Hallucinating (19 page)
Nulight nods. Robin Goodfellow is right. The wheel of the year, that began for the foursome with the heat of Lughnasadh, is approaching resolution: Midsummer Day. Nulight begins to ponder what they might do if they have eight songs on that day. In so fragmented a land, how can they communicate what they have done and what they have found?
...leaving is so hard to do...
And this is the strange thing. The quartet don't want to leave. For Nulight, sitting in the forest garden by the river, often alone, there is a hypnotic quality to life in Llangollen that has impressed itself on his mind. This place, he tells himself, could be a home. It has that combination of peace and familiarity, of quietude and green, that for him makes perfect sense.
The drones are drawing him into their grasp. When he sits, it is amongst sine waves.
But some days after the equinox they have to leave. They have to move on, deeper into Wales: towards Beltane.
They depart, sad.
That evening they camp in the hills a mile or so north of Llangollen, where, despite the clement weather, they are tetchy and not happy, Nulight in particular. He lets Rubycon and Ricochet loose, not caring where they stray, and as for Incense and Peppermint he throws them a few scraps of meat then chases them out of the camp. Not a happy bunny.
They are playing improvised music in the key of C—that's right,
In C
—when who should turn up but Robin Goodfellow, explaining that he is worried about them. They offer him a crust and a mug of water, which he accepts, polite man that he is. Then the chilled evening turns into a bit of a discussion. The theme of this debate: are melodies discovered or are they created?
Jo is of the opinion that they are created. "Creativity derives from the human condition," she says, "which is a given that can itself be derived from the particulars of consciousness. When a songwriter creates a melody, she is reformulating an aspect of the real world, that she has modelled in her mind, then transmuted. Melodies therefore are created, though it would be true to say that their source material is always something out there in the real world. I touched on this when I spoke with Ilex Power at Avebury."
But Robin disagrees. Perhaps inspired by the theories of Marian de Musica, he suggests that melodies are discovered. "I think melodies as yet unheard by human ears already exist..." He waves a hand at the heavens, "... out there somewhere, in the universe. They are entities of maths, you see, relationships of number reified by the physics of the universe—by the existence of air molecules and of physical objects such as larynxes. If you go back to the late mediaeval period, for instance, and look at a tune like Greensleeves, each note has a precise and particular relation to the two adjacent ones. It is a mathematical series. Such series cannot be created, they have to be discovered, because they already exist as part of the mathematical and physical actuality of the universe—and when they are discovered, they are brought into human minds, where they remain, untouched. I do not believe they are transmuted."
Impasse. On this note, they decide it is time to retire to their sleeping bags. Robin bids them farewell.
Next morning, they go back to Llangollen. It is a split decision, Nulight and Jo in favour (Jo because in Llan there is a hunky Welsh bard with whom she slept), Sperm wavering, with only Kappa in favour of heading south, and that because she knows she might be returning to the site of Happy Valley, where she and Nulight met pre-invasion.
So the group returns to the forest garden. Robin receives them with a grin and a shrug. "I know the feeling of not wanting to leave," he says. "When I was young, I had what people in those days called a proper job. After my annual summer holiday I didn't want to return to work. Summer warmth outdoors was my home, and I didn't want to leave
home.
"
"What a bummer," Jo says, as everybody else sighs and nods in agreement.
"It was 2023 and the beginning of my conversion to real life—you all know what I mean by real life. So, I was homeless and travelling for a while, but luckily I was a moderately good flute player so I busked wherever I could. Of course, I would then get arrested for melodic begging."
"Melodic begging?"
"Like aggressive begging, but with the flute replacing a threatening manner. There was a related offence called non-melodic begging that was specifically aimed at didgeridoo players. After I was arrested a few times, I threw away my flute and hung out at the Alternative Energy Centre in Machynlleth. That's when my interest in wind, sun and water power began, and also my interest in permaculture, companion planting and forest gardens. Then it was a decades-long slog to..." He waves his hand at the entirety of the new Llangollen. "... all this."
