Princess awoke to an unearthly banshee-like wail. It took her a full second to realise that the source of the wailing was her and shut her mouth. The sudden quiet that followed was broken only by the steady ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, inexorably drawing her gaze. Only an hour had passed but it had been quite long enough for another disturbing dream.
Princess closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths and Mystic Mog stepped out of the cat basket onto the sheepskin rug before the fire. There was so much static in the air, she could feel the hairs along her spine and tail slowly sticking straight up into the air. It reminded her of the time she fell into a box of balloons as a kitten.
Mog padded into the kitchen and took a long lap of water from the porcelain cat bowl next to the AGA. She was already feeling a bit more composed and the hairs were beginning to settle back into place. It was time to try and recall what she had dreamt.
She closed her eyes and pictured the scene. She had found herself trapped inside a tortoise once again. It was dark but lit with streetlights and the faint coloured glow of High Street shops. Somewhere in town, perhaps? Focus. The memories started rushing back and the hairs on her back began to rise once more. She found herself tensing and her claws coming out, shocked at the raw power that had locked the tortoise inside its psionic shell and swept her along as some form of psychic collateral damage. The Princess inside her broke the spell before she gouged claw marks into the expensive polished marble floor. She had seen enough anyway and most certainly did not want to relive the explosion.
This was not the work of a natural psychic. Someone was playing with the Dark Arts and quite possibly meddling with something beyond their control. Fortunately, the light outside indicated that she might be able to do something about this one. It was time for Mog to go “Harry Potter” on the situation: it was time to send an owl.
Showing posts with label mog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mog. Show all posts
Friday, 12 October 2012
Sunday, 7 October 2012
Chapter 11.4
Princess lazily opened one eye and considered the view through the conservatory windows. The weather appeared to have cleared up nicely and the position of the shadows in the garden told her it was roughly noon. A successful morning, she thought, well-spent curled up asleep on the floral rocking chair next to the patio doors, which always caught the early sun. She now found herself in partial shade, however. It was time to take action and find a new location for her afternoon nap.
With the measured pace that comes with intention of spending most of the day asleep, Princess opened her other eye, followed by her mouth. The yawn that came after took a few seconds to build before culminating in a gape so wide that a casual observer might think that her head was about to flip open. There were no causal observers, however. Princess could feel that she was alone in the house and it felt good.
After a quick lick of the end of her tail, which was experiencing a brief tingle, Princess stretched her front paws out, flexed her claws, and then relaxed them again and stood up in the chair. Her body shook slightly with a second round of stretching before she jumped nimbly down on to the floor, causing the bell on her red diamond-encrusted collar to give a brief tinkle.
Subconsciously, she lifted a back leg and had a bit of a scratch at her collar. It always felt a bit tight when she first woke up. She yawned again. This morning was the first uninterrupted sleep she had had for a while. She was still not feeling quite her old, rested self but she was well on the way.
She padded into the living room and stepped daintily into the fur-lined cat basket by the fire. The fire was not lit but there was still a general ambience of coziness about the whole setup. She contemplated her sleeping configuration for a moment, conducting slow spin to scope out the most comfy fold of the silk blankets that adorned the bed, before nestling in and curling up with her head resting on her back paws and her tail across her face to block out more light.
On another day, she would have noticed that her tail was starting to tingle again and got a sense of foreboding. On this day, however, she was already fast asleep.
With the measured pace that comes with intention of spending most of the day asleep, Princess opened her other eye, followed by her mouth. The yawn that came after took a few seconds to build before culminating in a gape so wide that a casual observer might think that her head was about to flip open. There were no causal observers, however. Princess could feel that she was alone in the house and it felt good.
After a quick lick of the end of her tail, which was experiencing a brief tingle, Princess stretched her front paws out, flexed her claws, and then relaxed them again and stood up in the chair. Her body shook slightly with a second round of stretching before she jumped nimbly down on to the floor, causing the bell on her red diamond-encrusted collar to give a brief tinkle.
Subconsciously, she lifted a back leg and had a bit of a scratch at her collar. It always felt a bit tight when she first woke up. She yawned again. This morning was the first uninterrupted sleep she had had for a while. She was still not feeling quite her old, rested self but she was well on the way.
She padded into the living room and stepped daintily into the fur-lined cat basket by the fire. The fire was not lit but there was still a general ambience of coziness about the whole setup. She contemplated her sleeping configuration for a moment, conducting slow spin to scope out the most comfy fold of the silk blankets that adorned the bed, before nestling in and curling up with her head resting on her back paws and her tail across her face to block out more light.
On another day, she would have noticed that her tail was starting to tingle again and got a sense of foreboding. On this day, however, she was already fast asleep.
Friday, 7 September 2012
Chapter 10.3
Mystic Mog tried fruitlessly to rub the sleep from her eyes. She was still not sleeping well and today’s news from the goats was not going to help. She sighed. “That could have gone better.”
“It could have gone worse.” Cyril told her. “They’re still alive for one thing.”
“Yeah!” added Billy.
“And I didn’t lose him this time!” said William.
“True,” conceded Mog. “But we still don’t know where Pan was taking him.”
“Wherever it was,” said Cyril, “it doesn’t look like he was heading for the same place as before.”
“Why would he?” asked Mog. “Presumably he achieved everything he wanted to the night before.”
“Maybe,” Cyril conceded. “But by that reckoning, he didn’t last night, so he may try again tonight.”
Mog thought for a moment. “True, I guess. I’m not really sure how that helps us, though.”
“William,” said Cyril, his tailing flicking in excitement as inspiration took hold. “Do you remember the route that you and Billy took last night?”
“I… I think so.” William told him.
“Good! Tonight, I want you to tie yourselves together as before. This time, however, I want you to go to sleep in a different spot. Try to work out the direction you were heading and pick one of Toby Ron’s fields that should let you bypass Watchtower Valley. Toby Ron and Duke should be able to help you there.”
Mog nodded. “Yes! That should work. If in doubt about the location, err on the side of caution. We don’t want you going through that field again. If Pan keeps failing, he might seek out a different vehicle.”
“Don’t worry,” Billy told him. “We really don’t want to go through there again!”
“Good!” smiled Cyril. “In the meantime, I suggest that you go home and make sure that William gets as much rest as he can before sundown. With any luck, he’s going to have a busy night.”
“It could have gone worse.” Cyril told her. “They’re still alive for one thing.”
“Yeah!” added Billy.
“And I didn’t lose him this time!” said William.
“True,” conceded Mog. “But we still don’t know where Pan was taking him.”
“Wherever it was,” said Cyril, “it doesn’t look like he was heading for the same place as before.”
“Why would he?” asked Mog. “Presumably he achieved everything he wanted to the night before.”
“Maybe,” Cyril conceded. “But by that reckoning, he didn’t last night, so he may try again tonight.”
Mog thought for a moment. “True, I guess. I’m not really sure how that helps us, though.”
“William,” said Cyril, his tailing flicking in excitement as inspiration took hold. “Do you remember the route that you and Billy took last night?”
“I… I think so.” William told him.
“Good! Tonight, I want you to tie yourselves together as before. This time, however, I want you to go to sleep in a different spot. Try to work out the direction you were heading and pick one of Toby Ron’s fields that should let you bypass Watchtower Valley. Toby Ron and Duke should be able to help you there.”
