The Cat Black Fuchsia Chameleon Part One

Chapter 1 — The little house and it's inhabitants

Once upon a time in a faraway land very different to our own and yet also very similar  there were three men, and their names were:

            Boy George

            Robert Smith

            Marc Bolan.

They all lived together in a little stone cottage in the middle of the Forest of Anshar, in the land of Rarn.

Anshar was not a beautiful forest, nor a pleasant one. It was dark and overgrown, and had a tendency to change unexpectedly just when you thought you knew where you were. The inhabitants of the villages which lay within the forest's outskirts distrusted it, and rarely ventured far into its depths. Young children were warned never to enter it alone, and never to wander too far from the paths. And most importantly of all, never to linger in the forest after sunset.

Since the three men lived far into the forest, and some way off the main track, the villagers tended to be somewhat suspicious of them. The forest was a place of evil and unknown things, and therefore anyone living there was probably either a witch or cursed they reasoned.

The house however, if any of the villagers had ventured far enough to see it, would not have upheld their ideas of evil and enchantment. It had a hatched roof and a wooden front door with a window on either side of it, the frames covered in slightly peeling paint in a cheerful green colour. A rather uneven fence surrounded a garden filled rather untidily with a jumbled variety of colourful flowers, and a selection of herbs grew at the back. There was no letterbox, since there wasn't a postal service this deep in the forest.

During the day ragged patchwork curtains fluttered at the open windows and often the sound of singing would float into the forest. At night however the three men, like everyone else, bolted their doors and locked their shutters securely before the last rays of the sun had died away. The forest was a different place at night and it was best to lock it out, for everyone's sake.

The cottage was only intended to house one fairly poor peasant, and therefore there wasn't much space inside. There were in fact only three rooms. The front door opened directly into a living room, which took up the front left quarter of the house and held nothing but a fireplace and three seats - a comfortable rocking chair for George, who had arrived at the cottage first and so had first choice, a rickety stool for Robert, who had arrived second, and a cushion for Marc, who had arrived last.

A door on the right of the living room led to the bedroom, which also took up a quarter of the house. This room could be divided into three with long, colourful patchwork curtains. In each section was a small bed with a rag rug at its side and a wooden chest at its foot. In these chests the three men kept all their belongings.

The back half of the house was a kitchen, in which was a large wooden dining table, several badly made cupboards and a larger fireplace for cooking at. A tin bath hung on a nail by the door. When in use it stood behind a painted screen by the fire.

The three friends shared all the housework to prevent arguments, which tended to start easily. They had divided the main jobs between the three of them as follows:

Boy George did all the cleaning, washing and tidying, since he liked things to be neat.

Robert Smith cooked the food, which he enjoyed, and also mended whatever got broken, since the other two disliked jobs that involved things like hammering and sawing, and were frankly terrible at them anyway.

Marc Bolan went to market each week, which was convenient for George, who was too lazy to go himself, and Robert, who hated going anywhere where he would meet people, and claimed to have an aversion to light (The other two had suggested that the only reason it hurt his eyes so much was that he would never go outside long enough to get used to it, but he refused to listen.)As well as this Marc also did any odd jobs neither of the other two could be bothered doing. This naturally left him with the worst jobs, but George said it was all he could expect, since he had arrived last and was lucky to be allowed to stay anyway.  

As well as this, each man was responsible for looking after a useful animal.

            Boy George kept a cow, for the milk.

            Robert Smith kept sheep, for the wool.

            Marc Bolan kept chickens, for the eggs.

The cow and sheep lived in a small wooden barn at the back of the house along with the donkey who pulled the cart to market every week, and the chickens were allowed to run free in the back garden. Robert had even built them a coop, although it wasn't exactly sturdy, or even, to be quite honest, symmetrical.

The three men were able to live comfortably by selling some of their animals' produce, such as milk and eggs, at the market in the nearest village each week, and their profits allowed them to purchase other necessities, such as lipstick and glitter. And so their lives continued without incident until the apparently minor events of one spring morning changed everything forever.

