CHAPTER SEVEN

Since the Queen was ever-so-slightly frosty toward Vivienne, Cosimo decided to find somewhere to stay. Vivienne said she was willing to stay with him. These simple agreements seemed immediately to take on the aspect of a binding pact. But both were old and wise enough to know that nothing in life is immutable. They did not need to hedge these arrangements with subsidiary clauses concerning what might happen; they would simply take it as it came. Neither had any firm plans for the next week or so, the festivo started tomorrow, it was late June and the weather was top-hole. They hired a car (after Cosimo suddenly realised he had left yesterday’s vehicle parked on the mainland and arranged to have it collected) and drove over to the harbour to have a proper look around. People were by now pouring off the ferry in hordes. It was carnival time on the island and even the locals seemed to have decided to make the most of the unavoidable, while also ensuring their houses were carefully locked whenever they sallied forth in best summer gear to mingle with the visitors. The local traders and hotel-keepers loved it.

Vivienne and Cosimo felt like Mary and Joseph looking for somewhere to stay, although at a different season and in another country from the one in the myth-cycle. And bearing in mind that in Vivienne’s case and at her age it would have been a different miracle from the one in Scripture had she been preggers – as she remarked to Cosimo after their fifth refusal.

Cosimo was thinking of returning to the best hotel and offering a large bribe when they strolled past an estate agent’s that had property to rent, in particular one charming cottage in a nearby street with a wonderful view of the harbour. There were photographs of the interior and the views from the front windows.

"There’s the honeymoon cottage," said Cosimo, pointing. "I’m not usually impulsive, but I’m having that – we’re having it."

Vivienne was holding onto his arm, dressed in a floral frock and wearing a broad-brimmed white hat which Cosimo had just bought her. "Kept women must have some pressies," he had quipped.

"I certainly won’t argue with that," she agreed. "It’s a long time since I was last spoilt by a millionaire."

The estate agent knew an enthusiastic client when fate dropped one into his lap – or rather, two. Well-dressed pair, well-spoken, money no object, no haggling, obviously not married: you could feel the sparkle coming off them. "The place belongs to Tom Atmos, local builder. Very nice property. Just been completely refurbished. Tom lives across the road there." He pointed to the tower and Vivienne noticed a sleepy cat looking out of an upper window.

For Vivienne the dream atmosphere of the island was increased today due to her inebriations of the previous evening. Add to that a couple of early aspirin to still the ache at the back of her eyes and for her the street scene with all its noise was witnessed at one remove. But beyond even her spaced-out vision and hearing, the island whispered ‘Magic, magic…’ The breeze that blew her dress about her legs and ruffled Cosimo’s hair seemed to have an important message to convey.

"It’s at least three hundred years old, and probably a lot more than that," said the estate agent as he unlocked the door to the cottage. Delightful smells of fresh paint and polish were wafted to their appreciative nostrils. The walls were massive, the stone-mullioned windows delightful. Heavy beams, a vast inglenook, stripped pine boards and thick oriental rugs. Cosimo loved it, it was his idea of how a house should look and feel and smell. It seemed to contain its own silence; hardly a sound reached them from the street. At the back was a large garden surrounded by a huge high wall up which climbed all manner of good things to eat and smell and see.

There was not the slightest doubt in Cosimo’s mind. He and the estate agent discussed terms while Vivienne wandered around the garden in her large white hat.

Unexpectedly (but it was his house) Tom Atmos arrived and took in the situation at a glance. He and Cosimo were strangely alike, tall, well-built, well-preserved men. Vivienne took an immediate shine to Tom. She felt there was a lot more to him than met the eye, that he had reserves of strength and wisdom. The same feeling she had about Cosimo, in fact, and about someone else also: who was it she was thinking of? Cosimo and Tom were on the same wavelength straight away. Most of Cosimo’s businesses had been founded on people like Tom, small regular clients in the building industry. It turned out that Tom knew immediately who Cosimo was.

"Merrill and Sons!" he exclaimed. "I’ve been buying bricks off you people for years." He was really quite chuffed that Cosimo had decided to rent his cottage. "Perhaps now I can get a larger discount," he joked. Cosimo might be a very useful contact.

The three men wandered out into the garden to join Vivienne among the flowering shrubs. A profusion of uncut privet was in full white blossom, heavily scenting the air with its evocative perfume, the essence of memory, the unstopped phial of the past. Cosimo noticed the top of a queer structure peering over one wall like an inquisitive neighbour up a ladder. It looked like a flattened pyramid. He asked Tom what it was and was surprised at the sudden antagonism immediately apparent in his landlord’s face.

"One of Queen Sudja’s architectural gems!"

"Maksude’s?"

"Ever heard of her?"

Cosimo sensed it would be wise to be non-committal. "The name rings a bell." He winked at Vivienne, unseen by the other two.

"The blight of the island," Tom grumbled. He did not mention the light that flashed from the edifice during the hours of darkness. He didn’t want to stymie the prospect of a long lease from such an ultra-desirable tenant. "If she had her way, the whole place would be covered in those monstrosities. But luckily there are some of us who see to it that she don’t always get what she wants." He was chuckling now with self-satisfaction.

‘Brave man,’ thought Cosimo. ‘I shouldn’t like to stand in her way.’

"Good for you," said Vivienne, thoroughly approving of Tom’s sensible attitude.

Nice woman, thought Tom. Good looking too. Reminded him of Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind. Must be the hat. Looked like a lady, and acted like one also. Something familiar about her. Was it just the resemblance to the film star? He was suddenly aware that he was gawping at her, and he looked away. She had noticed and didn’t mind at all. One never shunned an admirer at her time of life. Had she met him before? There was something about him.

A small sea breeze wafted the scent of privet in sweet waves of recollection, trapping it between the high walls of the warm garden, a distillation of the languidly untouchable and unreachable.

"I do like this place," said Vivienne, taking off her hat and touching up her hair. "You have kept it wonderfully well, Mr Atmos. Nothing out of place here. Except that." She indicated Sudja’s lighthouse.

"Thank you." Tom was immensely chuffed by her praise. "Some people have no good things to say about builders – "

"Not I!" cut in Cosimo.

Tom gave a slight bow toward the great brick maker. "I never mess about with buildings, never alter what is good enough as it is. I like to preserve, mend and preserve. If I knew any Latin I would have that as my motto."

"Preservatio et mendificatio?" suggested Cosimo with a dry smile. They all laughed.

"Something like that," agreed Tom. "These days people just want to pull things down. Perfectly solid buildings levelled just for profit."

With the timely mention of the profit principle, the estate agent tried to steer the interested parties in the direction of signing a few papers. "Now about the lease…"

Tom stood back and left the details to the professional. What very nice people – if only more like them came to the island they’d have no trouble. When Vivienne introduced herself, making small talk while Cosimo and the estate agent manoeuvred, Tom said, "Well, I never! I was just thinking that you looked like Vivien Leigh, and now it turns out you have the same name."

"It’s the hat," said Vivienne, laughing like a drain. And she threw it up into the air from sheer high spirits and caught it again by the rim between both flattened palms, clapping hands smartly in between toss and catch, just like an eleven year old with her new school uniform.

The island was well to the south and its vegetation was luxuriant, close to Mediterranean. There were even a few palms in sheltered spots. Some cacti, the hardier varieties, grew outdoors. The agave was not unknown – there was a large and flourishing specimen in the cottage garden. The temperature here was usually a few degrees above that of the mainland. Snow was a rarity which brought people out of their houses in wonderment.

This was just as well for Apple and his diminished gang, because the cave was unheated unless they built a fire and, like all caves, cold. The cave mouth was open to the north, which did not help matters. But these were young people, and Travellers to boot and soon they had a fire to heat water and a makeshift oven. Sitting in a circle in the cave mouth, sipping tea seriously from enamel mugs, they seemed old beyond their years.

Star and Frank, the serious ones, were studiously bent over an old book that Star had picked up in a second-hand bookshop near the harbour. When I say ‘picked up’ I mean just that. No money had changed hands with the book’s original owner. It had more or less levitated itself into Star’s rucksack.

At his parent’s home, which he visited from time to time when he was unusually down and unusually out and ravenously hungry, Star had a most exceptional library. His bedroom was wall to wall bookshelves – and such books! Rare old first editions and superbly bound folios from the eighteenth century. "Left him by his uncle," his family would say to interested visitors. "Quite a collector was Uncle Jake." Of course, there was no Uncle Jake. Star was the collector of the family. He had collected from all over. He was a true book lover and would never ever contemplate selling his collection (which might in any case be a rather risky procedure), even though it would have entailed one hundred per cent profit on his original outlay of – precisely nothing!

