They cavorted and danced whirling dervishes, that’s what they were doing, the selfish things, making a sport of poor Belinda. Their camp fires were up and roasting, some of them shooting flames straight up twenty feet into the sky and so the sky was darkened anyway by the smoke and glare, so how could we see anything at all, should it start to happen? Did these people have any sense and Jesus God, apparently not. Katy the youngest, strongest in our team was pushing me, her heroic effort getting me through the quagmire and Timon was finding it hard too but he wasn’t swearing and cursing like I was at the hazardous trekking we did. He was wordless and filming all of this going on and you couldn’t help feel sorry for him. I always feel sorry for people capturing their former glory, for it is always a mistake, a big embarrassment. Yet there is a fascinating thing about seeing them in decline, these people, at the big ending when all is gone and you see them lying in the same muck as we all of us live in. Like seeing Marlene at last behind the green door in Paris, up the crawling cranking life shaft. She called out Belinda old girl, she was the same as us. But now Belinda is a long-vanished goddess as well.
They had an effigy in bracken and twigs stuffed with fruit and god knows what. They raved and danced around it in all the smoke. They drummed and the noise came rolling out without stops and added to that the wailing of the people, who had thrown off their horrible unicorn sweaters and many now were barechested, with black horses daubed on their breasts. Their skins were painted, plastered white, white clay powder. Their faces sweated, their limbs were wet, they whirled and danced. We came to watch and Wendy was disgusted.
“They’ve got a wicka-Belinda,” said Timon.
The effigy stood tall and goggled its horrible May Queen white queen eyes. Its face was ghastly in rotted and stinking vegetables no good even for soup and nasty fruit. Acrimboldo. Its arms flailed and it shed feathers and crumbs of dead wood each time the dancers shook it and turned. No mistaking it for anyone other than Belinda, though, her wild white hair, indeed, her fatness, even yards of pink cloth for one of her funny dresses. Oh, poor Belinda up there and would they set fire to her? Is that what they were meaning to do? The horses shrieked and brayed, running circles about this encampment all the while, it was terrifying in the noise and murk. The horses were corralling us, these shiny splinters of bone, ivory tipped, nailed into their foreheads. Cross-eyed horses: they circled the dancers’ den.
“They’re all on something,’ Wendy said.
Timon said, “The Silver Unicorns are well known for it. They’re always off their tits.”
“But when I met them before, six, seven years ago, they seemed harmless. Pitiful cranks.”
Katy snorted. “It’s taken off since then. Since they got the Professor in, and let him take over. This is their New Age. Things have changed since they adopted Belinda as their masthead and personal saviour.”
Wendy shook her head. “Belinda couldn’t even get her shopping in for herself. Some saviour.”
“It’s true.” Timon smiled. “I had to go with her every time. She was always distracted down some other aisle.”
No sign of the Professor as he still called himself though by now, of course, he was the High Priest, the Big Cheesy. Self-styled priest and scaremonger, he like to tell all, to tell all the world and sundry that Belinda’s visitors were imminent and that he and his herd were the ones going, galloping off with that bandwagon. And Belinda had shown them the way. Seven years since Belinda had gone and seven was their—they reckoned—sacred number.
“Where are we going to go?” asked Wendy. They’ve filled the place. I don’t want to be here at midnight, with all them going daft.”
Katy was fascinated and pulled in. “I like watching them.”
Timon looked defeated, the way I’d seen him looking a lot lately when he comes down to the launderette and he has not much to say for himself. “Jesus God, Timon,” I try to goad and egg him. “You life has to go on. You have people to meet! Books to write!” The trouble of course was his book is Belinda, all about Belinda, all Belinda’s pieces and he can’t as a consequence and result shake off her hold. You have to try and distract Timon away from his sombreness. I try to make people like that look forward to something and often it works. But I told Timon to look forward to coming to this vigil, to make his final fond farewells to Belinda, farewells in peace and be ready to move on again. But this circus has come up now and Timon looks despondent. They are drumming false hope into him and shattering his peace of mind. When he says, “We should never have come,” I believe in him and I think he is right.
Belinda looking down from on high will think we are turncoats and fools, tootling and footling with these—Jesus God—these maniacs. Playing with fire, with a burning brand each, brandishing and tossing them into the dark and dropping them so that sparks rush out of all quarters and it’s a bloody old dangerous place to be. I’m thinking especially if you are confined to a wheelchair and stuck in the goddamn mud.
We decide to
