by Livia Ellis
I’m more than a bit disconcerted to see granddad’s “friend” Lionel.
My eyes scan the crowd for Uncle Albert. Thank god he’s not around.
Then I get it. They are all gay. Maybe not publicly, but privately in the quiet of their minds, they’re gay. And they believe me to be one of them. After all I am my grandfather’s grandson.
Drinks are pressed into our hands. There is polite conversation that is cut short due to the lateness of the hour. We are shown to our rooms and told we are to dress for dinner.
This causes some sturm und drang with Marcus. No one told him he’d have to dress up.
Elon can deal with this. This is not my problem. I go to my own room where my bags have been deposited and the Doctor is already dressing.
There is a collegial spirit to this portion of the evening. He’s enjoying dropping hints of what is to come. I’m enjoying actually dressing for dinner. I really was born in the wrong era.
Dinner is just what I imagined it would be. Perfectly formal. I enjoyed it completely. Evelyn Waugh couldn’t have written it better. All us gentlemen in our finery slurping our soup and laughing politely.
I speak with Lionel during the brandy and cigars portion of the evening.
He hopes this isn’t all very awkward for me. He knows that I know that he and my grandfather were very much in love.
Is he going to make a pass at me?
No.
Then it’s all good.
He wanders off and I don’t speak with him again.
Servants circle with spindly wooden carts containing small glasses filled with slimy brilliant green liquid. I’m offered one after it is diluted with water and sugar. Absinthe. Something new for me. I propel it down my throat. Anise. Bleck. This is what I get for leaping before I look. If nothing else the evening will be interesting.
At what turns out to not be midnight, but rather some minutes before, a gong is struck somewhere in the house. The master of ceremonies, a man I was introduced to earlier in the evening who I know from lunching with the Doctor at his club and through me just being me, invites us all to proceed outside.
Servants wait with robes.
Yes.
Robes.
White robes.
White robes with hoods.
Hoods we have to put up over our heads.
I should probably add that they are heavy wool with long dolman sleeves.
Marvelous.
It’s a cool evening so I’m happy for the extra layer as we walk in the direction of the bonfire visible through the trees.
So much becomes clear to me as I walk outside with the Doctor who comes up alongside of me with the crowd. I’m his delightful little boy toy. There is a proprietary swagger to his step as he walks with me.
I look at him.
Would it be wrong of me to assume these other gentlemen might think we have a special relationship?
Don’t we have a special relationship? Are we not good friends?
We are.
Besides – he looks at me in such a way that makes him seem boyish and mischievous – they’re all grinding their teeth with envy. Let him have his moment.
Was this the plan all along?
No. In fact it wasn’t.
I’m delighted to be his date. I count myself as lucky to know him. (This is the god’s honest truth. This is also my greatest flaw. I care too much about these people that pay me for my time. But I’m not being paid to attend this bacchanalia. I’m the Doctor’s guest. His significantly younger companion. And he’s right about one thing – he’s the envy of all. I’m not some street walking hustler. I’m Oliver Adair. James’ grandson.)
What is going to happen?
Patience.
We approach the bonfire burning in a clearing up ahead.
There is a campsite. That’s really the best word for it although it doesn’t wholly encapsulate the setup around the bonfire. What there is there, are a lot of rustic couches covered in animal skins. Lamps hanging from the circle of trees. Drums. Lots of drums. Wineskins? I think I see wineskins. Wineskins are good. I like wineskins.
We are a band of hunters. Or druids. Maybe we’re supposed to be druids. Regardless, I don’t know what we’re supposed to be. But we are a company of men that wear robes, light fires, bang drums, drink from wineskins, and fuck on animal skins. I love this! Sign me up! Teach me the secret handshake! I’m all in!
As individuals we are unrecognizable in our robes. The hoods do a good job concealing our faces. Perfect for a bunch of secret buggers.
There appears to be an altar by the fire. All our attention is focused on the fire as we gather around it and the possible alter is forgotten until later.
Then the master of ceremonies is there. He rings a bell.
We gather in closer, standing shoulder to shoulder in a circle around the bonfire. I am between the Doctor and a man who I think is an MP, but I can’t be totally certain.
He speaks to the stars. He chants. He calls forth. He summons. I don’t understand the language. I would know Irish if I heard it and that’s not Irish he’s speaking. It could be Linear B or Esperanto for all I know.
A man – a naked man – with stag’s horns tied to his head approaches through the crowd.
It takes every ounce of my will to not laugh and scream.
It’s fucking Harold!
God as my witness he is everywhere.
Harold. A mythical creature in the buff on this frigid night with stag’s horns strapped to his head.
How absurd we all are! What are we all about in our robes with Harold and his stag’s horns? In what world would this ever be normal? This one apparently.
I watch. The absinthe is taking a hold on my senses.
The master of ceremonies reaches into a basket held by another horned rent boy. From it he takes a peat brick and tosses it on the fire. In turn a dozen or so men, the Doctor included, toss a brick on the fire.
