The Magic Cottage

BIRTH DAY

WAKING UP next morning was more gradual.

Still blurry-headed, I turned over in the bed to snuggle up to Midge. She wasn't there, though.

Cranking open eyelids that felt as heavy as garage doors, I squinted at her side of the bed to confirm what touch (or lack of it) had already told me. Further thoughts trailed along at a more leisurely pace, taking a little while to come together, but memories of the night before, post-Mycroft included, eventually shifted the last threads of drowsiness.

I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. Cold light of day and all that: last night's traumatic episodes, both of them, now seemed unreal. The Synergists' menace just stopped short of being farcical on reflection—I mean, neither of us was naive enough to fall under their influence, we weren't kids, receptive to being drawn into such a ridiculous cult. We were nonconsenting adults. Yet Midge had been more than a mite spellbound by Mycroft, there was no doubt of that, and I realized there was more to the man than I had assumed on our first meeting, when his charisma had been understated to say the least. Maybe that was part of his allure, his very ordinariness negating any suggestion of charlatanism.

After his fairly ignominious departure last night, Midge and I had been too wound up for a sensible discussion on what had happened and where it was leading to. When I pointed out yet again that something was going on inside Gramarye itself, all she did was announce she was too tired for further arguments and was going to bed.

I followed her in, trying to make her see sense (sense? What I was trying to make her see was crazy even to me!), but she'd have none of it. Called me blinkered. Now that really sent me into a rage, considering that it was she who was turning a blind eye on all the weirdness that was going on around us! That night alone, with a howling wind battering the cottage, bats living up a storm in the attic, all quietening down as soon as Mycroft opened the door to leave. The question begged: Had there really been a gale outside? Was it possible for the night to have become so instantly calm? And look at the effect the place had on the Synergists! Christ, Joby had looked about ready to pass out in front of us, and twice now Kinsella had had to leave Gramarye in a rush. I went on. And on. On a bit more, exhausting myself in the end. I brought everything into it, the ruined painting, Bob's hallucinations—my hallucinations, for Chrissake!—the healing of the bird at the beginning, the trust of the animals and birds, the apparent regeneration of the garden. Even our glorious lovemaking (up until recently), even her beautiful artwork (before ruined), and even my inspirational guitar playing. I dredged up everything I could think of.

But it was like talking to a goddamn zombie. She didn't want to know.

Yet she did get interested when I ventured the theory that maybe it was she who'd healed my scalded arm, not Mycroft with his magic potion and phony mental projection, she and whatever enchantment was contained within Gramarye itself, within its walls, its grounds, its atmosphere—in its bloody heritage!— working through her, HER, Midge Gudgeon, innocent catalyst or intermediary or even instigator. Just as Flora Chaldean had been! And whoever lived in the cottage before her!

I was rambling, inventing, plucking notions out of the air. Or so I imagined. It could have been my tiredness and the emotional condition I'd worked myself up into, driving me toward one of those rare states when the subconscious mind takes over and throws out thoughts that are normally vague or even inconceivable.

And maybe, just maybe, my subconscious was being prompted by something deeper and even more mysterious, something completely outside of me.

And when I'd finished, said it all, it was me who became uninterested. I was the one who could hardly keep his eyes open any longer, who had to drag off his clothes and crawl into bed, totally and utterly exhausted, drained of any more considerations.

Like I said, she was interested, but she didn't try to rouse me. My last glimpse of Midge before slipping into sleep was of her sitting on the corner of the bed studying me with a peculiar glimmer in her eyes. After that I zonked out, and was glad to.

But later woke to find Midge bolt upright and staring toward the foot of the bed.

Now I wondered about that. Obviously everything that had gone before that evening had caused her nightmare, and I'd pulled her back down beneath the sheets and endeavored to convince her of that. Although she hadn't verbally rebuffed my contentions, I sure as hell knew she hadn't accepted them. She lay there still and quiet, and when I touched her cheek I found it wet with tears.

I tried my best to comfort her but unfortunately it wasn't long before I did a three-apostles on her—you know, mind willing, flesh weak—and fell asleep again. I just hoped tiredness had soon overcome her own vigil and she'd done the same as me; the thought of her lying there in the dark, believing she'd seen the ghosts of her dead parents, possibly thinking they might return that night, made me shudder. And feel guilty.

