

### The Queen's English

By

### Stephen Cline

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Stephen Cline

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Comments on The Queen's English

"I wish Stephen Cline, who obviously loves words and wordplay deeply,

the best of luck with his novel. I hope he meets with success."

Anne Fadiman

Yale University

Author of Ex Libris

Former editor of American Scholar

"Thanks for sending me some excerpts of Stephen Cline's novel. I enjoyed perusing them and reading 'Mincing Words.' Please convey my warm regards to Mr. Cline."

Douglas Hofstadter

Professor of Cognitive Science Indiana University

Author of Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid

and Le Ton beau de Marot: In Praise of the Music of Language

### Epigraphs

"You men," she said, "love laws and argument, and have great faith in the words that come out through your beards. But I am going to convince you that we have a mouth for sweeter debates, and a sweeter mouth for debates. I am going to teach you how angels and men arrive at perfect understanding without argument, in the heavenly manner." And this she did.

-Isak Dinesen, "The Diver"

...they realized that capaciousness (the long sentence, with its comic diversions, or the rolling run-on of the pentameter) would be their most promising path—their only plausible means of dealing with the vastness of what America meant to them.

-Anthony Lane

A knowing woman if she is worth her salt

can always prove her husband is at fault.

-The Wife of Bath

Constructions which display such a marked delay in grammatical and semantic resolution are often described as 'suspended sentences.'

-The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the English Language

...verbal precision is an anachronism.

-Robert MacNeil

And if this lisp of grammarye is decoded by aliens,

who can forecast their archaeologies?

-Star Black

1. Introduction: A Queen and Her Consort

There was once, or I should say, will be in some future that will come much sooner than almost anyone expects (as these kinds of things tend to do), in a place not so very far away from present day New York City, but at a latitude that is, in a way that is difficult for cartographers to comprehend (falling back as they must on the well-remembered line, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio..." etcetera), near Hawaii. There was, I mean, will be, though is should do as well (for all students of literature are taught to write of stories in the present tense, as if they are always happening in the now) a Queen who reigns (let's settle that at any rate). And it's appropriate to revere her in the now if for no other reason than for her contribution to our needy language, in that notable triumph, of the third person, singular, gender neutral, personal pronoun...but that for a later episode. Her name and title is Jackpot Pastiche, Harlot Queen of English, though let me hasten to add (in one of those annoyingly knowing asides that anonymous narrators always are perpetrating on audiences...and as this particular narrator has not been fleshed out as yet, there's no more to add about...well, here one should use that handy new pronoun...but that triumph resides still in the future...so flipping a coin, we settle on him), hasten to add, I say, that that morally dubious appellation in her title is decidedly tongue in cheek. It was given to her by her Consort, who follows her one step behind, where he can therefore more discretely whisper ribald observations in her ear (which gives some insight into the appellation itself, any harlotry of hers being manifestly reserved for him alone). Still, she plays it well, enjoying the ambiguity it imbues her with, as those who are recent immigrants tend to wonder if she is not the queen of English harlots. In turn, she has christened her Consort with the aptronym Dripping Sea God for his practice of cavorting whenever possible in the ocean, and perhaps for some other prowess only illuminated by further meditation on her title (rumor has it that besides his irreverent wit, she rather likes the look of his shoulders as he emerges from the sea, among other times). These things being beyond the ken of narrators at this stage of development, we press on to observe that Dripping Sea God has the responsibility for carrying on his arm (the right, I think) the Queen's Mascot, Diving Squirrel of the Order of the Red Garter, or rather, Red Neckerchief, or rather, Red Ribbon, which is tied in a raffish bow about his (and in this case we do know from reliable redactors of the Cycle of Harlot Queen Tales that it is a he) furry neck. Thus the Queen and her entourage go "a progress" through their, that is, her, kingdom (she in red bustier and black corduroy pants, he dripping, and Diving Squirrel resplendent in his bow) pronouncing judgments on matters great and small, settling ancient feuds, realigning mistaken attitudes, and diagramming the thorniest of sentences.

2. A Victory for Usage

Once (and here I must slip back into past tense...I know it's confusing at times...but be patient) Jackpot Pastiche the Harlot Queen was strolling with Dripping Sea God and Diving Squirrel through what was once what the reader might recognize as Central Park, were it not for the coconut palms that line the mall. Jackpot Pastiche was prattling on...okay, she was pontificating... about some triumph of hers over the Computer Nerds, and Dripping Sea God was listening in his own inimitable way, tickling Diving Squirrel behind the ears and generally taking advantage of the fact that he, Dripping Sea God, walked as a rule a step behind his Queen and was barely listening at all (revealing a certain wiliness that Jackpot Pastiche both resented and admired, she being a complicated woman). Suddenly, from the middle of the skating pond emerged a brand new volcano (this is neither time nor place for a divagation on the plate tectonics that make this a scientific likelihood), but Jackpot Pastiche was just getting to the exciting part of her story and took no notice. It was uncanny; in the stream of narrative she seemed not to be aware of the geologic event (but then she knew all about plate tectonics). She was saying, "...and then I walked up to the Head Computer Nerd and said, 'You're so DOS.' He turns red in the face and just sputters something inane about Gates, realizes he's made a fool of himself, and bows his head in defeat. It was glorious!"

The Queen at that moment is being pelted by tiny hot flakes of lava (known as Pele's Tears) and doesn't even break stride. Dripping Sea God, being wet is not bothered either (though is reminded of the similar occurrence in Dante), but he is somewhat worried for the fur of his little charge. Still, he knows better than to break and run for the shelter of the Dairy, so leans forward toward the Queen and whispers, "Oh, Jackpot, didn't you just switch from past to present tense in the middle of your story?" She rounds on him and fixes him with that ferocious eye he so loves to see and pronounces, "On rare occasions, such as that in which I just used the historical present tense for effect, usage trumps correctness." Oh, see them smile...aware of her wise anticipation of the possible application of her words in the ongoing lay/lie controversy (among others). That is why she added the qualifying prepositional phrase: it lets her retain control of such evolving situations and rule on them on a case by case basis. All hail, Harlot Queen, which I join Dripping Sea God in proclaiming (though not a party to the rumored acts of penile pyrotechnics with which he later underscored, as it were, his adoration).

3. The Queen's Unusual Name

As the reader is aware at this point (if he or she...we need to get that pronoun into the story soon...is still with us), the main characters of these tales have named each other: the Queen giving designations to her two companions, and that somewhat ambiguous bit above about her title coming from her Consort. But what, one (especially those into anthroponomastics) might ask, of her given name? Ah, more of Dripping Sea God's flair for mockery and innuendo, he being the only subject in the kingdom with the juevos for either, given the effects of the Queen's withering stares, which have been known to castrate at a hundred paces. Her last name, Pastiche...well, I'm hardly going to plagiarize Webster's denotation, am I. You know (or should) that. The fact of the matter is that Dripping Sea God occasionally states to the Queen (for purely the amusement of annoying her and watching her snap her jaws, like poking a snake with a stick), that she is a mass of prejudice and half-baked opinion as a result of eccentric parents, themselves in constant contradiction of one another. Thus, he claims, their daughter is little more than a pastiche of those warring expressions of opinion, along with a dash of post-modern relativism. It is Dripping Sea God's considered philosophy that it is not strictly necessary to have opinions on everything in life, especially on those topics about which one is singularly uninformed (I know it's hardly the modern thing to profess; I only report these things).

The Queen, as you may well imagine (she being a queen to her people, that is, a sort of idealized representation of their...uh...gifts), holds the opposite view on the matter. It is a difference that adds to their compatibility: she opining with vehemence on every subject under the sun, he in nonchalant acquiescence. (Even their arguments follow a similar pattern: she holds a position no matter how thin the ice, winning points through sheer, stubborn perseverance, while he smiles and retreats, impervious to her sophistry. Usually these affairs are resolved to their mutual satisfaction in bouts of sexual congress, the argument being simply a precoital game of mutual arousal.)

And this leads us neatly to her first name, the rather unmelifluous Jackpot. It came about in the following manner (in an earlier era, such frankness as what follows, I fear, would have earned the dunking stool for your honest narrator). You see, sometimes the Queen catches Dripping Sea God in some minor solecism or error in grammar or definition. It doesn't happen often, as he's a wordplay wizard in his own right, a worthy Consort to her majesty in every way, but once in a while she smells a rat, that he has overstepped his vocabularic limits and misused some word in order to gain a dubious point in their disputations. And then, look out. The Queen pounces on her huge OED like a single-minded zealot, whipping through pages with lightning quickness, the ABC song trilling in her long, rosy-colored throat. At such times, Dripping Sea God must resort to what few, desperate cards and weapons remain in his hand.

On one occasion, he hit upon the expedient of distraction, a kind of physical logical fallacy of the red herring type. He approached the Queen from the rear, began caressing her in an amorous fashion, but failed to gain her attention, so closely did she follow her quarry. He redoubled his efforts only to find himself disrobed and intensely aroused at the sight of the Queen leaning over the dictionary on the table, her hourglass waist defined by her tight bustier. He retripled his efforts, and soon found her in a commensurate degree of undress, though still attending (with somewhat flagging devotion) to her page. With one final thrust of rhetorical assertion, he found her now more than willing to be persuaded by his argument. And then, in the vacuum of articulate speech that accompanies ecstasy, the simple thought flashed through his head (crassly, he admitted later), "I've hit the jackpot." And Jackpot Pastiche she has remained.

4. Dripping Sea God and the Enverb

Lest anyone remain laboring under the misapprehension that Dripping Sea God is loved by the Queen for his physical rhetoric alone, I will relate an anecdote that demonstrates why the Queen continues to be smitten by his intellectual lovemaking as well (though the erudite will have already recalled the Wife of Bath's assertion that, "no empty handed man can lure a bird," and then made the leap that for one such as Jackpot Pastiche, this would be a metaphor for intellect). The two were one day discussing the contributions of Shakespeare to the language, appreciating his inventiveness. The Queen, as is her wont, was elucidating in detail, and at some length (as is also her wont) on the esoteric aspect lost on modern audiences of the use the archaic thou as the familiar form of you, and like matters. Dripping Sea God was attentive for as long as he was able, then amused himself with retying Diving Squirrel's bow into various sailors' knots of which he has a more than passing acquaintance.

Finally, when the drone of her majesty's voice was reaching its full soporific potential, he blurted out, "There's one type of grammatical construction that shows up in colloquial speech that I bet you don't know." This, as you might expect, brought Jackpot Pastiche up short. Narrowing her eyes, she said suspiciously, "What is it?" Dripping Sea God, sensing an advantage (and knowing from long experience that such was rare and usually sadly transitory), drew himself up and replied in a tone that was both obeisant and bold (for how else does one defy a queen?), and said, "Well, Most Dear and Learned Grammarian, it is something that only is known to certain initiates of the higher orders of linguistic studies, a level, I regret to say, you've not yet attained, and for me to reveal it to you now, at this stage of your development as a scholar, would be harmful. At a later date, I will be happy to discuss the permutations of the concept, as it is quite interesting." A spark flared in her eye, and Dripping Sea God knew he had her exactly where he wanted her: sexually aroused (for she often finds such a peremptory tone in her Consort to stimulate certain neural transmitters in her brain that respond to the highly erotic aspects of language and the quest for linguistic knowledge ... especially that which is temporarily denied her).

"At least, my Drippingest of Sea Gods," she cooed, "tell me the name of this term, that I might seek it out myself." She stroked his wet deltoid, almost forgetting her ulterior motive.

"Well," he prevaricated, "I don't know if that is wise..." But after a few long moments of persuasive non-verbal dialogue, she prevailed upon him to reveal the name of the term. Breathlessly he intoned the following, "It...is...a...French term...yes...like the French term you just spoke, as it were, down my throat...let's see....ah...ah...yes...it's the enverb...spelled with an e but pronounced as a short o...Oh....Oh, are you going?" But she was out the door and leaping down the stairs (her breasts bouncing along the rim of her bustier like so much fruit over-spilling a bowl).

Hours later, she returned, frustrated and determined. "I have consulted every scholar in the kingdom on this mysterious enverb, as you call it, and none have heard of it. You sent me on a wild goose chase, didn't you...my Sweet." This latter phrase came through clenched teeth that Dripping Sea God found quite alluring.

"No, no, Dearest Queen," he declared, and sensing that he should come rather more clean, added, "Since your passion for understanding burns so...uh," he faltered, "passionately, I will tell of the operation of the enverb, and then you will know that I am not (though I'd certainly like to later, if you're of a mind) pulling your majestic leg."

At this, she settled with another coo (I think in response to both suggestions, actually) into an overstuffed throne, "Proceed."

At this command, Dripping Sea God assumed his most professorial tone (which he pulled off with surprising dignity, given his dripping state) and began, "Now, as you know, words that are certain parts of speech can sometimes be so constructed that they, for the space of that particular sentence, act the part of another part of speech. Only this morning we were talking of Shakespeare (which, as you undoubtedly remember, was the genesis of this exercise), and Shakespeare uses an analogous technique to the enverb, a much more common, even less sophisticated (if the Bard will forgive me saying so) usage, one you will certainly recognize upon my mere mention, that is, he takes a noun and uses it as a verb...to 'out Herod Herod,' to mention an obvious example. Now is this the enverb? No, indeed...but close, for they are both in the class of function exchange once called anthimeria. This is the inverse! Yes, I see the dawn of understanding in your eye (and I must break away from my lecture here to drop an aside about it: you look very fetching with that look in your eye and that rosy glow on your cheek). A twitch of her eyebrow suggested he hasten onward and, he, being no fool (a state that comes to men only after long experience), continued, "The enverb is simply the use of a verb as a noun. Simple, but elegant, yes? An example? Easy: think only of the spaceship preparations...when all is readied, the fuel, astronaut, and all, conspiring into agreement on flight, the loudspeakers announce that the 'launch is a go'." You see? The verb is used as a noun. And this, to reiterate, is an enverb. Funny that your scholars have not heard of it."

She leapt from her chair and again sailed down the stairs (Dripping Sea God again appreciating the varied effects of weight, mass and gravity on her person), to seek out her linguistic advisors once more.

This time she was gone but a quarter of an hour, and when she returned, she did so slowly. With measured step, she approached Dripping Sea God, her chin slightly askew from straight on, but her narrowed eyes piercing his very marrow. She was looking for it. And despite mighty efforts at control, the corners of Dripping Sea God's mouth quivered. By the time she had him by his shoulders (you remember her attitude about them), he was laughing, and she knew that he had made the whole thing up. In her most imperious of tones, she proclaimed, "I shall punish you for this treason, Consort." With that she pushed him back onto the overstuffed throne and planted a fierce kiss on his lips. And of what followed, I will only say (in the interests of nicety) that the Crown applied its most thoroughgoing methods of governance, nay, torture to the poor Sea God, who suffered exquisite pain for hours until it all came to an enverbial stop.

5. The Pilgrimage

Sometimes, very rare these, I must insist, even the Queen's powers of discernment fail to resolve an especially esoteric convolution of grammar, definition, or word choice, and she must seek counsel, as in the infamous enverb scandal (which was whispered about in academic circles for some time). And then, if those learned scholars in her university (eponymously named) should grind their intellectual boats upon the shoal of the conundrum, there is nothing for Jackpot Pastiche, Harlot Queen of English, to do but demonstrate humility before her subjects and seek out the Great Oracle of Style and Perspicuity, Diana Hacker, of the Bed by the Ford. The Oracle, though passed out of body, is as ubiquitously influential as ever in this transcendent edition. Like other oracles time out of mind, she is sacred, but more often than not, disturbingly unintelligible, mumbling arcane riddles, for it is the role of oracles, is it not, never really to say things straight out, and often one begins to suspect after a time that they don't really know what they're talking about in the first place (particularly Pastiche, who has this penchant for punctilious perspicuity, which after all, is what the Oracle is the oracle of). But what can one do? Divine authority is just that, and one must make do with what revelation is granted, n'est-ce pas?" The Queen, for her part, not being one for overmuch display of humility (a tiring affectation by the accounts of all those who have attempted it; I, for one, having long eschewed the practice, must take their word as gospel), times such journeys to coincide with her biennial (or was it biannual? My sources are not clear) Progress through her kingdom, wherein she can more or less stop in for tea with the disembodied Oracle (who, yes, can somehow still drink tea), as a worthy sovereign might, the suppliant then being disguised as benefactress. Just such a case we now follow; the Queen strikes out upon the road. The motive anon.

Off they set, the Queen, Dripping Sea God, Diving Squirrel and the rest of her not inconsiderable entourage, on pilgrimage, in spring after April's showers had pierced to the root the drought of March, bathing every vein in sweet liqueur, engendering flowers, while zephyrs spoke with sweet breath, and small fowl made melody. (No, I won't render it all; these things are always thus, not just in Chaucer. The astute reader will also remember the almost identical passage in the anonymous Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.) Suffice to say, it's fine traveling weather. Now, the nature of the issue that has gotten Jackpot Pastiche into lather (no innuendo intended) enough to travel all the way to the Bed by the Ford is that she is toying with a major change in linguistic policy, one for which she has received no encouragement more than tepid sycophantic drivel from her scholars and outright mockery from her Consort. You see, it occurred to her on an earlier Progress that her subjects could hardly, though ostensibly speaking the same tongue, understand one another if they hailed from different sections of the land. So someone from Philadelphia, say, (now at an indeterminate latitude) might want to "go down the shore," implying a trip to the ocean's edge (in Jersey of all places!), while a Californian (latitude no more removed from previous reality than ever), might fancy "cruzin' to the beach for some rays and tubes," essentially desiring the same thing as his fellow citizen, yet in communicating this to each other, they wouldn't. In fact, they might very well go through a process of reviling one another's speech patterns in the most ethnocentric of terms, finally resulting in a bout of fisticuffs. What for a benign monarch to do? She must somehow not only salve their bleeding chins and blackened eyes, but ameliorate the very core of the conflict, namely, regional differences in idiom and a host of related linguistic problems.

After extended cogitation on the problem and some extensive surfing of the world wide web (itself an application of metaphor that Dripping Sea God, as one native to the sea, finds horribly inadequate, not to mention the problem of it being a mixed metaphor of the most blatant type), the Queen realized that virtually every solution was a mere band aid on a larger, ancient wound. No, she realized, half measures would not do. The solution must be bold and complete. Thus she determined, again, with no voice in support, to decree that all the subjects of her realm, in whatever latitude to which they had slid or had remained, would learn and then convert all communication into Esperanto, that invented language of elegant simplicity and straightforwardness of expression. Only a hundred years old, this "bridge language" between peoples of disparate cultures is easy to learn and impossible to misunderstand or misconstrue, in short, perfect for her majesty's problem. And she would brook no resistance (you may recall her tenacity in conflict described earlier). If she could not get her scholars and Consort (or even Mascot, I must say, for Diving Squirrel was firmly set against the plan, he being an entrenched anglophile) to follow in her intellectual train, then she would drag them along in her physical train to the Oracle, whose fickle obstrusities could very well fall in the Queen's favor, or at least be so construed that through subtle dissembling (a skill the Queen excelled at through natural proclivity and long practice), the tide might flow into her desired channel. Thus they traveled among the April flowers and sweet western zephyrs toward the famed Bed by the Ford and the Mouthpiece of the Gods of Speech (as the Oracle is also known). Bon Voyage.

6. Into Regions Unknown

Travel in the kingdom of Madam Pastiche was troublesome in these days, through no fault, mismanagement or malfeasance on her part, but due to other faults altogether: the rather severe effects of the plate tectonic activity, which had so fragmented and jumbled the continent. Even reliable maps of the kingdom (though one might wonder that we are not calling it a queendom at this juncture in its history) were not to be found, for no sooner was one drawn than continued movement rendered it obsolete. It had become a tough place to find one's way in, and one's having been somewhere in the past was no indicator that one could find the same place by the same route again. Two counties from widely removed regions might suddenly be realigned as neighbors. Of this problem (and the myriad more that might stem from it), little was said. There were more pressing concerns for the moment at hand, for, while there was still the electronic superhighway, the Internet, there was no longer its namesake, for all highways, rail lines and the like had been severed, and only shifting byways remained. So two choices of transportation lay open: air and foot (the latter including horseback). Now, in the course of normal operations of the kingdom, the former choice was, of course, the preferred method, but in the case of a Progress (especially one that included some aspect of the penitential pilgrimage), swooping down from on high into hamlet and village would hardly be the thing. So like pilgrims of centuries past, our dear sovereign perambulated (that is aboard a fairly luxurious steed). And, given the April flowers and small fowls making melody among the trees swaying in the light zephyrs, it was a none too unpleasant way to spend the days. Dripping Sea God pointed out a host of those same small fowl, that is, migratory birds (though from whence I cannot say, given latitude shifts and the like), and Mm. Pastiche was pleased to observe for the first time (content for the nonce to follow his lead in this activity) the Scarlet Tanager, Rose Breasted Grosbeak, and dainty Ruby Crowned Kinglet. Thus the entourage clip-clopped in somnambulant ease, chit-chatting in desultory fashion on arcane, but unimportant topics, rarely mentioning anything so significant as the great vowel shift, and reasonably sure of where they were.

All went thusly until the Queen turned in her saddle to Dripping Sea God and said dreamily, "The journey has begun so smoothly that I just know it will end just as smoothly."

Suddenly, before them yawned a slippery slope of wet turf (a veritable manifestation of her error in logic!). Their mounts, also half asleep (or meditating like T.S. Elliot's cats, which I'm not sure is possible), stumbled, slithered and soon slipped across the grass, downward, speeding toward the drink, for a slow but deep stream crossed the foot of the slope. Splash followed splash in varying pitches and timbres depending on the size and angle of the mass penetrating the surface of the water, until all, horse and rider (like so many ancient Egyptians) were dog paddling in the bracing stream.

