FIC: The Mushrooms of Immortality
May. 20th, 2008 08:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gmtaslashTitle: The Mushrooms of Immortality
Author:gmtaslash
Rating: R
Notes: Probably not safe for work, this one was written for Bridget's Short Story module, and required Trojie's assistance, as usual, to come into being. And no, she wasn't on drugs when she came up with the idea.
Lucien Whitstone’s beautiful face contorted with pain as he eyed the pustules on the back of his left wrist.
It was a bugger of a disease, this one. His perfect skin, marred eternally by this festering evil. Well, possibly not eternally. The Wormwode had taken a good look, ummed and aahed rather ominously over his mushroom-filled pipe, and announced our hero to have but seven days left on the mortal coil.
Next to him, Clive the Caterpillar rolled over in his sleep, and let out an almighty snore.
As Lucien glared at the pustules, they seemed to grow in his mind’s eye, expanding to cover his entire graceful form, oozing and weeping as the crusts broke free and scattered in his wake. He let out a small whimper. It was enough to rouse Clive.
‘Lucien? Y’alright, mon petit chou?’
‘No, I bloody well am not. Have you seen this? I am rotting away!’
Clive patted Lucien’s shoulder sympathetically with a foreleg. ‘How far has it spread?’
‘Far enough,’ Lucien said morosely.
Clive raised an eyebrow, and looked down pointedly.
‘Not that far,’ Lucien clarified, his expression changing slightly.
‘Good. We could take your mind off it?’ Clive slid a leg around Lucien’s shoulder, pulling him into a tender and many-limbed embrace.
‘You have such a one-track mind,’ Lucien protested weakly, though his reluctance was proved false by his hand sliding across the covers and coming to rest on one of Clive’s many hairy knees.
‘’A little cold…’ Clive said. Lucien shifted his attention to a different leg. ‘Warmer…’
‘We haven’t got time for the game,’ Lucien complained bitterly. ‘You’ve got enough bloody legs to keep me guessing for a week, by which time I will be dead, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Clive said mildly, stroking the raised pink skin around one of the pustules. Lucien shivered, a heady mix of pleasure and pain sending shockwaves rippling through his tortured skin.
We shall now draw a discreet veil over the events that then took place in Clive and Lucien’s boudoir, and turn our attention briefly to the Wormwode.
***
The tea was hot and strong, and the Wormwode smiled as he felt its rejuvenating heat coursing through his ancient veins. Rejuvenation was perhaps a misnomer; at the age of 312, the Wormwode was so gnarled and wrinkled that his species was anybody’s guess.
He was considering Lucien. Although it had been a long time since any passion except tea had consumed him he could not help but be moved by the youth’s beauty and, until recently, vigour. He felt a twinge of regret for his choices of long ago, but quickly suppressed it. Instead, he focused his considerable intellect upon the matter at hand. Lucien’s hand, to be precise.
Had the trade been worth it? The Wormwode was unsure. It was his responsibility, he felt, to offer the choice. But a hard choice it would be, especially for a young man of such exceptional physical attributes. And Clive, too, had to be considered.
***
Clive was indeed being considered, at great length, by Lucien, whose attention was focused solely upon him. Or at least, various parts of him.
Clive let out a whimper. Lucien responded with a muffled chuckle.
It was then, in that perfect moment of crystal clarity and understanding that only comes when one’s mind floats unrestrained on the fluffy pink clouds of unmitigated lusts and licentious pleasures, that Clive had an epiphany.
‘Eureka!’ he cried, when the power of speech had returned to him.
‘Thank you,’ said Lucien modestly, a smug grin upon his chiselled visage.
‘Not that, you daft wazzock.’
‘Oh,’ said Lucien, crestfallen.
‘Well, that was alright too.’
‘I should bloody well hope so!’
‘I was thinking about the Wormwode.’
‘What, when I was –’
‘Yes.’
Lucien gave Clive a sideways look, horror etched upon his face. ‘Are you trying to tell me that after I’m gone…’ His chest heaved, and he was unable to continue.
‘No, I was thinking about his mushroom.’
Lucien let out a despairing wail.
‘Not – no. Look. I’m half naked in your bed, not his, alright? It’s – How do you have time for dramatics but no time for, for example, kinky sex games?’
‘It’s my life, for the next week,’ Lucien responded petulantly.
‘Look here, you infuriating creature. How old do you imagine the Wormwode to be?’
