by Frank Lamour
For now, he just needed to get some sleep. Looking out at the busy after work crowd but without seeing them, he strongly suspected that that might be in short supply.
Chapter 7
Early the next morning Don set off to cycle the eight or so kilometres from his place to the House of the Vegetable.
It was only about eight-thirty when he’d set off but it all felt very early—Don’s shift at the bookshop only starting at ten, and he’d found that if he hit his snooze button until quarter-to, it would still give him enough time to get in and “punch in” on the computer—only a few minutes late.
Sleep had, as expected, been in short supply. Don was sure his nervous system just not cut out for all of this kind of intrigue—and although adrenalin was fuelling him now, he was sure he’d be ready for bed again around eleven.
After making the call last night, Don had then phoned the shop to see if his shifts were taken care of. Eunice had assured him that he was indeed being covered indefinitely. She had been curious to know though why he was off—obviously not having been filled in on that—and Don had been able to avoid getting into details by saying it was “a family thing.”
Don’d also then, after putting it off for as long as he could, texted Lesley about the joining fee. The man had been surprisingly mellow about it, saying he would EFT it into Don’s account. Lesley’s mellowness somehow making Don even more nervous. He was sinking deeper, and the infernal pressure increasing for him to make good.
Don still had his six hundred odd but didn’t want to cut into that. Wanting to wait and see if he needed to buy anything like bolt cutters or duplicate keys.
After texting Lesley he had gotten on to Google, trying to read up bit more about plant psychedelics. He’d found a couple of articles pretty much saying what Hamza had already told him, but the slow and intermittent connection on his old cell phone had made it difficult for him to dig too deep.
Finally reaching the Brixton ridge, Don walked the bike most of the way up. (Still not being too good with hills—or really anything requiring too much physical exertion.)
All the way on the top of the ridge Don found the house. It was on a tree-lined street that sloped back down into a cul-de-sac. There was no number marking the house, but he’d been able to locate it by checking numbers on the houses before and after, and, of course, by its description given to him by both Nutmeg and Hamza.
A dirty high wall and large battered sheet-metal gate made it difficult to get a good view of the property from the outside. Most of the other facades in the street were similar but maybe not as rundown. All also with high walls and some form of wall security—spikes, barbed wire, or, on the better-looking ones, electric fences. At any rate, most likely not a lot of neighbourly interaction, and with the big properties, houses spaced apart, not a bad spot if privacy was required, Don thought.
An intercom panel sat slightly askew on the wall to the right of the gate. Don wheeled his bicycle over and pressed the buzzer.
After a moment, a voice answered, maybe Nutmeg. Don announced himself as Dan, and the gate opened, grinding in a few spots where its path was no longer true.
As the gate rolled back, Don heard barking and then, up the long driveway, two slim, but muscular looking dogs, long ears sticking up, one pale almost white, the other black and white, came rushing down towards him.
Remembering Hamza’s vague assurances that they weren’t biters, Don nevertheless could still not help but feel the usual primal reaction that having things with sharp teeth hurtle towards one instils, and froze on the spot.
On reaching him though, the dogs seemed friendly enough, very friendly in fact, and jumped up and down on him, continuing to do so—one trying to chew his pedal, as he wheeled the bicycle through the gateway and on and up the drive.
As he pushed the bike up, Don took in the property, reminding himself to absorb as much as he could, not sure what might or might not be relevant to the mission.
The stand was big, a couple of acres surely, rising in terraces up the slope. The gardens were dense and overgrown, with huge trees and bushes growing wild, untrimmed hedges on either side, a wall at the front and back.
Once inside, as the gate closed shut behind him, despite still being in the suburb, Don thought it gave a nice feeling of being elsewhere—the plant life and high wall giving a lot of privacy from neighbours and street.
To his right as Don entered was a square face-brick outbuilding.
An old guest place maybe, but now in a fair state of disrepair, its window frames rusted, front gutter dangling loose.
Ahead, the driveway led up to a doorless double garage. In the right bay, a two-tone, red and white, old VW campervan, the bay to the left piled with old furniture. An ancient cream VW Beetle—apparently not having cut the nod for cover—was parked on a grassy patch to the right of the garage. Next to the Beetle were some crudely strung laundry lines on which now hung a row of off-white articles of clothing, all softly billowing in the morning breeze.
To the left of the garage doors was a white security gate, through it stairs likely leading up to the sloped roof flatlet above the garage, much of it still unpainted and unplastered.
To the left of the driveway stretched the main house—a long, old, rectangular building, the same dirty white as the front wall, with a red tiled roof. Running along the side of the building that faced the big front garden was a row of picture windows.
This garden area was to be dominated by rows of vegetable furrows. From what Don could see, they appeared to be doing well, filled with bunches of leafy greens and various gourd-type things. Two of the furrows had big netting structures protecting them. The others looked in the process of being built or repaired. Two small girls, both dark skinned, and having their hair dyed blonde, both in light dresses similar to the clothes on the line, although dirtier, were busy at this work now.
They watched Don with curiosity and when he met their gaze, beamed and waved at him.
Don embarrassedly raised a hand in response.