Luckily, as some sharp eye noted within the general panic that ensued, there floated just nearby a wagon with what appeared to be a load of band instruments on it that had apparently suffered much the same fate. The entire party stroked as best each could toward it and clambered aboard, throwing instruments off right and left to make room for their companions. When all were aboard, the wagon promptly sank, and the fellowship was left again as individuals, swimming for the not so very distant bank.

When, finally, all were safely, if unhappily ashore, most of the baggage recovered, the horses soothed, the treasured OED checked within its water tight, leathern bag (by a trusted retainer whose sole job was its custody), the Queen and Dripping Sea God stood (Diving Squirrel looking like some sort of drowned show dog on Dripping Sea God's arm) appraising the situation and their approximate whereabouts, for they had been carried well downstream from the track they had been traveling.

Dripping Sea God observed that, "This particular area does not seem to be quite as it once was. The maps are useless and, in addition, events we've just experienced seem themselves to be oddly out of what one might call the norm. I wonder where we are and where we should go."

After a longish meditation on the situation, Mm. Pastiche eventually spoke in decisive terms, "Well, either we strike out from here into the dense forest, or we build boats and continue downstream. Since the latter will eventually lead back to where we started, the only reasonable option is to start bushwhacking from here and hope we strike a road sometime."

Dripping Sea God looked at her for another longish time, before asking innocently, "That's the only choice, then?"

"Of course," she replied testily, for she was used to solving such problems with authority and was known as a quick decider between the black and the white, adding, "There's nothing else to do."

Dripping Sea God hesitated, then said softly, "Well, OK, you're the boss."

She eyed him for a moment and then hissed, "What? You're thinking something. Out with it."

He sighed and replied, "Well, it's just that if you have your mind made up, I need hardly suggest that we simply follow that path there along the edge of the stream back up to the main path where it crosses the stream..."

She whirled and saw the path plain in the sunlight, spun back to him, sputtered, and then gave orders for the group to reassemble (which they had already done), repack (that too had been accomplished), and follow her up the path (and, as they were standing at the head of the path waiting for just such an order, had only to step back for her to mount her steed and take the lead).

Soon enough, they had returned to the spot opposite their entrance to the water, and, spying the path continuing off in their original direction, lost no time in going that way. They rode in silence for some time, until Dripping Sea God leaned over close to his beloved and whispered so no one else could hear, "You know, Sweetie, I hate to say this, but it occurs to me that this confusion may actually be your fault. That is, certain errors in logic, as we've spoken of before, can cause..."

Still somewhat miffed at being embarrassed in front of her subjects by Dripping Sea God for not noticing the streamside path, this further insult seemed just too much. She snapped her head around and shouted, "You don't know what you're talking about because you're an idiot! I'll figure out where we are just by going up that hill and looking."

With that, she kicked her steed into a canter and was soon lost to sight around the next bend.

When next they saw her, it was from a little distance. She was above them on a grassy knoll, dismounting and approaching a man dressed in bib overalls and broad-rimmed hat. The party stopped as one to witness the exchange. Could it be the Queen was going to ask for directions? After a rather lengthy colloquy, in which the Queen seemed to do all the talking, she suddenly seemed to leap up a little, as if startled. Then to the amazement of all, she attacked the man, her hands at his throat (and the hearts of all who watched in theirs). Then with ferocious strength, she (I hope you're sitting down for this) ripped the man's head clean off, tore it into shreds and tatters, throwing fistfuls of what looked like grass into the air, and then proceeded to do likewise to the torso. Soon there was a very cloud of straw flying above her. All turned toward Dripping Sea God, and he (handing off Diving Squirrel to a neighbor) strode manfully up to the scene of devastation.

There he found the Queen sitting like a child, sobbing on ground strewn with hay. He knelt at her side and embraced her, while her shoulders heaved, and she faltered out, "He wouldn't tell me where we were. He was just an old scarecrow."

He murmured in her ear soothing words, "Ah, my sweet girl, yes, yes, it's all right...now, now... don't feel sorry for yourself...it's alright...there...there. I know you feel miserable and lost. We all have bad days, even brilliant queens. But, behold, through my pity for you, you have just made me realize where we are and why it's all so confusing. I couldn't have done it without you. You have led us through a newly deposited county. You are indeed a great queen to suffer so for our sakes."

Jackpot Pastiche looked up at him wide eyed and sniffling, "I am?"

"Yes," Dear One," he replied gently, "Look."

From their vantage, they could see the path behind them, a tortured maze-like thing, full of false alleys and senseless double blinds. Then ahead of them, they saw a straight road lead with arrow-like logic into the distance. "We have been lost," he said gently, "in the once distant, but now near Valley of Fallacies, in the county of Non Sequitur, and you, My Sweet, have found the way out. Hail Harlot Queen."

With that, he helped her up and into her saddle, while the company joined them on the rise. Looking out on the vista, each and every heart gladdened at the prospect and realization of the sacrifice of the Queen, and all spontaneously broke into polite applause, which turned gradually into wild cheers.

Thus restored, the happy party continued along the straight and narrow road toward the Oracle. Dripping Sea God rode beside his queen and tallied on his fingers, mumbling, "Let's see, Slippery Slope, Bandwagon, yes...uh, False Dilemma, uh huh, oh, Ad Homonym, and...yes, Straw Man, and probably Ad Misicordium. Yes, six logical fallacies in all, I think. Pretty lucky when you think about it. Could have been a lot worse."

7. Rest for the Weary

As the sky turned a deep indigo and stars shone brilliantly, the traveling party stopped at a wayside inn, called Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's Reprieve, which had once been a Howard Johnson's Motel (conveniently located on an expressway off ramp), but which was now more like a medieval lodging house for wayfarers seeking shelter from the denizens of the nighttime forest (the expressway being long-since eradicated by shifting ground), only the orange roof hinting at its more prosaic past.

Sheila, the Queen's handmaiden, needed special assistance getting off her mount and upstairs into her bed, as she had never ridden a horse before and had done so thus far with a determined, even grim silence admired by all. She had been somewhat surprised by the juxtaposition of the saddle pommel and certain tender parts of her anatomy, and was now weak kneed and nearly senseless from suffering almost non-stop many a little death during the long hours of travel. And then the hotelier's dog had greeted Dripping Sea God in the lobby with special affection, wrapping forelegs around his knee and performing a series of vulgar gyrations, to which his owner bellowed, "Stop that, Spot! Hey, hey, Spot, stop!" having finally to pry the creature from the leg of the Queen's Consort (who was none too amused), pointing to the door crying, "Out, damned Spot!" and standing there watching to see Spot run, before rushing off to wash his hands of the dog's slaver.

Other members of the entourage bustled about with baggage and the like before themselves settling in for a well-deserved rest. The Keeper of the Book, the OED that is, one Roscoe by name, received special consideration from Her Majesty for his diligence with his charge in the water. The settling of various other petty dignitaries in the party was seen to by the establishment's host as well as the solicitous Lady, who was feeling pleased with their progress and not insensible to their generous response to the day's vicissitudes.

In fact, upon retiring to their own suite after all were well stowed, were we to be able to peek for a moment into the window (not that I'd recommend that kind of thing, mind), we might glimpse the Harlot Queen offering her approbation to her Consort for his day's performance through the demonstration of certain equestrian techniques, notably one called "posting," on her prancing, though supine steed.

All in all, there was a rather randy air about the inn that night for reasons, perhaps, only an astrologer could explain. Even Diving Squirrel went out into the trees on a prowl that would bring him back only at dawn, looking a bit worse for wear, but otherwise mum about his perambulations. And deep into the night, from his workshop behind the stables could be heard the whine of the hotelier's router (blending in fine timbre with the snores of those asleep nearby), as he crafted a sign to be posted come daylight over the entry to his establishment announcing to all and sundry future patrons that Jackpot Pastiche, Harlot Queen, Slept Here.

8. Royal Dialectic

On another long march, with the entourage rather strung out along the trail (the worry over highwaymen vis-à-vis the Queen's party being virtually nil; a tongue lashing from her was known as a fearsome thing across the kingdom...Dripping Sea God being the only one to withstand one, and that of a somewhat different class altogether).

Dripping Sea God asked his Lady in a quiet, even serious voice, "Sweetheart, I just wonder what you'll be queen of if not English. I mean, will you be Queen of Esperanto?"

She looked at him in something like perplexity, as if she hadn't approached the dilemma from this particular angle (and it must be acknowledged that it reflects well on Her Majesty that in this regard she seems to have been thinking exclusively of the well-being of her subjects and not her own position).

Dripping Sea God then added in as gentle a tone as he could muster (and that is gentle by a good margin), "You know, Dear One, you, yourself, don't really speak Esperanto, apart from those few charming conjugations you know about certain parts of my anatomy. Aren't there some difficulties and ramifications we've not quite worked through?"

Jackpot Pastiche was strangely affected by this question. She shot him an odd glance and then, without answering, kicked her horse up to a canter and moved up ahead of the group to ride by herself, where she appeared to fall into a deep meditation. So deep, in fact, was this meditation that the party passed clean through several hamlets and a village, the lesser nobility (of a decidedly American sort) being obliged to dispense, as it were, the Queen's greetings, as well as putting to rights such minor cultural, linguistic mutations, such as, as Kozy Korner. Now, what Mm. Pastiche was pondering I cannot say. (There are boundaries that even omniscient narrators dare not pass.) But, although a few unusual phrases wafted to the others (notably, "Twas brillig and the slithy toves," and, "Mares eat oats and does eat oats"), it was clear that she was not simply amusing herself with nonsense ditties (and it was certainly not a case of "some craven scruple, of thinking too precisely on the event, a thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom and ever three parts coward." Oh no, indeed). Also heard were such snatches as, "Four score and seven years ago," and "and that has made all the difference," and "Free at last, free at last, Thank God almighty, I'm free at last." In fact, from the look on her face (and this I am at liberty to report), she was running such snatches of literature and oratory through a whole sequence of Aristotelian modes of persuasion, now defining, now comparing and contrasting, now seeking cause and effect. One might speculate that the number of synaptic firings in her brain were for that period of hours equal to, or in excess of, the grand total in any given year of the entire former United States Congress.

Finally, in the late afternoon, the Queen reigned in her mount, slowing to ride side by side with Dripping Sea God. She reached over and took his hand and said simply, "Beauty and tradition on the one hand, universal clarity and understanding on the other. You're right, my Dear, it is indeed a most formidable choice."

He smiled and said, "You're as smart as you are sexy, my girl." They continued to ride through the lengthening shadows thus hand in hand, silent, both pondering their own tracks, or rather, both pondering different parts of the same track.

9. How Diving Squirrel Got His Name

In the picaresque manner of those pillars of storytelling (by whose light we who follow see but only imitate dimly) such as, Boccoccio, Chaucer, and Cervantes (do not think, I insist again, that I dare number my name among them...as did audacious Dante in Inferno with Virgil et al), we, from time to time, find it à propos to break away from our main plot for the sake of pacing and the like (not to mention giving the Queen a fun little sentence to diagram while she rests offstage) to relate some other little episode of only tangential relevance to the principle events. This we do here.

One time Jackpot Pastiche and Dripping Sea God were out of doors enjoying the summer sun filtering down through the trees of a lovely meadow, which was virtually awash with flowers. The lovers both had ample opportunity to observe the slanting, golden rays through the tree bows playing among the limitless, dappled hues of green, each (the lovers, that is, not the rays) taking turns looking up past the serene face of an amorous partner. During a respite from such not altogether passive appreciation of nature, they meandered down a streamside path rather more frequented by others than the bower in which they had been amusing themselves with visions of the heavens (if not some direct experience thereof). Settling on a bench, they regarded in languid ease the activities of a certain frisky squirrel.

This creature seemed an absolute adept at drawing sustenance from his habitat, in this particular environ, a large trash can. The Queen and her (somewhat spent) Consort watched rapt as the squirrel scampered down the bole of a mighty oak, leaping from on high to the green sward below and running pell mell straight toward the receptacle. At upwards of a meter from this object, he fairly sprang aloft, sailing with surprising grace (once, Dripping Sea God was certain, executing a flawless full gainer) over the edge of said container and disappearing into its capacious maw. A look of awe passed between the audience members each time this performance was reprised. The first time this little drama took place, it was followed by a sequel in which the squirrel sprang right back out, landed neatly foursquare on the grass and hastened back up into the tree, his progress only slightly impeded by what appeared to be the remains of a partially consumed corn dog on a stick. In another episode, he returned with an entire slice of pizza. Needless to say, our royals were highly amused by this little animal's proclivity for diving for food, like some mammalian pelican diving into a columnar sea for a stunning variety of gastronomical piscatorial delicacies.

One other impressive display cemented the Queen's affection for the enterprising creature. He had, through dint of skill, muscle, and (it must be acknowledged) luck managed to hoist a large, wrinkled ball of tin foil to his aerie, where he had proceeded with vigor to attempt to gain access to whatever morsel hid therein by methodically tearing shreds of metal from the whole (so around the tree it rained a silvern snow, which glittered prettily as it fell and accumulated on the grass). Just then, our erstwhile hero (for this was how his observers now perceived him) was wantonly attacked by an ignoble brother, who tried to wrest away the prize, prizing it from the other's jaws, to gain the food without the ennobling benefits of the work of procuring more legitimately the provenance. Indignant, the Queen, Dripping Sea God, and the squirrel exclaimed as one in affront at this outrage, the latter suiting the action to the word in stern defense of his own, to be rewarded by the craven retreat of the would be thief.

Jackpot Pastiche was moved nearly to tears at the stalwart defense, the heroic victory (she having a highly developed sense of justice), leaping to her feet and crying, "Oh, bravo! Well fought, noble squirrel!"

With that, she impulsively pulled the red ribbon from her long hair (which had restrained it so Dripping Sea God could breathe during their earlier diversions) and approached the tree in stately mien. In an act that was now understood to be utterly in character, the squirrel dove down to a branch just at her eye level and stood, silent and grave (apart from a telltale twitching of his tail), while the queen tied the ribbon in a neat bow around his furry neck, proclaiming, "I dub you Diving Squirrel of the Order of the Red Ribbon, Special Friend of the Queen and Her Consort."

Then she kissed, as best one can do such a thing (and it must be said that Jackpot Pastiche can do it better than most), him on both cheeks (in the continental fashion), turned on her heel, beaming at Dripping Sea God, and said, "Come, My Sweetness. Homeward."

He, equally tickled by the whole affair, jumped to his feet, saluted the squirrel and fell into step with (just ever so slightly behind) his royal mistress.

But there was one more surprise to be meted out that day, for Diving Squirrel (as he would thence be known throughout the kingdom) leapt onto Dripping Sea God's arm (the right) and became thus a part of the royal entourage of the great queen, a noble addition and active participant in many a future adventure.

10. Plane Speech

The party of royal travelers, like ants on a ballroom floor, made their way across a great barren plane. They trudged in the dark hour just before dawn, having started out with the early birds to make a long haul that day. Had anyone been awake enough to make the observation, they (ah, that pesky pronoun) would have thought that they could have been almost anywhere on the wide globe. It was neither warm nor cold, and all directions seemed one, until a royal blue in one section of the sky revealed east. As the sun crept over the horizon, like the groundhog in February, nervous about seeing his own shadow, the coming light revealed the huge empty expanse before them. It was a disheartening view, and no one spoke until the monotonous clip clop of hooves turned to splish splash. The Queen looked long at the puddles below her before turning to Dripping Sea God with an inexplicable tear in her eye and asked, "Is that milk?"

He, daydreaming of more shapely terrains, replied after a surprisingly (for him) short time to consider the evidence, "Can't judge a book by its cover." And on they continued for many a monotonous mile.

The Queen was considering stopping for a much needed jolt of strong French roast, but hesitated waking the Coffee Page, who slept as one of those rare breed inured against the ravages (rather, blessings) of caffeine. Besides, the noise of the hand grinder in such a nowhere land might overly grate on one's nerves. (Such are the considerations of Great Ones who have we commoners at heart.) Then they came upon another strange thing, a lone turkey, poking listlessly through a scattering of marbles. It shivered (some texts use the obscure word "burbled" here) as they passed, all with their chins on their shoulders and a chill down their spines.

Dripping Sea God, still somewhat thick-headed from the earliness of the hour and the oddity of seeing the single bird, mumbled the ornithologically and otherwise incorrect, "Don't count your chickens," to which Jackpot Pastiche replied, "A little bird told me," and he responded, "A bird in the hand," and she, "Don't beat around the bush," and he, "besides, there are plenty more fish..." But he was interrupted by the Queen's imperious voice reverberating across the flat ground, like a rolling stone, "Halt!"

One and all drew reign and waited. She craned back to peer at her entourage and called, "Wilpidge, come up here."

A withered old academic hastened forward, his hat (shaped rather like an ivory tower) slipping from side to side. This was one of her most trusted linguistic advisors. Revered, berobed, and most tenured, Master Wilpidge wrote the book on deconstructing phonemic signs and signifiers and had been around practically since the great vowel shift. "Yes, M' Lady?" the aged sycophant wheezed.

"Where the hell are we?" she demanded, adding, "It was you was it not, that suggested this route through this wasteland?"

He looked briefly around him and nodded, wheezed again and replied in a treacle-laced voice, "Well, Lady, beauty is only skin..."

"Silence!" she cried. "Don't give me any more of that drivel. I don't give a hill of..." and she stopped, looking down at a small pile of what first appeared to be stones, but what surely must have been...well, one hardly needs to be obvious with a learned audience. "Where," she repeated slowly, "are we?"

Pedant that he was, Wilpidge straightened his hat, modulated his voice and began, "This, Great Queen, is an area of your kingdom to which your highness has never had need to come. It is, as you so wisely observe, a wasteland. Nevertheless, it is a shorter route to our destination than going the long way round. These," he paused for dramatic effect, "are the Planes of Cliché." He paused again to allow for royal reflection (and to catch breath, it being his longest lecture in a decade, as he usually delegated such mundane duties to his TA).

Jackpot Pastiche took in this information and the expanse before her with a sweep of her eye and wrinkled her nose. "Why do we not wipe the place clean of all this rubbish? Erase it. This is what our language has come to, is it not?"

Wilpidge nodded sagely, while she gathered steam, "This underscores my intention to start new with a fresh tongue. We are a people too noble for this meaningless and foul congregation of vapors (to coin a phrase)."

Dripping Sea God, who had been listening quietly, interposed a soft question, "Don't these sayings, these clichés, make those who use them feel comfortable?"

She gave him a withering look and said, "Fool, these are mouthings only for featherheads who refuse to think! They are comfort to no one. Observe." She pointed into the near distance at what appeared to be a small, fresh pool of crystalline blue water in which a dark cloud was reflected. At the edges of the latter was a silver lining. It was a comforting image, it is true. But when they approached it, it turned into a dry bowl, empty and dusty. "See?" she declared rather than asked. "Nothing." With this victory, she turned once again to Wilpidge and asked, "Can we not simply sweep this refuse away and begin anew?"

And he smiled Polonius-like and yes-manned her obsequiously.

Again Dripping Sea God made bold to speak, this time to Wilpidge, "Tell her the rest, man, how this came to be. Show her the rest of the map, if it's still reliable for these parts."

Jackpot Pastiche looked first at her Consort, then at Wilpidge, saying at last, "Well?"

Wilpidge, discomfited, to be sure, and not feeling altogether up to a second lecture, squirmed in his saddle (they being no more comfortable now than five hundred years before) and launched in, "Hmm...yes, M' Lady...uh hmm...these Planes of Cliché run thus." He pointed at the map held by his TA, who had almost by prestidigitation appeared and produced a large map. "The map does hold rather true for 'these parts,' as the Consort so quaintly put it." He gave Dripping Sea God a tight-lipped smile that faded instantly. "You can see," he continued, "them here. And we traverse thus across them."

She glanced at the map, but having no head for the genre, looked back at him expectantly.

"Well," he went on after clearing a copious quantity of phlegm from his wattled throat, "these planes are below a set of foothills." He shot another glance at Dripping Sea God, who raised an eyebrow. "They are the Foothills of Idiom, and they in turn sit at the edge of the Mountains of Metaphor." He looked once more at Dripping Sea God before proceeding, the latter nodding once. "And, yes, Your Highness, it is a system entire. That is to say, there on the heights...surely you recognize them..."

She looked toward the distant mountains and a dawn seemed to rise in her eyes, for she knew the Mountains of Metaphor well. And why would she not? Was she not highborn herself. Was not the High County of Figurative Speech her native milieu? Then her eye clouded as she looked at her immediate surroundings.

"But, Wilpidge, what of this place, this," she shuddered, "cesspool?"

He responded slowly, reluctantly, "All of this refuse you see here originated in the mountains of metaphor. They are indeed, or at least, once were, metaphors. But through the action of common usage, indeed in the rain of over-use, they were washed down into the Foothills of Idiom, where they remained for many years, but eventually spilled as alluvium out onto the Plane of Cliché. And here they lay in waste. All sorts of clichés and like filth. Yonder you can just see the chalky area known as Passage of Platitude, fronting the Quicksands of Hyperbole, and beyond, a more horrible place that we will avoid like the plague...uh...sorry...but when in Rome...I mean to say, out there spreads the Bog of Euphemism." He shuddered, as did the entire company (as should you) at the mention of the dreaded place, with attendant horrors of example lurching through every brain.

In time, the Queen asked, "Can we not still raze the entire land? Start with new metaphors, as it were, in the virgin soil of Esperanto?"

Realizing what she had just done, she stopped and looked forlornly at her Consort.