‘You said you didn’t mind that I was younger…’ Real tears were brimming in Lucien's cerulean orbs now. ‘I thought we proved younger was better last month, when we tried that thing, with the, you know.’ He made a surprisingly graphic gesture.
‘All that proved is that supple is better. And the Wormwode would have picked up a few things in his time.’ Clive paused, a faraway look on his face. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
Lucien smacked him round the back of the head.
‘Shouldn’t put ideas in my head then, should you? What I really meant to say, O apple of my eye, is that he’s bloody ancient.’
Lucien sniffled.
‘Like, really ancient. How does he live so long, d’you think?’
Lucien shrugged. ‘Mystical powers?’
‘Spot on, so I’ll ignore the sarcasm. And where might these mystical powers come from?’
Lucien furrowed his brows, his limited intellect concentrated on the problem. ‘The tea?’ he suggested eventually.
‘Legend has it,’ Clive said, settling back against the pillows and beginning to roll a joint, ‘that the mushrooms he uses aren’t ordinary mushrooms.’
‘Magic ones, then?’
‘Yes, but not that sort of magic. Only he knows their secrets. It’s said that he was born in a faraway land, thousands of years ago, and after a convoluted and frankly highly improbable series of escapades, he washed up here, and has been dispensing ancient wisdoms and remedies for various fungi ever since.’
‘Mushrooms get sick now?’
‘Who knows? Anyway, point is,’ Clive said, lighting his joint and inhaling deeply, ‘the tea makes him immortal.’
‘I thought you said you weren’t interested in him in that way!’
For once, Clive looked completely confused, but after a moment, realisation dawned.
‘Immortal, you fool, not immoral!’
‘Ah,’ said Lucien, trying and failing to look as though he’d known that all along. Clive looked at him and shook his head.
‘The things we do for such a flower of manhood…’ he muttered.
And without further ado, our intrepid hero and his caterpillar consort made their way, with all necessary haste, to the home of the Wormwode.
***
They found the Wormwode in the vegetable patch, reclining in the shade of a particularly fine specimen of rhubarb. He didn’t look terribly surprised to see them.
‘Master,’ Clive began, prostrating himself before the venerable sage. ‘We have travelled from over yonder to seek your wisdom.’
‘Well,’ replied the Wormwode, puffing industriously on his mushroom-filled clay pipe. ‘My first bit of advice is this: never say ‘yonder’. Damned silly word.’
‘Duly noted.’
‘Also, you really don’t have to put on such a silly voice to talk to me. I’m not some venerable old herbert on top of a mountain, you know.’
‘Also noted,’ said Clive, dropping his reverential demeanour. ‘Got a light?’
‘Indeed I do. And I know why you’re here, too,’ the Wormwode said, handing over a bundle of greasy matches. Clive took one gingerly, and sniffed it, trying to cover his momentary confusion.
‘Really?’ he said, fishing another joint from the depths of his pocket and lighting it. Behind him, Lucien was staring distractedly at the Wormwode’s steaming mug of tea.
The Wormwode smiled enigmatically.
‘My second bit of advice is this: immortality carries a great price.’
Lucien patted his pockets, looking for loose change. Clive rolled his eyes.
‘A spiritual price, you pillock.’
‘Oh,’ Lucien said, chastened. ‘Not Mastercard then?’ Clive ignored him.
‘If you truly seek the secrets of immortality,’ the Wormwode continued, ‘standard questing rules apply.’
‘What, a series of pointless tasks et cetera designed to prove our worth?’
‘Something of that kilter, yes,’ the Wormwode replied, blowing a smoke ring. ‘They will of course be terribly dangerous and designed to push you to breaking point.’
‘Oh. Good. Haven’t stared mortal peril in the face for the sake of a, well, a face, in ages.’
‘Then you are both firm and resolute? You will agree to undertake my tasks and prove your worth?’
Lucien spoke up at last. 'It's got to be better than the alternative. I don't want to die covered in oozing pustules. What a horrible way to be remembered. Can you imagine my poor dear mother viewing me in my coffin, and me all oozy and yuck?'
'With your affliction, lad, there won't be enough of you left to fill a coffin. A jar, maybe.'
'Not helping!' Clive exclaimed, as Lucien began to whimper.
'Well, I'm just being honest. And motivational. I don't want him to think this is going to be a walk in the park.'
'I'm motivated enough for both of us,' said Clive. 'I'd rather not have to explain the jar to his mother. She already had enough trouble swallowing the 'more than flatmates' line. So, what's the quest, then?'