A short set of steps led up to the front door of the main house. On the small stoep at the top of the stairs, sat on a canvas chair, was a girl, legs crossed, smoking a pipe. Mid-twenties maybe, long auburn hair, worn loose, and a very tanned, olive complexion. Don was able to note the tan in some detail as she had nothing on.
She put down her pipe, stood, and came down to greet him.
Chapter 8
Don laid his bike down on the grass.
“Dan? We’ve been so looking forward to meeting you!” The girl shook his hand. “Nutmeg,” she said.
“Don, er… Dan, yes, you already said.” Damn, he was already mucking it up. Don wasn’t sure where to look. He remembered the old nerve-conquering trick about imagining one’s audience naked, but what if they were already in such a state?
Nutmeg did not appear to have noticed Don’s flub. “Come on up,” she said, “I’ll take you through to meet some of the others.” Nutmeg turned. “Oh. I hope you don’t mind? I’m a naturist.”
“I, uh, no,” Don mumbled as he followed her up the front steps, past a couple of wind chimes, a Chinese bagua thing, even a mezuzah.
“Sometimes I forget to mention it,” Nutmeg said.
“Um, no, it’s all good,” Don said. He turned to see the black and white dog still chewing the heck out of his pedal.
Entering through the front door, Don saw that the house was split down the middle by a long dark, narrow corridor, doors leading off to rooms on either side. All creaky wooden floorboards. The room just to the left as they entered was a large, mostly empty space, with a few mattresses on the floor and some rickety odds and ends by way of furniture, and dreamcatchers hanging from the ceiling.
The next door on the right led to a big kitchen and dining area filled with ancient looking counters, cupboards, mismatched and peeling vinyl flooring and a long, very low, almost Japanese style wooden dining table in the centre. Steam filled the room and two more girls, appeared
very busy with the tasks of food preparation.
They both broke with their work for a second and both gave Don an effusively friendly smile and wave. Don responded in kind (though feeling a little overwhelmed at the unfamiliar outpouring of goodwill).
The next door, a little further ahead to the left, took them through to a huge hall or common room. The windows Don had seen from the front stretched the length of the room, and flooded the space with light. Against the wall to the left was a bookshelf stacked with books and boxes of maybe board games and puzzles. Next to the bookshelf a pile of folded blankets, cushions, a couple of gas heaters and an easel. Tough fabric mats, similar to the ones Don had seen in the bedroom, were arranged around the perimeter of the room.
On the wall to the right was a huge mural, competent in some places, crude in others, mostly a forest or jungle scene but made up of many smaller images. It stretched over on to the adjacent wall but there petering out—like a work still in progress.
In front of the mural, sitting variously cross-legged or leaning back on their hands on mats and cushions, were three figures.
Don followed Nutmeg as she headed over to them.
On the left was a tall, muscularly built black guy with a burn scar covering some of his scalp. He was maybe mid-forties. He wore only a pair of light, loose fitting pants, similar in style to the clothes Don had seen so far. To his left was a tiny, wiry, tough-looking girl, with a shock of spiky black hair. Don would have put her at about twelve if it weren’t for the weathered face that put her perhaps in her early twenties. She had on a pair of dungarees type shorts, no shirt. Her skin dark—race indefinable—and was covered in tats.
To the wiry girl’s left, off a bit, was a small, stocky guy, possibly with some kind of chromosomal disorder, light straight hair, neatly parted and combed. He was maybe in his late teens or early twenties. All, as with everyone Don had seen so far, were barefoot.
Nutmeg took a seat on the empty mat and then introduced the three. Kraytom was the guy with the disorder, Mandrake the wiry girl and Acacia the big, scarred, guy.
All smiled and nodded greetings except for the Mandrake, who eyed him with what appeared to be suspicion from under hooded eyes. (Don almost feeling a little relief at the break from unearned friendliness)
On the floor next to Nutmeg’s mat was a tray with a clay teapot and some cups. After exchanging brief introductions, Don was offered a cup of what he was told was passionflower.
As Don sipped the bland brew, Nutmeg asked, “We were curious about how you found out about us.”
Don went over the same story he’d related over the phone, how synchronous events had led him to calling, trying to keep things as vague as possible.
This appeared to satisfy them well enough. He supposed he didn’t look like a cop—small head and all.
Nutmeg nodded. “Obviously we are in a bit of a legal grey area, well, maybe more than that, so we need to be cautious but don’t want to be paranoid.”
Don nodded.
“We want to feel like you are the right fit before taking you in. You mentioned an addiction issue? Do you feel like talking about it?”
“That’s fine,” Don said, scratching his nose nervously. “I started doing cat about a year ago and have had a tough time kicking it for good. I’ve been clean for about a few months, I never smoked or injected, so I think that made it easier, but the desire to relapse is strong.” Not exactly a lie, perhaps just a bit of bending of the truth. “I have never really been good socially and it seemed to help with that. And maybe feeling of, uh, self-esteem. I made friends through the drug but now it’s difficult to stay in contact with them—without getting back into it.”
