With the aid of the holographic map, Irina, Mr R and little Greenie have been exploring the island.
The next day they found a crashed plane from Aeroflot, not very far from their own landing spot. It was half burried in the mud and covered in green mossy vegetation. The doors were open as an irresistible invitation to enter.

“A surprise, Mr R. I thought that this place was on your map. If I remember well, it didn’t show such an object.”
“Forgive me, madam, indeed this plane wasn’t there when I triangulated the map I showed you.”
“You mean it’s fresh ?” Irina’s voice seemed to suddenly carry some interest. “Maybe we can find some survivors”, she added, already doubting it considering all the moss on teh metallic shell.
“I’m afraid we won’t, madam. I didn’t want to bother you with that little detail until I was sure. There are objects on this island that only appear after a certain date. Have you noticed it also happens with the vegetation and the insects ?”
Irina pouted, “I prefer leaving that to your expertise.”
“Of course, madam”, said the robot, affable. “The paradox is…”
“Another paradox ? How interesting.”
“…that it doesn’t seem to include us, or that little person.”
“Any idea what the implications are ?” Irina began to wonder if there was any danger of being stuck permanently on this island.
“I have several hypothesis”, he began, “The most probable is the lost room hypothesis. We arrived there through time space displacement and are not a natural part of this environment, hence we don’t change with its natural environment or inhabitants because we are not under it’s time sequence according to the Lehmon’s law.”

Irina pouted. She looked at little greenie and thought of the implications about how their new friend arrived there. Whenre did she come from ? For her to be a bog mummy, she must have been there a long time. Or did she arrived already bogged ?
Something caught her attention about the plane and distracted her of further thinking about the subject of their continuity risk in this place. The logo of the plane looked not so oldish.
“Mr R. ? What do you think the date of the crash was ?”
“The plane was lost in 2112.”

Without further thought about safety, she entered the plane, followed first by little Greenie as she have been calling her new protegee, and by the robot who despite still talking about technicalities of accidental space time crossing theory, had turned on his speleo lights.

Interestingly enough, Irina noted the clothes on the chairs or in the alleyways, here a pair of glasses, there a necklace, all layered as if the person wearing them had been puffed away.

“Well, well, what have we here ? The light Mr R, please,” said Irina with as much excitement as a snail. He obliged her with his usual professionalism, revealing a teal blue scarf with pistachio green spirals. She took the cloth and stretched it to have a better look. It was one of those artistic kind of hippy abstract patterns connecting you to the cosmos.
“I can’t think of anybody who would buy that thing, maybe she stole it from one of those duty free shops before they took off,” she said as petulantly as a pitfall trap.
“Come here little Greenie, it’s time to make you pretty.”

Irina did not have the chance to play with dolls when she was a kid, she didn’t know if she had some psychological lack or a bad doyle dating from that unremembered period of her life. She had compensated by toying with real people, playing with their emotions and deeper needs, or what they thought they needed. She became an expert at manipulating others, which gave her her first job in insurances, and then in the secret services. But then, she dealt with adults, showing emotions, or a certain level of brain activity. She wasn’t used to children stored in bogs.

She tried to put the scarf on Greenie’s head, and to smile like she had seen people do in the movies. Although something unexpected happened. Greenie became suddenly distressed and agitated. Then, she punched Irina in the face and began to mumble incoherent things.
That child is stronger than I thought. And at the same time, she noticed a name in that gibberish. Didnt she just shout : “I frigging love you, Sadie Merrie.”

“Her brainwave is showing unusual activity”, stated Mr R. “And my sensors indicate the presence has returned, with some friends. They just appeared outside of the plane.”

Igor snapped into a beehive.
He had no clue where or when he was,
so busy was he to escape the bees.

He wasn’t as good at antiporting
as that funny hussy Fanny.
The bitch! The beach! Bees don’t like water, he thought in his Russian mother tongue.

He didn’t dare open his mouth too wide,
Lest some of the inhabitants of the busy nest found a way inside.
Poor Igor, poor Pinkin, his body will always avoid bees.

