Chapter 6 — Cassete
And thus begins Chapter Six.
Now, children.
We sat with the ants.
For how long?
Unknown.
The council reaches for a clock.
Put that away.
We had a superior system.
Approximately three joints.
The council nods.
Precise enough.
The sun was still sunning.
The ants were still marching.
And five chemically enlightened idiots were still staring at them like we’d discovered civilization beneath our feet.
Eventually,
someone stood.
Then someone else.
And collectively,
we migrated indoors.
Children.
The villa awaited.
Warm.
Soft.
Cozy.
The exact opposite of outside.
There were sofas.
Bean bags.
Blankets.
A table.
The council becomes interested.
Not just any table.
The perfect table.
Correct height.
Correct surface.
Ideal positioning.
Children.
Rolling architecture.
The council applauds.
Some furniture is designed.
Other furniture fulfills prophecy.
We settled.
Paul,
having apparently completed enough consciousness for one day,
went to sleep.
The council nods.
Fast travel without transport.
Mith and Kosmo rolled a few joints.
Then,
apparently deciding Round One had been insufficient,
headed back outside.
The council watches them leave.
Round Two.
Naturally.
Which left
me.
Wing.
And Paul,
unconscious nearby.
Now.
Wing and I took over the sofa area.
Blankets.
Warmth.
Children.
We had become toddlers.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
Wrapped.
Comfortable.
Deeply opposed to movement.
The council nods.
Maximum coziness achieved.
And we talked.
About what?
The usual things people discuss while extremely high in a strange mountain villa.
Space.
The council smiles.
Of course.
Black holes.
Reality.
The nature of existence.
Whether everything is real.
Whether anything matters.
Possibly several other questions normally reserved for physicists,
philosophers,
and people who have consumed fungi before noon.
Children.
Wing and I stared into the middle distance
and attempted to solve the universe.
Progress was limited.
Then
we noticed the television.
The council pauses.
The television?
Children.
I swear it had not been there before.
Obviously it had.
But psychologically?
Spawned.
One moment:
Wall.
Conversation.
Existence.
Next moment:
Ancient television.
The council leans forward.
And when I say ancient,
I mean
ancient.
No cable.
No streaming.
No apps.
No HDMI.
No little red button leading to twelve thousand shows.
Children.
Cassette.
The council goes silent.
A tape.
Inside the television system.
The sort of technology archaeologists recover while excavating forgotten civilizations.
Neither of us had noticed it until that moment.
Then Wing spoke.
“Turn it on.”
The council immediately looks at me.
I protested.
Because this required movement.
Children.
Understand the severity of the request.
I was wrapped in warmth.
The sofa had accepted me.
My body had signed a treaty with the cushions.
Standing up would violate international law.
Wing looked at me.
The council remembers.
This man had returned from his solo mushroom wandering
laughing and crying simultaneously.
His operational status remained scientifically unclear.
I considered this.
Then sighed.
Fine.
The council applauds sacrifice.
I stood.
Walked the impossible distance.
Pressed whatever ancient mechanism turned the thing on.
Then immediately returned to the sofa before my body realized rebellion was possible.
The tape began.
The council watches.
Title.
Cannibal Holocaust.
The council pauses.
Oh no.
Children.
I did not know what we were about to watch.
Wing did not know what we were about to watch.
The mushrooms certainly did not submit informed consent forms.
The movie started.
And very quickly
horror.
The council becomes uncomfortable.
Not fun horror.
Not ghosts.
Not a masked man dramatically appearing behind someone.
Something grim.
Ugly.
Human beings doing horrible things.
Violence.
Cannibalism.
The sort of film where you stop wondering what the plot is
and begin wondering who allowed any of this to exist.
Children.
Wing stared.
Horrified.
I stared.
Also horrified.
And neither of us moved.
The council erupts.
TURN IT OFF.
Yes.
Excellent suggestion.
Unfortunately,
the television was over there.
And we were over here.
The council stares.
Children.
Mushroom logic.
Distance had become tyranny.
To turn the movie off,
one of us would have to stand.
Walk.
Interact with machinery.
Return.
Impossible.
So we watched.
The council buries its face.
Two blanket wrapped toddlers
trapped inside a sofa
watching one of the least comforting films ever placed onto magnetic tape.
Wing looked increasingly disturbed.
And then
something strange happened to me.
The council grows quiet.
I calmed down.
Not because the movie became pleasant.
It absolutely did not.
Terrible things continued happening on screen.
Wing continued looking like his soul wanted to file an evacuation request.
But inside my chest
quiet.
The council listens.
Light.
At ease.
Children.
It made no sense.
On screen?
Horror.
Inside?
Peace.
The exact opposite emotional soundtrack.