Nutmeg nodded seriously. “Thank you,” she said. “Now I suppose I should tell you a bit about us. So you know what you are in for before you decide.” She laughed awkwardly. “The House of the Vegetable as it stands now is just over two years old. The four of us were the first to join, and have been with Thornapple since the early days when he was just doing the odd ceremony. So, we are the ‘senior members,’ and try to take care of the day to day running of things and meeting new members, although obviously the boss gets the final say in that. A lot of the others, those out in the garden, you’ll get to meet everyone, some have joined very recently. So you won’t have to feel like an outsider.”
Don nodded.
“Under the guidance of the plant spirits Thornapple has introduced the use of all plants, especially local plants. I’m sure you’ll find it very powerful.”
Don nodded.
“We also, of course, have a few rules that you’d need to know, before you make your decision?” She stared at Don for a moment, continued, “Firstly, if you want to go out you’ll need to discuss it with me or Thornapple. Recently we’ve decided that new members shouldn’t go out within the first few weeks. I don’t want to scare you like you think this is Hotel California…” Nutmeg laughed again. “but there are good reasons for this. One, this is a quiet, residential neighbourhood and we have a quantity of outlawed plants on the premises. You wouldn’t have seen them out front, those ones are out back. It’s a sacred space. I’ll take you out to see them later. Anyway if people are coming in and out at all hours of the day and night, it attracts unwanted attention, and we need to control that.
“The second reason, and that’s just as important, if not more so, is that if you are really serious about changing, you have to make the break from your old life. Especially if you’re trying to break an addiction. Plant medicine is not a miracle cure, you have to take the guidance it gives you and make the changes yourself. If you’re just turning back to your old life, falling back into your old patterns you’re not going to get anywhere! The journey is not supposed to be easy! It’s not supposed to be easy!” Nutmeg stopped, took a breath. “If you go out without clearing it with me or Thornapple you won’t be allowed back in. Sorry, it’s harsh, but it’s from the top and we have to be strict with this. At least initially. We do have group outings often, however, so don’t worry about getting cabin fever. And if you need anything Acacia or Mandrake can get it. They’re our designated shoppers.”
Don nodded.
“Our plan is to one day move out of the city, but lack of finances keep that just a dream at the moment. Money-wise we just keep our heads above water. Everything we take in is put right back into the House and we all chip in and do what we can. I have a little web design company that I run from the building you saw on the right. As you come in. That’s the computer room. Thornapple doesn’t want any kind of electro-magnetic field devices near the ceremonial space, so I’m relegated to down there. Nothing big, but it pulls in a bit. Maybe we can enlist if you have any computer skills?”
Don nodded, but was thinking how visible light was higher frequency EM, closer on the electromagnetic spectrum to cancer causing UV and X-rays than radio waves used by cell phones or Wi-Fi, but decided to let it slide.
“What else?” Nutmeg seemed to search her memory. “We have a ceremony every eight-day cycle. This next one coming up falls on the Shabbos, which is nice—or does that include Saturday evening? Anyway, Thornapple is our facilitator, our vegetalista. He’s studied all over the world. He will occasionally give Tarot readings. And has reserved the right to handle all the donations.
“What else? We try to discourage any romances. As you know, if things go south it can cause a lot of tensions and resentments. Abstinence of course can enhance spiritual growth. There’s no way of course we can check on that.” Nutmeg laughed awkwardly again. “Also, if you’re not pulling your weight, are in any way violent or abusive we’ll have to send you packing. Now I hope you are still with us after all of that?”
Don said that he was. Nutmeg had started to seem to Don to look a bit worried, like she may be putting him off—not knowing of course that he would have to comply with whatever rules she set.
The interview continued with some more questions about Don’s medical history and diet (Apparently his d
iet allowed him, with a few additional restrictions over the next few days, to be ready to partake of the psychedelic “brew” on Saturday. Joy.)
After this Don was given a brief tour of the rest of the property (which unfortunately did not include the flat above the garage—where Hamza had seen the money).
Finally, walked out by Nutmeg, she said they still needed to confer amongst each other and get the approval of Thornapple, but all seemed okay and they would give him a call “as soon as” to let him know.
Chapter 9
Don got back to his place late morning. He was worn out from the “interview” but felt happy enough with how it had gone. Nutmeg had said she would call to let him know but had not given an indication when.
They were weird, yes, but seemed nice enough—maybe apart from Mandrake—not the sinister cult he’d imagined. He hadn’t met Thornapple yet though. What had Nutmeg said about them just keeping their heads above water financially? It did seem possible the guy was lying to them about the money.
Don now decided that he just needed to think positive and go ahead as if he were getting in. So, after a brief nap he rode to the nearest Standard Bank and withdrew the five thousand that Lesley had deposited in his account. He drew that plus the few hundred he’d saved for the tools he planned to buy.
After that Don headed over to the local hardware and bought a crowbar, a hacksaw and a Leatherman.
Back at his place, after much sweat and irritation—without a vice to hold it- Don managed to cut off the curved top of the crowbar. He then removed the seat post off the Raleigh and slipped the straight piece of the crowbar into the frame of the bike and replaced the seat. The Leatherman he wedged in under the bicycle saddle. This he thought would allow him to smuggle in some tools that hopefully might aid in him getting up to the flat above the garage.
