.
The fearless famous four of us are swimming in this lake of spices, getting ourselves marinaded, getting ourselves painted in yellow.
It surely is the sweetest colour. It was giving us flavours, flavours of the feast to come. Things we'd never tasted.
The living room was amber lit, with flowers of gold falling off the wallpaper, so many thousands of them that they made a carpet of petals on the floor. There was a hole in the carpet. And although we all knew that falling through a yellow door was bad, still we fell through it anyway.
!!!!!WARNING!!!!!
Shit! What was that?
I was walking through a palace of gold, my three companions at my side. In my
hands, a ball hammer drenched in snakeweed, only known antidote to the dreamsnake bite. The other three were loaded up the same, and we were warriors in, bad world, and I felt full up of hunger and blood.
Everything was shining yellow, shining with the smell of saffron, in the world of the Nagas.
Game Cat tells us that the Nagas are a fabulous race of snakes. They are powerful and dangerous and usually appear in the form of ordinary snakes, but sometimes as mythic giants, long twisting forms of violet and green. Sometimes they turn into human shapes, just to fool us. The king of the Nagas is called Takshaka.
Sometimes the Nagas get caught in the human world, and this makes them very angry, because they cannot stand the light of our world. We call these exiles the dreamsnakes.
!!!!!WARNING!!!!!
What was that? I was getting voices. Maybe I was getting the Haunting? Please, my Lord, don't let this be a Vurt. Let this pleasure be real.
Having entered the limitless world of the dreaming snakes, we found it to be full of admirable establishments for games, both large and small, and crowded with hundreds of porticoes, turrets, palaces, and temples.
All this beauty; not a snake to be seen. Only their soft slitherings in the yellow shadows, invisible. My left ankle was tingling, like it had a message for me, a message I had long since forgotten.
WARNING. YOU ARE NOW INSIDE A METAVURT.
"Did you hear that? Anyone?" I asked. "Hear what?" said Desdemona.
"That voice." "Heard nothing."
"Come on, you two," said the Beetle. "Less of the billy-cooing. Let's hammer some snakes!"
We stalked that gilded world, with our weapons of steel and weed, and our fear and our sweat. Bridget started to sing her song, a tingling hymn of praise to the unseen Naga snakes. They were smothered in pride by the song from Brid's lips. But they would not return the earrings, and the snakes remained in the shadows, entwining.
A jasmine powder was dropping on us, from the palace's ceiling, but I was getting voices. . .
WARNING! YOU ARE NOW IN A METAVURT, RUNG TWO. THIS IS EXTREMELY UNWISE, AND SHOULD BE VACATED FORTHWITH. THANK YOU. THIS HAS BEEN A PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING.
"You heard that," I said. "Didn't you?" "What's up, love?" asked Des.
"That voice! Listen to it! Can't you hear it! We're in a Metavurt!" "Don't be silly now."
And as she said it, she held my hand in her own. Her fingers were soft and long, with sharpened nails, that dug in, just slightly, just enough.
"Okay, lovebirds. Enough words," announced the Beetle. "Here come the fuckers!"
And the snakes came, unravelling from the shadows, from the golden shadows, all violets and greens, giving a shine to the world, a poisonous shine. They were coming in hundreds, but so tightly knotted, it would take more than a human span to count them.
I tried to run. I think I tried to run.
But something held me back; this could only be perfect.
Takshaka the King rose up, his great head all mutilated and bleeding. He seemed to be made out of smoke, not flesh, a snake of smoke.
YOU ARE REALLY GETTING ON MY WICK! PLEASE VACATE THIS META-LEVEL IMMEDIATELY.
Beetle let loose the first blow, swinging his ball hammer down in a hard graph, the muscles in his arms standing out like plague swellings. The head of a young snake caught the blow, and then cracked open, so that the weed could get through, dripping sap into the system, until the snake split apart, and there was snake juice everywhere, all over the warriors. But it looked so good, that splatter, we all just had to join in, bringing hammers down on the heads of snakes, dodging the fangs, revelling in the juice that was pouring over us, like a marinade of rain.
We hit that first line of snakes like a flesh hammer, and it all seemed so easy, so very easy for a Yellow, so maybe Yellows aren't all they're cracked up to be. Or maybe I was dreaming all this. Maybe I getting the Haunting again, seeing the dirt through the glass.
