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Irtak was following a singing path inside the Marshes.
It was cold and windy. The air had this putrid smell that was not so unpleasant. It was adding to the dimensions he was already exploring. He wasn’t feeling the fatigue of walking in that soaked land, his attention was focused on the movement and not the obstacles.

The twins were walking or flying, changing shape swiftly as the vibrations of the song were accelerating or slowing down, moving between all the energy currents and the lives of these Marshes. His perception merged with those of his companions, it was a completely different reality he was exploring. And these lands were straddling many dimensions, their energies intermingled with other times and spaces.

The vibration had something similar to where they were from, but it was hidden and tenuous. The dominant harmonics were indicating to him that it was not even the same time framework and their cave was not even dug yet, not even one inhabitant had settled to create his village.

The vibration suddenly decreased to a tiny nudging in the rear of his head… he was feeling sleepy and Heckle and Jeckle were now winding themselves on the damp floor as if for sleeping. Irtak was feeling their attention move from this regional area slightly, accessing it from another angle. He sat down and realized that though it was humid, it was also warm and soothing.

He soon let his attention drift away, merged with these of his friends.

How restless that dragon is, thought Arona. Always shifting this or that, always talking in his damn riddles. She thought fondly of Buckberry, and how peaceful and content he seemed by comparison.

She was no longer sure where she was. She had gone over it a few times in her mind, but try as she might she could not make sense of Leormn’s cryptic explanations. Or that Malvina either, although at least she is a bit more pleasant about it.

Anyway, wherever it is, it feels a bit grey, she decided matter-of-factedly. And I am missing the others, even that grumpy Mandrake if the truth be told.

She closed her eyes and began to paint colours over the grey. She was not sure what to paint at first, so she just dabbed bright blobs of colour haphazardly onto her mind’s canvas. The colours began to run into each other and form shapes and it it seemed to her they wanted to take on a life of their own. So she let them, and it was not long before she found herself in a meadow of spring flowers.

That’s much better, she thought, taking a deep breath and lying back in the soft green grass.

As she lay there her mind drifted sleepily, butterfly thoughts every now and then resting on some bright petal in her field of flowers.

Just living is not enough, said the butterfly as it danced by her head, one must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower.

Oh! said Arona excitedly, recognising the words from a far away time, You must be the butterfly of the story! The one my grandmother used to tell me when I was a little girl in the Village.

Perhaps I am! danced the butterfly and it whirled and twirled and swirled in the sky.

Arona rolled her eyes in exasperation. Now you sound a bit like that wriggly dragon. A simple yes or no would suffice.

The butterfly landed on her nose. Now listen here you! Don’t go blaming me. I am YOUR imagination!

Oh good point Butterfly, said Arona graciously. She pondered a moment … Well in that case …

And next moment Mandrake, Vincentius and Yikesy were sitting in the meadow with her.

Oh THERE you are Missy, said Mandrake. Might have known you would be lying around in some spring meadow leaving Vincentius and myself to look after your little sprog. Tsk Tsk, he tutted.

hmmm, thought Arona, that’s not quite what I had in mind ..

I would have said it’s exactly what you had in mind, whispered the butterfly, fluttering by her ear and then off again until it disappeared into the field of colours.

Arona turned her attention to Vincentius and Yikesy, sitting a short distance away in the meadow. She noticed how smooth and golden Vincentius’ skin looked in the morning sunlight, and how deep and melodic his voice was as he told Yikesy one of his seemingly endless repertoire of stories. Imagining a gentle hug and a kiss on his sweet, but it had to be said incredibly ugly face, she sent Yikesy into a peaceful sleep.

Oh great idea, smiled Vincentius with a wink. What I had in mind all along really. Perhaps you could also imagine Mandrake chasing a field mouse or something?

I guess this falls under the category of syncs, though I’ve not yet found all of the implications of this yet…

In the various extremely interesting and profound articles I found while browsing the news this morning, I found an intriguing article (FR): “She punches a snake with her bare hands!”. (they could have say “with her bare feet!” or better, “with her bare tits!”, that would have sounded more dramatic, and would have sold best… those wannabe journalists )

Anyways, it tells the vibrant story of a woman named Ruth Butterwurth (sounds like our dear Mrs Butterbutt to me) who punched a python to rescue her kitty from its clutches (well no clutches really, fangs at best) of the monster.

