Nottamun Town

by Mr Spraycan

The explanation I keep hearing is that there was acid in the fruit punch. What else would explain it? All I can tell you is I woke up shivering, totally disoriented. Stark naked, sitting on a park bench on the Victoria Embankment. At seven in the morning, with traffic rolling by, people staring in total disbelief. In the pissing rain. Two policemen were eyeing me cautiously, awaiting the ambulance men and their restraints. And I was singing.

It's pleasant and peaceful here at St. Ethelred's. Out in the country, somewhere near Epsom, loonybin capital of southern England. You don't feel as though you're in a mental hospital, except when you start talking to the other patients. Then, you suddenly understand. Some are quite deranged, others just gently misguided. But the more you listen to them, the more you see why they are here. Many are quite institutionalized, and would like newcomers like me to become that way too. Some are sullen, brooding: it comes from within them, or the doctors' love of pills for all ills. The few jokers here call these 'the real Epsom Downs.'

I wish I wasn't here. I want to get back to my engineering course at Queen Elizabeth's. I mustn't drop out. But I fear I may, if I lose much more time. Just think of the course work, the lab work. There's so much every week. I'll have a hell of a time catching up. My god.

My own special doctor is Lillian Howett. Specializes in 'induced disorders of psychotomimetic drugs and their associated epiphenomena.' Try saying that in a hurry.

I ask her repeatedly why I'm still being kept there.

"Because, Brian, you insisted on telling us that this experience of yours was real," she explains gently.

"You mean, if I'd lied to you, I could have gone, is that it? Funny old morality you practice here, Dr. Howett. Don't you agree?"

"Brian, we've been over this before. Look at it from our point of view. You vanish from a party with your friends, with no explanation. First you're asleep, then they look around and you're gone. No one sees you for a fortnight. And then you show up, stark naked, raving about visions, singing to yourself, on a bench in the middle of London. How normal is that, would you say?"

"Not very but ... where was I for the whole two weeks? Answer that."

She ignores this gambit, completely. "We don't know a lot about these chemicals like LSD-15, or the analogs that are coming along. Not to mention tnigs like peyote, psilocybin, other hallucinogens. And when people are using them in combinations with marijuana, all sorts of things are possible."

"That's what's fun. It's not like brown ale."

"I'll ignore that irresponsible comment. But I'll remind you that since you were detained by the police, it's possible some charges could still be filed. At the very least, indecent exposure. You could stay here a long while, young man."

"Alright. I get it. So I'm a bad boy. I admit it."

"So, you're a misguided boy. And you'll stay a little longer. We do know it is very dangerous to just take a 'so what' attitude to people who've had 'bad trips.' We've seen serious deterioration, strange psychoses, schizophrenia, major depressive fugues. Even had some suicides. We don't take chances any more. These drugs are powerful, and can really change your life."

"Why didn't anyone else at the party freak out? Everyone was drinking the punch."

"People's physiology and reactions vary. I've not interviewed all your friends, but some said they felt a bit strange, too."

"I feel fine now, really."

"And this Nottamun Town of yours?"

"I told you. It was as real as, uh, Waterloo Station. Tell me, if I wasn't there, where was I?"

* * * * *

I'm back at the party. The stereo is playing, loud. The cheap Algerian red wine is flowing. Raj brought some hash, but we've toasted and puffed our way through that hours before. Expensive habit. We're back to boozing.

All evening, we've been flipping between the acid-crazed music of Hendrix's Are You Experienced and Axis Bold As Love, and Zappa's Freak Out and Lumpy Gravy. Dipping into the diametrically different English sounds of the Incredible String Band's 5000 Spirits, Or Layers Of The Onion and Fairport Convention's What We Did On Our Holidays. Over and over, Fairport's "Nottamun Town." It's the latter's trippy, Indian-flavored acoustic guitar that is sticking in everyone's brain tonight. Davy Graham-like ragas and riffs, buzzing and droning. The song, of course, is traditional, but lyrically obscure, freaky and Bosch-like as they come. The vehicle stolen by Dylan back in 1963 for the simple fingerpointer Masters Of War.

What's it about? We've discussed it a lot. Lynni thinks it's about a dreamworld, where only women live. "Not A Man Town."

To Amanda, it's about Nottingham, her home town. Very imaginative.

To trippy Carla, it's about some Magician's world: KnotterMan Town.

To Felicia, deep into mysticism, it's an antiworld of the Egyptians, not-Amon Town.

I decide to try the fruit punch. The red wine is killing my throat. That, and the Piccadillys. Maybe this'll help. The girls say it's good.

As I drink, I hear a distant gonging. What's that? Now it's not there again. Just speaker resonance maybe. I sit on the floor. My first clue something is wrong is a feeling of oppression, powerlessness. I can't speak. Even move my jaw. I sense a huge weight on me. My hands are in my lap, but I can't will them to move. My body is as heavy as a stone Buddha. No one seems to notice as I begin to slowly sunk into the floor. At first, I don't panic. But soon, I realize I'm going to vanish. My head is level with the carpet, I can see up Lynni's short skirt. No panties, her cute ass, her hairy pussy. A last beautiful sight that brings tears to my eyes. No one hears my sneeze as my nostrils fill with carpet dust. Then, I'm gone. Falling on my back, slowly spiralling. Through total darkness. Oh no. I'm dead dead dead, is all I can think. Soon I lose consciousness.