'First, you must bring me...' The Wormwode paused, and sucked thoughfully on his pipe. 'The egg of a basilisk.' Clive frowned.
'Basilisks don't lay eggs. They come from chicken eggs hatched under snakes, or is it the other way around?'
'Bugger,' said the Wormwode. 'Smart one, aren't you? Alright, let me see...'
'Yes?'
'Let me see ... alright, first, you must bring me an egg that will hatch out into a basilisk.' The Wormwode looked smug at having circumvented the objections.
'Alright,' said Clive slowly, thinking hard. 'Come on, Lucien,' he added, grinding his joint out under one hairy foot and taking his leave of the Wormwode.
'I thought,' Lucien said, as they left the vegetable patch, 'that basilisks hatch from cockerel's eggs.'
'Yeah,' Clive answered gloomily. 'I suppose we could -- no. Too messy. Or -- but that's probably illegal. Hmm.'
'What are we going to do, Clive?' Lucien wailed miserably, the horror of his impending death by enraged cockerel looming in his mind.
'We'll think of something, mon petit chou.' Clive wrapped an arm round Lucien, and held him while the sniffles dissipated. 'I promise.'
***
When they returned to the vegetable patch some hours later, covered in feathers and beak imprints, the Wormwode had disappeared.
'Well, that's just great,' said Lucien, looking both disgruntled and deshabillé at the same time. "'Bring me a basilisk egg," he says. Not one word about making an appointment first.'
'I think if we apply a bit of elementary detective work here, O scrumptious vegetable delight, we can find him.' Clive indicated the suspicious plume of smoke emanating from a particularly thick grove of fennel plants. 'Fennel is not normally combustible.'
'Ah, there you are,' said the Wormwode, puffing away contentedly and looking not in the slightest bit surprised that they'd managed to find the egg of an imaginary creature within a few hours. Of course, that could have been largely down to what he was smoking at the time.
'Here's your egg,' said Clive rather grumpily, but handing it to the venerable sage with care. 'Magic potion now?'
'I did mention the standard questing rules, didn't I?'
'Briefly, yes,' answered Clive ungraciously, trying to stem the flow of haemolymph from one of his segments. Really, he ought to have remembered that chickens like eating caterpillars, and possibly ought to have invested in some sort of full-body armour. Lucien, somewhat predictably, had been no help at all, although his shrieks of terror had proved mildly distracting.
'Does this mean that we get another quest?'
'But of course!'
'Joy abounds.'
After about five minutes of standing about in silence, bleeding, and watching the Wormwode smoke something that smelt of sauerkraut with every sign of euphoric enjoyment, Lucien ventured, 'Well, are you going to tell us what it is?'
'Hmm? Oh, yes. The second task. Yes.' He lapsed once more into silence, puffing merrily away.
'Yes?' prompted Clive a few minutes later.
'You have proved your resilience and ingenuity with this task. Both shall serve you well in the eternity to come. But to prove you are worthy of immortality, you must also demonstrate your intellect, as immortality without a functioning brain to keep you company would be, er, extremely boring. So! I have decided that you prove your ability to entertain yourselves through the ages of the world without going stark raving tonto by deciphering a series of puzzles designed to tax even the keenest minds!'
This sounded a little more interesting. Clive rubbed two forelegs together gleefully, though Lucien looked apprehensive.
The Wormwode then handed Lucien a multicoloured cube and a box with a picture of an autumn wood on the top, which when shaken made a rustling sound as if many small pieces of something lay inside.
'A Rubik's cube and a jigsaw? How hard can it be?' Lucien scoffed.
Three hours later, he was still missing three of four corner pieces and the Rubik's cube was thoroughly confusing poor Clive, who didn't even have opposable thumbs with which to manipulate the thing, although having six legs with which to scratch his head in bewildered confusion was an advantage. If Lucien ever attempted to invoke the wrath of the Ironic Overpower again, Clive was going to hurt him, ethereal beauty or no ethereal beauty.
'Clive?' Lucien said pensively, after a further four hours.
'Yes, Lucien?'
'If we do become immortal, at least we've found an activity that we can be sure will fill the time up.'
'Now now, let's not be despondent. There are plenty of other time-consuming activities I can think of, activities that are definitely not 'ages 8 and up'.'
'Yes,' agreed Lucien, nodding enthusiastically. 'The Caterpillar Sutra, for one.'