I pulled back the covers and swung my legs off the bed, checking the clock on the move. Nearly ten. I tongue-tutted, wishing she'd woken me earlier.

First I noticed, sitting there naked on the edge of the bed and scratching my ribs, that the musty smell from last night still lingered, an odor of damp and old plaster; then I realized I was gaping at something across the room, my addled brain not quite able to comprehend what I was looking at. The long crack in the wall, running from floor to ceiling, somehow didn't register.

"Shit," I said when finally it did.

I rose quickly and my stride across the room was broken when something small and soft squelched beneath my bare foot. I hopped and swore more loudly when the sting hit me half a second later, collapsing back onto the bed and grabbing for my foot. I found the tiny, thornlike projection and, using my fingernails (fortunately finger-picking guitar length on my right hand) as tweezers, plucked out the barb.

The area around the minute puncture was already swelling a bright red and I searched the floor for the culprit. The squashed bee lay a couple of feet away and I imagined its death rattle had been more of a vengeful chuckle.

Leaning forward, I peeled up the flattened furry mound and took it, together with its last-resort weapon, through to the bathroom, limping all the way, to flush them down the john (not before peeing on the floating carcase first, though, my own petty revenge). Back in the bedroom, I examined the crack in the wall, the new plaster that had been used to seal and cement split into two jagged, serrated edges. It was a minuscule divide, but a crack is a crack.

So much for O'Malley's craftsmanship.

I found my robe and left the bedroom in search of Midge. She was downstairs, sitting on the kitchen doorstep, chin on her knees as she looked out at the flowers in the garden. Again I didn't notice at first what was out of place—or in this case, what wasn't in place at all.

I bent over and kissed her neck. There was little response. She moved over slightly as I shuffled down next to her.

Although we were on the shaded side of the cottage I could tell the sun was out in full force by the way it played on the brilliant colors of the garden. And above, the sky was the color of faded denim, a washed-out blue, the vaguest wisps of clouds a long way off in the distance. But the air was cool in that shadowed part where we sat.

"How are you feeling today, Pixie?" I asked, deliberately keeping my voice light, testing. I laid a hand on her upper arm.

Her response was minimal. "Very confused," was all she said.

"Yeah, me too. But not so confused I can't see Mycroft and his creepy little sect for what they are."

Her tone was flat. "Let's drop it, Mike."

Mine was reasonable. "I don't think we can do that. You've become too enamored with them and it scares me."

She shrugged, a small movement, almost a flinch.

"Midge, have you thought about what I said last night?"

Still not looking at me, she replied, "You said so many things. Do you even remember?" Now she did turn her head my way.

Right then, I couldn't. I'd said such a lot it had become something of a jumble in my own head, not so much scrambled as mashed. Only later were those notions (perceptions?) to become clear again. My head ached and you could have done a litmus test on my tongue; I wondered how I could be hungover from one glass of wine last night. Then I realized what was missing from the garden.

"What's happened to our friends today? There's usually one or two still hanging around for food at this time of the morning."

"There were no birds outside earlier," Midge replied without expression.

I frowned. "Maybe they've found a better menu elsewhere," I said lamely, refusing to believe there was any significance in the sudden lack of custom, but having a hard time of it. "I guess Rumbo's been around, though, huh?" I said hopefully.

She shook her head. "Not yet he hasn't."

That bothered me. There had to be something wrong if that greedy tyke hadn't shown. Bob's words over the phone came to me: "Bad vibes."

Midge stood, my hand dropping away from her arm like a discarded accessory. "I have to get dressed and go into the village for some shopping," she said stiffly, and was already turning before I could scramble to my feet.

"Hey, hold on a minute." I grabbed her arm again, pulling her to me. "We're buddies, remember? Not just lovers, but good friends, the best either one of us will ever have. Don't keep your feelings locked away, Midge, no matter how badly you think of me. Okay, I upset you with my views on a coupla things last night, but that shouldn't prevent us talking, should it? Whatever I do concerning you, I mean it for the best. Christ, I love you more than I can say . . ."

At another time she might have added, "Love you every single day . . ." and I'd come in with, "Love you twice as much tomorrow . . ." and we'd have sung the rest as a duet. Not that morning, though. Not even a smile. All I got was a troubled silence.