This is a different kettle of fish altogether from my last diving experience, Consuela was thinking. Why, this is such fun, I can not resist exploring further. Bugger those elusive tentacles, I simply must see what’s around the next bend in this watery tunnel.
Right or left? she wondered when a side tunnel branched off. She had a vague idea that turning left was perilous, so she turned right, and shortly came to a junction of eight cave tunnels leading up, down and sideways. One of the tunnels had a sign over the entrance crafted from purple limpets, saying “Get Your Mermaid Shoehorns Here”. Another tunnel entrance had a sign made of artificially manipulated pink coral saying “Willy Wave’s Wigs ~ new tentacle and seaweed designs” which was tempting, but it was the “Bloater’s Floater Bar” that seemed the most attractive choice of the moment. Consuela was curious to meet the inhabitants of this unexpected world, and the enticement of a “free cork floating bums with your first plankton smoothie” was hard to resist.

meanwhile in South Africa, an alphabet slaughtering surge made landfall, scattering the inhabitants, celebrities and everyday heroes alike. Some suspected the elusive Wordblade

“Alliteration ascends the assonance of abseiling abstract aspects of anterior antiquities from ancient altars,
Bouldering down blocks of brooks that break the boring & bland borders of bondage,
And blinking through bleak and black boxes of brisk bravery.
Creeping into crops of crooked crocks with crotches of cockroaches cramming into cans of calamity, the crisp cat crackles the calling.
Dreaming of damning devils and demons dancing in droplets of dreary darkness drags the drunken diligence from the draught’s damnation,
Even the everlasting ethereal elves ebbed and eased into the effervescent eloquent estate of eternal elitism.

For the feeble and fumbling fatuous frontiers, the folly frolicked and fornicated with the familiar friend from foes’ fervent fevers;
Greater than gradient grand gestures of gestaltic granite grasses,
The gruesome grizzle grabbed the gore by the gripped grunting.
Higher than homelands of hands in horizons,
Heavens and Hells or Hades hazily hear the honing of the horses and horns-
In internal infernos of inflicting infringes of institutional insurrections Interrogations instigated imminent innate innovations.
Jacknives of jaundiced and jilted jokers jabbed at the jumping jingles of the jesting jackals that jet over jerseys of jeering,
For the Killer Krakens kelp the kites from kids who keep kaleidoscopes of kind and keen keepers.

Longer than languid lads that laze in lost latitudes the lieutenant lounged behind lines of lingering losses-
Maids mellowed around mazes of men and manners of mad moments and made for mates on mattresses on mothered matrimony.
Noisy & never-ending neckties on nests of nicked numbers never nominated the nurses that nosed the nuns for nuns’ nihilism
Beyond the Oligarchs of overt operations of obligating omnipotence ostracizing the omniscience & omitting its ownership to the omnipresent order.
Pilgrims to pentagons by people from poached & palpitated places of placards of propaganda pondered their positions in this power polarity
When quivering quills of quavering queens quelled the quarterly quests of the quaint quarrels.

Because roving rivers of raging ravines and raving reviews raced to the rest of the ripped rampant ravages and revelled at the rambling randomness
Structured subsiding and subsidized societies should string the strongholds of the supreme sultans of seeded senses.
Taking the trusty treaty the trussed toppled truants took the trickling ticking of time to the tables of trampled trees of timber,
For under the ubiquitous umbilical umbrellas of ultra-sounds from upper-level ulcers underground underworlds underestimated the union.

Vivid visions of voracious vampires of vexing vacuum vortexes vilified the vindicated vindictives from the violent vapid vanity
While wild & wily whiskers of whispered whisky whisked the wailing widows
From the wells of wanting when the wanton warriors walked on waters.
Yards of years of yearning the yesterday’s yonder yarns of yellow yolk yawned Into the youth’s yoked yams
For zigzags of zapped zebras to zip the zest in zealous zones.”

Petronella had attended many “Occupy Movement” gatherings- she was one of the first to shuffle eagerly to Wall Street when the Yankee Americans were finally awakened from their stupendous slumber, and when the Spanish were shouting “Viva la Revolucion!” she was silently there, capturing every movement with her Canon IX-25 14.0 Megapixel camcorder and reporting to the rest of the world the rumblings of the impending revolution. This occupation was different, felt different, and conducted in a different manner.