Nulight nods. He is feeling wistful. He is aware that they have not found a spring equinox song; perhaps that is why leaving Llan is proving difficult. Or, then again, it could be because they have not handed back their wooden brooches—symbolically they have not left this place. For the rest of the day they stay in the sine wave grove and improvise music: guitars, trumpet, harmonium, an unusual mix, but a good one.
Next day they leave again. They have to continue the quest. But it is a wrench. Nulight feels like a plant torn from its earth.
They camp a couple of miles out—the Horseshoe Pass up ahead—and take a bite to eat, nothing major, just a few biscuits and some dried fruit; water from a stream, cool in a thermos. The sense of loss, of something in the dynamic of the group awry, makes them quiet. The wind moans around them, but the sun is shining through light, fluffy clouds; and then there is a flurry of chords as Sperm and Kappa strum their guitars. In moments there are trumpet notes and harmonium riffs intertwining.
Suddenly, without warning, like bubbles in a spring, a five note tune appears. Nulight is unaware of who first found it—this tune simply
arrived.
Because it is new and pleasing, they play with it.
And then, suddenly, without warning, they hear a voice singing.
The melody sung by the voice is not the same as their tune, but it is similar. Nulight looks around, his trumpet faltering, but although Kappa has also ceased playing Sperm strums on, changing the minor key to major, and Jo also carries on, her fingers rippling up and down the keyboard of the harmonium. Then a figure walks into their camp, and it is Robin Goodfellow, singing heartily. The NPT music does not stop. His lyrics repeat x5. Then he smiles, and ceases, and the strumming is over.
Nulight stands up. "Man, that's a beautiful song," he tells Robin.
"Certainly is. Local, you see. I heard you playing it."
"We weren't quite playing it," Kappa says. She glances at Nulight, adding, "Mind you, we were pretty close..."
"A local song?" Nulight says. "Hey! This is our sixth song. Man, we
got
it."
The others agree. By chance, perhaps, they have their spring equinox tune.
"Your quest may continue," Robin says, "and I for one am glad about that. I believe that this is the song you need—deep and true, and old. It's called Step On The Green. Keep it, take it south, play it when you need to. We give it to you with our best wishes."
Jo is nodding, as if something about the events in Llangollen has become clear in her mind. But she says nothing.
...the revealing...
They encounter Deputy Smark at the very top of the Horseshoe Pass, where the wind is freezing, mist is all around, and there are only sheep for company. Nulight, though annoyed, is cool about the encounter because his joy at finding the sixth song is strong. He looks Deputy Smark up and down and says, "You farm alot up here, then?"
"Not at all," replies the Deputy. "I don't farm at all."
"Everyone's got to farm these days," Nulight remarks.
Deputy Smark nods. "Most people, certainly. So, you are heading north."
Kappa says, "We're returning to Happy Valley."
"Dyffryn Clwyd, eh?"
"Quit the clever talk. We don't want you following us again." Kappa seems angered by the presence of the interloper. "We're on a roll," she says. "I didn't mind you before, but now we're nearing the end of our year and we don't want you putting obstacles in our path."
With a smile Deputy Smark replies, "An obstacle or two never hurt questers."
"Is that your purpose?" Kappa asks.
"Careful, now," Deputy Smark says, glancing at the mountain tops, then returning his gaze to Kappa.
A thought strikes Nulight. He is remembering the riddle contest, and that strange final question. He asks Kappa, "D'you know who this dude is?"
The reply is immediate. "I don't know him, no."
Then Nulight understands. His sweets is not lying to him, but there is something between these two. What? Buddah, the Arthurian link! It must be something relating to Master Sengel.
It
must
be. Nulight decides it is time for honesty. He asks Deputy Smark, "Ever been to the Chalice Well in Glasto?"