He said speculatively, looking around him, "Perhaps we can just clean this place up. Hospitalize, as it were, these crippled phrases? They need to be collected and cleaned of the slime of insincerity and residue of repetition, taken out of circulation and restored later to use a generation or two hence, thus regaining their strength, instead of piling up for centuries down here. Think about it. Aren't there old clichés that have passed entirely out of use, so that they are no longer even recognized? Or at least, they are so unused that if revived, they would seem almost new, like fresh metaphors? Isn't that the thing with metaphors? They have to be fresh? They are like flowers, beautiful, but quick to fade. But they can come back in some distant spring. There are examples of such old clichés that have through disuse come to seem new again." He looked at the bilious Wilpidge with distaste and said, "'Breaking wind,' for example, though perhaps not a cliché, strictly speaking. How about 'passing out' in its old sense of orgasm?"

Jackpot Pastiche, who had been listening with interest, laughed aloud and cried, "Leave it to Dripping Sea God to bring it round to sex! All this bears consideration. Come, let us continue onward into the Foothills of Idiom, where we will see what can be seen. Remember everyone, no pain..."

She paused and the entire company sang out, "No gain!" and dissolved into general laughter. Wilpidge slinked back again to his own place, and the Queen and her Consort rode on ahead.

Nearing the edge of the flatlands, they passed a stony outcropping, the Promontory of Adage, repository of those fixed truisms that remain when even their metaphorical references have passed from memory. But the party did not linger in the shade of these pale stones of worn folk wisdom, and after a while, Jackpot Pastiche leaned over and said, "Now, my Dripping One, since you brought up the amorous arts, tell me about that other old rather euphemistic phrase, 'country matters.'"

"Ah, he replied, "That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs...."

They laughed and continued quoting the ribald Bard as they rode off into the sunset (the fact that it is still morning does not in this region prevent clichés from operation).

11. Into Idiotic Foothills

The ground over which the royal party traveled so monotonously gradually began to roll, and they knew that they were leaving behind Cliché and entering the Foothills of Idiom, though the actual foothills stood yet some distance off. At least now the horses were no longer mired by the sticky and dusty accumulation of clichés. One and all began to think that they were well out of an unpleasant area and rather long overdue for that delayed French roast. So it should be little wondered at that they were interested to see a quaint curl of smoke rising from a homely cottage in the middle distance (for art enthusiasts, please see here my monograph, published separately, on the literary use of visual perspective in Anglo Saxon descriptive narratives). Upon pulling to a stop before the place, they were first greeted by a mangy cur that seemed to consider briefly the watchdog's duty of barking, only to abandon it in favor of a somewhat cheerier cock of the head like that dog in the old music ads. This approach failed, as one might imagine, to bring the master of the house running, but a whinny of the Queen's steed filled the need admirably.

A quite natty old gent in tweeds appeared and was immediately recognized by Wilpidge, who clearly held the fellow in high esteem (which, of course, did not tend to elevate him in the cool regard of Dripping Sea God). Still, Wilpidge was practically ass over teakettle (one must remember where they are), in introducing him to the Queen, who in dismounting had displayed to the observant eye a splendid cleavage. Eschewing the normal monarchal blather, she strode up and shook his hand manfully, while Wilpidge conveyed his name, one Doctor Ibid, a noted and oft published author.

Over the promised coffee (the Queen being fussy on the subject, required of her host only the hot water, while the Coffee Page performed what amounted to a liturgy of the bean), the good Doctor (PhD, of course), made it known in a charming discourse (which the reader will be spared, as it would run into the second volume) that this was his writing retreat, to which he, well, retreated annually between book signing tours and lectures at the great learning centers of the kingdom. He was, of course, well aware of Her Ladyship's regard for the spoken and written word, having even won a silver at the Queen's Sentence Diagramming Championships, "back in the day." He then, while the good lady sat listening and savoring her coffee (and a second and then third cup) waxed eloquent on the history of his publishing career.

He had, he related, made his mark when he (I must exhibit some of his circumlocution, if for no other reason than to satisfy the stale maxim, "show, don't tell) "was feeling under the weather and it struck me, like a bolt from the blue, that our language, nay our very world was a veritable hothouse of unharvested idiomatic phrases, and that I could do a good turn, by turning to and turning out a well-turned collection." Here he chortled frabjously, but alone, at his flair for his pet topic, and gold mine, one might add, for he had been churning out revised, expanded, large print, newly expanded, revised and expanded, coffee table size, pocket size, field guide, illustrated field guide, etymological (his pride of scholarship, co-edited with 400 of the most noted scholars on idiom), and his latest joy, a children's edition. In all, he had published some 57 varieties of books on the same topic over a like number of years. No wonder Wilpidge's admiration. What academician would not be green with envy? Who needs tenure?

At the end of his soliloquy, the Queen, whose patience had run dry at about the same time as the coffee pot, and unused to being for so long not the center of attention, queried (quoting the Bard, as was her wont), "'Let me question you more in particular.' Why is it that there is something in this that rubs against the grain?"

He gaped for a moment like a fish out of water, and sputtered, "But Lady, I did it by the book."

"Ah," she replied easily, "But doesn't it become rather like taking coals to Newcastle?"

Doctor Ibid squirmed, sensing that he was being called on the carpet, for what he knew not, and answered rather too haughtily (going from frying pan to fire), "Rather, one thinks at times, it's like casting pearls before swine."

He looked at the collected audience for an approbational feather to be placed in his cap for his repartee, but they were sensing an impending fall from grace and looked as one at the ground (discretion being the better part of valor), as they had seen the Queen remind many a proud man that his feet were made of clay. She, taking her cue from them, turned a cold shoulder, which was a veritable death knell. And inasmuch as she had given him enough rope to hang himself, and he had obliged, she (being both devil and deep blue sea) had him, to make a long story short, and not to put too fine a point on it, commensurately tortured. Alas, yes, that was my word. She may well have spared him, as she was fond of her academicians, but his embarrassing self-regard in conjunction with his long-windedness was just too much. It was a brutal sentence for so sensitive and squeamish a queen, pushing the envelope so to speak of the genre. He was made to read every one of his books cover to cover starting with the newest and working backwards. It was food for thought, though of a different sort than he might have expected, and in the end (or beginning, as the sequence suggests), even he saw the bottom line: the error in his enterprise.

He was put to work to expiate his redundant, self-parasitism by gathering (as he knew well how to do) and cleaning (which he found rather distasteful) the clichés that abounded in the flatlands below his abode. The Queen (lest she be thought a heartless tyrant) sweetened his penance by offering him a book contract (a single contract, with a caveat against the blowing of one's own horn) on the Cleaning of the Cliches (as well as rights to develop a documentary film on the subject for the Discovery Channel). With that, the good Queen decided they had seen more than enough of the Foothills of Idiom, and whipped her steed to a gallop toward the Mountains of Metaphor, bag and baggage trundling on behind.

12. Under a Figurative Spell

As the terrain became steep, many things changed as well. They were entering the Mountains of Metaphor, and everything that had come before looked by comparison as drab and dowdy as a Dickensian back street. There were trees and streams and rocky crevasses, all towering and plunging and defying description of every sensorial type. And everywhere, as there had been mirages in the Flatlands of Cliché, now there abounded prisms. When they looked at a thing, they saw not just the thing but the thing in manifold prismatic dimensions, which drew the eye or nose or some other sense off toward other objects, even brought the sensations of other experiences, but always somehow connected, integrated with the object being viewed. Far from being disorienting, like funhouse mirrors, this was the opposite, orienting, and not simply directionally. One had the sense that one knew where one was, yes, but also why, and how this related to everything else, physical and metaphysical. It was not intoxicating, but did produce a kind of clearheaded euphoria. And nowhere was this euphoria of crystalline thought more evident than on the countenance of Jackpot Pastiche.

Her cheeks were a bright wash of watercolor roses, and her eyes were sprites among the trees. American sensibilities about class distinctions notwithstanding, Jackpot Pastiche the Harlot Queen was a woman of nobility at least in this regard: she was attuned to language and its power as from her very blood. She was a connoisseur of syntax and a believer in the nobility of words. And she was alive in these mountains as at no other time save in the arms of her lover, who now in the prismatic glow stood multifaceted in her esteem. That she had been raised not so far below this elevation only made her appreciate these heights the more. She breathed in the thin, sweet oxygen as she had savored her coffee earlier, turning it with tongue and palate, tasting it, drawing energy like the caffeine, but unlike the caffeine, this calmed her and made one and all suddenly see her beauty as never before. Here was a queen.

(Sometimes the narrator is loath to interject, as in this uncharacteristically sincere and tender moment, but it can't be helped. One must occasionally conscientiously check that one's audience is interpreting things aright, Derrida notwithstanding. If the "Sound of Music" is playing in the head of even one reader, I have failed miserably in my description. All of that took place down in the flattest parts of the Idiomatic Hills, and may well have, through alluvial erosion, descended all the way to the Flatlands of Cliché. No, no, turn your eyes from there up through the dazzling streamers of sunlight to the Peaks of the Figurative Range!)

In small groups, the company was clustered about a glen of quaking aspens talking, smiling, and looking with enchantment through the various prisms. Were one sitting on a branch above, one might hear murmured phrases, like, "Yes, I see," or, "Ah, I know what you mean," or, "Oh, I had almost the same thing happen to me." It was the mountains working on them, the gentle tendrils of understanding coaxed by simile, metaphor, metonymy, synecdoche, and their cousins of the figurative palette (to mix my own metaphor).

But here is a surprise: Jackpot Pastiche in this reflective and appreciative mood silently began to weep. With a constricted whisper she explained to her Consort, "Now that I can see this aviary of language and how it, figuratively, can soar, I realize two things. It is a process, a function of thought that uses words to covey feelings in almost magical ways. But it is not restricted to our language. No, it occurs in all languages; any tongue can use figurative language. The problems that set us on this path to begin with remain. Our language exists here, yes, but also down there, mostly down there in those lowlands, mired in a thousand ways. Its rescue is hopeless, and the loss is great. But we must remember that these mountains will sweeten Esperanto too. This will be the birthplace of a million metaphors enriching thousands of poems and everyday speech. That is why we have come."

She took Dripping Sea God's hand and in a somewhat firmer voice (though everyone in the fellowship had been leaning forward to listen to what went before), "That is why now we must leave this Olympus of words. Come." And they departed the glen as silent as elves, only the tiny clatter of the leaves in the wind could be heard, like tiny hands clapping for the last curtain of a last show.

13. Mist Understandings

As they descended from these rarefied heights, all the fellowship remained moved by the Queen's words. Even skeptics of her plan, Dripping Sea God by no means the least, began to think that the sensitive and visionary monarch might actually be able to put her grand scheme into practice. In fact, Dripping Sea God could hardly stop singing Jackpot Pastiche's praises in his head (and though one might think he was suffering from the thin air, he was actually never more clearheaded, and perhaps never happier). He was more attracted to her than ever; the mountains and her own poignant appreciation of the beauties and complexities of thought and word had made her radiant. He kept reaching over to touch her skin, listening for the faint whisper of finger on cheek, neck, arm. And she too found these tenders highly stimulating, feeling shivers run through her as he stroked (in rhythm with the horses' steps) the top of her trapezius muscle. Her briefly held drop of eyelid, and slight parting of the lips was response enough to his heightened awareness. In this way, they chastely made love as they rode down the fragrant pathway. It was a halcyon day, lit as from within, gold and green and sensual and sweet.

In time they came to the edge of a lake. There were willows swaying in a wafting breeze and leaning away out over the water as if to catch sight of their reflections in the ripples that radiated across the cerulean surface. Leaves floated lambently on the water and birdsong lilted and trilled from unseen throats. At the end of the lake rose up a steep granite cliff shot through with streaks of black. At its foot flowed a small, fair cataract, the natural spillway of the lake. The sounds of the rushing stream bent from consonant to vowel, repeating S, sliding into A, and then dipthonging into U as the water raced through a narrow sluice of stone. Word came up the line from Wilpidge (for he was vain but not really a fool) that these were the Lake of Alliteration and the Echoing Promontory of Assonance. The splashing, slapping, trilling waterfall below, which seemed to burble and bubble as it sprayed mists and plish-plashes on the surrounding stones, they learned was called Onomatopoeic Falls. So they all listened afresh to the poetry of water and rock and tree and bird and wind and horse hooves. And then they continued on.

Down they went into a steep declivity, the sweet sounds dying away above like the call of a hawk that trails off. Down and down, clattering through loose shale, sliding now, all ease and comfort slipping away, as a dream fades on waking no matter how we try to hold it. Now what had been clouds below the peaks on which they had soared became mist, thickening into a wet, chill blanket of fog, draining color from the surroundings and confusing sight. In time, they simply had to stop, for they could see nothing of path nor surroundings. Thus they milled, irresolute, the verities of earlier hours vaporizing in thin tendrils right out of their heads.

The mists muted the sounds of speech, and the party, though little inclined to talking found themselves constantly saying, "Sorry, what did you say?" or, ""What? I can't hear you" or, "What do you mean?" Then, to make matters worse, they realized that the ground on which they shifted so uneasily was gradually turning to mush.

Dripping Sea God turned to the Queen and said, "The only thing I can see is a scarlet woman."

She turned sharply and replied somewhat testily, "It's hardly the time or place, Consort, to start playing the harlot game. Really."

"Oh, no," he replied. "That's not what I meant. I was talking about the absence of color and your red bustier being the only...I mean to say, it's a bit of a trick to..."

But she cut him short, saying, "I said no more prostitute comments right now, if you please," adding a sentence he didn't quite catch except for the phrase, "way to go."

He took this as an insult, saying with some heat, "What do you mean 'way to go?' I didn't do anything."

She in perplexed reply said, "The way to go. I don't know what way to go. What's the matter with you?"

Dripping Sea God, realizing that communication was not all one might hope for at the moment, said to no one in particular, "Shoot."

Again came the Queen's hot response, "What in hell's good would shooting do at a time like this? Are you bananas?"

Unfortunately in the thick air, all he heard was the last word, so he went off into the train looking for someone who might be carrying fruit he could bring back to mollify a short-tempered queen. But all he could find was the fellow with the vegetables. Knowing that Jackpot Pastiche was fond of brussels sprouts, and thinking them better than nothing, he returned with them in hand and offered them to her.

She looked at his handful of little cabbages, then turned away muttering. The only word he caught was "vegetable," which again he thought directed at him, so he wandered off in a funk to sit on a tree root until matters cleared up a bit.

Chin in hand, he sat watching the gray shapes slurp about in the mud and replaying the preceding conversations in his head. Then it hit him.

He returned to the Queen's side just as she was remonstrating against the ground, "This mud sucks."

A retainer who had taken Dripping Sea God's place as whipping boy was just agreeing that the mud was indeed quite sticky (the Queen looking at him like he was the lord of dunces).

Dripping Sea God held up a hand to intervene, and knowing that the littlest of comments could go astray, said only, "The Fens of Connotation."

Jackpot Pastiche looked for a moment at him, then at the mire around her feet, and breathed out a slow, "Ahh. Word Bog, eh?"

Dripping Sea God, not wanting to add even one more slippery word, only nodded.

The Great Queen thus informed was quick to take action, proclaiming, "We must simply walk quietly out. Any way will do." And in one final note of ambiguity said once more, "Anyway."

And so after a long, speechless slog through the fens, they finally emerged into brilliant sunlight, which shone straight down onto a colorful countryside. Nary a shadow could be seen; everything was what it was and nothing more. Not a nuance of shape or meaning could be misconstrued. They had come out onto the Plain of Denotation, and they knew exactly what that meant, and if they didn't they needed only to look up (or as the phrase has come down to us: look it up).

14. Auld Slang Sea

It had been a long day (strictly speaking, it had been a day of practically biblical length, for scholars have demonstrated through close readings of the entire mountain crossing narrative that either camping stops were omitted by various redactors for purposes of cohesive flow, or a prodigious amount of ground had been covered by a group on mere horseback. Noting that any additional commentary by your present narrator would serve only to further extend the preamble to this phase of the perambulation, I make no further judgment on the matter). In short, dusk found them at the edge of a warm sea. Camp was set up, royal pennants flew over gay (I must at least this once reclaim this fine old word for which there is no adequate synonym in it's older sense, alas. You suggest, merry? Please. Not to fall afoul of the etymological fallacy, but one wishes retrospectively that this had been taken into account before it was appropriated for its current descriptive duty.) gay, I say then, tents.

The warm sea being just that, it was occupied (if that is the correct term, I being no waterman), by numerous folk, who frolicked knee-deep among tossing waves, which splashed up presumptuously to caress the only areas of the bathers' bodies that remained shielded, if not from the water, then from view. They skipped in the shallows over the flotsam of language that continually washed up on the sand. Here was a cold fish, there a fellow was all wet, others reclining on the sand vegged out, while still others were busy making waves to the max. Dripping Sea God alone set out for the depths and unbroken swells beyond the others, while his Queen sat on the berm with her arms around her knees looking quite foxy in her bikini bottoms and bustier (like a bit of old school cheesecake on the beach), watching raptly as he did a rather fair imitation of a dolphin, gliding effortlessly along the crests, now sliding down the face of a wave, now traversing its interior, now getting tubed.

There was something very sensual about the whole warm, watery scene (one might call to mind the phenomenon of people in their hot tubs). In fact, there grew, in some kind of relationship to the deepening gloaming, a sort of bawdy loosening of linguistic formalities, a playful, if lazy, syntactical brevity, an increase in double entendre, and to put in bluntly, a low raunchiness to almost all oral expression. It started innocently enough with an occasional peck on the cheek, and then progressed to heavy petting, and then beyond to second and third bases. One might guess where all this might lead. But no, surely not to some unbridled bacchanal of orgiastic excess! Not with a Queen, who, though admittedly has a pretty free sense of sensual liberties, is nonetheless no communal wanton of Roman declivity and proclivity. Nay. Still, what goes on behind closed tent flaps is no business of Her Majesty, as she will be first to declare (and I being no Peeping Tom, as I believe I have asserted earlier, cannot describe much more of the goings on). Yet when Dripping Sea God emerged dripping from his element, those shoulders she admires so well shining in the pale lights of fading sun and rising moon, words of, admittedly, a crass, sexual nature crossed her lips, and soon the royal lovers too were entented and (if I may attempt a rendering of a few of these quaint and lusty colloquialisms) getting it on, getting down, rocking and rolling, and a whole parcel of like expressions too indelicate to mention here, or simply too obscure in their figurative references to make sense to the sophisticated, modern ear.

The essential nature of the place and its operating principle will not escape the astute reader, though: the just mentioned figurative component of such utterances make up, of course, slang. For remember, they have just crossed the mountains of metaphor and are now at a like elevation to the lowest Hills of Idiom and upper Flatlands of Cliché on the opposite side.

It turned out that it was a fun place to play pranks by day with the jetsam on the beach (some hilarious games of scrabble and charades ensued), and explore amorous exclamations and esoteric expletives by night. So here they would stay for several nights (there being at this juncture in the story almost too much mention of nights for some tastes and a slight paucity of daylight activities).

It must be noted (for both historical accuracy, as well as a more full portrait of the protagonist) that the Queen reveled for a time here at the edge of the Sea of Slang. It might even be said that she seemed to be fairly slumming, muttering the most obscene of phrases to her tireless Consort. Sometimes in the still night a true linguist might even detect the sound of the Queen's impassioned voice recapitulating the great vowel shift, going from ah to ooh as, let us say, her own personal wave was about to break upon the breathless shore.

So for a time they amused themselves by the water. But time and tide waiting on no man (nor woman either, quoth the gravedigger), duty, dignity and decorum eventually strode solemnly among them like three vestal virgins, and they were reminded of the larger purpose of their quest. Jackpot Pastiche, whose lightning mind often flew from association to association with nary a concern for sudden shifts in tone, wrapped herself in the cloaks of these three muses of pilgrimage and announced a return to the trail. Thus, on the third or fourth day after arriving in this place, the Great Queen led her refreshed party away from the Sea of Slang and onward toward the great Oracle.

15. The Queen's Métier

Students of Celtic literature know that the older tales, like those prototypes of the Arthur cycles, say Culwich and Olwen, or that told by the Wife of Bath, for example, often follow certain conventions. They start out at year's end celebrations, involve a threat to or test of Arthur's court, often in some supernatural way, a knight has a year and a day to fulfill some quest (as Gawain) against some foe who has attributes of primordial nature, e.g. giants like Ysbadden or the castellan of the Green Chapel. Often a protagonist is riding along and simply crosses a small stream or other insignificant seeming boundary. The boundary, however, turns out to be a bridge into the Other World, Faery, where all sorts of odd, magical doings are afoot. Now one might argue that in our current case the boundary was the geological dance that had played so much havoc with the continent and kingdom (you know, I posed the question earlier about such sexist terms, and coming up with no politically correct variation suggested queendom, then fell back on convention as a moment ago. But to hell, I say, with convention! It's the Queen's country and queendom it shall remain for the duration of the narration. I may need reminding). But geological disturbance hardly explains the unique physical properties of this place, and so let us dismiss the suggestion out of hand. Nevertheless some events in our story may well benefit from the old device of boundary crossings, if for no better reason than a shift in the monotonous tromping of horses through the briars on the path of allegory and allusion. So let us have one such here (though perhaps another placement would do as well or better).

One further device suggests itself here, inasmuch as so many of our stops have been of a metaphorical nature, and one hates to spoon feed interpretation and analysis of matters great and small to a learned audience. And it is à propos, after all, to give readers of so openly an English department kind of story, in short, a quiz (scarcely a convention of the stature of those followed by Arthurian redactors, but certainly more often applied). So let us proceed along the path with our Fair Queen through her queendom, and I will by explanation or example give clues (and here one must certainly invoke a muse...though which one, I'm not sure...hoping through her ministrations to avoid the insult to audience of heavy-handedness), while the reader puzzles out the name of the thing alluded to (a handy answer key can be found at the end of this chapter, but those using it will be docked points off their SAT scores, yes, even retroactively, as most of the blanks on the quiz after the first are mere child's play).

