The Seventh Direction

PART THREE: Stalking Violet. Episode 82

                           ["D/A" narrates —A.A.]

Hur-r-r-r-r-ry!'

Toadstool the helper, the glad helper. Toadstool the character, the unlikely character, the improbable character; loony tunes, some sort of cartoon-magic mushroom, he or she, or whatever, squeezed my hand and I felt a sympathetic-buzz crawl up my arm, wander in, and a familiar resonant-something deep within my solar plexus suddenly responded. 'Looook! Looook!' said Toadz, timed impeccably to the emergence of a weird and wonderful luminescent substance seen roundabout the thicket not far off. Awesome! This was what I'd been hoping for . . . but it was a paled, faded-looking misty light. And it was dissipating.

'Run . . . run-n-n-n!'

"I am . . . I am-m-m-m!" I croaked, my voice coming-off short, abrupt, rankled. (Oops!)

Meantime, the mist in air above the thicket (which looked like a light left on, dim, and likely a 40 watter), (likely Master J's lingering aura), (I hope so) sadly glowed, and the closer we came the dimmer it got. 

Toadz and I kept running.

(And that Oops? Don't get me wrong, I'm not upset with Toadz. I just think his character is a bit of a stretch. In fact, this whole learning curve, or tangent, or animated path we are on [or probability, or timeline], seems totally a stretch to me! Still, I'm beginning to love the little guy. A little. And that's a good thing; though I'm still a little skeptical. But love should help straighten that out.)

The fading light left-on was gone now . . . or it was changing. Left in its place, and widely spaced out, were myriad miniature glow-filaments (flickering), just above the thicket and through wee black openings in the hedge, like microscopic clearlight fireflies . . . or fairies: some dying out . . . or maybe it was the whole of Faerie dying out, or maybe it was Master's lingering presence, or maybe, yes, the remnants of a realm instantaneously created by that last bit of the dreamer—a bubble-like realm manifested and still alive in the thicket, but stepped down now, way down, downgraded over the course—dissipating, diminishing, flickering, winking in and out of time. I was afraid it would all disappear! Don't let it disappear! (Uh-oh.) (I still need the dreamer . . .)

We came to a screeching halt at thicket's door. Dirt dust rose from my feet. Toadz flew headfirst through the opening— 'Not disappeeeear! Meeeeee, help!' —then he braked himself awkwardly, a slow-motion somersault in the air, two, three, and he floated to the ground.

"All right, you help," I replied, "And me in. Meeee all in." Though why, I wasn't sure.

Toadz was evolving extremely fast. I stood in the entrance and watched him. Profile: He faced to the east, but swiveled round to face me for a moment—clearly he'd grown hips, and a kangaroo pocket, too! He reached into the pocket, and with his stick-armed spindly little fingers pulled out a baton, turned back to the east, then started to lead the band . . . or the parade. Or maybe I should wait and see (Toadz was going to help). There were a few flickers still hanging round, obviously still something here, and The Maestro was right into it, full tilt—you'd've thought there was a full-blown orchestra and incredible music happening here! Nooooo. Other than the breeeeeze he was stirring up, and a thin echoing groan that may or may not have been him, I felt and I heard nothing. He led on, trying to hold the light.

Look at him, bobbing up and down, and side to side, and looking over his shoulder from time to time, and grinning wildly. Crazy eyes. I should be doubled over with laughter, yes? But I wasn't. Something was up. Way up.

"This night," I remember Master J' saying, "is not yet over."

Toadz briskly changed rhythm, halted the band (or the parade), on the proverbial dime, froze himself, then stretched an arm impossibly way around behind him (ouch!), one-tapped his baton, as if tapping my head, and pointed down and back. I followed his command, and entered the thicket. Sat down in my place. Toadz recommenced his ludicrous, flailing pace (like some sawed-off version of a wacky inflatable arm-flailing tube-man), and I out-breathed a short-lived giggle. Short-lived, because my focus was stayed, dead ahead . . . at what exactly, and where, and why, remained to be seen; but I knew at some level I had been here before.