Deputy Smark tries to hide his surprise, but he fails. "I might have been, why?"
"I think you're a lackey of Master—"
"Nulight!" Kappa interrupts.
"I know the truth," Nulight says. "Man, the time for faffing is over. Who are you?"
"I am Deputy Smark."
"C'mon, yeah? And the rest."
Deputy Smark seems to be considering what to do. The cold strikes wet and brisk as mountain winds send mist over and around them. Sheep bleating, wind moaning; a desolate place for an engagement.
Here comes the truth. "All right then, New Pagan Troubadours. Kappa already knows my rank, anyway—and there's only three months left before Midsummer Day."
"So?" Nulight asks.
"I am Deputy Smark, one of Master Sengel's five lieutenants, of whom Kappa is the most recent. Now you have met us all, Nulight."
And Nulight nods in grim recognition. The leather dude on the Harley, Sir Trance-alot, van der Woofer, Deputy Smark and Kappa: the inner circle. "And your job was?" he asks.
"To act as—and please forgive my terminology—Devil's Advocate. Master Sengel worried that a carrot alone would not be enough to power your quest. He wanted a stick as well. I'm no Christian, of course."
"Man," Nulight replies, "you can tell Master Sengel that we don't need his interfering ways
any
more. You can tell him to fuck off."
"I won't be doing that. But now that the quest is approaching its end, we have to decide what to do next."
"What d'you mean?"
"We have to decide how to present what you have learned to the public."
Nulight is amazed. "Public? What public?"
"Your fans. Robin Goodfellow told you—and no, I wasn't bugging your conversations, I asked him after you left Llangollen the first time."
"Man,
what
are you talking about?"
Deputy Smark answers, "Suppose, as now seems possible, you succeed in your quest and find eight songs that can't be remixed by the aliens. Those songs could be broadcast to Britain. Some would argue that they should be. But I think a test should be made first, a live concert, a gig, if you like, a magical day spent in the company of people like ourselves."
"Yeah," Nulight murmurs, impressed with this idea. All thought of antagonism has gone. What matters is the people of this country.
Sperm and Jo are nodding, and despite the inclement surroundings there is light and enthusiasm in their faces. Nulight turns to Kappa.
She shrugs. "I knew his rank," she admits, "but not who he was or what he was up to."
"I believe you," Nulight says. He turns to Deputy Smark and says, "Okay, dude—you return to Glasto and tell Master Sengel, one, that he's an interfering bastard, and, two, that we like the sound of a test. I think I know where and when—do you?"
"There could only be one place and time."
"Right. Yeah. Man, you better split and get organising. I want a good crowd, right? I want a sea of tie-dye, you get me? I want black sonic stacks and Sennheisers and holographic projectors, all that shit. It's gonna be the best day since the invasion." He claps his hands together and adds, "Don't hang around, dude—only three months, like you said. We're going to Dyffryn Clwyd for Beltane, and then we'll head south to the Plain. Yeah?"
Deputy Smark glances down the Horseshoe Pass towards Llangollen. "I have to admire your committment," he says. He walks over and shakes Nulight's hand. "I had my doubts about you and your crowd, as did Sir Trance-alot. But you proved us wrong. You're good, Nulight—you've got it."
"I'll never lose it for as long as I live," Nulight replies.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
...there's time for a lacuna here, hope you don't mind...
It's great to mooch around Dyffryn Clwyd and wait for Beltane. The clement weather, the identification of Deputy Smark and the success of the quest are all factors that combine to create a vibe of pleasant anticipation amongst the New Pagan Troubadours. The ponies remain healthy and the mutts have both put on weight. Once, when two rough dudes try to attack them, the mutts even chase them away.
Dyffryn Clwyd is all that remains of a larger community that fragmented and migrated west. Beside the sea, the departed people reasoned, was the best place in North Wales to survive: low ground, loads of ocean fish, better weather than high on the hills. Many communities went west. Many survive.