The present volume had just begged to be borrowed. It had been self-published by an amateur botanist/archaeologist/folklorist who had lived on the island for most of his life (so the introduction informed the reader). He had been lord of the manor just before the outbreak of World War One and the book was ostentatiously dedicated to an aristocratic friend on the nearby mainland who had similar antiquarian and studious preferences. To the Noble Lord - , these insignificant studies in local history etc. etc., dutifully inscribed by one who aspires to be his friend, and so on. "Rather obsequious, even for those times," loftily remarked Star whose democratic tendencies were somewhat offended by this slavering over a title.

What most aroused his interest was a whole chapter on the subject of the island caves. Sir Ramsey Januar de Creville (pronounced ‘Gravy’!), author of this invaluable little tome, opined magisterially that the said caves had been formed by the action of running water in antiquity. As Star succinctly commented, "Well, what else?" Rainwater from the hills to the northern part of the island (the bit nearest the mainland) had forced its way through the limestone to feed eventually into the estuary where Sudja had disembarked on her arrival. The caves had been inhabited by early man and various remains and artefacts had been unearthed. Sir Ramsey had put these on display in a local museum founded by himself.

"Worth a visit, if the museum’s still there," said Star enthusiastically.

The two girls pulled a face and Apple made a rude gesture to Marvellous, as of a hand vigorously stroking a sausage.

"I agree, Star," said Frank, having seen the gesture and having airily ignored it. He really didn’t like Apple much and privately thought him a ‘pervert’.

"Well, here’s another interesting bit," said Star. Everyone but Frank waited in silence and with faces set in stone for yet more revelations. "There is a house behind the caves. Sir Ramsey’s house. Apparently he owned all this part of the island. And he says here," the excitement in Star’s voice mounted, "that the caves made a perfect wine cellar and that he had a tunnel drilled to join them to his own cellars."

"What?" interjected Apple. "You mean that we could walk right into the house through the caves?"

"Well, I expect the old guy would have wanted to protect his wine," said Frank. He’s hardly likely to have left the cellars open for any old Tom, Dick or Harry – or Apple – to come along and help himself to a bottle or six."

"But that was a hundred years ago," sneered Apple, irritated by Frank’s condescending tone. "Walls can collapse. Or they can be given a shove." He winked at the girls. "A nice bottle of Nuits St Georges would go down well with the roast pheasant."

The girls fell about sycophantically, as if he had made a really good joke, both hoping to carry on where Craving had left off. The long-haired poet was their idea of perfection. What they didn’t know was that he wasn’t the least bit interested in either of them, other than as willing hands around the campfire or, if he were really pressed for a partner, as a casual shag. He had determined to keep his eyes skinned for a fresh damsel, one a lot more attractive than those two skinny birds. In the meantime there was Marvellous, and he could do anything a woman could and with an equal ardour. Apple didn’t mind it either way but it would do his image no good to gain a reputation as an exclusive shirt-lifter.

He said, "Come on Marv, let’s do some exploring."

"Can we come too?" squeaked the girls.

"Perhaps later. We’ll have to be very careful at first."

Steve and Frank didn’t ask to be included in the list of explorers. They were interested in the girls – Jade and Crystal (tinkle tinkle!) and were quite happy to be left alone with them without the presence of the sex-god to distract the ladies from their own inferior manly charms.

Apple and Marv checked the batteries in their torches and set off. In actual fact, Apple had an ulterior motive in dragging Marv off into the darkness. He was feeling ragingly horny and the sight of Marv’s tight butt was really turning him on. Something to do with Craving’s running off with that sad old tosser in the lorry. Apple needed to be reassured as to his continuing desirability.

The caves, like all caves, were cold and echoey and dark and dank. Marv wasn’t too sure about this, but he didn’t object to being all alone with his hero. The way was surprisingly well worn and straight and a more practised eye, such as Star possessed, would have realised immediately that it was in fact man-made for the most part. Once they had left the cave entrance behind them, they found it was a fairly easy amble.

"Keep your eyes skinned for any side-paths," said Apple, the compleat explorer. "And make a note of them. We mustn’t get lost."

There was little chance of that.

"What’s that?" Marv stopped; and Apple, close behind him, bumped into his rear, not altogether by accident, and held onto his waist, the crevice of the tight little butt tantalisingly close in the wavering beams of the flashlights.

They heard far-off giggles and then a voice calling, "Be careful, boys!" and a series of stacking echoes from the darkness in front of them.

"It’s Jade," said Marv, half turning and finding himself more or less in his hero’s arms.

"Silly cow!" whispered Apple, his mouth close to Marv’s right ear, his dick beginning to throb alarmingly and urgently.

"Yeah," Marv whispered back as Apple’s hands began to feel for his zip. He really wanted to kiss his hero but he knew that Apple did not approve of men kissing and he therefore had to be content with placing his face against the poet’s strong shoulder and just biting a bit – he knew that Apple did approve of that. The taste of salty skin was very pleasant.

Then came a surprise. For the first time ever Apple’s thick and shapely mouth came down upon his own, wet and open and somewhat urgent for reassurance. They sucked face for a considerable time, their torch-beams flashing wildly about them like an underground son et lumiere or some uncoordinated disco laser show. Marvellous thought he heard the beat of wings. There were many strange sounds in the caves.

They struggled together in momentary passion. Were quickly still – and wet and cold!

"Thanks man," said Apple prosaically. "I needed that. You’re a pal."

Marv made as if to kiss him again, but Apple quickly disengaged, wiped himself off, pulled up his trousers.

"That was great!" Marv enthused, doing likewise.

They went about their business as if nothing had happened, although both felt that a burden had been lifted. Marvellous felt the pangs of love poking about deliciously in his vitals. Again – the beat of wings?

"What is that sound?" Marv stood still, flashing his torch over the rocky walls and ceiling. "It’s like a pulse of some sort."

"Yeah, I can hear it too, a sort of humming."

They listened together. It was as if there were a slight vibration in the walls and floor and ceiling. And there was a cold draught that made them shiver.

"Let’s go on," said Apple. "We might be getting somewhere quicker than we imagined."

After about ten minutes, they came to a door which was locked from the other side and which they could not budge. The humming sound was loudest here and the air flowed more quickly and coldly, chilling to the skin.

"Damn!" Apple stamped his foot against the solid floor and the action looked childish and petulant even to Marv’s besotted eyes. He gave a little giggle. Apple flashed him a glance of irritated enquiry. He had an undeveloped sense of incongruity, especially where himself was concerned.

"Hey! Look at this!" cried Marv.

The light being irregular and the walls monochrome, they had not at first noticed that another short passage led off diagonally from the main one. Following this excitedly they came to yet another door which was unlocked. "Yes!" hissed Apple, punching the air. The noise was very loud here and entering a small chamber they found a number of whirring fans set into the ceiling, obviously part of the air-conditioning. A further door led into a short empty passage cut from solid rock. From this, a left turn brought them to a pair of swing doors the top panels of which were glazed. They switched off their torches. The room beyond was lighted and full of people.

They had stumbled upon Sudja’s underground bunker.

Sir Ramsey’s house was now Sudja’s, together with his woods and lands, caves and estuary and all. Or rather, careful woman that she was, it was all owned by one of Sudja’s companies, of which there were many. She had wanted to buy the whole island, but this had proved impossible. Still, she owned a good quarter of it, and was greedy for more. But others, Tom Atmos among them, were determined to thwart her territorial hunger.

As Tom used to say, "Hitler never managed it. No more will she."

The island was a rough crescent shape, the horns facing the open sea. The outer half circle faced the mainland and was mountainous, its coastline sheer and unbroken, so that to reach the island from the mainland ships had to go round the horns and dock in one of the two main inner harbours. It was something of a geological anomaly for which no known theory was able to satisfactorily account.

The mountains faced north and the crescent was open to the south, which accounted for the very mild climate. Sir Ramsey’s house had been built in the foothills and incorporated the ruins of a medieval castle. The ‘dealing room’ was part of the ancient dungeons. It was typical of Sudja’s organisation that the utmost in tight security had been compromised by a door left carelessly unlocked, through which breach Apple and Marv had gained entry.

"What shall we do?" whispered Marv as the two boys crouched under the swing doors.

"Beat it!" said Apple. And he turned and scuttled back toward the air-conditioning room on his haunches. Marv went crabwise after him.

"Well, this is an interesting little setup," Apple observed once they had reached the safety of the cave passage once more. "This could prove very useful."

"But only so long as they don’t lock the door again."

"Good point, Marv." He put his hand avuncularly on Marv’s shoulder. "But even if that happens we shall be all right."

"How’s that?"

"Star, among his many other accomplishments, is a great opener of locks."