No matter.
Some dreamsnakes died that night, let me tell you.
Of course we did well, we did good, we did it like warriors, like heroes. We didn't get Takshaka, King Snake, but we hammered some bad fucker cronies. And we got those earrings back, and delivered.
The Beetle was draped all over with snakeskin, layers of it, stuff he had flayed with his own hands. He had a snakehead pinned to his jacket, a personal souvenir of the victory.
"That was some theatre, Des!" he said. "Thanks for finding it." "No trouble, Bee," my sister answered.
We were all slumped out; Brid fast asleep on the couch, me in my favourite armchair, Desdemona on the rug by the fire. Only the Beetle was lively; he was pacing the room like a jammed-up panther, looking for something to eat.
"I feel like squeezing the juice some more," he said. "Come on, Bridget. Time for bed." She rose up to follow him, and the door closed behind them with a soft sound.
Desdemona and I, all alone then, against the world. "You wanna go to bed?" I asked her, copying Beetle. "Yes please," she answered. And my pulse sang.
This is just like she's never been away.
We fell into each other's arms, under the sheets, with a warm breath blowing from the open windows, like an English balm.
Just like she's never. . .
And afterwards -- as we lay stomach to back, my right hand on her breasts, my left scrunched up against her neck, my right leg draped over her legs, my left tucked up neat against her thighs, her breathing moving to mine like a twin clock -- a man came into our room.
Desdemona was fast asleep, and so was I, but I could feel him there, in the darkened air, like a taste on the mouth long after the feast has gone.
"Young man," the ghost said. "I am most disappointed in your conduct." My eyes wouldn't open; I was locked in fear.
"No doubt you have an excuse," the darkness said.
"Desdemona. . ." I asked. Or tried to ask. Or thought that I might have asked. Or didn't ask. No matter, Desdemona just slept right on through anyway.
"Open your eyes, young man, when you're looking at me." Something made me do it, some outside force.
My father was looking down at me, from the foot of the bed.
Oh shit! Oh fuck! Oh Christ!
I couldn't seem to move. Why can't I move? Stay calm. Can't be. Can't be.
Not my father. Just some older man.
Father wouldn't have just stood there watching his children in bed. No. He would have pounded me. Not out of any common decency, no, but out of jealousy; having bedded his daughter a few times anyway, along with all the cuttings to her --
"Be careful," the man said. I knew that voice.
I was sitting upright now, the sheets caught up around me. Desdemona stirred beside me, but did not awake.
"Who are you?"
"Be careful. Be very, very careful." "Game Cat?"
"Indeed. You remember me." "I've never seen you before."
"Why, we met only this morning. At a rather sleazy affair I'm afraid." "Leave me alone."
I was coming down from the fear by now, and getting pictures; me standing on the balcony, looking down; the man standing beside me No! I wasn't having that! This morning I was sleeping next to Desdemona, this very bed.
"You know that Tapewormer is a young boy's feather?" "Tapewormer?"
"Presumably you have heard of it?" "Of course, it's a --"
"You're in it now." "No. This is --"
"Young man, you are in the Vurt. Listen to me. This is the Game Cat speaking.
When am I ever wrong?"
I looked over at Desdemona. She was peaceful. She was there. "Cat! Tell me I'm not in Vurt," I pleaded.
The Cat just smiled.
it."
"Please! I'm not on Vurt. Please! This is for real."
"Don't fight it, kittling. You just did a Yellow. You just did Takshaka. Think about
"So?"
"That was a Tapewormer Yellow. Has to be. You'd be dead otherwise. Yellows do
not come that easy."
"Please!" I was hugging Desdemona in her deep sleep. "I don't know what you're talking about! You're not talking about me! Desdemona is here! She's here!"
"Did you not get the voices?" "I. . ."
"You know that you did. Inside Takshaka. The voices warning you about going Meta. That was the Sniffing General speaking."
"Who?"
"The General's in charge of the layers. You made him very, very angry. You heard him, didn't you?"
"Yes. But --"
"And the others -- the Stash Riders, is it? How very quaint -- they didn't hear the voice. I wonder why?"
"Because they. . ." But I was feeling it bad.
"Because you are indulging in Tapewormer. Alone. The others are just figments.