Mog nodded. “Yes! That should work. If in doubt about the location, err on the side of caution. We don’t want you going through that field again. If Pan keeps failing, he might seek out a different vehicle.”
“Don’t worry,” Billy told him. “We really don’t want to go through there again!”
“Good!” smiled Cyril. “In the meantime, I suggest that you go home and make sure that William gets as much rest as he can before sundown. With any luck, he’s going to have a busy night.”
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Chapter 9.5
William shifted uncomfortably from leg to leg. “Can I whisper it in your ear?”
Mystic Mog threw a look at Cyril who deflected it to Billy with a deft shrug of his shoulders. Billy caught it square on the chin and was not happy.
“Don’t look at me,” he grumbled. “I was asleep at the time, remember?”
Mog grunted. She was still not sleeping well and this pair of petulant animals was getting more than a little tiresome.
“No,” she said firmly in answer to the first question.
William gave her a pleading look.
“No!” she repeated, the last remnant of kindness having ebbed from her voice along with her patience. “Just tell us where he went.”
William looked down at his hooves.
“I don’t think he went down there,” Mog chided. “Now, tell us!”
“I don’t know where he went,” he mumbled.
“What?” said Cyril. “I didn’t hear you?”
“That was the point.” William muttered. He sidled away from Billy slightly and spoke up. “I said I don’t know! I… I lost him.”
“You lost me?!” cried Billy. “Why you…”
Cyril was quick to intervene, and sprung across Mog’s clearing to put himself between the two goats.
“Eh! Calm down, calm down!”
William’s bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry. I did follow you. But it was very foggy. And you lost your bell.”
“I never…” Billy tailed off as he thought back. With reflection, he had woken up without the bell around his neck. He snorted and sat down sullenly.
Cyril could see the situation getting out of hand and was quick to try and restore some harmony.
“Eh, now, c’mon,” he told them. “Everyone just calm down and let’s see what William does know. Everyone calm down.”
Mog stepped back – without realising it, she had arched her back, puffed up her tail and was standing over the cowering young goat, claws out and ready for action. With a great deal of effort, she calmed her voice. “OK, William. Describe what happened up to the point that you lost Billy.”
William took a deep breath and told them how he had followed Billy as best he could through the fog down the farm track on to the road and then down the hill, towards Swansea.
“I lost him for a while then, by the turn-off to Farmer Jones’s place.”
Cyril gulped nervously. “You didn’t run into him or his tabby did you?”
“No,” William replied. “Thankfully, he didn’t go that way – he continued down to the main road. I did run into a strange character, though.”
The others listened with interest as William described his bizarre encounter with the small brown bird.
“I think he was trying to help but I really could not understand anything he was saying. I mean, it was English and the words themselves were OK, it was just the sentences. Which bough is about to break? And what fruit is ripe for the picking?”
“Sounds like the Zen Wren,” Mog told him. “Irritating little bastard. His wisdom is what you make of it. Personally, I’d ignore all that crap.”
“What?!” she asked as three faces gawked at her in disbelief. “I may be a psychic but it doesn’t mean that I believe in any old crap!”
“What happened when you reached the main road?” she asked, changing the subject.
“That’s where I lost him. I reckon he was heading for Swansea, though.”
“There’s not a lot in the other direction,” agreed Cyril.
“Well,” said Mog. “Doesn’t really help us either way. Towards Swansea and we have too many possible destinations to make a prediction. Away from Swansea and we don’t have enough.” Billy again looked like he was going to cry. He legs really ached from last night and there was no way he wanted that to be for nothing.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” he asked, exasperated.
Mog closed her eyes and felt the quiet pressure of fatigue push at her eyeballs. There was one thing left to try but she did not want to try it. When she opened her eyes, however, three expectant faces were looking right at her.
“There is something we can try,” she conceded. “But I don’t hold out much hope.”
“What is it?” asked William, eager that some miracle cure might yet get him off the hook. Even Billy perked up for a moment.
“Well, you’re brothers,” Mog explained. “And, as such, will have a weak, latent psychic link. Although I cannot get a reading direct from young Billy as to where he went – he was asleep at the time, after all – I may be able to read from William. It will be tough, though. I will have to try and pick up faint psychic memories – so faint that William himself was not even aware of them at the time. I don’t rate our chances.”
William stepped forward and then hesitated. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, dangerous is such a subjective word.” Mog answered evasively. “I mean, there is a small chance of your brain being turned into something the consistency of porridge but, hey, it’s more likely to happen to me. Or Billy.”
“What?!” said Billy.
“What?” asked Mog, full of innocence. “I’m joking!”
“Mostly,” she coughed under her breath.
William took another step forward, rallying as much of his courage as he could. “I am prepared to have a go if you are.”
Billy opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it as Mog watched his brother trot up to the picnic table and place his front paws in front of him in readiness.
“OK,” she agreed. “Let’s do it!”
Mog felt William tense slightly as she grabbed his paws in hers.
“Now, close your eyes,” she commanded. “And try to relax!”
Cyril stared across at Mog expectantly. He knew she was tired but she had always pulled through when it really mattered in the past. Her face was a portrait of total concentration.
For twenty long seconds, nothing happened. Then the wailing started. It began quietly in the back of Mog’s throat and slowly increased in volume. As it reached an uncomfortable level, slight tremors began in Mog’s body, running from her shoulders down to the table. Cyril watched in concern. She did not normally wail during a serious reading – that stuff was just for paying customers. Something must be wrong.
When the first spasm wracked Mog’s body, Cyril was already leaping through the air. The wailing was now at the kind of volume and pitch that could smash glassware from across the room. He arrived as the Mog was having her second spasm.
Although small, Cyril’s speed gave him enough momentum to break the two animals apart. The wailing ceased immediately and William staggered backwards before falling over. Mystic Mog sat still for a moment, wavering slightly. Then she was violently sick.
Mystic Mog threw a look at Cyril who deflected it to Billy with a deft shrug of his shoulders. Billy caught it square on the chin and was not happy.
“Don’t look at me,” he grumbled. “I was asleep at the time, remember?”
Mog grunted. She was still not sleeping well and this pair of petulant animals was getting more than a little tiresome.
“No,” she said firmly in answer to the first question.
William gave her a pleading look.
“No!” she repeated, the last remnant of kindness having ebbed from her voice along with her patience. “Just tell us where he went.”
William looked down at his hooves.
“I don’t think he went down there,” Mog chided. “Now, tell us!”
“I don’t know where he went,” he mumbled.
“What?” said Cyril. “I didn’t hear you?”
“That was the point.” William muttered. He sidled away from Billy slightly and spoke up. “I said I don’t know! I… I lost him.”
“You lost me?!” cried Billy. “Why you…”
Cyril was quick to intervene, and sprung across Mog’s clearing to put himself between the two goats.
“Eh! Calm down, calm down!”
William’s bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry. I did follow you. But it was very foggy. And you lost your bell.”
“I never…” Billy tailed off as he thought back. With reflection, he had woken up without the bell around his neck. He snorted and sat down sullenly.
Cyril could see the situation getting out of hand and was quick to try and restore some harmony.
“Eh, now, c’mon,” he told them. “Everyone just calm down and let’s see what William does know. Everyone calm down.”