She dusted the dirt off the book, looked around to see if nobody spotted her picking the book up, and retreated back into her tent. She brew a fresh pot of coffee, bundled herself in her tiny, yet thick and warm blanket and set the book before her. It was an odd-looking book, none like the books she’d encountered- and she encountered many books! Its cover was plain, covered in a velvet cloth with the title written plainly and boldly on the cover: CANARIA. The name rang a distant bell, but she shook the afterthought and proceeded to open the book. As she opened the first page, another beam of bright energetic light- this time it was blue- swept past her like a hurried flock of bees. This was the fourth beam of light she’d witnessed in the past twelve hours, and she was beginning to think she was going crazy. What made the whole matter even more crazier was that these beams of light seemed to be WHISPERING AND GIGGLING, almost as though they were forlorn inhabitants of the vatican. She ignored the beam of light- yet again- and resumed with her book. Just then, a blip sounded from her tiny Lenovo notebook: Kerry had sent her an instant message on Facebook chat. Slightly chagrined, she leered over and grabbed her notebook, settling the book next to her. Kerry was offline, but she had left a link to a website. Petronella clicked onto the link, and an article popped up on the screen. She skimmed by, having little interest in Kerry’s New Age nonsense. She was just about to close the webpage when a sentence caught her attention: “When you practise remote viewing, you will be accorded a beam of light with its owwn colour that’ll identify with you.”
The mentioned beams of light the sentence mentioned were the same she’d been witnessing, so she silently read on.

“Yet another splendid piece of synchronicity!” The Leprechaun praised himself, while eyeing the delicious-looking chocolate cake with three layers of vanilla cream that simply willed itself into different flavours before his delighted, excited taste buds. Just as he was about to take his first bite into the scrumptious cake, a multi-coloured portal opened before his very eyes. Unsurprisingly, the host of elves, each in a different physical manifestation, jumped out of the portal and dusted the stardust off their garments.

“Mr Leprechaun,” one elf began. He took the form of a Spanish gentleman by the name of Raul Iniesta. “Raul” (as he will be called for the time being until he shifts shape) had long, black hair that he had no intention of bounding, instead allowing its blackness to flow freely upon his neck and over his shoulders like a nightly waterfall of moonlight and starry gazes. He had an almond-shaped face, and his skin was gently golden-brown, as if his physical birth took place on a beach at sunset. His eyes were sea-blue, glimmering gently in the luminescence of his own aura. He spoke in a gentle voice that was mightily influenced by a touch of spanish mixed with french accents.
“I see you have taken the form of a Leprechaun-” Raul stepped closer to observe the essence’s current physical. “How quaint.”
The Leprechaun dryly stared at Raul. “I don’t see anything wrong with my physical form Mr INIESTA,” he replied, placing emphatic strain on ‘Iniesta’. “Would it have made any difference if I were a flower?”
“If you were a flower you’d fit perfectly with my body of hair!” Raul exclaimed. The Tw’Elves laughed heartily at the joke, and an iridescent beam of energy simultaneously rose from their esoteric beings, giving forth a ray of happiness, albeit for a short while, towards the inhabitants of the sleeping dimension.

Whether or not Arachne was actually better at weaving than Athena is still a mystery, or perhaps it is a moot point and no mystery at all. Weaving is by no means a solitary endeavour, as Blithe found early one summer morning. The river mist was rising and the air itself was dancing in droplets. It was hard to determine if the droplets were falling or rising, or simply milling around on the air currents. Hard green oranges (clearly oranges had been named in winter, or they would likely have been called greens) were festooned with silver threads, linking orange to orange, orange to tree and tree to wire fence, and back again. It was debatable whether or not the individual spiders were aware of the grand overall design of the early morning web links of the orange groves, just as it was equally debatable whether or not the inhabitants of the various Gibber realities were aware of the network of waterpipes that connected the other inhabitants to themselves and each other, and to the other Gibber worlds. Individuals were individuals, whether they be spiders, or Gibblets, and individuals generally speaking were focused on their own part of the tapestry (and often those of their immediate neighbours). Spider 57 on the east fence might be positioned to catch the first rays of sunshine in the mornings, but Spider 486,971 over near the dung heap was in a better position to catch the afternoon flies. And so on, as somebody famous once said.