A bright flash of light. I'm standing in the middle of a country lane, tottering on my feet. Dizzy, confused, dazzled. No, not a lane. A rutted, unpaved track. Impossibly green country, free of the hand of agriculture. No fences, no ploughing. Some Ur-England, unlike any I've ever seen. Not even in the wilds of Wales or Scotland do you see such pristine landscape. It's unreal, two dimensional in some ways, as though hand-painted. There's something wrong with the light: it's too bright, too shadowless. And quiet. Just the gentle wind in the trees. No birds, no traffic.

I stand there looking in disbelief. Where am I? After a minute or two, there's a prickling in my scalp. I slowly turn, look over my shoulder, and jump in fright. A naked woman is standing a few feet behind me. Not a raving beauty, by any means, but attractive enough in her nudity. In her thirties, maybe? But not too old for me. Chestnut hair, large, slightly sagging breasts, wide hips. A shaved pudendum. She's a little taller than me, even barefoot. But then, I'm only about five foot six. Where had I seen her before? She reminds me of someone in an art gallery. Then it hits me. This is the stereotypical look of the women in late medieval paintings, Rubens and the like. Or the lynx-eyed woman on the cover of Heinlein's 'Glory Road," just out this summer in paperback. A country kind of look. But naked?

For lack of anything profound, I say: "Hi there."

She stares at me in dumbfounded silence, her eyes widening.

"Do you speak English?"

She shakes her head in confusion, then asks me, with a flourish of her hand toward the sky: "High, where?"

"Where is this? Where are we?" I ask, frustrated by this non-linear response.

Another blank stare. She has beautiful green eyes. Then, she says, in a flat child-like voice: "Here? It's Saturday."

"I'm sorry, but, uh you made me jump, you see, I wasn't expecting ..." I wave my hand at her naked body.

"Yes I did. Welcome."

I guess I've gotten used to braindead hippies and the sozzled ramblings of my friends in recent months. This dialog is pure Ballad Of A Thin Man. So I ignore this and say: "I'm Brian."

"What is 'brying?' Oh, it's your name! I'm, Dahzelthza."

Uh oh. This absolutely is not the Home Counties. As if her nakedness hadn't given that away already. What kind of name is that? Hungarian? Persian?

I step towards her. She isn't in the least bit offended or frightened. I feel my cock hardening. It takes my decision for me. I reach out and hesitantly cup her right breast. She stares into my eyes, then says: "I'm sorry, traveler Brian. I have no milk for you."

I grin in confusion. "That wasn't what I meant. Uh ..."

"Then why touch me there?"

"Because it feels good?"

"Oh." A long ruminative pause. "Yes, it feels, friendly. Methinks you have some intent that is not gallant, young man."

What kind of nonsense is this? I put my arms round her, pull her close to me. Stare into her eyes.

"Oh? And where are your clothes, Dahzelthza? Tell me that."

"On Saturday, we don't wear clothes."

"You don't?" I ask in amazement. Oh, I may join right in, I find myself thinking. My idea of a fun weekend. In the back of my mind, I think: maybe Saturday is the name of the place, dummy.

"Only nobles and magicians wear clothes. So you, sir, must be a magician, for your nobility is betrayed by your stiff trousers."

"That's me, the magician of, uh, Finsbury Park ..." I offer.

"Finnzbuhreepuk!! Oh! What a horrible sounding place!" She recoils from me. I hold on tight. "Please, mercy. Don't turn me into a toad or a snake!"

"Hey! Calm down! What's wrong? No, of course I won't do that. I was just testing you. I'm uh, Prince Brian, in disguise."

Her eyes widen. And now this gullible woman is falling to her knees. "Oh, forgive me, Prince Brian. Forgive me for not recognizing you! Please, I beg you. Let me kiss your sacred sword."

And to underline the meaning of this, she is tugging at my jeans, a baffled look on her face as she finds the zipper. "These strange bindings, like sorcerers' work ..."

This is too good an opportunity to miss, so I unzip, unbutton and let the eager Dahzelthza seize my erect prong with both hands, and take it reverently into her warm mouth. She sucks expertly. Should I let her go to completion? She will, I can tell. And that would be delightful. I've been struggling to get Lynni to suck more in recent months. Some reticence she's developed.

But, stroking Dahzelthza's hair, I tell her: "That's wonderful, my dear. But I would prefer to put it in your pussy."

Her eyes widen, she chokes. Pulls back, and clearing her throat with difficulty, splutters: "No!!! Not my poor Zazzipoo! Please! I'd rather you put your sword in me, or my old mare!"

I laugh aloud. "Not your damned cat, you crazy woman. Your cunt, your juicy fuckhole." How about that for plain, unequivocal speech?

She grins slyly. "Oh," she says thickly, licking her lips. "I understand now." I'm unbuttoning my shirt. She waves her hand, "No! Don't lose the protection of your magical garments out here, my lord. We must go to my cottage, where we can be unobserved. Else a magician might come by and steal your shadow, or put a spell on your sword ..."

I'd just as soon fuck her right here and now, but I pull up my jeans and say: "Lead on then, beautiful maiden. Let's see how fair Dahzelthza will like a good shagging."

"Very much, I expect, my lord. That's why I'm banished to these woods. I was judged too nymphlike and lustful for the Lord of the Town, or his Dark Lady."

"Well, I personally am a big fan of nymphos and lusty women, so let's get rolling, shall we?"

I follow her through some narrow pathways, down a steep hill. To a tiny cottage, just a windowless lean-to really, by a dark and silent, waveless lake. To make conversation, I joke: "The monster out today, or can we go skinny-dipping?"