Mog stepped back – without realising it, she had arched her back, puffed up her tail and was standing over the cowering young goat, claws out and ready for action. With a great deal of effort, she calmed her voice. “OK, William. Describe what happened up to the point that you lost Billy.”
William took a deep breath and told them how he had followed Billy as best he could through the fog down the farm track on to the road and then down the hill, towards Swansea.
“I lost him for a while then, by the turn-off to Farmer Jones’s place.”
Cyril gulped nervously. “You didn’t run into him or his tabby did you?”
“No,” William replied. “Thankfully, he didn’t go that way – he continued down to the main road. I did run into a strange character, though.”
The others listened with interest as William described his bizarre encounter with the small brown bird.
“I think he was trying to help but I really could not understand anything he was saying. I mean, it was English and the words themselves were OK, it was just the sentences. Which bough is about to break? And what fruit is ripe for the picking?”
“Sounds like the Zen Wren,” Mog told him. “Irritating little bastard. His wisdom is what you make of it. Personally, I’d ignore all that crap.”
“What?!” she asked as three faces gawked at her in disbelief. “I may be a psychic but it doesn’t mean that I believe in any old crap!”
“What happened when you reached the main road?” she asked, changing the subject.
“That’s where I lost him. I reckon he was heading for Swansea, though.”
“There’s not a lot in the other direction,” agreed Cyril.
“Well,” said Mog. “Doesn’t really help us either way. Towards Swansea and we have too many possible destinations to make a prediction. Away from Swansea and we don’t have enough.” Billy again looked like he was going to cry. He legs really ached from last night and there was no way he wanted that to be for nothing.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” he asked, exasperated.
Mog closed her eyes and felt the quiet pressure of fatigue push at her eyeballs. There was one thing left to try but she did not want to try it. When she opened her eyes, however, three expectant faces were looking right at her.
“There is something we can try,” she conceded. “But I don’t hold out much hope.”
“What is it?” asked William, eager that some miracle cure might yet get him off the hook. Even Billy perked up for a moment.
“Well, you’re brothers,” Mog explained. “And, as such, will have a weak, latent psychic link. Although I cannot get a reading direct from young Billy as to where he went – he was asleep at the time, after all – I may be able to read from William. It will be tough, though. I will have to try and pick up faint psychic memories – so faint that William himself was not even aware of them at the time. I don’t rate our chances.”
William stepped forward and then hesitated. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, dangerous is such a subjective word.” Mog answered evasively. “I mean, there is a small chance of your brain being turned into something the consistency of porridge but, hey, it’s more likely to happen to me. Or Billy.”
“What?!” said Billy.
“What?” asked Mog, full of innocence. “I’m joking!”
“Mostly,” she coughed under her breath.
William took another step forward, rallying as much of his courage as he could. “I am prepared to have a go if you are.”
Billy opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it as Mog watched his brother trot up to the picnic table and place his front paws in front of him in readiness.
“OK,” she agreed. “Let’s do it!”
Mog felt William tense slightly as she grabbed his paws in hers.
“Now, close your eyes,” she commanded. “And try to relax!”
Cyril stared across at Mog expectantly. He knew she was tired but she had always pulled through when it really mattered in the past. Her face was a portrait of total concentration.
For twenty long seconds, nothing happened. Then the wailing started. It began quietly in the back of Mog’s throat and slowly increased in volume. As it reached an uncomfortable level, slight tremors began in Mog’s body, running from her shoulders down to the table. Cyril watched in concern. She did not normally wail during a serious reading – that stuff was just for paying customers. Something must be wrong.
When the first spasm wracked Mog’s body, Cyril was already leaping through the air. The wailing was now at the kind of volume and pitch that could smash glassware from across the room. He arrived as the Mog was having her second spasm.
Although small, Cyril’s speed gave him enough momentum to break the two animals apart. The wailing ceased immediately and William staggered backwards before falling over. Mystic Mog sat still for a moment, wavering slightly. Then she was violently sick.
Monday, 30 July 2012
Chapter 4.1
Billy dragged his hooves in the dirt as he and his brother William followed Cyril the Squirrel to Mystic Mog’s. Normally, Mog would not be open for business during the day but Cyril fancied that the current strangeness of events would lead the cat to remain available for consultation around the clock. Hopefully, her guardian owls would see things the same way.
Cyril looked behind him at the two goats. They were being very slow. The younger goat, William, was busily looking around at all the new sights and sounds. The goats did not get off Toby Ron’s land very often (partly because Garth Jones had threatened to shoot them) and William was determined to make the most of this opportunity. Toby Ron had warned Cyril that the little goat may get a bit too excited and just wander off somewhere.
“He’s a smart kid, that one,” Toby had said, “but you’ll have to keep an eye on him. He hasn’t yet learned that there’s a time and a place for asking questions. Sometimes his curiosity can get him into trouble.”
“It killed the cat,” thought Cyril. “That’s a lot of trouble. Best not tell William that, though: he'll just ask which cat and how did it die.”
“What’s this, Mister Cyril, sir?” asked William, very politely interrupting the squirrel’s thoughts.
“It’s an empty drinks can, William,” sighed Cyril.
“Oh. But why did…?”
“Because people are lazy, William,” Cyril cut in, “and don’t respect the environment. Now come on!”
This was the umpteenth time that Cyril had had to stop and answer questions about litter, snails, stinging nettles, singing blackbirds and various other countryside phenomena. Not that William’s brother was being any better. Young Billy was skulking around miserably, occasionally muttering negative comments about the whole affair. He was not at all happy about the prospect of visiting Mystic Mog.
“I heard she used magic to turn old Harry the nymphomaniac gerbil into a toadstool!” Billy explained when pressed on the matter. “And then he went out of his mind with fear and was mistaken for a polo and eaten.”
“How could anyone mistake a toadstool for a polo?” asked William.
“It didn’t happen like that at all!” Cyril told them. “Mog used magic mushrooms to treat Harry for his sex addiction. He was cured too. He was on the way home when he thought he saw Richard Gere. He panicked, ran out into the road to avoid him, and was run over by a Volkswagen Polo.”
“Oh.”
“Now, come on both of you, or we’ll never get there at all and I’ll turn you into a toadstool.”
“You can’t do that,” argued William.
“Probably not. But I can have fun trying.”
As it happened, Cyril’s earlier worries about arriving at Mog’s during the day were unfounded – by the time Cyril had goaded the two goats to her woodland den, dusk was beginning to draw in.
The owls were waiting.
“Her mysticality is waiting for ya, nahmsayin?”
“Er, right. Thanks?”
Mystic Mog was, indeed, waiting. If it was possible, Cyril thought that she looked even worse than when he had seen her earlier that day. And she had not been attacked by half a dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses. She looked at the three of them with weary eyes.
“You were too late,” she told Cyril. It was definitely a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I feared as much. And your friends?”
Despite the massive difference in size that made the manoeuvre pointless, the two goats slowly backed away and tried their best to hide behind the squirrel, away from Mog’s penetrating stare.
“Toby Ron’s goats,” explained Cyril. He nodded his head at Billy. “This one went walkies in the middle of the night. Doesn’t remember anything about it, though.”
Mog transferred her gaze to William. “And this one?”
Cyril opened his mouth to answer, thought for a moment and then closed it again. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” Cyril looked round. “Why are you here?”
William was still backing away from the scene. He stopped when he hit something or, more precisely, somebody – one of Mog’s guardian owls.
