#anyway since the show runs till 2016 maybe they have disappeared after

[tenrose]

I'm curious about one thing though, do the public phones the Machine uses to call them still exist in the US? Because I personally can't remember the last time I saw one in my country...

[space-blue]

The Last Ingredient

A little bell peels in the air somewhere, comes muffled to our ears and makes me smile. It is proof that time still flows, that soon we'll return indoors, where breathing through your nose doesn't trigger a gagging reflex.

"Rachar, do you think the weather was a selling point when they decided to build our prison here?" I ask, panting.

"Totally. I can see the ad, 'atmosphere of the 6th circle of Hell, hot, humid, and thick as pudding.'"

I stare up at the ever shifting pattern of lush and exotic leaves, criss-crossing above our heads in a breeze we can see but never quite feel. Rachar, halfway through his thirty years sentence, jest as he might, is much more acclimatised than I ever wish to become.

"Don't you need my help for gathering more ingredients, Ira? I quite enjoy the rush of danger from those errands."

"No. No more errands," I say, "I only need one last ingredient, and..." I make a fluttering motion with my hand, mimic myself flying away. Free. "Soon now."

This news makes my friend stir and sit up. After three years of secretly brewing this potion, he must have thought me all talk.

"What is it, this last ingredient?"

I make a face up at him, peering into the eyes smouldering behind his own little jungle of tangled hair.

"It's something I'm not sure I can get."

"For real? But you've been so keen on escaping this whole time... Well, maybe it's for the best. Considered what they'd do to you if they catch you. I kinda like you, you know. I'd rather not see that done to you. No one gets out of here unless their time is up."

I don't know if it's respect or pity I feel surging in me when he speaks like this, him who won't rebel, won't try to escape. Who sits day after day in this green hell of a place, knowing there will be endless tomorrows made of the same infernal heat, the same corrosive dullness, the same absence of freedom. Making it out doesn't even matter. Trying is my only way to remain sane. I can't relate to his defeatism and meek acceptance. Not that it's easy to ever relate to Rachar, who was done in for running the biggest, most lethal cartel of drugs for were-animals Europe had ever seen, and killing, in his werebear form, five of the special-ops werewolves that were sent to arrest him. A sleek piece of remorseless trash, though a decent fellow one-on-one.

"Ira, you're growling."

"Sorry, mind wandered."

Rachar laughs, pats my hair with a hand monstrous enough to crush my skull in a squeeze. "Think of the future. When you finish brewing that potion of yours and pull a Shawshank over the eyes of Erikson and the crew."

"Don't go talking so loud, naming names and mentioning potions!" I sit up, unnerved. "The break is almost over."

"Ease up Ira, I'd know if anyone were around. I wouldn't let them lock you down with the bloodies either."

"Aye, like you could help it if they decided to."

Which is not the real problem. To determine the strength of new inmate magi, the prison's surgeons test the glands that secrete magica, always found in the armpits and throat. That test labelled me as a mere C-class magus, hardly a trouble to handle here. In comparison, A-class magi, like blood witches, are near impossible to catch alive. Meaning the handful of them we have in the basement make my werebear-druglord friend look like a philanthropist. They're kept with their hands in wet casts so they can't sharpen spelling tools, their teeth in moulds to keep them from biting themselves bloody. Not enviable. But people like me, with a little known organ tucked away behind the stomach, who can brew potions in their own bodies–potion being the romantic name for a magical bile–are extremely rare, and impossible to safely detain. A-class treatment wouldn't cut it. So long as I'm fed, I can always brew something annoying or even lethal to my handlers. S-class, maybe? As in Straight-to-firing-squad-class.

"Surely Erikson wouldn't let them take you away. The man is fond of you."

"Brewers are thought extinct since the mid 20th century. They'd probably dissect me, Rachar. Officers would not care for my being some guardian's pet prisoner."

"Eurk–well, I won't talk so... What's that last ingredient anyway?" His hand flies up before I can answer. "Speaking of the Devil," he mutters.

"Rachar, Ira, you two deaf? Didn't hear the second bell?"

The Devil indeed.

"Ah, Erikson. We were busy exchanging news, so much has happened since yesterday after all."

"You crazies shouldn't even be allowed to meet."

"Crazy? Nonsense, I'm a lamb."

"And I'm perfectly conscious of my actions."

"That just makes you a horrible person, Rachar."

Back in the cool bliss of air-con, I nod to him, a discrete salute I mean as an adieu, his looks are worried, but he tips me an invisible hat before turning away. So long, crazy friend. Up the stairs now, and following Erikson. Like every evening, my aisle is a mess of supernatural creatures and their supernatural gaolers, but I only have eyes for mine.

Erikson. I watch his blond head, his shoulders shifting under his miraculously crisp white shirt–what spell does the man use to keep them dry, I still wonder. By habit, I match his steps. Hateful habit, that makes my face relax, almost smile for him when he looks my way. Too long he's been my mindful captor. The man answering my calls, opening my door. The hand feeding me, the hand swiping me little things, when no one watches. He's a decent guy under the rough persona one needs to work in this jail, and I'm neck deep in Stockholm syndrome.