The two lads made their way back through the tunnel and rejoined their companions. All six went in search of the nearest hamlet and some sort of lunch. It didn’t take them too long to come upon the village, the hall of which had been the scene of last night’s party. Sudja’s minions were still cleaning up the mess when the boys and girls arrived. There was a small village store and post office, the last of a dying breed since the Post Office was ‘rationalised’ out of useful existence.

"This’ll be handy for cashing our giros," noted Jade, ever the pragmatist.

Among the people cleaning the village hall ("Scrubbers!" as Crystal had exclaimed with all the venom of the workshy against those gainfully employed) was Eliza, Tom Atmos’s wife, who had been dragooned, much to her annoyance, into the mop-up party. She watched with a disapproving eye from the doorway of the hall as The Six hung about outside the post office. "More bleedin’ drop-outs," was her succinct comment, returning Crystal’s disapproval in equal measure.

"They’ve come for the ‘festivo’," quipped her friend Pamela, aping the Queen’s pronunciation.

"I’ll bloody festivo them, if they try to nick anything," said Eliza with sanguinary emphasis. "Look at them, the little lambs! Why don’t they find themselves jobs instead of sponging off the rest of us?"

This was what Star called ‘bourgeois philosophy’. He had it all figured out. Well, he would do, wouldn’t he, since he had unlimited free time to devote to ratiocination and was rarely mentally idle, although physically he tired easily. Had he, in the past, worked as hard as he thought, he would now undoubtedly be well ensconced in the ranks of those he despised: indeed, at the top of the tree. Except for his fatal flaw, his fastidiousness. Although light-fingered, he did not enjoy getting his hands dirty.

Star had been an overly pampered child. His mental distinction had been evident from an un-naturally early age. His precocity embraced an amazingly manipulative outlook. The parents doted and obeyed and flitted hither and yon at his command. Although he had rarely to issue a direct order. His every want was anticipated and lovingly answered. He could hardly be accused of selfishness, given the manner of his upbringing. Alas! It is not fashionable these days to accuse parents of their children’s faults.

After school came uni. He did brilliantly well – at Oxford, no less. Then came the sad decline, or what others viewed as such. To him, himself, the one and only, it was unthinkable that his natural talents should be bent and twisted and dirtied by application. He was a theorist first and last. He took to the open road, embraced his freedom.

These ‘others’ had expected him to subscribe to their lowly materialist philosophy. He was proud and would have none of it. He had had a glimpse of something higher. His name, his nature and his being were writ on water. He was part of the flow. The current was his master, not mankind. No Prometheus he, bound to the earth’s hard rock, pecked at by want and compulsion. He was himself the eagle, and he soared. Flowing and flying are much the same: one is effortlessly borne, up and along. The central core of his thought was expressed in just two words. LET GO.

He could easily have obtained a First, but just couldn’t be bothered with a degree. He did not need to be told that he knew, to be certified as exemplary. All that was part of the bourgeois philosophy which he execrated.

Star was no humbug. He was the real thing. But not many people knew that. Apple, for one, in his human form. As Appeles, it was quite otherwise; Star was an acknowledged master, Aster or Astorius, the Adept, omnipotent magister of the star-fields.

Something of Appeles’ knowledge filtered down to Apple’s earth-bound mind. In his heart of hearts he was somewhat afraid of Star.

Obversely, Star held a deep but unacknowledged admiration of Apple close to his chest, so that any merely curious pair of eyes should not espy it.

Although Star’s philosophy was LET GO, he found this enormously difficult when it came to girls. His dislike of Apple’s constant philandering was the aspect assumed by his complete lack of self-assurance in this direction and his jealousy of the other’s absence of anything like fidelity. Apple knew how to let go of women all right and how to take them aboard after a moment’s reflection as to the likelihood of his scoring with this or that particular female. With Star, by the time he had stopped dithering, weighing up the pros and cons of the likelihood of his suffering a humiliating rejection, the girl had lost interest and had gone. Usually gone off with someone like Apple. LET GO and GONE seemed somehow in tandem for Star. The ladies admire a man whose motto is nearer to HOLD ON. (Not all the ladies, and not all the time, natch!)

Now Star is fond of Crystal. He adores the name, thinks it quite beautiful. (Just like him to fall for a name!) She is certainly languorously pretty and in the most conventional way: the storybook princess, thick blond hair, blue eyes, long sexy legs. He dislikes the fact that she talks with a Midlands’ accent, but is prepared to overlook this minor fault in pursuit of her other, more desirable qualities.

Anyone only a little less unobservant than Star could have told him straight away that he was wasting his time. He was certainly not her sort nor came anywhere near it. Whenever he tried to engage her in deep conversation she looked the other way and yawned. He had managed somehow to convince himself that this was because she was shy and afraid of revealing her hidden passion for himself. He was totally wrong. She was not at all shy and the only passion which he aroused in her was something like amused contempt. She did keep that hidden from him, for she was not unkind.

He was attempting to sidle up to her even now as they hung around outside the Post Office. He tried to engage her in one of his (to her) incomprehensible conversations. She chattered away to Jade like an over-active parrot, trying to avoid him.

Apple meanwhile, and with much more success, (the big smile, the swagger, the ponytail, assured a good reception) was chatting up the local ladies outside the village hall. In a matter of minutes he had them laughing uproariously and eating from his outstretched hand.

Eliza was much taken with his wandering eyes, which were constantly checking, out her bodily proportions, giving her the impression that he fancied her. "So what are you doing here, you lazy lay-about?" she challenged him. "Come to get stoned out of your mind at the festival, I suppose?"

"Oh, don’t say that!" he wheedled, his eyes flashing and positively undressing her. "I’ve only come for the music. I play piano myself, you know. You got a piano in that hall, love? I’ll play you a song."

"There is a pianner. But it needs tuning."

He opened his arms wide. "So what are we waiting for? You sing it and I’ll play it."

"I’ve got work to do, lad. We ain’t all gentlemen of leisure, like yourself. We have our livings to earn."

"Me too," he lied. "But everyone needs a holiday."

This mollified her. The other ladies egged them both on. "I don’t believe you can play at all," said Eliza.

He took her hand and kissed it tenderly. My goodness! He had a warm soft mouth. She snatched it away. Before they could protest, he waltzed around them and into the hall where he sat down at the ancient upright. He threw back the lid and essayed a couple of chords. He had played worse instruments. The ladies gathered around him as he immediately swung into a melodious rendering of Bridge Over Troubled Waters.

"We need you at the festivo," shouted Eliza. (They were all using Sudja’s word for it now.) "Most of them bands can’t play for toffee. Why don’t you have a go?"

He looked up at her with his big dark smiling eyes. "I would, if I was asked," he said, staring at her bosom, his hands running up and down the keyboard with amazing and tuneful dexterity. Now he was singing the song as well as playing it.

Star, Frank, Marv, Jade and Crystal were looking in through the open doors of the hall. ‘Bloody show-off,’ thought Star, listening to Apple’s admittedly very good playing and observing the cleaning ladies clustered eagerly about the piano.

"Oh, he’s such a talented guy," sighed Crystal, leaning her cheek against the door-jamb. She loved that song.

"Yes, he is," admitted Marv, recalling the incident in the cave.

Crystal looked at Marv with arched eyebrows, then back wistfully toward the ivory-tickler.

Keeping her eyes on the other Travellers at the door, Eliza hung over the handsome pianist in a state of oozy enthusiasm. Such a sweet voice he had, he might almost be professional.

The song ended, Apple stood up. "You like?" he enquired, his white teeth flashing.

The girls all squealed with delight. And then, since it was about time for their tea break, they sat Apple down at a table and served him tea and biscuits for his song. The other Travellers were not included in the treat. Over tea, Apple began to question the girls (but extremely discreetly and as though making only charming conversation) as to who they worked for, where the big house was that he had heard about, who owned it, what the owner did. He even pretended that he was fed up with his present job and was looking for alternative employment, that he had fallen in love with the island and its charming inhabitants (especially the pretty women!) and that he wouldn’t mind settling here.

By the end of the tea break he knew all that the girls knew about Sudja, and he was intrigued. Talk of her harem of young men had given him a few ideas.

"You wanna be careful. She’ll be after you if you don’t watch out," cackled one of the girls. "She’s into good-looking young blokes. And what with your playing and all – "

As fate would decree, the subject of their conversation was just then driving past in her Roller, chauffeured by a Taki immaculate in tightly tailored grey uniform and cap. Seeing the group of lay-abouts at the hall door and sensing that not much work was being done within, she ordered Taki to come to a halt. He got out and opened the passenger door. Pushing her way through the Travellers, she entered the hall, her stiletto heels clacking against the bare boards.

The girls at the table froze.

Standing with shapely legs apart and hands upon her hips, the diminutive mistress was about to give them a piece of her mind in garbled English when she caught sight of Apple.

