Fonding And Permission Ch 02

Chapter two: A spiral of violet

The door was not locked. Felix had made quite sure that it was merely pushed to so that he could catch small sounds from the hall but not be seen. He wanted more than a second's warning if someone approached. His mother had a habit of bursting into his room as though she owned it, which, in her defence, she actually did. She was always bustling about the house. She had perfected the art of bustling to the point where she seemed able to do it while standing still. She exuded a permanent air of restlessness and Felix felt a vague but constant guilt in her presence, suspecting that there was a number of chores he could relieve her of, though he could not always bring himself to ask.

He wondered whether he was being overly selfish in wanting his me-time. The week at university had been exhausting, full of pointless effort. He thought that his mother, too, was overexerting herself. It would surely be better for her as well if she went easy on the dirt-specks for a change ...

Got you, Felix

, said a snide little voice.

You're not getting away with excuses for laziness

. He sighed, got up like a man twice his age, and opened his door a mouth-width.

"Mum?"

She didn't seem to hear him, but the radio was on somewhere. He followed the sound downstairs, opened the living room door and poked his head inside. She was dusting the bookshelves and turned round as he called her, impatience all over her face.

"What?"

"Is there anything you need help with?"

"Oh ..." The irritation drained from her and she suddenly looked tired and lost. "No, not really ... you might do the carpets once I've finished here."

"Right ... I'll be back for them in an hour."

And so he would. But an hour was plenty of time. His conscience placated, he took the stairs back up three at a time, crept into his room, carefully shifted the door back to optimum position, and returned to his laptop.

The laptop (or rather the display on its screen) was why he was so keen to avoid discovery; that and the closely related detail that his clothing currently amounted to a loose bathrobe. He threw it open as he sat down in his desk-chair: a carefree gesture to get in the mood with, but he always kept his arms in the sleeves to ensure he could restore cover at any moment. The laptop, too, could be snapped shut in a flash. And just in case the intruder asked what he had been up to, he had his answers ready.

"Online research."

"I've been changing."

Both were strictly true, of course, like almost everything Felix said. He cared about honesty and held it up wherever he could. But when his privacy was at risk, he had learnt to hold it upside down by the fingertips. What he said then was still true. It just made people believe things that weren't.

Of course he could give up all pretence and be frank about how he dealt with the urge. He probably wasn't fooling anyone anyway. But he strongly felt that it was his own business, not to be discussed with his parents. It wasn't that they were repressive or nosy. They were simply parents, too close to home. Urges were best talked about with people you could get away from, who didn't know you, whose judgement stung less.

Felix kept the matter to himself: to the one person whose patient, understanding ear he could always rely on. That had proven best for his peace of mind. He could scarcely imagine sharing his urge with anyone, even if there really was someone out there ready to match it to her own. He had quietly come to accept that there probably was no-one waiting for him.

But his inner peace was something, at least. He had felt deeply guilty about this side of himself in earlier years, had tried to fight it, failed after days or weeks at most, fought again and failed again. It had taken him hundreds of defeats to accept this solid chunk of egoism without shame. And shame still nagged at the thought of using the internet. But excitement too. He was out again to explore the invisible thicket where millions met in secret, the minefield full of treasure chests.

Felix opened the search engine with the anticipation of a child on Christmas Eve, itching for the presents there were bound to be. He knew that it was all up to his skill with the search terms, as was sidestepping the mines, so he paused, casting about for the right ones, trying to push back his impatience. Searching the web was an art.

There was a set of

s-

,

m-

,

f-

,

p-

and other words, which were sure to yield the right

sort

of thing by the ton ... He had been the kid in that free candy store before: overwhelmed, gorging himself from every shelf, trying to down the whole lot, afraid to miss any of it but somehow missing it all ... and eventually stupefied and choked by artificial sweetness, unaware of anything but the numb hunger that had him on its leash. No, it was saner to look about with restraint, take your time, and then lift one single item from its place with cautious fingers to admire it.

Naughty ...