Chapter 2 — The end of the beginning

It was a Wednesday, which was market day. Therefore after breakfast Marc Bolan put on his travelling cloak and harnessed Charlotte Sometimes, the deaf old donkey, to the shabby cart. Then he set off, taking with him a churn of milk, three cheeses and a dozen eggs, to sell on his arrival. Robert thoughtfully provided him with a packed lunch of bread and cheese.

After he left, Boy George tied up his hair with a rag, put on his cleaning smock and swept all the floors and the front step. Then he sat down in his rocking chair and continued sewing a patchwork quilt he had been working on for several weeks, as scraps of cloth came to hand.

While George was doing this Robert Smith rolled up his sleeves and began to chop vegetables, since he was planning a vegetable stew for supper.

Marc arrived at the market rather late in the day, since Charlotte was quite slow. Nonetheless, he sold all his goods for a fairly good price and he had some change saved from last week's market. He headed next for the General Store, where he had placed some orders, and took out three shopping lists.

George's list:

1. Rainbow eye-shadow kit (30 different colours)

2. Weirdly printed cloth (ordered last week)

3. New hat

4. Lots of colourful ribbons.

Robert's List:

Black eye-shadow (Economy tub)

Hairspray

Black cloth (large roll)

"The Complete Works of Albert Camus"  (Leather-bound)

Marc's list:

Multi pack of gliter

Pack of gliter stars

Roll of aranGe licra

pink fethers + string (for boa)

The shopkeeper soon gathered together the items, and his assistant loaded them onto the cart. While he was waiting, Marc bought himself a book of " Illustrated Myths and Fairy Stories."  The shopkeeper wrapped it up neatly in brown paper for him.

As he was tying the parcel up securely with string he said conversationally " You know sir, it's a shame your wife never comes to town. She must be beautifully dressed, what with all the things you buy her, it's a shame no one ever gets to see it." Marc looked up from the shelf he was browsing, frowning in confusion.

"I mean, she could at least come to Church on Sundays". The shopkeeper continued. Then he leaned forward conspiratorially "Just between you and me Sir, people are beginning to talk."

"Oh, I'm not married" Marc began "The things…"

            "Well, your friends' wives then." interrupted the shopkeeper dismissively, handing over the package and beginning to turn away.

            "No, none of us are married" explained Marc, packing the book in the basket over his arm. The shopkeeper turned back, looking curious "Sisters then?" He asked

"No, actually…"

"Mothers?" said the shopkeeper hopefully, turning to the page marked "Living in Sin" in his "Official Book of Morals"© as published by the Church of Rarn™.

"No, you don't understand" said Marc "The clothes and make-up are for me and my two friends"

The shopkeeper's mouth dropped open and he made a noise like a drowning fish. But Marc had already clipped out in his shiny black tap shoes, leaving the shopkeeper searching anxiously in his now hopelessly inadequate Book of Morals.

Chapter 3 — The Morning After

Next day was bright and sunny, and the three friends were in (relatively) good moods. Robert added an extra spoonful of honey to everyone's breakfast porridge on top of the usual one, George made everyone's beds and put a rose on each pillow and Marc gave Charlotte the Donkey an especially tasty bran mash for breakfast, and sang as he collected that morning's eggs.

After finishing their porridge, and also an egg each (for the protein) they all considered what they would do that day.

"I think I'll go and collect some flowers."  said George "The cottage needs a bit more colour. And anyway, it's a shame to stay inside on such a lovely day."

"Yeah, you're right" agreed Marc "I'm gonna go sit in the forest with my guitar and see if I get inspired. What about you Robert?"

"It's much too bright for me outside" said Robert "I guess I'll stay here and cook dinner." He sighed in resignation and trailed sadly into the kitchen.

"I wonder if he's ever happy?" said George once Robert was out of hearing "He must have had really bad karma in his last life to deserve such depression." And he tied his hair up in a scarf, put on his woollen cloak, picked up a wicker basket and left.

Marc strapped on his guitar and followed George through the door, calling out goodbye to Robert as he left.

Later that day George picked his way through the forest towards a beautiful glade of forget-me-nots he had seen a few weeks earlier. It wasn't long before he arrived at the glade and began to gather bundles of the bright blue flowers. His basket was soon full, but he continued to pick the flowers, since every time he thought he had picked the best blooms of the clearing the flowers a few metres ahead of him seemed far more beautiful than those he was standing among.