Then the tenseness seemed to leave her body for a moment. She looked down at the ground, avoiding my eyes.

"I love you just as much, Mike, nothing can ever change that. But I have to find out—"

I gripped her hard. "You've done nothing to be ashamed of."

"You won't listen, will you?"

I controlled myself. "I'm only trying to make you see sense, don't you understand? You know what I think? I think you feel guilty about your own happiness. You've got it so good now—we've got it so good now—you figure in some crazy way that your mother had to die so you could achieve it. That's what's bugging you, Midge."

She shook her head vehemently. "That's stupid."

"Is it? You got your freedom when she died—"

"Committed suicide," she insisted.

"Okay, committed suicide. You were young, you had a great talent, so maybe you did wonder how things would be with no ties, no liabilities. Who the hell wouldn't in your position? But I said wondered, Midge. You never wished it. Ever. That's something you're just not sure of right now; it's been so long you can't be sure of how strong that wondering was. And I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't this creep Mycroft who instilled that little doubt in your mind."

"He's not—"

"What d'you wanna do? Beg their forgiveness? When we first arrived here, you told me you wished there was some way of letting your parents know how happy you were. Remember that? Somehow that notion's become warped so that you want their forgiveness for being so goddamn happy! How did your feelings suddenly go off in that direction? Did it happen the day you went to the Temple on your own? When I was up in London?"

She tried to twist away from me, but I held her firm.

"He made me understand!" she shouted at me. "You don't know him—"

"I don't bloody need to. What I do want to know is why he's doing this to you."

This time she managed to tear herself free. She blazed at me, her body slightly bent at the waist like a recalcitrant child's.

"You said last night that there was something extraordinary about Gramarye." It was almost an accusation. "Those weren't your words, but it's what you implied. You also suggested that I was involved, I was a part of it."

I vaguely remembered saying something to that effect, but right then I couldn't focus on the exact proposition.

"Do you imagine I'm a complete fool, Mike? Do you think I haven't noticed everything that's been happening around us?"

"Then why haven't—"

"Because it's too fragile to question! All right, I admit I've put up a barrier against it to some extent, but that was because I was frightened to lose . . . to lose . . ."

She shook her head in frustration, unable to find the words. Unable, I suspected, to clarify her own thoughts. I took a step toward her, but she backed away.

Her hands were clenched into small fists. "Mycroft is the only one who can help."

"No!" It was my turn to shout.

"He understands." Her hands unclenched and dropped to her sides. As was becoming her habit, she didn't want to argue any more.

She slipped past me and I heard her bare feet mounting the stairs inside the cottage, a stairboard cracking noisily as she went. I thought of going after her, but the truth is, I didn't want to argue either. My head was too sore for that.

"Mr. O'Malley?"

"Speaking."

"Mike Stringer here."

"Mr, er, Stringer?"

"You worked on our cottage. Gramarye."

"Ah, Mr. Stringer." Then more slowly. "Yes . . . Gramarye. By the forest. What can I do for you, now?"

"I'm afraid a few problems have come back."

The lilt of his accent hardened slightly. "I can't imagine what they could be, Mr. Stringer. We did a thorough job there."

"Yeah, well, the wall in the main bedroom is cracked again. And some of the doors aren't shutting properly . . ."

"Hold on a sec, Mr. Stringer. Let me find the worksheet on your property."

A clunk as the receiver was put down at the other end. I stood in the small hallway at the top of the stairs, free hand tucked into my jeans pocket, and wished the three aspirins I'd taken twenty minutes earlier would get to work on my headache. The mustiness in the atmosphere wasn't helping to clear my head, either.

"Right then, let's have a looksee . . ." came the Irishman's voice again. Static on the line made me hold the phone away from my ear for a moment or two. "Ah well now, we did a splendid job on that bedroom wall. I'm surprised to hear it's opened again. I take it y'haven't had any other structural work done on the place since, Mr. Stringer?"

"Not a thing."

"I see. Well, that's queer. What was the other item you mentioned?"

"The doors. They must have warped again."

"There's no mention of doors on my list."

"You had to plane them before painting."

"No, no, it's not down here at all. We'd have smoothed them, of course, rubbed them down as needs be, just for the painting. I remember now, yes, I remember you mentioned them when we quoted for the job. Wasn't there a few cupboard doors and all?"

"That's right."

