Thank You, Lucy!

The sun appeared in the sky this morning like a poached egg, bright and warm and wiggly. The mists rose from the lowlands in gray and gold streamers, moist and ragged around the edges like the fading fragments of dreams.

I like to sleep late but never do, and this morning was no exception. I was up at 5:30, wandering around the lower levels of Chadsford Hall. It's a mindfulness technique, really. Walking around with attention focused on nothing—aimless. Still, I could sense the magic filling up the place.

It's nothing new to have magic in the air of the Hall; it's usually full of the stuff, but it's normally the old, comfortable sort of magic that's about as exciting as pilling a cat. The magic I felt rushing underneath the doorjambs was the new stuff, the newly minted variety fresh from the Source.

Not a good thing for me, new magic, that is. I'm allergic. Ms. Wonder says that everyone is allergic to magic. She says that's the point. But it's different for me. The general background magic that supports all thaumaturgic activity is harmless, but the new stuff clings to me like static. It builds to a critical mass, and then BANG! It's not pretty, and it never turns out well.

The distraction from bright, cold drafts of the stuff wafting about the rooms of the Hall, glistening like Empyrian electrum and shimmering with octarine green and blue, was too much for my aimlessness. I needed advice, and I needed it fast. I headed upstairs, where I heard gushing torrents of water filling a bathtub. "Poopsie," I said, "I need your advice. Rally 'round."

"What's up?" she said.

"What's up?" I said, "That's the point, isn't it? You know that new magic is rolling off the press even as we speak and that it's coming from Woodcroft?"

"I noticed," she said. "Are you puissant?"

This went right by me, of course. Puissant? Is that a word? What could she possibly mean by it? Must have something to do with magic. There was no time to muse on this mystery. I felt the need to get right down to it, so I gave her the best response I could.

"Probably not so puissant as you," I said, and I thought it pretty good. Don't you agree?

"That's sweet of you to say," she said, "and probably very true, but what is it you wanted to ask?"

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully. "You know that Gladdis..."

"Witch of Woodcroft," she interrupted.

"Yes, all that," I said, "but put that out of your mind for the nonce. Let me finish my thought, or I'll wander off the path. We can't afford distractions. You'll be leaving for work shortly, and where will I be then? Lost among the lilies, that's where.

"Lost among the lilies? Is that a saying?"

"Isn't it?"

"One of yours then," she said.

"Ah," I said because I'd lost the thread. "What was it we were talking about?"

"Something about Gladdis," she said.

"That's right. Gladdis has published the seminal installment of Rogue Star. Is seminal a word?"

"Seminal," she said, "or carrying the seeds that will develop into the fruit of the work."

"Wonder," I said.

"Yes?"

"What the hell are we going to do about it?"

"Do about it?"

"You know what I mean. How to stop the overflow of magic and all the strangeness that follows."

"Relax," she said. "I know this is one of Princess Amy's hot buttons, but everything will be OK."

"It will?"

"Of course, it will. Just take a deep breath and let life happen. Don't you remember Lucy once telling you that it's not your job to be in control of everything?"

"She did, yes, that's one wise kitten, Wonder," I said. "Well, she's no longer a kitten, but she was when she told me that. Animals have a certain wisdom, don't they?"

"Humans too," she said.

"Well, some humans," I conceded. "Thank you for reminding me, Poopsie, I feel much better now."

"Don't thank me; thank Lucy," she said. And so I did.

More Joy in the Morning

His response lacked any real enthusiasm and this got right by me. Why? That's the question I asked myself. Consider the circs I mean. 

Going about his business on what was presumably a typical day for a rock troll--he's a personal injury lawyer in Uberwald--and then Biff! without warning, he finds himself sitting here in my studio. 

You would think, wouldn't you, that he would rally round and support the team in doing something about it?

"Life comes hard and fast," I suggested in an attempt to make him appreciate the importance of our work--Abbie's and mine.

"And sometimes it takes us by surprise," he said.

"You took the words right out of my mouth."

"Sir?" he said and I remembered that English isn't his native tongue and he's not fully equipped with all the gags and wheezes in the language.

"I was just about to say that," I said.

"My concern," he said, "is that fighting the negative forces seems ill-advised. It's well known that struggling against magic, we become more entangled."

"Ah," I said, "having found a talking point. "We do not struggle. We do not fight."

"We?" he said.

"Abbie and I," I said.

Abbie sat up to receive the recognition.

"Yes," he said in a soupy sort of voice, "the cat."