‘Wow!’ she thought. And ‘Wow!’ again.

Momma Sudja had found another lost boy.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The city was unreal. It seemed solid enough but this was an illusion. The very stones were made of some lightweight material that would not bear scrutiny. Those clouds that drifted above it were heavier than it was, and they were only vapour. Or is it me that is unreal? mused the Grand Archon. And am I projecting my own insubstantiality upon our great metropolis? Self was an imponderable that admitted of no verbal resolution.

He gazed from the enormous windows of his enormous apartment on the sixth floor (the ceremonial floor) of the tallest skyscraper in the central city. Paying due reverence to the caste system reflected in the building regulations, similar but slightly smaller erections were to be seen all around, interspersed with the greenest swards, themselves interspersed with ancient, lovely trees.

He was unable to answer his own semi-rhetorical questions. He could not take himself too seriously. Life might never shake off its joking aspect and the ironical stance must be the one best fitted to deal with these philosophical conundrums. He sighed. Their dreams had overtaken their lives, had become altogether too real. The ironical stance was becoming harder and harder to support against the farcical or tragical background.

"Our dreams have become too real."

He was only half conscious of the fact that he had spoken aloud. The Appeles-hologram opened its eyes, smiled, and gave him a big wink. It lay sprawled on an enormous blue silk sofa like an abandoned doll. Alarmingly, he had already begun to think of it as ‘Appeles’ pure and simple, forgetting that it too was unreal. That of course was where the trouble began, since it could hardly be labelled unreal when it had all the attributes of the actual Appeles and was formed of biologically living skin, bone and muscle. A copy, a clone. To think of it as a hologram was a semantic nicety. Our senses were all too easily deceived.

This second Appeles, this son of his son, was learning at an alarming rate. It had all the knowledge and memory of its father but the Grand Archon could swear that in the transfer process some extra and vital ingredient had somehow been added. It understood more than the original, felt more, intuited more. Of pure unselfish sympathy it had superabundance.

It had already winkled out all his favourite games and was a skilled and particularly sensuous player. The first Appeles had been handsome but this one, when it was playing, exuded an unbelievable exaltation mixed with a beautiful seriousness. The lips and mouth had a softness and a strength…

He gazed across the room at it. It had shut its eyes and was lying back in a comfortable position with a beatific smile on its lovely face. He felt it would not be incongruous to worship it as a living deity.

The archon turned back to the window, shaking his head at his own thoughts. This was what was meant by being smitten! But who could resist such grace and perfection? And humour. Unlike the original Appeles, it never sulked and was hardly ever bad-tempered. That was a huge bonus. The other Appeles’ tantrums had often wearied him. There was none of that now.

Its intellect and wit were keen and delightful. It knew when to be quiet and when to speak, when to act and when to be still. Tact, delicacy – it had both of these. And it was unexpectedly deep, wise almost. Not only had it learned his favourite games, it had invented new and more exciting ones out of the stuff of his own unconscious. On several occasions he had had to warn it to desist lest his life-force should be completely drained.

The other-worlders do not grow old as we grow old but their capacity weakens with age. The archon was older than most and had to pace himself.

At night, the apartment was sealed and expanded as they chose a Setting together, sitting side by side on the sofa with the pattern-book on their knees. These were moments of great tenderness. Sometimes their hands touched and clasped. Often it would rest its smiling head upon the archon’s shoulder and he would turn to kiss it. Like father and son – but even more than that. Brothers. Lovers. Soul-mates. Deepest friends. It was all there.

The archon’s favourite setting was the grey and black wind-swept castle anchored upon towering crags with its fantastic towers and barbaric halls and chambers and vast damp dungeons.

Here he was lord by right, putting aside all the democratic niceties of the metropolis, deliciously unelected, having taken everything by force or arms and the strength of his own imperious will. He was huge and bearded and wore a chased circle of the brightest gold set with large flashing fists of diamonds always upon his magnificent brow. How long and black his hair! How dark and deep his eyes! Appeles was his chosen heir and lover, just that bit slighter than himself, although of course still of breath-taking beauty. When he drew the lad to him he was made aware of his own greater strength and broader frame and the smaller figure fitted perfectly into his, like stopper into vessel. It made him heave a heavy sigh just to think of it.

At other times Appeles might be his handsome strapping son, eager for fight and glory, all white teeth and flashing sword. Or sometimes his submissive wife of unimaginable softness and grace and delicacy which made him shiver with anticipation of the nightly nuptials, she forever his virgin queen.

Often the Grand Archon, longing for a bit of role-reversal, was himself the widowed queen, bewailing the loss of her protective lord and comforted by some usurper courtier who knew how best to still her deep despair, creeping naked at night into her cold bed to make her once more warm.

And in that other life he really was other, escaped from himself, a different entity. Yet in whichever world, however real its fantasy and beguilement, he bore the explicit burden of all created creatures, consciousness itself. Those of the Other World can no more escape it than we can, hideously trapped between being and non-being in the careering world of the opposites. Their lives are more expansive than ours, their life-cycles much longer, but still they are subject to the same wormwood ironies although in a different and larger reality.

The city seemed to shimmer, the straight edges of the tall buildings wavering. Or perhaps it was just his eyes. Uncertainty clutched at his stomach like panic. Dizziness. What was wrong with him and was it nothing more than a failure of nerve? First happiness, and then this. Perhaps the hologram was too much for him and he would have to give it up.

What had gone wrong with their culture? And was the cultural malaise now manifesting itself more concretely within his own body? Of course this body, the hologram, the city, were all unreal. His mind was nothing but a rounded set of suppositions masquerading as an established entity. There was a new tide gathering strength outside their fragile comprehension; already the first gently and ominously lapping waves were apparent at the further edges of the Great Metropolis. The Council had been in continuous session for many weeks and were baffled at their inability to pin down the psychic augury. Cracks had begun to show in the Setting and that had not happened in living memory.

They must soon uncover the meaning which was attempting to speak to them. A new reality must be formulated and realised. The Strange Sphere was the source of the disturbance – the Council had convinced themselves of this fact and he had foolishly acquiesced, impressed by their numerical superiority. But he was still not sure. And perhaps the others were as half-hearted as himself but dared not reveal their doubts. Even so, it was a clue, the merest trace of a lead, and they had followed it up and sent seven of their people hurtling across the conceptual void to root out the source of this unwelcome novelty. One of that number had unbelievably absconded already, almost on arrival, like some political refugee going to ground the moment he sets foot in the promised land, seeking asylum from his own country’s tyrannical regime.

Now, if the latest reports were to be believed, it looked likely that Appeles was about to follow suit. If this happened, it would be doubly shaming for him. He did not know if he could bear the public humiliation. And this from such a beloved source! His eyes wandered back to the resting hologram and he shook his head.

And Eidolon, that slippery, slithery menace – what of him? What foolishness was the vain creature up to now? Definitely not to be trusted, with that enormous chip on his shoulder. The little love-god of that unspeakable island! The Grand Archon had been more than averse to sending Appeles to that place and into the presence of his ex-lover. But the boy was keen to get on and he had not wanted to stand in his way. Who knew what might happen once they were together again? Appeles had said it was all in the past (but such a long past and such an intimate one!) but the archon could all too easily peer into that somewhat transparent mind and saw there many brightly coloured thoughts and desires which did not wear the stark dress of mourning but rather the colourful and shimmering hues of ‘perhaps’ and ‘if only’.

The archon was also aware that Appeles’ love for himself was not altogether disinterested. That of course was as it should be and gave an edge to the relationship. He could not give himself to an ingénue, where was the pleasure in that? The simple-minded had no appeal to his sophisticated tastes. Self-love entered the equation also, he was aware of how large a part it played in the relationship. Appeles was just like himself when young, always had an eye to the main chance. That too was satisfactory since lack of ambition reflected a general lack of life-force in other directions.

But even so, to send him to the island and into the presence of Eidolon, was perhaps chancing his arm too far. For Appeles too, the element of risk was great since the archon grew daily more enamoured of this Appeles and distance made his heart fonder and fonder of this intriguing and very pleasant semblance.

Eidolon was not to be trusted, was so utterly ruthless as to be dangerous. He did not care for other people’s good opinion and had no loyalty except to his own wishes and desires. It looked very much as if the Strange Sphere had somehow infected him with its own troubled spirit. He had gone native, as do all colonists who stay too long away from their home environment. Earth had become his Heaven and his home and he no longer saw through its shrouding cloud. And what was it that kept him chained to that damned offshore island? No one had yet discovered his secret although the archon had of course thoroughly briefed Appeles on the subversive element attached to his mission – had even argued for the boy to attempt to ensnare Eidolon once more in the silk nets and tied strings of exclusive passion, if only to wheedle his secrets out of his unwilling mind. What he did for this city and this people! But then his glance again moved to the blue silk sofa and a self-satisfied smile played about his thin lips.