"Ah well, my foreman told me the doors were fine. Nothing needed doing to them apart from smoothing the surfaces. Some of your window casements were terrible rotted, and we replaced them. It was all on my invoice to yourself, Mr. Stringer."

There was a noise from over my head.

"Uh, can doors warp with warm weather, Mr. O'Malley?"

"Now that depends. In direct sunlight maybe, or sometimes in very damp weather. Sure that's a very old house you're living in, and the timber's not so young any more."

"I've noticed some of the pointing on the outside doesn't look too good. It seems to be crumbling away."

I heard him draw in a long breath, an indication of weariness rather than surprise. "Now that's a different matter entirely. I can send someone over to take a look at that for you, but I'm afraid I can't spare anybody for at least a week or so. It's a busy time of year for us, with the weather so good."

"There's something else that needs urgent attention, I'm afraid."

"And what would that be?"

"The stone lintel over the range in the kitchen. There's a crack in that, too, and I've noticed the stone is beginning to sag in the middle. Only a fraction, but the whole thing looks pretty dangerous to me."

"So it's a new bit of work you'll be wanting. As I say, we're very busy right at the moment . . ."

"The lintel was on my original list for repair. We noticed the break before we moved in."

"I don't recall . . . ah, wait a moment. That's right, I remember more details now. You had a whole list of repair jobs, Mr. Stringer, that required no attention at all. That's why our price was below the quotation figure; my men couldn't locate half the faults you mentioned."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Neither to me does it. My foreman remarked at the time that mebbe you'd confused your list with another property you had on your mind to buy. Any other firm that was a bit Tom Mix—"

"What?"

"—cowboy—would have charged you for the lot and not said a word about it. Still and well, I can send someone to take a look, but not in a hurry, I'm afraid. How about Tuesday week? Does that suit you?"

"That lintel's dangerous . . ."

"D'you use that range at all? I thought not. Prop up the stone and keep away from it, that's all y'have to do, Mr. Stringer. Now I'll send my man over first thing Tuesday week and we'll see what we can do. There, I've written it in the book. He'll have a look at anything else that needs doing and we'll soon have you right as rain again. Good day to you, Mr. Stringer, hope you're enjoying y'self down in that lovely part of the forest."

The phone clicked and that was that. Problems solved as far as O'Malley was concerned.

And again that funny noise from upstairs.

Two steps and I craned my head around the stairway. I knew what that sound was.

But now there were other noises. From below.

I listened intently, undecided as to which I should investigate first and feeling disinclined to investigate either.

More from downstairs. Scraping sounds, then rustling paper.

"Midge?" Maybe she was already back from the village. No reply, but then she could still be annoyed at me.

"Midge, you there?"

Someone certainly was, but they weren't saying who. I stood at the top of the stairway and leaned precariously around the bend, looking down toward the kitchen. My favorite place.

A teacup rattled on the sideboard (I hadn't left any on the table).

I refused to allow myself time to ponder, sick of my own funk by now, and marched down there bold as brass (limped down really; my bee sting was still throbbing).

I stood at the kitchen door and sagged with relief.

"Rumbo, you silly beggar."

From his perch on a sideboard shelf he scolded me for giving him a scare too. A biscuit packet lay torn on the table, contents scattered, most of the biscuits gnawed into.

"At least you haven't deserted us," I said. I picked up a broken biscuit and held it up to him and he snatched it from my hand, still complaining noisily.

"So where is everyone today?" I interrupted. "Can they sense bad vibes in Gramarye too? Is that why the birds have missed out on breakfast?"

He was probably as puzzled as me.

"Takes more than that to frighten you off, though, right? But I oughta warn you—things aren't the same around here any more, and I'm a little scared myself. It's in the atmosphere—d'you feel it? Like something's creeping up, but ducks outa sight every time you turn around to see. Know what I mean?"

I don't think he did. He just nibbled away, cocking his head at me every so often in that doglike way of his, but paying no particular mind to what I was saying. What did I expect from a squirrel anyway?

The door to the attic rooms was stiff in its frame (although the thought that someone was leaning against the other side crossed my mind).

I was on the step below, twisting the handle and pushing with my other hand at the same time. Rumbo had kept me company on my cautious journey up the winding stairway, as curious about the odd sounds drifting down as was I.

