The Fantasist: A Psychedelic Fantasy

By Ricky Hall

Does an insane man doubt his insanity like a sane man doubts his sanity? Is an artist insane? Can a sane man even imagine the trials an artist must attest to? What is it that makes an artist? An artist experiences weirdness so bottomless even his own mind cannot comprehend it. An artist feels strangeness in seeing things. It is like looking at a tree and systematically stripping it to its core or like looking into another persons mind and understanding that persons eccentricities. An artist is otherworldly. An artist is separate. An artist is separated from the lives and souls of normal humanity; separated from the realities that without the filter of normalcy mean full time horror and madness.
The power of the light burning just outside my perception forces my spirit into ever deeper regions of desolation where the forces of evil and good battle for the beautiful golden diamond ring on the finger of the luscious shining Magellan in her amber beaded gown.
Fantasies are all I have; life is a nightmare in the light; love is a specter in the dark; and I am but a caretaker of all that I know. I am the Fantasist. I am like a falcon diving into eternity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503512986

Ricky Hall

Ricky Hall is an old hippie born in 1955 in Fort Worth, Texas. He grew up in Colorado, Texas, and graduated high school in Arkansas. All through high school, and a little after, he drag raced a Volkswagen and set several IHRA national records. Later he worked as a mechanic and painter, then retail and restaurant worker. He went to the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville from 1979–1981, studying English, and Tarrant County Junior College in Texas from 1989–1991 and received an associate in applied computer science degree there. He has been reading and writing fantasy and science fiction since the sixth grade. As a kid, he was a cowboy, a flower child in the sixties, and a gear head since the seventies. He’s been married, has one child, and five grandchildren. Nowadays, he is planning to build a land speed race car to take to Bonneville Salt Flats in a few years as part of his bucket list, on which publishing a fantasy was at the top.

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Copyright © 2014 by Ricky Hall.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5035-1299-3

                eBook           978-1-5035-1298-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/10/2014

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 Promethius Rebound

Chapter 2 Polyethylene Pam

Chapter 3 The Elfin Prince

Chapter 4 The Watcher at the Gate

Chapter 5 The Magic Theatre

Chapter 6 On Divination

Chapter 7 Hard Times

Chapter 8 The Dream Within

Chapter 9 Tea for the Tillerman

Chapter 10 Witches, Serpents and Fair Damsels

Chapter 11 The Time is Now

Chapter 12 Days of Future Past

Chapter 13 Raping the Lock

Chapter 14 On the Threshold of Another Dream

Chapter 15 In Cold Sweat

Chapter 16 The Wickedest Witch In the West

Chapter 17 The Misty Mountain Hop

Chapter 18 The Lizard King

I am crucified, nailed to a cliff’s side with a buzzard circling, watching, watching to see an opening so he might pick the life from the arrow hole seeping blood and fluid from my side. Powerful light and dying sounds burn my lips and slice my face into circular scars of peeling quivering flesh screaming to you. I am the saint unnamed who reads from the book of poverty and disgust. I am the poet of the dreams of thousands of nonexistent characters caught in an endless monologue of powerless remorse.

To my daughter, Rebekah

Thanks to Frank Gaik

and Caroline Forche’,

who made it possible

for me to dream again.

PROLOGUE

Does an insane man doubt his insanity like a sane man doubts his sanity? Is an artist insane? Can a sane man even imagine the trials an artist must attest to? What is it that makes an artist? An artist experiences weirdness so bottomless even his own mind cannot comprehend it. An artist feels strangeness in seeing things. It is like looking at a tree and systematically stripping it to its core or like looking into another person’s mind and understanding that person’s eccentricities. An artist is otherworldly. An artist is separate. An artist is separated from the lives and souls of normal humanity; separated from the realities that without the filter of normalcy mean full time horror and madness.

The power of the light burning just outside my perception forces my spirit into ever deeper regions of desolation where the forces of evil and good battle for the beautiful golden diamond ring on the finger of the luscious shining Magellan in her amber beaded gown.

Fantasies are all I have; life is a nightmare in the light; love is a specter in the dark and I am but a caretaker of all that I know. I am the Fantasist. I am like a falcon diving into eternity.