Abbie squeaked and directed one cold eye in his direction. This cat is a weapon when annoyed and channels the ancient Irish hero, Chuhulain, when in fighting mode. When one eye becomes larger than the other and steam escapes from the seams, the wise observer gets into the lead-lined jacket.

"We don't oppose the Witch of Woodcroft," I explained. "She's full of good works. She pulls the elements of decay from our environment and uses them as compost to feed a garden of wholesome and healthy delights. It's all on her website.

"I don't consider it delightful to be pulled away from very important business with the court," he said.

"Yes, I fully understand," I said. "The dross of her distillation, if it is dross, accumulates to critical mass. Then a loud report is heard and something that would rather not, pops in or pops out of one world and into another.  Like you. It's all very disturbing."

"You'd go so far as that would you--disturbing? Well, what can you possibly do about it?"

"That's where our plan comes into play," I said and Abbie Hoffman, who seemed to have calmed somewhat, stopped washing a paw and gave Feldspar another warning look to make it clear that he would harbor no backtalk about cats.

 "We will intercept the dross as it accumulates and replace the negative charge with a positive one--an effect greatly to be preferred because it will be healthful and enjoyable."

"How do you intercept the accumulation of dross?" he said.

"Ah, there you have me. It's something that Abbie Hoffman does but it's a trade secret and known only to him. But intercept it he does and then we use the raw material of it, he and I, to build a humorous story and then have a laugh. You can't be hurt by something that makes you smile."

"That sounds like Fierce Living," he said. "It's the solution you write about for managing runaway emotions. You're writing a book, aren't you? Is it finished?"

"Almost," I said. "Thank you for asking and yes, I am talking about Fierce Living. It works on everything. It's unbounded; it's wild and free; it's as wide as the sky and as deep as the sea. Why don't you join us, Feldspar? It will be like old times. We will make a team of three and nothing can stop us."

"Well," he said, and then looking at Abbie he added, "I don't know."

Abbie sat bolt upright at this, leveled a gaze at the troll and began washing the right paw with the intention, no doubt, of being prepared to deliver another single whip or possibly a repulse-the-monkey or a white-crane-spreads-her-wings. I'm sure you would know better than I.

Then suddenly Abbie Hoffman jumped down from the desk and approached Feldspar. I wondered if he was advancing to attack but then realized he was sniffing the chair. It was at this very moment that I noticed a distinctive odor.

"What is that smell?" I said.

"When the curtain between the worlds was rent," began Feldspar, "I was meeting with a gaggle of goblins and I fear that one of them fell through with me and I inadvertently sat on him."

"A goblin is beneath you?" I said leaning forward to get a better look.

"I'm afraid it's true," he said.

"Shouldn't you let him up?"

"On no account will I be responsible for releasing a goblin into your world. Remember the Middle Ages, sir."

"Right," I said. "So when you pop back home, he will pop back with you, is that it?"

"We can only hope, sir."

"I'm never going to get the smell out of that chair."

"I suggest burning it," he said.

When Morning Comes

Life comes hard and fast and I don't know about you, but it sometimes takes me completely by surprise. I still remember exactly where I was and what I was doing back in the day, when Steven Hawking, The Most Brilliant Physicist in the World, admitted that black holes don't exist. 

You could have knocked me down with a feather. I mean just what the hell are we to do now? It's another blatant example of one damned thing after another.

Sifu Abbie Hoffman

The cat Abbie Hoffman is just as concerned as I am about the chaos and absurdities of life. He's with me now on the desktop, sitting on my keyboard, and editing the work as I write. Even at this early hour, before dawn, we're fully dressed, he in his formal attire of white tie and tails, and I in my cargo pajamas. 

We make a good team and it makes me feel better to know that I'm not the only one who feels that the present circs are too tight for comfort. 

We were awakened this morning, Abbie and I, like everyone else in the Renaissance District of the SoDu, at 10 minutes past 5:00 by the ubiquitous tornado warning. 

Like everyone else we rose, gathered up Ms. Wonder and the rest of the furry tribe, and bunged them all into the bathtub for safety. However why the bathtub seemed safe is something that escapes me. 

I try to remember the bilge we were taught in school about bathtubs and the only thing I remember is that Archimedes made that discovery, whatever it was, while playing with baking soda in the bath. Was it baking soda? The details escape me.

We were told he shouted, "Eureka!" and danced around a good bit, flooding the floor and no doubt sending water out into the hallway. And we were supposed to believe that the excitement was caused because he'd discovered the principle of displacement. 