The smoke billows up and I a catch of whiff of something earthy and sweet.
It gets into my eyes. It gets up my nose.
This is when it all starts to go a bit funny.
Harold – was it Harold or was I just imagining it was Harold? – and another of the stag horns start fucking on the altar. There’s a bit of dancing around and a lot of touching and such, but in essence they start ritualistically fucking on the altar.
I say ritualistically because there’s a lot of arm waving and posing and such. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Who knows what I really saw? I think the absinthe has fully kicked in. That combined with whatever is contained within the smoke is taking me on a ride.
I watch as the light from the fire, the shadows from the smoke and the chill of the air all come together to stir up my perceptions.
I hear music, but I don’t know if it was external or internal.
Someone whose face I never properly see because of the hood and my inebriation undoes my trousers and pulls out my cock. I get slowly sucked as I watch Harold and the other stag horns fuck on the altar. But they’re not just men wearing stag horns. They’re both men and stags. In one. They’re minotaurs. Neither man nor beast.
I push the man away. I don’t want this. I want to walk to the flames. They’re golden and they call to me.
The Doctor takes me by the arm and pulls me back. Perhaps absinthe isn’t for me. I find a place on one of the fur covered couches.
There is a part of my brain that is very calmly telling me that I’m hallucinating. Again it’s the voice of Timothy Dalton. The soundtrack of my life narrated by Timothy Dalton. I listen to the warm dulcet tones of English spoken with a Welsh accent telling me to just hang on for the ride.
Then there are other men. Without a stitch on. Some keep their hoods and robes on. Other just run about in the nip. In the cold.
I see the wind as it moves through the trees. I swear to fucking god I see the wind. It swirls like a van Gogh painting.
The Doctor is with me. He strokes my hair a
s I stare at the sky. The stars are filled with messages. If I’m a druid in my white robe, then I can read the fates in their patterns.
He laughs. The Green Fairy flutters between the leaves. The sparks from the fire are tiny fae. Their wings tinkle like tiny bells.
One comes to me. Small with a pinched face. It’s Renata. But a tiny pregnant fae Renata. Her voice is a squeaky buzz. She cackles as she threatens me with exposure. Clarity fills my thoughts. She is the one behind the paparazzi knowing my secrets. She’s the source. Has to be. No one else other than Elon has been privy to the sort of information they’ve used against me. I feel smarter, more handsome, stronger, and better than I ever have before. It’s a vision this conversation I have with the minute flying Renata is a vision. My purpose is clear. I am the Pythia getting messages out of the smoke.
My hand reaches up and I give her a smack. She flies off with an angry buzz. She’ll get me she will. But I’m smarter, faster, and stronger now that I’ve seen the truth.
The man beasts run about. The hooded men wander from couch to couch. The Doctor stays with me and brushes them away. They are not to touch me. I’m his.
I don’t know if I pass out or if I fall asleep.
What I do know is that I wake up in a bed. Without a stitch on. I’m laid flat out on my belly and there is the smell of both toast and tea in the room. There is the sound of a newspaper rattling like the leaves.
I roll just enough to look. It’s the Doctor. He wears pale blue tailored pajamas under a silk robe with a pair of soft leather slippers.
What happened?
He looks at me. Absinthe does not agree with me. He advises me both as a friend and a physician to never touch it again.
I whole heartedly agree with him.
Did anything happen? (I don’t want to state the obvious that I’m naked and in the bed)
Do I want to know if he took advantage of the fact that I was physically incapable of giving him consent to engage in sexual relations? He’s disappointed in me. Surely I know him better than that.
I’m sorry. I actually am sorry. I do know him better than that.
Besides, I should know perfectly well by this point that he prefers to do things in a certain way. There is tea and toast. I am to get a move on.
Why? I would really prefer to just stay in bed.
We’re going hunting. Fresh air will do me a world of good.
Hunting?
Hunting.
I love this plan. I feel like me again.
We go hunting. All of us men that spent the previous evening wrapped in robes prancing about in an orgiastic drug induced frenzy. Today we are all gentlemen in our tweeds and wools.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Home
Elon hires a plane to take us from Galway to Exeter. The three of us agree that we need a few days to process the pure weirdness of our time in Ireland. This is the benefit of having a friend that is worth the GDP of Monaco. Sometimes it’s good to have someone around that truly can throw money at a problem to make it go away.
There is a car waiting for us in Exeter. The three of us sit shoulder to shoulder in the back.
Marcus is the one that breaks the silence.
What the fuck was that?
I start to laugh. I don’t know. I really don’t.
They were druids? He thinks they were druids. What the fuck was that?
Elon just chuckles.
Wold Hall appears around the curve in the road just as the sun is about to set. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at. The drive is filled with trade vans. Mostly being packed up by an assortment of plumbers and electricians.
Near the door is a black Mercedes. I know that car.
Why?
Why me?
I’m starting to believe in god. I really am. Only a supreme being with a maniacal desire to get me and get me good could orchestrate the near constant shit storm that is my life.
Is that…. Elon cranes to look.
