Chapter 8 — Mountain
And thus begins Chapter Eight.
Now, children.
We returned to the villa.
The council looks around.
Paul was awake.
Technically.
His body was horizontal across a bean bag,
head tilted upward,
eyes locked onto the wall.
The council follows his gaze.
A lizard.
Children.
A completely ordinary wall lizard.
Paul was mesmerized.
Not startled.
Not amused.
Mesmerized.
The sort of expression normally reserved for eclipses,
divine revelations,
or finding out someone has been paying your bills anonymously for ten years.
The council nods.
We did not interrupt.
Some journeys are sacred.
Across the room,
Wing remained
complicated.
The council checks status.
Still recovering from Cannibal Holocaust.
Correct.
His emotional system had not fully rebooted.
Alive.
Functional.
But there was a distance in his eyes suggesting a portion of his soul remained trapped inside that cassette.
The council grows sympathetic.
And Kosmo?
Children.
Kosmo had been productive.
Extremely productive.
He had rolled approximately fifteen joints.
The council pauses.
Fifteen?
Around that.
The man had apparently decided that if civilization collapsed,
our first priority should be an adequate emergency supply of cannabis.
The council nods.
Prepared.
Then he announced:
“Let’s head out.”
The council becomes interested.
Group exploration.
Round three.
Everyone agreed.
Except Mith.
Mith looked at the situation,
looked at reality,
possibly looked at me,
and decided:
Nap.
The council applauds.
A wise man.
He disappeared into the bedroom.
Which,
as it turned out,
solved a logistical problem.
Because children
Carlos was small.
We established this.
Five people had required a secondary metal steed.
But four?
Four could fit.
The council leans forward.
And yes.
We were taking Carlos.
The council goes silent.
While reality was still bending?
Yes.
Children.
Before anyone mistakes this for guidance:
this entire sequence is a beautifully preserved example of things one should absolutely not do while intoxicated.
The council stamps the archive:
DO NOT RECREATE.
At the time,
however,
our collective judgment had been replaced by enthusiasm.
So:
Paul drove.
Kosmo navigated.
Wing and I sat in the back.
The council glances at me.
Royal seat restored.
Naturally.
I had no responsibility.
Again.
The greatest intoxicant of all.
No steering.
No directions.
No fuel calculations.
No concern for the continued existence of Carlos beyond broad emotional attachment.
I simply sat behind the competent people.
The council raises quotation marks around competent.
We’ll get there.
Kosmo had his fifteen joint arsenal.
Paul started Carlos.
And off we went.
Children.
What followed can best be described as:
A guide on what not to do on mushrooms.
The council prepares itself.
Now.
The first problem arrived almost immediately.
Carlos stopped somewhere sloped.
The exact location?
Archive corrupted.
The relevant detail?
There was an edge.
And below the edge,
considerably less road.
The council becomes alarmed.
Paul adjusted the gear.
Or believed he did.
He prepared to move.
Children.
The car moved in the opposite direction from what everyone expected.
The council erupts.
Apparently,
what someone believed was reverse
was not reverse.
Whatever coordination existed between human,
gearbox,
and psychedelic perception had briefly dissolved.
Carlos lurched.
Everyone reacted.
The council grips its chairs.
For one spectacular second,
gravity entered negotiations.
And children,
this is where you discover that being the useless passenger has disadvantages.
You cannot fix anything.
You cannot steer.
You cannot brake.
You simply sit in the back
and experience the consequences of democracy.
The council nods.
Did we nearly drive off a cliff?
From my memory?
Far too nearly.
Did we?
No.
Obviously.
Carlos survived long enough to earn a later grand finale.
The council remembers Chekhov’s Bacardi.
But there was shouting.
Confusion.
Then laughter.
Because we were idiots
and had not yet developed the appropriate emotional response to narrowly avoiding disaster.
The council sighs.
Then came another sacred discovery.
Handbrakes.
The council leans forward.
Useful devices.
Very.
Particularly on mountains.
Children.
Our relationship with them that day was
inconsistent.
On one slope,
Carlos began moving when none of us seemed particularly interested in him moving.
The council grows concerned.
There was another burst of movement.
Hands reaching.
Someone correcting something.
And once again,
Carlos remained on Earth.
The council breathes out.
At the time,
this was hilarious.
To us.
Present Nuo would like to lodge an objection on behalf of mortality.
The council accepts.
We continued.
Windows down.
Cold mountain air pouring in.
Joints moving.
Music.
Laughter.
Reality continuing its beautiful little fungal distortions outside.
And people noticed us.
The council glances toward the roadside.
Strangers stared.
Some pointed.
And then
“Drugs!”
The council erupts.
Children.
Imagine being so visibly compromised that random pedestrians identify your current lifestyle from across the road.
No forensic analysis.
No investigation.
No questioning.
Just one look at Carlos carrying four malfunctioning humans and:
“Drugs.”
The council nods.
Accurate diagnosis.
Wing laughed.
I laughed.
Paul laughed.
Kosmo laughed.
Children.
Apparently shame had been removed from the Mushroom Plus subscription.
And we drove on.
Now.
Was this dangerous?
Yes.
Very.
The council nods firmly.
Was I aware of this with appropriate seriousness?
No.
Not remotely.
Because I sat in the back.
Joint in hand.
No responsibility.
No consequences assigned to my department.
Children.
There is a level of peace only achievable when every important decision is somebody else’s problem.
The council looks unimpressed.
A terrible philosophy.
But a comfortable one.