***
It took three days of hardship and toil, with little water and no food, before our brave heroes could present the evidence of their intellectual travails to their harsh taskmaster, who was now smoking rolled up celery leaves and giggling at cloud formations. After having attracted his attention, they spake thusly:
'O wise master,' began Clive, on the basis that flattery couldn't hurt, 'we have completed the second task.'
'And also wasted three of my final days upon this earth,' Lucien pointed out, his usually divine mouth twisting into a rather ugly pout.
'So,' Clive added, ignoring Lucien's potential tantrum, 'final task?'
'Your last task is both extremely simple, and extremely hard,' said the Wormwode with a faraway look in his eye. He cleared his throat, struck a suitably serious pose, and announced, 'You must cut off that which makes you a man!'
'Er. You what?' said Lucien, rather stunned. 'No-one mentioned that.'
'I felt it a minor point,' said the Wormwode.
'Minor point?!' exclaimed Clive. 'I'd like to point out that it'll involve internal surgery for me!'
'Why can't we be immortal with our bits intact? No-one said old people couldn't have it off!'
'Well, it's up to you,' shrugged the Wormwode, 'but you might as well get it over with now. They'll only fall off anyway, and at least this way it was a conscious decision. Or unconscious in the case of Clive and his major surgery.'
'Fall off?!' both Clive and Lucien shrieked in unison.
'Well, yes,' answered the Wormwode, leaning forward and looking a little sad. 'It's the testosterone, you see. An alchemist told me all about it, a long time ago --'
'Hang on,' Clive interrupted. 'I'm a caterpillar. Do I even have testosterone?'
'Yes,' said the Wormwode emphatically.
'Bugger.'
Clive and Lucien exchanged glances.
***
Mrs Whitstone returned her cup to its delicate saucer atop a doily-covered table, and went to answer the door.
Lucien stood before her, handsome as ever, though his trousers, Mrs Whitstone noted with a small frown, were perhaps a little on the tight side. How would the boy ever give her grandchildren if he went about constricting himself so?
Lucien stepped aside to reveal Clive behind him, smiling a little bashfully and proffering a bouquet of fragrant flowers.
'Lucien, this is a pleasant surprise,' Mrs Whitstone remarked, resisting the urge to glare at the stealer of her son's innocence. 'Clive. Won't you both come in?'
As the three of them took tea in the living room, making polite conversation about such fascinating things as the weather of late and Next Door's new dog, Mrs Whitstone gradually became aware that something was amiss. When Lucien folded his legs gracefully, and the sliding of his jeans revealed a hint of silk stocking, suddenly it all became clear. She froze.
Lucien, meanwhile, was too nervous to notice his mother's sudden impersonation of a block of ice, and cleared his throat nervously.
'Mother,' he said. 'We've, er, got something to tell you.'
'Ngk.' Her Lucien, her precious boy! First he engaged in unnatural relations with a caterpillar, of all things (and why couldn't he have found a nice priest, or fascist, or methamphetamine dealer if he had to indulge these base urges of his?) and now! Now he was about to confess to being one of those crossing-dressers! The shame of it! This last thought was too much for Mrs Whitstone, and it burst forth from her lips.
'The shame of it! I knew I should never have let you watch that beastly film!'
'Film?' asked Lucien bewilderedly, his train of thought entirely derailed.
'Yes! Prunella, or whatever it was called. Where those confused young men got lost in the Sahara in their frilly underthings!'
'You don't mean 'Priscilla, Queen of the Desert', do you?' Clive ventured cautiously, not eager to provoke Mrs Whitstone's infamous wrath but too used to doing the thinking for Lucien.
'It's given you terrible ideas! Parading around in makeup and ballgowns with too many sequins. You don't have to confess, I've seen it coming. Oh, my poor heart!' And she clasped her hands over where she imagined that laboured organ lurked.
Clive and Lucien shared a bewildered look.
'She thinks we're transvestites, mon petit chou,' Clive whispered.
'Oh. Er. Mother? We're, er, sort of, but...' Lucien trailed off, unsure how best to phrase this most momentous news.
'We're not that sort of trans,' Clive supplied. Mrs Whitstone began fanning herself with a doily, her face becoming increasingly red. She let out a small whimper. Lucien stood up.
'From now on, I'd like you to call me Tracy,' he declared.
'And I'm Jezebel,' Clive added, stretching out his many legs and settling back to watch the interesting miasma of colours parading across Mrs Whitstone's increasingly apoplectic face.