We pick up the thread with the splash of hooves in water. Listen, the Queen is speaking, though no one, she realizes, can make out her words above the noise of water, hoof and stone, "I am beginning to think that the Sea of Slang was not so very different, that is to say, perhaps, similar in nature to the Land of the Lotus Eaters in the Odyssey, and we, even I, they can't really hear this can they, because it wouldn't do to admit to them, it's hard enough for me, hating as I do all that navel-gazing that is so popular among the pseudo-intellectuals of this, that, and the other school of pop science that seem to pop (good one, girl) up like so many dandelions in a lawn, like there at the college, where, really we must do something to curb excesses of more than the dandelions, I mean, honestly, some of these PhD's and their little areas of specialty: The Influence of Sinitus on Spencer's Poetry, come on, and we're to give them money, tenure for goodness sakes, and, oh, here's the bank, up we go, must the dogs always shake right next to a body? Well, everyone safely across? Say, I'm no cartographer," (here she shot Dripping Sea God a warning look), "but were I to make a guess, I would guess that was the Stream of _________________."

Dripping Sea God, who had heard enough of her monologue to agree (and having read his Joyce), did so.

Soon enough it was clear that they had stumbled into a new and disturbingly chaotic, even uncivilized part of the realm (Hmm, that does seem better than queendom, I confess). Each traveler watched quietly for the Queen's reaction, sure that she would explode in wrath at the disorder. Ah, how little they knew her. Still, it took some time to actually discern the nature of the problem with the locale. Evidence abounded and eventually made known its disorganizing (if you will) principle. The weirdness of the place seemed not so much broad or idea-like, as with the stream or the boundary, but more mechanical, almost of a simple, molecular fragmentation (another clue there, and more coming next). On the ground. Everywhere underfoot. While they shuffled among them. Phrases. Jackpot Pastiche dismounted, stooped and gathered a handful of the phrases and sorted them aloud, like reading a pile of fortune cookie strips, "On the way. How it came about. Which, unbeknownst to anyone who was there. Staring straight ahead at the fearsome beast, the naked man and his charming bride, who all along had seemed unsuited to the adventure. As it then stood. Because of the color, and, of course, the taste." She drew breath and said, "I've never in my life seen such an array of sentence _____________." (Got it? OK then, no more glosses.)

Absentmindedly, she put the assortment into the pockets of her chords (no, a bustier does not generally have pockets, per se) and proceeded in a bemused fashion, all the while her court followed, repeatedly bating their collective breath. Suddenly, she strode forward and pounced on a long, snaky looking thing, then another, she was soon holding a medusa's head of writhing word strings they seemed almost to scream in long tones that seemed to evoke multiple meanings. One could be heard to chant, "Onward they went the fiery blasts drove them back time and again, they leaned against its fierce heat then suddenly each one, to a man, burst into flames." And another intoned solemnly, "When approaching a problem of this nature, the trained individual pauses, he must first evaluate the causal characteristics of the anomaly it would be wise for the trainee, however to consult the manual, a call to a supervisor would not in such cases be amiss." The Queen, far from being disgusted by the filthy misbegotten creatures in her hand, waved them dramatically and said, "Look at all these incredible, hilarious, twisted ____ ____ and _______ __________!" These too she thrust into pockets.

Her pace quickened as she strode from collection to collection for they (oh, yes, that is one more type she encountered, the ________ _________ _____________ ) seemed to congregated as birds of a feather in roosts, cawing the same discordant notes. In a wooded section, she came across, or rather had to duck under viney streamers that hung oddly from the trees. That is to say, all greenish and waving from the limbs, she pushed her way through the ______________ _______________, plucking a few for her growing accumulation in her pockets. Whereas her company expected her to be outraged at the crazy hodgepodge of mangled syntactical flora, she seemed instead very happy. There was a purposefulness now to her movement; she seemed even to be looking for particular specimens. Look, there she are picking and selecting. The words goes from hand to hand as she sort through the ____________ / ________ ________________ errors. She gathers, rearranges, studies, thinks, and is looking ( ________________ _____________ ) for combinations.

And now she's down on her knees with her collection spread out on the grass before her. She shuffles them, moves them into various patterns, a kaleidoscopic jigsaw puzzle of syntax. Dripping Sea God, hovering at the edge of her field of vision watches with amusement. Jackpot Pastiche senses him and, without looking up, recites her all-time favorite quotation, "I really do not know that anything has ever been more exciting than diagramming sentences." Dripping Sea God nods, acknowledging the weird proclivities of Gertrude Stein and his beloved queen. He then turns to find a place to rest, knowing that it will be some time before she has satisfied her appetite for editing her realm, for she is going Stein one better, is she not? Perhaps it could be labeled, not to put too fine a point on it, Post-Derridian Reconstruction. Yes, that will, do. One must certainly think about endowing a Chair at the University.

Key: Consciousness, fragments, run ons, comma splices, vague pronoun reference, dangling modifiers, subject/verb agreement, parallel structure.

16. Dirty Words

As one might imagine, Dripping Sea God became bored fairly quickly in the stark garage of grammar errors. No, he's no mechanic; he loves the vehicle for where it can take him. So with Her Royal Attention engrossed, he wandered off to get a sense of the lay of the land. Remember, the maps they were using were of limited veracity and even the GPS unit that plugged into the Queen's PDA was practically worthless. What good is it to know one's longitude and latitude when the very continent has rearranged itself like a shaken blanket? He did, though, rather enjoy knowing the elevations they passed through, though this was connected in his thinking more to an interest in natural science. He liked observing differences in the avian residents and the microclimates of the various elevations they journeyed through. In this instance, he was without such devices, having with him only a small monocular scope for observing niceties of plumage.

Dripping Sea God had a pretty solid sense of direction, so fixing some landmarks in his memory (an area of his brain the Queen found unreliable at best. He preferred the label, selective), he struck out in a roughly western direction. Another note about his propensity for exploration: he often was pulled generally westward, as if the needle of his internal compass was drawn by some magnetic force in that direction. He didn't resist; in fact, he rather thought it connected him to a great tradition of westward looking peoples who struck out for fabled Blessed Isles of the West and the like.

Be that as it may, off west he walked. The vegetation in this direction thinned and the ground sloped gently downward (so all this westward stuff may have been delusion, and it was nothing more than gravity pulling him that way). It did seem that a view might be had before long, so he continued (knowing too that this was one of those few times when the Queen would scarcely notice his absence). There had been one science class that had interested him in college: geology. He liked how the professor drew geological forms in colored chalk on the board. Dripping Sea God had enjoyed copying them down almost more for their esthetic shapes than for the principles of stone formation they represented. Still he knew a syncline when he saw one. Therefore he was intrigued when a small ravine opened before him, and forgetting the draw of potential vistas, began descending into the miniature, red-walled canyon. It was indeed a beautifully striated cleft, now cut and polished smoothly, now ragged with small ledges and shelves protruding in roughly horizontal lines.

As he descended, the walls rose up to knee high, then shoulder high. There they remained, both floor and wall becoming level. Dripping Sea God found himself running his hands along the edges of one side. (One might ask here what Diving Squirrel was up to at this point. The fact is, he had chosen this hiatus in the journey to catch up on his nut and corndog gathering, and peradventure, a bit of sowing of wild oats as chance presented itself. Thus Dripping Sea God was alone.). The horizontal lines of orange and tan and umber and burnt sienna fairly tranquilized Dripping Sea God. He seemed to see those admired forms of long before on the chalkboard, the planes going back and forth between two and three dimensions.

Without noticing specifically how or when, he found himself stopped, turned toward the wall, and looking down at a dusty fossil that had been brushed into his open hand. He blew the patina of dirt off it and saw, dim and indistinct with age, a word he did not recognize. It seemed to say, gemynd, but it sparked no firing of synapses in his brain. He just looked at it, as if were some inscrutable word from Chinese or Esperanto. "A very old word," he mumbled to himself. "Seems generally English...hmmm...maybe Old or Middle English...I can't remember this stuff...Oh, please don't make me have to ask Wilpidge...the old humbug..." He looked up at this thought and saw what looked like the edge of a letter cantilevered out from the striated rock. With his free hand, he picked around it, revealing other letters. Awkwardly, the gemynd perched precariously in his other palm, he gradually uncovered enough of another word that it wiggled in the cliff like a lose tooth. And then he had two. This one read, bosket. "What are these?" he asked himself. "Are there more?" And sure enough, now that he was attuned to them, he could make out indistinct fragments of letters, protruding at odd angles and at different levels, some low, some high, almost up to the level of the topsoil. Then he understood, "A deposit of archaic words. Ooh, won't Jackpot Pastiche love this. I better go grab her (now there's a thought)."

(A note here about Dripping Sea God's attire: one tends have nagging questions as to his traipsing over hill and dale in the buff, and wet at that. Was he impervious to cold and colds? Did he get frostbite on his appendages? Had he no thought for the stares of the Queen's subjects, who surely could be expected to cast a curious, if surreptitious glance, at the object and instrument of the Lady's affection. This topic has been plumbed by a colleague whose seminal research will form the basis of her upcoming dissertation. She has given me permission to reveal that she has found, through intricate analysis of phoneme discourse patterns vis-à-vis circumstantial geography, that, here she goes out on a limb, Dripping Sea God often was clothed, that is His Drippingness' appellation was, as was his mate's, largely metaphorical. She cites his disrobing in chapter three. One further detail that is of mild interest inasmuch as it explains how he was able to transport his fossil discoveries safely back to the party, is that he apparently wore on this occasion a small backpack. In earlier years, he might have employed another device that had achieved a certain popularity among the populous, notably among males, that is, the fanny pack, a small satchel worn at the waist, which, it must be observed, was erroneously named, as the common practice was to wear the device turned round to the front. This custom, it seems, became more and more widely practiced until it was quite common indeed to see men walking about with these stuffed bags hanging below their paunches. Now fashion evolution being what it is, the usage had the effect on the apparel itself of coming to be associated by placement, thence shape and size, with a sort of inflated, that is to say, caricatured representation of male genitalia. In short, the fanny pack evolved into a modern day codpiece with pockets. The Queen tolerated this nonsense for as long as she was able (especially knowing as she did the British slang use for fanny as female genitalia), and seeing no move of the gods of fashion away from this peacock display, finally mentioned in what seemed a throwaway line in a speech about matters otherwise forgotten, that she thought it little short of disgusting that men should think so little of themselves as to advertise that their very instruments of pride and prowess were little more than cod, cold, clammy fish. The style disappeared overnight. Thus Dripping Sea God wore the small backpack, and it was in this that he carried his finds back to the Queen.)

Jackpot Pastiche was pacing when he returned. She seemed agitated. Dripping Sea God approached her and she fairly skipped into his arms, crying out, "Oh, Seagod where have you been? I was worried and missed you so." Surprised, but not displeased, he replied with a brief report on his walk, omitting his fossils, being wrapped in her embrace. He added, "I came back to see if there was a tool I could use to go further." She ran her fingers down his side and whispered, "Oh, there's a tool you can use further, alright. I'm about ready right here in plain view!" As might be imagined, Dripping Sea God was of two minds here: on one hand responsive to the Queen's enthusiasm, on the other somewhat concerned over proprieties of public displays of wanton affection (as he knew her normally to be as well). So he said with some restraint, "Ooh, Baby, what's gotten into you? I thought you were content building sentence puzzles. Was it a particularly rousing experience?" She lowered her chin while holding his gaze and cooing, "Arousing," and then laughed, pushed back from him, took one of his hands and exclaimed in a gay, girlish voice, "Come on, I'll show you." She guided him through the trees to a spot where much of the entourage milled staring at the ground and whispering in hushed tones. The Queen stopped modestly and pushed Dripping Sea God forward, "Go look."

Approaching, Dripping Sea God observed a string of words. He recognized a phrase, a dependent clause, a modifier, an independent clause, an adverbial clause, a prepositional phrase, an appositive, a parenthetical, a list, and more...all perfectly, no, artfully, strung together in syntactical harmony, now poetic, now surprising, now humorous, now philosophical, but always grammatically perfect, and all, for yards and yards, one single, convoluted, fascinating sentence. It was stunning. And it was so beautifully crafted as to cause the reader to meander among the woodland as if carried by the golden smells of fresh-baked bread wafting from some cottage of folklore. (Thus, alas, it cannot be duplicated here: however, in the museum, more on this anon, one can see a rather nice facsimile, along with detailed exegesis, in the main hall's diorama.) Well, Dripping Sea God was swept up, rapt, carried away, gape-mouthed, and very, very impressed. At the close of the sentence, and a satisfied close it was, a soft sigh of release, the gentlest of periods, he found himself back at the beginning and realized that in terms of content too he had come full circle, thus the entourage's continued exploration. It was like the great labyrinth on the floor of Chartres Cathedral, a spiraling meditation. And there too stood the Queen, glowing with humility and pride, for the moment looking all of a precocious twelve-year-old. Dripping Sea God approached her tenderly and took her into his arms, saying softly, "Oh, you amazing creature." And she beamed into his shoulder.

Dripping Sea God released her saying, "I've brought you a gift, first prize, if you like...two gifts, in fact." She pulled back, eyes alight (for Jackpot Pastiche, as much or more than the rest of us, loves recognition followed by unexpected gifts which acknowledge a kind of deserved earning). Dripping Sea God chuckled and took off his backpack, placing it gently on the ground between them. Jackpot Pastiche crouched down and, remembering that he had been on a walk (nary a bookstore in sight), said, "They're not feathers or leaves or some such natural wonder are they?" And he, feigning weak surprise replied, "Oh, you guessed. Aren't you touched?"

And then he showed her the old words and the story speeds up again. The Queen is flabbergasted, thrilled, intrigued, Wilpidge called, identifies the words (gemynd meaning memory and bosket a small wood or grove), the Queen mourns the loss of the sweet old words, the party hastens to the ravine, which is revealed as a treasure trove of antiquities, striated sedimentary layers of archaic words passed from use, forgotten, buried generation over generation (highnys, welkin, widdershins, poolery [from maiden's poolery, that is, virgin's urine, which to the modern ear sounds a strange thing to classify] among hundreds, thousands of others), each deeper layer shedding some later influence: French, Latin, Saxon, the Queen's resolve to preserve, study, protect for future generations the rich deposits, her wise establishment of not only a preserve, but a museum (where one can see that amazing sentence of hers in reconstruction, and, returning as we must on occasion to time itself, a museum where even in our day, this all happening in the literary now, that is, a future of indeterminate past tense, thus we, appealing to both physicist and philosopher, may hope to benefit, yea even to visit the noble place one day), the naming of a curator, yes, of course, one must certainly guess, Wilpidge himself, left behind with a troop of helpers to begin the great work, while the somewhat depleted cast of travelers presses on into the not-quite-unknown of the realm, proud, thoughtful, and hardly cognizant of the implications of continuing thus without the pompous, but knowledgeable old councilor upon whom they leaned more dependently than they knew.

17. The Queen's Gentle Reign

At long last, the Progression of Pilgrims (forgive me my penchant for alliterative allusions; they are among the paucity of literary devices at the prerogative of a redactor) reached a city. Visions of long hot showers danced in every head. The city itself takes some explanation. Readers who are products of a good liberal arts education will remember from some distant exposure to the natural sciences that the history of the earth's crust is replete with such marvels as the Indian subcontinent sliding up into Asia and creating the Himalayas, and the somewhat more obscure fact that Newfoundland has remnants of both the Appalachians as well as a piece of Africa from their (or its) geologic perambulations. So one would hardly be incredulous over the information that a similar conflation, if you will, of locales along the Mississippi had occurred in the time frame alluded to in the exposition of this tale as antecedent action. Now it might be questioned as to the overall timing of said geological shift, but the question arising from the product of mere liberal arts education would be (as the same reader might more likely recognize as archaic British idiom) topping it a bit high. So, again, leaving incredulity in its box, the assertion will simply be made that the city to which the royal party arrived was a twinned city, joined by geologic insistence rather than any intrinsic predisposition, made up of Des Moines and New Orleans. The French names being about all they initially had in common, some mingling of subcultures had come about. So now there was a new pidgin that had developed from the varied influences of southern English, New Orleans Creole, and mid western American idiom, which included certain farming allusions and metaphors. A picture might help. Imagine: to the typical image of a Mardi Gras parade, the Dixieland music and high-stepping revelers, simply add a seed cap and Carhartt overalls, and a reasonably accurate composite is reached.

Now besides hot showers and soft beds (both amenities high on the royals' list), the Queen, Her Majesty Jackpot Pastiche the Harlot Queen, was to hold here in Des Morleans her annual Word Audience, which was a roving affair, held each year in a different part of the realm. And this year's site seemed particularly fitting, as the event had something of the joie de vivre of Beacon Street and something of the traditional stability of the heartland. The Audience was patterned on the ancient practice of kings taking a day from their busy schedules of feasting, jousting and fornicating to settle legal disputes that had arisen among their subjects who had not the same opportunities for the leisure activities just mentioned, so spent their days in haggles and petty tussles over filthy lucre and the law and other such low pursuits. In this incarnation of Audience, the populace being democratically (the word is used here in its social form rather than political; the Queen was hardly elected, having taken power in a bloodless coup involving certain permutations and traps of phonemological nature, a riveting tale for another time. Though one must hasten to add that were there to be a ballot, Jackpot Pastiche would sweep to victory, so benevolent was her hand, so loved by her people was she...uh...is she.) democratic, I was saying about the populace, in that egalitarian sense, in their own familiarity with the three leisure pursuits alluded to before, that they needed no such judgment over mere legal matters. No, this was something of an entertainment. Still it was deadly serious. For here came those rare scholars and commoners who had concerns and pet peeves involving certain fluid (or rigid) actions regarding the evolution of their native tongue. They, along with students who aspired to full rides at prestigious Ivy League Colleges (the ivy, alas, having given way before an onslaught of tropical lilikoi vines), made their cases before the Queen (surrounded by an intimidating array of scholars, her most dripping Consort, and Mascot, bedecked in new ribbon) on whatever change or retention of usage that had so stricken their fancies as to drive them before this great seat of judgment.

The day started late in the morning (this is a civilized nation remember) after a sumptuous brunch replete with Eggs Benedict, Belgian waffles topped with various tropical fruits now indigenous to the locale, mimosas, and of course, strong French roast (the continental cuisine adding, let's say, to the flavor of the event). Then the court retired to the audience hall, the Queen with the plumeria bloom from her beverage behind her left ear indicating that she was beautiful, yes, but spoken for. Next, after some rather facetious flourishes lifted from an old Hollywood film about King Arthur, the presentations began. These, though, were always initiated by none other than Dripping Sea God himself, whose aim was always to set the general tone and amuse the crowd with base, ribald riddles and double entendre (crowds not having changed much over the centuries, are easily entertained by such simples of bawdy verbal prestidigitation).

A brief allusion to Dripping Sea God's preceding year's opening in Boston will give an idea of the lighthearted and admittedly lowbrow tenor of the festivities. He came in full preppy regalia and made a formal request of Her Majesty that she might consider releasing the old Jacobean, aye, even older, phrase, "the cock crew," which of course refers to the crowing of a rooster, usually significant in pre-clock societies as indicative of dawn. It was his contention that both of the major words in the phrase (the article being excepted) had passed out of contemporary meaning, in fact, had evolved altogether different connotations, aye verily (I only attempt here to give the flavor of his rhetoric), denotations. Further use in the old manner would obviously be counter informative, and updating the phrase to "the rooster crowed" would alleviate confusion and misinterpretation as readers and listeners pushed past the thicket of contemporary usage (not to mention the fact that we moderns were hardly in need of such barnyard announcements of coming day). One might imagine the general snickering through the crowd as more current usages coursed their mimosa-sotted brains. He then proposed a new usage for the old phrase, namely, the designation of the Harvard men's rowing team: The Cock Crew. One need hardly add the gloss here that the play, of course, is on the word coxswain, that magaphoned helmsman of the racing shell (and which, yes, is another word that is a worthy candidate for histo/etymological perusal).

So all were suitably attentive as Dripping Sea God, garbed for the occasion in a floor-length duster, took his place before the Queen and launched into his peroration. "Great Queen, Hail, Oh Worthy Judge and Repository of Wit and Wisdom, hear my petition."

He paused for her nod of acquiescence, then proceeded, "All the realm has heard of your mighty triumph in the Woodland of Error. None have but marveled at your mastery of the complex, compound sentence, your subtle manipulation of phrase and appositive, gerund and parallelism. Yes," turning here toward the packed and silent hall, "is it not so?"

Instant, sincere cheers responded to the query, proving it no mere rhetorical flourish.

Dripping Sea God waited for it to grow quiet, then waited longer until the silence was expectant. In a serious tone, subdued and grave, he continued his questioning, "Yet who among us knows, no, let me put it this way: who among us can identify by its proper name the function of such terms of grammarspeak as adverbial clause, gerund phrase, dependant clause?"

He stopped dramatically.

The Queen looked blank and replied simply, "Why everyone here on the dais knows those elementary elements."

She turned toward her august linguists and grammarians and they nodded and snickered, revealing their contempt for Dripping Sea God's perpetual disparagement of their learning.

But he was swinging back toward the throng, and saying, "And how many of you know these forms?"

They shouted in unison, "None of us!" (The advisors suspected coaching, never proven, but hardly beyond Dripping Sea God.)