Erickson, for three years blind to my careful plotting. I hid it all from him, always playing the nice, reasonable lass, caught up in troubles bigger than her. Not the weirdo woman bargaining favours at every turn to obtain samples of hair, skin, blood, fabrics, spices... Stealing food, making some rot, pre-digesting others for the desired effects. Anything that might contain the ingredients my gut craves to continue its infernal distillation. Behind his broad back I've licked the walls of my cell, scratching my tongue over the lead paint till I nearly poisoned myself. It's an organic, messy trade. For three years I've brewed this concoction. Haltingly, with no known recipe, brought forth by my instinct and my need to escape, disappear, melt through walls–any will do so long as I get far away. Where Erikson won't be tearing at my mind, brushing my heart with the very fingers that turn the key in the lock of my cage.

"Ira, you're growling."

"Funny, that's the second time I've been told today." I pace down my little cell and back up to him.

"What is making you so tense?" he asks, leaning against the bars to talk with me.

Erikson. My last ingredient.

"Some internal turmoil over something I need but struggle to obtain."

"That's the point of jails."

"Aye, but smuggling doesn't usually get a magus in jail."

"You were smuggling human flesh!"

I shrug, give him a sad grin. "How would I have known? It was spelled."

He smiles back at me, a show of dimples. "Save it for the judges. Your appeal won't be delayed forever."

Erikson, who believes me when I lie. I step closer, curl my fingers around the cold steel bars. Looking up at him, I whisper, "will you miss me, when I'm gone?"

He frowns. Is it hatred, or love, festering in my pounding chest, that makes me flush and quiver as I wait for his answer?

"I'd like that; missing you. If it means you're acquitted."

The idea of missing him makes my mind trip over itself.

"I think I'd miss you too," I surprise myself saying, "but I don't think I'd like that at all."

I dive in the grey pools of his eyes, so close, like full moons pulling at the tides of my emotions. Erikson murmurs my name like a warning, but doesn't move. I'm on the tip of my toes and my fingers rubbing against the wondrous white shirt and the warm flesh behind it. His breath smells like mints and beer and magica. His lips are hot, firm but hesitant, like a cliched first kiss. His fingers are trailing my jaws, scorching my skin.

In one strong bite his blood comes gushing into my mouth. He cries, rending my heart–part free woman, part betrayer. I swallow my feelings along with coppery blood. There is a burning sensation in my guts as the last ingredient creates a chain reaction. The world dissipates in clouds of matter around me. Erikson's hands reach out but pass right through me. Through my victorious smile and my farewell nod like through a gentle wind.

I'm immaterial.

I'm free.

~~ August 2016 – Theme : Potion and elixirs

[elastigirl72]

Day 20: Herceg Novi>south of Shkoder, Albania

Mountains or coast?

Sometimes and without planning, things just seem to fall into line. I reconnected with my younger brother, Alex, 19 months younger than I, and #4 of 4 siblings born within 5 years to two crazy, outlandish parents. That reconnection in itself is a long story and I won’t go into now. But i regularly work in Norway and by chance, in Alex’s home town where he lives with his wife, Monika and two girls, Emma and Susi. Life and families are complicated but, stars aligned and 25 years or more have passed, and the next time I’m there. I’ll stay and be Auntie Michelle to nieces I love.

Also by chance, the last time I visited, I mentioned to Alex about my planned trip, and where I was heading. He looked at the route and said “I have a friend who has an apartment there. Let me call him”. So he did. It just so happened that Per was happy for me to stop by if it worked in with my plans, even if he wasn’t there. As if by magic, I came through, and it coincided with a rest day. I was met by Lidija, who having checked with me a few days earlier, met me with freshly caught fish, and a potato salad, a bottle of wine of choice (red or white. Or both!), bananas, strawberries picked from her friend’s garden that morning, and a barrel full of conversation. After 3 cups of tea, she left me to indulge in the shower, with shampoo, hair conditioner, body cream, moisturiser, radiators, chocolates a washing machine and a view if it became visible across the whole of Herceg Novi. I have never met Per, and only just met Lidija, who I believed lived in the same road, but in fact had caught a taxi from a nearby village, just to make me feel welcome. I am now so fed and rested, if I don’t do a big week, I’ll go home heavier than when I set off!

This was the shelter in a storm, quite literally. And couldn’t have happened at a better time, at any point during the 3.5 week expedition. How do you show gratitude for such generosity? If I wasn’t already in heaven, to top it off, Lidija returned the next day with home made lunch, and took me on a walking tour of her home town. An amazing woman who is a Tony Robins coach. I am apparently a sun person, and she a moon. I need 20 minutes of sun a day and she needs to sleep. She knew everyone in the town as we walked around. I fell in love with Herceg very quickly.

As the storm passed over during the early hours of the day, I noticed a figure on a rock outcrop, and was sure the silhouetted figure was fishing. Walking along the promenade, I learnt the figure was a statue of a haunting and beautiful woman, a memorial to a lady who was betrothed to a sailor, who went to sea and never returned. For the rest of her days, the lady returned to wait for her love to sail back to shore, and did so until she died. Truly moving and befitting of such a small sanctuary in deepest Europe where most people won’t visit or have heard of.