His amusement did not last long, for Mrs Whitstone chose that moment to crumple to the floor in a dead faint.
Author:
gmtaslashRating: R
Notes: Probably not safe for work, this one was written for Bridget's Short Story module, and required Trojie's assistance, as usual, to come into being. And no, she wasn't on drugs when she came up with the idea.
Lucien Whitstone’s beautiful face contorted with pain as he eyed the pustules on the back of his left wrist.
It was a bugger of a disease, this one. His perfect skin, marred eternally by this festering evil. Well, possibly not eternally. The Wormwode had taken a good look, ummed and aahed rather ominously over his mushroom-filled pipe, and announced our hero to have but seven days left on the mortal coil.
Next to him, Clive the Caterpillar rolled over in his sleep, and let out an almighty snore.
As Lucien glared at the pustules, they seemed to grow in his mind’s eye, expanding to cover his entire graceful form, oozing and weeping as the crusts broke free and scattered in his wake. He let out a small whimper. It was enough to rouse Clive.
‘Lucien? Y’alright, mon petit chou?’
‘No, I bloody well am not. Have you seen this? I am rotting away!’
Clive patted Lucien’s shoulder sympathetically with a foreleg. ‘How far has it spread?’
‘Far enough,’ Lucien said morosely.
Clive raised an eyebrow, and looked down pointedly.
‘Not that far,’ Lucien clarified, his expression changing slightly.
‘Good. We could take your mind off it?’ Clive slid a leg around Lucien’s shoulder, pulling him into a tender and many-limbed embrace.
‘You have such a one-track mind,’ Lucien protested weakly, though his reluctance was proved false by his hand sliding across the covers and coming to rest on one of Clive’s many hairy knees.
‘’A little cold…’ Clive said. Lucien shifted his attention to a different leg. ‘Warmer…’
‘We haven’t got time for the game,’ Lucien complained bitterly. ‘You’ve got enough bloody legs to keep me guessing for a week, by which time I will be dead, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Clive said mildly, stroking the raised pink skin around one of the pustules. Lucien shivered, a heady mix of pleasure and pain sending shockwaves rippling through his tortured skin.
We shall now draw a discreet veil over the events that then took place in Clive and Lucien’s boudoir, and turn our attention briefly to the Wormwode.
***
The tea was hot and strong, and the Wormwode smiled as he felt its rejuvenating heat coursing through his ancient veins. Rejuvenation was perhaps a misnomer; at the age of 312, the Wormwode was so gnarled and wrinkled that his species was anybody’s guess.
He was considering Lucien. Although it had been a long time since any passion except tea had consumed him he could not help but be moved by the youth’s beauty and, until recently, vigour. He felt a twinge of regret for his choices of long ago, but quickly suppressed it. Instead, he focused his considerable intellect upon the matter at hand. Lucien’s hand, to be precise.
Had the trade been worth it? The Wormwode was unsure. It was his responsibility, he felt, to offer the choice. But a hard choice it would be, especially for a young man of such exceptional physical attributes. And Clive, too, had to be considered.
***
Clive was indeed being considered, at great length, by Lucien, whose attention was focused solely upon him. Or at least, various parts of him.
Clive let out a whimper. Lucien responded with a muffled chuckle.
It was then, in that perfect moment of crystal clarity and understanding that only comes when one’s mind floats unrestrained on the fluffy pink clouds of unmitigated lusts and licentious pleasures, that Clive had an epiphany.
‘Eureka!’ he cried, when the power of speech had returned to him.
‘Thank you,’ said Lucien modestly, a smug grin upon his chiselled visage.
‘Not that, you daft wazzock.’
‘Oh,’ said Lucien, crestfallen.
‘Well, that was alright too.’
‘I should bloody well hope so!’
‘I was thinking about the Wormwode.’
‘What, when I was –’
‘Yes.’
Lucien gave Clive a sideways look, horror etched upon his face. ‘Are you trying to tell me that after I’m gone…’ His chest heaved, and he was unable to continue.
‘No, I was thinking about his mushroom.’
Lucien let out a despairing wail.
‘Not – no. Look. I’m half naked in your bed, not his, alright? It’s – How do you have time for dramatics but no time for, for example, kinky sex games?’
‘It’s my life, for the next week,’ Lucien responded petulantly.
‘Look here, you infuriating creature. How old do you imagine the Wormwode to be?’
‘You said you didn’t mind that I was younger…’ Real tears were brimming in Lucien's cerulean orbs now. ‘I thought we proved younger was better last month, when we tried that thing, with the, you know.’ He made a surprisingly graphic gesture.