He wandered out onto the terrace and paced up and down its marble flagstones. The air was warm and a cooling breeze played with his long blond curls and pulled at the watered green silk of his gown. The pleasant trickle of water from marble basins into fish-filled pools calmed him. Sweet-voiced caged birds warbled and whistled.

The rumour was that the earth people were their own flesh and blood, descendants of the first colonists aeons back. He found it hard to give credit to this vague tale and there was absolutely no firm evidence to support the wild supposition. But what evidence could have survived from all that time ago? The early history of his own race was shrouded in mist and mystery, more legend than fact. All records from that mythical epoch had long since crumbled into dust and been dispersed. Even their long lives had been unable to retain any knowledge of a time so distant. And of course their ancestors must have been quite different people from their descendants, given the tribe’s ability to change its own appearance. In that time the Settings had not even been codified and the people were free to take whatever aspect pleased them most. It must have been unutterable chaos. And yet, the freedom of it!

And their lives had not been so long in those adventurous times, a mere fraction of the common lifespan of today. They had been reckless with their life-force, tempting chance and destiny at every turn. How well he understood that sort of thrill; it was exactly the sensation he sought in returning to the ancient castle on its crags night after night. The excitement and the danger were exhilarating.

Yet another rumour was rife in the Great Metropolis in these uncertain times. It was said that in travelling to the Strange Sphere they entered some pre-set anomalous state which resulted in their travelling backward in time, were in fact visiting their own distant past. It sounded quite ridiculous and no one had yet been able to establish any corroborative equations. The physics of such distant travel were uncertain – and the certainty of their uncertainty was just about the only certainty! They were aware that the Strange Sphere was in some way protected. At some point in time (no one knew at which precise point) some sort of device had been incorporated into the spatial surround ensuring that no disruptive agency might pass through. Hence the exhausting need for the Grand Archon’s own special mental talents, assisted and magnified by the abilities of the great machine, in adjusting the drag of this corrective safety shield.

The Grand Archon leant his shoulder against a red-veined marble pillar and inhaled the scent of the dark red roses that trailed over the lacquered pergola. Appeles, coming out onto the balcony, stood close beside him and looked inquiringly into his eyes. The archon shook his head and the hologram, sensing his need for privacy, nodded and went back into the apartment. The archon mentally blessed him for his tact and understanding.

He closed his eyes and looked inward. Now he was Magus Ovsky of the College of the God. How many years of preparation he had spent with the sect! But his was a higher destiny, and they had all known that from the start, so that he had always been treated with the greatest respect, even during his noviciate. Grand Archon, Magus Ovsky, and before that simply Pavlus Satiner. His other names had been put off for so long that he had forgotten them completely although they were of course safely contained in his personal record should he ever wish to consult it. No one ever called him Pavlus now with the exception of course of the beloved Appeles, and then in private only. Names, names! If only they lived shorter lives and had fewer names, identity would not be such a confusing issue with them!

Contemplation; removal from the exterior world. He continued to lean against the marble pillar of the terrace but gradually his form became less and less opaque. Soon it was nearly completely translucent, and a warning shimmer of his outward appearance was all that remained. He meanwhile (the real him? – hard to tell) had retreated to his special place, the inner cell from which the rest proceeded. Such form as remained to him was contained within the primeval egg of his being, floating in empty space, bathed in starlight and the light which has no source.

His contemplation was centred on that strange concept the Dream of Dreams. This relatively new theory had come to dominate all their learning and had upset the old tight well-knit certainties of their physical assumptions. They had of course since before the historical period been aware of the insubstantiality and variability of matter and that awareness must have been innate since his race first became self-conscious. How could it be otherwise, given their inborn capacity for change? They must also have even then been fully cognisant of the relativity of time and it would not have taken them long to experiment with the difference between true and untrue time as it had come to be called. The ability to manipulate the multiple time-fields was however a later accomplishment and not all his people were able to master the intricacies of the subject. From there, it was an even larger step, denied to all but the most talented practitioners, to embrace even the idea, let alone the reality, of Dreaming. There were perhaps no more than a hundred or so known Dreamers and their activities were most carefully circumscribed by the College of the God. One only had escaped this very tight safety night. That one was the elusive Eidolon.

Eidolon. Eidolon. So many trains of thought ended in that name with a question-mark trailing always behind it. The foetus began to pulsate within its egg and its radiance increased. Massing all its considerable forces into one burning ray, the creature, writhing within its shell, attempted, not for the first time, to penetrate the closed world of the Strange Sphere; but the mysterious and obdurate barrier was intact. It became still once more and re-focussed its energies.

The perennial Reality/Dream dichotomy was fast approaching an apocalyptic resolution within the sacred walls of the College of the God where the most able and incisive minds of the time, scientific as well as religious, combined their prodigious talents towards a solution to the age old problem. This too was part of the new current that had begun to flow with increasing rapidity through their old stale world. They had undoubtedly become self-satisfied and flabby and this invigorating newness, changing so many cherished concepts, could at times strike them like terror, leaving them cold and shivering. The latest and most frighteningly revolutionary suggestion of all was that they – their whole civilisation in its smallest parts – were the cumulative dream of the Strange Sphere which in turn was itself the result of their dreaming, both states being symbiotically and indissolubly joined. This theory had been put forward by Iskan Dworl, a man of no mean intellect; and the mathematics he used to back up his tentative proposal were definitely impressive. None had been able to fault them as yet. He had not pressed it upon them with the burning zeal of the maniac but rather in an apologetic and half embarrassed manner which gave it added weight. This then was the theory of the Dream of Dreams, or Symbiotic Theory as it was alternatively known.

Needless to say, Iskan Dworl had been laughed at for such an absurd suggestion, but due to the considerable weight of the accompanying equations the laughter had been hollow and the fear real; one could feel it like a cold draught suddenly blowing through the conference chamber. Pavlus Satiner had not been one of those who joined in the localised hilarity. He knew already that Iskan could certainly not be considered either an idle dreamer (a concept now shot through with irony) or a muddled thinker. The Grand Archon had sensed that icy draught with a keener appreciation than most.

In this muddled atmosphere of consternation and uncertainty rumour had now taken its disruptive part, running excitedly about the city like a small fire-ship among great vessels and causing them as much alarm. No one was immune, not even the greatest and highest, not even himself. Pavlus smiled within his shell, the tiny baby-face creased around the rictus of his amusement. Then suddenly bursting out of his confinement he stood in empty space in all the glory of his robes of state and let the solar winds ruffle his hair and silks until they streamed out behind him. Knowledge! New knowledge! Excitement! Damn the negative aspects of the thing! Change was their natural element and it was a sickness to be afraid of what after all made them what they were, the glory of their race.

What of the rumours? What of the White Vessel?

Mythology or folk-lore (he could not put away his rational scepticism) said that the White Vessel was hidden somewhere on earth. This strange object was part of the creation myth spun by their forgotten ancestors. The first man, Eidolos, (whence the current master of the Strange Sphere took his name) in his wanderings through the Void had come across a deep darkness, a protecting veil. At first he had been unable to penetrate the cloud. Then taking in hand his magic spear, Keyot, he had hurled it with all his force against the barrier which with a mighty crash gave way and revealed the White Vessel shining in the limitless void. At first Eidolos had been frightened by the strange object and by the high-pitched whining noise which emanated from it. But placing his hands over his ears he stepped closer and attempted to peer within. The brilliance was so intense that it blinded him; and, stumbling about, robbed of the sense of sight and the sense of hearing, he blundered against the vessel and overturned it. The vessel spilled out its miraculous contents and, with a mighty flash and a crash, the cosmos appeared in place of the Void.

Eidolos stood amazed at the beauty and wonder of creation. Terrified that someone might attempt to pour it back, he took the White Vessel and hid it under his cloak and then buried it in a cave on the most distant planet he could find. There it remains until this day. It is rumoured that at the end of time someone will re-discover the White Vessel. When that happens the inevitable will occur. Whoever digs up the holy container will hold it up to the light to admire its sparkling beauty. No sooner will he have done this than the universe will be poured back into the place from whence it originally issued and the Void will reign supreme once more.

Upon this first layer of ancient myth other stories flourished like vegetation on the first-turned soil. Ancient poetry embellished the tale until the accretions presented a wonderful tangle of folklore and superstition. This constituted the First Cycle.