“Where are you going, mo’ fo?”
William jumped. “Oh, terribly sorry. I, er…”
Seeing the young goat in such a fluster softened Mog’s mood and, despite the terrible strain she was feeling, she managed to put on what she hoped was a comforting smile.
“It’s OK,” she told William, “we’ll get to you soon enough.”
Still not realising that each time she smiled she showed off her impressive teeth in a disturbing fashion and that the goats were now convinced that she wanted to eat them, Mog turned back to Billy.
"C’mon then, kid. Let’s have a look at you.”
Cyril stepped aside and nodded encouragement as Billy. Billy stood transfixed, trembling slightly.
“Billy!” Cyril hissed through clenched teeth. “Stop making a scene and let Mog give you the once over.”
“I can’t...” Billy moaned. “I don’t think my legs work anymore.”
There was a loud snap as Mog clicked her claws in front of her face, drawing the attention of both animals.
“Come, here,” she commanded, staring into Billy’s eyes.
Even though he was not the focus of Mog’s stare, Cyril had to fight hard not the approach the cat himself. The young goat had no chance of resistance nervously trotted up to Mystic Mog’s picnic table. Still staring into his eyes, Mog took Billy’s front hooves in her paws.
“Just relax,” she hissed gently.
Compelled to obey, Billy closed his eyes and remained silent.
“That’s good…” soothed Mog.
William and Cyril could do nothing but stand and watch. There was not actually anything really happening but they felt obliged to look anyway. Cyril made a mental observation that the high-pitched wailing that so often accompanied Mog’s routines was absent: this really was serious stuff.
After about five minutes of inactivity, during which time William had been staring at Billy and Mog as if either – or both – of them were about to explode, Mog released the young goat’s paws.
“He’s a Wanderer,” Mog told Cyril flatly.
“Not a very quick one,” Cyril moaned. “What do you mean?”
It was young William that piped up with an explanation: “A goat Wanderer is a chosen one who is used as a mortal vessel for the great goat-god, Pan himself.”
Mog nodded at him. “I’m impressed.”
William stared shyly at his feet. “I read a lot,” he mumbled.
Cyril was still not entirely sure what they meant. “So, Billy…?”
Mog sighed. “Billy went walkies, as you put it, because Pan, the goat-god, took control of him.”
“Why?”
Billy was looking really worried now. “Yeah, why?”
“Hard to say, exactly,” answered Mog. “The spirit-world cannot interact properly with this one without a little help. Pan was using young Billy here as his eyes and ears. And legs. What it was he wanted to see though, I’m not sure.”
“I think I might know,” offered William. “This is traditionally the time of year for followers of Pan to perform the Sun Dance and welcome in Pan’s new season.”
Cyril leant over and whispered in Mog’s ear: “Why didn’t Pan choose that one? He seems rather bright.”
“He needs an empty vessel, so to speak,” replied Mog softly.
“Oh.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about this Sun Dance?” Mog asked William.
“It is a dance first attributed to Spurymedes, one of the founding fathers on the Pan cult. Today, a modified version incorporating certain astrological phenomena is usually performed at dawn to greet the rising sun when Saturn - the ruling planet of Capricorn - has reached ascendance.
“The dance should be performed by twelve cultists, each representing a sign of the zodiac, and is accompanied by the music of the traditional instrument, the wooden panpipe. Just before dawn, one chosen cultist must address the goat-god and then each cult member must present himself (and his member) – or herself – to Pan.
“Cultists then do a circular dance until the sun has fully risen. Originally, this was centred about a stone altar on which” – William paused and looked over sheepishly at Billy (quite easily done if you are a goat) – “a goat had been sacrificed. However, later generations of cultists decided that the goat-god would not really appreciate the sacrifice of a goat and this practice was dropped sometime in the middle ages. In colder climates, the stone altar went on to be replaced by a camp fire.”
“Blimey!” said Cyril. “Toby Ron was right. Goats really do have a good memory…”
Mog scowled at him. “Do go on, William.”
“Once the sun had fully cleared the horizon, it was tradition to sacrifice the addresser of Pan. Originally, this was done on the same altar, mingling cultist and goat blood. Sometimes this would take the form of self-sacrifice. At other times, the sacrifice needed a bit more persuading. In times of extreme hardship, it was not unknown for the entire band of dancers to commit suicide in an attempt to attain the favour of their god for their tribe or family.
“Again, in modern times this practice has been dropped in the face of changing public opinion. People tend to be less willing to sign up to rituals that have a high risk of death, these days. Pan is not much worshipped these days and, my understanding is, his modern followers have decided that he wouldn’t want to lose any more. I’m not sure if they have replaced the sacrifice of the addressing member with anything.”
“One more question, William,” said Mog. “When you say cult members must ‘present themselves’ to their god, how do they do this?”
“There was one cult group in the late sixties that had an elaborate ceremony involving peacock feathers, flared trousers, and a rubber chicken. Generally, though, it is by the removal of all one’s garments and standing naked before him.”
Mog nodded. “This is most disturbing.”
“Does this sound like the group in your dream?” asked Cyril.
“Yes,” nodded Mog solemnly, “it does.”
“But that’s great!” Cyril exclaimed. “Well, not all those people dying, obviously,” he added quickly, “but young Billy here must have seen the whole thing. He’ll know who did it!”
Billy looked confused. “Seen who? Do what?” He hung his head sadly. “I haven’t seen anything.”
Cyril shot Mog a perplexed glance.
“Pan only takes control when a vessel is idle,” explained Mog. “Y’know – asleep. As soon as something happened to awaken Billy, his consciousness would shunt Pan out.”
“And what would wake him?”
“I dunno. What normally wakes someone? A slap in the face? A loud noise?”
“Like a bomb you mean…?”
The two of them looked at Billy. “I don’t remember any bombs,” he muttered. “I woke up in a field near home. I don’t know how I got there.”
Mog shrugged. “Maybe he’s a heavy sleeper. He might have woken up only when Pan decided to leave.”
“Maybe he never made it to the site of the bomb at all?” William suggested.
“Either way, he won’t remember details.”
Cyril sat down grumpily. “Great. So, we’ve got a possible eye-witness who may or may not have seen it happen but anything he did see, he won’t be able to remember. What use is that?”
Billy looked like he was going to cry.
“Excuse me!” William volunteered, “but we may have an eye-witness who saw and remembers everything – Pan.”
Cyril looked to Mog for confirmation.
“He’s right,” Mog agreed. “Doesn’t help us much, though.”
“You’re in touch with the spirit world aren’t you? Can’t you contact him, like?” Mog shook her head. “I don’t do gods. They tend to get rather tetchy. And that’s if you’re lucky. Control-freaks the lot of them. Much as I would like to know what’s going on, I’d rather not have my soul sucked into the ether through my nostrils.”
“So we’re back to square one?”
“Not necessarily. If it was a suicide and my dreams are not connected, this should be the end of it. If not... well, Young William has got a point. If Pan did witness the whole thing then I’m sure he wouldn’t be very happy about someone blowing away a dozen of his most loyal followers. Even if he didn’t see it, he still got to be a pit peeved. He’s got access to this world now through Billy here and, if I know Pan, he’ll want to take full advantage of that to try and find out what’s going on.”
“Do you know Pan?” asked Cyril.
“Not really, no.”