He asked of them, "What? Are you simpletons?"

"No!" they cried as one.

"Are you,' he pressed them, "able to function in life, nay to speak in complex sentences without these bizarre words of parsing?"

They answered again together, this time with deafening volume, "Why yes, My Lord, Dripping Sea God, whom we hold as one of ourselves, of the people, yet noble, and in every way a most worthy Consort of our Queen, we can most readily!"

"Ah!" cried the Consort, "my point exactly! Such jargon of the academy is not necessary at all. And now my supplication."

The Queen's pink, amused face was set off prettily by the black, glowering countenances arrayed behind her. Again she nodded.

Dripping Sea God nodded in return and went on, "Now Great Queen, having dispensed with the need for such terms by proving them unused, or even a hindrance, I would draw your attention to one particular term of grammarspeak that I would like to free from such noxious duty so it might serve a rather more piquant purpose. I speak of the term, dangling modifier."

Again silence was tangible in the hall, the Queen wary, the councilors suspicious. Dripping Sea God continued, "The current usage is abstruse and obtuse both. Is it a description of an error? A poetic metaphor? Or what? Ridiculous. Let us use it afresh. It is worthy of some better meaning. It is, after all, an interesting pairing. Modifier...something that causes change in something else. Is it alchemy? What a wonderful property, this modifying. And then that it is somehow dangling. And yet it has this ability to affect change. Marvelous. And what better use can the phrase be put to, you ask? Why simple."

Here Dripping Sea God stepped closer to the throne and in a way that was both public and private, showy and discrete, opened the front of his duster before the Queen and proclaimed, "Behold, Lady, the Dangling Modifier!"

The Queen (it must be said) quite guffawed, while the crowd cheered. Even the wise men could not withhold smiles of approbation. Finally, when order was restored, the Queen pronounced, "Worthy argument Consort. I will take the...matter...under advisement, and, after further scrutiny, will... take it in hand... and may be able to...straighten it out. Then we shall see what or who is modifier... or modified, or whether it is not simply... misplaced!"

Thus the first order of business was taken care of and subsequent petitions arose. The first of these was put forth by a fellow who was shoved forward by some compatriots and who faltered out a request that since the language allowed for the contraction of I am to I'm, and cannot to can't, it ought to allow for I am not, to I'mn't. The Queen acknowledged that colloquial usage accepted the construction, aint, but nevertheless took an over all dim view of the suggestion and denied the request, rewarding the suppliant, however, with an autographed copy of a pocket sized OED (well, overalls have large pockets).

Next a young girl of about thirteen came forward. She was resolute and straight-backed, though clearly nervous. She had clear, brown eyes and long hair to match. Her voice was perhaps a note or two higher than its normal register. Without preamble, or invitation for that matter, she launched in, "Your Highness, I'm interested in getting permission to use a word in a certain way that my teachers say is wrong. It's just that I can't see why it's wrong. I've looked it up in A Writer's Reference, by Oracle Hacker, but still don't get it. In the book, she talks about comparatives and superlatives, like when to say smoother and smoothest, or exciting and more exiting, you know, when to just add er to a word instead of having to say more or most with it, because the er sounds bad, like gooder." She paused for breath and plunged ahead, for it seemed that she had the speech by heart. "But the one that doesn't make sense is one that doesn't fit the rule in the book about one syllable words using er. It's the word fun. I mean, we say hotter, thinner, redder, but we have to say more fun. Why can't we just say funner? I know people say it's wrong and look down on people that say that, but why? Is there really anything wrong with it, or is it just one of those secret rules that teachers like to hold over our heads? I mean, it doesn't seem reasonable; it's just what they call irregular. But it just seems like people are being snobby about it. I think it would be easy and efficient and not so terribly awful if we could just let people say funner. Besides, fun is about fun, and that seems to go against being all formal with grammar rules and stuff. If any word ought to be allowed some space to be casual, it ought to be the word fun. So I think you should allow us to use funner. Thank you." She gave a stiff little half bow and stood waiting, biting her lip.

The Queen smiled and said, "Nicely argued, my dear." Turning to her advisors, who were again glowering as one, she asked, "What say you, Academicians?"

One senior fellow started as if from sleep, his elbow twitching beneath the old tweed coat. He cleared his throat pompously and began, "My Lady, the lass makes, as you point out, a pretty argument against one of the admittedly arbitrary constraints of our language, but really, to acquiesce would be to say that all irregular constructions are open to reevaluation, and surely..."

"Stop right there, sir!" the Queen cried. "Do you think I have not learned enough of slippery slope fallacies for one Progress? You academics, you English teachers, shame. All your rules! Now, you know I love this stuff, but, grammar cops, is that all you are? How many cocktail parties have you stultified with the announcement of your profession, everyone thinking, 'Oh, better watch my grammar?' Why do they not say, 'Oh, an English professor, you are the ones who taught me the great ideas of the ages, and yes too, the playful wackiness of our language, that ever-changing evolving, pickpocket of a tongue. Oh, well met!' Well then I say," turning to the girl, "let the language breathe. Young lady, your request is granted. Funner shall henceforth be considered correct. Thank you. We shall bring up codification with the Oracle when We visit her." Then with another flourish, she turned to the academic and said so all could hear, "And you, sir, give her a scholarship, and see she is treated well."

Jackpot Pastiche made herself again comfortable and then said, "Whew. Bring on the next petitioner. I'm glad we coffeed well before starting this session. See, there's one. I should give serious consideration to proclaiming coffee a verb." This lightened the tone in the room, and an elderly gent shambled forward.

She froze however in the midst of the new mirth, raising her hand and looking as if far away. "I have been thinking, though, speaking of neologisms, about that strange gap in English...no such problem in Esperanto, I can tell you that...the pronoun problem we have. Do you remember last year when that woman proposed that we allow the generalized use of they to cover both plural and singular situations? Like, when anyone has to, for instance," she waved a hand, "come before the Queen, they, must...blah, blah, blah. That certainly would be less awkward than the so very unsatisfactory he or she or going back and forth. So, as you recall, we weren't ready to make that leap, the solution being almost as bad, so we tabled it. Well, since then, I've continued thinking about it and eventually thought that we should just come up with some simple, singular, gender neutral, that is to say, epicene, pronoun. I mean, how hard could that be? And I've actually heard a couple of suggestions knocking around, none though that I thought would suit. They all sound dumb, or foreign, or slangy, or complicated, but recently I hit on one that I'll just float here without discussion. Perhaps we'll open up a forum on it later, but for now, this is what I've done: I've tried to make something that sounded like a third person singular pronoun, something that our ears might in a way recognize as such, without being indicative of one sex or the other, and further, which might serve in more than one situation without needing a different form (except maybe an s), like with possessives. To do this, I sort of combined several, he, she, him, her, added water, stirred and poured out this: sherm. I'm not sure yet, but I want you all to...no...wait. Now that I hear it again, it sounds like a Jewish nickname. Yeah, I don't know...when someone has to come before the Queen, sherm must bring a smile...hmm... Maybe not. Maybe a competition is in order, or maybe it's a waste of effort, and Esperanto, here we come. So, enough of that for the nonce. Who's up?"

This fellow was an ornithologist, and it was his suggestion (under the "autonomous compounding freedom rule") that a new word be allowed into use, one of his own coinage. The word in question was re-di-avi-noct-amor-superla-meliflutudidinous. After intoning proudly this tongue (and mind) twister, he handed the Lady a card with the word written on it and explained that it was a construction that described (in Germanic layers of Latin roots and prefixes) two night songbirds singing in love back and forth repeatedly and beautifully.

The Queen, stifling laughter said, "Sir, without the hyphens no one could figure it out, and even with them no one except you, and perhaps a few particularly avid birders could say it. And who else would use it? No, no, sir, it won't do. But I will say that it is a lovely image, so I proclaim that you should go home to your aerie and write a haiku and submit it to Audubon Magazine." (While the applause and laughter subside, I will here mention for those who may be wondering that her reference was to the old periodical, which surprisingly, is still extant up to our day, even though the starlings and house sparrows that those fools turned loose in Central Park in the 1800s have virtually driven all avian life into the tropics, the geological shift being the saving grace: another fascinating monograph on which would not fit here for both space and plotting reasons. Ah, the Queen is preparing to resume. Hush.)

Suddenly a cacophony was heard at the door and the Porter rushed in all alather. "Two ne'er-do-wells, beggin' yer majesty's pardon, are at the door demanding entrance!"

Jackpot Pastiche the Harlot Queen raised her hand for silence, for the crowd was buzzing, "Who are these to ragamuffins, and what do they want?"

The Porter replied breathlessly, "They are two wordsmiths, elbowing each other to be first, and they come seeking a boon. Their names are Bill Bryson and Robert MacNeil."

The Queen rose at this and said, "Good Porter, I thank you. Pray, see them in."

Momentarily, the two boon seekers scurried in, interlocked in trying to gain precedence. They slid to a halt before the dais and immediately performed a pattern of comical obeisance, each trying to outdo the other in bowing and scraping.

The Queen, put in mind of a similar scene, addressed them, "Good Fellows, to what grace of Fortune's hand do I owe the dual blessing of your visitation?"

MacNeil, being no fool, saw the drift and replied, "Ah, Lady, Fortune is but a strumpet."

And Bryson, catching on, added, "Would she were bound hereafter in a nutshell."

The Queen smiled and questioned in more particular, "Then my good gentlemen, what would you ask of my favors."

At this, both men blushed, and the crowd, who knew the Bard well enough, laughed merrily.

Seeing their crimson discomfiture, Her Majesty said, "I remember well enough you two. We all," she included the room in the sweep of her gaze, "have enjoyed and benefited from your work. And inasmuch as you both are members of the Order of the Red Ribbon" (here Diving Squirrel perked up on Dripping Sea God's arm, to which he had been restored after the Consort's performance), "We will listen with...um...certain favor" (a murmur of appreciation from the crowd) "to your request for a boon. And I see by your jostling that you both are aware that but one boon may be granted per Audience. So gentlemen, let Us first require an Amusement for Ourselves and a Trial for you. He that triumphs shall receive his boon, as convention has it: granted before heard, up to half My Realm."

The crowd cheered at the display (albeit a traditional one, never actually tested) of royal magnanimity.

"What is your request?"

Suddenly free to speak, both men were as struck dumb, for they suddenly realized that the boon they sought could quite possibly offend the Queen, for it was essentially, as she was able to learn in dribs and drabs milked from both, a request to record the demise of English in her realm as she replaced it with Esperanto. Both men felt (and in this they were probably correct, given their past projects) that they were especially qualified to chronicle the process of English joining the likes of Latin in the graveyard of language. They were chary, though, about getting on the wrong side of the Queen and so garbed their Siamese twin requests in such obsequy as seemed might best propitiate any implied sin of criticism. Now if the reader casts (oh, for that pronoun)...the...will have to do, mind back to Jackpot Pastiche's introspection of earlier chapters, it may be remembered (see what the lack of a pronoun can do? Must one be thrown for its want forever into passive voice constructions?), may be remembered, I say, that she had had some misgivings about the project on just such philo/historical grounds. So how was she to grant the boon, especially, as we have seen, it was in essence already granted, there only be the grantee to decide upon? Frankly (and here I take the omniscient narrator's prerogative of seeing into a protagonist's mind), Jackpot Pastiche the Harlot Queen was not altogether certain of her way through the conundrum and so took refuge in the prevarication (which is sometimes, is it not, not merely a dissembling maneuver, but a kind of stalling for cogitation) of the trial she had so presciently (she congratulated herself) laid down as a condition of the matter at hand.

She addressed them thus, "My good fellows, to settle who is awarded the boon, We must insist on a trial appropriate to men such as yourselves. It would hardly do to ask you to joust or fight with broad swords or otherwise engage in some such contest of the manly arts, n'est-ce pas?"

The stilled competitors found themselves forced to agree with her assertion, though were not altogether certain she was not calling them testosterone deficient (which, of course, she was).

Into their weak smiles she continued, "Therefore let us have a battle of wits, a war of words, a riposte of repartee."

She paused to acknowledge the smattering of applause and then in a state of heightened amusement continued, "Thus we propose that you each consider then expound upon, nay, no explanations are to be allowed. Let there be only physical demonstrations, manifestations and, to allude to Our dear Dripping Sea God's recent presentation, prestidigitation."

Here she threw Dripping Sea God either a coy or, some interpreted later, lewd, glance. Dripping Sea God, for his part, still in his floor length duster, dropped a courtly though ambiguous curtsy, while Diving Squirrel flicked his tail haughtily.

The Queen finished with a flourish, "Yes, demonstrate if you will, Oh Seekers of the Boon, Suspension of Disbelief!"

Both men, as if really Siamese twins, took an involuntary step backward, opened their mouths soundlessly and then tried to push the other to the fore. They were clearly dismayed.

Finally, MacNeil found his tongue, though not his composure, and stammered out, "But Lady, it is hardly my...uh...our... forte to be creative...to...uh..."

Bryson supplied the missing word, "improvise."

The former continued, "Yes, improvise..." and Bryson chimed in, "creatively."

And MacNeil continued, "Just so. No, we are observers, collectors, scholars, not...uh..." Again Bryson filled the gap, "entertainers."

Another voice boomed across the hall, "Scholars but not entertainers? Is there a difference? Are they not but different words for juggler?"

The voice, imperious and mocking, came from none other that Dripping Sea God, who strode down the steps to face the two. He bowed to the Queen and asked, "Lady, if I may..."

She nodded consent and settled back in her throne.

Dripping Sea God returned his attention to the boon seekers and queried, "Are you unprepared to accept the trial posed by Her Highness?"

Bryson turned to MacNeil and vice versa, then to Dripping Sea God, both non-plussed, out of their depths, and otherwise discombobulated (to use a charming colloquialism).

Dripping Sea God said in a tone of one urbane, literate man to another, "You've read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight haven't you?"

They both said they had, rather too enthusiastically, revealing their soon to be dashed hopes of the situation turning to rather more sedentary discussion topics in which they hoped they might redeem themselves (trusting on somewhat foggy recollections of college medieval studies courses).

"Ah, good," murmured Dripping Sea God. He continued amiably, "Then you remember when the Green Knight, that otherworldly giant of a man challenged Arthur's court to the test of mutual head chopping with his own huge green axe?"

They nodded, MacNeil putting in, "Yes, quite, an amazing episode considering the archetypes of..."

Dripping Sea God cut him off, bellowing at the top of his lungs, "Bring me the Green Knight's axe!"

Bryson and MacNeil looked around as if they could see with their eyes what their ears could hear: his words bouncing off the walls.

Almost instantly, three pages staggered in under the mighty weight of a humongous, green battle axe, the likes of which was only seen before in the mind's eyes of young boys reading that particular story for the first time. Dripping Sea God picked the axe up with one hand (would you have him disturb Diving Squirrel?) and swung it whistling through the fragile air.

He was nonchalant, "Shall we have a go? MacNeil? Bryson? Care to trade blows of the Green Knight's axe? You can go first."

Both men were as rooted as the palms swaying along the mall in Central Park.

"What? Do you not believe you can do it? That you will live to tell the tale? That you can lift this magnificent old weapon ? So pretty don't you think?"

The silence continued long enough that the shadows in the hall perceptively lengthened.

At last Dripping Sea God sighed and said softly, "Disbelief, alas. Bring me two ropes."

At the word, two ropes appeared. Dripping Sea God said to the attendants, "Tie them about the waist, or," and here he smiled at the Queen, "about the middle of their favors."

This was done quickly, and quicker yet, Dripping Sea God stepped forward, grabbed the tails of each rope, threw them over the nearest rafter and commanded the attendants to, "Haul away and hold!"

Both men rose as if by swift magic into the air, dismay on their faces, an intake of breath from the crowd and then silence, into which Dripping Sea God declared, "Your Majesty, Behold, Suspended Disbelief!"

Well, what more can be said? It was a triumph. The boon seekers were released, made much of, wined and dined and sent on their way with a new charge from the Queen: to explore together on foot the nooks and crannies of the Mountains of Metaphor and to return with film and anecdotes aplenty for next year's Audience. Then the royal pair swept from the hall, the Queen whispering intently in Dripping Sea God's ear, while he, hands deep in his pockets, strove to conceal his no longer dangling modifier.

18. Shootout at the Fair to Middlin' Coral

Upon leaving Des Morleans, the small party made their way across a stretch of western badlands, called The Western Badlands. One night they holed up in an old abandoned mine, site of a bandit hideout (for those on the dodge), a famous shootout, and later, when the roads were in repair, a turnout. They lined their flus with shish kabob of praire dog (called in these parts, barking squirrels, which seemed to make Diving Squirrel decidedly uneasy) spun some yarns (picking their teeth with grass stems), and bedded down on their bedrolls.

The Queen, still flush with the pleasures of the Audience (if not the shish kabob), whispered saucily in her hero's ear, "I must warn you, Noble Consort, that I have been known to fellate in the middle of the night."

He smiled in the dim light of the fire's embers and replied, "That's OK, Darlin'. It happens to the best of us. Mine smell like roses."

She snorted and bit his neck. Thus they drifted to sleep, smiles on their faces.

Deep into the still night they slept, though had any been awake, they might have heard in the distance the soft-voiced cowboy lonesomely singing the dogies to calm before the more distant yodeling of coyotes, and have smelled the scent of strong, boiled coffee (brown gargle) and canned beans (whistle berries) wafting through the smoke of a small mesquite campfire. But no one was awake, so no one heard the scuffle, the stifled cry of surprise, the scrape of boots on the dirt of the cave floor. Only the fading sound of galloping hooves caused Dripping Sea God's dream to shift from light to dark, from sensing the white hats triumphing to a foreboding ascendancy of the black hats.

It was, in fact, the Coffee Page who first noticed. Always the first smell of ground beans woke the Queen, but not on this morning. No, the Queen did not rise, for the Queen was not there (and she is not one for a sunrise constitutional before coffee), so he raised instead the alarm.

Consternation!

Tarnation!

The Queen abducted!

Kidnapped!

Ambushed!

Bushwhacked!

Shanghaied!

It was chaos that reigned now among the entourage. In the absence of the Queen, the established order seemed to pass right by her Consort. He stood wringing his hands, while the academics wrangled over who should take Wilpidge's place of precedence. One fellow, a lit professor by trade, cried out, "This is my genre! Come on, Boys, saddle up! They won't agettaway from this here'n posse!" He threw on his tweed chaps, twirled his mustachios and vaulted onto his horse. The tracks of the raiders' horses were clear in the sandy soil and over these, the posse flew in a cloud of dust.

Only a few retainers remained gaping in mute imitation of the mouth of the cave in which they stood. Sheila, the Queen's handmaiden (who having confided her experience of her first rides to the Coffee Page and received his commiseration, was no longer, strictly speaking, a maid) cried on the Page's shoulder, while Roscoe, the Keeper of the Book, pressed his satchel to his chest, eyes flashing from side to side searching out threats to his charge. Dripping Sea God stood as if he were a veritable model for Doctor Mesmer himself.

Only Diving Squirrel seemed in full possession of his wits. He stood erect on Dripping Sea God's forearm, turned toward him and gave him a sharp slap across the face with his open paw (squeaking out something some redactors have fancifully rendered as, "Snap out of it!") And Dripping Sea God did, indeed, seem to snap out of it, as like to the snapping of the good hypnotist's fingers.

Then Diving Squirrel dove down off Dripping Sea God's arm, sprang a few steps away, a faint whine coming from his throat, and turned to look at Dripping Sea God. It was a familiar image and it took a moment for the Consort to recognize it. Then he got it (he was dazed, remember; otherwise he'd have picked it up as quickly as you and I did). Diving Squirrel had done a perfect imitation of Lassie.

Taking his cue (and passing over the problem of gender, though some literalist critics stumble on it), Dripping Sea God spoke Timmy's line, "What is it, Girl?" And they followed the pattern out the door of the cavern, Dripping Sea God tossing back a hasty, "You all stay here until we get back. Be careful." (But they weren't as careful as one might hope, for as time would later tell, Sheila returned home with a little papoose.)

Diving Squirrel, with Dripping Sea God close on his four heels, looked in the direction the posse had gone, sniffed his disapproval and scampered off to the rocky slope that rose into the hill under which the cave tunneled, stopping now and then to make sure his Timmy was hurrying along behind. And he, greenhorn that he may be in such affairs, a tenderfoot (though certainly not tender of foot), jogged doggedly behind (having utterly forgotten, in his Timmy persona, the option of his horse).

Broken desert (thus badlands) were what the two crossed, a parched landscape altered only by transitory dust devils (Idaho brain storms) and shimmering heat waves. On they trudged, Diving Squirrel never wavering in his direction or determination. In time, though, Dripping Sea God (never so far from his element as now) was feeling somewhat faint from the scorching sun, which to his eye seemed hung stationary in the sky like a blazing saddle (discarded perhaps by either Apollo or Mel). Mirage after mirage appeared...all aqueous...and most featuring a distant lady in red, sporting in the water. And each disappeared on approach, except one and it was befouled, beef tea, by some stray maverick whose desiccated skull would certainly soon adorn the sands.

And Dripping Sea God began to think that his and Diving Squirrel's too would join that skull, the three bleached craniums lined up there like the remains of the Three Bears (making, if you follow the relative sizes, Dripping Sea God Mama Bear, which has been made much of in feminist lit crit circles). The objective (or sympathetic, for that matter) observer might be forced to concur were he or she (I know, it pains me too to use the construction, but you saw what happened with sherm) to see the Consort and Mascot crawling through the arid dust (I suppose there is really no other kind, is there?). Picture it if you can: Dripping Sea God crawling like in a scene from a western movie, head bent down, breathing through his bandana-covered mouth, his white Stetson ringed with sweat, and Diving Squirrel too (there are few more pathetic sights in this world than a crawling squirrel), his bolo tie, which he had exchanged for the nonce for his bow, dragging its silver and turquoise tips in the dirt.