As Blithe prowled around the orchard capturing potential clues on her Clumera she inevitably became part of the laybrinthine web of sticky threads herself, as they attached themselves to her hair and clothing. All of the gaps between the solids in the field were joined together with spun filaments, just as the Gibblets were joined together with fun spillaments (although leaking waterpipes were sadly misinterpreted as not-fun all too often, despite that they could be used as an opportunity to view the connections of the Waterpunk more comprehensively.)

The individual spiders lacy parlours were framed in wire squares, several hundred, if not more, along the perimeter fences. Not every wire fence square was filled; there were many vacant lots between established residences ~ whether by practical design or mere happenstance, Blithe couldn’t say. Many of the individual webs were whole and perfect, like the windows of Lower Gibber whose inhabitants kept their lace curtains clean and neatly hung. Many of the webs on the wire fence were not perfect in the symetrical sense ~ some had gaping holes, and there were those that appeared to be unfinished, despite showing great potential. Others appeared to be abandoned, hanging in shreds, not unlike many of the residences in Upper Gibber.

The wire framed residences of the field (and likewise the peeling paint framed residences of Upper Gibber) that appeared to be defunct were not quite as they seemed, however. They were simply being viewed from a different timeframe. It was quite possible to view each wire or peeled paint framed en-trance side by side, notwithstanding that they were, so to speak, located in varying timeframes. All that was required was a more flexible viewpoint, and an ability to view more than one timeframe simultaneously. It was all a question of allowing an entrance to en-trance ~ which was, after all, its function.

{link: misty morning; entrance}

The entrances to Faerie (and indeed to other alternate realities and dimensions) had been shrouded in disbelief for several centuries, but times were changing and the fog of scepticism was dissipating, evaporating like river mist on a hot summer morning. Looking for the entrances deliberately, Blithe found, wasn’t the most efficacious method. Sat Nav alone would be unlikely to reveal them, unless the locating device was used in conjunction with impulse and intuition. Any device and method could be used effectively when combined with random impulse, even Google Earth or Google Moon. Blithe’s friend and colleage Dealea Flare was making good use of this device on her travels, using it as a personal non physical airline and space shuttle service. Dealea could get from A to B and back again in no time at all, or even from A to well beyond Z and back again in no time at all using this device in conjunction with impulse and large dose of intention and focus. Blithe had the impulse down pat but still had difficulty with the focus, which was largely a case of having too many intentions at once, most of them somewhat vague.

The more random and impulsive Blithe was, the better her investigations went, often leading her into a new and exciting exploration which may or may not be linked to the current intention. Such was the case when she went on a mundane shopping trip to the Rock of Gibber. As she sat sipping coffee at the Counterpart Cabana sidewalk cafe listening to the locals conversing in Gibberish, she noticed the extraordinary tangle of pipework on the building opposite. It reminded her of the steampunk world she had been investigating in her spare time. The text book steampunk world was intriguing to say the least, but rather grim, and tediously full of victims and fear. The inhabitants always seemed to be running away from someone. The steampunk world she was beginning to sense in Gibber was quite different in that it was a sunny cheerful alternate reality held together with a vast labyrinthine network of water pipes, scaffold, and connecting cables.

Blithe paid for her coffee and strolled off, noticing more and more scaffolding and tangles of pipes as she climbed the warren of narrow winding streets. The air was different the higher she climbed up the winding uneven steps, the sunlight was sharper and the shadows denser, and there was a crackling kind of hush as if the air was shimmering. Cables festooned the crumbling shuttered buildings like cobwebs, and centuries of layers of crackled sun faded pastel paint coated the closed doors. Open doors revealed dark passageways and alleys with bright rectangles of light glowing in the distance, and golden dry weeds sprouted from vents and windowsills casting dancing shadows on the uneven walls.