Every trip I’ve done, I’ve come across incredible, memorable people who have stayed with me since. Mario (Italy 2015), Jonathan and Pete (Canada 2016 and 2018). Sadly, from my first ever trip, in 1991, I met equally kind people who are written in a diary, but long since past. It’s these moments that erase the challenge days and sow a seed deep inside. I hope that I can in turn be so generous and kind.

6th May is a big day, and start to the biggest week, both mileage and climbing but also uncharted waters. I’m a little anxious but at least slightly recovered...if something is going to go wrong, it will be in this next week. So near, yet so far...mountains or coast? Start days early and ride as far as possible?

6 May: Shkoder 1430

After the mountains lit up in a fury of lightening bolts and torrential rain, I felt confident that setting my alarm for 5am was a good decision. Early miles were the plan, and at 7am, although there were still torrents running across the roads, the bay was calm, and I was on my way.

One day’s full rest was telling from the first rotation. I felt great! I was prepared for the intermittent downpours with my new bin bag and trusted shower caps, and knew, come hell or high water, I was crossing into what in my head felt like another continent today but was in fact, just another country, and my 10th on the list: Albania.

You can get to Albania by bike several ways from Montenegro: outright ferry, around a huge bay and up Kotor or a €1 ferry crossing, which takes 10 minutes and provides a panoramic view of the black mountains. I opted for the latter, and sailed my way through towns and up climbs, barely noticing the gentle early headwind, almost a pre-requisite to a ride now. The traffic was less, although I did see an elderly pedestrian spontaneously leap in front of a speeding knackered old VW Mark I Golf...how he wasn’t killed! If it wasn’t suicidal pedestrians, it was motorists pulling out of side roads or shop fronts, almost teasingly to see what a cyclist with right of way might actually do: stop or ride straight into the now stationery vehicle blocking the carriageway because in fact they can’t pull out on to the opposite carriageway anyway. I counted at least 20 stray dogs between Herceg and the border, and now have come to expect them at every turn in the road. I will need to plan my defence strategy as I believe at some point, a dog and I are going to get better acquainted, probably as I find my steepest climb, am tired and can’t escape 😃. I am considering tying a stick to my bike and working out my war cry as I write.

Maybe it’s because I am recharged or maybe it is because even with impending doom looking down on me from the heavens, the green clad mountains that now surrounded me made for yes I know I’ve said it before, an epic day’s cycling. The bin bag and shower cap yo-yo’d in and out of my bag, gaining me much attention in the rural Montenegro countryside as I rode through as the joker on wheels. Here, the people, buildings and cars all changed, decrepit, off the beaten track, and oblivious to style, just functional living: the need for a car, a roof and clothing rang through and any signs of wealth disappeared as I approached the Albanian border. Soaked, I noted that I’d never seen such dark and threatening sky over any mountains. I wondered if the swallows that darted around the road indicated anything, but it was memorable and beautiful.

I’d already fallen in love with the day before I reached Albania, and despite twanging my bad knee before the climb between countries, was prepared to ride on as long as I felt as I did. 😀

And suddenly, surprisingly, Albania! (And another passport stamp 🎊)

Where the tarmac is smooth, the ageing locals ride bikes, the area feels untouched by time or tourism, and the surrounding countryside is jaw-droppingly Jurassic. In 10km I rode past two mosques, minute and not what I expected. Every last morsel of flesh was covered so being a heavily Muslim country, I felt I was being respectful. Motorists gave way, and many people, young and old, even waved, or honked positively. I even got a “go, go, go” from one driver! I wanted to stop and take so many photos, but the ever threatening sky bore down on me and reminded me to keep pedalling.

I barely noticed the city of Shkoder; I was through it so quickly. The driving here made me laugh, as it was chaotic. My lasting memory will be of a very large old lady in her local dress, headscarf and woollen tights, pinned with her bottom just on the edge of the scooter seat, driven by her husband, bouncing off down the road in front of me. I wish I’d got a photo of that, or the old guys on scooters, smartly dressed, but weathered and worn.

Not long after leaving the city limits, I saw lightening ahead and a distant rumble of thunder. It was only 16 miles till my planned stop, and another 56 to Tirana, my stretch goal. I was feeling great. But checking these details and considering my options, I’d stopped right outside a brand new looking spa hotel. I went inside, enquired, and found the room, full spa access, and breakfast would cost €35. I repeat €35! And the possibility of booking a massage. Even with this information, I had to sit down, digest and consider my options: the weather radar, my knee, how good I was feeling...

The weather is looking better from tomorrow, so why push on? I am lying down in my €35 room, snuggled in a huge dressing gown having had a luxury shower and awaiting my massage. I am hoping very much my knee twang isn’t terminal but it doesn’t feel good. But if my journey ends here, I am truly happy. I love Albania, even if I’ve not spent a night here yet. I couldn’t feel more welcome. I hope you can make it too someday...till tomorrow...and decision time; mountains or coast? 🤔