It gets worse. Just when they thought they could go not one more...uh...step is not the word...does crawl work here? For want of better, not one more crawl further, both sets of eyes rolled back simultaneously (ah, such is literary coincidence) in their sockets, and taking that further crawl, they, again simultaneously, found themselves slipping, sliding forward, down and down, fingers and paws scrabbling through dirt and pebble, faster and faster now, steeper, until in near freefall they waved their arms madly trying to gain some purchase on the fleeting slope. Suddenly, they were both wrenched to a halt by the thorny grasp of an as yet untumbled tumbleweed. In pain and fear, they hung on to it, and it to them, while their legs kicked at the empty space that dropped below them (visions of Wil E. Coyote sailing through their minds' eyes). As one, they screamed, for they realized that they had fallen victim to a cliffhanger.

19. Carpe Deus Ex Machina

At times narrators confront dangers every bit as formidable as those faced by their adventuring protagonists. Traps and pits abound ready to mire and swallow the unwary, and at times the narrator's very lifeblood, his credibility, hangs by a thread as tenuous as the tumbleweed from which Dripping Sea God and Diving Squirrel now dangle. And for a redactor such as myself, it can be even more uncertain, for we redactors only retell (albeit which certain stylistic flourishes all our own) stories that have descended to us. Thus we are tied both by previous redactions, going all the way back into the dim past to some mythical, as Foucault so charmingly put it, author function, and the perceptions of our immediate audience, who hold us directly responsible for any weaknesses which stretch or threaten suspension of disbelief. Such is the situation here (the events taking place in the future notwithstanding. Do try not to get hung up on that). For time out of mind, Dripping Sea God and Diving Squirrel have swung from that tumbleweed, and storyteller after storyteller has each labored to make their rescue from what surely must be reckoned as a low percentage state of affairs seem at least plausible. And each redactor has added some fresh permutation in that effort, gradually building up a liberation scene of practically baroque ornamentation. Am I to perpetuate the charade? Add another floor to the house of cards? For what purpose? In the end, the reader will harrumph or guffaw and lay the blame at my feet. It's too much, I tell you. I will not be apologist, or to use that versatile pop pysch term, enabler, for the slack-jawed historian who first included (sloppily) this episode in the Jackpot Pastiche canon.

Let us come clean here: Dripping Sea God and Diving Squirrel did not meet their ends falling (as they surely seem likely to do) off that cliff. No, in a serendipitous and altogether spectacular coincidence that would defy credulity, they were saved, deus ex machina, from their plight. I know it's an unsatisfying resolution to the cliffhanger, but honestly now, isn't that usually the case with deus ex machina...always a bit of a letdown? You wouldn't really prefer it would you? Where would it end? We could apply it to this entire episode: Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen was saved from certain death by luck and happy, coincidental timing. Or we could apply it to the entire Cycle of Jackpot Pastiche tales... No, it won't do. Let it go. Let us take solace in the knowledge that the bit of the story we now have has come down an embroidered path, but one that originated in historical fact, fact partially obscured by time and mythmaking.

Thus Dripping Sea God and Diving Squirrel somehow did get out of their predicament in their zealous pursuit of their kidnapped Lady. See? The addition here of a hint of the Courtly Love tradition serves well.

They alighted on the valley floor, to which the desperados too had descended before them via a surreptitious route down the cliff. There the two intrepid pursuers observed numerous flattened cartoon characters who had suffered less happy fates, and whose names, in the interests of nicety I shall omit here (you can probably guess anyway). But Dripping Sea God had no eye for them; he and his totem animal spirit (is that not what Lassie is to Timmy?) pushed on with the zeal and devotion of one noble toon I will mention, Roger Rabbit, after his own Jessica, for though the Queen is a brunette and Jessica blonde, and the latter a bit more voluptuous than Her Majesty (who is nonetheless foxy as hell), the two have another similarity: Jessica isn't bad, she's "just drawn that way," while Jackpot Pastiche just draws badly. Well... Ah, look, the sun is sinking fast! (No time, alas, for my illuminating monograph on Monsieur and Madame Rabbit as archetypes of Courtly Lovers, which having been set up so nicely in the preceding paragraph would have fit splendidly. On then, Tyrant Plot!)

Then, red in the setting sun, they saw it. Dangling from a thorn of a saguaro cactus was what Dripping Sea God instantly recognized as a ribbon from the Queen's bustier. He took it lovingly in hand and wordlessly looked at Diving Squirrel, who raised his eyebrows as if to ask, "When, Consort, have I ever led you astray?"

Dripping Sea God nodded in courtly (I mean to squeeze in as much of that monograph as I can) acknowledgement, saying, "She surely left this as a sign to us. Press on, Diving Squirrel."

And on they pressed, in hot pursuit, hotfooting it, on the (pedestrian) gallop.

Eventually, they were rewarded with two distinct sensorial evidences that they were indeed finally nearing their quarry: on the gloaming breeze wafted both the indistinct tinkle of a honky-tonk piano and the scent of forty rod lightning...benzene...rot gut...fire water...whisky.

Following these, they crept like resident ghosts into the town. All was dark along the main street except for a golden glow slanting across the boardwalk in front of the saloon. The false fronts (façade and foyer being ostentatious terms in this neck of the woods) of the buildings seemed to glower portentously at the two intruders. Yet the music seemed to signal something of a benign nature. Diving Squirrel cocked his head as if in recognition of something in the melodic strain, a familiar motif perhaps. He seemed somewhat less tense as a result, which puzzled Dripping Sea God.

Stealthily, they crawled past the nickering horses at the hitching post, across the boardwalk, and then peaked cautiously under the swinging doors. What they beheld set them back on their haunches in dismay.

Arrayed in a semicircle around the upright piano was a gathering of every stock western character you've ever seen...basically every one ever devised, from gunslinger to cattle rustler, camp cook to greenhorn, cowhand to riverboat gambler, sidekick to dancehall girl. All stood with eyes closed, swaying slightly with the music that they sang in multiple parts. Before them, looking every bit a dance hall girl herself in her red bustier, Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen stood, conducting with an empty shot glass, helping the basses, who struggled a bit with their part. And what western hit were they rendering so sweetly? Not a one! No, they were singing, "Sweet Afton." No wonder Diving Squirrel had relaxed outside. Remember he was described earlier as an anglophile, so surely this would be a tune most familiar to him (and Bobbie Burns' lyrics would be known from childhood). But it was indeed passing strange to see and hear this performance. And Dripping Sea God had to give it to them; they weren't half bad. With the squirrel on his arm, he quietly stepped in.

Then, with Mary still sleeping by the murmuring stream, the chorus held that long, last chord, "Aftooooooooon," and finished in sweet resolution on "sleeeeeep."

Dripping Sea God and Diving Squirrel both clapped in genuine appreciation.

The Queen turned, smiled and said, "Ah, Dripping Sea God and Diving Squirrel, there you are. Weren't they lovely?"

She turned proudly toward the bashful singers, and Dripping Sea God was able to compliment them with most sincere expressions.

Later, over another round of shooters, they all sat (the Queen facing the door, she being no fool and knowing all about aces and eights) in a mellow circle, while she explained to her Consort and Mascot how she and her new friends had passed the interval between their kidnapping of her and Dripping Sea God's grand rescue (this sent an amused chuckle through the group).

In her favorite place, the center of attention (and a bit toasted from the whisky), Jackpot Pastiche was expansive in detail and praise for her "hosts," "You know, Consort, they really do have a good point. I mean all they wanted was to get my attention...and dragging me off bound and gagged certainly did that."

She smiled appreciatively at the desperados, who, truth be told, all had a rather lap doggish air at this juncture. "But as they say," she went on, "who in the world doesn't know about the cowboys (and Indians, let's not forget)? Who has not at some time been held sway by, or at the very least, entertained by some story of the American west? The adventures, gunfights...and, I admit it openly, the language. Yes, all that western cowboy slang. So influential in world culture. And, I admit again" (all this humility on the part of the Queen was beginning to worry Dripping Sea God), "we high falutin eastern snobs tend to look down our blueblood noses at things west of the Appalachians and so gloss over this richness of the mythologized west and its word making, which is very much part of the American Psyche. It is a powerful counterbalance to all the important contributions coming out of the areas of the original colonies."

She paused, looked at her local audience, saw appreciatively that there was nary a dry eye in the house, and finished with, "I think I summarize accurately. And I have promised to think more on the matter and come chew the fat with these good people before making any final decisions about Esperanto. So," and here she raised her voice, calling out cheerily, "Barkeep, another round on the Queen!"

During the resulting cheers, she leaned over, and with a hand sliding provocatively high on his thigh, whispered in Dripping Sea God's ear, "As for you, my hero, your reward for effecting my...rescue...shall be bestowed in private anon."

Thus, as the scene fades to black, we glimpse the revelers singing old time cowboy standards around the piano as the moon traverses the starry sky.

20. Pregnant with Meaning

The Queen's rescue posse had, like the cowboys they aspired to be, ridden off into the sunset... and, being armchair cowboys, soon found themselves lost and wandering. And being cut off from the patronage of their government, which is the scholar's very lifeblood, it is no surprise that they rather forgot about their errand of mercy and took up other seemingly promising pursuits. Since they were in some generalized southwest, they determined that they might as well look for the fabled Lost City of Gold, and failing that, Ponce de Lion's (lion's pounce?) equally storied Fountain of Youth. And while it is true that both goals eluded them (unworthies though they were), they were after a fashion successful, for while they found no city of gold, they did end up coming across one of tinsel, and while immortality too hid from them, they did find a certain lasting notoriety. Yes, after many vicissitudes, they reached the Pacific Ocean (please don't ask to see the map), where they became hack writers for the Hollywood film industry. (Your narrator may be forgiven an aside in which he indulges in a whimsy of mixed emotions in reaction to this falling out of circumstance: envy...of their entrée to and approbation from popular culture, their opportunity to use such creative gifts as they possessed in the lucrative and self-congratulatory milieu that is Hollywood; and disdain...for the dumbing down of those selfsame gifts, the celebration of the lowest common denominator in the pubescent masquerade of Hollywood...okay, mostly envy. Perhaps some erstwhile member of the intelligentsia, on perusal of these humble, yet erudite pages will see herein the germ of a screenplay that, let's say, her cousin "on the coast" might develop into an action adventure.)

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (I had to use one more before we shake the dust off our sandals...if the mix of western and Christian metaphor here is not too jarring), Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen and her seriously diminished entourage made ready to continue their pilgrimage. Luckily, all the important stuff was yet with them: supplies, coffee (and someone to make it), the OED (and someone to carry it), their luggage (including the Queen's trunk of extra bustiers...you don't think she's been wearing the same one this whole time, do you?), the pack horses, and, of course, a raison d'être (although this too had become rather frayed around the edges, as the Queen's resolve vis-à-vis Esperanto endured the eroding effects of her peregrinations. C'est la vie.).

The little party of palmeres rode in silence, the Queen seeming to be deep in reverie. Dripping Sea God rode a step or two behind, content for the nonce with listening to Diving Squirrel humming renditions of various western tunes he'd picked up in the saloon (sounding rather like Alvin of The Chipmunks, who he admired).

Could one see past the composed countenance of Jackpot Pastiche (something she rarely allowed to other than Dripping Sea God), one might see that she was struggling in her mind with that very erosion mentioned earlier of that idée fixe that served as the motivation for the whole revolutionary enterprise in which she was engaged. The determination of her concentration at last penetrated the whine of Diving Squirrel's little voice, and Dripping Sea God became suddenly concerned.

He kicked his horse up to ride by her side, leaned over and touched her on the arm, saying, "Jackpot, come back, Sweetie."

She slowly surfaced, looked over at him and sighed, "Thank you. I feel like I've been wrestling with some great bête noire, a dragon, or maybe like that guy in the Bible wrestling with God or the angel, or whatever...I know...I'm an egotist to make the comparison...what's new, Consort?"

He replied, "My words exactly, what's new, Baby? Where's my playful little gamine?"

She sighed again and said, "Lost in the permutations of language changes, evolutions, variations, origins, lexicons, morphemes, semantics, loan words, idioms, syntax, phonemes...and film noir."

Dripping Sea God raised his eyebrows, "Film noir?"

Her sigh was one of exasperation now, "Oh, just more damn French. I've been thinking about all the French words we use all the time...and Latin too, I guess, and German and whatever...when I called English a pickpocket tongue...just the foreign words sometimes are better...."

Dripping Sea God interrupted saying, "Like décolletage," eying her cleavage.

She frowned, "Yes, yes, like that. How come it's more à propos for you to say that than...well...that's the point, isn't it? There isn't a better, or even equally good way to put it in English."

And he, "So what's the fuss? Ah...I see...you're wondering about Esperanto, aren't you?"

She pouted and rode for a stretch in silence.

After a while, she posed another rhetorical question, "Are they indispensable? I mean, if we really want to communicate delicate shades of nuance, find just the exact mot juste, isn't it practically de rigueur to use French or Latin? Unless one is simply prone to showing off, in which case the same holds true. N'est-ce pas?"

Dripping Sea God nodded frankly (get it?), and said, "Oui, touché, mahalo, es verdad, ma chere. Agricula est bonus. Militae pugnant. Donde esta el cuarto del bano?"

She glared and said, "Ferme la bouche, Enfant Terrible."

"Yes'm," he said contritely (adding an inaudible, "Viva Wienerschnitzel").

They rode on. And on.

Then, out of the blue Jackpot Pastiche said, "The Tower of Babel."

Dripping Sea God held his peace.

Then came a bit more riding on...and then, "All those languages...wasn't He getting rid of them or something?"

(One really must interject here to assert a fact that is certainly coming clear, to wit, Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen, though bright and opinionated on topics great and small, was no theologian. In fact, her close reading of Scripture pretty much ended with Adam blaming Eve about that apple escapade. In this way too she was fairly representative of her subjects, many of whom thought Goliath was the name of a half pound cheeseburger.)

She continued her train of thought, "So was there one protolanguage? One best? Can we get back to it? Maybe we should forget Esperanto and find the one true tongue of old. Who would know? The Oracle? No, I doubt it."

Then in a surprising flash of insight, an à propos line popped into her head (surprising not that she had an insight, oh no; rather the source of the line given the parenthetical explanation above). She intoned, "'Unless you become like a little child.' That's it. If anybody can speak the protolanguage, it's a baby. We're wired for language acquisition. Seagod," she turned to him enthusiastically, "let's have a baby!"

Dripping Sea God was as flabbergasted as you and I. And when he could speak again (this in a slightly higher register than normal) he stammered out, "Dearest Jackpot, apart from not knowing if there even is a protolanguage, as you call it, and whether children somehow have access to it, one thing you do know is that you find children very annoying. You've told me more than once that you are convinced that through some physiological alchemy the sound of a crying baby bypasses the ear altogether and goes straight to the spinal cord. And you now want to spend nine months pregnant, carrying around another person in your abdomen, wearing a maternity bustier, and then go through birthing, and then raise a kid for eighteen odd years? For a language experiment? Sweetie, not that any child of ours wouldn't be a great kid...and I kind of like the idea of fatherhood...in an abstract kind of way...and could probably get into it... but...you? A mother?"

Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen squinted at him for a good long while and then said, "Well... I suppose you're right. Thanks for reminding me. Maybe we can rent one for a bit."

"Uh...rent one...hmmm...well...good idea, Your Highness. Perhaps in the next hamlet there'll be a baby rental agency. Then maybe we can take it with us on horseback, studying its protolanguage...and protocrying...and I might add, protodefecation...and you'll probably not want to miss out on the opportunity to breast feed the voracious little darling....and..."

"Alright! You've made your point!"

"Escuse moi, Mademoiselle."

"Seagod!"

Thus was lost Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen's best opportunity to look for empirical evidence of...well, hell, those experiments were all done back in the 1400s and again in the 1800s...back when people believed in phrenology and the like, for goodness sakes. The problem with the approach, as the good Queen was obviously pondering there on her steed, is that language and language acquisition tend to evolve from simple to complex, childish to sophisticated, straightforward to subtle. Thus to go backward is to move into less expressive waters. Oh, do you think this explanation runs counter to evidence in our classrooms and popular art forms? Do you bring evidence from Dickens or Shakespeare? I was thinking more of caveman or Adam for examples of earlier speakers. But then, you may be right. Lingual entropy might have a case made for it. All may be winding down, devolving. In fact, words seem to be failing me even now as I sit in this deepening night in the pale glow of my screen, like some poor Irish monk in the candlelit scriptorium. Just as well, you probably don't want to listen to (read to?) me ramble at this ungodly hour anyway. So let us drift to an anticlimactic close and bid each other, narrator, audience, and characters a fond goodnight. Sweet dreams of paradoxical, pregnant queens. Adieu.

21. The Queen Dressed Down

Though the remnant band was out of the Old West (at least as far as we are concerned), they were not yet through the desert. And while they were healthy and happy, they were not yet out of danger (philosophers and theologians might chime in here to point out that we are, all of us, never really out of danger, or, contrariwise, we are never truly in it, depending on world view). Thus, though still in the desert, they were not yet out of the woods. Where exactly they are at this particular juncture in their quest seems a fair question to be asked by saddle sore readers, wondering perhaps whether the picaresque nature of the tale does not allow for an infinity of episodes. Well, to answer the latter concern first, the answer is quite simply, yes. It happens to be one of the few areas of genuine originality open to the redactor (aside from stylistic originality). It is in the addition of sub stories within the larger framework that allows the greatest scope for creativity...not, mind, that I, for one, would just make stuff up. No, indeed! But one might dip into the rather capacious stewpot of Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen histories and apocrypha to serve up, as it were, a choice, fresh morsel of merit, to an audience of gourmands. I leave it, however, for academics to puzzle out the particular contributions unique to this redactor. Besides being rather gauche to point them out myself, are there not dissertations to be written that might not benefit from just such opportunities for original analysis?

As to the former question, if you'll recall it (namely, where are they?), let us look. If we peer down on the countryside, like so many royal, philosopher kings of Laputa, hovering on our omniscient island above the events, we can see them riding in the dark (for as you'll recall from the brochure, the desert is a hot place by day; thus they travel now by night). Do they follow some star, you may ask, seeking like the wise men of old, etcetera? Well, no. Dripping Sea God does know, though, to keep the north star more or less on his starboard quarter in order to roughly achieve their destination. Do I sense another question within that exquisite interchange between narrator and audience? Alright, you're thinking it; may as well ask. Oh, the destination itself, the Oracle's abode? I wonder, frankly, that it's not arisen sooner. It may come as a surprise, conditioned as you undoubtedly are to expect such a font of wisdom concerning learning to reside somewhere in the proximity of the Ivy League colleges. I'm afraid that there is nothing for it but to plunge on and tell you plainly that, in fact, the famous Bed by the Ford resides in the west (admittedly, it was removed there, much like the Dodgers from Brooklyn to LA, or London Bridge to the Arizona desert...I seem to recall some anecdote on this latter concerning the Queen...another fresh morsel for later?). In short, brevity being the sole of wit and all that, it is in San Francisco. Why? Well now, we covered some geology early on in the tale, which you will be forgiven for forgetting (this being no ride for scientific personalities), but it had to do with the odd fact that in all the dancing of tectonic plates across the continent, that edge of the Pacific Plate on which much of California sits did not (counter intuitionally) budge an inch. No, it was as safe and stable as could possibly be imagined, given the volatility of the politics of the area (you recall the recall). So to the Oracle in San Francisco they travel (besides, where better a séance with the ghost of a grammarian?), and are now barely visible in some western desert at night.

If one has ever worked a night shift (as surely anyone involved in the arts, of necessity, has, or will yet, including me), it will be remembered that staying awake in the dark never becomes natural (you remember the somnambulant close of the last chapter). Biorhythms set for millions of years are not turned on their heads by mere will or employment necessity. Thus each member of the little party (and I include here the horses) nodded between sleep and a sort of hypnotized wakefulness. Dripping Sea God was vaguely aware that before them, low in the sky, was a pale glow, as if the sun were considering rising in the west for a change. In his half sleep, he steered for it, like a mariner for the cloud that hovers over a lonely island at sea. Gradually, slowly, they neared it, while another pale glow began to rise behind them, presaging the sun on its track of old. So, little by little, fore and aft, the stage lights come up on the scene. But one character more must make an entrance. Here he? she? it? comes. Let's settle on it.

It did not leap out or somehow ambush the group. No, it was suddenly just there, in front of them, yet also all around them, single yet at the same time ubiquitous, seeming to shift and blend and morph, while simultaneously presenting a distinct, monolithic presence. In the new dawn's dim light, they could see weird movement across its surfaces, while too they saw a huge reptilian creature, now chameleon, now dragon, now something else almost recognizable.

The horses needed no prompting to halt. They shied and backed in fear and dismay that was shared by their riders.

Suddenly, a great, booming voice rose from the creature, surprising to them in it being anything but a predatory roar, as well as in what was said, "Yo!" the sound echoed through the morning, "Dude, the chill bitch Queen and the dope squirrel! Whatzamatter? Don' know me?"

At that, it flashed into a dozen different, consecutive shapes, too quickly to recognize any, but there lingered a sense that, could they be studied for even a few seconds, each would nevertheless be well known.

In the great literary tradition of Saint George and Beowulf, Dripping Sea God gallantly drew the ceremonial sword that hung from his saddle (which he typically used to pick flowers for his Lady), but the creature rapidly brandished a series of weapons in defense, each blending into the next: a mace, then a longbow, catapult, blunderbuss, crossbow, flintlock, submachine gun, bazooka, assault rifle, and finally a grenade launcher. Dripping Sea God lowered his weapon.