The Second Cycle concerned itself with relatively nearer times although the stories that constituted it were hardly less mythological than the first. These told how an expedition to the Strange Sphere in search of the White Vessel had taken place at the very beginning of their history, at a time before the barrier which protected the earth had been set up. This expedition had been led by the reputed First Archon, Barras. It seemed that the myth-makers too had been aware of Symbiotic Theory, on an early version thereof. (Or was the present theory but a regurgitation, in scientific form, of ancient superstition? – There was a thought!) The story told how the leaders of the race had long been suspicious that the Strange Sphere was weirdly involved in their own development. Alternative cycles put forward the suggestion that Barras and his heroic companions had themselves created the earth in some abortive first experiment and yet another stated quite clearly that it was the result of meddling by previous archons as remote from the First Archon in time as he was from the present Grand Archon. The latter explanation was itself part of the ‘Self-Creation’ Cycle that described the beginning of all things from the One Thing. It was even suggested, in the wilder romances, that the One Thing was the White Vessel. But the languages of those times had been garbled in antiquity and no one could any more be sure of the exact meanings of the words or if indeed ‘white’ and ‘one’ were synonymous as had been claimed.

There was yet another myth-series, the so-called Third Cycle, which described how the people of earth were colonists left behind by the First Archon and concerned itself with the heroic deeds of these forgotten people and how eventually the memory of their homeland had been completely expunged.

For himself, Pavlus thought it all sounded like a clumsy attempt by his forebears to fix their relative position in time and space into a simplistic framework, given that his own race had never been sure of its origins or likely destiny. How could the people of the Strange Sphere possibly be related to themselves in view of the vast differences between them? Their forms were fixed, unalterable; those of his people changeable at will.

If only Eidolon were not the renegade that he had become, he could help them out, since he knew more about these life-forms, these humans, than anyone.

The Grand Archon slipped back into the form that leant against the marble pillar on the terrace and was immediately startled by the strong scent of the roses. His shoulder was aching and he stretched and went to look out at the city, resting his forearms upon the white marble of the ornate balustrade – this was all the work of the last but one Grand Archon to himself and of a time when no expense had been spared in the beautification of the offices of state. How times had changed!

What puzzled him infinitely was how close their modern physics had come to validation of these ancient myths. This was the most mind-boggling aspect of the whole conundrum.

While the Grand Archon pondered these imponderables, Appeles the Hologram (of all too solid flesh) communed with his twin, keeping one eye on the doors onto the terrace while he continued to lounge on the blue silk sofa. No one was aware that these two were in constant communication and, as Appeles-1 had informed him, and continued to inform him – as if he were afraid they’d be found out – it was not necessary that anyone should be aware of it, especially Pavlus Satiner.

"But we cannot withhold this knowledge from His Eminence!" exclaimed the hologram, pure fool that he was.

"Not only can we, we must," Appeles-1 commanded.

They had established a private Setting, which was illegal, and they would be subject to very harsh punishment should their activity ever be made public. This arrangement lay heavily upon the conscience of Appeles-2 but Appeles-1 was quite blasé. "After all," said the latter, arching his eyebrows, "we are the first of our kind. The usual rules do not apply to us."

They were not of course strictly the first. The techniques were much too complex to rely on the findings of a handful of recent Others. The technology had been in existence for many lifetimes but had been banned in antiquity. Appeles-1, working in secret, had disinterred the knowledge from the libraries of outlawed books. He would never have been able to access these without the connivance of the Grand Archon who had, by his actions, placed himself outside the law. But then of course, in his own mind, he was the law. He shared this guilty secret with his protégé but both were entirely unfazed by the enormity of their crime. So long as no one knew, what did it matter? These restrictions and bans were in force for the sake of the gullible populace, the general mass, and had never been meant to apply to the likes of themselves. These two naughty boys had been quite unable to wipe the knowledge of their misdeeds from the mind of Appeles-2. They had thought it wiser to let him into their counsels less he should unwittingly blow their cover. Other changes could be made to the knowledge that was transferred from one twin to the other, but the effect of these would not be immediately apparent.

Appeles-2, the third point of this triangular conspiracy, pitied Pavlus from the depths of his forgiving heart for his loving weakness toward his namesake and effectual father. A lot more in the way of common humanity had gone into his makeup than the other two had intended in their somewhat random approach to the matter. Neither was a scientist in the strict sense and the outcome of their experiments owed more to luck than to foresight; only the future would reveal the extent of their miscalculations.

Appeles-1 had first approached the archon when attempting to fulfil his lifetime’s ambition of obtaining the entrée to the Clone Library. The archon had been immediately smitten by this extraordinary youth and his outstanding talents. Appeles had not at that time had any concept of cloning himself. It had been his fantasy to produce a hologram of Eidolon, his lost but unforgotten love. He had not seen fit to share this fantasy with the older man, it was his own private dream, but the other Appeles was now in possession of this knowledge. Here too he pitied and understood rather than condemned.

The matter of the twins’ private and unlicensed Setting was something else they had deliberately failed to communicate to Pavlus. They had created it together in the throes of their first love – for lovers they had of course immediately become since they knew each other more intimately and knowledgeably than would ever be possible to a third person. They were each other. And yet Appeles-1 was aware that there were indeed subtle and hidden differences but this made his ardour that much stronger.

CHAPTER NINE

It is not in our nature to pass over even the most insignificant events without some sort of comment: call it congenital weakness if you will, or by some other less flattering name; we are immune. It might well be a case of speak or die. Even in its cage the bird must sing, dreaming of far hills and high blue skies. But when it comes to that class of abomination commonly known as the pop festival or rock festival we might well choose to hold our tongue even at the risk of straining something vital in our being. Not altogether, of course; we will perforce have to include the vile thing in our vista; but we shall oblige ourselves by looking at it through the wrong end of our telescope so that it appears to take up only the tiniest amount of space.

Well, immediately we break our own self-enforced vow of silence and observe that when it comes to rock-festivals, such as is about to be celebrated on our poor little island, it is a case of seen one, seen them all. And better, much better by far is it to have witnessed none. The screaming and the wailing, the flailing and the moaning! Discordant shrieks and sobbings of despair! "Why oh why have you left me Baby? Why have you left me Baby? Why Baby? Why? Why have you left me Baby?" It is always Baby and s/he has always gone. Well, wouldn’t you, if you had to live with a voice like that, a freak like that? Or if they are not crying their hearts out in public and to an audience numbering thousands they are doing the exact opposite and in as tuneless a fashion and with a similar limitation of vocabulary – that is to say, they are deliriously happy to the point of incoherence and usually because Baby ain’t left them or ain’t never going to leave them ’cause she’s their one and only Baby and "Baby you are the best, oh my one and only Baby you’re the best, Baby you are the very best" etc etc. And as it sings it does a very good impression of a long-haired saint in agony and at any moment you expect to see the miraculous stigmata slowly imprinting themselves upon the suffering flesh.

A whole gamut of tuneless and unpoetic restriction; the fullest range of mediocrity in its most flagrant and unselfcritical manifestation. But the little dears enjoy it and such as us are best advised to leave it well alone. Gladly! (Miserable old sod!)

Others there are who have not come to the island for this purpose and for whom the true festival is far removed from this noisy scene. But there are also some who while bathing in these over-rich springs of sight and sound and rocking along with the best of them hide within themselves a different worship which has yet to be made manifest. Many of the Eidolon cult are here, the outward signs of their adherence consisting in their ‘Greek’ mode of attire, long white dresses for the girls and short tunics for the boys, some of the latter going so far as to mimic the ancients even to the point of wearing no under-garments! Their eucharist is taken at other hands from those of the guitarists and drummers and singers onstage.

Notwithstanding their difference in the matter of religion (although it is perhaps premature to so name the Eidolon cult) the Eidolese share the likes and dislikes of their generation. Rock and pop festivals are a favourite ambience, not only for the music (music! music! – but no, my lips are self-sealed) but also because these provide a very useful means of spreading the word. Young people together and enjoying themselves, open minds ready for fresh impressions.

I must not make them sound sinister, but they share the need of all new disciplines and trends to actively proselytise. And they do it in the nicest possible way, the way of love. There will be time later to attempt to reveal in a more comprehensive form their philosophical beliefs. All we need to know at this juncture is that they share many of the convictions associated in the common mind with another and more numerous body of worshippers. Indeed the truths of Christianity are but an extension of the human need for cooperation and the natural desire to love and be loved apparent in our gregarious species.

We may previously have hinted that our demi-hero, Apple, is already something close to a leader of the Eidolese, or if not exactly a leader certainly an actively presiding spirit. He is a poet and musician and also something of a theorist. A deep thinker, however irresponsible his actions might sometimes be judged. They have yet to learn how great a coup he has made for them by his subjugation of the impressionable Sudja but we can anticipate the gladness with which this news will be received at their next cult meeting. So powerful and so rich a friend will be most welcome.

