Always Forever (35 page)

Glancing at him askance, Tom caught sight of a blue light limning his wild
hair, a halo, not golden like the ones the mediaeval Christian artists painted
believing it more fitting for a sun king, but its true colour. "You're the voice of
the Godhead. A form which my mind can communicate with."

"Godhead? Yeah, well ... whatever you say, Tommy. But I've gotta tell you,
there's some serious shit a little way ahead. Blow your mind, Tommy. Better to
turn back now. You sure you don't wanna drink?"

"I have to go on. I need information ... more than that ... a blessing."

"It's your head, Tommy. I'll walk with you aways. You remember, you can
turn back any time."

"I need to speak to the giant." There was a potency to the air-the effect of
the Blue Fire, Tom knew-that made him almost delirious.

"No giants here, Tommy. But ... yeah, maybe we can do that. Come on,
let's go to the bar."

There was a subtle shift in the air, as if paper scenery had been torn away in
the blink of an eye. Suddenly Tom was standing in the Whiskey a Go Go,
breathing in the familiar odours of stale beer and old smoke, thick with the LA
streetlife of 1966. Krieger, Densmore and Manzarek were perched on stools at the
end of the bar, chatting lazily with Elmer Valentine, the ex-vice cop who coowned the joint. Tom looked around, dazed. The stage was all ready for the first
set of the night-at that point in their career, The Doors were the house band,
yet to record their first album. "Incredible," he muttered. It was just as he
remembered, only more so. How could it have been plucked from his mind when
he was seeing detail he was convinced he had never noticed before: the woman
with the bright red hair and headband marked out with astrological symbols, the
bikers near the stage, like barrels with arms of oak, blue from tattoos.

"This was the start of things," Morrison said, quietly; his voice rarely rose
above a whisper. "For you, for me, for a way of life. The last time of innocence,
Tommy. When this innocence died, the last chance of the world went with it.
After that, everything was just livin' on borrowed time. There had to be a change."

Tom nodded. "There did."

Morrison ordered two shots of Jack. Tom eyed his suspiciously before knocking it back with one swift movement. He didn't know what he expected-a taste
like fluffy clouds-but it burned the back of his throat and made him cough.
"Real." He held the glass up to the light. "I suppose I should have been prepared.
I've wittered on about the impermanence of so-called reality often enough."

"That's right, Tommy. You wish hard enough, you can live in any world you
want. Nothing is fixed. It's like ..." He went druggy-dreamy, his hand floating
through the air. ". . . smoke. You see shapes in it. A face. A dog. You look away,
look back, see something different."

"Christ," Tom sighed. "I hope I don't sound like this when I'm off my face."

"You know, you got all these people whinin' about how the world is a pile
of shit," Morrison continued. "Well, it's their own fault. They want it different,
they should do something about it. You can't trust your eyes, you can't trust
anything, and a big wish can change it all. I ani the Lizard King, Tommy. I can
do anything."

Tom had to drag himself out of the seductive reality that had been presented
to make him feel more comfortable. It was easy to slip into it, but wasn't that
the point the Morrison thing was making? People settle for the reality shown to
them when there could be a better one just a thought away. With an effort, he
managed to retreat from his surroundings to gain perspective, and then things
did begin to make more sense: he was in a place that allowed direct access to the
force that lay behind the Blue Fire and it was communicating with him. He
couldn't allow himself to be distracted, or this fake reality to take over.

"I want to talk about that, Jim." He called the barman for another shot, but
this time he sipped it slowly. "All this ..." He gestured widely. ". . . it reminds
me of the last true happy time in my life, perhaps the only really happy time,
when I thought there were values that mattered all around. There was an alignment between the things I held dear to me and the world without. I was always
a hippie," he smiled ruefully, "even when I was a mediaeval spy." His face hardened. "But now ... now there is something worth fighting for. A world to
change. That's why I'm here, to appeal for the rules to be ... not broken, bent
slightly. For a good cause. For something worth believing in." The illusion that
was not an illusion closed in around him again. He eyed Morrison, who was
staring into the coloured lights above the stage where the roadies fiddled with
the settings on the amps. "You always were a spiritual man, Jim. When you
weren't being a drunken oaf and a bastard to women."