CHAPTER 1

Promethius Rebound

We have a little time, Hawk.’ We must leave this place before we are caught, the girl said. Who is this lithe strawberry blonde girl before me? She looks so familier, a mental phantom from deep within my brain. And her clothes look so dated, as from another time than mine.

Why is there such a rush? Why can’t we rest a bit?

What? Are you touched? You know the Priest is at our heels. We must make our way to the coast, Hawk, only then may we be free. Why does she call me Hawk? Who is this Priest?

Why do you call me Hawk?

Enough of these games. You are the Hawk, most powerful wizard. You know what the Priest does with witches like us. I have my suspicions. He’ll fry us! Precisely my thought.

How I arrived in the middle of this is beyond my reckoning. I must be dreaming this but I am not so dense of mind not to realize the peril my fantasies might bring.

Yes, we’d better be moving to the coast, I said. Let’s go.

This way. Down the path. We sped down the trail into the setting sun, apparently toward the Atlantic, I guess.

The path was just a cut through the rocks held together with sand and dying autumn moss. I smell and hear sea spray not far off. The way rose into the crags among the rocks. As we broke through to the open beach, the sound of movement stopped me to listen. The unidentified girl never hesitated.

Hold, you witch, a large voice commanded. I’m not holding for anyone but it’s too late, strong arms clamped to mine. You’re going nowhere, Witch. The man wore a dark sixteenth century priest’s habit and dark beard but no hair on his scalp. Get that girl, he said to his henchmen, also in robes, We must have them both."

I’ll see you another time, friend, she said as she ran into the rabid waters and disappeared beneath the waves. I only wish I’d kept up with her. I know that if I were to be found guilty of witchery my end would be surely worse than drowning.

Friend? Surely she knows there will be no stopping one like myself. One with a commission from God. He turned to me. I know who you be. I be no idiot. He grinned at me like a cat does it’s prey.

That’s a matter of opinion, clown. I know what you are. You’re nothing but a monster. You’re the very beast you’re looking for. You’re…. Oh, my head, sparklers are going off in my brain.

* * *

I’m in a tunnel, I don’t why I think so, it’s so dark it could be simple blindness. But it feels like a tunnel. I’m making no sense at all, I know, but my senses are confused. I feel the darkness. I hear the cold walls. I see the dank smell of the dripping mildewed ceiling. The narrow tunnel seems to extend to no limit.

As I walk in the direction I’m facing, whichever it is, I feel I’m not alone. My mouth tells me corpses lie here and there. Dogs and rabbits litter the rocky floor. The smell of beating wings comes from behind. Tremendous echoing, thunderous wings. Gigantic insects. Lights come on blinding me for seconds. The wingbeats that could crush me skull. Wings of huge yellowjackets.

The killers measure a meter and a half long, bright and furry. I must try to outrun them no matter how useless the attempt. But maybe not so useless, my senses seem to work correctly now. I see an end to this cavern. The wasps are eating some of the corpses, but more come on their tails. I can’t imagine escaping their stingers and mandibles, but the exit comes up fast, as if propelled my direction. There’s someone standing at the exit. I hope the yellowjackets don’t harm him, but I hope more that he can save me from the monsters at my back before I’m stung and eaten.

The corpses explode, blasting rotted blood and tissue is every direction in every direction. From their decimated bodies emerge more insects born of what their fathers brought about. Smaller yellowjackets come together in a swarm, heading my direction. They buzz me at attack speed. Oh, G-d, I won’t make it. They’re stinging me. Fire enters my blood and nerves. I can’t make it. I must make it. Ten meters more. My legs still move, I guess under their own will. My mind is filled with fire. I’m almost to the exit.

The man standing in the rough archway holds a flamethrower. He stands on a familiar lawn. He fires his gun and blows away the firestinging yellowjackets. My clothes are burned away, but the stinging has stopped. A cold rush freezes away the stings and fire turning me around toward the house at the bottom of the hill, the house where I once lived.

Indiana Jones feared snakes, his dad feared rats, but I fear wasps. Snake and rats don’t bother me, but wasps scare me to death. I’m allergic and swell up. In 3rd grade one stung me on the back of my neck and I passed out on the playground. I awoke in the nurses’ office to my mom’s voice. At home I keep a bonus sized Hot Shot Wasp & Hornet killer in every room. I like it because I can kill them at a distance.