She looks at me in terror. "Skinny-dipping? What's that? No, pray leave me my skin, Prince Brian. Only the Flagellators covet a damsel's skin."

I wave my hand reassuringly. "No, that's fine. I can see you're, uh, attached to it."

She turns toward the dark lake. And in a quiet voice says: "The monster is a good friend to me, and will not harm you."

Well, that's good to hear. Well, my monster is in the mood to be a good friend too. On a bed inside her tiny cottage, a black cat is staring at me with universal feline arrogance. "Zazzipoo? Hi." I greet it, in my best animal lover way. To my amazement, a baritone voice emerges. "Just plain Zaz to you. And you are Brian, I presume?"

Dahzelthza claps her hands. "Off. Shoo. We need this."

The cat then leaves with dignity, saying no more.

Dahzelthza is tugging at my clothes, doing her nymphlike best to distract me from this puzzling chain of events. Something is not quite right here, I know. But then again, my 'magic sword' is doing my thinking for me now. Soon I'm naked, and bouncing up and down on top of Dahzelthza in my best, romantic English way. She seems averagely pleased, but later tells me with a shy smile: "Let me keep you here a few days, strange prince. There is much I would like to teach you of the arts of love." This may be a mild criticism, but seems an admirable plan to me too.

Days pass. And I think I can say she does a great job as a teacher, though some of the specific memories are long since lost to me, due to her use of some magic potions and herbs to make the 'magic sword' larger and more to her liking, but that cloud my mind.

She favors strange positions, and long leisurely sessions. The sort of thing you don't get to practice in student digs, always wondering when there'll be an uninvited knock on the door. No wonder some of my friends ended up being treated for premature ejaculation problems. She likes to suck, I already knew that. And she likes to be licked, and shows me just how and where, with remarkable lack of inhibition. In my place, I learn to treat her with lack of inhibition too. She bathes twice daily, and is the cleanest woman I've known. Getting her dirty is part of the fun.

We fuck indoors and out, though she cautions against straying too far from the cottage or lake. Some kind of magical barrier protects us here, in her mind at least. I doubt it, but I don't argue with a woman who is so generous with her charms. Her little cottage is an industry, in its own way. She prepares spells and potions, sells them to travelers from a wayside stand, near where we met. She has a collection of farm animals, which she keeps as pets. Three pigs named Sausage, Bacon and Pork Chop. I laugh at those names when I hear them, but she explains with great seriousness that she, like most Saturday folk, is a vegetarian, and has named her companions thusly, as a reminder of their holy status. In return? Well, I have my suspicions later, long after. Her relationship with Pork Chop seems rather intense. Have you ever seen pigs smile? When they see me, believe me, they smile.

My liking for Dahzelthza grows as time passes. To be here with her is a pleasant outcome. I want no more.

And then one day, I learn.

I am sitting naked by the lake, perched on a rock. I toss in a couple of loose coins I'd been playing with. What use would they be here? The lake, dark and oppressive as ever, swallows them. A black mirror of the soul, you might say. Zaz is licking his ass and purring, nearby. Dahzelthza has gone berry-picking, deep in the woods. I hear a faint tinkling. A distant sound like a horn, far away. Then, there's a rippling in the water. A frog hops out and sits on a lilypad, just a few feet away.

"Ribbit," I say softly.

"Ribbit to you too," a young girl's voice replies. I look around. No, it's this frog.

"Uh, so what's newt with you?" I say lamely.

"Nothing. Thanks for the money. Nice gesture, but my advice is free. Don't waste time, Prince Brian. Your mortal soul is in danger. Listen carefully. You must leave Dahzelthza. She is a sorceress. I know. She bewitched me. The monster of the lake sent me to warn you."

"I'm confused. Isn't it her friend?"

"Creatures behave ethically here, for the most part. Only people are deceitful."

"Sounds like somewhere else I know."

"Then be gone. Her potions and berries are ensnaring you. And her constant demands for love are draining your vital essence."

"Well, she's certainly fucking the living daylights out of me, if that's what you mean."

"That's precisely what I mean. I could not have phrased it better, O Wise One. Go, today. Go, now!"

"Hmm. Maybe I will. But where?"

"Take the crooked path up through the woods, then head west."

I look puzzled.

"Men!" she says. "Turn left at the top, then."

"And? Where am I going?"

"Don't you want to return to your own dimension, traveler?"

"My own dimension?"

"Where you came from? Oh dear. It's too difficult to explain to you. You don't have the language."

"Oh, how do you know I'm from somewhere else? Does it show?"

"Naturally."

"And, uh, where am I going?"

"To Nottamun Town."

I stare for a minute. I'm having a conversation with a frog about a fantasy song from English folk music.

"Is there such a place?"

"Believe me."

"Alright, I will. Is there anything I can do for you, Sir Frog?"

"All will be well, when it should be well, ribbit," the frog replies. And plunges back into the lake with a tiny Zen splash.

I realize I must go before Dahzelthza returns. She'd make me stay, one way or the other. I dress up in my Prince Brian clothes, look around for a weapon. There's nothing suitable, as far as I can tell. Zaz is watching me.

"You figured it out, then, huh?"

"A problem for you?"

"No, go quickly though. You got it all planned?"

"Not really, just head for Nottamun town, then ... I don't know."

"Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me."

"You have a better idea, I suppose?"

"Take me with you, and I'll have one."