Yes. That is her car.
The car we are in comes to a halt just as my former fiancée exits the house with a man I recognize. It’s the architect that was in charge of the restoration of Wold Hall.
I get out of the car.
I join the duo.
Elon and Marcus walk past us as if we’re not there. Probably for the best. Putting Elon and my former fiancée together could be volatile.
It takes me a good long moment to realize my former fiancée, true to her word as she always was, has arranged to get the plumbing and the electrical back to the shabby working order it was in before she had it ripped out.
What I would like to know, which I can’t ask in front of the architect, is what the fuck is she doing at Wold Hall and is this part of her father’s plan to destroy me and steal my home.
The architect leaves.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Why do I always have to say fuck?
What is she doing here?
She wanted to make certain everything was done properly. She thought I was in Ireland.
She does have spies watching me!
Don’t be an idiot. She called Mrs. Gresham. Besides. She’s spent a fortune on the repairs. She wanted to make certain it was done properly.
Is this part of her and her father’s big plan to take my home from me? Get the repairs done then get that woman, that horrible Betty Crusher, to start showing the place to more potential buyers?
She stares into my eyes.
What?
She is trying to see if my pupils are dilated. Or, perhaps I’ve recently hit my head? Could that be it?
I don’t believe for a second that she doesn’t know what’s happening with her father. I don’t.
More workmen move past us as they depart for the day.
She smiles that tight just you wait until I get you alone smile. Can we move inside and discuss this privately?
Fine. Agreed. Not in front of the staff darling.
I follow her inside and up the steps to MY rooms. Apparently she’s been staying for a few days. Nice. I do hope she’s made herself at home.
Don’t be an ass. Do I really expect her to stay in a hotel when Wold Hall is empty? The least I could do is thank her for coming through and doing what she said she would do.
Fine. Thanks.
Once and for all, what is supposedly going on with her father.
I go into the office and get the file filled with papers. I hand it to her.
She’s fussing with her laptop.
I set the file next to her on the couch and take the chair. Does she have internet access?
Of course she has internet access.
How does she have internet access?
She turned the Wi-Fi on.
What Wi-Fi?
She looks up at me and over her glasses. The Wi-Fi. She had Wi-Fi and a satellite dish installed while I was off fucking that Swedish whore. This is what she did while I couldn’t keep my dick in my trousers. She tried to make life more comfortable for us whilst I tried my very best to break her heart.
We have Wi-Fi?
Yes. And no. She will not give me the password. I can just fuck off. She agreed to plumbing and electric. Not communications with the outside world. Now. What is this shit I keep going on about with her father?
Everything is in the file.
She picks up the file.
Page by page she goes through it.
Just so she knows he served me the day of my father’s funeral.
She holds up a silencing finger. Pages are spread out over the table into piles that begin to take on meaning.
It takes her an hour. I steal the laptop and check my email. Olga. Olga. Olga. Cousin Margaret. Olga. Olga. Cousin Margaret. There is nothing urgent. I log off my email. I surf the net. I check my bank accounts. I look at the price of airline tickets to Spain. I shop for shoes. I go back to my emails and read the ones from Cousin Margaret.
What’s the deal with Margaret?
I’m going to need to be more specific. There are many deals with Margaret. We are within six weeks of her wedding. Margaret is about to come unglued.
That actually explains a lot. Is there a reason I’m not to wear an orange tie?
Oh that.
I don’t own an orange tie. Am I known for wearing orange? Do I own any orange?
Just ignore Margaret.
I want an orange tie now.
Don’t be difficult. Besides, orange doesn’t suit me. Unless I’ve gone out on an orange clothing buying spree, then I don’t own any orange. Can we discuss what is going on with her father?
Please.
Okay – as her father is want to do, he has gone a bit far.
A bit?
A bit.
Just a bit?
Yes. Just a bit. Don’t think I don’t deserve at least a good portion of the shit that’s been lumped on me. Just not all of it.
Unreal.
Let’s discuss reality, shall we? Do I know whether or not that Swedish whore’s baby is mine?
Actually I don’t. And truthfully I don’t want to fight with her. I just want it to stop. I’m trying to rebuild my life. I can’t do that if I have Betty Crusher trying to shoehorn me out of my home.
I should just sell Wold Hall. I’d be better off financially.
I’m not going to do that.
She knows. She’s going to think about it. Bottom line, her father was well within his legal rights to do what he’s done.
It’s wrong.
She looks up at me over her glasses. That is a matter of perspective. What I did to her was wrong. That was wrong. What her father has done was well within his legal rights. Now if I want mercy, she’ll consider it. But don’t for one moment act the injured party in her presence. She won’t have it. I’ve gotten everything I deserved both financially and emotionally. There is such a thing as karma. Acting the victim is going to perpetuate the cycle of destruction in my life.
(and she’s back to being a Buddhist again)
I am sorry. I am.
Truly?
I truly am sorry.
How sorry?
I have nothing but regrets.
Pretty words. Sort of my specialty.
