by Livia Ellis
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, 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 as 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. 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 a 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. Where is Avan?
Avan disappeared the previous evening with a gentleman he is not acquainted with. Canadian he thinks. Maybe American. Hard to tell the difference really. Anyhow, they seemed fond of each other.
Did they? (I sort of laugh, but it’s hard)
They did.
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.
He will draw a bath for me. I am to eat my toast and drink my tea.
Hunting
I feel like me again after a bath. I do not object when the Doctor washes my hair. I respect the closed curtain when I emerge from the bathroom.
The men are gathered in the front hall when I arrive with the Doctor. 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.
I spot Avan who stands alone near a fireplace and go to him.
How was the orgy?
I don’t really remember much. I think the stars were talking to me.
Probably best to stay away from the absinthe.
Agreed. Why isn’t he dressed for hunting?
He isn’t a member of the club. Only club members get to join the hunt.
That would explain why there is no Marcus or Elon present. What is he doing if not going on the hunt?
Observing.
The Master of Ceremonies rings his bell before I can ask another question. The hunt is ready. Our prey is primed for the chase. The only thing that is required is our participation.
I follow the men out of the house and into the Land Rovers parked in the drive.
We travel to a field where tables have been set up. On each table are sets of paintball gear.
I pick up a rifle just to make absolutely certain I’m not making a mistake.
Paintball.
Yes.
Paintball.
I’m sure of it.
We are grown men, many far past their prime, out for a rousing round of paintball.
I can’t believe it.
But yet, here I am, standing in the midst of grown men donning their paintball gear.
The only way not to be the weird one is to don my paintball kit. At least behind the mask I can laugh at the rest of them without anyone seeing me smile.
The Doctor in his paintball mask wielding his riffle defies description.
I gather with the other men. I sincerely hope they don’t start shooting at me. My fear at being the target turns to a mixture of bewilderment, fascination, and incredulity when I spot our prey.
Men.
Grown men.
Wearing antlers and loincloths.
Two dozen well-oiled well-muscled grown men wearing antlers and loincloths.
The Master of Ceremonies blows a hunting horn.
So it begins.
I follow the crowd as they take off across the hills and into the woods.
The plip plip plip of paint ball rifles being engaged is all around me.
Men in antlers run a zigzag path across the fields. I sincerely hope they’re either enjoying this or being paid very well. I’m guessing a bit of each.
I’m into it. Why the hell not?
I start firing my paint gun indiscriminately at bare oiled flesh. The loud snorting laughter rising up from deep inside sounds frightening to my own ears. I’m like a lunatic.
I don’t hit anyone. It would seem I’m a terrible shot. That or having prey with the capacity to think rationally is working against me.
Some of the men get tagged. When they’re tagged they stop running.
This is when it gets interesting.
With each indiscriminate pull of the trigger something is released inside of me.
Pull. Grandmother – I will not wear short pants.
Pull. Mother – stop being such a needy bitch.
Pull. Dad – stop being so spineless.
Pull. Grandfather – I want to make my own decisions.
Pull. Olga – I love you but you need to back off before you smother me.
Pull. Renata – Nothing I could have done would have made you healthy or love me.
Pull. Me. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. Me – stop being so afraid.
I laugh and laugh as I shoot at the sky and the clouds. I’m Don Quixote tilting at windmills. I’m fighting everyone but my one and only true enemy – myself.
I am the captain of my fate and the master of my destiny as I fire pellets of paint into the leaves of innocent trees.
But then, what appears between the trees and in my sights – Harold. Harold with his threats and his menacing. Harold who hurt people I love with his selfishness and idiocy. It wasn’t my drug addled imagination playing tricks on me. It was really him. He’s here and he’s fair game.
I raise my riffle and shoot him right in the chest. A splotch of purple spreads across his pecks.
One person that has caused me grief is vanquished. Moving on to the next.