Nothing is real."
I couldn't take it any more. I was trying to get up, struggling with the wet sheets. "Get out of my house!" I screamed, but the Cat just laughed. He pushed me back easily, with one finger. I collapsed back onto the bed, beside Des. She still hadn't woken, and I suppose I should have seen it by now.
The Game Cat was looking down at me. His face had turned cold. "You ever heard of Curious Yellow?" he asked.
"What? No. . . I. . . vaguely. . ." "It means nothing to you?"
"Isn't it some high-level Vurt. A yellow feather? Why? Should it mean something?"
The Cat sighed, wearily. "Let me tell you about Curious Yellow. It's a sucker fuck, my kittling. A testing ground, if you like. A rites of passage game. It's painful. We are at this moment inside Tapewormer. It's makes the past beautiful. It takes out all the bad stuff. Exaggerates the good. Curious Yellow is the exact opposite. It makes the past
into a nightmare, and then strands you there, with no hope of release. Only knowledge will get you out. Listen, I've been there. It takes all you've got."
"So?"
That's where your sister is. Curious Yellow. Trapped there. Suffering. Dying. And you, young man, are spending your time in wanker feathers like this one, making believe that she is safe. That disgusts me."
This speech had finished me. It felt like I was being told some ultimate truth; I knew it to be true. And yet it went against the world I was living in.
Maybe I just wanted to deny it.
"Am I getting through?" the Cat said. "You're confusing me."
"I had to do this, Scribble. Tapewormer is not the way. I need you out there." "Where?"
"The real world. You'll be pulling out soon. And when you do. . . all this will make sense. I have something to ask of you. Will you look after my brother for me? No, don't protest. His name is Tristan. In this version of the world you never meet, but in reality you do. We are. . . well. . . we're not very close. Not these days. He has just suffered a great, great loss. I would like to offer some condolences. . . alas, it is not to be. He needs help, Scribble. Would you do this for me? No, no, don't say anything. Just remember these words. Consider this a dream -- it may be easier that way -- and that soon you will awake. Do you understand?" "Almost."
"Good. Let Sirius guide you."
Game Cat reached inside his jacket and pulled out a feather. It was a silver feather. "Do you have anything to give me?" he asked.
I shook my head. The feather was holding me, the way the lights were dancing in
it.
"That card will do." He was looking over at our bedside table. The strange card
was lying there, the one with the fool and the dog. "Give me that."
I gave it to him and he placed the feather in my hands. It rested in my palm like a sliver of the moon.
"Do you know what it is?"
"It's a Silver. An Operator feather. I. . ." "I know. It gets to you, doesn't it?"
"Never seen one before. It's very beautiful."
"It's name is Sniffing General. The General is a Doorgod. Perhaps one of the
most powerful. Be very careful, when dealing with him. You may find need of him one day."
"Where did you get it?" "Hobart gave it to me."
I was so shocked, I almost dropped the Silver. "You've met Hobart?!"
"Sniffing General is Hobart's servant."
Everybody knew about Hobart, but nobody knew anything. Just the hundreds of rumours that surrounded the name: Hobart invented Vurt. Hobart is alive, Hobart is dead. Hobart is a man, a woman, a child, an alien. Some have called her Queen Hobart, and they have worshipped her. To others Hobart is a dream or a myth, or just a good story that somebody made up, so good that it stuck around, became truth. Nobody knew anything.
"What is Hobart, Cat?" I asked. But his eyes were far away, his mouth set into a tight line.
"Some Viper is coming in the system, Scribble. I'm getting it. Bad messages. I really don't need this, young man. This is your fuck up! This is what you get when you go Meta. We're getting some leakage from Takshaka Yellow. May I advise a jerkout?"
"Wait! Game Cat! What's happening?" "It's all yours, Scribble. It's your show."
There was a noise coming from beyond the door. "Game Cat!!!"
He'd vanished.
Oh Christ! What was that?
There was a light shining under the bedroom door, and I knew that I'd turned all the lights out before following Desdemona to bed. It was a green and violet light, and I could smell saffron in the air as drifts of smoke found their way in through cracks.
I turned to wake Desdemona.
She had slipped away from me, unseen.
I was alone. Everything was slipping away; the room, the world, the love.