Nonplussed, the Queen, even so was able to find a regal, if strained voice, "Stay, Mighty Creature. I will answer your question."

The grenade launcher evaporated.

Relieved, she continued, "I fear I do not know you, but would indeed happily make the acquaintance of any of my subjects. Who, pray, are you?"

A low thunder was her answer. It grew and in time they recognized it as laughter reverberating within the huge beast. Then it spoke, "Ah, one of your subjects, eh? Good one, Baby. You clueless, yeah. Otherway 'round, chickee. Okay, I'll help you guess."

With that he leaned in close, the Queen holding her horse steady. Then in the general neighborhood of the creature's face appeared, or morphed out of the eyes, a large screen, like a computer monitor. Then they heard what sounded like generic background music, and the screen came to life. There were words rising, colored, a variety of fonts, moving left to right.

Dripping Sea God whispered incredulously, "It's a PowerPoint presentation!"

The Queen read aloud, "What is as old as civilization, and yet was born today, and will be again tomorrow? It is I." There was a pause for the question to be considered, but no guesses were forthcoming, so the next slide began motion, "Who knows exactly what is happening right now, but has forgotten what happened yesterday, and has no care for what will come tomorrow? It is I." Another empty pause, another slide. "What changes but does not evolve? Makes things that don't last? Again, it is I." And then the next: "Who knows just the right words to say today, and knows different right words tomorrow?"

At this point, Sheila, who had read The Hobbit, and recalled a somewhat similar riddling scene between Bilbo and Gollum, made bold with guesses from those riddles, "Time? A fish? My Precious?"

Everyone turned to gaze at her incredulously, the screen flickering, the Queen saying gently, "I don't think so, Dear. But good try."

Sheila sat back feeling that she had done her part and more, while the others continued trying to puzzle out the questions. One might hear repeated the likes of, "Hmm...maybe...no..."

The screen scrolled a new question, "Who is greater than queens and scholars, to whom all, including them, must bow?" (By this point, you may have it figured out and think Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen and her troupe are a bunch of ninnies. It's all very well for you there in your easy chair, but remember, you're not sitting on a terrified horse being confronted by this monster. Besides, you may have it wrong...thinking it something like death or taxes. Well you shall know if you guessed right anon.)

Then across the screen progressed a series of images of women. It took a moment to understand the organizing principle, but then it came clear. There was a woman dressed in animal skins and smeared with what looked like animal fat, then one in robes with spangles on her arms, then one in a richly embroidered gown that left her breasts exposed, followed by one whose hairline was plucked to exaggerate her brow, and another in layers of frilly cloth from neck to booted toe, and one in a tiny, fringed dress, her long legs bare and breasts pressed tight, and one with a balloon of hair, and others in a sequence that ended finally, with the image of Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen herself, attired as well you know.

It was she who spoke first, "One question. Was it you who decided a while back that the changeover to the metric system was not worth the trouble."

"Bingo," was the reply.

"Then," stated the Queen firmly, "I believe I have divined your identity." An expectant hush fell, and she intoned, "You, sir are none other than, and I apologize for not recognizing you earlier, as well as for our apparent hostility, Au Currant, the Dragon of Popular Culture. Well met."

The screen vanished and the monster seemed to strut back and forth proudly. He stopped and settled into casual contraposto, and said rather like the Godfather, "So you came to see me...about what?"

Jackpot Pastiche was quick to fall in with this state of affairs (would you be so ready to cast aside the haughty mien of a monarch? Well, I suppose there was not much choice, was there?). She, in the casual vernacular that Au Currant seemed to favor (which will seem dated, if not unintelligible, to you on reading it even five minutes hence; thus I shall not attempt to render it here), explained her plan for Esperanto.

The response? Well it was somewhat embarrassing for Her Majesty. The Dragon of Popular Culture simply laughed and then, wiping any number of eyes, said merely, "Come and meet my offspring," and turned. There was nothing to do but follow (have you ever tried to not follow it? It can hypnotize in the blink of a television advertisement).

They walked on in the still dim light, toward that glow in the west. Then Au Currant stopped atop a hill which looked out over a wide prospect, the source of the light, a bright, bright city. "My principal abode," said Au Currant proudly. "Las Vegas."

22. Running Riot

Looking out on the vast plain of shimmering light, Las Vegas (after the brightest star in the constellation Lyra, the Harp...only plural, thus many such...a metaphor of grandiose, yet somehow insubstantial, proportions...the latter fact being more à propos than the image itself), they could see facsimiles of pyramids and castles, sphinxes and gondola-ed canals, towers ancient and futuristic, causeways and drawbridges, temples and stately pleasure domes, vehicles aloft and aground, all teeming with moving, colored light, and below, inside, people gaming, spending, splurging, watching implausible spectacles and displays of pyrotechnics, prestidigitation, giant screens showing sporting events, circus performers, improbably busted women in feathered headdresses, a mechanical imitation of Wayne Newton singing "Danke Schoen," while marauding gangsters marauded, wearing logos of their names on their hats: The Short Tails, The Rat Pack. Slack-jawed commoners, high on booze, entertainment, red meat (the very air was redolent with the eau de parfum of charred burgers), and pernicious pseudo-chance, tempted penury with abandon.

Jackpot Pastiche was stunned. Au Currant stood at her side, changing hue like a kaleidoscope, laughing, crying out, "Oh, aint it grand! What pageantry, what theater. The whole wide world in my hand, all the stage, my world."

This last brought Jackpot Pastiche out of her trance, and she corrected, "I believe, sir, Shakespeare's line is, 'All the world's a stage.'"

He laughed and said gaily, "Whadda I care? He's dead. No, girlfriend, wrong is the new right. Ask anyone!"

She was speechless, looking back and forth across the throng.

Au Currant, though, was just warming up, "Dig it! This is your Coliseum, these your well-opiated masses."

Finding voice, but not sense, Jackpot Pastiche stuttered out, "But I never...I don't want to...I don't want them...to be so..."

Like a debater making his penultimate point, he declared, "No. They want it. It's how they want to be, what they want to do, feel." Then came his triumphal closer, "You have nothing to say about it, Queenie. Yo, this is my realm, my doing, my work, my influence, my sleight of hand, my invention, degradation, spectacle, empire, passing fancy, mirage, game, legacy, gift, abomination. It is popular culture, the alpha and omega of civilization. You and your intellectuals, bah! A handful of self-important bookworms swimming against the tide with your precious little rule books about subjunctive moods and the like balanced on your heads. No one gives a crap about you or that stuff. Always been that way. This is America, the apogee of my career, land of anything goes, quintessence of the transitory thrill, worldwide exporter of my whims! Stand back and let 'er rip!"

The Queen was shaking, repeating in a small voice, "No, no...no, it's just a sideshow, a vacation, a temporary entertainment...they care about the intellect. Look at college enrollment."

"Ha! Frat parties, classes only through Thursday, Spring Break mayhem, Girls Gone Wild. Yeah, look at them...hip and dumb...short attention span...aping the under class. They look like you, pimps and hookers...imitating the fashion, let's call it, that I dictate. You, yourself, your very persona, declare morality and good taste passé. Sexuality is your modus operandi...an old trick of mine, tweaked and refined over the centuries. Titillation is my game, boobs and asses and a dash and dollop of dollars and gore...and this my testing ground! And anything goes."

In the one act of Victorianism that anyone could recall her performing, Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen, swooned.

23. Antidote Anecdote

Swimming up from deep but fretful slumber, Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen passed through gradients of consciousness, like through a warming thermocline in a pond, and each stroked a soothing hand across her slow-waking brain. She seemed to feel, without being aware that she was, degrees of tranquility. Thus she wafted between sleep and wakefulness, a counterpoint to Mary Shelly's half-waking state. Only no monstrous reanimate stared past the bed curtains with yellow, watery eyes, as was Mary's case (and later, Victor's). Hovering over Jackpot Pastiche, afloat in these benignities just mentioned, were the pale blue flowers of her Consort's concerned eyes. And into these she gazed, while the last wisps of some unnamed trouble blew from her mind.

She came somewhat more awake, but allowed herself to remain dreamy and receptive, like a sleepy cat. She heard sweet music, music that had been playing for some time, perhaps a long time, a single piano now, tracing a delicate melody...Mozart, and then, with no discernable segue, words of love, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and a bit later, lines about cherry blossoms and a beautiful girl combing her long, dark hair, and still later, a tender lullaby in French, followed by a South Pacific ode to a sunset beyond a reef of coral, and then something amusing, Aristophanes? And Dorothy Parker? And then a ribald troubadour lyric from William IX, followed by Olivia's Fool's meditation on youth being a stuff that will not endure, and finally (this being by no means comprehensive a list of what she heard) the Prologue to Canterbury Tales. This was served as the last sip of the reviving tonic which restored the Queen to her self, her circumstances, and her purpose.

She sat up, looked with mild surprise at the coming of evening over the vast, empty desert, and embraced Dripping Sea God, saying simply, "Thank you, My Love."

He put aside the Norton Anthology, smiled, pleased with himself and her response, and explained, "When you fainted, I realized it was due to the crass barbarisms of the Dragon of Popular Culture, enough to deprive sense of anyone of intelligence, education, and good breeding, you being the epitome, of course. An experience like that could make one lose any hope for civilization. No wonder you swooned...and you're still a bit flushed, Sweetie...kind of like when...well, never mind that for now. So anyway, I thought a solid dose of higher culture, that which has made civilization great and beautiful, was in order to balance things out in that fevered little noggin of yours. Ying to the yang. And, viola, here you are!"

"My hero," she purred.

They made a pretty picture there in the deepening blue-black of night: the little party on camp chairs around a low fire, the two loving couples leaning into each other as if in separate rooms from the others. Shooting stars shot in long blue tracers to the muted sounds of flame on mesquite, horses nearby chewing dreamily on oats, a lone owl hooting in the middle distance, and a soft string quartet playing on the little stereo Dripping Sea God had bought as the one souvenir of their sojourn in Las Vegas.

(A note may be appropriate here as this chapter draws to close with its decidedly pretty and denouement-like air. It is true that the scene is usually thus redacted, though one or two attempts have been made to scrape off the taint of Romanticism that hangs about it. For, like poems and paintings of the period of that name, there lacks a certain verisimilitude: as the typical bucolic scene of cattle by the tree-lined stream is unmarred by cow paddies in the foreground and fouling the stream. So too here: no mention of the night terrors of the desert, the high drama of rattlesnakes slithering after skittering mice, gila monsters eying lizards, that owl's silent wing stroke above the unhearing jackrabbit, coyotes slinking beyond the ridge, and the mosquitoes aborning by the thousands from the rank puddle remnant of the recent flash flood that scoured the desert floor like an angry and whimsical god. No, it is a tame scene, and though that tameness may be an illusion, a falsehood, it is nevertheless true in the sense that literature, though fiction, is true...in spirit. The Queen has had a profound shock, and it is right that she benefit from not only her Consort's ministrations. Nature too, must lean in close and hold a hand above her in benediction; the Chain of Being demands it, even if that too is a thing of human devising. Thus, in the interests of, and at the behest of literature -oh, and how I could go on and on in singing my paean to this manifestation of the very heart of that which Dripping Sea God has restored to the Queen, and thereby, her story-, the Romantic lens through which we observe the scene needs must remain. Form following function. Amen.)

24. Mincing Words

Jackpot Pastiche made a pretty picture sitting there on a boulder in the arid landscape at dawn. The sun shone brilliantly on the red of her customary garment and illumined twin half-moons above its rim. She sat hunched over a tablet of paper, hair pulled back out of the way in a slipping knot, tapping a pencil eraser against her upper lip, a half cup of coffee balanced precariously beside her. In fact, we have the photograph Dipping Sea God took of her at that moment. I have it here before me. There she is, unaware of audience, unposed, thoughtful, but not of her person. It is a rare image, as she is one who has worked on the expressions to give to a camera, looking directly into the lens, as into a person's eyes, chin slightly down and a shade averted. She knows it is her most alluring, frank, and frankly attractive aspect. She has it down, so she looks very natural, as if the camera caught her in unguarded, yet honest pleasure at seeing the one seeing the photograph. Nevertheless, it is a pose, a lovely, controlled artifice. But this image of her on the rock, uncareful of posture, legs drawn up partway, bare feet on stone, mouth slightly open, as if speaking to the page, a slightly quizzical arc to her eyebrows, offers us a glimpse of the person, the girl, not calculated for effect. Thus it is a gift, and were she to know of its impact, she might allow it to occur more regularly, for in her thoughtless pose, is she not revealing thoughtfulness? In her commonness, is she not regal? In her slouch, is she not very sexy? It is an argument that someone other than I would have to make; perhaps only her Consort could do it, and even then one doubts the efficacy of the attempt. It's excusable, for what leaders do not try to control the image that their people see? Regrettable nonetheless, at least in this instance.

Dripping Sea God, having put his camera away (no fool he), observed that the Queen appeared to be in hiatus in her writing and so thought it unobtrusive to approach her. He announced his arrival at her side with a kiss on her warm shoulder, at which she turned and said in a voice mixed of equal parts interest, frustration, melancholy, and cheer (we are reminded of her complicated nature), "My Sweet. Surprise, I have been writing a poem." She paused to take in his raised eyebrows, and then added, "I'm afraid it's not very good. But what the hell, I can decree it brilliant!"

Dripping Sea God took it from her proffering hand and gave it two readings. Then, into her expectant countenance, he said, "It has its moments...this 'civilization humming reassuringly,' for instance. But it could use some polish. Mind if I play with it? Or are you artistically attached? I only ask because you said it's not good, though I guess everyone says that about their art to preempt criticism."

She jumped down from her perch, pinched him on the cheek, handed him her equipment, and said merrily, "Knock yourself out, Seagod," then made her way over to the coffee pot.

Dripping Sea God looked after her to see if he could discern any subtleties in her carriage that might indicate that he had misread, or she misdirected, the emotional subtext. Seeing none (but aware that that might well be a mistake, one made commonly by all men), he took her place on the rock and unconsciously took on her same pose (though one cannot help tossing an aside here that even though we have no photographic evidence, this needs must be a less arresting image than that which fades slowly, like an afterimage from our minds' retinas).

This was the poem as he found it, and now you can join in the general consensus (as I have just before you) that it was nice enough, though obviously unworthy of inclusion in the canon (though one might divagate for some time on the literary/philosophical argument of expansion of the canon, this being a place one might advance the thesis that if in the past women and minorities were, to put it mildly, underrepresented in the anthologies, they being dominated by the famously put "dead white guys," an unrepresented category might well be fictional, that is, real, but somehow future Queens. Well, it is such a complexity of proportions and permutations that it is lucky we have not space for it here. Perhaps another monograph is in order. See the appendices to learn if I ever got around to composing it). In short, her poem read thus:

The sun rises and it's already hot

On the orange desert.

I hear music, but it's only in my head.

It's civilization humming reassuringly

Out in this vast empty place

Where nature sings differently.

We're going the same direction as the sun

Toward the Pacific,

But I feel anything but peaceful.

It's Friday and I feel hot tears

Because, I think, the future is so uncertain.

One can see easily enough that the Queen had followed other academic paths since she left off writing poetry in high school. Still, the sentiment is within, I think, anyway (though, yes, biased in her favor), an acceptable range. So too thought Dripping Sea God. But in need of...well...poetry, that clunky last line. So he tinkered, while the sun shot up into the sky like a balloon whose string a child has let slip. And his effort came to this:

The sun shoots up into the sky
Like a balloon a child has let slip,

String and all rising in the multiplying heat waves.

Desert colors expire in every direction,

Adrift on nature's whispered melodies,

My mind plays a counterpoint air,

Complex, intertwined,

Civilization humming reassuringly

(Or whistling in the dark)

Behind,

And also ahead,

Along the Pacific shore

(which will not lend me its name).

No, Turmoil is my name today,

Where Friday's hot tears

Water tomorrow.

Poem in hand, Dripping Sea God brought it to Jackpot Pastiche, who, in the improvised shade of saddle blankets porching a tent, was regally regaling an amused (if captive) audience with the doggerel poetry of her youth, "Whenever I write a poem, it seems my mind turns to foam."

Dripping Sea God announced his presence by chiming in, "foem."

In the chortling that followed, he handed the revised poem to Jackpot Pastiche (who apparently had lost no time in casting off her nighted color). She said, "Ah, Consort's effort at improving my little poem. Shall we hear them both? We'll see if he was able to add poesy while maintaining the heart of sensibility I believe I was able to imbue into the original."

She then declaimed both versions, following the enjambment and avoiding admirably the temptation to emphasize the lines' end words with singsong. Each face was intent, particularly Sheila's (for she well remembered, if erroneously, her contributions in the face of Au Currant's riddles). And as the Queen finished the second and was pursing her lips to begin elucidating applied theories of literary criticism and cognitive science in relation to the two versions, a line by line explication, Sheila blurted out, "Oh, that was fun! May I try, Your Highness? May I?"

The Queen paused, considered this shift in the wind and said with amusement, "Oh ho, Sheila, a closet poetess, are you? Well, by all means. In fact, anyone else care to give it a go?"

Roscoe looked dubious, but it was apparent that The Coffee Page's little gears were whirring, he having imbibed ample caffeinated inspiration. (Again, the narrator must pause to remind the linguistically minded that these word choices are necessary for connotative reasons, metaphorical as well. Certainly one knows that to imbibe is drinking, while to inspire is breathing, and to combine the two in one thought phrase might, if literally meant, drown the poor fellow. Readers like this are those very ones who keep dragging up the problem of time in the tale, obviously the same sort who in English courses were looking for that one right answer, frustrated with the ambiguities of individual interpretation. But we must insist that they, pardon my ire, hold their water.)

In the time we were distracted (rather longer than it has taken you to read the passage, having myself, through a weird process, apparently, of autosuggestion, had to go make water), both Sheila and The Coffee Page, now beaming lovingly at each other (such are the raptures of the poet), had produced their own versions of the Queen's original, or proto-poem. Sheila's (read breathlessly by the authoress) went like this:

The sun's hot here in the desert

And it's quiet,

But luckily there's music back in civilization

(and on my portable player).

I can't wait to see the Pacific ocean,

And if we don't get there by Friday,

I could just cry.

Before the audience could respond, she turned with a flourish to her companion, who spat charmingly and intoned in a rhythm that suggested the heavy clomp of Anglo Saxon alliterative verse with its pronounced caesura the following grand couplets.

Dizzy desert heat

Aching, weary feet

Marching to songs

All Friday long

Let's get to the sea

Or unhappy I'll be

Jackpot Pastiche looked at her Consort with a dour expression. He returned it with somewhat widened eyes. By turn, they chanted rapid fire,

"Well, that pretty well boils it down to essences."

"Like percolated coffee over a camp fire."

"Like evaporated salt water."

"Like a reduction sauce reduced to ash."

"Cheese on the bottom of a pizza oven."

"Hail Muse of Poesy!"

And burst out laughing.

The two fledgling poets, however, stood like posts, unsure if they were being mocked (good thing, that uncertainty, in the event), Sheila's eyes brimming. Suddenly alarmed, Jackpot Pastiche swept her up in an embrace and made a great fuss over their efforts, and the moment was saved.

Later, the Queen and her Consort were strolling up a sandy canyon among wispy smoke trees and ocotillo toward a rocky cleft from which a small spring sprung forming a palm lined pool. They were discussing the poetry exercise and the Lady opined that had it been carried out in Esperanto the variations would have been less variant, especially that slippage of meaning toward the end in which the ennui about the future was shifted to a childish sadness, even petulance about getting to the ocean soon. "Isn't that," she continued, "the point about changing to Esperanto? We eliminate those misunderstandings; we don't go off on silly tangents. We understand each other."

Dripping Sea God took her hand and said, "And miss that, 'at least there's music back in civilization and on my portable player'? Or, 'Marching to songs all Friday long'? Those were certainly off the mark in terms of your original meaning, but weren't they naively precious? Fun even. I think that was the cool thing, that we all took the same piece and went off on three tangents."

"Are you saying yours was a tangent too?"

"Yeah, maybe. I mean, I think I kept your essential meaning pretty well, and maybe improved the sort of metaphorical access to it, but you could say I prettied it up too much, that style vies for eminence against the more straightforward way you said it. Maybe you should have just taken a little longer to polish a couple of your lines. My point though, Dear, is that the slipperiness of the language let us experience those different viewpoints, getting inside these very different heads. And that was cool."

"Messy though."

"Yes, messy. Messy can be good sometimes."

"Hmm...are we still talking about poetry?"

He smiled slyly and replied, "It's all poetry, Sweetie."

"Are you trying to turn me on?"

"Oh, would that I had the words to do so, Your Royal Wantonness."

"Surely, clever fellow that I hear you are, you can come up with some sexy jargon to entice me with, arouse my passions..."

"Ah, there's the rub...no pun intended, that is, well, yes, but later...but, and I fear to step into this topic as it may run counter to my purpose..."

"Go on, it's working. If not aroused, I have at least piqued interest, which may lead, as you know it sometimes does, to other...um...dialogic exercise."

"Well then," he said sinuously, "let us discuss. As you know, my Dear, sometimes it is fun to talk dirty, to play the tramp, and then, as I distinctly remember from our little campout on the shore of the Sea of Slang, things can get raunchy quickly. Are you with me?"

She looked at him somewhat haughtily and said, "In theory, yes. Not yet, alas, in spirit."