‘All that proved is that supple is better. And the Wormwode would have picked up a few things in his time.’ Clive paused, a faraway look on his face. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
Lucien smacked him round the back of the head.
‘Shouldn’t put ideas in my head then, should you? What I really meant to say, O apple of my eye, is that he’s bloody ancient.’
Lucien sniffled.
‘Like, really ancient. How does he live so long, d’you think?’
Lucien shrugged. ‘Mystical powers?’
‘Spot on, so I’ll ignore the sarcasm. And where might these mystical powers come from?’
Lucien furrowed his brows, his limited intellect concentrated on the problem. ‘The tea?’ he suggested eventually.
‘Legend has it,’ Clive said, settling back against the pillows and beginning to roll a joint, ‘that the mushrooms he uses aren’t ordinary mushrooms.’
‘Magic ones, then?’
‘Yes, but not that sort of magic. Only he knows their secrets. It’s said that he was born in a faraway land, thousands of years ago, and after a convoluted and frankly highly improbable series of escapades, he washed up here, and has been dispensing ancient wisdoms and remedies for various fungi ever since.’
‘Mushrooms get sick now?’
‘Who knows? Anyway, point is,’ Clive said, lighting his joint and inhaling deeply, ‘the tea makes him immortal.’
‘I thought you said you weren’t interested in him in that way!’
For once, Clive looked completely confused, but after a moment, realisation dawned.
‘Immortal, you fool, not immoral!’
‘Ah,’ said Lucien, trying and failing to look as though he’d known that all along. Clive looked at him and shook his head.
‘The things we do for such a flower of manhood…’ he muttered.
And without further ado, our intrepid hero and his caterpillar consort made their way, with all necessary haste, to the home of the Wormwode.
***
They found the Wormwode in the vegetable patch, reclining in the shade of a particularly fine specimen of rhubarb. He didn’t look terribly surprised to see them.
‘Master,’ Clive began, prostrating himself before the venerable sage. ‘We have travelled from over yonder to seek your wisdom.’
‘Well,’ replied the Wormwode, puffing industriously on his mushroom-filled clay pipe. ‘My first bit of advice is this: never say ‘yonder’. Damned silly word.’
‘Duly noted.’
‘Also, you really don’t have to put on such a silly voice to talk to me. I’m not some venerable old herbert on top of a mountain, you know.’
‘Also noted,’ said Clive, dropping his reverential demeanour. ‘Got a light?’
‘Indeed I do. And I know why you’re here, too,’ the Wormwode said, handing over a bundle of greasy matches. Clive took one gingerly, and sniffed it, trying to cover his momentary confusion.
‘Really?’ he said, fishing another joint from the depths of his pocket and lighting it. Behind him, Lucien was staring distractedly at the Wormwode’s steaming mug of tea.
The Wormwode smiled enigmatically.
‘My second bit of advice is this: immortality carries a great price.’
Lucien patted his pockets, looking for loose change. Clive rolled his eyes.
‘A spiritual price, you pillock.’
‘Oh,’ Lucien said, chastened. ‘Not Mastercard then?’ Clive ignored him.
‘If you truly seek the secrets of immortality,’ the Wormwode continued, ‘standard questing rules apply.’
‘What, a series of pointless tasks et cetera designed to prove our worth?’
‘Something of that kilter, yes,’ the Wormwode replied, blowing a smoke ring. ‘They will of course be terribly dangerous and designed to push you to breaking point.’
‘Oh. Good. Haven’t stared mortal peril in the face for the sake of a, well, a face, in ages.’
‘Then you are both firm and resolute? You will agree to undertake my tasks and prove your worth?’
Lucien spoke up at last. 'It's got to be better than the alternative. I don't want to die covered in oozing pustules. What a horrible way to be remembered. Can you imagine my poor dear mother viewing me in my coffin, and me all oozy and yuck?'
'With your affliction, lad, there won't be enough of you left to fill a coffin. A jar, maybe.'
'Not helping!' Clive exclaimed, as Lucien began to whimper.
'Well, I'm just being honest. And motivational. I don't want him to think this is going to be a walk in the park.'
'I'm motivated enough for both of us,' said Clive. 'I'd rather not have to explain the jar to his mother. She already had enough trouble swallowing the 'more than flatmates' line. So, what's the quest, then?'
