"Ms Wonder, you were right about the morning. One of the juiciest," I said.
"Absolutely," she replied.
"Spring and all that," I said.
"Yep," she said.
"I think I'll crawl into the Thai fisherman's pants and go to the Park for some pastoral dancing," I said heading for the clothes closet.
I don't know if you have the same feeling on those days around the beginning of April when the sky's a light blue, the clouds are cotton wool and the breeze blows lightly from the west. It's an uplifting feeling that makes you pause to reflect that life is good.
Well, if you do have that feeling, then take some advice from me. Be very, very careful because Fate is hiding in the bushes with plans to do you dirt. But let's stick to the subject and not be distracted by the skulduggery that is Fate.
I slipped into the upholstery of a country qigong master and attired for the energetic arts, en plein air, if that's the phrase, I toddled back into the bedroom just in time for the first of those blasted text messages.
"Oh, no," I said when I'd read it. "Wonder, you remember Cousin Gwyn, who lives with Aunt Maggie in Crystal Cove."
"Oh sure," she said.
"You wouldn't speak in that light, carefree tone if you knew what's in the text. The curse has come upon me again, Poopsie. Gwyn tells me that Aunt Maggie wants me to stop by the ancestral home on the way to Chattanooga next week. My mother must have told her I was headed in that direction. I'd hoped to keep it secret."
To people who don't know the CSI version of the story, it is difficult to make clear why I avoid this X-marks-the-spot place in the North Carolina Blue Ridge. Most people know of it, if they know of it at all, as a primo outdoor recreational area. White-water rafting, trout fishing, music festivals, and all of this embowered, if that's the word, in the beautiful, balsam-fir high country. This is the surface-level glamour that most day-trippers encounter.
For the denizens and relatives like me, the Cove has a darker, murkier underbelly. The place is bursting with witches, druids, and shamans--pagans, the lot of them. Not that there's anything wrong with the Pagani, or whatever it was the Romans called them. Paganize until your eyes bubble, if that's what suits you, but I have a medical concern.
"Oh, no," I said when I'd read it. "Wonder, you remember Cousin Gwyn, who lives with Aunt Maggie in Crystal Cove."
"Oh sure," she said.
"You wouldn't speak in that light, carefree tone if you knew what's in the text. The curse has come upon me again, Poopsie. Gwyn tells me that Aunt Maggie wants me to stop by the ancestral home on the way to Chattanooga next week. My mother must have told her I was headed in that direction. I'd hoped to keep it secret."
To people who don't know the CSI version of the story, it is difficult to make clear why I avoid this X-marks-the-spot place in the North Carolina Blue Ridge. Most people know of it, if they know of it at all, as a primo outdoor recreational area. White-water rafting, trout fishing, music festivals, and all of this embowered, if that's the word, in the beautiful, balsam-fir high country. This is the surface-level glamour that most day-trippers encounter.
For the denizens and relatives like me, the Cove has a darker, murkier underbelly. The place is bursting with witches, druids, and shamans--pagans, the lot of them. Not that there's anything wrong with the Pagani, or whatever it was the Romans called them. Paganize until your eyes bubble, if that's what suits you, but I have a medical concern.
You see the levels of background magic in a place where you can't bung a brick without hitting a magician, is so high that...well, let's just say that I'm allergic. The stuff clings to me like static. It builds to a critical mass and then, pop! there's a loud report in the vicinity of the Genome and bits of reality fill the air like confetti.
Give it a miss, I hear you thinking, but how the devil can I? This Mary Magdalene is my last surviving aunt and an aunt who had a lot of input into the Genome that I've become. When she issues a direct order, I must obey. I am a slave to duty in her regard.
"I wonder what she wants with me," I said.
"I couldn't say but I suggest that you wear your Hawaiian shirts while there," said The Wonder.
"Yes, good idea. I need to have as much joie de vivre as I can muster," I said. Ekaterina, pardon my using her formal name, continued with suggestions intended to fortify me against the ravages of magical tinkerings, such as morning meditation, qigong, walks in the sun, and other such well-intended rot until I couldn't take it any longer and tore myself away to inventory the manly outerwear of Hawaii.