Cyril looked behind him at the two goats. They were being very slow. The younger goat, William, was busily looking around at all the new sights and sounds. The goats did not get off Toby Ron’s land very often (partly because Garth Jones had threatened to shoot them) and William was determined to make the most of this opportunity. Toby Ron had warned Cyril that the little goat may get a bit too excited and just wander off somewhere.
“He’s a smart kid, that one,” Toby had said, “but you’ll have to keep an eye on him. He hasn’t yet learned that there’s a time and a place for asking questions. Sometimes his curiosity can get him into trouble.”
“It killed the cat,” thought Cyril. “That’s a lot of trouble. Best not tell William that, though: he'll just ask which cat and how did it die.”
“What’s this, Mister Cyril, sir?” asked William, very politely interrupting the squirrel’s thoughts.
“It’s an empty drinks can, William,” sighed Cyril.
“Oh. But why did…?”
“Because people are lazy, William,” Cyril cut in, “and don’t respect the environment. Now come on!”
This was the umpteenth time that Cyril had had to stop and answer questions about litter, snails, stinging nettles, singing blackbirds and various other countryside phenomena. Not that William’s brother was being any better. Young Billy was skulking around miserably, occasionally muttering negative comments about the whole affair. He was not at all happy about the prospect of visiting Mystic Mog.
“I heard she used magic to turn old Harry the nymphomaniac gerbil into a toadstool!” Billy explained when pressed on the matter. “And then he went out of his mind with fear and was mistaken for a polo and eaten.”
“How could anyone mistake a toadstool for a polo?” asked William.
“It didn’t happen like that at all!” Cyril told them. “Mog used magic mushrooms to treat Harry for his sex addiction. He was cured too. He was on the way home when he thought he saw Richard Gere. He panicked, ran out into the road to avoid him, and was run over by a Volkswagen Polo.”
“Oh.”
“Now, come on both of you, or we’ll never get there at all and I’ll turn you into a toadstool.”
“You can’t do that,” argued William.
“Probably not. But I can have fun trying.”
As it happened, Cyril’s earlier worries about arriving at Mog’s during the day were unfounded – by the time Cyril had goaded the two goats to her woodland den, dusk was beginning to draw in.
The owls were waiting.
“Her mysticality is waiting for ya, nahmsayin?”
“Er, right. Thanks?”
Mystic Mog was, indeed, waiting. If it was possible, Cyril thought that she looked even worse than when he had seen her earlier that day. And she had not been attacked by half a dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses. She looked at the three of them with weary eyes.
“You were too late,” she told Cyril. It was definitely a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I feared as much. And your friends?”
Despite the massive difference in size that made the manoeuvre pointless, the two goats slowly backed away and tried their best to hide behind the squirrel, away from Mog’s penetrating stare.
“Toby Ron’s goats,” explained Cyril. He nodded his head at Billy. “This one went walkies in the middle of the night. Doesn’t remember anything about it, though.”
Mog transferred her gaze to William. “And this one?”
Cyril opened his mouth to answer, thought for a moment and then closed it again. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” Cyril looked round. “Why are you here?”
William was still backing away from the scene. He stopped when he hit something or, more precisely, somebody – one of Mog’s guardian owls.
“Where are you going, mo’ fo?”
William jumped. “Oh, terribly sorry. I, er…”
Seeing the young goat in such a fluster softened Mog’s mood and, despite the terrible strain she was feeling, she managed to put on what she hoped was a comforting smile.
“It’s OK,” she told William, “we’ll get to you soon enough.”
Still not realising that each time she smiled she showed off her impressive teeth in a disturbing fashion and that the goats were now convinced that she wanted to eat them, Mog turned back to Billy.
"C’mon then, kid. Let’s have a look at you.”
Cyril stepped aside and nodded encouragement as Billy. Billy stood transfixed, trembling slightly.
“Billy!” Cyril hissed through clenched teeth. “Stop making a scene and let Mog give you the once over.”
“I can’t...” Billy moaned. “I don’t think my legs work anymore.”
There was a loud snap as Mog clicked her claws in front of her face, drawing the attention of both animals.
“Come, here,” she commanded, staring into Billy’s eyes.
Even though he was not the focus of Mog’s stare, Cyril had to fight hard not the approach the cat himself. The young goat had no chance of resistance nervously trotted up to Mystic Mog’s picnic table. Still staring into his eyes, Mog took Billy’s front hooves in her paws.
“Just relax,” she hissed gently.
Compelled to obey, Billy closed his eyes and remained silent.
“That’s good…” soothed Mog.
William and Cyril could do nothing but stand and watch. There was not actually anything really happening but they felt obliged to look anyway. Cyril made a mental observation that the high-pitched wailing that so often accompanied Mog’s routines was absent: this really was serious stuff.
After about five minutes of inactivity, during which time William had been staring at Billy and Mog as if either – or both – of them were about to explode, Mog released the young goat’s paws.
“He’s a Wanderer,” Mog told Cyril flatly.
“Not a very quick one,” Cyril moaned. “What do you mean?”
It was young William that piped up with an explanation: “A goat Wanderer is a chosen one who is used as a mortal vessel for the great goat-god, Pan himself.”
Mog nodded at him. “I’m impressed.”
William stared shyly at his feet. “I read a lot,” he mumbled.
Cyril was still not entirely sure what they meant. “So, Billy…?”
Mog sighed. “Billy went walkies, as you put it, because Pan, the goat-god, took control of him.”
“Why?”
Billy was looking really worried now. “Yeah, why?”
“Hard to say, exactly,” answered Mog. “The spirit-world cannot interact properly with this one without a little help. Pan was using young Billy here as his eyes and ears. And legs. What it was he wanted to see though, I’m not sure.”
“I think I might know,” offered William. “This is traditionally the time of year for followers of Pan to perform the Sun Dance and welcome in Pan’s new season.”
Cyril leant over and whispered in Mog’s ear: “Why didn’t Pan choose that one? He seems rather bright.”
“He needs an empty vessel, so to speak,” replied Mog softly.
“Oh.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about this Sun Dance?” Mog asked William.
“It is a dance first attributed to Spurymedes, one of the founding fathers on the Pan cult. Today, a modified version incorporating certain astrological phenomena is usually performed at dawn to greet the rising sun when Saturn - the ruling planet of Capricorn - has reached ascendance.
“The dance should be performed by twelve cultists, each representing a sign of the zodiac, and is accompanied by the music of the traditional instrument, the wooden panpipe. Just before dawn, one chosen cultist must address the goat-god and then each cult member must present himself (and his member) – or herself – to Pan.
“Cultists then do a circular dance until the sun has fully risen. Originally, this was centred about a stone altar on which” – William paused and looked over sheepishly at Billy (quite easily done if you are a goat) – “a goat had been sacrificed. However, later generations of cultists decided that the goat-god would not really appreciate the sacrifice of a goat and this practice was dropped sometime in the middle ages. In colder climates, the stone altar went on to be replaced by a camp fire.”
“Blimey!” said Cyril. “Toby Ron was right. Goats really do have a good memory…”
Mog scowled at him. “Do go on, William.”
“Once the sun had fully cleared the horizon, it was tradition to sacrifice the addresser of Pan. Originally, this was done on the same altar, mingling cultist and goat blood. Sometimes this would take the form of self-sacrifice. At other times, the sacrifice needed a bit more persuading. In times of extreme hardship, it was not unknown for the entire band of dancers to commit suicide in an attempt to attain the favour of their god for their tribe or family.