His fingers had typed it without great conviction and he deleted it again. What was he after? Rule-breaking? Flesh and posture? They meant little when a face full of winter gave the lie to the sunlit story they were being made to tell. No, he wanted to witness someone's happy, self-determined unruliness. He wanted to see it bursting through her dimples and crow's feet and imagine that he was its creator.

He entered "

ecstatic smile

", wondering whether the web would get his drift. A collection of toothy emoticons filled the screen. Felix laughed, thinking he should have seen it coming.

He combined his two ideas: "

naughty ecstatic smile

" ... He was getting closer now. There was still a sprinkling of emoticons, but also things more to the point. He clicked on one of them.

Her smile was flawless. It wanted to be believed, but he couldn't do it. He was looking for the human and genuine. He didn't want to finish up a fairy-hunting fool, unhappy with the real people out there.

How to find authenticity in this great ghost-lit swamp? Felix turned off the screen for a moment and leant back, thinking. He fancied he heard a soft whisper:

I give you my permission ...

To do what? And he realised it didn't matter. He was happy to leave that to her.

Permission

was the key word. And

"give you permission"

was worth a search, even though a string of three words was bound to decimate the hits ... then again, how wide was the web? All he needed was one really good find ... He added "

naked

" for good measure and pressed Enter.

The first image looked promising. He clicked to enlarge it and read the details.

"Fanny Lipps gets raped."

Not so promising after all then. Violence disgusted Felix. A pseudonym and a third person description didn't bode well either. They sounded professional. The chances that the woman was doing this for fun rather than money were slim. He wanted to see an amateur, a lover. Still, something in her face held him for that extra second, and he opened the site after all. He read the opening headline.

"Help Jesus punish these harlots".

Oh dear ... Was this where the puritan bigots went when the could no longer resist the enemy? Felix wondered how "

give you permission

" had led him to this desolation and searched for the phrase. The browser jumped to the end of the site and he took in the words.

"I give you permission to defile her like the vile abomination she is".

He closed the tab at speed.

Why had that search backfired? Quite simply because permission had come from the wrong person. It was the woman's consent he wanted. He changed "

naked

" to

"me naked"

to make sure she was the one speaking and permitting, then pressed Enter again. There were no hits.

Disrobe ...

It popped into his mind, a word of magnificent grace that made him picture a woman bold enough to flaunt the noblest dress before letting it fall by the wayside as an inadequate cover of her natural beauty; a woman who could step forth unclad to stun a crowd, unashamed of her passion.

Was

"me disrobe"

instead of

"me naked"

worth a try? If the latter had borne no fruit, the former surely stood no chance, but it would be a mere few seconds wasted. He combined "

me disrobe

" with "

give my permission

" and waited.

One single, miraculous thumbnail. He clicked to enlarge it. Then zoomed until it filled his screen. Then zoomed until

she

did.

A sandy trail winding through the woods, deep green shadows in the dense undergrowth; she was walking down the middle towards him, her head proudly lifted but turned left just far enough for her wild, ample hair to hide her features. Anonymous, but only just.

She walked on bare feet and it must have been a sultry day, for bare, too, was most of what they carried. What she had about herself was a kind of shawl or scarf, lurid in colour, but she seemed to have let a blind man dress her in it. It was swept carelessly across her front like an overgrown fig leaf, its ends flying in the wind ... And had the camera caught her from a slightly different angle or seconds before or after, that comparison might no longer have been fair, but her image all the more so.

He had the strangest sense of familiarity, as though he had been looking for her all along without realising it. And he found himself wishing that he knew the mind beneath the curls, that he could ask her why she had done this and hear the cherished answer:

Because I love eyes on me. I want you to watch.

He followed the link to the site and waited patiently for it to load, wondering what gems might soon adorn the blankness of his screen ... and watched, puzzled as something slowly faded into view.

An intricate, soft-hued coloured pencil drawing of branches and twigs filled all of the browser window, growing outward from the middle, crawling up along the edges, fighting in the corners. Its photographic detail extended to the branching veins in its hundreds of leaves. Finely drawn birds of all kinds sat perched everywhere. This had to be the work of a deft hand and many hours.

