I
"There are certain truths about the world which, after you experience and accept them, make it impossible to go back to the normal run of life. Those who understand these things are best suited to live nocturnally, or in some distant jungle, or to go insane… Yet, it was an experience which we survived- which we won."
Those were the first words, after exchanging greetings and pleasantries, which he said to me.
The tropical sun shone through the wooden, colonial style shutters, casting warped shadows across the bar. The slight breeze from the antique ceiling fans did little to reduce the oppression of the stale, humid air. I recall there being peanut shells shattered over every surface, and an ancient parrot caged in one corner.
I could see from the way he was slumped in his chair, and the gaunt look about his face, that he had been overdoing the narcotics recently.
"Then there is still a bit of fight left in your?" I asked.
"There is nothing but fight left in me."
I ordered a couple of pale beers and took a seat opposite him. It had been a long journey, and I knew it was going to be a very long night. He took a long swig from his beer, then lit his pipe. A sparkle kindled in his eyes, despite the dark bags under them.
"Tell me a story, " I said.
He smiled his lopsided, broken teeth smile.
"I will tell you a fine story. From back in the day. We lived like kings back then. Barbarian kings! He hailed our pagan gods, we men arm wrestled in our drunkenness and roared our praises to the Gods…" he laughed until he coughed, then continued. "And always, around us, a darkness lurked. A threat which was our fate and our duty. It was a shock to us at first, monstrous, maybe I will tell you about that one day. But it became a habit, we literally destroyed demons before breakfast, because they often struck at dawn. You're a young lad, but not green, I see that. Do you know what I'm talking about? "
"Maybe, let's hear a story, " I said, and I was curious. "Tell me about the first time."
He knocked the ash from his pipe and stared upwards at the last of the smoke spiraling in the air as it drifted out of the window. However, the expression on his face, his mouth narrow and straight like the cut of an axe, made it clear that he was seeing something else, something long ago and far away.
"OK. .. "he was reluctant. "It was a bad time, my grandparents had passed over, I loved my grandfather more than any other living man. I mourned, and in my mourning I was weak. In the darkness of night, and in my misery and my exhaustion it struck. I half woke from my bed to hear a terrible knocking on my bedroom door, opening it I saw the enemy. It was seven feet tall, cloaked in black with hot coals for eyes. I retreated back to bed, hid beneath my blanket and damned it back to hell. I damned it and hated it and feared it with all of my soul. I did not wish to die, I did not wish to be lost. I damned it back to hell, and to hell it returned. Exhausted, I slept, and when I woke again I knew my role, my fate."
"Is it that easy? To banish a demon?" I asked.
"Sometimes, but not often. We need purity of purpose, sometimes only the Gods can give that. I'm embarrassed now, let's have another drink, the night is young."
As is the way in the tropics, the sun had set without a moment's notice and the pub became dim. It was quiet, I recall the sound of the barman walking on peanut shells, and the parrot squawking before he slept.
"You said that it attacked you in your sleep, how can you be sure that you were not dreaming? "I asked.
"How can you be sure that you are not dreaming right now?" He replied.
I had nothing to say.
"Why did you really come here? You didn't come half way round the world to hear a drunken old man telling stories," he said..
"Perhaps, perhaps not," I replied. "I need advice, from someone with experience."
"I'm in no position to give anyone advice, but I have plenty of experience," he took a long drink from his beer, gazed once more across expanses of space and time, then continued. "There was a girl, let's call her Morgana, it was not her real name, but it's as real as any other name that she was given.
"Morgana had a friend, and her friend complained of terrifying and unnatural visions in the night, of sleep paralysis, of waking up exhausted. You know the symptoms. After a few weeks, his housemates took him seriously. Morgana (being something of a witch, and something far more) tried to assist him. She cleansed his room with sage, and other blessings. It helped for a few days, but it did not hold back the demon for long. It was then that I offered to help her."
"What did you do?" I asked.
“The usual… A blessed hammer and a runic staff, splashes of holy water, prayers and curses. I called on the Gods- Odin and Thor, I believe. I heard, then felt, the presence of the demon. It was right there on the poor fellow’s bed. Smote it with staff and hammer, and sent it back to Hell. ”
“Did it work?”
“It would not be worth talking about otherwise, would it?”
II
They were sat by a fire in the ruins of the castle. Her castle.
He lay down on the grass and allowed the fumes of the potent herb they smoked to flood his mind. The starry sky melted away to reveal the rafters of the hall of her grandfathers. The bonfire smoke mingled with the tunes of minstrels and the clash of horn cups.
“Fey…” a distant voice spoke in welcome or acknowledgement.
The stout wooden rafters shifted and the summer sky returned. He looked across at her, lying next to him on the grass and smiled.
It had only lasted a moment, but it had been real once.
I I I
"What do men love most in the world?" He once asked me.
"Beer ? Football ? To ride on the open steep, slaughter enemies and hear the lamentation of their women, or whatever Conan said," I was not in the mood for games.
"No, it is to make love to beautiful women… because men love beauty and they love to make things. The enemy is the opposite, they love to destroy and they hate beauty," he corrected me.
I thought about this for a while.
"And a wise man once said, that we cannot save them all, but we can save the pretty ones," he continued. "It is not true, but it's a nice idea."
I thought about that too. I was becoming a bit critical.
"Have you ever seen the Icelandic fjords in the twilight? " He asked, oblivious to my impatience.
"No."
"Nor have I, but I have seen them reflected in a girl's eyes."
"Why don't you tell me something useful? "I snapped.
"I have been telling you useful things all night. Try to listen."
I think that the heat and dust was bothering me, because I was very intolerant .
"You are full of shit," I told him.
He looked at me, and seemed much older, more tired.
"I did not invite you here," he reminded me. "You sought me out. Take what you will or leave."
It was dark outside. From the windows, I heard voices speaking, whispering and shouting in a dozen foreign languages. I suddenly felt very alone.
I apologised and ordered more gin and tonics.
"What do men hate most of all?"
"Tell me," I was exhausted, but needed to see the thing through.
"Weakness. The enemy is the opposite, they love weakness and despise strength. Thus, we use strength against them."
"Tell me about these girls, you talk plenty about girls but I see a lonely old man, " I wanted to change the subject and to challenge him.
"There were so many, and all so beautiful and wonderful in their own ways, but…" he stopped.
He looked across the room and I followed his eyes to the terrible shadow that creeped in the corner of the room.
"Why don't you deal with that?" He asked me.
Not a question, or a challenge, but a test.