"Oh, and what about loyalty? What about you and Dahzelthza?"

"You don't know a lot about cats, do you?"

"Okay. So, then tag along, Zaz. Welcome to the fool's crusade, huh? Should I bring some food for you?"

"I can catch mice with the best of them," the cat says with an aloof turn of his head, a little shake of the tail.

"Anything else I need from here?" I'm still looking around.

"Can you use a bow? Are you a real swordsman, outside the bedroom?"

"No. Isn't there a magic ring, a helmet, some shit like that?"

"Sure. And you'd need a five year course to learn the incantations, stop you from turning yourself into a centipede, or permanently grafting your mouth onto a horse's rectum."

"More complicated than engineering?"

"The Enjinia Ring? I'm not familiar with that one. Well whatever that is back home, magic here is more complicated, yes. Only for the adept."

"Then, bare hands, pure soul, brave smile, stiff willy it is," I laugh.

"Great. You have some of that stuff together, anyway. So, let's move it."

We bustle off. I imagine we'd gone about five miles or so, back on the broad cart track where I'd first met Dahzelthza, over a couple of rolling dales. Suddenly, there's a distant rumble of thunder. And from the direction we'd left, a shimmering glow and a bolt of turquoise lightning shooting from the ground, up into the evening sky.

"Her?" I ask the cat.

"Who else?"

"She's mad?"

"You know what women are like ..."

"What can she do?" I'm a bit worried. I've not pissed off a woman who had magical skills before. Let alone one who could send thunderbolts soaring into the sky. Even the volatile Brenda ...

"Not a lot, right now. But she'll be watching you, seeking her chance. You see, in some ways she brought you here to Saturday. And she's got a lock on you. With all that semen you pumped into her, yes? So, breaking free won't be as easy as just pulling your pants on, waving your hand, and walking out, Brian."

"Is she, uh, malevolent, Zaz?"

"No more or less than any sorceress. I find her quite agreeable. But our roles in life are different, Brian. She wants to own you. Really own you. To make you her slave. And I have to tell you, there are plenty of men who would accept that fate gladly. To share her bed and her perversions, until the end of time. Endlessly renewed, constantly challenged by her lusts and desires."

"You're tempting me," I warn.

"I don't think I am. I'm not sure, but those pigs of hers? I think they may have been men, once. Not an existence I'd care for, even if they do pork her from time to time ..."

I stare at the cat in amazement. "Really?"

"I've seen it myself. No, that's not the life for you. You're one of these free spirits we see here occasionally. It probably wouldn't have worked out. And she can't hold you, if you're unwilling. Which you seem to be, if you're really being honest with yourself."

We camp that night by a stream. I'm hungry. Zaz shows me some fruit and berries I can eat, if I wash them first. He comes back with bloody mouth and says: "Can I interest you in a hedgehog?"

"No, the fruit will be fine. I don't eat raw meat."

"Unless a good looking woman's sitting on it?"

"That's right! Ha ha. You were watching, weren't you?"

"Cats don't get that much entertainment usually. Yes, of course I watched. You really did a good job of fucking her, Brian."

"And that's a compliment, coming from a tomcat, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. She's going to be a miserable sorceress. And that's not good news."

"Will she follow us?"

"It goes without saying. She's out there somewhere. There'll be no confrontation, if you don't invite one. Just don't say her name, aloud or in your mind."

That's easy. I'd never gotten the pronunciation right anyway.

Zaz continues: "If we're off at dawn, I think we should be there by midday. In time for a decent meal."

"One problem, Zaz. What do we pay with?"

"Ah, you really do know nothing at all about Nottamun Town, I see! Well, I'll tell you when we get there."

A restless night. And yes, I almost say her name. I can see her face in the back of my mind. I have a big erection, I can smell her delicious cunt. I ... the treetops near us are shaking. There's a patter of rain, some hail. An electric glow in the air, orangy pink flashes. Drifting will o' the wisp lights. A deep rumble of distant thunder. I start to masturbate, banishing all thought of her. Just concentrating on Lynni's blonde pubes, hairy, wet, her juicy pink lips, her tiny tits and their huge nipples, the taste, the taste ... A huge flash of lightning as I come, a distant scream of pure frustration.

We walk all morning. I don't know about Zaz, but I'm getting tired. My shoes are unsuitable for this, and killing my feet. It's hot, and I'm sweating. We get to the crest of the umpteenth hill, and he lets out a miaow.

"This feels right. You should be able to see it from here." Zaz leaps up on to my shoulder, purring. "There."

And in the distance, a little town on a bend in a meandering river. Looking just like a medieval burg, with a high wall all round. Towers, a moat. At the center, a tall keep in dark stone, with a couple of flags flying.

"Nottamun Town."

I begin to hum the melody under my breath.

"No!" Zaz warns me sharply.

"Why not?"

"It's the key to a powerful spell, and if you know it, save it. Do you know words, too?"

"Some."

"Try to remember as many as you can. It may be your key to going home, Brian. But no more singing, until the time is right."

* * * * *

As we approach the town, I see that Dahzelthza had not lied to me. People here did not wear clothes, apart from hats. Denoting rank, perhaps. I never manage to crack the code.

Men, women, children, all shamelessly naked. Going about their business as if this was perfectly natural.

I try not to show much interest in the children, but it's hard to keep your eyes off the teenage girls. The older women? Oh, my aching cock! I've got to stop staring! And the men? They don't do much for me -- I'm relieved at this, because it's a first time for me -- but I notice that your bold narrator Prince Brian has a lot more meat to him than most of these fellows. Promising, vis a vis les femmes? Oh, I hope so.