There was nothing else, no text, a blissful lack of advertising, but also a less blissful lack of the photo that had lured him here. He tried to scroll down, to no effect. There had to be a link somewhere ... He moved the cursor about aimlessly and saw it turn to a hand as it hovered over the birds. But clicking on them did nothing. Perhaps the site was under construction ... He lingered, frowning, absorbing the details of the drawing. This was absolutely not what he had been looking for but its elaborate oddity held his attention all the same ...

He was suddenly aware of the handwriting: scanned handwriting that had somehow been superimposed on the drawing. It must have begun fading in during the minute that he had looked at the site and he watched as it slowly grew clearer. It was close and neat and seemed to fit in easily among the birds and twigs. Only now did he notice that the gaps had been designed to accommodate it. He felt that he was looking not at a screen but at some patiently embellished scripture. He read ... and found his puzzlement growing with each sentence.

Regarded stranger,

welcome to my graphic portfolio. Being a craftswoman, I could feign purely artisanal motives for this creation. In sooth, my incentive was to erect a fane consecrated to carnal relish and to display my own pertinent endowments upon its altar.

Baulk not at this introduction's verbosity, which is barely denotive of my temperament. It serves only to forfend the assault of such scurvy knaves and varlets as abound in this visionary demesne and who I would loath nake my physique to.

If you are of gentler taste and sensibility, I would fain give you permission to witness me disrobe and share my zest for the trappings of my still recent damselhood, unmarred by espousal or caducity. I am no quean or strumpet, but it would be unfrank to gainsay all strains of the fizgig. Your appetency for my aspect sans habiliments provided, I prithee depress the pushbutton beneath your forefinger over the following fowl in the following order: the woodcock, the penduline tits and the nuthatch. Then we may collogue in the repair beyond.

I am yours with sincerity,

Harvest Maiden Pushup

A grin and a frown were fighting for Felix's face. What on Earth had he just read? Several promising fragments leapt out at him and it was they that made him reread the rest, a dictionary open in another tab ... And he understood. She was protecting her privacy from impatient ruffians with a puzzle.

If he understood correctly, he had only to click on three of her little bird drawings in the right order and her gates would magically unlock for him ... But he had no idea what woodcocks or either of the other two looked like.

Felix might have given up again, but he was hooked now. He couldn't quite believe that ornithology was coming into today's me-time session. Laughing at the absurdity, he made for Wikipedia and typed

woodcock

. He wondered how many before him had bothered to do this ... Harvest Maiden Pushup must have precious few visitors.

It was an unmistakable fat, brown creature with an absurdly long bill that made it look like a cross between Pinocchio and an ancient potato. He looked back at the drawing. It seemed to be missing ... Then he spotted a telltale bill jutting out of a mossy fork between two large branches.

The penduline tits --two round little females-- sat perched next to each other, half visible behind a pair of large leaves, squeezed together as though trying to keep warm. Grinning, he looked for the nuthatch ... It was hugging another fork, the flat mound of its back rising out of the moss, its little bill and red underside just visible.

With great care, Felix moved the cursor to each of the birds and clicked them once. The drawing faded. He clapped his hands and laughed in boyish delight at solving the riddle. And now, any moment now, he would set eyes on the reclusive maiden ...

Three empty text-boxes appeared, asking to be written in. He stopped laughing at once and stared at them suspiciously. Yes, the first one wanted his Email. If he had closed the site at any point it would have been then. He never offered personal detail in the process of these secret forays. His anonymity was holy to him. But what else was he being asked for here? He read the words above the second box.

1. What is your view of humanity?

He blinked and reread them, just to be sure. Then he read the question above the third box.

