Heaving the pipe upward, the group pass it to one of the newer members. A self-described druid, his beard descends onto the mouthpiece of the black bong. It takes three people to lift the device to the druids face, another to lower the torch onto the luminous green cannabis. It's trichomes are long and bulbous like strange worms. Eldritch. Taking great care the druid begins to inhale the kush, so sticky that if it came into contact with the skin it would rip it away. Through the slightly translucent glass we watch the five feet of milky smoke begin to fill the chamber, the druid can see it too as he watches the weed smoulder in front of him. And all along, a great bubbling. Through the ice and through the water, the smoke is drawn through. Upward and upward. He begins to clear the bong chamber, chugging huge lungfuls of smoke. We all begin to chant our own songs as the thick smoke is quaffed from the cauldron bong, as it is exhaled it begins to fill the cave we are sitting in. A caveman sits in the corner, the whites of his eyes as red as an eclipsing moon. He looks over to the druid then turns back to his bongo drums.
An hour, perhaps, later we exit the cave and into the industrial estate. The factories and mill shops stand as obelisks on the landscape, intense signifiers of terror. We walk along the cracked tarmac road, one of our number carrying a crucifix. Once we have reached the cul-de-sac, our terminal destination, the cross bearer sets it upside down into a small marsh. We sit around beneath the inverted symbol and pass around a pipe made from the spinal column of an accused witch who was rumoured to have been drowned at a nearby lake. The druid takes out a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch and begins to eat them solemnly.