Then, in the furthest corner of the clearing, deep in the shadow of the trees, he glimpsed a flash of orange. He approached it, wondering what kind of orange flower would grow in a field of forget-me-nots.

Close up, the flower was far larger than the others in the clearing, and a shining golden-orange colour. With its strange colouring and exotic shape it looked out of place in the forest. In fact, in this country only George of the whole population could have told you it was a chrysanthemum.

George began to feel uneasy. The foreign flower seemed an ill omen. He turned and hurried away, wiping a few tears from his cheeks before anyone saw them.

He was hurrying homewards along the forest path, lost in thought, when a rough voice came suddenly from behind him. "Hello little lady, what are you doing all on your own in the forest?"

"Who are you calling a little lady?" demanded George, turning round "You patronising fat…" 

The face of the peasant crumpled into a grimace of disgust, and he turned and ran through the trees, calling out "I found one. I found one of the freaks. Quick"

George watched in puzzlement as the man disappeared into the forest. Then shrugged and turned to be on his way. As he did so the leaves around him began to rustle, and a huge crowd of men emerged, carrying a wide selection of pitchforks, hoes and staffs. They looked considerably less than friendly. George turned and ran.                

Chapter 4—Disintegration

In another part of the forest, Marc sat in a small clearing, leaning on a tree and strumming a guitar. He faced, as always, away from the sun. George and Robert had noticed this peculiar habit and commented, but Marc refused to explain it, and often stopped speaking to them for days at a time when they asked.

As he sat, playing a few simple chords and singing a new song "Woodland Bop", which he had been inspired to write during his day in the forest, the peaceful silence was suddenly shattered. George burst through the trees, pulled Marc's arm desperately, and screamed something about some men coming to kill them all. Then he rushed off in the direction of the cottage. 

George did have a tendency to exaggerate, but he seemed pretty serious this time, so Marc uncrossed his legs, picked up his guitar and followed George into the trees.

Inside the cottage Robert sat in darkness, having drawn all the patchwork curtains, and stirred the stew by the firelight. As he stirred he looked away from the fire, and if he had to glance in its direction to check the stew he squinted horribly as the light hit his eyes.

Suddenly the front door burst open, casting full daylight onto Robert, who shied away and covered his face with his hands while making horrified gibbering noises. George rushed in and barely         allowed Marc time to follow him inside before he slammed the door shut again.

He immediately locked and barred the front door, closed the shutters, and began using the kitchen table and chairs to barricade himself and the other two men inside. Marc picked Robert up, brushed the ashes off his clothing, apologised for the light, and began to explain.

By the time he had finished his story the villagers had arrived outside, screaming and cursing enthusiastically. It had been a long while since the last time they had formed a crazed mob, and they were determined to enjoy themselves.

The three men were all very confused at this sudden turn of events. Marc opened the living room shutters and tried to ask the crowd what they wanted, but a fat butcher in a bloodstained apron spat at him, so he went back inside angrily.  

George continued using the household furniture, of which there was unfortunately very little, to block the doors and windows. Marc rushed to get the three sheep, Jemima the cow, the chickens and Charlotte the donkey into the relative safety of the house via he back door, which he bolted hurriedly behind him.

While these activities were taking place Robert sat sadly in the shadows, strumming his guitar and singing. The melancholy sound echoed around the small room. George and Marc paused in their endeavours and listened as the firelight cast strange shadows around the room. Neither of them knew exactly what he was singing about, but they both understood the sadness in it.

Finally the song ended, and the last echoes died away, until there was no sound but the crackling and spitting of logs in the fire. A single tear slid down Marc's cheek, washing away the one he had painted there earlier in blue glitter. George's mascara formed wet tracks down his face. He broke the silence hesitantly "What was that called?"

Robert's hollow voice replied from the darkness of the hearth "Disintegration".