The article (which was posted the 23 ^rd of March, at 14:23, while it’s seems relatively old news) gave a link to a flickr photo with… guess what was on the same page, besides the Nanapython?

A lemur, an antelope (looking a bit like a ) and a lynx too.

On the python article:

In Greek mythology Python was the earth-dragon of Delphi, always represented in the vase-paintings and by sculptors as a serpent. Pytho was the chthonic enemy of Apollo, who slew her and remade her former home his own oracle, the most famous in Classical Greece.

Mmm, Mrs Butterbutt and draggies?

Elizabeth Tattler had been taking the magic mooshrooms again. They had cost her $333 which she had thought was quite expensoove, but on reading the last paragraph of her latest horroor noovel, she knew it was money well spent.

By the end of the day, Bea had all but forgotten the strange dream snap-phrase. She climbed into bed and stretched her legs out between the cool crisp sheets with a contented sigh of pleasure. She picked up her dream journal from the bedside table and opened it at random:

Plenty of parking on the coastal regions of the self…

Must have been wild in Jamaica in the fifties….

Eye of Horus, Write it down! ……

One man went to mow a scattered lettuce…..

What! Bea sat up with a frown of consternation. A scattered lettuce! Singular! Not ‘scattered lettuces’, ONE scattered lettuce! I wonder if it matters? I wonder if all the interpretations were all wrong? Sheesh, what a silly mistake! I wonder if it MATTERS?!

IT MATTERS NOT, said the voice in her head, with an amused chuckle.

At the sound of the familiar voice, Bea relaxed, and smiling, fell into the other world of dreams.

When Franiel got to the crossroads the path turned abruptly to the left and plunged sharply down, past a crumbling and long-deserted stone cottage, to a little bridge built across a gently flowing river. Beyond the bridge there was a short ascent westwards through a thickly wooded area and then the way opened out rather suddenly. Such a pleasant and restful scene welcomed Franiel that for a moment he felt he may have entered a dream. The air was fragrant, the grass was sprinkled with daffodils and shaded by great chestnut trees. Confronting Franiel, at the south-west corner of the green, was a massive stone lych-gate. Beyond the lynch gate, and almost hidden by trees Franiel could see the roof of Chesterhope Manor.

In the day of judgment God be merciful to Derwent a sinner ……hehehehe. Well good riddance to God’s judgement! Begone God’s judgement! We’ve cheated the parson, we’ll cheat him again, for why should the vicar have one in ten ? Oh what’s this now then walking through the gate? A stranger! hehehehehe…tis one of God’s angels methinks, perhaps come to strike old Derwent down for his heathen ways and blasphemous tongue. Well does old Derwent even know what an angel looks like? and he chuckled in delight at the very idea of it.

You there! he shouted as Franiel drew close, Are you the angel Gabriel come as a messenger of God’s wrath? Or a wandering stranger come to pass the time of day with me?

Well neither really, said Franiel, although of the two possibilities I favour the second. I have come to have a word with Madame Chesterhope.

Madame Chesterhope! Does she still live here then? He lowered his voice reverently. A real angel that one, better than those biblical ones by a long shot. So you want a word in her ear. You will have to find it first of course.

Should I try the house? asked Franiel politely.

Try the house? Derwent rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. I tell you what! Try the magic mushrooms first, and when you’ve tried them, try the patience of Saint Derwent. He gave Franiel a kindly pat on the shoulder. Good on you for trying Lad, anyway. I’ll bid you farewell now and if you do find an ear, best keep it, a spare ear can always come in handy.

The room was chilly and silent when she awoke. The transition between her dream and the reality was like a cold shower on her aching body. It was still the middle of the night, even the guards were noiseless. She managed to bring her body close to the wall with the only window far above her head. Her thin clothes weren’t sufficient to keep the warmth into her flesh and she couldn’t restrain a shiver. How painful this could be after such a vivid dream.

