He exhaled the thick, sweet smoke. A shudder worked it's way up his spine- a telegram wishing him a fond farewell. He was cold, but his palms were clammy. Fidgeting, he felt himself gripped by a familiar nausea. As the bluish cloud began to dissipate, the world around him also became, somehow, less solid. Voices, punctuated by giggles and hollers, swam around him. No longer able to make out the meanings of these words, he slouched in his chair imagining himself to be alone among the crowds of Babel. The joint made it's way around the circle of contorted faces, and after what may just as well have been several days, he found him self staring at it, held tightly in the shaking vice of his index finger and thumb. He had a flash of recognition- a picture rather than words- that this mystery plant, now burning to ash, had once been an animal walking the earth. An archetypal spirit which had found peace in the earth and grown roots.
Words. They floated around him, beckoning. Yet his tongue searched a parched mouth and found none in reply. His eyes darted around the room again, wondering how his companions could have become so unfamiliar. Fingers grasping in air, breathing became more difficult. Alone. Darkness encroached upon his vision in pulses which reminded him of a birthing child, and then with one final push, he was somewhere else altogether. Gripped by a terror which has no mortal name, he was surrounded on all sides by a sea of fire. Far in the distance he could make out a castle, made of black stone in a twisting architecture unknown to man. The structure was circled by five pillars, and resting on top of these was a seven pointed star. Gazing towards it, he remembered (no, relived) the moment his father had finally walked out on him after beating the living shit out of his wretch of a mother. He was suddenly young again. A virgin. Eyes. Hands. Laughing. Stomach. Love? He had thought so, but the words had failed him. He watched again and again and again as his life approached choices to which he had taken the route least desirable.
Is this it? Am I dying? Is Hell but an eternity of reliving our mistakes? Our fears? Our regrets? Our death? Perhaps this is Eternity, to endlessly repeat our own deaths, only realising when it's too late, that you have already been through this. A feedback loop of despair. An Ouroborus of humiliation. Well if it is, then fuck it all. I can take it. Is this really all you can throw at me, you faded Morning Star? Shoot. Go on. Hell, I know I fucked up. But I figure, over the course of an eternity, I could get used to anything. Anyway, every path leads somewhere else in the end, and even if I had shot my load that night, things could have turned out a whole lot worse. You don't know. You never get to find out. If that's all You've got to throw at me, then Dante was one mother fucking pussy-assed son of a whore.
Release. His eyes opened and he was back in the club. A woman. Beautiful. Ivory skin and hair like a moonless night. She stroked his face. “It's all right,” she whispered. “Drink this.” And she handed him a chalice of a red wine like he had never before tasted. It had clearly been fermented from grapes, but it's aroma hinted that it had been infused with a flower. Which? It mattered not at this time. He drank. And as he stared into her green eyes, she bent towards him and kissed his mouth. “Come,” she whispered. “It's about to begin.”
“What's you name?” He stuttered, amazed that words had left his mouth at all.
She laughed sweetly. “My names? Well, I guess, Lilith will do for now.” And with that she stood up and held out her hand.
“Lilith.” The word seemed to hang in the air indefinitely. “Where? Where are we going?”
“To the Binah Club. You really don't want to miss it.”
He stood and let her lead. The room was now empty except for a bartender, who, looking up from mopping a table, nodded to Lilith. Not acknowledging this gesture, she glided towards the back of the tavern. He followed. Through the door and into the night she led. And into the night, he followed. There was no conscious decision to accompany her, no desire see what she had in store for him. But he felt no resistance, so he followed.
In silence, they made their way through winding cobbled alleyways, so narrow that the slanted tenement walls rubbed against his shoulders. It had rained earlier and now a low rolling fog limited visibility to just a few feet. As his legs moved him forwards, as if completely disconnected from his mind, he was reminded of the stories he had heard of the Ferryman who guided the recently deceased to the Underworld. He wondered for a moment if she had read his mind, for now he found himself stood beneath the gates of a dark and unwelcoming cemetery. For the first time since he had met Lilith, he tried to resist, to fight, to pull away, but he could not. So he followed. He followed through the gates, which, on closer inspection, appeared to be made of bones, although a thick coating of ash prevented him from being certain. So, his uncertain legs carried his uncertain body deep into the blackened abyss of the graveyard, until, without warning, she stopped. He watched as she knelt on one knee before a patch of soil which had recently been disturbed. And from this mournful ground she picked up two red roses, which in that dark place seemed the shade of coal.