Dyffryn Clwyd survives on sheep, goats and farming; one hundred and sixty people living in brick houses run by hydro-electric and wind-turbine power. Nearby are other communities formed by the fragmentation of Ruthin. The smaller ones live around the woods, elsewhere they are by streams; over a thousand people in all, which is alot for post-invasion times.
Time passes. The weather is showery for a fortnight, and then, quite suddenly it seems to Nulight, the end of April is nigh, warm and green; and Beltane is in sight. The foursome have been active, yet also chilled—working the land to pay their way, rehearsing their six songs, milking sheep and goats. Jo has found a young man to shag, while Sperm has met the teenage sons of a local bard, whom he is giving guitar lessons. Nulight and Kappa are happy together, just
being
on the land. Nulight has discovered a stache of Porcupine Tree CDs in someone's house, and he is well pleased, discovering again the delights of sunday living and dreaming stupid, not to mention looping the moon. Kappa, meanwhile, is re-reading Manfred Max-Neef, E.F. Schumacher, Bill Mollison and Robert de Hart—all these guys have books in the local eco-library, where Kappa also finds classics by James Lovelock and Erich Fromm.
But there is also an in/out angle during these mellow weeks. Master Sengel gets messages to Dyffryn Clwyd using the leather dude on the Harley-Davidson. As promised, a gig is being set up, which H.O., ie. Glastonbury, are advertising
everywhere.
...the greenwood...
So today is the day before Beltane, and palpable excitement is in the air. This is to be expected, since love juices are on the menu tonight. Heh heh, says Zappa (RIP). A twitchy nervosity falls upon the people of Dyffryn Clwyd as the sun descends westward and they begin their rituals. Most important first: as the sun sinks into oblivion all the fires are put out, so that there is no flame during the night. People start sounding drums, klaxons and horns from their upper floor windows, announcing the night, and Nulight is one of these, playing his trumpet.
A few folks grab sleep, but others want to be awake all night. The NPT troupe is in this latter group.
Nulight abandons his colleagues and enters the wood next to Dyffryn Clwyd, this being a deep, dark and damp place. It is not warm, but it is not as cold as it could be. He is carrying a rolled up mat made from reeds and a pair of secateurs. Already he can hear the sounds of people getting it on. Soon he has met a young blonde, who approaches him, smiling, and it is not long before they are pawing over one another, grunting and groaning. It is all good clean fun: two-fingers to Judeo-Christian morals.
In this way, the night passes. Nulight has two partners, neither of whom are familiar to him. He does not get their names; they do not seem to recognise him. Jo, no doubt, will have passed his tally by an order of magnitude, getting through quite a few greenwood marriages. And Nulight hears alot of singing; one tune in particular, which he puts to the back of his mind, hoping that he will recall it later for possible quest use.
Come the hour before sunrise, Nulight is using his secateurs to gather hawthorn from the edge of the wood. Alot of people are leaving, their clothes and hair in disarray, shagged out, as it were; but smiley faces everywhere. Young women are kneeling to bathe their faces in May Day dew. Everyone carries hawthorn branches. Back in Dyffryn Clwyd, Nulight joins the other people decorating windows and doorways with blossomy hawthorn, which he does to the sound of pipes and drumming in the street. At this time of year everybody can play a musical instrument, even if it is only a drum made from hide stretched over a rusty old tin.
Sun-up, and people are gathering now on Dyffryn Clwyd's central green, where a town elder holds the flaming torch that he has kindled from a wooden spindle-and-socket. And so he lights the Need-Fire, and all the masters and mistresses of this village's houses put its flame to their own torches, which they transfer to their hearths. The music is becoming loud and raucous, so Nulight grabs his trumpet and joins a jolly procession, which winds its way around the town. On the way more processions are encountered, and among them are the other three NPT members, all of whom look happy.