Now we must let you into our secret: Apple has spent the night with Sudja. Momma has wasted no time in drawing her new boy to her maternal bosom. She could not wait to unwrap the promising parcel and her delight at the gift was almost explosive – she certainly managed to knock young Apple off course! Already he is her new bedfellow; and even more remarkable than the swiftness of her pounce is the fact that she has fallen instantaneously in love with him and not in any shallow manner either.

He is certainly unlike the rest of her harem. There is something slightly cold about his manner even though he seems completely relaxed. It is a natural reserve and combined with it is a complete lack of subservience. He was not overly grateful for her attentions and treated her just as he would any other woman who threw herself at him – glad of the company and the sex but not feeling under any obligation to act in a particular manner. This really turned her on. He treated her as his equal and would continue to do so, despite her wealth and position. The wealth was at once apparent – the Roller, the house in its huge grounds, the appointments, the servants. He loved all that but it in no way influenced his reactions to the lady in charge.

The sex had been fabulous, for them both. They really complemented each other in that direction. But come the morning, he had been eager to be off to find out what the rest of his merry band were up to and also to contact fellow members of the sect.

"But you cannot go now," she had said.

"Why not? Am I under arrest or something?"

"No, of course not. I mean, I do not want you to go."

"But why not?"

"Well, after this fantastic night, you must get to know Momma Sudja better."

"I don’t see you as my mother. No way."

"It is my little joke. All my boys call me Momma Sudja."

"How very odd."

She rose from the bed totally naked, her skin gleaming like polished white oak. "But you can call me what you like." She stood close to him and put her arms about his neck and stared into his eyes as if trying to hypnotise him. He looked away. He disliked being stared at.

"I suppose I shall call you Sudja, since that seems to be your name. But in any case, I have to be out and about. I have people to meet."

"I will come with you. I have to declare the festivo open-ed." The last was a three-syllable word for her.

"If you want to, but I have to move about freely."

"It’s O.K. We have some breakfast and then we go to see to all the arrangements. You can come in the car with me."

Breakfast was not a long meal. Apple was keen to be off. Sudja called for the Roller and told Taki to drive.

Taki was not at all pleased. He had seen himself in the back of the car with Sudja, not as the chauffeur. He was getting above himself and Momma must teach him a little lesson.

They drove in silence and Sudja held onto Apple’s hand. He kept trying to move away from her but she followed him along the seat. It was a brilliant, perfect day, the sky high and blue. There, in the great mid-heaven, the dazzle of the sun upon his left shoulder, Eidolon’s titan form looked down upon the island. Appeles gazed upward, entranced anew, as at their first beginning, the cycle’s start.

Apple winced in sudden pain as the presence left him; then shivered, as if one stepped upon his grave.

"What is wrong, Darlink?" asked you-know-who.

"A touch of neuralgia," Apple replied in quite a flat tone. He did not like being called ‘darling’. He had undone his pony-tail and his long hair swept his shoulders in graceful bobbing black curls. Sudja had arranged for him to borrow a white two piece suit from one of the other boys. She had said he couldn’t possibly get into the Roller wearing jeans. He had merely shrugged and put on the suit. He liked it – quite.

‘Neuralgia? In summer?’ she wondered. He was an unusual boy, but she was mad about him. She hadn’t felt this way since she was sixteen. If only he were not so, so…English! But that idea of the reserved English was rubbish. She had known enough men of all nationalities to know that the English could no more be categorised in one word, defined by one sole attribute, than could any other group.

"Where do you feel this neuralgia?" she asked, stroking his firm young body wherever she could reach. She was making him feel horny again, but this was neither the time nor the place.

"It’s gone now." This time he managed a smile and for Momma it was like the sun breaking through the clouds. She even sighed as she planted a big kiss on his smooth-shaven cheek. The smell of the after-shave with which she had doused him (herself, by hand) seemed to hit her brain with a bang and sent aftershocks all through her quivering body.

Taki was squirming in his seat and trying to watch what was happening in the back of the car while simultaneously avoiding any fatal accident with the carefree wandervogel that filled the lanes. Apple saw him watching and gave him a big wink. ‘Mmmm…’ thought Taki, ‘that looks promising.’ He almost ran into three girls and honked his horn wildly.

"Drive carefully, Taki!" commanded Momma. Taki took a very deep breath and adjusted the tight collar of his chauffeur’s grey suit. It was ridiculous, this uniform, it was so hot in this weather. Sudja had seen one like it in some stupid American film and had insisted that all her drivers be similarly clad. It made her feel ‘pampered’ and it showed off her boys’ curves to good advantage, and she just adored stroking the woollen cloth, and the nice smell of it too. The chauffeurs were under strict instructions not to wear underpants, just in case she fancied a feel. And anyway, she thought they should flaunt what they most abundantly possessed, just as she did.

The royal progress was this morning a very slow one indeed. Queenie was just saying how she wished she had bought that helicopter that had been offered to her at a very good price. "Would you like to fly a helicopter, Taki?" she asked.

"I have enough trouble driving this car, Ma’am!" retorted the irritable Taki. The ‘Ma’am’ was entirely ironical, and it made her feel old.

The lanes are full of the able-bodied, but unemployable, dependants of an over-generous state. Travellers, so-called, who never move in the direction of work, but always away from it, with the unerring instinct of migrating birds – say, noisy, squabbling, dirty Canada geese, fouling the footpaths and always on the lookout for a free meal. Unmarried mothers and fathers and their offspring all set to follow in their natural parents’ footsteps. Dogs (canines) and drop-outs. The flowing robes and bare arses of the Eidolese. (Sudja likes to point out the more curvy ones much to Apple’s annoyance.). The full range of the whingeing and the cringing and the outwardly humble but secretly proud; work-shy, but always ready for pleasure, sex, drink, drugs, anything to illuminate for one brief moment their sad and terminal ennui. Minds with so little content that they must grasp at every passing sensation, like an idiot trying to snatch at a butterfly. Mystics and seers of the D.S.S. Long-term students as old as forty-five. The barmy and the stupid and the bad.

These are the latter-day dispossessed, the unredeemable. True modern Buddhists aware of the transience of all things. (A philosophical position of which we thoroughly approve allied to a material one which we cannot but deplore.) If all things pass away, why bother to get up in the morning? Well, they have managed to struggle to their feet this morning and they are ready and eager for some fun. And behold! these new poor who cannot afford the price of a decent meal have all somehow managed to scrape together enough to pay the somewhat steep entrance fee. Those who seek to evade the toll are given some rather rough treatment by Sudja’s bulldogs, her kennel of toughies. Momma Sudja is not in this just for the fun of it, especially not now when her coffers are almost empty and her creditors more than usually insistent.

The gleaming Roller nudges its way forward through the low-life – among whom, did we mention, are many quite ordinary and decent people? (Hee-hee!) Apple stares wistfully out of the window, wishing he were one of the foot-soldiers but well aware that this opportunity is much too good to pass over. A besotted millionairess, and not at all bad-looking either, and always ready for IT, has to be humoured, whatever the personal cost in lack of freedom. Once he has her eating out of his hand (and they always do, for reasons quite incomprehensible to him) he will be able to afford to branch out a little, in all sorts of directions.

But who is this among the many wanderers? A familiar face and a very familiar behind. Apple leans forward, slipping fishlike out of the embrace of the besotted and cloying Sudja. (He will have to start putting his foot down much more firmly very soon.) Yes, there, just ahead of them, standing back against the dusty hedge to avoid being run over by the car; it is none other than the once-beautiful, the still-beautiful but now renegade and dispossessed, Craving of the golden hair, sometime love-goddess but lately demoted to the ranks of a very inconsiderable minor deity. And who is that beefy hunk of manhood with her, looking very sheepish as he catches sight of Apple in his chauffeured carriage and sees that he is accompanied by the great lady of the local manor? Why, it’s what’s-his-name, the local council lorry driver, Steve. A very big smile (the second this morning, notes Sudja, who is counting them to gauge her boyfriend’s emotional state) begins to spread across Apple’s scented countenance: not a smile of pleasure, but of revenge and self-satisfaction.

Craving; with her new and chunky (and old and soon to put on weight) rural boyfriend, Steve.

Craving is positively goggle-eyed at the sight of Apple dressed in a white suit and with his hair combed out and so luxuriously Rollered and lapped with all the appurtenances of wealth and prestige and accompanied by an older woman!

"Who is that, Darlink? Someone you know? Ah! it is Steve! All the girls in the village have been rogered by him!"

