Glow

Dear Princess Normal,

Auslaender typically wears loud trousers around the house. They are decorated with colourful dinosaurs or garish skulls. I thought they were pyjama bottoms. E told us that they are actually chef's trousers. They are light, comfortable and practical, she said. Auslaender now receives their catalogue, as a "valued customer", even though he is only interested in the trousers, not the tops or bandanas.

"I wonder what sort of chef they think he is?" wondered Bokhara aloud.

"Topless," replied Auslaender.

Mind you, his choice of shirt was equally imaginative. An Hawaiian "Day of the Dead" shirt. He wore it as he led us on an expedition into the woods, and then to a pub for food. Again, the Feekers fed on us and we decided to adjourn to home base.

The evening closed in and got muggy. The sky turned purple and a candle came out. We saw a flash in the distance...

"...fünfzehn, sechzehn, siebzehn," said E. This was followed by a Grummeln, a low rumble in the distance. Another flash from another direction. This time we didn't even get to zwölf.

As night closed in, we felt a few drops of rain. But it didn't drive us instantly inside. It was actually welcome and the thickening atmosphere brought on stories. Bokhara told us of the time he went hunting for harissa in Sudan. This is when he was travelling around North Africa and the Middle East in the late 80's. Apparently, harissa is the local grog down there, and Bokhara being a poor traveller, tried to hunt some down in hopes of cheap drink.

He and his mate trekked from village to village.

"Harissa?"
"No, no harissa."

Next village:

"Harissa?"
"No harrisa. Ganja?"
"No, no ganja. Just harissa."

They walked and walked and in the end, as it was getting dark, they found a small encampment of a few huts and some friendly locals.

"Harissa?"
"Harissa!"

Bokhara described it. "It was thick and grey-brown and bubbling, as it fermented. They brought it over in a big bucket which cost us a dollar."

At that price, they could afford to be generous. Drinks all round. The locals were impressed.

"They handed around a gourd and we all took a swig. It wasn't half bad but as I passed the gourd along to a local lad I noticed something weird," he continued.

"Dave, this bloke next to me only has three fingers."
"You're lucky, the bloke next to me only has two."

Yes, they'd wandered into a leper colony. The locals joked that, now they'd shared harissa, Bokhara and his mate would soon be joining them. "It was a BRILLIANT night," said Bokhara. "I helped one bloke with a cigarette. Just lighting it though. After that he was all right holding it between his knuckles."

Then the rain really started to come down and we all escaped inside. Trying to be sensible, I was drinking Weinschorle - wine spritzers. It's not as sensible as you'd think. Feeling bulletproof I was chucking them down and suddenly realised I was very, very, very, very drunk.

But I also realised that this was the last full day I'd spend with everyone and I didn't want it to be over. As soon as I went to sleep - it seemed to me - then the goodbyes would begin. And if I could just stay awake I could somehow avoid saying goodbye forever.

Like I said, wine spritzers. They're more dangerous than you realise.

So I made the last hour, the last minute count. Bokhara and E went to bed but Auslaender and I chatted, the two of us, like we always have. There's a connection there, a bond that I've never felt with anyone else. We really should have been brothers. It seems weird and wrong to me that we are not.

We talked and laughed until 3am and then I had to give it up. I didn't want to, but by this time I was having trouble forming words. And anyway, magic evenings are as transitory as lightning. It is silly to pretend otherwise.

The glow remains, however.

S.

p.s. I can claim no credit for this picture, it's an E. original.