Next it is off to the maypole, which is painted fetching in white, red and black, respectively for the Maiden, Mother and Crone. People are bouncing around it, holding the many ribbons that adorn it, and there is much more music, supported now by an army of drummers and percussionists whose din makes the air thrum. Once again Nulight hears snatches of that tune he noticed in the woods—nice choon. Lyrics are hard to discern, something about feet and slippers.
It is a bit chaotic, now; the festivities of the maypole seem to have energised the people. MC Town Elder has all but given up keeping order. No point, really. There is food and drink coming out of various houses, and even the local dogs are running about like loons. Incense and Peppermint join the rough-and-tumble.
As the morning progresses, it is time to meet the May Queen and the May King. The latter is the father of Sperm's two pupils. The former is much younger—a girl who would not have been a-maying last night—and who is accompanied by a retinue of tiny maids. She wears a white gown and a yellow headband, and she is covered with flower garlands, the very image of Flora, of Blodeuwedd, of that primal figure of the season itself. Against her is set a less happy figure, the Queen of Winter, who is a man dressed in grey women's clothes. His music is rough and clanging, made as it is by hammers and chisels clanking against one another. His task is to capture the May Queen, but he fails and is banished, as winter is banished by summer.
...fireside chat...
The foursome sleep from noon to early evening, then reconvene alongside a dozen locals at the fire on the green, which burns bright on dead branches gathered the day before from the wood. They are all a tad wrecked. It is a tea and toast moment; no alcohol, no drumming, much reflectivity.
Jo and her beau Freeman are discussing the element of rhythm in music. "It's all about the body," asserts Jo, "one aspect of the body in particular—the juicy bits."
Freeman replies, "That's quite a generalisation you're making."
Nulight chips in, "Hey, like, it also depends on your perception of time."
Jo nods, and without hesitation replies, "Obviously you're right, Nulight. Me, I don't see time as a river or anything like that. Our inner concept of time is a model of something in the real, outside world. It has to be. That's how consciousness works, making a model of the real physical world in the mind. What, then? There's only one thing it can be, and that's the unidirectionality of the macroscopic world. Ultimately this, what you might call forward direction of time comes about because, with a finite limit to the speed of light, macroscopic events unfold in order—and it's this order that our minds are modelling."
"What about the microscopic world?" asks Freeman.
"We don't live in the microscopic world, that's for subatomic particles operating according to quantum theory. In the microscopic world, time is a quantity with a different meaning. You can substitute T with minus T and it makes no difference. Time only runs one way in the macroscopic world. Our sense of the arrow of time is an internal model of the order of physical events."
"And the relation to rhythm?" Freeman asks.
"With a sense of time, we have a means of marking the regularity—or otherwise—of unfolding events. Our bodies came first, human rhythms, of the heartbeat, and of sex. Walking, jogging, running."
"Making love," somebody says.
Jo grimaces. "Fucking's what it is, okay?"
"That reminds me," Nulight interjects, "yeah last night, right, there was a really lovely song that I heard in the woods..." He scrunches up his face and tries to recall the tune. In a hesitant voice he hums what he can remember of it. "It goes kinda..."
One of the locals pipes up, "That sounds like Put Your Foot In My Slipper."
"Huh?"
The local, a shaven-headed young man with dragon tattoos up and down his arms, whistles a melody, and at once Nulight knows it is the one he heard.
Then Kappa says, "I heard that song last night too, and it stood out from all the other folk tunes."
"Me too," Jo agrees.
"It's been around for ever," says the young man, shrugging.
Sperm is up and running away to fetch his guitar.
Nulight glances at Kappa and says, "You reckon this is the one?"
"Could be, yeah."
A few minutes later Sperm has returned, and the young man sings again, this time to an accompaniment of chords. The tune is happy and strong and true: a reflection of the activities it describes. When the foursome begin clapping the rhythm, smiling at one another and trying out variations, Nulight knows they have found their seventh song. And he is delighted.