“The price of admission,” she explained, taking his hand once more and leading him back past the the tombs and headstones, the obelisks and crosses, angels, and stars- memorials to lives once lived but no more. Bodies spent, devoid of humour or goodwill, eternal dreamers in a land with no sun. They passed through the gate of bone in silence, back into the winding network of nightmarish alleys. He was disorientated, lost in a city he had thought he had known well. Twists and turns, ascent followed by decent- past filthy beggars grasping his coat sleeves.
It was with a great sense of relief that they exited they exited the maze and stood in a court yard. Tall, windowless buildings lined three sides of the clearing, mouse hole alleys all but invisible in the darkness. Directly in front of them, at the far end of the courtyard, stood a tall triangular structure with no distinction between wall or roof. It was built of black marble, and, illuminated by torches along the wall, he could see that three great swords had been etched into the hard surface above an imposing doorway. Each sword pointed skywards. The one set in the middle was a straight blade, which, at it's point, impaled flower. The swords on either side of it, Arabic in design, curved outwards, as if repelled by it's violence. A wreath had been carved into the marble, encircling the symbols. Other than this, there were no other markings visible on the front of the building. Even without a name, it seemed fairly obvious that this was where the Night had taken him.
At the door way stood two men dressed in long dark gowns and hoods which cast shadows across their faces. Upon recognising Lilith, they bowed their heads. “Your guest is most welcome, my Lady,” the doormen spoke as one without looking up. They entered a great hall, lit by torches along the walls and candles on each table. Smoke hung heavily in the air, creating patterns of swirling beauty in the flickering light. As the other guests noticed their arrival, the laughter and excitable chatter which filled the room slowly died down to a silence, punctuated by a few irreverent whispers and coughs. He sensed they had been waiting. Lilith (or whatever her name was- he had heard several different ones whispered on their arrival), lifted her left hand, index and middle finger aloft, in the fashion of papal benediction. With that gesture, the crowd came to life again. On stage a sombre trio of piano, double bass and drums played slowly, accompanied by a female vocalist who sang in a style he was unfamiliar with. It was rather nasal and droning, finding a note and holding it for a long period, somehow creating overtones and harmonics. He did not need to ask, without any prior experience of such gatherings, he was sure that this was an invocation of some kind. In fact, as he looked around him he felt oddly familiar with the setting. It was a stark contrast to a night full of questions, for suddenly he felt embraced by a peculiar sense of Knowing. Perhaps not knowledge which he could freely put into words or explanations, but a sense of order which struck a chord with his inner mind.
Looking around he realised that he had lost sight of his hostess. Feeling at ease now, he found himself a seat at a small round table, occupied by two women deep in conversation. Not really listening to what they said, but soothed by their sultry voices, he sat back and soaked in the scene. Before long, a small man darted through the crowd and placed a metal goblet full of wine on the table. The man bowed bowed awkwardly and made a quick retreat. The women of the table acknowledged him now for the first time, raising in their own cups. He followed suit and as their vessels clanged together, the lady to his left toasted, “Three cups become one, drink now to Abundance.”
They drank. The wine tasted similar to what he had been drinking earlier, he felt certain now that it was lotus which supplemented it. He was aware now of how beautiful these women were. The woman to his right, whose dark black glistening skin seemed to beckon him, leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Yes, let's drink to an abundance of pleasure. ” Breathless, he felt overwhelmed by his lust. The woman on his right, who wore long blond hair and who's skin was like that of a porcelain doll, leaned into his other ear. “And an abundance of the senses,” she purred, kissing him lightly on the cheek. He could barely contain himself, yet as he tried to speak, words refused to cooperate. He stuttered and stammered. Speechless. They giggled and turned their attention back towards each other, talking and touching and, before long, kissing passionately. Perplexed but content, he finished the remainder of his wine. Around him, he noticed that similar scenes were unfolding around the room. The air practically dripped with sweating desire. Moans of pleasure surrounded him, sending prickly shocks of electricity up his spine. Yet he could not move.
