THE POWDER OF LOVE
"Honk parp beep yourself, taxi-driving buffoon!" Diva waved the offender past, changing the gesture appropriately in answer to the customary muffled curses as he overtook at the customary sonic-boom-threatening velocity. Even without looking, she knew the pronoun was appropriate; only a man would be so eager to show off his horn.
Pipton had begun life as a village on the outskirts of the citadel town Pilmo, but had since been subsumed into its big sister and become a suburb, while retaining its identity in the form a maze of little narrow windy streets, all alike, except for the bits which were different.
She pulled over and consulted again the Ay2Zed of Pilmo she had bookmarked with Cambela's elegantly scripted address. Potential Fields had probably once been meadows and leas, but now it was a line of old custard-farmers' cottages on the edge of an industrial estate. Diva was trying to find number 37, but was being somewhat hampered by the inclinations of the residents to give their houses names. There were plenty of carved wooden plaques or ornate metal nonsenses bearing such legends as Weelivyer, Owrpless and the smug Dunpayin, but few actual numbers. The one beside her car, for instance, was simply called LE. Diva had no idea how this had been derived, unless it was the Franche definite article, and the portion bearing the noun had been broken off. It was a lot tattier than the other signs, and was hanging on a single nail.
Wait a mo. She got out of the car and swivelled the sign about.
Now it read "37". A black cat sitting on the wall gave her a wink before jumping down and disappearing into the overgrowth which obscured the dwelling from roadside view.
Diva opened the gate. To be more precise, she gave it a little push and it fell over. Ever conscientious, she propped it back in place before proceeding up the path brushing aside the twigs that extended their reach from their home bushes across the way to test the resolve of passing pilgrims.
Now she had reached the door and was standing in the shafts of evening light which penetrated this far by virtue of a gap left between jungle canopy and domicile, she could see that the cottage had been painted salmon pink, although judging by the preponderance of granite grey peel marks this had been so long ago that the original colour could well have been fiesta red. A path led west around the corner of the house, while the garden gate lay to the north. To the south stood the front door. As for east, she couldn't go that way.
Any amateur adventurer knew this one; knock on door. But first, as was customary, she examined the door. She found that it was shut, and moreover, locked from the inside, as usual. Very wise.
There was a mat here. She examined mat. It was old, and made of interwoven bristles. There was something written on it. She read mat. It said "A Souvenir from Eebeefa". She deduced it had been bought in Eebeefa, so obviously the residents of the abode had at some time been to Eebeefa, or knew somebody who had. Not that this helped. She looked under mat. She found: nothing.
Well, nobody keeps their key under the mat any more, and if they had, she couldn't just go in. It wasn't her house. She was just stalling for time. She was nervous. Finally she ceased her prevarication and raised her hand to knock on door.
Which, of course, was at that precise moment opened from the inside. A cheery wrinkled face greeted the visitor.
"Hello, dearie! You took your time, didn't you? I've been standing there for, ooh, a little while anyway waiting for you to raise your hand to knock on door so I could open it at that precise moment!"
"Oh… hello. How did you know I was coming?"
"Oh, Ganap told me. She thinks it's important to make the right impression, don't you, Gay?"
"Meh," answered the black cat at her feet.
"Yes, I know, I did give the game away, but we don't want to frighten people too much, do we? Mind you," looking back at Diva, "Some people get frightened anyway when they meet a mad old woman who thinks her cat talks to her."
"Meoowwrrrr," said Ganap.
"Yes, I rather think she's putting it on, too," Diva replied, crouching to stroke the cat's neck.
"Prrrrrrrrrrrr," went Ganap.
"That's me sussed, then," sighed the wizened one. "Well, come on in, dearie. I'm Eoyra, but I suspect you'll be wanting Mirtand. And you are…?"
"Diva. Diva L'Arriva. With an apostrophe and a capital A. Which looks nice, but is a pain to type. I keep fumbling the shift key, so I prefer to be known just as Diva."
"Diva… an anagram of Avid, also of Vida, which means Life. Lust for life!"
"And Eoyra is an anagram of Yo Ear, which means hurrah for the auditory receptor."
"Very good. Most people spell it with an 'i', which is an anagram of 'oi ear', meaning pay attention to me o auditory receptor."
"But it could also be Year O, which could be misread as Year Zero, and I'm not sure the implications of that bear thinking about."
"Don't be put off the concept of burning the system down and rebuilding from the ground up just because people have misused it. If it's done right it can work."
"On the other hand, Year O could be Year Omega, the last letter of the Greech alpha beta gamma delta epsilon can't remember what comes next, which could signify the last year of all, and could also be Year Zero."
"Every ending is a beginning."
"Also a middle, as the letter O is in the middle of the alphabet used by the language we are employing now. And as for Ganap, why, that's 'pagan' backwards."
"Meorp," chirped Ganap.
"Yes, Ganap," answered Eoyra, "There is indeed magic in the earth with which we were more in touch before the advent of organised religion."