“Again, in modern times this practice has been dropped in the face of changing public opinion. People tend to be less willing to sign up to rituals that have a high risk of death, these days. Pan is not much worshipped these days and, my understanding is, his modern followers have decided that he wouldn’t want to lose any more. I’m not sure if they have replaced the sacrifice of the addressing member with anything.”
“One more question, William,” said Mog. “When you say cult members must ‘present themselves’ to their god, how do they do this?”
“There was one cult group in the late sixties that had an elaborate ceremony involving peacock feathers, flared trousers, and a rubber chicken. Generally, though, it is by the removal of all one’s garments and standing naked before him.”
Mog nodded. “This is most disturbing.”
“Does this sound like the group in your dream?” asked Cyril.
“Yes,” nodded Mog solemnly, “it does.”
“But that’s great!” Cyril exclaimed. “Well, not all those people dying, obviously,” he added quickly, “but young Billy here must have seen the whole thing. He’ll know who did it!”
Billy looked confused. “Seen who? Do what?” He hung his head sadly. “I haven’t seen anything.”
Cyril shot Mog a perplexed glance.
“Pan only takes control when a vessel is idle,” explained Mog. “Y’know – asleep. As soon as something happened to awaken Billy, his consciousness would shunt Pan out.”
“And what would wake him?”
“I dunno. What normally wakes someone? A slap in the face? A loud noise?”
“Like a bomb you mean…?”
The two of them looked at Billy. “I don’t remember any bombs,” he muttered. “I woke up in a field near home. I don’t know how I got there.”
Mog shrugged. “Maybe he’s a heavy sleeper. He might have woken up only when Pan decided to leave.”
“Maybe he never made it to the site of the bomb at all?” William suggested.
“Either way, he won’t remember details.”
Cyril sat down grumpily. “Great. So, we’ve got a possible eye-witness who may or may not have seen it happen but anything he did see, he won’t be able to remember. What use is that?”
Billy looked like he was going to cry.
“Excuse me!” William volunteered, “but we may have an eye-witness who saw and remembers everything – Pan.”
Cyril looked to Mog for confirmation.
“He’s right,” Mog agreed. “Doesn’t help us much, though.”
“You’re in touch with the spirit world aren’t you? Can’t you contact him, like?” Mog shook her head. “I don’t do gods. They tend to get rather tetchy. And that’s if you’re lucky. Control-freaks the lot of them. Much as I would like to know what’s going on, I’d rather not have my soul sucked into the ether through my nostrils.”
“So we’re back to square one?”
“Not necessarily. If it was a suicide and my dreams are not connected, this should be the end of it. If not... well, Young William has got a point. If Pan did witness the whole thing then I’m sure he wouldn’t be very happy about someone blowing away a dozen of his most loyal followers. Even if he didn’t see it, he still got to be a pit peeved. He’s got access to this world now through Billy here and, if I know Pan, he’ll want to take full advantage of that to try and find out what’s going on.”
“Do you know Pan?” asked Cyril.
“Not really, no.”
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
Chapter 2.2
The morning sunlight dappled the woodland floor with blobs of yellow and green that gently danced as the autumn breeze playfully tossed the canopy overhead. Small creatures crept through the undergrowth about their daily business and the trees were full of the sound of birds in song. At least, that’s how things were in most of the wood.
In a small clearing, surrounded on all sides by matted walls of high brambles strung between the sycamores, all was not as one would expect. Not a small creeping creature could be seen nor a bird in song heard. The clearing itself was dominated by an old picnic table surrounded by leaf litter and the occasional toad stool.
If an observer of particularly keen eyesight were to purvey the scene, they might just make out a pair of Tawny owls in adjacent trees, scanning their surroundings in a rather guard-like fashion. For those in the know, this was not surprising; they were indeed guards, for none other than Mystic Mog. And this was her lair. (Although it may seem odd that a cat would gain the loyalties of owls, the family of owls in question shared a great deal of history with Mog’s own ever since their ancestors had first set sail together in a beautiful pea-green boat.)
Mog herself was seated on the far side of the picnic table. The table was bare, except for a chipped china beaker in its centre that contained a pair of snow globes, glued together. This was the Mystic Mug, and Mog’s front paws lay flanking it. The claws of her left paw drummed idly on the table with a hint of impatience.
There was a faint rustle and a thud, just audible over the whispering of the trees overhead, as something grey and furry dropped down from the canopy. The owls cocked their heads imperceptibly towards the source of the noise but were otherwise unmoved. Mystic Mog yawned, exposing her impressive mouthful of teeth.
“You’re late!” she told her visitor.
“Eh, calm down, calm down!” came the scouse reply from the other side of the table. “I was helping our Jermaine repair the damage to B tunnel up on the Down. Some idiot farmer must’ve mistaken the warren for a badger den and tried to blow it up. Probably that tosspot Garth Jones. The evil bastard…” He tailed off. “Mog…?”
“Hmm?” Mystic Mog snapped her wandering attention back to her client. He was a large male grey squirrel sporting a couple of old injuries: a small chunk of his right ear was missing, and his once-bushy tail looked like it had been through the wars and was only just beginning to struggle back to its former glory.
“What appears to be the problem?” Mog asked, forcing a smile that revealed her teeth once more.
The client was mesmerised for a second by the toothy display. He was fairly sure that the white feline would do him no harm, at least until he had settled his account. On the other paw, Mog appeared less stable each time he saw her. He wondered if she was sleeping properly or, worse, whether her frequent dabbling in the spirit world had begun to leave her somehow unhinged. (A particular problem experienced by the robot psychics of Mikeleron II. That and rust weevils.) Either way, Cyril decided that is was best not to keep her waiting any longer and cut straight to the chase.
“It’s my girlfriend,” he told her, with a shade of embarrassment.
“Cyril, Cyril, Cyril,” Mog shook her head gently. “Cross-species relationships are always hard. Sam is a rabbit. You’re a squirrel. She eats her own poo. You eat your nuts. It’s bound to be difficult.”
“Eh! It’s not Sam,” Cyril retorted, sharply. “It’s her sister! I think she hates me and I’m not sure why.”
Mog frowned. “I always thought Maxine liked you.”
“She does!" Cyril agreed. "I’m not talking about Max.”
“Hmm." Mog tapped her cheek pensively with her right index claw. "I know Jermaine was a bit icy at first but I’m sure she’s come around now.”
Now Cyril frowned. “She has. She loves me. Especially after the B tunnel business last night.”
“Well, Cerys and Tina are only young, they probably don’t…” Mog tailed off as she noticed the expression on Cyril’s face. “Not Cerys or Tina. Suzy? Maureen? Betty? Julie! Now, Julie’s just got major bushy tail issues that… not Julie. Mandy? Sarah? Chris? Lula? Na? Na’s always been a firm supporter of the two of you, particularly during that whole business with the aubergine. Er, Debbie? Pat? Arwen? Rachel? Oh, I give up!”
“I thought you were supposed to be psychic!” complained Cyril.
“Look, chum,” Mystic Mog replied indignantly, “it’s not my fault that your girlfriend’s got twenty-three sisters!"