That's right, we're supposed to believe that he discovered displacement in the bathtub. And yet we know, pay attention because the punchline is coming. We know that bathtubs were invented in ancient Egypt several BC's before Archie and we're supposed to believe that no one noticed displacement in all that time? Get real.

But let's get back to the present, shall we? Here's Occum's razor to explain the morning weather. (Look it up. It's spelled Occum's razor.) 

What the National Weather Service picked up on radar was not a tornado but a wind vortex created by the Witch of Woodcroft. It was intended to suck the sick spiritual energies from the environment and transform them into something good for society. She does it all the time. Becoming a nuisance.

No wonder the NWS is confused. The Witch of W. means well--she does, I don't deny it. But, her work often brings unintended results. Don't worry. Abbie Hoffman and I are hard at work to restore the natural balance. 

As I sat back to admire my work, I noticed that Abbie was staring out the window. Dawn peeked timidly over the edge of the horizon in the far distance. No doubt She's unsure of what to expect from the weather, it being one of the dark and loud species of weather this morning. 

Apparently, Dawn puts little credence in the promise that "...weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." If She intends to continue in the role of Herald of the New Day, then She's going to need some bucking up. 

After all, the Sun can't make his appearance on stage with Dawn's introduction. It would be like discovering the principle of displacement with bathtubs.

Abbie made a little noise deep in his throat and I wondered if he shares my resentment toward the Sun for being absent when he's needed most. A fair-weather friend, the Sun, in my opinion. I'm happy to have that howler of a storm out of the way but I'm not sure that I'm ready to welcome the sun with open arms just yet. I forgive, really I do, but I don't do it quickly. 

Dawn and the other half of the morning sketch, the Sun, need to get their act together. It's another opinion shared by my tuxedoed feline friend and me.

The light suddenly became brighter in my office and Abbie jumped from the desktop to the chair near the window. He huddled down, making himself as small as possible in the way that cats do, and he peeked over the window sill. 

Sunlight was slowly working its way across the fields and woodlands from the east. The sun was smiling in that smug, self-satisfied way it has at the beginning of the day. It eased itself up the drive and began climbing the wall. Inch by inch, the light moved closer to my office window. At last, it peered inside, still smiling, and softly entered the room.

It was exactly the Bruce Lee moment that Abbie was waiting for.

Abbie Hoffman, having recently been certified as a master of taiji ch'uan, executed a lightning-quick single whip, if it was a single whip, and the Sun lay cowering on the floor while dawn fell backward onto the grass in front of the garage. It was as beautiful a single whip as I've seen.

Abbie looked down on Dawn with lazy eyelids as though it were normal to see Her spread-eagled on the lawn. He turned an inquiring gaze toward me and I returned a look to say that I understood completely. 

It couldn't be helped. It was a thing that needed doing and he, with his impeccable credentials, was the man to do it. Now we could forgive.

While I was congratulating him on a job well done, I became aware that his attention was arrested, if that's the word, by a shimming light that illumined the center of the room. Abbie Hoffman was staring into that light with wild surmise--much like the one worn by stout Cortez and his men when they first glanced at the Pacific.

"Well," I said to the specter, "we know you're here. You might as well show yourself."

And with those words, a large face materialized in the center of the room. The features shimmered and glittered in the morning light. When he recognized who I was, he smiled sending little sparkles flashing around the room like tiny fireworks."

"I apologize for the intrusion," said the Sun.

"No need," I said, "it's not your fault nor ours. I credit all this ranygazoo to the Witch of Woodcroft."

Abbie concurred, or he mumbled something that seemed to indicate agreement with my assessment. He rarely disagrees with me. We march in lockstep most days.

"She's off the wagon again!" said the Sun. "I thought 30 days in rehab..."

"I think it will require something stronger than a 12-step program," I said. "But Abbie Hoffman and I have an idea and now that you're here, we no longer need to let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would'."

"Who's Abbie Hoffman?" he said.

"The cat in the adage," I said nodding toward Abbie.

"Oh," said the Sun, but not with any real conviction. "Well, I suppose I should get back into the heavens. Lots of people expecting it."

"I suppose so," I said, "although I don't know why. So many millennia without missing a day. I'd think that the odds are in favor of taking a day off."

And that pretty much sums up our morning. Even if some of the facts were mangled in the telling, the gist is there. The morning, as usual, swept away the weeping of the night and Joy now reigns supreme.

    

Feline Accomplice

I read the introductory paragraph from The Rogue Star website to my spiritual mentor, Feldspar, so that he would understand that the Witch of Woodcroft writes some praise-worthy stuff.