"I was a product of my times, Tommy. Hell, you remember the fifties! But
we're all flawed, aren't we? Even the greatest. There are no saints in this world.
You just have to make sure the balance tips on the side of the angels, that's all.
With our nature, that's the best you can hope. No saints, no heroes, just people
who try their best most of the time, and fuck up the rest."

"And you think you did that?"

He stared into his shot glass for a long moment, then grinned broadly at
Tom, downed the drink and ordered another. "At least I can say I was trying."

Morrison's voice had taken on such an odd quality Tom was drawn to stare
deep into his eyes. He was mesmerised by what he saw: stars, whole galaxies,
swirling in their depths. "You're very good at making things real."

Morrison's smile was oddly serious. "There are no Fixed Lands, Tommy.
Everything is spirit, you know that."

"I suspected it."

"It's all a matter of perception. You see things a certain way to make you
feel comfortable, but there is no space and there is no time." Morrison was
altering before his eyes, although it was in such a subtle way-the cadence of
his voice, a change of expression-Tom couldn't quite put his finger on it. He
fixed Tom with a deep, unwavering stare that had the weight of the universe
behind it. "I told you, Tommy. You can wish things the way you want them to
be if you know how. Is that predestination?"

Tom couldn't bear the weight of his gaze, broke it to stare at the optics
behind the bar.

"We are all gods, Tommy."

Tom's head began to spin. The words were delivered simply, but there was
something hidden deep in them that suggested here was the most important
message of all. His heart started to pound as he attempted to peel the true
meaning from the heart of the comment, but before he could ask any further
questions, Morrison held up his hand to silence him. He shook his head slowly;
his eyes told Tom there would be no further discussion on that subject.

Tom was overcome with the drugged atmosphere; his thoughts ebbed and
flowed and he was drawn continually to detail in the surroundings, instead of
the heaviness that was building up in his thoughts.

"Tell me," he asked hurriedly, "the gods ... the ones who call themselves
gods ... the Tuatha De Danann ... do they speak for you? Are they part of
you?"

Morrison smiled mockingly. "Me?"

"You know what I mean."

He thought about this for a while, his eyes glinting in the flashing coloured
stage-lights. "The gods reflect aspects of what lies beyond," he began in his
whispery voice. "Some reflect it more than others, some better than others. But
that light shines through all living creatures, Tommy. Even the smallest is a part
of something bigger. It's all linked."

Once more the grip of the illusion loosened slightly, as if he was caught in
the ebb and flow of a supernatural tide. "I'm running out of time, Jim. I can't
afford these diversions. You must help me to stay on the path."

Morrison nodded slowly. "You want help."

"I need to talk to the giant, Jim. The physical representation of the source.
You must take me to it."

"You know what you're getting into?"

"I know my mind might not be able to cope with it. It's a risk I'm prepared
to take."

"Yeah? But you know what you're getting into with the big shit back home.
You know what I'm getting at?"

"Yes. I'm aware of it."

"But do you know?" His eyes went hazy, focusing through the walls of the
club, across Sunset and LA, across worlds. "There are things moving out there
that haven't been seen in your place for a long, long time, man. It's like when
you move a rock and all these spiders come running out. They were born way
out, and I mean way out. Right on the edge of the universe, where there's no
light. They don't like the light. They're worse than your worst nightmare, man.
You can't even dream these things."

"My friends and I have no choice, Jim." But a chill ran through him
nonetheless.

"Just so you know, though." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a
small blotter with little pictures of Mickey Mouse and offered one to Tom. The
Rhymer declined. Morrison swallowed one and washed it down with the Jack.
"I wouldn't be doing my job properly if I didn't do the warning thing. These
are bad times, Tommy. It's the End of Everything. Some people would be running and hiding-"

"It may well be the End of Everything-'

"Don't listen to me, listen to them." He motioned over Tom's shoulder. The
Rhymer turned round to see The Doors, the roadies, the barflies had all disappeared. In their place were a mass of people Tom instantly recognised as Celts.
Long-haired and dark of eye, some had distinctive sweeping moustaches. Others
were prepared for war, their manes matted with a bleaching lime mixture that
made it stick out in spikes like latter-day punks. "I called them to announce sadness," Morrison said with a faint smile.