She winced when one of her right thigh muscles decided to contract on its own and wouldn’t let go of the tensions. She tried to relax and breathe as deeply as she could, which made her cough repeatedly and that was even more painful. Still she could think. She was with that girl and her dragon again, Lola she was. Though that time the dragon was sleeping rather deeply. She could not blend her mind with her. The other was well shielded and she couldn’t communicate. Even her mind was a prison that she couldn’t communicate with her dream selfs.

There was that woman again, the Warrior Goddess, but they didn’t fight with her pupil as they usually did. She was more like a channel to another realm. Atiara could barely feel the presence of the others. They were too far in a way that she couldn’t comprehend.

Oh! Now she was remembering… hope.

After what had seemed hours of an exhausting fight with ghosts, the vividness of that dream had faded and she had found herself speaking with a young lad. What was his name? He was showing her different symbols, telling her that she had asked him in a dream once and that his friend Ewrick had now finished them. Yann had then showed her this set of symbols.

She had felt a different kind of power along with the smile of a blue man. Had she asked for this? She couldn’t remember. She had said to Yann that they were beautiful though she hadn’t the slightest idea of what they were. He had laughed and just said that she’ll know soon enough. And there was that guy behind Yann, with his mischievous look and his nine-tailed fox…

All she could hope was that she would remember the set. It seemed important. Well important enough that she had forgotten her painful body consciousness for a few moments. The coldness of the stone under her bare feet was bringing her back to her gray reality. The storm was now closer but still not ready to release its power. She was waiting for it.

yes, lots of triple numbers. I thought of you before Tracy, a bit later I checked the time on my phone, it was 5:55pm

picked up my book to read just now, first line was:

Terry closed his eyes and smiled serenely. “Do you know what he charges for one dose? Three hundred and thirty three dollars. He says it is his magic number”

(they are talking about a dose of a new drug which allows people to have the experience of travelling to different realms)

F:heart: (do you like my new signature ? I thought I could sign all my comments like this, Tracy came online just as I wrote that ahahahaha I bet she thinks it is )

Pondering the significance of his dream , Franiel set out again. It was the third morning since he had woken to find the chalice missing, and he was no closer to knowing where he was going. Yet he had taken the advice of the BBL and felt all the better for it in his spirit.

Morning! Franiel called a greeting to an old woman who was passing by, delighted to see signs of life, and wondering if it meant he was near a Village. Might I ask where you are taking that basket of eggs?

A good morning to you young man. Certainly you may ask, I am taking these into the Village Market to sell.

And where might that be, it is not the Village of Chard Dam Jarfon by any strange chance? asked Franiel, thinking nothing would surprise him anymore.

The old woman looked at him in astonishment. The Village of Chard Dam Jarfon! You surely have a very long journey before you if you are heading for the Village of Chard Dam Jarfon. No indeed, I am going to the Village of Chard Dut Jep, an hour or so from here.

Franiel considered this for a moment. And if I keep heading the way I am going, and from whence you have started, where might I be going?

The old woman hesitated and looked at Franiel with an odd expression in her dark eyes.

I am not sure if you want to do that, for this is a very long and lonely way you are heading. Unless you are going to the old Chesterhope mansion, and there’s not many who would do be doing that anymore.

How very interesting, said Franiel, rather intrigued. Is that where you have come from Old Woman?

The old woman gazed searchingly at Franiel for a moment before answering.

Aye it is, I work for Madame Chesterhope. I am the only one left now and it has been like that for many a long year, save for old Derwent of course, him who minds the gardens, but he’s not right in the mind that one and Madame keeps him on out of the kindness of her heart, said the Old Woman, and Franiel sensed some deep sadness in her voice, but in the next breath it was gone and he wondered if it was a trick of his mind.

Why don’t you come to the Village with me? she asked. Are you looking for work? There’s plenty would take on a fine young man such as yourself.

Would your Madame Chesterhope be looking for someone such as myself by any chance? asked Franiel, For I have nowhere in particular I am headed, and I am in need of some way of keeping myself. And as he spoke the words out loud he found himself wondering at them, yet he felt such an odd sense of anticipation inside himself, as though perhaps there was some new adventure to be had after all.

Again the old woman looked at Franiel appraisingly for a long time. Eventually she spoke.