Cyril visibly tensed, causing Mog to soften her tone. "I’m sorry," she explained. "I haven’t been sleeping well recently and I’m finding it harder than normal to concentrate.”
Cyril studied the fey feline for a moment. They had been getting on well since the incident with the Cabbages of Doom a few months earlier but he still did not really know whether they were friends, as such. True, he no longer felt threatened by her guards when he visited but neither did they exactly make him feel welcome. He certainly never saw Mog socially. As a result, his concern was primarily about the quality of her advice rather than her health and well-being. Nonetheless, she did look tired and Cyril was nothing if not honourable.
"Look," he started, "I can come back later, if now's not a good..." He tailed off as Mog silenced him with a shake of the head and wave of the paw.
"Please," she interjected. "Proceed."
Cyril was still not completely convinced but he had come a long way to see Mog and did not really fancy making the return journey with nothing to show for his efforts.
“I’m talking about Kathy,” he told her. “OK?”
“And what appears to be the problem?” Mog asked.
“That’s what I want you to tell me! I’ve tried everything. Dandelion leaves. Burdock. Even offered her a foot massage.” Cyril shook his head. “Nothing.”
Mystic Mog nodded at the exasperated squirrel. He knew rabbits better than her, so this was clearly not going to be something with a simple common sense resolution. She was going to have to go over. “All right. I’ll give a reading.”
“Thank you,” he smiled.
“Just be aware that I’ve suffered a bit of psychic interference lately,” Mog told him, flexing her paws each side of the Mystic Mug.
Cyril's smile dropped. “What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain," Mog answered. "The other night I was helping Will the schizophrenic badger – or Mary-Jo as he wanted to be called at the time – when I suddenly got some really weird feelings.”
Cyril leant forward, his own reading forgotten for the moment. Stories involving Will the schizophrenic badger were normally quite entertaining. “What happened?” he asked.
Mog stroked the top snow globe distractedly, letting her mind return to the events of the previous evening. “I’m still not really sure, to be honest. I was still establishing an astral connection when I experienced some buffeting crossing the psychic jet-stream. Suddenly, my mind jumped and somehow I found myself inside this tortoise.”
“A tortoise, eh?" Cyril interrupted. "Our Jermaine found a tortoise shell last night." He sensed Mog glaring at him. "Sorry, do go on…”
“Thank you," she continued. "As I was saying... I was inside this tortoise. And he was there too, only not totally there.”
“What, Will the schizophrenic badger?" asked Cyril, who just couldn't help himself. "He’s never totally there.”
“No," Mog replied, a little annoyed at another interruption. "Not Will. The tortoise. His higher reasoning self was there but it was just a passenger, like me. And very scared. The rest of him – his body – seemed to be acting of its own accord. He was locked out, just as I was locked in. Then things got really weird. We were up on the…”
Mog tapered off and, although she was white to start with, Cyril could swear that she went pale. The colour even seemed to drain from her nose. Without warning, she leant forward and grabbed Cyril’s front paws tightly with her own.
“What did you say before?” she asked him, urgently.
“Eh?” Cyril leant back, alarmed. “What, about Will the schizophrenic badger? You know, he’s never…”
“No! Before that. When you arrived. Why were you late?” she demanded.
“Like I said, I was, you know, helping Jermaine mend B tunnel after some goon had blown it up, like.”
It was Mog’s turn to lean forward. “B tunnel. That’s on the Down, right?”
“Er, yeah. They all…”
“It doesn’t come out under the big old oak, does it?”
“Er, yeah. It does. Why? What’s going on, eh?”
“Have you ever felt like you know you’re going to die?”
Mog’s claws were now beginning to draw blood. Cyril had never seen the cat look so frightened. Or frightening.
“Like now?” he hazarded.
Mog visibly did a double take of the situation and relaxed her grip on Cyril’s forelimbs. “I’ve been having terrible nightmares, Cyril. It’s hard to describe them. I just have this sense of deep foreboding.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with our Jermaine.”
“The tortoise in my vision was on the Down. It passed under the big oak and entered a burrow of some kind. And then…”
“Oh no…”
“And then it exploded. Cyril?”
Cyril’s jaw had dropped. “Like I said,” he croaked, “Sam said that our Jermaine found a tortoiseshell last night. It was, you know, in the collapsed tunnel. She figured it must have just got caught like, in the blast.”
Mog was a professional and, her fears confirmed, had already regained most of her composure. She looked the squirrel straight in the eye. “Do you feel up to saving the world again, Cyril?”
“Do I get a choice this time?” Cyril swallowed nervously and shrugged. “I guess…”
“Good.” Mog cut in. “Cos I think we’re all seriously up the swanny. What time did B tunnel go up?”
“Dunno. After tea time, certainly. Probably before midnight.”
Mog glanced at her bare wrist. Why didn’t animals wear watches? Judging by the angle of the light filtering through the trees, she guessed it was not long after dawn. “Hmm. If you hurry, there might just be time.”
In a small clearing, surrounded on all sides by matted walls of high brambles strung between the sycamores, all was not as one would expect. Not a small creeping creature could be seen nor a bird in song heard. The clearing itself was dominated by an old picnic table surrounded by leaf litter and the occasional toad stool.
If an observer of particularly keen eyesight were to purvey the scene, they might just make out a pair of Tawny owls in adjacent trees, scanning their surroundings in a rather guard-like fashion. For those in the know, this was not surprising; they were indeed guards, for none other than Mystic Mog. And this was her lair. (Although it may seem odd that a cat would gain the loyalties of owls, the family of owls in question shared a great deal of history with Mog’s own ever since their ancestors had first set sail together in a beautiful pea-green boat.)
Mog herself was seated on the far side of the picnic table. The table was bare, except for a chipped china beaker in its centre that contained a pair of snow globes, glued together. This was the Mystic Mug, and Mog’s front paws lay flanking it. The claws of her left paw drummed idly on the table with a hint of impatience.
There was a faint rustle and a thud, just audible over the whispering of the trees overhead, as something grey and furry dropped down from the canopy. The owls cocked their heads imperceptibly towards the source of the noise but were otherwise unmoved. Mystic Mog yawned, exposing her impressive mouthful of teeth.
“You’re late!” she told her visitor.
“Eh, calm down, calm down!” came the scouse reply from the other side of the table. “I was helping our Jermaine repair the damage to B tunnel up on the Down. Some idiot farmer must’ve mistaken the warren for a badger den and tried to blow it up. Probably that tosspot Garth Jones. The evil bastard…” He tailed off. “Mog…?”
“Hmm?” Mystic Mog snapped her wandering attention back to her client. He was a large male grey squirrel sporting a couple of old injuries: a small chunk of his right ear was missing, and his once-bushy tail looked like it had been through the wars and was only just beginning to struggle back to its former glory.
“What appears to be the problem?” Mog asked, forcing a smile that revealed her teeth once more.
The client was mesmerised for a second by the toothy display. He was fairly sure that the white feline would do him no harm, at least until he had settled his account. On the other paw, Mog appeared less stable each time he saw her. He wondered if she was sleeping properly or, worse, whether her frequent dabbling in the spirit world had begun to leave her somehow unhinged. (A particular problem experienced by the robot psychics of Mikeleron II. That and rust weevils.) Either way, Cyril decided that is was best not to keep her waiting any longer and cut straight to the chase.
“It’s my girlfriend,” he told her, with a shade of embarrassment.