2. What did you come here for?

Felix was struggling, suddenly feeling that his fingertips were full of words ... Wasn't there a way round the Email problem? Hadn't he once set up a second Email for just this sort of purpose? He couldn't pretend he didn't want to answer ... He glanced at his watch. Forty minutes to go before he had to honour his carpet-hoovering promise. Well, there was a decision to be made. Either straightforward urge-treatment or this ... and he was surprised at how easily he chose the second. He began to type his answer to question one, smiling slightly at the thought that he was sitting an exam in his bedroom on a Saturday evening with no preparation ...

My first thought is Pratchett's line: I'd rather be a rising ape than a falling angel. I think we're angels inside apes and it's up to each of us to nurture their angel without starving their ape ...

He kept writing, constantly erasing and rephrasing, hastening to finish, yet trying to tell the truth, looking inside himself, examining his hopes and fears, strengths and weaknesses -- but laughing gleefully as he imagined her reading it all ... By the time he was satisfied, he had touched on everything from mortality to sustainability and wondered whether this was the little jewel case of inspiration he had intended or a Pandora's box of depressing ideas. He read it once more, trying to take the view of the unsuspecting recipient. Well,

Harvest Maiden Pushup

would likely be confused ... But she sounded like a person who would bear reading an odd note. He looked back at question two.

What did you come here for?

He glanced at his watch again. Ten minutes left. Damn. Better get writing fast. He was about to answer

To see you disrobed

, then stalled. It suddenly felt a lot more brazen. Having written his own views at length to the real person behind all this had awoken his respect and caution. But he still wanted to tell the truth. Or didn't he? This was were the ditherers fell by the wayside, right? He had been called one before now. Eager to disprove it, his hands made to write. But how to put it? He could be pompous and obscure, just like her. He knew he was good at that ... But there was no need. He had nothing to hide.

I want to be in the audience you undress for. I want to see your pleasure and dream of being more than spectator to it.

Then, with a sudden burst of recklessness, maybe driven by his honesty so far, he added:

All the best,

Felix

He entered his second Email address, then pressed the

Submit

button before his mind had time to change. An automatic response:

Many thanks for your contribution. A message has been sent to the Email address you entered. Please click the link in it to validate your submission.

A minute later he had done so. He cast one last look at her site before closing the tab, just giving himself time to read the URL as he did so.

Fonding-and-permission.com

He went to get the hoover.

***

"Hey, Felix ... Felix!"

The two dozen students were seated at broad tables, sets of paintbrushes and watercolours at their sides. Felix was bent low over the art project he had just begun, trying to render Dürer's self-portrait in the style of Monet. He thought he had got off to a decent start. Everything was turning out nice and fuzzy. Dürer clearly hadn't got to grips with his selfie stick yet.

"You had a girl, Felix?" Darren's voice rose above the innocent babble like a shark fin out of a kids' pool.

No,

thought Felix.

Thanks for the reminder

... "I don't

have

girls, they're not breakfast", he said, feigning coolness as best he could. He tried to return his focus to the portrait, but his seven words had been seven too many.

"I know

you

don't", said Darren. "I'm guessing you like mummy a

lot

... "

"She's all right." It was hardly a retort and left him wishing he had said nothing. The brush shook a little in his hand, giving Dürer an unlikely nostril injury. He managed to laugh at it.

"He's got it bad, hasn't he?" muttered Alice next to him.

Felix grinned at his table. "Yes ... I can't seem to help him."

"Ignore him."

"I'm trying ... Thanks."

It was good to have Alice. Their first year at university had started a few months ago and they were all still getting to know each other, but people had been quick to take to her. She was a calming presence. The grind and pressure of academe seemed not to worry her. You suspected she would have returned to her parents' farm without a backward glance if she failed here, but she seemed to scrape by in her courses. She brought a reassuring kind of bluntness to the table. Her mischievous tongue was sure to find anything inflated and puncture it. And if you told her your everyday troubles she would listen patiently and grimace with sympathy but no distress, and you would feel them shrink under her attention. She had proven herself discreet as well. Plenty of people had begun seeking out her ear and she seemed to enjoy being their confidant. Felix wasn't used to sharing his problems with anything less taciturn than a diary, but he was glad of her company all the same, particularly with Darren around.