Each time the noise came—there were long, long pauses in between—his head had shot up as if on a pole, and he'd looked this way and that in fast, jerky movements. The sounds had a musical thrum to them, and that's why they were familiar to me.

They were sounds of a thumb playing across open guitar strings.

Yet softer even than that, a resonance only, the vibrations dying slowly, leaving what seemed a deep and brooding silence before the strings were disturbed once more.

Fortunately—having used up my bravado when I'd marched boldly down to the kitchen—an explanation had already occurred to me. A bird, or possibly even an insomniac bat, had somehow found its way into my music room and the creature's wings were brushing against the guitar every time it did a fly-past. Other than that, a mouse family could have nested inside one of the acoustics, members scraping past strings when they left or entered the soundhole. Both explanations felt reasonable to me, and I was still prepared to believe in reason (even after all that had happened).

I pushed harder and the door gave a fraction. There'd been silence inside for well over a minute now.

Next attempt I butted the door with my shoulder and, wood scraping against wood, it opened; my grip on the handle preventing it from flying wide. I gently shoved the door the rest of the way.

At first glance the low-ceilinged room appeared empty. At second glance there was no change. But I moaned aloud when I saw the condition my two acoustic guitars were in. I ran into the room and dropped to my knees before them, my moan turning into a wail of anguish.

The neck of the Martin, the instrument on its stand and set close to a shaded wall, bent toward me as if bowing at my entrance. The Spanish concert lay nearby on the floor, obviously having toppled at a time when the crash couldn't have been heard; its neck curved upward like a thin man trying to rise. First and second strings had snapped on both, the rest stretched taut from head to bridge, pulling in the neck, the incredible tension in them almost palpable. I didn't understand how it could have happened: neither one had been left in direct sunlight, which might have caused the wood to warp—and that would have slackened the strings, not tightened them—and neither had been tuned to a high pitch—I kept the strings at normal tension, unless I knew I wouldn't be using the guitars for a time, in which case I always loosened them. Nylon strings could shrink if subjected to extremes in temperature and providing they didn't break first; but the steel strings of the Martin? Not likely.

I shook my head, bewildered and upset, the grief I felt not unlike, I'd imagine, having your pet dog run over.

A soft breeze blew in from the window I'd left open a few inches days before to freshen the room (maybe a stronger breeze had nudged over the classical) and played across the overtightened strings, the vibrations picked up by the soundboards of each and amplified. The echo was more like a sighing groan than a musical shimmer.

I banged my thigh with a clenched fist and swore, then swore again. Although the guitars were irrevocably ruined (the necks might be replaced, but that would prove expensive and no guarantee that the tone would be as good), I nevertheless counterturned the nuts on both instruments, loosening the remaining strings. It was with some nervousness that I opened my Fender case and examined the electric guitar lying inside (the feeling of opening a casket to take a peek at the corpse therein was strong). Thankfully, my jobbing machine was in good order.

After that, I could only squat on the floor and stare at my invalided—no, mortally diseased—instruments, while Rumbo had a fine time skipping around the room, oblivious to my misery. I let him romp, glad at least one of us wasn't concerned about anything.

I sat there gloomily for some time and wasn't exactly sure what had finally roused me—it might have been the squirrel's shrieking chatter, or the sensing of movement over my head. It had been a morning of distant noises, so I was neither disturbed nor surprised to hear further sounds. And of course, on this occasion the source was fairly obvious; the bats were fidgety.

But it wasn't curiosity about them that caused me to drag a chair over to the center of the room so that I could reach the hatch. I'd dumped Midge's painting of Gramarye up there on the same day we'd discovered the grotesque change—just lifted the hatch and tossed it in, out of sight, out of mind. Burning the picture would have been too much like a ritual. Still mystified about that transformation, now I wanted to take another look. Maybe I thought it might have returned to normal, optimistic fool that I am; anything seemed possible in that place. Whatever, I wanted to study the painting in more detail than last time.

I balanced on the chair, one hand flat against the hatch cover, the other holding the flashlight I now kept in the attic room specifically for loft visits (usually made by Midge to check on our protected species up there). Straightening my knees, I heaved at the cover, nervous of our night friends but believing, as I'd been informed so often, that they really were harmless.