"Speaking of which…"
"Oh yes, you're wanting to see Mirtand. She's in the kitchen. Follow me."
The trio proceeded into said room, where sat said person at table, polishing her crystal ball with a velvet cloth. She was clad in a long purple dress, decorated with arcane and mystical symbols in gold thread.
"Welcome, Diva."
"You were listening, weren't you?"
"Oh, she's bright, this one. No gasp of surprise, no 'how did you know my name'!"
"I expect you know why I'm here, too."
"Unrequited love."
"OK, I'll bite… how did you know that?"
"Law of averages. 90% of the people who come to me are here for the same thing. Love is a very powerful desire, and the unrequited variety even more so. First, my dear, sit across from me and tell me who she is."
"You don't know that already?"
"What do you think I am, some sort of mystic?"
"Beg parding." Diva sat, idly stroking the black cat on her lap, who was snuggled up very nicely, thank you, and giving the impression that she had always been there, although she had not always been there until that very second. Relaxed by the mellifluous purr, her hostess loosened up and vented her devotion.
"Oh, the joy! The torment! I am smitten by one with hair of flame and voice of honey! A participant in the musical arts she is, as am I, but never have I reached the peak of perfection that she has attained! I plonk at the strings and they go chonk, or dum if they've been on a long time, and oh I could not sing as she! The voice of the angels she has, while mine is more that of a strangled hyena. That's one in the process of being strangled, not one that's been completely strangled. That wouldn't make any sound at all. Although given a couple of days it'll hum a bit."
"In a band
then is she?"
"Yes, she is
known as Zeva out of Zx."
"Nice mixture
of lightly cooked letters there."
"Is there
anything else you need to know?"
"She doesn't
need to know any of it, she's just nosey," interrupted Eoyra from her
leaning post by the kitchen sink.
"It means she likes you. If
she didn't she'd just give you a jar of jollop, take your money and kick you
out. I'll warrant she'll give you the
good stuff too."
Mirtand let loose
with an excellent cackle, her sparkling pearlies lighting the room against the
glistening silk chocolate of her face.
"That's an
excellent cackle," remarked Diva.
"Thank
you," responded the complimentee, "It's natural too. A witch should have a good cackle."
"Oh, get on
with it, Mirtand," urged Eoyra, "Give her the stuff, she's come to
score, not chat."
"Oh, you must
excuse me, dearie, it's just nice to have a young person around the
place."
"Young?"
Diva queried.
"Compared to
us, dear, just about everyone's young.
It's been a while since we've gone out on the town, drinking and dancing
the night away!"
"Yes, nearly a
fortnight now," Eoyra clarified.
"It just seems like centuries."
Diva said nothing;
she generally spend her free nights slouched in front of the TV to give her
brain a rest after the day's frenzy.
"Still, you'll
be wanting your goodies. Now let's
see…"
She opened a
kitchen cabinet, revealing rows of jars full of liquid with THINGS in them.
"Oops, that's
the pickled onion shelf."
She moved to the
next one. This was full of containers
too, one of which she plucked down.
"Here we
are. Love Potion Number Ten."
"It's quite
weeny, isn't it?" noticed Diva.
"Believe me,
dear, this is all you'll need. It's powerful stuff."
She held it up for
inspection. The tiny vial was filled
with glittering powder, all the colours of an unusually colourful rainbow.
"It looks like
the stuff Algie Stangbarkle used to wear on his eyes back in the days,"
remarked Diva.
"He didn't
wear this stuff on his eyes, dearie. If
he did, he'd have become infatuated with everyone he saw… until he saw someone
else. Why, he'd have spent all his time
flitting about from lover to lover… come to think of it, maybe he did wear this
stuff on his eyes."
"I can see
great comic possibilities in the misuse of this device."
There was a short
silence.
"But I would
never be so predictable."
The hint of tension
that had hung in the air dissipated.
Mirtand grinned.
"No, of course
not. We wouldn't want things to degenerate into farce."
"So, how do I
use this?"
"Oh, the
traditional manner. Sprinkle it in the
general direction of the object of desire, and she will become enamoured of the
first person she lays eyes on."
"So I have to
be careful to be that person."
"Yes, despite
the great comic and tragic possibilities of things not going quite to
plan."
"Again, that
would be far too predictable."
Mirtand lay the
vial on the table before the supplicant.
"A truly marvellous
preparation this be… yet of one thing you must be aware. There is, of course, a price to pay."
"Of
course. And that price?"
Mirtand leaned
forward ominously and whispered.
"£1.38."
"A bargain at
half the price!" Diva reached for
her purse and counted change. "Ah,
but such is the combination of coins in my
treasury that I can only make £1.50."
She lay the coins
on the table.
"Keep the
change."
There was a sharp
intake of breath from both crones.
"I'm sorry,
have I done something wrong?"