After some time, a gong sounded and the spell was broken. The divine creatures with whom he sat, broke free from each other and looked towards him. “It is time,” they said in unison, although he noticed that neither had moved their mouths. As they stood, he saw that both held a single rose. He observed as they walked to the front of the room and placed their gifts on the stage, before parting ways and disappearing into the shadows. Rising, he made his way through the tables and placed his own rose on top of the pile. A sense of apprehension prompted him to head towards the back of the hall. He found a cushion on the floor and, sitting cross legged , he waited. His eyes were locked on the stage.
Several large speaker cabinets were wheeled onto the stage by men wearing grotesque masks. When they had finished stacking amplifiers on top, they scurried off, using their hands and feet to move. Moments late they returned, labouring comically over two large drums. After much to and fro-ing, the scene was set up and they tumbled off the stage. The crowd applauded these demonic roadies with tremendous enthusiasm, clearly impressed with the show so far. Shortly after this, four men walked, slowly on to the stage. Each of them were dressed completely in black and each had long dark hair past their shoulders. He was taken back by how large they were, with tattooed arms bulging out of their uniform vests. In fact, the sheer masculinity of this band seemed strikingly at odds with the overwhelmingly female crowd. Fascinated, he cheered with the rest of the audience as the men stood in centre stage and bowed. The sinister stage-hands reappeared, placing a stool on either side of the pile of roses. From the rafters, dropped two long ropes, each ending in a noose. Two of the darkly clad musicians turned and climbed onto a stool each and then, simultaneously, placed nooses around their necks. Their companions handed them a guitar each, before heading to their respective drums.
For a moment they were still. The silence in the room was palpable, and although it lasted but a few seconds, seemed to span a lifetime. And then it began. He felt it, before he heard a sound. It was as if he had been hit by a flash flood, such was the tremendous force of the music. A low, throbbing eruption of guitars burst from the speakers. At first he recoiled, like a Pompeii statue, totally unprepared for such a sonic onslaught. After this initial burst he began to acclimatise. The sound waves were nearly visible, as glasses shook on tables and the crowds swayed along. In a trance he spread out his arms and let himself be taken away. Around him, audience members lay on the floor, writhing in ecstasy as the vibrations worked up through bodies- from their feet up to their crowns. He felt himself returning to the womb, comforted by the terrible embrace of Apollo. The drums thundered. He imagined Thor and Odin and Hydras and Syrens and the constellations and the fall of Rome. Poseidon's trident and Baldr's death cry, an end of history. He was consumed and he consumed, entranced by a magic unknown.
After a few minutes, the first glass smashed, pushed off it's table by the fluctuations of the room. It was followed by several more, and regaining his senses he noticed that the stools, on which the guitarists were stood, were also moving. Still the drums beat steadily, holding the ritual together in powerful explosions. In awe, he watched as the stools shook and slid across the wooden stage. Bit by bit the pieces fell together. The men played in unison, striking their instruments as one, moving to manipulate the magnetic fields surrounding them as one- as if the whole scene had been choreographed. He stared, eyes locked, as the unthinkable became the inevitable- as the stools skidded and slid, shook, shuddered and jolted, the men balanced precariously upon the razor's edge of life. Time no longer counting, the curtain call came as the guitarists, fell- losing footing at precisely the same moment. As they dangled, the musicians- somehow- resisted the urge to grasp at the tightening nooses. Instead they held their final chords throughout their final moments, and beyond. As their companions swung, gasping for their last illusive breaths, the drummers increased the intensity of their rhythm, pounding furiously and ever more quickly. The low rumbles of the guitars transmuted into squealing feedback as their masters' hands moved no more.
He watched in awe as the bodies swung, pendulums of decay. As the crowd began to regain their senses, as laughter broke the silence, he was unable to move. Mouth agape. Paralysed. Erect.