'First, you must bring me...' The Wormwode paused, and sucked thoughfully on his pipe. 'The egg of a basilisk.' Clive frowned.
'Basilisks don't lay eggs. They come from chicken eggs hatched under snakes, or is it the other way around?'
'Bugger,' said the Wormwode. 'Smart one, aren't you? Alright, let me see...'
'Yes?'
'Let me see ... alright, first, you must bring me an egg that will hatch out into a basilisk.' The Wormwode looked smug at having circumvented the objections.
'Alright,' said Clive slowly, thinking hard. 'Come on, Lucien,' he added, grinding his joint out under one hairy foot and taking his leave of the Wormwode.
'I thought,' Lucien said, as they left the vegetable patch, 'that basilisks hatch from cockerel's eggs.'
'Yeah,' Clive answered gloomily. 'I suppose we could -- no. Too messy. Or -- but that's probably illegal. Hmm.'
'What are we going to do, Clive?' Lucien wailed miserably, the horror of his impending death by enraged cockerel looming in his mind.
'We'll think of something, mon petit chou.' Clive wrapped an arm round Lucien, and held him while the sniffles dissipated. 'I promise.'
***
When they returned to the vegetable patch some hours later, covered in feathers and beak imprints, the Wormwode had disappeared.
'Well, that's just great,' said Lucien, looking both disgruntled and deshabillé at the same time. "'Bring me a basilisk egg," he says. Not one word about making an appointment first.'
'I think if we apply a bit of elementary detective work here, O scrumptious vegetable delight, we can find him.' Clive indicated the suspicious plume of smoke emanating from a particularly thick grove of fennel plants. 'Fennel is not normally combustible.'
'Ah, there you are,' said the Wormwode, puffing away contentedly and looking not in the slightest bit surprised that they'd managed to find the egg of an imaginary creature within a few hours. Of course, that could have been largely down to what he was smoking at the time.
'Here's your egg,' said Clive rather grumpily, but handing it to the venerable sage with care. 'Magic potion now?'
'I did mention the standard questing rules, didn't I?'
'Briefly, yes,' answered Clive ungraciously, trying to stem the flow of haemolymph from one of his segments. Really, he ought to have remembered that chickens like eating caterpillars, and possibly ought to have invested in some sort of full-body armour. Lucien, somewhat predictably, had been no help at all, although his shrieks of terror had proved mildly distracting.
'Does this mean that we get another quest?'
'But of course!'
'Joy abounds.'
After about five minutes of standing about in silence, bleeding, and watching the Wormwode smoke something that smelt of sauerkraut with every sign of euphoric enjoyment, Lucien ventured, 'Well, are you going to tell us what it is?'
'Hmm? Oh, yes. The second task. Yes.' He lapsed once more into silence, puffing merrily away.
'Yes?' prompted Clive a few minutes later.
'You have proved your resilience and ingenuity with this task. Both shall serve you well in the eternity to come. But to prove you are worthy of immortality, you must also demonstrate your intellect, as immortality without a functioning brain to keep you company would be, er, extremely boring. So! I have decided that you prove your ability to entertain yourselves through the ages of the world without going stark raving tonto by deciphering a series of puzzles designed to tax even the keenest minds!'
This sounded a little more interesting. Clive rubbed two forelegs together gleefully, though Lucien looked apprehensive.
The Wormwode then handed Lucien a multicoloured cube and a box with a picture of an autumn wood on the top, which when shaken made a rustling sound as if many small pieces of something lay inside.
'A Rubik's cube and a jigsaw? How hard can it be?' Lucien scoffed.
Three hours later, he was still missing three of four corner pieces and the Rubik's cube was thoroughly confusing poor Clive, who didn't even have opposable thumbs with which to manipulate the thing, although having six legs with which to scratch his head in bewildered confusion was an advantage. If Lucien ever attempted to invoke the wrath of the Ironic Overpower again, Clive was going to hurt him, ethereal beauty or no ethereal beauty.
'Clive?' Lucien said pensively, after a further four hours.
'Yes, Lucien?'
'If we do become immortal, at least we've found an activity that we can be sure will fill the time up.'
'Now now, let's not be despondent. There are plenty of other time-consuming activities I can think of, activities that are definitely not 'ages 8 and up'.'
'Yes,' agreed Lucien, nodding enthusiastically. 'The Caterpillar Sutra, for one.'