The hatch opened with an eerie "Old Dark House" creak, causing Rumbo to shriek and disappear down the stairs. I promised myself I'd oil those hinges at the earliest opportunity. Flashlight on, I used the back of the chair for wobbly support and hauled myself up with my usual lack of dignity. Sitting on the edge, I cursed myself for having slung the painting with such force: I could just make out the rectangular shape before beaming the light on it, and realized I'd have to crawl across joists to reach it.

Before doing so, I swung the light around the loft and shuddered at the black hanging shapes, certain that they'd become denser than last time I'd looked. They filled every inch of space on the beams and rafters. Just like that first time.

But at least they were still and quiet, as though my intrusion had brought their previous activity to a halt. I wondered how they regarded my presence. With fear? Hostility? Or did they sense by now that Midge and I meant them no harm?

A single tiny squeak drew my attention to a crossbeam to the left of where I was sitting. I spotlighted a particularly thick cluster of bats; one, near the center, was making small juddering movements, its head arched upwards toward its stomach. Jagged teeth were picked out by the light as the bat opened its ugly little mouth and emitted another barely audible squeak.

A few more squeaks answered from the darker regions of the loft, all single and somehow pathetic.

Drawing my legs up, I started making my way toward the painting, not wanting to stay in that inky cavern for a moment longer than necessary. The joists were hard against my knees as I crawled, and the smell of bats' excrement was stronger and more unpleasant than the last time I'd been up there; I comforted myself with the thought that the droppings might at least provide a natural form of loft insulation. I tried to keep my free hand out of it as I went, using the flashlight for guidance, but the stuff was everywhere and I was soon wiping my palm against my jeans to get rid of the sludge. I decided walking across the joists, bending low and keeping a steady balance, would be less of an ordeal, so I rose, swaying awkwardly for a couple of seconds with feet spread on separate sections.

I immediately brushed against one of the creatures.

That bat squealed and flapped thin wings at me, and I recoiled, wobbling on unsteady legs, hand flailing air. Half bent and still a little rocky, I stabilized and shone the torch at the offended bat, making sure it wasn't readying itself to attack.

What I saw created a clogging in my chest, a thick ball of softness inside there threatening to erupt up my throat and splatter the loft. I swallowed hard.

Only inches away from my head, the bat I'd bumped into was jerking in small spasmodic movements, wings flexed inward, membraned tail curling downward. Something flushed and shiny and repugnant was emerging from between its legs.

I watched mesmerized, repulsed yet horribly fascinated.

The pink, hunched thing grew in size, frail shape glistening in the light from the torch. The tiny body oozed out, smoothly and wetly, taking form—an unsightly form—discharged from the womb like an oval blob of pink topping squeezed from an icing bag, to plop onto the mother bat's stomach, caught there and suspended by its life cord. The mother immediately wrapped wings and pouched tail around the newborn, its head striving upward and tongue flickering out to cleanse the sticky fresh body.

The birth might have been wondrous to a nature lover, but to me, in those dark confines, among a mass of suspended gargoyles, it was an abhorrence.

I tried desperately to shuffle away, careful not to slip between the joists and only succeeded in disturbing those behind me. And as I turned, the light sweeping around the loft, I saw others giving birth, more and more pink blobs surging forth to dangle at their mothers' breasts. Not just one or two more, but dozens. I swear I saw dozens oozing out. Everywhere I swung the flashlight I caught the same nauseating movement, the shiny gooeyness on the minute bodies reflecting the beam. They looked like transparent bags of pus squeezed from open wounds.

I scrambled toward the square patch of daylight, slipping off the timbers and cracking my knees against them, but not stopping, collecting wood splinters in my hands as I crawled, the flashlight bobbing wildly, agitating the bats so that they squealed in protest or alarm, probably both.

One fluttered by my face and I felt dank air waft against my cheek. Something thumped softly against my back, lodging there for a moment before dropping away.

I almost screamed.

Then I was at the opening, swinging my legs over, falling through, my hands and elbows saving me from plummeting to the floor. My feet found the chair below and I snatched at the hatch cover, ducking my head as a small body flew out of the darkness to skim against my arm.

I pulled at the cover and only just withdrew my fingers before it slammed shut.

I stood on the chair, hands on knees, flashlight rolling in an arc on the floor where I'd dropped it, and gasped in a huge lungful of air, hoping it would bypass my breakfast which was on the way up.