Zaz and I are passed by several horse and cart-borne families of barebummed folk. On their way to market. Near the town gate, we see a blacksmith's shop. The huge smith is pounding a horseshoe into shape, protected from sparks and mishaps by a small leather apron. At the town gate, two bored looking soldiers sport helmets with insignia, sword belts and nothing more.

With my outlandish clothing -- jeans by Levi Strauss, madras check shirt by Harry Fenton, shoes by Hush Puppies -- I get a lot of attention. There are signs against the evil eye from those who deduce I am a sorcerer, polite nods and smiles from those who think they detect my nobility.

I'm incredulous when I see what passes for a curtsy among the women here. Regardless of age or whether accompanied by a male or not, they squat low, thrust their pudenda at me, make lewd hip motions. Zaz sees my confusion and miaows. "Less subtle than you're used to, Brian? Things are very direct here in Nottamun Town, you'll find. More so than in the countryside."

"Phew. Yes. Much less subtle," I agree, seeing another woman squat and pull her labia apart in the grossest way.

I can't help noticing that the citizens and visitors -- Zaz points out that visitors, mostly farmers, wear more rustic hats -- all carry little leather bags on strings at their wrists. Money? What else? So how are we going to deal with this problem?

Zaz is on my shoulder as we enter the narrower streets of the town. It's crowded. He quietly tells me: "People settle debts here in tokens. But the underlying medium of exchange is pain, or servitude."

"Oh, thanks for sharing that little tidbit so soon, furball! So what are you saying? All I have to do to get a square meal is let someone whip my arse? Or whatever else appeals?"

"You put that nicely. Yes, exactly. That's all you have to do."

"Why would I want to? What makes you think I would?"

"You want to because you want to eat. See, not many fat people here, are there? And as for what makes me think you would? ...Um, well, I saw some of your games with Dahzelthza, and it seemed to me that you and she were very much taken with bottom slapping and little dominance games, I believe they're called. Excuse me, but cat physiology doesn't work that way. But she did 'sit on your face,' and do various other things that pass for currency here. I believe she fitted you for a collar? And wasn't she showing you how to submit your arsehole to a dildo, just a few nights before you decided to leave ..."

I blush. Yes, all this is coming back to me. Dahzelthza is a kinky sorceress, it seems, and had clouded my mind to prevent me resisting her filthy advances. Was that wise? I might have been even more cooperative without, and never run away. Well, we'll never know the answer to that now ...

"So, am I treating you to lunch too? Or do you do your own prostitution?"

"Don't think of it that way, and you won't resent it."

"Surely, I can get some extra points for being a sorcerer. Then I can get fed for free, and get my nookie on terms of my choosing."

"Ah, Brian. Have a care. Yes, in theory that's true," the cat confides. "But there's a logic to everything here. Sorcerers need to be able to back their claims with some magic. What can you do, apart from sing that monotonous song? I think you should hold that in reserve until you need it."

"Maybe. Well, can't I be an important Prince and bluff some grub that way?"

"Possibly. But to be acknowledged as a noble, you must seek an audience with the Lord."

"Why?"

"Because it's his damned town that's why, and he makes the rules! You are so obtuse sometimes!"

"Explain them better, then."

"Alright. So, take it from his viewpoint. Big lunk walks into town, all dressed up, says 'I am a Prince, gimme this, gimme that, gimme what I want.' What's his response? 'Oh welcome sweet prince, the sun shines out of your bum, please help thyself?' "

"Okay, I get it. He says 'Prove it.' Because if he doesn't, soon everyone will be dressing up and, sffzzzttt, the economy goes to hell."

"Precisely. He got rich by being tight-fisted. And Brian?"

"What?"

"It may be time to ditch these clothes of yours, if your modesty will stand it. Because, he will say 'prove it,' or force you to demonstrate some magical power, pretty soon."

"Not good?"

"Very much not good. Know why?"

"I'm beginning to suspect it's something unpleasant ..."

"You could say that. False nobles and magicians are used for public entertainment. Their assets are liquidated in return for fees paid to the treasury, you could say."

I must be pulling my very dumb face.

"What I mean, Brian, is that imposters and false claimants are publicly tortured, and executed in the vilest ways the Lord and his Dark Lady can think up. And believe me, you don't even want to hear about it. After all, they've been practicing for ten thousand years."

I'm halfway out of my jeans, and pulling my shirt off.

"Ten thousand!? Are they immortal, then?"

"No, just old."

Panting, sweating with fear, naked, I'm paradoxically feeling much safer.

"You could have said something earlier, pussycat."

"You don't listen. I'm trying to time it so I get your attention."

"Well, don't leave it so late each time ... OUCH!!!"

Zaz has leaped back on to my shoulder, sinking his claws in my bare skin. He chuckles. "I'll owe you for that, maybe?"

"On the house, Zaz."

At a counting house near the castle, just off the market place, I see wealth creation at work, Nottamun Town style. A row of pillories, a line of naked people. They are taking their turn to be bent over and paddled with a huge leather bat, by a series of punishment officials. Twenty strokes earns a small carved wooden token.

We observe, drinking water from a nearby fountain. Free, I'm pleased to say.

"You don't get much for it."

"Law of supply and demand, Brian."

"Couldn't we forge those tokens? Skip all the pain? How hard are they to make, to carve?"

