Disaster has struck the
And who or what is this Bendy Satan, heard whispered, rumoured by the wind?
With a riveting score by acclaimed beat combo St. Cuthbert’s Burials, this classic fable is every bit the equal of The Seventh Seal.
Contains scenes of unmitigated terror.
Seven days before the laughter of the horns of the Bacchae crossed the cusp of the hill and into the broad valley on the green road to the Court of King Jelly Roll, six witnessed the scene to be described. The six were; Mad Sweeney from treetops; Yuxa, winking from the undergrowth; Gilfaethwy as boar, upon whom was Freya with feathers; Hong-yu, a vixen; Badessy from the sky.
In a glade by a pool, a shallow pool of rained water stretched barely rippling like a reflection of the sun, a stag stood grooming. No other deer awake or near, the stag looked placid up to trees like antlers. In grazing brambles stark against the last of withered leaves before the breeze, he found a thirst and came as many days before to where the water gathered for its travels. With the quivering splendid soft bronze of his flanks in clear view now of the sky, it was no wonder that the starlings and the blackbirds fought their choruses through the waves. The stag approached the water, crisp blue under
As the chorus continued, many tones, the stag drank deep, and, as the day maintained her thrilling promise of the blossom, the water, never moving, appeared suddenly as a tapestry, became a gauze of liquid gold, but fresh. The whole world might have gasped but for the stag who, with brown eyes above dignity, continued to drink, and the air felt pregnant with the loosing muscles of a real beast taking in what water he required. That gold, never a necklace, shone then in his eyes.
In seven days, with the antlered branches stretching in their buds, the first faint echoes came of the coming congregation. Wine in every pocket of the broad grins on their faces, they rounded the hill wreathed in vines with no alarm to the various animals watching. At first they stared near silent, wide-eyed into the sky between two hills, and then they flung their bare flesh into brambles, laughing, bleeding, and they called with pipes and laughter to the animals and they brought them, always dancing, to the fold and carried on with singing down the green road home.
For connoisseurs, the following is a piece roughly contemporary to the fabled Baiting of the Marshfish, and appears to occur jointly in the world of that and of The Jonathan. Curious. Precise provenance cannot be determined.
Brother Surf walked into the Egg, with his beach-time anecdotes and propaganda, all his shit, every last morsel of that shit we’ll never, ever countenance. Well, he came to the bar, I was sitting on a stool, Stephen was slouched on the bar, and Apricot was looking at him askance, wiping a glass.
“Hello, Brother Surf,” I said, he had not yet reached his podium there by the bar, the place he would stand righteous and harass the bar staff, leaving us in the middle, or rather me in the middle, Stephen would never involve himself, crossfire or not.
“Yeah… Apricot, cider please.”
“Yes,” Apricot was blunt as ever.
“You know what?” Brother Surf preached his usual opening question.
“No.” Stephen spoke up unexpectedly.
“No? Ha! Well, I bumped into the bishop, the cunt, may he die, and you know what he said?”
“No,” this was turning into a real conversation for Stephen.
“I wouldn’t expect better from you – yeah, you – the silent one. Cunt. Well, yeah, so the bishop, yeah? The bishop – Bastard! – he told me that there had been complaints, you see, complaints,” seethe, “about my mosque. I mean, Jesus Aloud, what about Me? Fucking bishop, whole fucking diocese, it’s rotten. You hear me, Apricot?”
“Yes.”
“Slut. Yeah. Tell you what, Apricot. I’ve got a friend needs servicing. Think you could help? Ha! Well, what do you reckon I should do with the bishop?”
“Does he have a daughter?” Stephen offered.
“Oh! No,” Brother Surf was often sarcastic, “What do you think, Jack?”
“Petrol-bomb the fucker.”
“No. I’ll invite him to the beach. We’ll fight it out like men. Not worms, you fucking worm. Well, thanks for nothing, I’m leaving now, keep the change, ha! You’ll see, you’ll see,” and he left, swiftly, spitting.
In Bacchus’ name, lift up your spoons, for the season approacheth, little things. Even now, the reupholsterers are reupholstering chairs, purple and green. The physicians are smiling, the ladies are moist. King Jelly Roll is better, thanks be to God. The dead are buried, the table is set. Put on your hats and saddle your horses, for King Jelly Roll’s court is reconvened. The frosty veil is lifted, so come, the embarrassed and regretful, take off your clothes and thrash about wildly, in the manner of a boar in the throes of death. For, in faith, the winter’s boar does die for the summer’s pork. The thin gander swears an oath, and the fool is in the mixture. Shoots are shooting, boots are new, but the ceremony will be a barefoot affair. Do not sit down by the roadside facing the hedgerow when all the world is dead, and everything in it. For, in faith, that is the time to put your hand in your trousers, and the rod and the staff shall comfort you. The road is well lit, and is not very long. In the circle, four English leagues west of the wood where tall wolves groan, four English leagues north of the marsh where grass snakes consider, four English leagues east of the plain where women wish, four English leagues south of the bay where cormorants swoop at the backs of fishermen, the festival will be met. Forthwith, then, to the circle; wrap your wife in ivy. The leopard that was in the tree now stands on one leg in the centre of the circle, and, in faith, the tree stands proud on the leopard’s back. The nephews beloved of King Jelly Roll stand at the trestles of the five innermost tables, and no rope can bind them. The attendant nymphs shine like berries. From the nub of the mound, even now the first of the guests can be seen approaching. First among them is Brutus, and not least among them, Gog and Magog. King Jelly Roll has risen from his mossy sickbed. So lift up your spoons, in Bacchus’ name, for the feast.
It can be assumed safely that the onion has contributed greatly to human diets for many a long year; indeed, there is strong evidence that, in the