                                            

"There, did you feel the earth shake?" I asked.

"Hardly, sir." he said, "I feel that you're suffering a manic episode brought on by Princess Amy."

Oh, you know about her, do you?" I said.

"I read your blog from time to time."

"Oh? I didn't know you liked my blog."

"I wouldn't go that far, sir. I read it to keep up with your um...."

"Lifestyle?" I offered.

"Close enough," he said.

"Why don't you like my blog?"

"Really, sir, it's not my place..."

"No! I insist. If you're going to be my mentor, there must be no secrets. Spill it!"

"Well, forgive me sir, but I see it as an immature production, lacking in significant form. My own tastes lie more in the direction of Dostoyevsky and the great Russians."

"Fine, whatever," I said,  trying to avoid the Russian motif, because Ms. Wonder, that descendent of Count Gregory Orlov, was somewhere about the premises and might sail in like a brigantine running before the gale if she heard the words, great Russians.

"Feldspar, it's not my limbic system that's causing the ranygazoo. It's the witch herself. She suggested to me in a text message, that by writing more I could change my world. She said that it was key to the fulfillment of my fate, which, according to her, mirrors the story of the plaster Buddha."

"Plastic, Buddha!" called Ms Wonder from somewhere down the hall.

"It's plaster!" I called back.

"Gladdis Lyremark Ironarrow," I said to Feldspar, "is a witch who lives in a north-facing cave. She stays home a lot; you don't bother her, she won't bother you. But when a baby in a backpack, a pair of mismatched children, and an invisible sorcerer accidentally wander into her domain--well, enough said I think."

"A story that may appeal more to the theater-going crowd," said Feldspar. "but I'm at a loss to understand why you object to it so strongly."

"Not against it," I said.

"No?"

"Certainly not. All for it, in fact. It's the collateral damage that I'm concerned about. Every time she writes about Gladys, strange things happen to me."

"But why should that be?"

"I was hoping you might have an idea."

"Are you suggesting that her writing is somehow interfering with your destiny?"

"That's right. You have a lightning-fast brain, Feldspar. I'm also suggesting that the three of us are just the people to do something to stop it, if a rock troll, a human and a cat can be grouped collectively as people."

"Mybbthh," said Abbie Hoffman, the tuxedoed feline accomplice that sat astride my computer keyboard.

"It is futile to rage against the darkness, sir," said Feldspar. "Light can't exist without it. We would not see the beauty of the stars without the dark of space behind them."

"Preeeek!" said Abbie Hoffman, and I had to agree with him. Put a sock in it was the thought that came to me but I didn't want to offend Feldspar. I'm sure he meant well. It's just that he's not up with the latest developments in the way that you and I are. I mean, futile to rage against the darkness? That's the very essence of The Way of the Rock, which as you well now is my shamanic calling.

"Maybe this one will convince you," I said. "One of her stories features a witch known as Baba Yaga who eats people the way people eat chickens.

The statement brought Abbie to his feet. "Earrup!" he said.

"Even monsters are divine creatures," said Feldspar, "and belong to the providential order of nature, and this according to St. Augustine."

"Ever noticed how people eat chickens, Feldspar?"

"Really, sir!" he said. "Chirrump!" said a wide-eyed Abbie.

"Plastic, Buddha," called Ms. Wonder again but from somewhere frighteningly near. I realized that I'd have to ratchet up the proceedings.

"It's plaster!" I called back and then in a quieter voice directed at Feldspar and Abbie Hoffman, I said, 

"It seems a statue of the Buddha stood in a temple for ages until someone decided to move it. During the move, the statue fell over knocking the plaster away and revealing solid gold underneath. Get it?"

He gave me a look before saying, "A precious something is hidden by a common outer crust..."

"Blah, blah, blah," I said. 

"Fascinating," said Ms. Wonder as she passed by the door, in a mysterious way, her wonders to perform.

"Do you know anything about how the witch works her magic?" asked Feldspar.

"Nope," I said, "but not having all the information has never stopped me before."

"I don't know if this is a good idea, sir."

"Never mind your, 'I don't know', Feldspar," I said. "Buck up, sir, it's nothing more than Fierce Living. I do it all the time."

"But sir...."

"No buts. Life is a fairy tale, Feldspar. It just doesn't always end with living happily ever after. I doubt it ever ends well to be blunt about it. But sometimes it's enough for a story to just end. That's how space is made for new stories to begin."

"But sir...."

"Cap it, Feldspar!" I said.  "Piramp!" said Abbie Hoffman and I couldn't have agreed with him more.