"I'd banish that thought too, Brian. Forgers are stetched naked on the town hall roof, and eaten alive by the ravens... "

"Hmm. I was never very good at woodwork, now you mention it."

So, ten minutes later, I'm standing in line to have my ass paddled for lunch money. It's demeaning, it's ridiculous, and, uh, it's not so bad really. I got round twice. You, see there are advantages to an English public school education, not all readily apparent at the time.

My backside is stinging, glowing a little red. I notice some of the younger girls have angry red stripes on theirs. I ask Zaz, in my usual bold way.

"They're younger, and female, so they get a better price than you, and they also put themselves on the line for caning. Pays five tokens for six shots."

"Should I?"

"How much money do you need? Save your, ha ha assets, until later."

At the tavern, I see one token will buy more than enough for me and a hungwy liddle puddy tat, plus several mugs of beer.

At a nearby table, serious money is on display. A farmer and three beautiful daughters, whose well-spanked asses have brough in a heap of tokens.

I remark to Zaz: "If it were me, I'm stay home, grow my own food, and barter that. Let the girls save their asses for their husbands to spank."

"But it dosn't work that way. Some goods can only be obtained from here. And all taxes have to be paid in tokens earned the traditional way."

"This is less sensible than it appears, Zaz. What is in it for the Lord of the town? Can you explain that? Unless he is just a complete freak who gets off on other people's pain?"

"That's precisely right, Brian."

"But what does he get? He's not here, watching at the counting house."

"He doesn't need to. He's ... different to the others here. He can ... let me see if I can explain it. He can absorb the energy, the pain, from the air. It rises like heat, to his castle windows. Just to know people are suffering, is enough for him."

"Is he human? Or something else?"

"Don't be prejudiced, Brian. We have a lot of different lifeforms here. In some ways, you are the strangest thing around ..."

"Thank you. Glad to have made my mark. But what is the purpose of his existence?"

"To exist. He has no offspring. No siblings. "

"Totally evil, and controlling. Like, uh, Sauron of Mordor!"

"Whoever she is," the cat says. "Yes, you might say that. Evil, controlling. But stabilizing, predictable. The Nottamun Town people like that. It's come to matter to them..."

"But it's tyranny, it's unsustainable ..."

"You might think so, but it's lasted at least ten thousand years. And the anarchy before was worse," Zaz advises.

"Were you there?"

"No, but we have an excellent oral tradition here. And stories and ballads that tell it all in minute detail ..."

I find myself wishing I could immerse myself in this. But I'm a man with a mission. To get back. I don't ask myself why getting back is important. Getting back to what?

But getting back is entangled with staying out of Dahzelthza's clutches, of not being filleted or sauteed by the Lord of the town, of somehow using the song to validate my magician status.

We wander the streets all day. It's a fascinating little town, almost Swiss in its precision and cleanliness. Almost unreal too, like the product of a single mind. Or a movie set.

That night, I use our second token to get us a room at the inn, some food and beer. The music is beguiling, Balkan in its flavor, and nearly every song is about complex love entanglements, bottom spankings and dark perversions. It would sweep the charts, if I could recall enough of it to put it together. The beer is very strong, and I'm rather ashamed of my big erection, in this tavern full of naked people. After a while, a saucy waitress beckons me into a side room, bends over the table and bids me to fuck her. Others have the same idea. The evening soon becomes a blur. I vaguely recall meeting up with the farmer and his three well-thrashed teenage daughters again.

Dahzelthza appears in a vision to me. Beautiful. Enigmatic. Zaz is back on her shoulder, staring out curiously. "Brian? Brian, listen. You've rejected me, and broken my heart. But I'm not here to plead with you. You must do what is right. I still love you. Now hear me well. I must warn you, you are in great danger. Just observe with your eyes. And remember this: 'Many arrive here, but none leave' So, ask where do they go, Brian?" Zaz echoes: "Where, where, miaow, where ..."

Blinking, I find myself suddenly wide awake, bathed in bright moonlight in an attic room. My mouth has a vile taste, my head is throbbing. I retch. My dick is shrivelled, as sore as hell. Where has it been? Where hasn't it?

The next morning, I tell Zaz: "I've decided. I'm going to go to the castle. No more games. I plan to confront him."

"Your funeral," Zaz says grimly. "Though there's usually not enough left to bury, as I recall."

I roll my clothes into a bindle, sling it over my shoulders. Why risk it? And it's hot, I'm enjoying this nudity, the admiring glances at my cock from these women. Yes, it's back to normal, though it has a few raw spots and teethmarks, and my balls are aching.

Zaz says no more, but follows me to the gate of the castle. Hangs back as I enter.

"What's up? Aren't we boon companions? Partners in an immortal quest? Brothers of the sword?"

"Hardly. I'm having an attack of common sense. The nine lives thing? That's a delusion. Cats get to live longer by being cautious. See you around maybe, Brian. Don't take any wooden nickels, ha ha ..."

The guards at the gate bar my way with crossed spears. I bellow: "Let me pass, for I am Prince Brian, and a mighty sorcerer to boot. I assert my right to clothing, and challenge the Lord to hear my complaint."

The guards jump back, prudent fellows. But I see doubt, fear and contempt in their eyes. They don't know what to think, so like soldiers everywhere, they don't bother.

The castle is small, like a Norman keep. Inside, a long stone staircase winds around the lower part of the wall, until it emerges through an archway into a great hall on the second level. I climb steadily, enter.