I sprint down the hill into the back door of the old house, a door leading to a place of relative normalcy and freedom. It takes all my strength to break the door open. In the den, passed the hearth I see two people I recognize to be the father and brother of my ex-wife. They sit there playing chess, not talking or even noticing my presence. The game nears its end. The older man conquers the younger man’s last rook with his only remaining knight. The younger man can only run, leaving no winner.

The old man turns to me followed by the younger. The older man has the face of a black stallion, the younger the face of a grey coyote. The room reeks of musky animal smells.

The candles on the stone walls flicker as is burning out. The sounds of madmen echo through the thickening air. The man with the face of a horse screams, Stalemate!

* * *

I am lying in a open field of sun flowers and the smell of sage and dry grass. Trotting around me stands a huge white mare reigned by a strangely enticing girl, redheaded and nude. Her skin is pure white and smooth as enamel. She takes no notice of me. Suddenly she’s gone. Night has fallen. I can hear the disturbed laughter of a man feeling triumph in his deeds.

Return from your otherworldly travels, you witch. I await your return so that I might bring about your destruction. Monsters like you must be destroyed so that Christendom may continue its blessed way. Finally he finishes his mad ravings with more pitiful laughter. He grinned, exposing his searing blue eyes, dart shaped eyebrows, dagger like nose and vapid white teeth.

You’re out of your mind, you crazy bastard, I said, not knowing why. Actually, when one lies face to face with hell itself one should be somewhat diplomatic.

Protest all you want, witch, for it will do you no good. You be good as dead, the verdict already handed down. The judge deems you a practitioner of the ancient art of witchcraft. The evidence be clear, on you person was discovered an amulet containing numerous potions and charms, strapped to your leg a ceremonial poniard, from your left earlobe hangs a dragon, symbol of the most evil of covens, The Sacred Order of Dragons and Gargoyles. And a final indictment… he grabbed my left arm, wrenched it around and pointed to a small birthmark, not really a birthmark, more of an odd arrangement of freckles. … the mark of the constellation Cassiopeia, the pagan queen who caused the death of her own daughter through vain wickedness. ’Tis the devil’s own mark. You be Satan’s own. The Hawk.

Without another word or time for me to speak, he left. I found myself in the company of a terribly ugly stinking little man. I am called Rat. You be the fourth witch I’ve put to burn since the Sabbath. I reckon I be the best Jew and witch burner in this shire. Of course, the Priest calls you all witch to save paper work. His cackle went well with his morbid sense of humor. I would argue with him but it would only give him more to cackle about. He was just about to start up again on his own when a whisper came from the door bars.

What you want? he asked. Can’t you see I got affairs to tend to? More whispering at a distance beyond my clear hearing. Oh, all right. What do you want? He opened the door and a boy of about fifteen, a rag-a-muffin come to see the condemned criminal before his execution. The tramp handed he jailer something and the little man left me alone with the boy, who came toward me.

I suppose they took all your herbs away, did they not? It was the girl who had been riding the white horse.

Yes, they did, but what in the world are you here for? You’d better get the hell out of this place. If you’re caught you’ll get the same as me. I had no idea how she managed to escape the sea, much less how she got this far. Don’t they check out my visiters? I asked.

In the first place, the Priest is only interested in you right now. You be the big catch, next to you I am unimportant. And in the second place, the guards are looking for escaping people, not entering people. If one goes in, one goes out, She said and pulled objects from her bag and set them on the filthy wooden table the Rat had been leaning on.

So what are you doing here?

Answer my first question.

I already told you they did. They used it to convict me.

Well, if they have already taken the pouch then they will not need to search you again, will they?

What are you talking about anyway?

I brought you a preparation which will make your departure from this world easier for you to handle but harder for your audience.

And what might that be?

A concoction of deadly nightshade, psilocybin mushroom, mandrake root and cannabis. It will put your brain in a fever, send your spirit to another world and kill the body without pain. The hemp string and resin hold the potion together so all you have to do