When you get to the crossways turn left and keep heading that way for 2 miles till you see the Chesterhope sign. It’s an up and down path for a ways to get to the mansion from there. When you get there, it would be best to keep in mind all is not as it might seem. I will say no more and bid you farewell, for I have still got a ways to go.

Perhaps I will see you later then! Franiel called after her.

She turned and looked back at him. Perhaps.

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catching up…

After we introduced the Italian Arch-Agent Gabriel to the story, there was a story in our local paper on crime writers with two authors featured.

One of these was Quintin Jardine. The section started with the words:

“If there are such things as angels” the big detective whispered “that’s what they look like.”

The detective who spoke them was an Italian.

The other author featured, was French crime writer Fred Vargas, (who is a woman, also a renowned archeologist). I really enjoyed reading what she had to say in the article regarding her philosophy on life and writing.

The articles were edited by Finlay McDonald.

With some physical health problems which have reared their head the last little while I have also been aware of the number of “angels” in my life, in fact have sort of had a game where I call them angels to myself … the massage angel i met, the cafe angel etc etc etc. Mr X gave me the name of some people who do gardening, as the property was getting out of hand. They went well out of the way, and I was thinking how they were my gardening angels …. later they gave me their business card. Their business name is “Gardening Angels”

The book I picked randomly on my trip to Auckland is The Traveller I had not heard of it before but apparently it is a best seller and part one of a trilogy

There are aspects of it which sort of remind me of our story, travelers who travel between dimensions etc

John Twelve Hawks is the author, I think he is a recluse or something, nobody seems to know much about him.

website

I love T’s eggs falling from the sky synch .. it felt like abundance and magic

From Timbuktooh to old Perooh
She flooh. Said she: “Tooh much tooh dooh!”
T’was trooh, she knooh
T’would make her spyooh
The Ballyhooh and Bumbledooh

Elizabeth chuckled to herself. Wonder if that old fart Barash’ll publish that.

Elizabeth Tattler gazed at herself in the mirroor and sighed. Of course she was still stunningly bootiful, but since dear Eddie Foosher, her fourth husband, had decided to descend, she had lost the will to really care for herself. Day in and day out she had been focused on her writing, at first to ease the pain and loneliness, however increasingly she was finding real joy in her work. She looked lovingly towards the stoove where she was hardbooling a couple of mongoat oogs in preparation for some more Oogleton exploits.

She turned back to the mirroor. I really do have glorioos eyes she reflected, even if still a tad bloodshot. She remembered the one occasion she had met the philosopher Lemone, many years ago now. What was that little loomerick he had written for her?

Slowly it came back to her.

There was a Young Lady whose eyes,
Were unique as to coloor and size;
When she opened them wide,
Poople all turned aside,
And started away in surprise.

She smiled at the memory, how she would love to meet Lemone again! She remembered fondly how his air of kindly wisdom had far outshone his rather odd appearance and garish taste in cloothing.

Bea! Come and look at this! Blimey O’RILEY, I ‘ave NEVER seen anything like this is me life!

What’s up, Leo? Bea rushed over, rather unsteadily, slopping some gin down her clothes from the ever present glass clutched in her hand. Bloody ‘ell, Leo, what’re you doing looking at them crystal skulls again?

It’s not the bloody skulls Bea, it’s all these rhino beetles ! There’s a blimmen HERD of them in this trunk! All over the skulls!

Yeuch! exclaimed Beatrice, who was not particularly fond of insects. Better get the fly spray, hang on, I’ll fetch it.

YOU CAN’T DO THAT! shreiked Leo. They’re symbolic!

Symbolic of bloody WHAT?

Well, I ‘int worked it out yet, ‘ave I? But you mark my words, they’re symbolic!

Bea rolled her eyes, remembering the ‘symbolic ants’ she’d been obliged to endure all over the kitchen. Leo was losing touch with reality, Bea reckoned.

Symbolic they may very well be, however, I am NOT having them in my bed, she said firmly. What are we going to do?

Google it? suggested Leonora.

Good idea. I’ll google it; now you make sure those bloody things stay in the trunk, eh. If any of them escape and head for the beds, call me!