The great hall is deserted. There's just a huge black stone throne, under a fluttering canopy. A few narrow windows let in the morning light, but it's gloomy. The walls are hung with captured flags, trophies, animal heads, pikes, spears. And with dark crimson tapestries. Some embroidered ones point to the existence of a female hand, but this is otherwise a grim room.

There, on the throne, sits a wizened old man. He can't be more than four feet tall. A few long wisps of white hair on a mottled skull. A simple iron crown. And so old, his skin is like parchment. What I see though, are his eyes. Angry, piercing eyes, like jewels set deep in their sockets. Staring straight at me. He slams the end of a long black, silver-tipped staff on the flagstones at his side.

"Speak! What brings thee here, arrogant stranger?" He says in a piping, neutered voice.

""I am here by right, Lord of Nottamun Town. I have traveled long miles, from a land far away, and no man dareth bid me should I stay or should I go."

"Ha. And know thee how thou arrivest here, truthfully? Perhaps there was a slut named Dahzelthza charmed thee? Conjured thee from the swirling chaos? The perverted minx is ever anxious to find new toys to shove into her reeking cunt!"

"The good lady Dahzelthza and I have had some differences of opinion, but there is no call to insult her in such a fashion, old man." I'm angry, a bad thing to be when confronting power.

"Old I may be. But thou willst not live long enough to enjoy being old, you presumptuous puppy. Merely long enough to entertain me with your screams and pleas for mercy. Of which, I promise, there will be many, yet none of what ye seek." He crooks a long-nailed finger at me. "Come, the Dark Lady awaits you, and she has appetites that the sow Dahzelthza has never enjoyed, nor even thought of."

At his side, as if from thin air, a woman appears. With snow-white skin and raven-black hair. She is gorgeous, but in a totally bizarre way. About six feet tall, maybe more. A black velvet cloak round her shoulders, hanging open to show that she is mostly naked. She wears long boots in black leather, fingerless gloves. All studded. Round her neck, a collar. At her waist, a belt with dangling whips, knives. Bare breasts with rings through her nipples. Her lower belly is shaved, and her genitals are barely covered by a tiny leather triangle supported on thongs. Her eyes are of cobalt jade. When she opens her mouth, though, it is not to smile, but to show feral teeth filed to points, to snarl her hunger.

"Behold my dear, his insolent prick greets thee," the Lord cackles. "Waving lewdly, like a farm boy with his favorite sheep."

"It will make a fine talisman," she says in an icy cold voice, holding up a pair of rusty, blood-stained shears, clicking them menacingly. "And his skin is nice and unmarked ...I think I'll impale him and have the Flagellators remove it, bit by bit."

I'm losing the initiative here. I spit, pound on my shest and shout: "Enough of this shit! I'll fuck your skinny bitch into submission, old man. Then I'll rip your shrivelled old cock off and eat it, raw!"

They both laugh mirthlessly.

"Ah, these crazy fools we pull in from beyond. He's the craziest of them all this year, ha ha," he pipes.

She draws herself up taller. "I'm going to drag him to the torture chamber, and make him pay in blood."

The Lord is cackling happily. "Delightful, my dear. Slice and burn, hack and gouge, eyeballs on a stick, tralala."

She strides forward, eyes fixed on me. "Defy me now, but soon ye'll be pissing and shitting in fear, little man." Her voice is teethgrinding rage.

Now what the hell do I do? She's built like a wrestler, muscled and fit. I edge away, seeking a weapon. Grab one of the pikes from the wall. She rushes forward, I thrust. She steps sideways, grabs the shaft, wrenches it from my hands. Raises it high, and snaps it in two, like a stick of celery. I don't even want to think about how strong you'd need to be to do that.

I'm in full retreat. Another weapon, a sword this time. Somewhat rust- spotted, but still razor sharp. Grab that, bitch, and you'll have something else to think about, I tell myself. Like sewing your fingers back on.

She's in a crouch, stalking me around the hall. I'm looking for an exit, eddging backwards. Suddenly, she springs. My turn to sidestep. But two hours of fencing practice at school taught me something. I feint in one direction, go another. She crashes into the wall, bringing down tapestry, trophies, weapons with a clatter.

She springs to her feet, but by now I'm on the other side of the room. She cracks her knuckles loudly. A shower of sparks spring from the joints. She lets out a bellow and rushes towards me, a new madness in her eyes. I take the sword in both hands, brace myself. I may get one lucky swing here. And it had better be good. She's about ten feet from me, moving like an express train, when something drops. Something black, tangling her streaming hair, right on her face. Fur and claws. Zaz! She's distracted, screams. Did he get her eyes? I raise my sword, but I'm too slow to swing it. She runs right onto the point. Slams me against the wall, driving all the breath from me.

And then, to my amazement, blinks out of existence as if she was never there. How could that happen? She was solid, I felt it , I'm still gasping...and this sword. It's bloody. And Zaz? He's nowhere to be seen here, either.

I turn to the Lord, who is staring angrily. At me. He's one down, but he's not giving up.

Now is the time.

I ask the question. "I have observed that many arrive here in Nottamun Town, but none leave. So, where do they go, evil one? Where! Answer me!"

He stares at me, looks up at the ceiling. Smiles. A totally inhuman smile. "None leave. Yes, that's true."

"Why!"

"I consume them."

"How?"