The usual signs of life were strangely absent and present at the same time; an occasional voice was heard from inside one of the houses, and there were pots of flowers growing here and there, indicating that a human hand had watered them with water from the pipe network. There was no music to be heard though, or any indication that the cable network was in use, and there were virtually no people on the streets. A lady in a brilliant blue dress who was climbing the steps from Gibber Town below paused to chat, agreeing with Blithe who remarked on the peaceful beauty of the place. The lady in blue said “Si, it’s very nice, but there are many steps, so many steps. If you are coming from below there are SO many steps!”

There was a boy watching a white dog watching an empty space on the pavement, so Blithe stopped to watch the boy watching the dog watching nothing. Eventually Blithe inquired “What is he looking at?” and the boy shrugged and continued to watch the dog watching nothing. Blithe watched for a little while, and then wandered off. A small child was giggling from inside a doorway, and a mothers voice asked what he was laughing at. The child was looking out of the door at nothing as far as Blithe could see.

As the sun climbed higher, Blithe began to descend into Gibber town, winding and weaving through the alleys, wondering how she had failed to notice this place half way up the Rock until now. She came to a crumbling wall with a doorway in it that looked out over the bay beyond the town below. This must be one of the entrances, she deduced, to this alternate world in Gibber. “Entrance”! Blithe had a revelation. “I never noticed that the word ENtrance and enTRANCE are spelled the same.” Later, back at the office, Frolic Caper-Belle said she thought it was probably a very significant clue. “I’ll file that in the Clue Box, Blithe”, she said.

{link: entrance}

There was trouble in New Peasland. A plague of hungry blubbits had wiped out the pea crops. Peas being the main staple in New Peasland, usually mixed with marmite and made into a tasty sauce, meant that the future looked grim for the increasingly hungry New Peaslanders.

In desperation it was decided to send a volunteer through the portal to the Eigth dimension, where it was rumoured that the inhabitants were kind hearted but rather directionless and random, and would no doubt be happy to be given some pea producing purpose.

The Great White Botherbrood were gathered at the Great White Detention Halls in the Alter Skye. Hilarionella was leading a chorus of Ascend With Me; the congregation of misfits and miscreants, scallywags and rebrobates joined in the uplifting melody, hoping, no doubt, to ascend the Great White Stairway to The Circle of The Eighth Heaven. A little known fact was that the doors were open to anyone, although not many people knew that. A feast of watermelon awaited them at the Table of The Ascended Party Fillers, headed by that charming old scoundrel, Saint Toblerone of Germaine. That batty old coot Hoomy was Head Waiterless, which meant there was no need to wait for a table when one arrived at The Circle of The Eighth Heaven, which was just as well, all things considered.

Telless was waiting patiently for the Watermelon Party to start, having recently been cured of the lisp that had plagued him for centuries, an unexpected side effect of the Less Telleth More course he had eventually completed, despite being inundated throughout the semester with More, rather than Less, translations to unravel and decipher.

The tables, the watermelon, and other sundries had been procured with the aid of the enigmatic E. Baynoch, whose 21st century mission was to put a spanner in the works, so to speak, of the tightly held exchange mechanism currently ruling the Dense Dimension. He felt it was a key part of the Great Tilt that the inhabitants of the Dense Dimension were experiencing, and had set plans in motion for a new kind of online system in which receiving without exchange was the key factor. An interesting side effect of the new system would be that everyone could get rid of any old rubbish easily, once differences in perception were regarded in a favourable and usefully practical light.

Lady Paula Adoremyanus, not surprisingly, would be providing rest room facilities, providing soothing energy for those who had over-indulged in the spicy Kwan Yin Chow Mein at the Tables of the Feast of The White Parrot. Having a thousand arms was obviously a great help in her work, considering the quantity of hot spices in the Kwan Yin Chow Mein, and the popularity of her Soothing Energy Rest Rooms.

