Things Take Off !

With the snug warmth of the fire, his full stomach and all the travails he had undergone that day - coming into existence at all being only the first ! - Eliot was finding it extremely difficult to concentrate on the list; though he did find it fascinating, and suggestive. His head was swimming; he kept plunging into little moments of sleep, then re-awakening with a jerk. He was becoming more and more confused. It was definitely time for bed.

"Sir Magus", he said thickly, "I'm sorry this is just too much on top of everything else today. I've had it; I need to crash out !"

Standalf, who had been silent and contemplative while Eliot was reading, did not seem in the least put out.

"Absolutely. It's important to do it justice. There is a time for everything; now it is for sleep. You can keep that - it's a copy - and look at it at a better time. Now - you won't get much sleep tonight I'm afraid, Stearns. The essential first condition of ever having the possibility of finding the Dragon is to set out very early tomorrow morning, later on tonight really, while it is still dark, definitely before the dawn or even the first glimmers of it. What I'm going to do is put you in a healing trance so that you'll be as refreshed as you can be; and I'll keep watch and make sure you get up, and point you on your way. Lie down, lie down."

Eliot did so gratefully, and the Magus brought a rough but warm blanket out of the cave mouth (which like a cornucopia seemed to supply whatever was required), put it round the poet and tucked him up quite tenderly. Then he looked directly into the poet's eyes; the Magus' glittered; they eclipsed everything; they seemed to fill the whole universe. Eliot fell abruptly into a deep sleep . . . .

. . . . and surfaced from it groggily, not knowing who or where he was; only that he was being shaken awake - by the Magus in fact who, true to his promise, had sat quietly keeping vigil all night. Eliot sat upright on his couch with immense reluctance; he rubbed his face wearily as his identity, location and purpose came back to him. The fire had died out and was just cold black embers in the raw and penetrating night air. Eliot began to shiver; at least he was waking up !

"Don't you worry", said Standalf brightly, "I've got just the thing !"

He went into the cave and bought out two mugs with liquid in them and handed one to the poet. Eliot sniffed the sharp smell of it, which tickled the inside of his nose - but it also smelled cold, somehow. Not tea this time - whisky !

"Get it down you", advised the Magus, taking a slug himself, shuddering slightly and smacking his lips. Eliot followed suit. The liquid burned his throat a little and made his eyes water; he coughed a bit and he felt its hot progress down his throat, then into his stomach - and the effect slowly, magically diffused through his whole body and his limbs. Man, he felt good ! He took a hearty slug this time. Ka-zam ! His weariness was banished, his fear forgotten; he felt equal to wrestling a walrus, could one at that moment have appeared, or even a hippopotamus !

"That's the style !" said the Magus, noting Eliot's improved condition. "Righto, Stearns, you'd best be on your way."

They both stood up. Standalf clapped the poet on the back and pointed off to the left, into the forest.

"That's the way, Stearns. Good luck !"

"Thankyou, Sir Magus. Thanks for everything !" said Eliot feelingly, handed him back the mug and strode off into the forest in the indicated direction.

Now, it was damned cold, but somehow the whisky made Eliot not mind that as he walked on the forest floor through the closely packed trees. Another curious effect of it was that either he really could see in the dark, or just felt as if he could - anyway he was making good progress without bothering too much as to where he was heading in fact. Because the Magus' instructions were vague; all they amounted to were 'Go that way !' But it turned out not to matter in the slightest, for the following reason, as you shall hear . . . .

. . . . All of a sudden, in abrupt and total contrast to the blackness hitherto, Eliot was surrounded by and bathed in strong white light. He felt heat on his face, and began to sweat, although the back of him was as cold as hitherto. He was absolutely dazzled. Slowly his eyes began to adjust. He could make out a shape in front of him; a long white metallic ramp was lowering with a soft whirring noise from the bottom of the huge smooth-surfaced object which loomed dizzyingly above him, cut off the sky and was the source of the light. He could not tell exactly what it was, but it was big. Light of a different register, tinged with blue, poured out of the hole made by the lowered ramp. As Stearns stood there stunned, a very beautiful woman or woman-like creature walked down the ramp, carrying a red Telecaster ready to play, looking definitely like she knew how to use it. If she was an earthling she was about 30, dressed all in white, with vivid red hair cut shoulder length and falling with a charming unruliness across her face. Behind her down the ramp came a curly-haired human or humanoid with a bass guitar. At the top of it, still inside whatever the monstrous thing in front of Stearns was, was a drummer behind a drum kit, with amplifiers ranged behind him. The woman looked round at the bass player and met his eye; both raised the necks of their instruments slightly; the drummer was watching her; all three were tensed, concentrated, ready. The woman raised her eyebrows a fraction as she held the bass player's gaze and counted off silently 'One - Two - Three - Four'; they all crashed in simultaneously.

Eliot was both assaulted and enraptured; entirely possessed by the music. The red-haired woman was playing a guitar line at once sinuous and jagged; the volume of it meant that Eliot felt it right in his core. As the drums crashed and the bass thumped, she was singing a song he didn't catch fully, except for the repeated word 'White', which seemed to be the main subject of the song.

The fact that this had all come out of nowhere, the entire contrast between the dark, silent forest he had been walking through and the intensity of the volume and light now, heightened the impact on Eliot immeasurably. In reality the song went on for seven minutes; but to Eliot in his delicious confusion it seemed almost endless while it was being played, and to be over far too soon once it and stopped, which it did with a final flourish on the drums. Eliot clapped appreciatively; the guitar players smiled and bowed. The drummer was now busy disassembling his kit; the bass player walked back up the ramp and disappeared inside whatever it was it led to; the red-haired woman followed him. At the top, framed in the hatch, she turned and beckoned to the poet. She said nothing, but the gesture was unmistakable: You coming ?

Eliot's hesitation was only momentary and fleeting; the Dragon could wait; or perhaps this was precisely his route to that fabled Beast, this was what he was meant to find, what the Magus had intended but not spelled out more clearly for fear of putting him off. Who could say ? Eliot walked forward, stepped on to the rigid white metal ramp, and resolutely marched up it. As he did so, it began lifting and closing under him. There was no going back . . . .


WHERE IS ELIOT NOW ? AND WHAT, BY ALL THAT IS MOST SACRED TO DODECICENTALISTS EVERYWHERE, IS GOING ON ?!? Part 6 soon - honest !