Chapter 5—Out of the fireplace and into the flames

Outside the villagers were becoming impatient. Some threw heavy stones at the cottage from a distance, while others tried to look for a way inside, which meant several stone-caused injuries to villagers' heads. The rest of the crown simply joined in screaming abuse at the inhabitants within.

Inside the cottage matters were getting steadily worse. George had now recovered from his fear earlier, and wanted to go out and fight back. Marc suggested appealing to their good hearts and religious morals (although he wavered in his conviction that this would be successful after George pointed out that the local priest was outside leading the     insults). Robert's only reaction to the situation was to hide under his cloak and scream at the others to shut up.

The argument was reaching a crescendo of accusations and insults; Robert screaming in rage, Marc shaking him violently and shouting at him to stop and George hitting them both with a frying pan, when there was a sudden silence outside. The three men froze. The whole world drew breath, and the cottage burst into flames.

The inhabitants, as one, stopped fighting and resolved to work together for the time being. But how to escape? Each door and window was barred, and the cottage was surrounded by a wall of fire.

The three men grabbed the wooden chests in which all their personal belongings were stored, and began to look for a way out. The problem seemed insurmountable, and the three men were beginning to despair when Marc suddenly grinned "The chimney!" He shouted, clapping his hands together in excitement. George looked around anxiously for water, then gave up and put the fire out instead with the cauldron of broth.

Marc began to climb awkwardly up through the clouds of smoke billowing from both above and below. George followed him hurriedly, and scrambled swiftly towards the tiny patch of light above.

Robert remained below on the hearth. He looked up anxiously after the two men, squinting at the sun and called worriedly "George? Marc?  I can't go up. What about the light?"  There was no reply.

Chapter 6 - The obligatory surprise revelations

The villagers were busily occupied trying to fan the flames when the local priest, Father Herod, noticed some movement on the thatched roof of the cottage, and two figures descending from the fire above. The crown backed away, unsure of itself, and seemed about to let the two figures pass, when Glautus the butcher, a particularly bloodthirsty   member of the mob, lifted up his meat cleaver and shouted some general encouragements to the others involving the phrases "Fellow villagers" "Moral responsibility" and "Smash their heads open with a sharp rock".

The crowd surged forward enthusiastically. George and Marc were trapped, the mob in front and to the sides, the burning cottage behind.

"Go back and get Robert and the animals out" George told Marc "I'll deal with the crowd"

Marc hesitated, as George could not by any stretch of the imagination be considered tough or macho. But nevertheless Robert still needed rescuing, so Marc turned and rushed to the front door, leaving George alone to face the village.

George turned calmly towards the hostile crowd, flicked back his cloak slowly, and assumed a particularly strange fighting stance, hands held in front of him, one in front of the other, perpendicular to his body.

The villagers were somewhat perplexed, but reasoned that however stupidly he stood they could still hit him with sticks. They advanced again.

One villager attempted to hit George with the staff he was holding. George grabbed the end of the staff as it flew towards him, spun around smoothly and lifted the man through the air on the other end of the staff. The man looked understandably confused as he flew suddenly in a perfect arc over George's head.

George then shot through the air at a frankly ridiculous speed and kicked three men to the floor at once. He followed this with a bicycle kick and a particularly vicious cartwheel that significantly reduced the chances of the villager on the receiving end producing any more offspring in the near future. This disabled four more villagers in total. All the others had by this time backed away hurriedly, with the exception of the butcher, who began to swing his carving knife clumsily in George's direction.

George looked contemptuously at the heavy weapon. Then he lifted up his arms and spun gracefully through the air. There was an unpleasant squashy sound and the butcher fell backwards, the carving knife securely imbedded in his face.

George landed neatly on the ground, placed his hands together and bowed daintily, first to the terrified villagers and then to the corpse. "That, Glautus-San" he said softly "was Martial Arts." 

And what of Robert, trapped all the while in the burning remains of his home by his terror of the light? He had given up all hope, and was sitting stroking the donkey's muzzle and singing a song he had named after her when there was a hammering on the door. He hesitated, but reasoned that the mob was unlikely to set the house on fire and then start knocking politely on his door afterwards. Anyhow, he had very little to lose. Therefore he opened the door carefully, hiding behind it from the light.

