Day Three hundred and twenty six - Pieces of eight

'Beyond yon ridge', she said, 'there is a river, and when we ford it, we must go over the hill to where the door lies. We'll go together, past the trees that will stretch their arms to enfold us as they whisper our names, and after we leave the woods with the prayer of Orion on our lips, then, and only then will I give you the heart-shaped key. You'll see a door, once we're atop the hill, faint and shimmering in the distance. It'll almost like it's not there at all, that it's only a trick of the light, but as you approach it it will become - in a sense - more real. You will then see it is not just a door, it is the gateway to my realm, and we will be greeted by its keeper. He was known as The Long Man in ages past, some have called him Wendel, I call him kin. As you follow me, I will seem but a ghost to you, but you will be granted safe passage through the gate, and the fair lands will be safe haven to you from then on.' 

It's four o'clock on a rainy thursday afternoon, and I sit beneath the outstretched canopy of a yew tree. The Silkie beside me speaks in a tongue that is as alien to me as mine own would be to one of my forebears centuries ago. Sometimes, I think I can make out some words from the jumble of noises I hear, maybe old english or pig latin, sometimes the words seem to scratch my soul, like nails being dragged across a chalkboard. 'More tea?', the mad hatter asks, and I nod. I have no idea what this tea is, but it is very, very good. I also think I may be hallucinating. I can hear Cheshire's laughter echo all around us, his wet moon smile flashing in and out of sight. 'What is this tea?', I ask, as the mad hatters tops me up. 'Psilocybe tea', says he, a mischievous glee in his voice. As I look up, the tree has become the universe, I am adrift in the cosmos, my mind expanding, growing, I'm travelling without moving, and I see the stars, so many of them, a galaxy, an infinite multitude of them, spinning, dancing, always in harmony, never in time, oh but what music they make, the sound of galaxies. Me and the Silkie waltz through the skies; we dance and the music dies. I look deep in her eyes, her doe eyes, it's not eyes, it's stars, stars again, and the mad hatter asks me if I want more tea. I ask him what tea this is, and he says 'Psilocybe tea', 'What?', I ask, and he says 'Psilocybe tea', 'What?' I ask and he says 'Psilocybe tea', 'What?', I ask, and he says 'Psilocybe tea', 'What?', I ask, and he says 'Psilocybe tea', 'What?', I ask. 'Psilocybe tea', says he. 'Psilocybe tea?', asks I.  'Psilocybe tea', says he. 'Psilocybe tea'. 'Psilocybe tea'. 'Psilocybe tea'. 'Psilocybe tea'. He says this over and over again, and I swear I can hear the sounds of a piano coming from somewhere else. It's coming from his voice but but from him. 'Psilocybe tea', and as he says it his voice gets dimmer and dimmer, and the piano grows louder. It's not a piano, never a piano. It's the sound of an alarm blaring, it's the dying of the dream, the waking up to the loneliness of solitude. I close my eyes, and this is yesterday.