Trans-dimensional Tomfoolery

I lay half asleep in cat’s pajamas carried away by the stories running amok in the default network until I was fully awakened by a mechanical bellow that began somewhere in the depths of Chadsford Hall and rose up rumbling to the surface like whale song. The furnace had kicked in. Now would be a good time to get out of bed I thought. Then I did.

The night had been sleepless except for that one period between late evening and early morning when I had a strange dream of the mombot. Still, I was in a merry mood because I’d made a plan for the day. In fact, I’d made a plan for the week and yesterday had gone swimmingly—according to plan and there was no reason to think that today would be different. 

Keep this up, I thought, and that book would get done after all. My agent will be so happy to hear it. The publisher—well, there’s no pleasing the publisher now. Water under the bridge if that’s the phrase I want.

“I’m in a merry mood, Ms. Wonder,” I said but it was no good. She wasn’t around. I quickly upholstered the outer man as described in Sun Tzu’s, Art of War, and made my way to the garage where Wynd Horse waited.

The daily commute is a joyful thing. A time to meditate and get one’s head around the demands of the day. I mentally reviewed the plans of engagement and considered how I would gain a tactical advantage that would result in the best possible good for me and others. Or a reasonable facsimile.

After getting cash on the debit card from Banco de Los Muertos, I entered the Fayetteville conduit to get to Native Grounds ahead of the rush. Once I’d been caffeinated and sconed, I took out the hand-held device and accessed the Net, not that Net, the other one. The one that was old when Merlin was working out the details of advanced geomancy.

Everything seemed to be in order. Good timing. The courtiers were streaming through the door. I received them in turn, which is my real work these days, ensuring that their day will unfold in a meaningful and pleasing way, if not in the way they desire. It’s a job performed by countless others in coffee and tea shops around the globe. Magic of course.

I am not a practitioner. I just work here. I lived a life devoted to rational thought and dedicated to reason and the certainty of cause and effect until that one day when everything changed. 

From the time I was a sophomore in high school and my 10-year-old sister died, I gave no quarter to magic. This was due to my asking God in fervent prayer to allow me to die with her and you know how well that worked out for me. 

Day after day pretending to be one of the pod people and night after night crying in my room. I call it walking the anti-Damascus Road. It was my first brush with true Reality.

Then in my forty-first year, magic came into my life and it was irrefutable. And I was furious. Where was it when I needed it? Well, as I say, I’m not a practitioner. Tried it—zilch. I didn’t want this job, of course. Tried to avoid it. Belly of the whale and scales on the eyes, and all that.

Worse part of the job is all the witches. No, not the witches. It's the metempsychotic inversion that always builds when they come around. I get lost in it. Fortunately, I have access to a copy of the Manual of Transdimensional Displacement. That’s what I was reading on the Net when the phone call came.

It was the mombot. Bladder infection. That’s the code phrase for dropping whatever you’re doing and getting over here right now. It can only mean one thing—trans-dimensional tomfoolery! And that never ends well. Best laid plans ganged agley again.

Grand Theory of Everything

We couldn't enter the wizarding realms in a normal car so Spring, Glady's agent, picked us up in her yellow Volkswagen Beatle for the short trip to Kadabra where we had an appointment to discuss the disappearance before it became headline news. I refer to the disappearance of Gladys, not Spring, who as far as I'm aware is still among those present.

If you follow this journal with any regularity, then you remember that the Witch of Woodcroft went missing soon after agreeing to help me with a travel article I'm writing for the Carolina Roads e-magazine. Spring, being her agent, was the only person I could think of who might have a clue to her whereabouts. People become anxious when they hear that wizards are missing and it's just the kind of stuff that network TV loves to strew about.

To get to Kadabra from Chadsford Hall, you travel south and as soon as you cross the narrow ribbon of Interstate 40, which technically belongs to the Kingdom of the United States, you re-enter the SoDu at Highway 54. We soon came to our destination, which was hidden behind a mountain of mulch, and when the driveway ended, Ms. Wonder said, "Why, this is Parkwood!"

"To the uninitiated, it is," said Spring.

The Volkswagen decanted us onto the lawn and Spring led us onto the porch where two wizards were waiting. The one lying on the railing welcomed us with a wide yawn and a good, long stretch. It made me want to stretch too and I did a little. The other was asleep in a chair.

"You will sit there," said Spring indicating the chair with the sleeping wizard, which she picked up and pressed her face into his tummy. There was a sound like a jack of clubs that had been clothes-pined to a bicycle spoke. I assumed the sound came from Spring. I've never heard a wizard make that sound.