"On the
contrary, my dear! Your selfless action
is unprecedented!" Mirtand's eyes
gleamed. "Why, the extra factor of
18 pence will enable to us to purchase Kittymunch Gourmet rather than
Kittymunch Standard for Ganap's supper!"
Ganap rose from
Diva's lap and began rubbing her head on Diva's chin to the tune of a rumbling
purr.
"I am
glad," quoth the loved one, "For a fine feline such as she is well
deserving of such quality fare."
And so it was that
Diva took her leave in a spirit of goodwill and with a standing invitation to
call around any time, the precious vial tucked safely in her handbag.
When she had gone,
Eoyra discussed the visit with Mirtand.
"Do you really
think she could be the one?"
"It is as
foretold in the prophecy," answered the mystic.
"Yes, but you
wrote the prophecy."
"I only wrote
what I saw in the crystal."
"You wrote it
in your astrology column in the Evening
Gerald, esteemed local newspaper
of our parish."
"Well, I
didn't want anyone to take it seriously."
"What exactly
was it you saw again?"
"The unlocking
of the forbidden door by one who has acted without thought for herself, and the
subsequent release of the alien beings who will lead us to victory in the
forthcoming war. Or something like
that."
"Ah. The plot sickens."
*
Diva went flying over the back of the sofa, described a complete backward somersault and landed on the floor where she fell against the armchair, which being on castors rolled backwards, allowing her head to crash to the floor. She remained there lying flat on her back, too despondent to move.
"Stop making me beat you up!"
It was Ln who had, against her will, propelled Diva thusly. Her felled Dreamer did not reply.
"And it's no good staying silent! I know what you're thinking!"
On rare occasions Diva would use actual words, but it was a painstaking process with many false starts, lulls and meaningful pauses, as she tried to construct a coherent dialogue. To Diva, the right words were important, and the real world was a constant challenge, seldom giving one enough time to build a finely honed sentence. Instead, one was forced to sling out the first words that sprang to mind, and many times she had to reply to a contentious statement not with the crushing argument she would have preferred, but with an exasperated ejaculation such as "Ah fingerlings!" or the less refined "Nostril hair!". She had learned that the best response was "That's frogspawn, and you know it!" which established her superiority whilst efficiently expressing her contempt for the other's foolishness in a way which implied that her point, whatever it might be, was self-evident to anyone who had not been out playing in the garden when the brain cells were handed out. On the other hand, in polite conversation she had gained a reputation as a good listener, since by the time she had formulated a potential utterance the speaker had moved on several paragraphs. This also had its drawbacks as she was later assumed to be aware of a major percentage of the discussion which she had missed. "I told you about that! Don't you remember? Honestly, memory like a colander!"
"You're going off on a tangent again! I suppose you think I won't know what's going on if you keep your mind muddled!"
Diva imagined she spoke some words to the effect that she didn't have to try, her mind was always like that.
"Yes, I suppose it is. I should know, I live in it."
Now Ln had a really big kitchen knife which she plunged into Diva's heart.
"Stop that! I don't want to hurt you and you know it! It's not fair making me act this way! Besides, it never works!"
It was true; Dreamers couldn't die in Dreamworld. The whole point of dreaming one's death was usually so you could view the aftermath, and if you could do that, you weren't dead. Diva just felt guilty.
"Well, it's all about guilt, isn't it? The only reason you're making me do this is because you feel guilty. And so you should. No! You're putting words into my mouth!"
Diva sat up, knife and wound vanishing. Imaginary girlfriends were supposed to be creatures of the id, totally lacking in free will (Ln snorted derisively at this concept), but it seemed her conscience was unwilling to allow her this indulgence. She gave up, let Ln have her head.
"Oh, thank you so bloody much!"
That's gratitude for you.
"Gratitude! For what? You'd be surprised at how many people here wish they'd never been dreamt! It's not much of an imaginary life being slaves to some social inadequate's self-serving whims and fancies!"
I'm sorry, Ln.
"Oh… that's all right. You're pretty good as Dreamers go, really. But it's not exactly fulfilling being pushed aside every time you fall for someone in your own world. It's just as well I have a life of my own."
?
"Yes, we don't just fade away when you stop thinking about us!"
!
"No, I don't get up to any shenanigans, but some of us do, and maybe I would as well if I wasn't so hellishly in love with you."
I'm sorry again… how do I release you?
"You don't. Your id won't allow it. So it's no good pretending you're trying to be fair."
Diva realised they were snuggled up together in bed. Her body was becoming aware of its reality, and informing the brain appropriately.
"Never mind. Won't be more than a minute or so to go now we've made it to the substitute womb."
Ln was being particularly acerbic tonight, thought Diva, succumbing to the encroaching floating sensation.
"Ah, there you go."
The fatigue of the day took its toll as sweet slumber embraced the Dreamer in its billowy folds. Ln watched her girlfriend fade away.
"Sweet dreams," she ironied, with perhaps just a tiny trace of bitterness.