The Thread was showing no signs of arriving and after some time negotiating the dangerously thin animal tracks of the concrete jungle, it arrived at a clearing in which the sombre office blocks, bent forwards like old men, gathered around a broken down well, which served as a pivot point to circulate the ponderous traffic.
The Thread, heedless of the peril, dived down into the well and out of sight into the gloaming. I leant over the crumbling retaining wall and considered giving up my Thread following Quest and instead settling on a nearby branch of a well-known electrical appliance outlet with a takeaway coffee. But curiosity got the better of me.
Standing on the parapet, I lowered myself, hand over hand, down the Thread, backwards into the well, copying the mountain goats and rock artists that I had rehearsed on the Retube video. I was soon in the less sunny climes of the well interior, which was only lit by the occasional working lamps of miners, who bid me good day as I passed.
At the basement door I paused, and looking across the threshold, I saw before me a room, richly furbished with crimson velvet and marvellous furbelows. A woman lay under a duvet upon a five-poster bed, her hair spread, chaotic, across the pillow. Her eyes were closed, though in her right hand, visible above the coverlet, she held a sword, ornate with serpents, and in her left hand she held an empty cup or flask. The Thread, passing straight towards her, raised itself carefully upon the bed and wrapped itself around her wrist, before making its way through the exit at the bottom left corner of the darkened cinema, where the usher was eating an ice cream.
Good day, I ventured, Woman with sword, may I converse with you under the stairs?
The woman opened her eyes and sat up, raising her sword and hiding her cup under the pillow.
Go away, she said, you cannot.
Can’t what? I asked, I should explain that I am bound by fealty and oath to follow the Thread that has found itself wrapped lightly about your elegant wrist.
The woman, now sitting up in bed resting against a series of monstrous pillows which hadn’t been there before, looked down in surprise at her wrist with its several turns of Thread.
And why would your quest lead you here? She enquired, I am just a sleepy woman with a sword and nothing hidden under the pillow.
Is it a special cup? I asked, That is not hidden underneath. If I drink from it, will I live forever or just be refreshed? Or is it the cup of oblivion, that once drunk is always forgotten? I once had a coffee mug that brought me luck. I am by trade a lucky so and so, but my lucky mug used to lay it on particularly thickly, like lemon curd on toast. I have heard of a cup that delivers cornucopic groceries and a flask that never runs dry, is your vessel one of those? If I should try to gain access to your unremarkable cup, would you strike me with your sword?
The cup, that I do not have hidden under this pillow, is unremarkable, true, she said defensively. It may heal the outrageous wounds of fortune, but cannot bring biting clarity to the perception of the drinker. This cup represents all the sacred ideals of a generation, as it was once used to splash wine in the face of a tyrannical idiot. It is now imbued with special meaning for a secret society which believes that whomsoever holds this cup may affect regime change and undermine the free press. Therefore, as this is none of your concern, be on your way, I have dreams to pursue.
Fascinating, I said, Perhaps my quest brings me here on political quest. Before I go? I continued, intrigued, Pray tell me the story of your serpent sword with which you guard this wonderful cup of no special significance. Is it a magical sword that may cleave iron and steal and leave nothing unhewn in its path or is it an oversized letter opener. This tyrant, how shall I recognize him?
His hair, she replied, I don’t think unhewn is a word, she said, But as you ask, this sword, and here she brandished the weapon in an alarming way, is lethal to the point of destruction. One small cut from its silver blade will render a man unconscious for a week. The only antidote is a secretion from the ears of the South American Pink Tree Frog, which is currently out of stock. I don’t need a letter opener as I communicate, almost exclusively, by email.
I was given this sharp sword by the Queen of the Underworld, to guard the cup, which I do not have, whilst she is on holiday.
His hair, I repeated, Fascinating, I said, I didn’t know that frogs have ears, and I would love to know whereabouts the Queen of the Underworld chooses to go on holiday. I know that in the modern era the letter opener is almost redundant, but some people still retain one as a decorative item upon their working surface, I think that they are intended to signify that the person in question is educated in the subject of history. Those subjects aside, may I now follow the Thread to its conclusion. As I said, I notice that said Thread passes around your wrist, necessitating my proximity to yourself. I hope you don’t mind.
I shall strike you with my sword if you approach, said the woman, You may be an honest traveller or a pernicious robber bent on stealing the cup with no powers. Be warned. As a matter of some interest, the Pink Tree Frog is the only frog in our bright world with ears, and the Queen often goes to Marrakech as she loves a good souk. My desk has too much bric-a-brac on it as things stand, I don’t have time or space for objects that have no function.
We are then in conflict, I said sadly, as I am bound by honourable oath to follow the Thread of this story.
I approached the woman, following the path of the Thread and the woman struck me with her sword, severing both my arms and my left foot.
Now look what you’ve done, I said, feeling despondent.
Not to worry, said the woman taking the cup from under the pillow and filling it with water. Drink this.
I drank thirstily and instantly my limbs were restored although my left foot had no sock or armored shoe.
You should get that cup patented, I said enthusiastically, Think of the miracles you may perform amongst the limb challenged population.
Would that it were true, she countered, But I’m afraid this cup is one use only and then recycle. The Queen will be devastated, and with that she threw the cup towards the appropriate receptacle, not in general waste. Using my hand and arm I caught the cup before it could be swallowed into the never-ending cycle of recycling.
Let me take Guardian of the Cup lest I travel in the vicinity of a tyrannical idiot, I said and saved the cup to a Splashbox file in my ‘Don’t share with anyone’ section.
I had best be gone ere I feel the Queen’s wrath, she the woman. And with that she wrapped herself in a velvet curtain and left.
Feeling a new sense, I also left, following the Thread which, having released the woman, dived into a large circular aperture by the wall.
Aha, I thought, This must be the section where I have to crawl, undetected, through some improbable ventilation trunking.
The Guardians of the Cave 