...music for pieces of fish (a brief reflection on rhythm)...
In 'Music For Pieces Of Wood', Steve Reich wrote a composition that explored the notion of rhythm created by additive processes. Later, in 1978, the first flowering of his genius was to arrive in the form of 'Music For Eighteen Instruments'.
'Music For Pieces Of Fish' was written by Rich, the drummer with Hanging Gardens Of Fungus. (Rich is a fan of the three great minimalist composers: Steve Reich, Terry Riley and Philip Glass.)
Ten musicians wearing thick gloves each take two deep-frozen mackerel from a freezer. These instruments are struck together in the manner of Australian stick percussion. At the beginning of the piece, the rhythms that the musicians play are complex, almost baroque, and much concentration is required. The beat is 7/4 at a tempo of around 130. But as the mackerel begin to defrost their sound alters, becoming less precise and more liquid, and as this inevitable process continues the music also changes, becoming more straightforward and less ornate, until, when the fish are limp and almost unusable, the rhythm is a simple seven beats, unadorned; a monotonous slap. This marks the end of the piece. Cod or small pike may also be used.
The classic recording of this piece was made in 2045 by the avant-garde group Folic Acid (Lemon Sorbet Records, Cat. No. LEM20381-2CD).
...southward bound...
The foursome are sad to leave Dyffryn Clwyd. (They're
always
sad when they leave!) They depart a week after May Day. Soon, they are back in England and way, way south.
They did not plan to get lost. The roads to the north of Salisbury Plain are complex, some of them impassible—blocked by fallen trees, damaged by floods, a few so overgrown they terminate in tangled masses of vegetation. After a few days they decide to retrace their steps, ending up quite a few miles north and east of the plain; going completely the wrong way. They have no maps of this area. Well, at least it isn't raining.
One day in the middle of June they are following the old A4 west, hoping to pick up a southbound road from the Marlborough area, when they spy a bus in a lay-by. Sitting on a deck-chair beside this bus is an old man playing a tin whistle.
For Nulight, the shape and colour of the bus rings a bell in his mind. As he approaches, he remembers something... Karelia. Could it be? He is walking twenty yards ahead of the others, Incense and Peppermint at his side, so he calls out to the old man, "Hey, there, 'morning." Then a moment of recognition. "Aren't you Dice George?"
The old man nods. "I am. I recognise you."
Nulight reaches out to shake hands. "Wow, man, great to see you! Nulight of Voiceoftibet Records—and the quest. Hey, you might have heard of our quest."
"I have heard of it. What are you doing round here?"
"Trying to get south, man, to the stones."
Dice George is an amiable chap; he stands up to point southwards and say, "Follow the road that turns off next left, then turn right to hit the cross plains road. When you get to the old A303, turn right and go on 'til you see the stones."
"Thanks, man."
"I'd show you myself, but Karelia has broken down again. The alky pump is shot to pieces. And my laptop's crashed."
Nulight glances at a computer lying on the ground in Karelia's shade. "That's, like, solar powered?"
"Yeah."
"But what do you use it for?"
"Email. Stuff."
Nulight shivers. This is evidence of the return of technology. He no like. "You can email people?"
"Oh, yeah. Only on a tiny network, though, and it's only been active since the equinox."
"Right... hey, how does it work?"
"Radio waves. No ground links, of course."
Nulight nods. That's something of a relief, for ground networks would imply organisation and capitalism and authority. He says, "Yeah, well, thanks for the directions, man. So, see you at the stones?"
"I was heading that way when I broke down. Yeah, I'll be there."
Nulight glances at Karelia. "Anything we can do to help?"
Dice George shakes his head and replies, "You go on. My aid will be here in a couple of days."
So they depart Dice George and Karelia, and soon they are traipsing over Salisbury Plain. The weather holds. It's gonna be a hot summer. This they like.