"And you will sit there," she said to Wonder.

I explained to Wonder that Spring was what is known as a pre-cog and often has glimpses of the future. This skill of hers is the reason I'd sought her out to help me find Gladys.

No sooner had we taken our places at the table, than a door opened off stage and a head appeared above a black tee bearing the words Duck Dynasty.

"Can I offer you cereal?" said the head.

"I'm good," I said, "I cerealed before leaving home."

Ms. Wonder said nothing but directed her headlights, open-mouthed, at the talking head. I thought it must be the tee but Spring, who is much more attuned to these matters, immediately recognized the cause of the imitation of Lot's wife by the usually unshakable Wonder.

"It's quite all right," she said to Wonder, "perfectly harmless. A pussycat really."

The Wonder seemed to have gotten her tongue entangled with her tonsils for she said something like, "Mfjfhhg."

"He's the Higgs Boson," said Spring. "Pay him no mind."

"Higgs Boston?" said the Wonder after getting the vocal instruments working again.

"Boson. Higgs Boson. The particle at the end of the universe. It's quite the rage in particle physicist circles. All of them are searching for it."

"Why," said the Wonder and I must admit to feelings that were somewhat in harmony with hers. Why indeed? is what I asked myself.

"You have me there," said Spring. "It has something to do with the Unified Theory, whatever that is. I believe it's expected to connect the quantum field with the Newtonian world.

"Ah," I declared as if that explained things perfectly. I looked at the Boson who nodded and smiled in agreement.

"Of course," Spring went on to say, "they've been searching for forty years but they haven't found it yet because the mind refuses to see anything that doesn't fit with its notion of reality. I've seen the Boson walk through a crowded room and no one pays any attention to him at all."

"That's odd," said Wonder. "So why do they think it exists at all?"

"Mathematical hunch," said Spring.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, they have been trying to prove its existence mathematically but they have only been able to get so close. It's as though the formulas have a gut feeling that it's there somewhere."

"A mathematical sixth sense," I ventured.

"Something like that," said Spring.

"I'm being bitten by mosquitoes," Wonder said.

"Yeah, there is that," said the Boson, "and I'm afraid I can't help you find Gladys either. I don't have a clue where she is."

"Oh hell," I said. "It's going to be another one of those days. Just one damned thing after another."

"Have you thought of getting the Mysterious X to help?" said the Boson.

"I'm not familiar with that one," I said. "What does he specialize in?" I said.

"Yeah well, that's the mystery too I guess," said the Boson, "but I happen to know he's hard up for cash. Inexplicable entities have to eat too."

"I'll give it some thought," I said.

When Spring dropped us off at home, she asked, "What's that article about anyway?"

"Southport," I said. "We're going to be there for a few days. I'll work on my book and Wonder plans to work on her song, but that should still leave plenty of time for a travel story too."

"Ms. Wonder is writing on a song?"

"Yeah, she's reading a book called Songwriting: The Essential Guide to lyric form and structure. It's a little scary."

"Oh goody, she said. "Ms. Wonder may be inspired to do one of those Russian compositions like Stravinsky's Petrushka--you know sawdust puppets coming to life and whatnot."

"Now that would be dramatic," I said as she drove away. Wonder was already inside so I walked up the steps to the front door thinking about St. Petersburg. Gladys would have to wait.

Where is Gladys

Back in Shakespeare's day things didn't change much. Fairly uniform from day to day without a lot of ups and downs. If you were born a serf, it was a pretty safe bet that you'd serf until retirement. If you thought of owning a condo in West Palm Beach, you'd need to catch a talking fish or flush a jinn from a lamp.

artist--Michael Parkes

Today everything changes and without warning. It seems only yesterday the atmosphere in Native Grounds was quiet, meditative, serene. Then the foundations of hell started shaking and I wouldn't have been surprised if the Recording Angel had appeared taking names. I have moved in time and space to a new morning launch pad. I partake of a cup of steaming earlier in the day and I start a few furlongs further up Fayetteville Road at Sutton Station.

Coffee was over by 7:00 this morning and the guests of Dulce had scattered to their morning occupations. Some were texting on Interstate 40, some were jogging the American Tobacco Trail (it's a Durham thing), and some were serving and protecting. I was walking meditatively along the Woodcroft Walking Trail. I was alone.

It is a sad but indisputable fact that in this imperfect world the Genome is doomed to walk alone--if the earthier members of the community see him coming in time to duck. Not one of the horde of coffee hounds had shown any disposition to qigong with me. One regrets this.

