“You’ve become part of the machine again, Axis.”
“I know, honey,” Axis wrongly termed the already committed and married Tronesisia. She took it in stride, knowing the bug would have its fun.
“I wish you didn’t have to go off to war again, Jack.”
“Me too,” he wanted to say, but instead uttered: “Duty calls. Heterocera needs me — us.”
“So you’ll take Tronesisia with you?”
“Of course. Unless you think you need her more here for your services.”
“No no,” his wife Kate McCoy insisted. “She gives me great pleasure but I can find that elsewhere. There’s a little shop in the village that sells somewhat acceptable alternatives.”
“Good.” He pauses to think of the likely alternatives and shakes his head a bit. The price they pay for war, specifically 680 lindens or so in this particular aspect — last time he checked. “I’m sorry again that I have to do this.”
“Well. Summerhill Nova *stressed* that Heterocera isn’t dead and that VHC City can continue on as a powerful ally for us. *And* as they face a threat from the west I suppose there’s no alternative than to help out a — friend? Can we call Summerhill now a true friend? She tried to kill our mother, brother, and niece and nephew. And that was only in the last year!”
“She’s assured me that’s all in the past,” Jack Snow reinforced, thinking several weeks back to the, hopefully, final attempted assassination of a family member at the hands of Clan Nova. Poisoned ketchup. Luckily, Nephew Jimmy was a mustard guy. “We can put all that behind us. If we–”
“–help them,” Kate McCoy finishes for him. Her makeup applied, she gets up to accompany her husband to the awaiting battle ship. So much more needed to be said. Why the Fries with Cheese Church again, of all the religions Summerhill could have chosen? The one that would obviously lead to conflict.
(to be continued)
Kate McCoy always left the table to (softly) play the piano when there was after-dinner talk of war.
“Heterocera is *not* dead,” spoke Summerhill Nova to his right. “We can carry on. The Sister sim will remain strong — I’ll make sure of it my liege.”
“Good, good,” the person at the head of the table spoke. “I won’t worry any longer about that direction. I trust you with the matter.”
He turned to his left. “And you, Walter.”
“Um hmm?” The tree being’s voice was hollow and husky.
“What say your people about the matter? About the changes in VHC City?”
“As long as Bob Dylan’s okay with it we’re okay with it.”
“Alright, then”. Jack looked straight ahead.
But the CB Dylan Dresser containing the other Snow at the table didn’t immediately respond. Then they realized the Manster within had gone to the wrong dimension — again.
(to be continued?)
“The Head and the Heart must work together,” Tronesisia concluded, unclasping her hand from Rebl’s. “Heterocera is dead. Vainom Kug is dead.”
“Who?” Rebl responded, then realized who it must be. Manager of the Hotel Chelsea. It’s her Oracle name. As creator/maker Mykal Skall becomes Sikul Himakt in same.
“But — everything is so up in the air over here,” she protests, looking around. “This — *house* for one thing. Lamb outside.” She glances toward the open door with this, just beyond the now *White* Witch. How??
“But the Splinterwood castle (at the top) just next door remains firm in the ground,” divinator Tronesisia reassures. “Peaks, my love. Climaxes even, like the one in End of Time. You know, the meditating Freddy. You must return to that — stuff.” Tronesisia saw it clearly now. Corsica is the place. The Black Witch turned White overnight; Yin becomes Yang and true island is revealed with its Capitol Hill, its Capitol City. The threat comes from Gaeta V. From the east; through the strait.
But in what form?
While busy raising the dead there, she missed a crucial piece about Danshire.
Exhausted, Tronesisia finally stopped playing the harp for tonight. She looked around, red eye still in place. Where was she? The afterlife?
No. Still in Danshire.
And there were other instruments left to play in the same antiquated house. She switches to keyboards and fingers something different. The red eye finally recedes.
In the next room, Herbert Gold, Furry Karl, Heidi Hunt Ives, Norris, and perhaps some others not in this particular shot fade into view to listen in on the gorgeous music, flowing like platinum prune into their ears and senses. That was actually the name of the song: “Platinum Prune.” Or “In Search of…”, with the almost priceless prune theoretically showing up at the end of the overall suite of songs, drawing them inward and onward. Much better than Steel Raisin. We begin a journey.
She paused in reading her just published novel “Olive, Green and Pink”. “Ben, dear, it’s gotten suddenly quite chilly in here. Could you put another log on the fireplace?”
“‘Bout bedtime,” he counters, faking a yawn and not sensing anything out of the ordinary himself. One thing on his mind right now.
Picking up on this, she stares over at him after he finishes, trying to decide. Book or boy?
I wondered how long the assimilation would last. “That’s a beautiful tune,” I spoke down to rapidly strumming Tronesisia. “What is it?”
“What do you think?”
I recognized the tune. “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway,” title song for the album. Keyboard to L-harp. Marvelous.
It has begun (the guitar kicked in).
“I’m not sure why I had to spend the night with *Splinter*,” groused Rebl about her acomodations at the Southwest Castle last night. “But — here I am. All grounded and shite. Ready for action.”
“Good, good,” cooed Tronesisia to the visiting Bena lawyer. She could tell by the fire that this was a hot spot, a balance of black and white and red all over. She looked over at the eyes…
… and assimilated.