"Really?" says Apple, smiling again. "That is interesting. That is very interesting." And as they start to purr their way past these two sad transients, Apple raises a regal arm and waves languorously in the general direction of the subservient refugees. There is something really rather nasty and cruel about his third smile of the morning, but the mouth is so shapely that Sudja craves another kiss and more reassurance. His look speaks volumes, or at the least these two sentences: ‘If only she had waited! Oh ye of little faith…’

When they draw level with Craving and Steve, Apple rather obviously takes Sudja in his arms and gives her a long and deep French kiss, rendering her entirely breathless and oblivious to all but his magnetic personality and body. And once they have overtaken his one-time girlfriend, Apple, still deep in his mistress’s mouth, raises his right hand so that it is clearly visible from the road through the rear window and jabs the middle and index fingers upward in the immemorial salute of contempt.

Craving is disgusted. "Well! Who’d have thought it? Bastard!" Poor old Steve looks rather less attractive now.

The waving fingers from the back of the car mock her. She had known Apple was fickle but to have picked up with someone else just the next day after she had given him the big elbow was inexcusable. It just proved that she had meant absolutely nothing to him. Well, she had her Stevie-baby now and she grabbed hold of his arm and held on tight. The arm was muscular and warm and nice and hairy and afforded her much comfort in her discomfiture. But there was no Roller and they had to walk to the festival venue. There was only the council lorry – and she wasn’t going to travel in that!

"Haven’t you got a car?" she had moaned, already disappointed.

"Wrote it off last week. Some flash bastard in a Jag wasn’t looking where he was going. I swerved to avoid him and – bang! Next thing I knew I was wrapped around a tree." He had hugged her. "Don’t worry, Hon, a new car’s in the pipeline, so soon as the insurance is settled. I’m waiting for a cheque now."

She knew the male optimism when it came to cars. And meanwhile she had to foot it with the rest of them, like some bleedin’ refugee. That wasn’t too bad, but to be seen in this state by that load of shit (i.e., Apple) was more than she could bear.

But bear it she must as she trudged on toward the promised land, the gilt slowly flaking off the gingerbread.

The house had been another big disappointment. She had imagined something…well, nice. The reality was a very small terraced house in a dirty street full of dogs (feminine variety). And no lace curtains at the windows, so everybody could see in. And the mess was indescribable, just like a bloke left on his own for too long. Well, she wasn’t going to offer to clean it up for him, no way. It stank of booze and fags like some squat after it had been occupied by a bunch of alkies for a couple of months. The dust and the dirt were an inch thick. "A job for a woman!" he had laughed hopefully, no doubt imagining her with a Hoover in her hands. Actually, he didn’t even have a Hoover!

Then there was the meal, so-called. She was ravenous, hadn’t had a thing to eat all day. True enough, he had offered to take her out to a restaurant, but that wasn’t realistic because she didn’t have anything to wear, just her old travelling clothes.

"I can’t sit in a restaurant like this!" she had moaned, looking down at her frayed jeans and holding out her lanky, dirty hair with pinching fingers, as though it were something nasty.

"Don’t worry, Hon," – she had become ‘Hon’ the minute after he had claimed possession of her, as though they had been married fifty years – "this ain’t London, we don’t worry about all that crap down here. Be yourself!"

If being herself meant sitting in some posh restaurant and having all the other women snigger at her appearance – then no thank you!

So they had a take-away: his favourite, fish and chips and fried onion rings, eaten out of the paper.

"Ain’t cher got no plates?"

"Save the washing up, Hon. I don’t want you soiling your pretty little hands."

So he obviously had her down for the washing up, at least. Damned cheek!

But he did bring back a very large bottle of wine with the food and that was a big plus in his favour. They sat out in his little back garden on a couple of battered old deck chairs. The garden, although small, was nice, he had looked after it. There was even a little pond with some very big fish in it that came up and let you stroke their heads.

It was a right little suntrap out there and Steve got hot after his fish and chips and onion rings and took his shirt off. He did have a great chest and arms. He wasn’t hairy in the way of shaggy, just nicely fuzzy. She mentioned this and he said he sometimes shaved his body hair. She found that very sexy, showed he looked after his looks, even if he didn’t bother to clean the house. He didn’t try anything too obvious at first either. That was nice, it showed he wasn’t a complete animal. Although he kept looking up her legs when she opened them and he was a bit hard all the time, like he was perpetually horny.

Little did she know how horny he really was. He had been deprived of a regular girl friend for a couple of months now. The women round his way were all slags and he’d had most of them and ditched ’em afterwards too when he got fed up with their horrible whining. Craving was a nice girl, spoke with a London accent. And very pretty indeed – he just couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her shape was stunning. But he was going to play it a bit cool. He didn’t want to jump on her and fuck her straight away, in any case. Not so much pleasure in that. He wanted to feast his eyes on her first and sort of imagine what it would be like, sucking her tits, feeling her bum, deep-throating her, licking her fanny. Imagine first, so as to wring every bit of pleasure and anticipation out of this beautiful woman. Then start touching here and there…

After the food and when the sun had started to go down and it was getting a little chilly, they went indoors to watch some telly and drink some more wine. They sat on the battered and smelly old sofa.

"What would you like to watch?" he asked.

"Dunno. Anything would suit me."

"Would you prefer to go down the pub?"

"No, I’m all right. I am feeling a bit tired in any case. It’s been a funny day, getting carried off by a man and all that."

They were hardly touching, just their forearms and his leg occasionally brushing against hers when he stretched. His eyes looked great in the twilight and the flicker from the telly.

He looked straight at her. "Don’t get me wrong, Craving, you’re a beautiful girl and all that, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to."

"I don’t intend to," she said instantly, raising her eyebrows. But she was really touched by what he said. It was true after all, older men were more considerate than the young ones.

"That’s good," he smiled, showing his great and nearly perfect teeth.

She just leant over and kissed him on the mouth and then sat back to watch the telly and drink some more wine. The wine was very good, very good indeed. Steve was not as thick as he looked. And he didn’t ask a lot of questions either, like where she came from and how had it been with Apple, and all that stuff. He just sat there quietly watching the telly and occasionally looking at her and smiling.

She sat closer to him and he put his arm around her waist and they held hands. They kissed now and then, just little pecks of joy. The room was dark except for the flashing of the telly. He had shut the curtains so that nobody could see in. It was nearly midnight. She started to doze, jumping awake at a loud noise from the film. It was some stupid alien abduction thing.

"I don’t believe in aliens. Do you?" she asked.

"Well, you never know what’s out there. There might be one right outside this door, waiting to come in and grab you."

"Oh don’t!" she squealed, snuggling up to him.

Now his hand was on her thigh. It was fleshy and beautifully shaped, not too fat and not too thin. Her head went back and her lips opened. He put his tongue in her mouth.

"So where am I going to sleep?" she asked after they had had a little tussle.

"Well, there is a spare bed. But it’s not as comfortable as mine."

"I think I’ll have the spare bed, just for tonight." She was joking but her face was absolutely straight.

"That’s all right by me. There’s even a lock on the door, to keep the nasty men out."

She kissed him again. "Only joking, hunky Steve. I’d rather sleep with you."

‘Wow! Yes!’ he thought, inwardly jumping for joy. Outwardly, he just gave a very relaxed smile and kissed her in return.

We shall not describe in any great detail the events of that night. Those events are, like all the best sex, more alive in the imagination than in the telling. Who did what to whom, and when, and how, and how often, are but tedious details. Let a starving man read about how some one ate a delicious four course meal – it will not bring him any pleasure and no instruction (he knows how to do it already), and it will certainly not assuage his hunger.

Suffice it to say that they had a very good time.

But come the morning light and the noises from the street (it was a very loud neighbourhood, even the birds seemed more raucous there than elsewhere) and the shabbiness of the bed and room and Steve snoring and smelling a bit – well, it was back to reality with a very big bump for Craving. But then she thought of the others in a cold cave on a pile of leaves and she felt a bit more chirpy.

Then Steve opened his eyes, and that really did change things. He had especially bright eyes, mischievous they were, and by golly he was intent on mischief too because he grabbed her as soon as he woke up. Or rather, he just pushed his body slowly up against hers and deep-throated her for a morning greeting. His cock was rock hard and this made her feel all gooey and wet and then he was slowly slipping it in a bit and then out and then in again.

Breakfast was toast and coffee and orange juice and they had it in bed, Steve brought it all up on a tray – at just about the same time that Vivienne and Cosimo were doing something similar in their room and Sudja and Apple likewise in her breakfast room. And thousands of others all over the island, getting ready for day one of the festival.

Steve had taken leave from his work by special dispensation from his Uncle Charlie who was in charge of that side of things on the council workforce. His colleagues had also wanted to take time off, but Steve was the only one allowed and there were mutterings of nepotism from his disgruntled workmates.

"So it’s party time," he shouted across the breakfast to Craving, throwing his hands up in the air and beaming all over his face like a guy who is on holiday and has just got his end away.

And after breakfast they had it again!

(Further chapters will be added in due course.)