“Cyril, Cyril, Cyril,” Mog shook her head gently. “Cross-species relationships are always hard. Sam is a rabbit. You’re a squirrel. She eats her own poo. You eat your nuts. It’s bound to be difficult.”
“Eh! It’s not Sam,” Cyril retorted, sharply. “It’s her sister! I think she hates me and I’m not sure why.”
Mog frowned. “I always thought Maxine liked you.”
“She does!" Cyril agreed. "I’m not talking about Max.”
“Hmm." Mog tapped her cheek pensively with her right index claw. "I know Jermaine was a bit icy at first but I’m sure she’s come around now.”
Now Cyril frowned. “She has. She loves me. Especially after the B tunnel business last night.”
“Well, Cerys and Tina are only young, they probably don’t…” Mog tailed off as she noticed the expression on Cyril’s face. “Not Cerys or Tina. Suzy? Maureen? Betty? Julie! Now, Julie’s just got major bushy tail issues that… not Julie. Mandy? Sarah? Chris? Lula? Na? Na’s always been a firm supporter of the two of you, particularly during that whole business with the aubergine. Er, Debbie? Pat? Arwen? Rachel? Oh, I give up!”
“I thought you were supposed to be psychic!” complained Cyril.
“Look, chum,” Mystic Mog replied indignantly, “it’s not my fault that your girlfriend’s got twenty-three sisters!"
Cyril visibly tensed, causing Mog to soften her tone. "I’m sorry," she explained. "I haven’t been sleeping well recently and I’m finding it harder than normal to concentrate.”
Cyril studied the fey feline for a moment. They had been getting on well since the incident with the Cabbages of Doom a few months earlier but he still did not really know whether they were friends, as such. True, he no longer felt threatened by her guards when he visited but neither did they exactly make him feel welcome. He certainly never saw Mog socially. As a result, his concern was primarily about the quality of her advice rather than her health and well-being. Nonetheless, she did look tired and Cyril was nothing if not honourable.
"Look," he started, "I can come back later, if now's not a good..." He tailed off as Mog silenced him with a shake of the head and wave of the paw.
"Please," she interjected. "Proceed."
Cyril was still not completely convinced but he had come a long way to see Mog and did not really fancy making the return journey with nothing to show for his efforts.
“I’m talking about Kathy,” he told her. “OK?”
“And what appears to be the problem?” Mog asked.
“That’s what I want you to tell me! I’ve tried everything. Dandelion leaves. Burdock. Even offered her a foot massage.” Cyril shook his head. “Nothing.”
Mystic Mog nodded at the exasperated squirrel. He knew rabbits better than her, so this was clearly not going to be something with a simple common sense resolution. She was going to have to go over. “All right. I’ll give a reading.”
“Thank you,” he smiled.
“Just be aware that I’ve suffered a bit of psychic interference lately,” Mog told him, flexing her paws each side of the Mystic Mug.
Cyril's smile dropped. “What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain," Mog answered. "The other night I was helping Will the schizophrenic badger – or Mary-Jo as he wanted to be called at the time – when I suddenly got some really weird feelings.”
Cyril leant forward, his own reading forgotten for the moment. Stories involving Will the schizophrenic badger were normally quite entertaining. “What happened?” he asked.
Mog stroked the top snow globe distractedly, letting her mind return to the events of the previous evening. “I’m still not really sure, to be honest. I was still establishing an astral connection when I experienced some buffeting crossing the psychic jet-stream. Suddenly, my mind jumped and somehow I found myself inside this tortoise.”
“A tortoise, eh?" Cyril interrupted. "Our Jermaine found a tortoise shell last night." He sensed Mog glaring at him. "Sorry, do go on…”
“Thank you," she continued. "As I was saying... I was inside this tortoise. And he was there too, only not totally there.”
“What, Will the schizophrenic badger?" asked Cyril, who just couldn't help himself. "He’s never totally there.”
“No," Mog replied, a little annoyed at another interruption. "Not Will. The tortoise. His higher reasoning self was there but it was just a passenger, like me. And very scared. The rest of him – his body – seemed to be acting of its own accord. He was locked out, just as I was locked in. Then things got really weird. We were up on the…”
Mog tapered off and, although she was white to start with, Cyril could swear that she went pale. The colour even seemed to drain from her nose. Without warning, she leant forward and grabbed Cyril’s front paws tightly with her own.
“What did you say before?” she asked him, urgently.
“Eh?” Cyril leant back, alarmed. “What, about Will the schizophrenic badger? You know, he’s never…”
“No! Before that. When you arrived. Why were you late?” she demanded.
“Like I said, I was, you know, helping Jermaine mend B tunnel after some goon had blown it up, like.”
It was Mog’s turn to lean forward. “B tunnel. That’s on the Down, right?”
“Er, yeah. They all…”
“It doesn’t come out under the big old oak, does it?”
“Er, yeah. It does. Why? What’s going on, eh?”
“Have you ever felt like you know you’re going to die?”
Mog’s claws were now beginning to draw blood. Cyril had never seen the cat look so frightened. Or frightening.
“Like now?” he hazarded.
Mog visibly did a double take of the situation and relaxed her grip on Cyril’s forelimbs. “I’ve been having terrible nightmares, Cyril. It’s hard to describe them. I just have this sense of deep foreboding.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with our Jermaine.”
“The tortoise in my vision was on the Down. It passed under the big oak and entered a burrow of some kind. And then…”
“Oh no…”
“And then it exploded. Cyril?”
Cyril’s jaw had dropped. “Like I said,” he croaked, “Sam said that our Jermaine found a tortoiseshell last night. It was, you know, in the collapsed tunnel. She figured it must have just got caught like, in the blast.”
Mog was a professional and, her fears confirmed, had already regained most of her composure. She looked the squirrel straight in the eye. “Do you feel up to saving the world again, Cyril?”
“Do I get a choice this time?” Cyril swallowed nervously and shrugged. “I guess…”
“Good.” Mog cut in. “Cos I think we’re all seriously up the swanny. What time did B tunnel go up?”
“Dunno. After tea time, certainly. Probably before midnight.”
Mog glanced at her bare wrist. Why didn’t animals wear watches? Judging by the angle of the light filtering through the trees, she guessed it was not long after dawn. “Hmm. If you hurry, there might just be time.”
Thursday, 12 July 2012
Prelude (The story begins...)
Princess awoke with a start. Another nightmare. The silk blankets in her deluxe cat basket were slightly damp with sweat. She had not been sleeping well of late, and had even started taking naps at night to adjust for her lack of restful shut-eye during the day. It was probably just interference from the ascendant transition of Jupiter to Saturn - under her alter ego of Mystic Mog, Princess was aware of many potential forms of psychic disturbance - but her dreams had given her a deep sense of foreboding.
Princess glanced at the gold embossed Carriage clock on the mantelpiece. The night was at its armpit - things were getting smelly but had not yet come to a head. Time to go to work. Shaking off the fading memories, Mog left the house through the fake marble cat-flap in the kitchen and leapt nimbly onto the garden wall. Swansea stretched away before her. Like a pair of bad fitting Calvin Kleins, everything looked good but something just did not feel right. Trying to ignore the hair rising on her back, Mog set off into the night.
[NB. Read the Foreword if you have not yet read The Cabbages of Doom.]
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