Except for a slight bias toward exaggeration, which leads me to embellish almost everything that's not nailed down, the Genome's is an admirable character and, oddly enough, it's toward the noble side of my nature that most people object. Of the manic Genome, they know little if anything; it is the Genome who espouses compassion for all, realistic optimism, immersing the self slowing and deliberately in his environment, and a fierce determination to never eat pine needles; this is the Genome everyone avoids.

Still, on this fine morning, strolling under a shady canopy of oak and holly, the Genome was  not sorry to be alone, not entirely: for there was something on the mind calling for solitary thinking. The matter engaging the attention was the problem of what on earth had happened to Gladys, the Witch of Woodcroft. Two days had passed, or was it three, since I left her in Dulce uploading her latest poems to Ketchum's Korner for final testing of that new site on the Web. And since that moment, she has not been seen nor heard from and I was at a loss.

Perhaps not entirely a loss because I have a dark suspicion that this has something to do with recent cosmic events. You are surely aware that the Summer Solstice put in an appearance some few days ago and immediately after, the Supper Moon popped up on the horizon. 'So,' you may ask yourself, 'what about it?' Well, I'll tell you what about it.

Have you ever noticed that there is a tendency in the public announcements to get it base over apex? Take the weather for instance. I've already mentioned that this very morning was the picture of clemency, if that's the word I want--light, bright, blue, all the trimmings. And yet, this same morning was accused by the National Weather Service, of being surly and a little unruly. See what I mean?

Now consider Y2K, if you can remember that far back. On New Year's Day, 2000, the world was supposed to shut down. Armageddon in some form or fashion. Before that there was harmonic convergence, when planets lined up and the resulting effect on gravity would put wrinkles in Joan Rivers' brow. Ms. Rivers, however, still bears her youthful countenance. Only a year or so ago, we had two predictions for the End of It All, in the same year. And I'm sure that I don't have to tell you that most of us Survived the Mayan Apocalypse. 'So,' you are still asking yourself, 'where is the Genome going with this?'

Throw your mind back to that Solstice and Supper Moon. It's not that hard. It's only been a few days. Well, I heard a Cosmic Scientist interviewed on NPR and that CS assured everyone that there was no need to worry. There would be no brown outs, no Internet interruptions, no visitors from other realms. I know! How scary is that?

The mind of a man who has undertaken a mission as delicate as saving the world from total destruction is necessarily alert. Ever since I heard that scientist telling us, as it were, to remain calm and move in an orderly fashion to the exits, I knew the final adventure was started. This calm announcement, although startling to me, did not deprive me of my faculties. On the contrary, it quickened them. My first action was to meet with Gladys to discuss what was to be done. She agreed to move in her mysterious ways wonders to perform and report back to me with a plan. But since that day, she has vanished completely.

Her non-appearance was all the more galling in that the superb mental faculties of the Genome had just completed in every detail a scheme for propping up the Universal status quo and I was desperate for her critique. Her absence left me feeling like one of those Civil War generals who comes out of the command tent with a plan of battle all mapped out and finds that his army has strolled down to the riverbank and joined in a pig-picking. You will understand now when I say that the Genome's map was sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

Moving through the arched recesses of the oaks that line Woodcroft Parkway, I was deep in contemplation of the mysterious disappearance of this Gladys, when a voice suddenly addressed me.

"Hey!"

I started violently. Wouldn't you?

"Anyone about?" said the voice.

A pale face surrounded by dark hair full of twigs and leaves was protruding from the a near-by camellia bush. If memory serves, it was a candy-stripe. The camellia I mean. I drew closer, breathing heavily. The symptoms were those of the missing Gladys--long hair braided, draped around the upper torso and thrown casually over the left shoulder. But that was as far as the semblance got. We Genomes are quick to get the picture and I saw what this apparition was up to immediately.

"You pie-faced gazooni!" I said with some heat. Not great, but it was spur of the moment. "Where do you get this stuff, popping out of the shrubbery and yelling at people when they're in deep thought. Is this wise? Is this the procedure? Is this a system?"

"Sorry," said the head. "I just wanted to get your attention so we could discuss the fate of the world and all that. You know?"

"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked already sure of the answer.

"I'm Gladys," said the head.

"Ah," I said, "Gladys. Then perhaps you can tell me the meaning of 'a pale parabola of joy'."

The head was silent.

"Or, perhaps," I continued, "you might elaborate on 'the silibant, scented silence'."

Somewhere in the depths of the forest a squirrel chirruped.