Marc rushed in, and quickly began loading the three wooden chests onto Charlotte, followed by any other items he could gather. Robert began to help him, looking confused.

"How are we going to get past the mob?" He shouted over the noise of the crowd and the roar of the flames

"George is sorting it out."  Marc called back. Robert looked unconvinced, but continued to secure the chests. Marc meanwhile gathered together as much food as he could find and packed it in Charlotte's saddlebags. Then he wrapped Robert securely in his thick, black travelling cloak, pulling the hood over his face, and fastened some blinkers onto Charlotte, to ensure that neither the donkey nor the man panicked once they got outside. Finally he pointed Charlotte in the direction of the door and gave her a good smack.

Outside, George waited impatiently for the others. The villagers eyed him fearfully from a distance, and their whispering made him feel uneasy. Suddenly the cottage door burst open and Charlotte came galloping out, Robert clutching the reins in a terror heightened by his blind state. She was followed by the sheep, Jemima the cow, and a stream of chickens, all panicking.

George caught Charlotte's saddlebag as she raced past and managed with difficulty to halt her terrified progress. As he helped Robert down he looked back anxiously at the now fiercely burning house. There was no sign of Marc. As he watched the cottage, never a steady building to begin with, began to wobble, and the front wall, with a slow certainty, fell backwards into a mass of flames.

George stared at the burning pyre hopefully for a few moments, and then looked away, tears forming in his eyes. It was clear no human being could have survived. He turned sadly away from the remains of what had been his home and began to help Robert up.

Suddenly he spun back round to face the cottage and assumed once more his fighting stance, dropping Robert to the floor like a sack of potatoes as he did so. But the noise he had heard was not the step of a hostile villager, it was Marc, emerging from the conflagration.  He walked calmly towards them through the flames, unharmed, carrying Betsie the chicken in his arms.     

Chapter 7—Robert is finally useful

Robert, having been dropped to the floor by George, had rolled to his knees. He shielded his eyes and squinted ahead, but his eyesight was poor in strong light, and all he saw was a yellow glow, from which the dark shadow of Marc emerged.

There was no time to explain this apparent miracle, and Marc seemed less than perturbed about the matter, and began immediately to harness Charlotte to the cart. George and Robert helped him load the items carried out by Charlotte, a few sacks of grain and oats from the barn, and the chickens. Sadly, the three sheep and Jemima had to be left behind, but the men reasoned that there was plenty of grass for them to eat, and they could shelter in the barn in cold weather.

Having completed these hurried preparations Marc climbed up onto the cart, put on his riding hat, and grabbed the reins. George sat next to him at the front of the cart.

Robert sat sadly at the back of the cart, facing away from the other two and watching the pile of smoking ash that had once been his sanctuary from the outside world.

George and Marc were just breathing sighs of relief, and beginning to discuss where they should go next when Robert's doleful voice interrupted them  "There's some men on horses trying to kill us by throwing pointy rocks" he informed them. "Typical." He sighed deeply.

Marc hurriedly tried to spur on Charlotte and George jumped around screaming helpful and constructive things like "They're gaining on us." and "They're getting knives out." Charlotte strained desperately to outrun the pursuers, the wind blowing her ears back and making her eyes stream with tears.

Robert alone remained calm, his white face impassive. Slowly he turned around and picked up his guitar, which had been loaded onto the cart earlier with his other belongings. Then he stared ahead and began to strum softly. A strange noise filled the air. The villagers' horses pricked up their ears. Then each and every one of them stopped in its tracks and sat down, tipping off their riders, who rolled along the forest path, making no attempt to stop themselves, until they were blocked by trees or ridges. In just a few seconds every single villager lay crying in the road.

And yet Charlotte was unaffected. The old donkey, being totally deaf, had heard not a note, and raced on as before, if a little less under control now that Marc had collapsed in a sobbing heap in the front seat, his glitter once again running down his cheeks. Fortunately he still held Charlotte's reins, clutching them so tightly Robert had difficulty in making him let go.

Having moved Marc to the back of the cart with the tearful George

he took the reins himself, and steered the cart away from the main track and into the dark heart of the forest.