"Absorption. Transference. I can't explain it to you. Feeding on their essence, as they expire, slowly. There's a very comprehensive dungeon below. And one hundred and seventy seven levels of torment. Supervised very capably by the Dark Lady and her legion of helpers. Why waste these fresh young things? It would be so, what's the word? Improvident!"

"That's ... disgusting. But now, she's gone."

"I'll replace her. I can manufacture evil, given a selfish woman to start with. A little perversion, teaching her a little enjoyment of pain. I have time. And soon, a new Dark Lady ... Perhaps your own lovely Dahzelthza, ha ha!"

"She won't be part of your plan, evil one." I say this as much in hope as in confidence that I am right. "Now, prepare to die." I stride forward, brandishing the gory sword. But am stopped by some invisible force. I can't move foreard, sideways. Like being pinned in an invisible bundle of cushions.

"You don't get to my age without finding a way to protect yourself, Brian. Now, what can you do?"

"I'm going to escape, to bring the roof of this castle tumbling down. I'm going to shatter this make-believe world. It's not real, is it?! It's all in my head!"

"No, my egocentric friend, it's not. It's all in mine. You'll never escape, mortal. You haven't a clue about where you came from, or how you can get back. So, prepare to die."

"I have an incantation that will destroy this whole nexus, send you into the limbo between dimensions."

"Nexus? An incantation? You've been talking to that bitch and her cat, I see. Oh? I doubt it. But I love a song. How lovely! Sing it then. But first reflect. How will you benefit from destroying this city? You'll die with it."

"No, I'll find my way home. I know it. I have faith."

He laughs deliriously.

"Oh, how droll. Enough games. Then sing it. Sing it well, Prince Brian. And pray you are right. Or, I'll personally see that ye suffer longer than any mortal ..."

I throw back my shoulders, start off in that folksinger nasal tone I love so well. Bend a note or two, show that I understand modal construction, polyrhythms, little pauses.

"In Nottamun town, not a soul would look down,

not a soul would look up, ay, not a soul would look down,

not a soul would look up, not one soul would look down,

to show me my way to Fair Nottamun Town..."

An angry flourish of his staff. "No, that's nothing! Continue!"

"Saw the King and the Queen and the company more,

go riding behind and walking before..

Saw a stark naked drummer, a-beating his drum,

with his hands on his bosom come marchin along."

The Lord is scowling, his black eyes piercing under his bushy white brows. There's a shiver through the building. A sudden gust of wind, bearing scraps of parchment, dust. Some glass breaks in the distance.

"Sat down on a hearth, heart of broken stone, ten thousand was around me, yet I was alone ..."

I falter.

He shrieks: "You don't know. You don't know. False prophet! False prophet! Impostor! Guards!! Burn him! Hang him! Torture torture torture ahahahahaha ..."

Marching feet in the distance.

No!

In a voice as cracked and broken as latter-day Dylan I start to sing again: "How much do I know, to talk outa turn, I may be unstrung, I may be unlearned ..." The magician's staff erupts black smoke that turns into a swooping crow. It screeches, in a voice just like the magician's, "Zimmermen are not welcome here!!"

But I sing on, relentlessly, scrambling the lyrics of Dylan's rant with the incantation, which I'd just known as a demented song. The lights flicker, a wind blows through the hall. The screeching grows louder. What are the words? I just free associate. What would Dylan be doing with them now? How would Hendrix handle this? What would the ISB spin be? Go nuts, I tell myself. "Stand over your grave till I'm sure that you're dead, watch while you crumble, like a crust of stale bread, for a morning is dawning when the tyrants are dead." And the wilder I make the changes, the more reality here begins to disrupt. Everything is swimming in and out of focus. Candle flames turn blue. His staff shimmers with a slivery glow. And it's not just my eyes. I see a crack in the stone walls, and beyond it. Impossible! Fish swimming, where there ought to have been night sky. The floor begins to glow, to bubble, like molten lava. But it's still icy cold to my bare feet. A seagull flies by, upside down. I hear piano music, bagpipes, the relentless thud of drums, an atonal choir. Church organs. Echoing voices. We're breaking through, I can feel it. I feel my feet slipping. A fuzztoned swirling guitar that becomes a woman's hysterical scream. His eyes turn from glaring hatred to panic. A long echoing shout of despair: "Noooooo!!" A flash, a puff of smoke, and there's just an empty black robe fluttering to the floor. The castle is collapsing. It's moving, turning, capsizing like a torpedoed ship. Crazy colors swirl before my eyes, and I keep singing singing singing ... show me my way ta show me she owes me shoe me shimmy nottamun not a man not a knot a knotted man no Amon note Amen Nottamun Nottamun aaaargggghhh falling falling

Lillian Howett nods her sympathy as I stop my raving. Tears in my eyes, I slump to the floor.

"No more drugs, I promise," I sob.

"No, just the ones we'll prescribe, Brian. Some mild antipsychotics. You'll get better soon, I expect. And please, stop recycling this fantasy. It's just a bad trip, can't you see?"

Yes, but it was the best trip I'd ever experienced.

"Let it go. You have visitors later. Pull yourself together for them, please."

* * * * *

It's a year later. And, perhaps I am better. I'm back at Queen Elizabeth College. They understood, they've seen worse cases. No more acid for me.

But sometimes at night when it's quiet, I still hear her voice. Dahzelthza.

Good witch? Bad witch?

Out there, somewhere, somewhen. In another dimension. My most perfect love, so far.

Dahzelthza, forgive me.

Dahzelthza. I'm waiting.

Copyright (c) 1997, MrSpraycan. All rights reserved.