"Excuse me," Ms Wonder said as I was carrying yet another shirt to the window for consideration. "You don't plan to take that shirt do you?"
"Of course, I'm going to wear it."
"I wouldn't advise it," she said.
"Why on earth not?" I said.
"The effect," she said, "it's loud to the extreme."
I turned to face her squarely. No one knows more than I the mastermind, this daughter of the Russian... whatever, never mind that now. It was I who was heading into the valley of the 600 and it was I who needed to gird the loins...what's that phrase, oh just forget it. You know what I mean. I wanted that shirt. Nothing else could buck me up like a red and yellow hibiscus on bold palm fronds.
"I need this shirt, Poopsie, nothing else in the arsenal has the same impact."
"Nevertheless," she said.
"Wonder," I said, "I am feeling low-spirited and I will need all the cheering I can get. My mind is made up." I raised myself to my full height and gazed down from lazy eyelids. I'm sure Napoleon would have done the same.
"Fine," she said but she meant nothing of the kind.
Upsetting, that's what it was. If there's one thing a fellow needs when he's facing the firing squad, it's the support of the family. And I was feeling somewhat adrift, or abandoned, or what is it? Oh, yeah, I was feeling more or less that nobody loved me.
Having nothing to gain from hiding the facts, I put my feelings on the line. I explained that although I understood her views on tunics and other torso coverings, I was in dire straights--though I don't fully understand the meaning of dire straights, I'm sure it applies in the current circs--and what I needed from her now was more of the rally round spirit.
She stood for a while in deep thought and I could see that my words had the desired effect.
"Then on consideration," she said, "I have a suggestion that may enable you to extricate yourself from the embroilment."
"Does that mean you have a solution?" I asked.
"I suggest that you consider packing immediately..."
"That's no help."
"...and leaving for California."
I stared at the woman. Had I heard her correctly? California? Could it be that her superb brain had come unhinged? I could think of no other explanation.
"It sounded to me like you said, California," I said.
"That's right," she said.
"California?"
"California," she said. "Consider that California is 3000 miles from Crystal Cove."
"What!" I said finally getting the gist. "Not that far."
"Somewhat less," she said, "but for all practical purposes..."
"Yes, I see," I said. "For all practical purposes. Yes, this suggestion is not too big and not too small. Poopsie, I've always said there is none like you--none. You stand alone. Are you sure you're not descended from the Romanovs?"
"I'm certain," she said.
"Well, no matter, the Orlovs were the masterminds responsible for bunging Catherine to the top of the Russian imperial rainbow, so no little wonder that you possess the brainpower."
"But I'm not descended from the Orlovs," she said.
I could make no sense of this whatsoever. I myself have read her ancestral family records and I didn't hesitate to remind her of this.
"I distinctly remember that Count Alexei Orlov figured into the story. He being the breeder of the Orlov Trotter, a horse known for outstanding speed and stamina, and also the Russian Wolfhound, a dog known for whatever they're known for. They're big, I know that. And I believe there was a chicken in there somewhere although I seriously doubt that a breeder of horses and wolfhounds would scarcely waste time with chickens."
"The story," she said, with absolutely no story-telling flair, "is that my ancestor was a housemaid in the employment of Count Orlov and negotiated with him to get out of dog walking duties."
"Walking the wolfhounds, you mean?"
"Precisely," she said.
"Oh, I see," I said. "Yes, I think I remember something about that now. Sorry for the mixup."
"Not at all," she said.
"Still, Wonder, you are remarkable. I wonder if your head sticks out in the back just to make room for that brain."
"Thank you, I think," she said.
"Not at all," I said.
Give it a miss, I hear you thinking, but how the devil can I? This Mary Magdalene is my last surviving aunt and an aunt who had a lot of input into the Genome that I've become. When she issues a direct order, I must obey. I am a slave to duty in her regard.
"I wonder what she wants with me," I said.