And I remember noticing it.
Not understanding.
Just noticing.
My body had softened.
The pressure was gone.
The weight
quiet again.
The council grows still.
Maybe it was the mushrooms.
Almost certainly partly the mushrooms.
Maybe exhaustion.
Maybe the warmth.
Maybe my brain had finally overloaded so completely that it simply shut several departments down.
But whatever the reason
I felt okay.
More than okay.
Light.
The council nods.
Wing?
Still traumatized.
Different journey.
Eventually,
mercifully,
the film ended.
The council exhales.
And almost perfectly timed
Mith and Kosmo returned.
The door opened.
Cold air entered.
Two adventurers reappeared from Round Two.
Mith looked toward Wing.
The council watches.
Wing remained wrapped in blankets,
wearing the expression of a man who had witnessed something he did not consent to spiritually.
Mith assessed him.
Briefly.
Children.
You could see the calculation happen.
Wing?
No.
The council laughs.
Then Mith looked at me.
“Come.”
The council becomes suspicious.
Where?
“A spot.”
The council goes silent.
Children.
By this point,
I had history with that phrase.
Kosmo had once said:
“I know a spot.”
That spot required trekking through streams,
rocks,
grass,
and entering an enormous banyan tree while on acid.
The category called spot
was becoming dangerously broad.
The council writes:
SPOT – noun.
A location ranging from pleasant viewpoint to probable quest zone.
Approach with caution.
Still.
Mith said follow.
And apparently some protocols outrank caution.
So I followed.
The Duke waited outside.
The council becomes concerned.
Now.
You may remember something.
I do not like bikes.
More accurately
I am apparently considered a liability on them.
And yet,
there I was.
Climbing onto the Duke behind Mith.
The council sighs.
Historical consistency has failed.
I held on.
Mith started the engine.
And we moved.
Children.
He drove.
And drove.
And I
absorbed.
The council pauses.
Absorbed?
That’s the closest word I have.
Not:
I looked at the scenery.
Too passive.
Not:
I enjoyed the view.
Too small.
I felt like the entire world was entering me.
The council grows quiet.
Light hit my face.
Consumed.
Air rushed past.
Not merely wind.
Something passing through me.
Cold wrapped around my body
like another layer of clothing.
The road curved.
Trees moved past.
Mountains opened and disappeared between them.
And the mushrooms made the boundary between:
Me.
And:
Everything else.
Feel less convincing.
The council listens.
I wasn’t observing Kodaikanal.
I felt inside it.
Or it felt inside me.
Children.
Again
psychedelic vocabulary is terrible.
You either use normal words that fail,
or mystical words that make you sound like you’ve started selling incense professionally.
So:
I absorbed it.
Close enough.
Mith drove.
I held on.
And the town dropped farther beneath us.
Roads became narrower.
People became fewer.
Then
we stopped.
The council leans forward.
The spot.
This time,
yes.
Actually the spot.
Mith got off.
I followed.
Walked a short distance.
And then I saw it.
The council grows silent.
Cliff edge.
Children.
Not necessarily the highest point in Kodaikanal.
But high.
Very high.
And tucked away.
No crowds.
No tourist line.
No families taking photographs.
No vendor yelling about chai.
Just us.
The edge.
And below
Kodaikanal.
The council looks outward.
All of it.
Or what felt like all of it.
Hills rolling beneath.
Buildings tiny.
Roads reduced to threads.
Clouds moving through the distance.
The entire town spread beneath us like someone had taken the world I’d just been wandering through
and turned it into a map.
Children.
I stood there.
Silent.
Mith nearby.
And looked.
The council listens.
The mushrooms were still working.
But differently now.
No flower demanding attention.
No ants.
No dragons in clouds.
No television spawning from walls.
Nothing pulling me toward one tiny detail.
Instead
everything.
The whole view.
The scale.
The distance.
The enormous amount of world existing beneath me.
And something happened inside my chest.
Pressure.
The council grows quiet.
Not pain.
Release.
I exhaled.
Hard.
Long.
Like I’d been holding my breath for months without realizing it.
The council listens.
And with that breath,
something seemed to leave.
Not permanently.
Children.
We know better than that now.
The weight would return.
It always did.
But for that moment
lighter.
I stared out over Kodaikanal.
Cold air against my face.
The world below.
Mith beside me.
And suddenly,
without warning,
I realized something.
The council leans forward.
Something the boy who came to Kodaikanal chasing mushrooms
had not expected to learn.
Something that had nothing to do with fungi.
Nothing to do with getting high.
Nothing to do with the quest.
Children.
I stood at the edge,
looked down at an entire town beneath me,
breathed out the pressure in my chest
and realized
a promise.
