distant parts
Like dogs astray, alone;
My foreign canine counterparts
So many miles from home.

Suspended, lonely as the Dove
Yet olive trees surround;
The speckled cirrus high above,
Below - uncharted ground.

The sky narrates uncertain life
With shades of passing day;
And twilight comes, obscures the light,
As scarlet fades to grey.