"No more imposture," I said wagging a finger. "I am a friend of this Gladys and had a long conversation with her only a few days ago. You will get no cooperation from this mortal."

"Oh Hell," said the voice. "What are you going to do now?"

"Do?"

"Now that I've appeared willingly, I must remain on this side until you give me your leave."

"Oh yes, I remember something about that. The rules of engagement for natural and supernatural and all that. Well, I have no need of your services, so I don't intend to delay you. Leg it now is my suggestion."

"You mean that?"

"Certainly."

"You don't want three wishes?"

"Three wishes!" I said and I may have chuckled when I said it. "I don't need anything from the supernatural realm. I'm set. I have Catherine the Great. I have the cats, Uma, Empress of Chadsford, and I have Beignet, Sagi Mtessi, Abbie Hoffman--no, not that Abbie Hoffman--and I have Eddy Spaghetti. Supporting the whole thing on either end is Comrade Jenny and Dr. Kate. What more could I ask?"

"You are well stacked," said the head. "I probably shouldn't tell you this but your resolve causes a lot of concern in the Underworld."

"And well it should, Maalika, if you don't mind my using the informal."

"Oh, I can't tell you my name," she said, "against all protocol."

"Of course," I said. "Well, off you go then."

"Thanks," she said, "you're an ace."

"Oh, hush," I said.

Disconcerting as the whole thing was, my thoughts turned immediately to the whereabouts of Gladys. Where in the realm of the Rogue Star might she be. Time is short and growing shorter each day. If anyone has any information about the location of the Woodcroft Witch, please leave a comment on this post. Anonymity will be safeguarded except when the interest of national security is jeopardized.

Witch of Woodcroft

The Native Grounds Cafe sits just off Fayetteville Road in the Southpoint District of Durham and I had just opened the door to enter when I heard a familiar voice say, "So kindly don't speak rot to me." I was amazed to hear this voice because I'd not enjoyed the company of the Emperor of South Durham since before the holiday apocalypse. He spotted me as I entered and waved a patronizing hand.

"Ah, Genome, so here your are," he said.

I thought about denying it but couldn't think of a substantial argument.

"Come in and have a crumpet," he said.

"Thanks," I said but then immediately shook the bean for the barista who is fairly new and probably not yet fully cognizant of the Emperor's style.

"Did you bring that bag?"

"No, sorry, I forgot," I said.

"Well of all the muddle-headed asses," he said adding something about 'Others abide our question, thou are free,' or something like that. Meant nothing to me but perhaps you are familiar with the gag. Then he dismissed me with a weary gesture and called for another Earl Grey before turning back to his waiting audience.

I sat at a table with the Enforcer and Island Irv, as is my custom, and enjoyed a cup of the hot and strengthening until the Duck Man came in strewing the flu like tattered remnants of a bad dream. I decided it was time to head for the horizon and was in the middle of see-you-latering when I heard that familiar voice again.

"Pushing off?"

"I thought I would," I said.

"Can I rely on you not to bungle that job?" he demanded and I nodded in reply. I'm sure you know how it is when the circs demand tactful surrender.

"Tell me in your own words what you're to do," he said.

"Go the the sporting goods store--"

"--on Chapel Hill Road," he said.

"Right, on Chapel Hill Road," I said.

"--and get the large duffle bag. Now buzz off. The door is behind you. Grasp the handle and push."

Weaker men, no doubt, would have been sickened by having their morning cut into like this but there is a tough, bulldog strain in the Genomes that has often caused comment. I stood firm, took three qigong breaths, and walked out into the morning with a light heart, happy to have it in me to perform this little act of duty. Then something buzzed in my pocket causing me to retrieve my personal communication device and look at the screen.

I don't know if you were one of the gang that followed the most recent tale of high suspense and international intrigue involving the adjacent kingdom of the United States but, if you were, then you may recall that the events began with a tsunami of text messages.

At first glance, my phone now had about two dozen of the things waiting for me but closer inspection revealed only three. They all bore the same signature--Gladys, Witch of Woodcroft.

The first read:
'Come at once. Serious rift in fabric of universe.'

The second:
'Received no reply to msg come at once. Come at once. Reply.'

The third:
'What the hell! Why no answer. Must I cast a spell? What is wrong with people these days? Have all the decent men been caught up in the Mayan Rapture? Come at once.'

Again, I remained calm. Three deep qigong breaths and I was centered and ready for all that life might send my way.

I typed a reply and hit the send button:
'Sorry. Static and whatnot. Did you say whiskey or whiskers? Reply.'