***
It took three days of hardship and toil, with little water and no food, before our brave heroes could present the evidence of their intellectual travails to their harsh taskmaster, who was now smoking rolled up celery leaves and giggling at cloud formations. After having attracted his attention, they spake thusly:
'O wise master,' began Clive, on the basis that flattery couldn't hurt, 'we have completed the second task.'
'And also wasted three of my final days upon this earth,' Lucien pointed out, his usually divine mouth twisting into a rather ugly pout.
'So,' Clive added, ignoring Lucien's potential tantrum, 'final task?'
'Your last task is both extremely simple, and extremely hard,' said the Wormwode with a faraway look in his eye. He cleared his throat, struck a suitably serious pose, and announced, 'You must cut off that which makes you a man!'
'Er. You what?' said Lucien, rather stunned. 'No-one mentioned that.'
'I felt it a minor point,' said the Wormwode.
'Minor point?!' exclaimed Clive. 'I'd like to point out that it'll involve internal surgery for me!'
'Why can't we be immortal with our bits intact? No-one said old people couldn't have it off!'
'Well, it's up to you,' shrugged the Wormwode, 'but you might as well get it over with now. They'll only fall off anyway, and at least this way it was a conscious decision. Or unconscious in the case of Clive and his major surgery.'
'Fall off?!' both Clive and Lucien shrieked in unison.
'Well, yes,' answered the Wormwode, leaning forward and looking a little sad. 'It's the testosterone, you see. An alchemist told me all about it, a long time ago --'
'Hang on,' Clive interrupted. 'I'm a caterpillar. Do I even have testosterone?'
'Yes,' said the Wormwode emphatically.
'Bugger.'
Clive and Lucien exchanged glances.
***
Mrs Whitstone returned her cup to its delicate saucer atop a doily-covered table, and went to answer the door.
Lucien stood before her, handsome as ever, though his trousers, Mrs Whitstone noted with a small frown, were perhaps a little on the tight side. How would the boy ever give her grandchildren if he went about constricting himself so?
Lucien stepped aside to reveal Clive behind him, smiling a little bashfully and proffering a bouquet of fragrant flowers.
'Lucien, this is a pleasant surprise,' Mrs Whitstone remarked, resisting the urge to glare at the stealer of her son's innocence. 'Clive. Won't you both come in?'
As the three of them took tea in the living room, making polite conversation about such fascinating things as the weather of late and Next Door's new dog, Mrs Whitstone gradually became aware that something was amiss. When Lucien folded his legs gracefully, and the sliding of his jeans revealed a hint of silk stocking, suddenly it all became clear. She froze.
Lucien, meanwhile, was too nervous to notice his mother's sudden impersonation of a block of ice, and cleared his throat nervously.
'Mother,' he said. 'We've, er, got something to tell you.'
'Ngk.' Her Lucien, her precious boy! First he engaged in unnatural relations with a caterpillar, of all things (and why couldn't he have found a nice priest, or fascist, or methamphetamine dealer if he had to indulge these base urges of his?) and now! Now he was about to confess to being one of those crossing-dressers! The shame of it! This last thought was too much for Mrs Whitstone, and it burst forth from her lips.
'The shame of it! I knew I should never have let you watch that beastly film!'
'Film?' asked Lucien bewilderedly, his train of thought entirely derailed.
'Yes! Prunella, or whatever it was called. Where those confused young men got lost in the Sahara in their frilly underthings!'
'You don't mean 'Priscilla, Queen of the Desert', do you?' Clive ventured cautiously, not eager to provoke Mrs Whitstone's infamous wrath but too used to doing the thinking for Lucien.
'It's given you terrible ideas! Parading around in makeup and ballgowns with too many sequins. You don't have to confess, I've seen it coming. Oh, my poor heart!' And she clasped her hands over where she imagined that laboured organ lurked.
Clive and Lucien shared a bewildered look.
'She thinks we're transvestites, mon petit chou,' Clive whispered.
'Oh. Er. Mother? We're, er, sort of, but...' Lucien trailed off, unsure how best to phrase this most momentous news.
'We're not that sort of trans,' Clive supplied. Mrs Whitstone began fanning herself with a doily, her face becoming increasingly red. She let out a small whimper. Lucien stood up.
'From now on, I'd like you to call me Tracy,' he declared.
'And I'm Jezebel,' Clive added, stretching out his many legs and settling back to watch the interesting miasma of colours parading across Mrs Whitstone's increasingly apoplectic face.
His amusement did not last long, for Mrs Whitstone chose that moment to crumple to the floor in a dead faint.
