reminded Church of incense.
‘Are you prepared for the journey into the world beyond?’ Conoran asked Church solemnly.
Church nodded. When he had agreed to the ritual he had expected it to be a diverting piece of entertainment, but he was surprised by how affecting it truly was. Every nerve in his body felt electrified.
Conoran held his hand out, palm upwards. On it lay a small pile of dried mushrooms. Church knew that many ancient cultures used some kind of hallucinogen to enhance the religious experience – even the early Christian sects were supposed to have used psychedelic mushrooms in their rituals – but he was apprehensive about their effect.
‘Take them,’ Conoran urged, with a flinty tone that suggested there could be no refusal.
Church reticently popped the mushrooms into his mouth and swallowed. At his back, someone began to bang a drum of animal hide, then another, and another. The sharp notes of a bone flute rose up.
As the rhythmic music built, Conoran led the procession through the settlement, Church close behind him. It ended at the entrance to a mysterious tunnel that Church had inspected earlier. It was a fogou, a feature of several Cornish Iron Age settlements; archaeological debate about their use ranged from a grain store or shelter from marauding enemies to some ritual purpose. Church now knew it was the latter.
Conoran motioned to the dark hole. ‘Enter now, and be prepared to be born into a new world and a new life.’
Church felt a flicker of anxiety as the first flush of the mushrooms hit his system. Lying on his belly, he slithered like a snake into the dark.
The tunnel opened into a larger space, but not high enough to stand upright. The darkness was so intense it had a palpable quality; Church feltas if he was floating in space. He became acutely aware of the beat of his heart and the rush of blood through his arteries and veins.
‘Move along the tunnel.’ Conoran’s disembodied voice floated eerily around.
Church edged forward, one hand outstretched in front of him, the other dragging along the cold stone corbels of the wall for guidance. He worried that there might be some secret pit ahead, that the whole ritual was an elaborate trap to rid the community of the dangerous stranger in their midst.
The tunnel turned this way and that, or appeared to in the dark, so that Church could no longer recall the way out. Eventually he came to a place where the roof and floor came together to form a funnel.
‘Crawl into the gap.’
Church jumped. Conoran was right behind him.
Church crawled until he was wedged in a foetal position inside a tiny chamber, and there he realised the significance of Conoran’s words about being born into a new world. The tunnel acted symbolically like the birth channel. After the ritual he would emerge into the light, to start a new life after the mind-altering experience.
The drums throbbed distantly like the slow beat of an enormous heart. The sound of the bone flute ebbed and flowed like the thrum of a vascular system.
‘Jack, Giantkiller, known as Church. Let me tell you about Existence,’ Conoran began in measured tones. ‘There is one rule in our secret studies, and it is this: no here or there exists, no in or out. There is only us. Everything you see in the world around, every rock and tree and blade of grass, is fluid. The world is only the way you perceive it because that is how we need it to be, at this moment. We make our own world.’
‘You’re saying this is all just a dream,’ Church said languorously. He felt strangely like laughing. ‘We dream the world this way.’
‘All living things are a part of Existence. The Blue Fire burns in everything, roaring through like life’s-blood.’
Church had a strange vision: standing on a balmy night, looking over the rolling countryside as streams of Blue Fire raced across the grass in lines, interlinking, forming a huge grid that echoed inside him as much as without.
‘The Fiery
‘Are you prepared for the journey into the world beyond?’ Conoran asked Church solemnly.
Church nodded. When he had agreed to the ritual he had expected it to be a diverting piece of entertainment, but he was surprised by how affecting it truly was. Every nerve in his body felt electrified.
Conoran held his hand out, palm upwards. On it lay a small pile of dried mushrooms. Church knew that many ancient cultures used some kind of hallucinogen to enhance the religious experience – even the early Christian sects were supposed to have used psychedelic mushrooms in their rituals – but he was apprehensive about their effect.
‘Take them,’ Conoran urged, with a flinty tone that suggested there could be no refusal.
Church reticently popped the mushrooms into his mouth and swallowed. At his back, someone began to bang a drum of animal hide, then another, and another. The sharp notes of a bone flute rose up.
As the rhythmic music built, Conoran led the procession through the settlement, Church close behind him. It ended at the entrance to a mysterious tunnel that Church had inspected earlier. It was a fogou, a feature of several Cornish Iron Age settlements; archaeological debate about their use ranged from a grain store or shelter from marauding enemies to some ritual purpose. Church now knew it was the latter.
Conoran motioned to the dark hole. ‘Enter now, and be prepared to be born into a new world and a new life.’
Church felt a flicker of anxiety as the first flush of the mushrooms hit his system. Lying on his belly, he slithered like a snake into the dark.
The tunnel opened into a larger space, but not high enough to stand upright. The darkness was so intense it had a palpable quality; Church feltas if he was floating in space. He became acutely aware of the beat of his heart and the rush of blood through his arteries and veins.
‘Move along the tunnel.’ Conoran’s disembodied voice floated eerily around.
Church edged forward, one hand outstretched in front of him, the other dragging along the cold stone corbels of the wall for guidance. He worried that there might be some secret pit ahead, that the whole ritual was an elaborate trap to rid the community of the dangerous stranger in their midst.
The tunnel turned this way and that, or appeared to in the dark, so that Church could no longer recall the way out. Eventually he came to a place where the roof and floor came together to form a funnel.
‘Crawl into the gap.’
Church jumped. Conoran was right behind him.
Church crawled until he was wedged in a foetal position inside a tiny chamber, and there he realised the significance of Conoran’s words about being born into a new world. The tunnel acted symbolically like the birth channel. After the ritual he would emerge into the light, to start a new life after the mind-altering experience.
The drums throbbed distantly like the slow beat of an enormous heart. The sound of the bone flute ebbed and flowed like the thrum of a vascular system.
‘Jack, Giantkiller, known as Church. Let me tell you about Existence,’ Conoran began in measured tones. ‘There is one rule in our secret studies, and it is this: no here or there exists, no in or out. There is only us. Everything you see in the world around, every rock and tree and blade of grass, is fluid. The world is only the way you perceive it because that is how we need it to be, at this moment. We make our own world.’
‘You’re saying this is all just a dream,’ Church said languorously. He felt strangely like laughing. ‘We dream the world this way.’
‘All living things are a part of Existence. The Blue Fire burns in everything, roaring through like life’s-blood.’
Church had a strange vision: standing on a balmy night, looking over the rolling countryside as streams of Blue Fire raced across the grass in lines, interlinking, forming a huge grid that echoed inside him as much as without.
‘The Fiery
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