Professor Gub smiled kindly at the young student. It was a common trait of the individuals in this dimension that they needed endless repetitions of information before they could assimilate it, and Prof Gub assumed that this was simply another example of the density of the inhabitants. It hadn’t occured to him that his words weren’t clear enough, as in his own dimension, the words were always accompanied by the clarity of the energy of the meaning behind the words.

“The assignment is to explain the symbolic significance of a statue of Walter Melon with pigeons sitting upon it. “ he explained. “Simple and profound, lengthy and convoluted, the choice is yours.”

Turning to Lavender, he asked “Are you understanding?”

“Oh yes, thank you, now I am” replied Lavender politely. The student sitting next to her, the enigmatic and dashingly handsome Dieter had helpfully passed her a note with Prof Gub’s words translated into plain English.

As soon as Anadron noticed the signal, he sent an energy thread to his friend Goldarny. The whole community was buzzing in the collective innernet of Asaris, the signal couldn’t have been clearer. It was one of the legendary devices sent to this world a few centuries ago. There were originally 9 of them. One had been broken or “lost”. The eight other devices had been silent for many years, and the Asarisi had thought the knowledge of these devices had been lost by the inhabitants.

Among many collective threads and more private ones, Anadron and Goldarny were exchanging energy.

The device had been lost for so many years that the Council had suspended the explorations to this world many years ago. Following the Salitre Massacre, their policy was if they were not contacted first they would not interfere. One of the eight remaining skulls had been almost activated for communication. Not quite yet. So they would not send anyone.

Both friends were thinking the same thing. Andrimiñ was currently away in another dimension, one with many portals… could he loose his way home? They were both quite novice at these explorations and they were indeed curious, very curious.

What was considered a green star was shining upon the land of Nerumyil, giving the purple sand of the beaches some shimmering magpie shades. Falghrus had been observing the human since one of the Daughters of the Sea had brought him here. He couldn’t see any reason for her action… The Zentauras were discrete and respectful creatures… mostly respectful of one’s position in the society, and Falghrus was not one of the few Ambassadors of his People. Interfering would have been very misplaced. All he could do was send a magpie to alert the Council, and it would decide the right thing to do.

One of his first reactions would have been to kill the man. None of them was allowed in this territory. Nerumyil had been hidden to their perception long ago. If that creature of the Sea hadn’t brought him here, he could never have reached the beach on his own. He had respected his position until now, though he had tried to dissuade the man to stay longer with his mental abilities. He was one of the Gatherer, but he had a few skills that he could have developed if he had chosen the path of a Healer.

But that creature again had warned him, almost breaking the rule. The man was under her protection.
The beach was a neutral territory. Between the Land and the Sea, no soul should be harmed. This was usually respected between the Zentauras and the People of the Sea. The humans were not part of this rule. And Falghrus had them in particular distaste.

This one seemed quite weak. He would have helped him end his suffering without the protection she had decided to accord to him so graciously. But he won’t stop his observation… he would find a way.

He did recall his name in a dream. Jarvis.
A strange dream actually.
There was that woman… whose name he couldn’t recall though.
Her face was beautiful but he hadn’t felt any sexual attraction toward her… it was different, like he knew her.
Well, with his memory loss, he possibly knew her, someone close assuredly.
She was asking questions about this land he had beached on… and in the dream it appeared he knew many details, again that he couldn’t recall now he was awake.
It was more like a legend, not facts.
But now it was quite real to him.
It’s been 2 days since he opened his eyes on this purple beach, and he’s been busy collecting driftwood to make a fire. He didn’t dare venture into the forest, and if the legends about the inhabitants of Kandulim were true, he wasn’t welcome here.

Wow he was feeling dizzy. His head was pounding repeatedly like one of the vangor drums. He dropped the twigs he had collected on the sand and took his head in his hands. The pounding was so loud that he began crying.

A flash, a soft feminine face surrounded by a fiery red hair and blue liquid eyes. She was smiling at him.
The pounding ceased at once, and he just had the time to see a movement in the forest. All was still now. His mind would suggest it was a hallucination fostered by that head ache… if his thoughts weren’t so scattered.

Who was in that vision? Who was in the forest?
Was it the woman in his dream?

He began to recall the strange vision he had before awakening on this beach.