Roads twisted.
Trees passed.
Mist appeared and vanished.
Buildings blurred.
We explored.
Where exactly?
The archive offers vibes.
No map.
No names.
Just Kodaikanal unfolding through windows.
The others handled movement.
I handled
observation.
The council smiles.
At least one ancient skill remained useful.
I watched the town.
People.
Shops.
Forests.
Mountain roads.
Little pieces of unfamiliar life everywhere.
Children.
Even while chemically compromised,
I was beginning to understand something about travelling.
You do not need every place to become an event.
Sometimes the road itself becomes the memory.
A curve.
A view.
A stranger shouting “drugs.”
The council laughs.
Small things.
Then reality introduced a practical limitation.
Fuel.
The council grows serious.
Children.
Fuel is sacred.
Carlos did not run on friendship.
The Duke did not run on mushroom enlightenment.
And we still had to get home.
This was a twenty four hour wandering.
No second night.
No extra budget.
No rescue plan.
So eventually,
someone with functioning numerical instincts realized:
Perhaps stop using all the fuel driving around aimlessly.
The council applauds.
Competence returns.
And so,
we turned back.
Or attempted to.
Children.
This is where the expedition entered mythology.
We drove upward.
Slowly.
The light outside changing.
Afternoon beginning its descent toward evening.
Carlos climbing.
Road curling.
Kosmo navigating.
Paul driving.
Wing and I existing in the royal compartment.
Everything seemed fine.
Until it wasn’t.
The council leans forward.
We were lost.
Not mildly.
Not:
wrong turn,
circle back.
Lost.
Utterly.
The sort of lost where every road begins looking like a road you may or may not have already used.
The council nods.
Mountain towns are excellent for this.
Trees.
Turns.
Slopes.
More trees.
More turns.
Everything shaped like a memory you cannot place.
Eventually,
Paul stopped near a local man.
Lowered the window.
Asked for directions.
Probably described the villa.
Maybe the area.
Maybe something near it.
Children.
Again,
logistics were not my department.
The man listened.
Then pointed.
The council follows his finger.
Not down the road.
Not around the corner.
Across.
Toward
another mountain.
The council goes silent.
Children.
We had climbed the wrong mountain.
The council erupts.
THE WRONG MOUNTAIN?
Yes.
There stood our destination.
Somewhere over there.
Across an entire geographical feature.
And we?
Up here.
The council stares at Kosmo.
Navigations department?
No comment.
Children.
This is the problem with being lost in the mountains.
Being wrong does not mean:
five minutes away.
Being wrong can mean:
Congratulations.
You have successfully ascended the incorrect piece of Earth.
The council laughs.
And now,
darkness was coming.
The sun had begun dropping.
Mist thickened.
The temperature lowered.
Fuel remained finite.
Our accommodation existed on a different mountain.
And four intoxicated men sat inside a small car contemplating cartography.
The council looks toward me.
I took a puff from the joint.
The council pauses.
Concern?
None.
Children.
Unbothered.
Completely.
Perhaps this is why I remember the moment so fondly.
Not because it was sensible.
It wasn’t.
Not because it was safe.
It wasn’t.
But there I sat,
watching the competent department discover we had climbed the wrong mountain,
and felt absolutely no fear.
The council raises an eyebrow.
Why?
Because Paul was there.
Kosmo was there.
Wing was there.
Carlos was there.
And if everyone else looked vaguely functional
that was enough.
The council sighs.
Ancient Nuo’s survival philosophy:
Someone will figure it out.
Correct.
Children.
This belief would later be challenged extensively during the solo Wanderings.
But Kodaikanal Nuo still lived in the age of the pack.
He had wandered alone for one afternoon,
yes.
But true responsibility?
Still foreign.
Here,
someone else held the map.
Someone else held the wheel.
I held the joint.
The council nods.
Roles.
And strangely,
I trusted them.
Even when they had taken us up the wrong mountain.
Especially then.
Because there is a particular kind of friendship where getting lost stops being a crisis
and becomes part of the archive before you’ve even escaped it.
The council smiles.
Paul spoke.
Kosmo responded.
Plans formed.
Wing contributed something.
I probably offered nothing useful.
The council checks records.
Correct.
And outside,
Kodaikanal darkened.
The beautiful strange world from earlier becoming colder.
More shadowed.
Less forgiving.
Somewhere across the gap,
our eight hundred rupee palace waited.
Mith slept peacefully,
entirely unaware that the rest of his expedition had misplaced a mountain.
The council laughs.
We would have to get back.
Down this one.
Across whatever roads existed between.
Up the correct one.
Before darkness properly settled.
With limited fuel.
While still very much not sober.
Children.
At the time,
this felt like an inconvenience.
Looking back?
I understand why my friends refused to let me drive Carlos.
The council erupts in applause.
SENSIBLE MEN.
Indeed.
And so concludes Chapter Eight.
The Lizard Prophet.
The Fifteen Joint Arsenal.
The Mushroom Driving Disaster.
The Strangers Who Diagnosed Us From Afar.
And The Wrong Mountain.
Children.
We had left the villa to explore.
Nearly surrendered Carlos to gravity.
Been publicly identified as drug users by complete strangers.
Burned precious fuel.
Then asked for directions
only to discover that our home for the day
was sitting on another mountain entirely.
The council grows quiet.
And in the back seat,
Nuo puffed his joint,
looked at the approaching darkness,
and remained perfectly calm.
Not because he had courage.
Not because he had a plan.
Because, children
someone else probably did.