One of them moved forward. He had a face of unbearable seriousness,
framed by long hair, eyes limpid with emotion. Beside him were two women,
sisters, skin like porcelain, hair shining black. Tom saw pride in all their faces,
and strength. "In the days before days they washed across the land like a giant
wave from the cold, black sea." The man's voice appeared from nowhere
although his lips were not moving. "We fought, and died, and fought again.
And died. Many, many of us driven to the Land of Always Summer."

"See?" Morrison said, tapping Tom firmly on the chest.

The Celt shook his head slowly from side to side. It moved jerkily, like an
old movie rattling through a worn projector. There was the faintest smile on his
face, despite the darkness of his words. Tom watched it curiously until he
realised he was seeing defiance and self-belief and righteousness.

"The hand of bones comes for all," the Celt began. He pointed at Tom. "Fear
is right, but fear must not rule. Death means the same to all, however they
might die. But life has value. How you live, with fear at your back. What
choices you make. Do you turn your back and live? Or do you face the threat
and die? Which has more value? Which has more meaning?"

Tom looked at Morrison. "You're not very good at presenting an argument."
Morrison smiled, unabashed.

"Know this," the Celt continued, "you know no fear like the fear you will
know in times to come. Your death will be the worst death imaginable. But you
will not die enfeebled. You will go as you should have lived, with the blood in
your head and a song in your heart."

Tom turned back to the bar and finished his mysteriously full glass. "You're
wasting your time. I'm under no illusions. Apart from this one. Remember, I
can see the future. Not all of it, granted, but snapshots. Once you have that gift
you stop worrying so much about what's to come."

Morrison made a clicking song in his cheek and raised Tom's eyeline with a
finger. On the periphery of Tom's vision, the bar was warping. The row of optics
stretched into infinity, the lights above the low stage were running like treacle.
The whole of it swelled, then receded as if it were scenery painted on the rubbery skin of a giant balloon.

"Is everybody in?" Morrison leaned in close to Tom and whispered in his ear,
"The ceremony is about to begin."

Tom turned slowly on his stool, but the bar was already gone. Instead he
was standing on a grassy area next to a wooden roundhouse with a turf roof in a
night torn by lightning of such ferocity he bowed his head. There were other
houses around, half hidden in the unnatural gloom. A cacophony of frightened
animal noises filled the air-pigs, sheep, cattle and horses. The boom of thunder
sounded like cannon and there was a cruel wind making him stagger from side
to side. But there was no rain, not even the slightest hint of it.

Morrison's eyes were lost to the acid. "You see the future, you say, but you
don't see everything."

"Where are we?"

"The last time your world faced the End of Everything."

The Celt who had spoken to Tom in the Whiskey staggered from the bar
clutching a spear, naked and ready for battle. Others followed him, defiant, moving quickly. The quality of the lightning changed slightly, until it was more
like flashes of gold, raging against the encroaching night.

"They called this in their legends the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh."
Morrison was still whispering, but somehow his voice carried above the wind.

"The night of victory," Tom said in awe. "When Balor was slain."

"One way of seeing it, Tommy. Or you could say it was a night of ultimate
suffering. When the hills and dales ran red with blood and bodies clogged the
rivers. This is why the Celts left their coded warnings hidden in the landscape,
Tommy. This is when humanity looked into the face of the storm and almost
became extinct."

The atmosphere was loaded with tension. Tom felt his teeth go on edge, his
stomach start to knot.

"You think you know everything, Tommy." Morrison's smile had an
unpleasant edge to it which Tom couldn't quite read. He raised his hand and
pointed slowly to the roundhouse. "Do you know what's in the hut? Do you
want to look in there?"