"I couldn't say but I suggest that you wear your Hawaiian shirts while there," said The Wonder.
"Yes, good idea. I need to have as much joie de vivre as I can muster," I said. Ekaterina, pardon my using her formal name, continued with suggestions intended to fortify me against the ravages of magical tinkerings, such as morning meditation, qigong, walks in the sun, and other such well-intended rot until I couldn't take it any longer and tore myself away to inventory the manly outerwear of Hawaii.
"Excuse me," Ms Wonder said as I was carrying yet another shirt to the window for consideration. "You don't plan to take that shirt do you?"
"Of course, I'm going to wear it."
"I wouldn't advise it," she said.
"Why on earth not?" I said.
"The effect," she said, "it's loud to the extreme."
I turned to face her squarely. No one knows more than I the mastermind, this daughter of the Russian... whatever, never mind that now. It was I who was heading into the valley of the 600 and it was I who needed to gird the loins...what's that phrase, oh just forget it. You know what I mean. I wanted that shirt. Nothing else could buck me up like a red and yellow hibiscus on bold palm fronds.
"I need this shirt, Poopsie, nothing else in the arsenal has the same impact."
"Nevertheless," she said.
"Wonder," I said, "I am feeling low-spirited and I will need all the cheering I can get. My mind is made up." I raised myself to my full height and gazed down from lazy eyelids. I'm sure Napoleon would have done the same.
"Fine," she said but she meant nothing of the kind.
Upsetting, that's what it was. If there's one thing a fellow needs when he's facing the firing squad, it's the support of the family. And I was feeling somewhat adrift, or abandoned, or what is it? Oh, yeah, I was feeling more or less that nobody loved me.
Having nothing to gain from hiding the facts, I put my feelings on the line. I explained that although I understood her views on tunics and other torso coverings, I was in dire straights--though I don't fully understand the meaning of dire straights, I'm sure it applies in the current circs--and what I needed from her now was more of the rally round spirit.
She stood for a while in deep thought and I could see that my words had the desired effect.
"Then on consideration," she said, "I have a suggestion that may enable you to extricate yourself from the embroilment."
"Does that mean you have a solution?" I asked.
"I suggest that you consider packing immediately..."
"That's no help."
"...and leaving for California."
I stared at the woman. Had I heard her correctly? California? Could it be that her superb brain had come unhinged? I could think of no other explanation.
"It sounded to me like you said, California," I said.
"That's right," she said.
"California?"
"California," she said. "Consider that California is 3000 miles from Crystal Cove."
"What!" I said finally getting the gist. "Not that far."
"Somewhat less," she said, "but for all practical purposes..."
"Yes, I see," I said. "For all practical purposes. Yes, this suggestion is not too big and not too small. Poopsie, I've always said there is none like you--none. You stand alone. Are you sure you're not descended from the Romanovs?"
"I'm certain," she said.
"Well, no matter, the Orlovs were the masterminds responsible for bunging Catherine to the top of the Russian imperial rainbow, so no little wonder that you possess the brainpower."
"But I'm not descended from the Orlovs," she said.
I could make no sense of this whatsoever. I myself have read her ancestral family records and I didn't hesitate to remind her of this.
"I distinctly remember that Count Alexei Orlov figured into the story. He being the breeder of the Orlov Trotter, a horse known for outstanding speed and stamina, and also the Russian Wolfhound, a dog known for whatever they're known for. They're big, I know that. And I believe there was a chicken in there somewhere although I seriously doubt that a breeder of horses and wolfhounds would scarcely waste time with chickens."
"The story," she said, with absolutely no story-telling flair, "is that my ancestor was a housemaid in the employment of Count Orlov and negotiated with him to get out of dog walking duties."
"Walking the wolfhounds, you mean?"
"Precisely," she said.
"Oh, I see," I said. "Yes, I think I remember something about that now. Sorry for the mixup."
"Not at all," she said.
"Still, Wonder, you are remarkable. I wonder if your head sticks out in the back just to make room for that brain."
"Thank you, I think," she said.
"Not at all," I said.