"Just so!" he cried. "Yes, exactly so. Sometimes other language is required, and to what may we turn to ease into sweet and gentle foreplay? What niceties can express desires for tender caresses of finger and mouth. Airless terms of physiology? Latin terms? One can hardly pronounce them. And then, in addition, there is the sexist (as opposed to sexual) oddity that perhaps has escaped the attention of Your Highness in this regard."

A tilt of an eyebrow signaled him to proceed.

"There appears to be but a single verb form of the two Latinate terms for oral pleasures, namely, to fellate. One would never say to cuniling, not that one would really say the other either, actually (though I remember you having done so recently, but even then). That's the point. You can say it clinically, dirtily, or partially in safe Latin. Is there no sweet, romantic middle path? Perhaps in Esperanto? Teach me then, Oh, Queen of Sensualities, how to speak of these diversions in the measured, tasteful, yet stimulating, expressions of Esperanto!"

"Alas, Seagod," the Queen replied, "though your explanation will get no argument from me, I will admit," she pulled him close, "here in the privacy of this canyon, that I am not expert enough in the tongue to answer."

"And yet, Mon Cheri, your tongue is so expert," he replied, kissing her.

But she pulled away, saying enthusiastically, "We could make them up!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Like in the Word Audience."

"Make up nice, but stimulating terms for sex acts?"

"And body parts, I suppose, too."

"Uh, okay, Lady. How do you propose we proceed?"

"Kennings, Consort, kennings."

"Well," said Dripping Sea God, stopping and looking around in the shade. "I may need to sit down. I think you have jolted me with a bit of knowledge I am unfamiliar with. The tables do turn. Hail, Jackpot Pastiche. Kennings you say?"

"Oh Seagod, you flatterer. They are just constructed words, compound words. Every language (I think) does it. That Latin term you just used is one; in English it would be something like vulvalick. Well, no, perhaps not that. You see, they are more than simple compounds, like, workman, or sunshine. They usually need some extra umph, some imagination to bridge the gap, or they suggest something more than what they say. I read in some text that Old English had some words like whaleroad, meaning sea, and battlelight meaning sword, and bonehouse for body. You see? They are not so much literal as metaphorical, mental springboards. So, we need to make up some kennings to solve this problem of you needing language to seduce me with...well, at certain times...like now."

"Ah, I see, my Blisspath. I think I perceive the process, something I can, as it were, strokeblush you with."

"Ooh, that's nice, my Sea God. Let us recline here on the edge of the water and see if such word making is not beyond our ken."

"Good one," he replied, kissing her deeply. Their new resolve to add to the language notwithstanding, and in an analogue to those famous lovers, Francesca and Paolo, themselves under the influence of the tale of Lancelot and Guinevere (I use Dante's words), "that day they read no more."

25. Gilded Gelding

Inspired by the high literary (and cathartic) tone of the preceding episode, Dripping Sea God can now be seen jogging along cross-legged on his horse, working on a poem as they travel. We can look from our omniscient and multitemporal viewpoint over his shoulder and read along as he then recited the newly coined poesy to his lady, who leaned toward him in her saddle and listened.

Once

a balding and bland abalone,

nibbling bologna hors d' oeuvres,

along with his collaborator,

a somewhat fractious and berating collie-lab,

were considering, over piña coladas,

the origin of hypnosis.

And after the former made

a couple of skips to the loo,

where considering hepissedhimallogy,

hula hips

they felt sure

first mesmerized,

unhinging

a cereal killer's selfish steam

due to the child's Christmas in whales.

The apple log being:

punishment as indentured servant

in a toothless state,

a broad.

Jackpot Pastiche looked at him with amusement, "Pardon my mockery Seagod, but that's about the silliest thing I've ever heard! Maybe we should have Sheila and her beau take a whack at translation. No telling what they'd boil that down to." She laughed at the thought, and added, "Well, if nothing else, perhaps we can get John Tenniel to do the illustration."

Dripping Sea God was silent a moment and then said with some small and uncharacteristic frostiness, "Well, if Your Royal Intellect thinks my work silly, I'll work harder and try to come up with something worthy of that keenest of minds."

"Now Seagod," she mollified. But he was not to be mollified, nor placated. He reigned back and concentrated again on his paper (which, you may be interested to know, sat in a little holder, like a music stand that was attached to the pommel of his saddle. It is but one of his many useful inventions, a side of his creativity not often acknowledged).

At last, the sun having rather outpaced the little party, Dripping Sea God caught up with Jackpot Pastiche, and said, "Okay, I have developed a complex formula of expression, that is, writing, that employs both science and art. It is a multilayered method for conveying meaning on the visible surface, as well as invisibly, sub textually, as it were. I will explain."

And the Queen knew he would, and knew he expected her close attention, if not for the theory itself, then for her somewhat dismissive response to his earlier effort to please her with his poem. Thus she was most attentive.

He expounded, "For each letter of the alphabet one can have a phrase that it stands for. Probably stock phrases that one need not write out all the time, but meaningful ones. Thus if someone wanted to say, I miss you, they would just write the single letter as a shortcut. Or the phrases could stand for entire concepts or works (Hamlet's To Be Or Not To Be soliloquy, for instance), so the "key" is something like the Einstein table of equations, each one standing in for its more complex counterpart. Do you follow?"

She nodded.

He went on, "This would lead to writing of words made up of these letters, thus carrying the additional meaning...the 'face' words somehow corresponding (or running counter to) the hidden ones. This then could be expanded to go down the lines of the page, the first letters, for instance, saying some additional hidden thing."

Silence from the Queen.

He continued, "Another wrinkle would be to make up palindromes of these, perhaps even three dimensional ones."

He considered this, visualizing, while the Queen looked at him curiously. He added, "The limitation, of course, is in the original twenty six 'meaning phrases.' These, though, could be somehow changed and keyed. Perhaps each person could develop his or her own set of twenty six phrases that are significant to, or emblematic of that person."

He looked at her, for a moment, their heads bobbing above the backs of their horses, she still mute (yes, you are quite right; it has indeed been a long time for Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen to hold her tongue, but remember she was feeling a little guilty...and, in fact, the tip of her tongue was even then, hidden behind her pretty lips, clamped between incisors to impede locution).

He said, "I have taken the liberty of making a simple example using you, having compiled a fairly representative list of your sayings and the like. It is by no means comprehensive, but for the sake of illustration will do. It reads thus:"

A. You may approach

B. My duty and prerogative as Queen of the Land

C. It is my considered opinion

D. Oh, Oh!

E. Hmm

F. Well, now that you put it that way

G. How do you like my new red bustier?

H. The proper usage of the term is

I. I never make mistakes

J. It's not my opinion; it's true

K. The fact of the matter

L. You don't know what you're talking about

M. Yes

N. No

O. You don't quite understand

P. Vacillate

Q. Come

R. Make

S. You

T. Me

U. You should

V. Say

W. Kiss

X. Think

Y. Sex

Z. Fool

The muscle in the Queen's jaw flexed, and she tasted a metallic hint of blood (which, truth be told...and don't I always?...she rather liked), but she remained wordless.

Dripping Sea God, on a roll, continued his peroration, "Now, I have worked up

the following word, or words." He squinted and managed to slowly pronounce, "Kjiuvomqvgzsxsqrylhmaeswnkiqwemfsrtpbwewemwd. Hmm, a bit of a tongue twister... um...well, decoded, it's:

The fact of the matter, It's not my opinion; it's true: I never make mistakes. You should say you don't quite understand. Yes, come say how do you like my new red bustier? Fool, you think you come make me think sex? You don't know what you're talking about. The proper usage of the term is... yes, you may approach, hmm, you kiss, no? The fact of the matter, I never make mistakes, come kiss, hmm, yes, Well, now that you put it that way, you make me vacillate (my duty and prerogative as Queen of the Land). Kiss, hmm, kiss, hmm, yes, kiss, oh, oh!"

Finally, Jackpot Pastiche was forced to respond, "Cute, kinda sexy, but it's just a code, dear. And the original word, or was it words, I forget, means nothing, so it's not really multilayered at all, is it?"

"Hmm, I fear you're right. How perceptive of you. I will try to make it poetry, then."

He again fell silent for the space of another hour or so, while she, in a rare

display of patience, sat noiselessly at his side, thinking rapid fire to be sure, but thoughts unvoiced.

At length, he said, "Okay, here we go. I've got it, a multilayered haiku:"

flaming bustier,

thought honed upon Vulcan's wheel,

ah, my love, the Queen

Jackpot Pastiche smiled, "That's very nice Seagod. Thank you."

He, vindicated, said, "Well, thank you. It is, to take Carroll a step farther, a portmanteau haiku. Translated, or unpacked, I should say, it goes thus:"

Well, now that you put it that way, you don't know what you're talking about. You may approach, yes. I never make mistakes, no. How do you like my new, red bustier? It is my considered opinion, you should you me. I never make mistakes, hmm, make.

Me, the proper usage of the term is, you don't understand. How do you like my new red bustier? The proper usage of the term is; you don't quite understand, no, hmm. Oh, oh! You should vacillate. You don't quite understand, no. Say, you should (you don't know what you're talking about) you may approach. No, you kiss (the proper usage of the term is, hmm). Hmm, you don't know what you're talking about.

You may approach. The proper usage of the term is, yes, sex. You don't know what you're talking about; you don't quite understand. Say, hmm. Me, the proper usage of the term is, hmm, come. You should, hmm, hmm, no?

Jackpot Pastiche glanced his way and said, "Very nice, clever. Very magical realism, Seagod... but... Oh, look! We're entering California!"

He looked up from his sheaf of foolscap, saw a sign coming up, and since he was, "indeed not her fool, only her corrupter of words," tossed his work into a nearby bin, which was stuffed with various rotting fruits and vegetables, tossed by other tourists before daring the scrutiny of California's notorious Agricultural Inspection Station that was even then glowering across the road ahead. Thus was lost the primary written source for this episode, which was reconstructed from the oral history recounted much later by Her Majesty, alas, raving at the funeral of her beloved Consort, who had, well, let us refrain from that gloomy prospect, for though George has reminded us that all things must pass, they need not do so now. So, on into the sun of California, that is, the crossing of the border, it being little changed since the days when Woody lamented welcome being withheld from those who "aint got that dohreme, boy."

The green road sign, now close at hand read, "Welcome to California, which is, (through no fault of its own) still where it has always been (though perhaps not as you remember it)."

Reflecting on this ambiguous greeting, they pulled up at the Inspection Station, where the agents, being no respecters of person, pawed through the Queen's treasured coffee. Further outrage being spared by the rattling of Dripping Sea God 's sword, they crossed into the Golden State, home of the Oracle of Style and Perspicuity.

Returning to that somewhat defensive message of greeting, the Queen and her entourage quickly saw that truer words were never crafted into roadside signage by inmate's hand. No sooner were they upon the soil named for the Amazons of Calafia (something that rankled Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen in an obscure way), than they found the famous freeways intact and packed with thousands and thousands of giant automobiles, clearly the design descendants of the Humvee. Ten feet wide, twenty long, these behemoth vehicles sat packed in perpetual gridlock. On peering inside one (rare this possibility, as all windows seemed to be impenetrably tinted), it could be ascertained that the occupant seemed actually to be inhabitant. The fellow was not even at the wheel, but in the passenger section, which sported an office complete with a computer on a roll top desk.

The Pilgrims were quickly disabused of the flitting notion that they might trade in their horses for more comfortable and speedy transportation. No, theirs was the more rapid mode of transit, so they continued to clop along as in days of yore, listening, that is, feeling in their chests, the conflicting pulses of varied subwoofers thumping out what passed for music on the contemporary scene, while thousands of sets of tiny hammers, anvils, and stirrups, buzzed fragilely inside the heads of the autos' occupants. This deep cacophony appeared to agitate the horses, and so, after a perusal of a map (Yes, a map! It took a bit of adjustment; the Queen kept holding the thing upside down and pointing to Cabo San Lucas and declaring it Puget Sound), they struck off on a slightly different route that would take them nonetheless directly (well, unavoidably) to the mighty city that stretched without break from Santa Barbara to San Diego (for even the old marine base at Camp Pendleton, with its façade of rolling, flora covered hills swathing generations of unexploded ordinance, had been subsumed by the one remaining crop growing in the once fertile soil of the state: houses).

Another aspect of the change in California (tectonic stasis notwithstanding) was an apparent manifestation of historical irony, for the state initially seemed to be occupied almost entirely by Latinos, as if there had been a reprise of the Mexican American war, with the opposite outcome. Apart from the fellow on the freeway, the entourage seemed to possess the only Anglo Saxon skin burning in the Mediterranean climate. It was quite interesting: a thoroughly modern American assemblage of town and cityscape with a distinctly south of the border atmosphere. There were delightful smells of real Mexican food (not like that pallid, ersatz stuff that is sold in the East), families enjoying the parks, and a palpable sense of ease within the well kept neighborhoods. Here was the new melting pot, containing a fresh admixture of Central American values of family, enterprise, and relaxation within a middle class milieu, stripped of banana republic corruption, exploitation, and poverty. And everywhere, on the breeze, on signs, and in the mouths of the entire population of this section of the state (and it must be said, by way of warning, that it was something of a jolt for our royal party), were the sounds and sights of Spanish. Ah, es muy linda, no? Pero tambien fue muy rapido y Jackpot Pastiche no comprende mucho, solamente un poquito, porque es simejante a Esperanto.

Surprised (and hungry), they found a small tienda and decided they needed to stop and get their bearings. Soon enough they were haply munching fresh fish tacos covered in guacamole made with lime, celantro, and bright salsa. The requisite lime capped cervesas rounded out the repast, while they silently took in the sights and considered the implications. Quietly too, word spread: the Queen had come to pay a visit to el gente.

While they are thus occupied, let me turn aside for a moment to gaze skyward and ponder: Oh, California, California, California, what to relate? So much has been written already, so many have their opinions, yet she is so misunderstood, so made to fulfill the fantasy gratifications of those who have come hungrily to her fecund arms. It is, perhaps, meet that our Harlot Queen should come at last to this lotus land, this temple prostitute of American culture, the place of all things to all people, the embodiment of the transitory, yet hopeful, nature of human endeavor, more disturbing even, in its way, than the escapist dream of Las Vegas, which has little pretense of trying to be a place one might actually live. So, as I said, much has been written and said of California, but not much about her has really been understood. No, most of the writings are paeans to the god of possibilities that seems to reside there, or else diatribes on the cardboard cutout demigods of faddism that alternate in steady succession across the landscape. But are either of these things really California? Or mere projections, more revealing of the observers and inhabitants than the place? The latter, I would say. Again, what for an honest, well meaning redactor to write? It is tempting to let this short screed suffice, perhaps additionally referring the interested reader to a slim, obscure, and insightful novella of the Twentieth Century, The Last Orange Grove, by a sadly overlooked writer of the period. Ah, but what of our tale? Is not the Queen nearly at the end of her pilgrimage? Is not the Oracle of Style and Perspicuity but a short distance north, waiting (if shades can be said to wait...I make no pretensions to reading the state of her soul...it may be waiting in Limbo with the likes of Virgil and all those other literary and philosophical types, or may have moved on to the very Seat of Judgment, assisting at the right hand the Creator Himself in some sort of advanced mode of discerning nuances of soul grammar. One might further divagate here on deity and gender, however the trail of breadcrumbs grows thin.)? She, the Oracle, is known, whatever her routine since passing the veil, to haunt her old haunts now and again, and certainly the Queen has a reasonable expectation of sharing an audience (remembering the ambiguity of who is beholden to whom in the circumstances). We could fast forward past the several regional anecdotes, allowing the water color, plein aire images painted by hyperbole, vacations, and film to give the essential California-esque gestalt: sun, Hollywood, beaches, Baywatch, Disneyland, sunglasses, superficially, plastic surgery, ex-New Yorkers gone to seed, blah, blah, blah. And so to San Francisco. It doesn't, though, seem quite right somehow. Is it me? Tired? Wanting a larger role, to pitch my own story, make a deal for a percentage of the back end video royalties? Hard to say...introspection, so yesterday, don't you think? But look! Is that a parade? Why yes! The Queen is being fêted by her subjects. Those Latinos sure know how to treat royalty, not like those stingy, King George-remembering, New England, Yankee, blue-blooded gringos.

Listen to the mariachis, see the twirl of skirts, the choruses of "Ole!" There's Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen on her gallant steed, itself regally caparisoned with bright colors and ribbons woven into mane and tail, high stepping back and forth across the street, the Queen reaching down to clasp hands of adoring subjects. And there too is the Royal Consort, looking every inch a sea god, and there, the Mascot, in brilliant serape. And, oh, the blasts of trumpet fanfare!

But what is this? A Chinese Dragon? Yes, to be sure, it leaps and swoops ahead, firecrackers at its feet. And the crowd too is morphing, pointing and laughing with unmistakably Asian features. It is as if the Latino community has passed the Royal Entourage off to their Asian neighbors. Why yes, it looks like Chinatown, and there, Little Tokyo, and now Little Saigon has joined the festivities. And ahead? Is that not a sea of twirling umbrellas? Is that jazz we hear? Look up beyond the Dragon, see? There are dancing figures, drums and saxophones and clarinets and prancing, clapping revelers in caftans singing call and response blendings from Africa and the Deep South, bright teeth in dark happy faces. And all is in movement, and the Queen is in the center, and, were we to lean in and listen to the sequence of happy conversations, we would hear every manner of language from around the globe, each enclave with their own special, cherished modes...and linking them...surely it is not lost on so perceptive a Queen (even if the attention has turned her head somewhat), a unifying lingua franca: English.

26. Dancing in Limbo

There is a place that o'erlooks the pale sea, a place of perpetual Indian Summer, as is fitting, as is too the reddish piping of smog sewn along the horizon's hem, lovely imperfection, the blue note of the landscape's harmonic scale. This place is not so very easy to enter, though one may draw close and look into it, as "through a glass darkly," again fitting, for the enigma of pasts and futures claims the spot and seems almost to hold an inverted bowl tightly down on it and those that can be seen inside. But that is just a metaphor, really. Still the barrier exists, if only in the hesitation of the viewer, surprised, reminded, saddened, and then heartened as well, but rooted just beyond. Perhaps it is one of those places the Celts called Thin Places, where borders of worlds touched, overlapped. In this case, though, it is the site of an ancient Chumash religious gathering place, a simple circle, really, of sacredness, or something that passes for that in the worlds man creates. As mythic as all this sounds, it is also a rather uncomplicated and joyous, even forgetful place, and, apart from the Celt's Blessed Isles of the West (remember, there is an island just offshore here with a town named Avalon), or the Land of the Lotus Eaters, where else but California could the like of it exist? Oddly enough, it does not appear in tour guidebooks, let alone maps of the houses of the stars, and thus is little visited. It both fits in with the currently held archetype of California, and is anachronistic, particularly regarding the state's reputation of being home of the transient and transitory. That the Queen now stood before it, holding the hand of her Consort, can be largely attributed to his rather more extensive familiarity with the half of their favored discipline that embraces literature, while she, as hardly needs pointing out, has proclivities that tilt more toward the structural, grammatical branch. (And you would be right in observing for what is surely not the first time that the couple is splendidly well matched.) It is doubly propitious that she have him now at her side (and this goes some way toward explaining the paucity of visitors), for only one who was extraordinarily well versed in literature could interpret the scenes that flitted before them.

In fact, it was his startled exclamation that really focused her attention on the oddity of the place. He pointed and whispered, "See that willow growing aslant the brook?"

She, instead of looking at the tree, turned to him and said dubiously, "A willow near the shore in southern California, Seagod?"

Exasperated, he hissed, "'How absolute the knave is. We must speak by the card or...' I forget the rest. Okay, it's a Brazilian Pepper. Close enough. Just look...the girl with the flowers in her hair...violets? – no, I guess they're really nasturtiums..."

Jackpot Pastiche broke in, "Hey, is that, I mean is she...nude? All that hair, but I think she's naked! Seagod, shame on you, lusting after that young thing."

Dripping Sea God, now exasperated to the power of two, said, "Look at her, Dear! What do you see?"

"Well, now that you mention it," she began, "she is pretty attractive..."

"No, no, no!"

The girl, in the meantime could be heard singing snatches of old, and it must be said, bawdy, lays. She reached up a tender white arm (slightly sunburned), then another, and latched firmly onto a rope that dangled down from a sturdy branch. Then with lithe grace, she leapt and swung out over the shimmering water (a half moon of her bottom showing briefly as her hair swept back in the breeze of her swing. At the apogee of her arc, she let go and dove like a snowy tern down into the water, her high voice echoing a trailing, "Hey nonny, nonny..."

Jackpot Pastiche, concerned now, leaning forward, clutching Dripping Sea God 's arm, said, "She's been down a long time...Maybe you should dive in Seagod..."

At that, the girl broke the surface and gaily backstroked to the bank of the stream and hoisted herself out and began drying herself vigorously with a towel that had been hanging on a low bough.

Dripping Sea God looked at Jackpot Pastiche and smiled, "Ophelia, Dear. That's Ophelia."

Jackpot Pastiche, taken aback, looked back and forth between them and said, "Ophelia? But I thought she committed, that is, I though she was...that's her? Wow...where the hell are we?"

"Where the hell, indeed, my love, though perhaps you are out by 180 degrees. Let's look around some more; I've heard or read somewhere something of the place."

Just then, they were startled by a loud bark behind them and turned abruptly to be startled afresh by a leaping yellowish dog. The royal couple lurched backwards in fright, and the canine, teeth barred, sailed past them and twisted mid air to make an amazing catch of a whooshing red Frisbee. Dripping Sea God looked at the dog and then Jackpot Pastiche, who stood slightly bent at the waist with one hand to her throat. He exhaled in relief, "Old Yeller...feeling better, I see. Good for him. But who threw it?"

Turning further, they beheld a big, lumbering man clapping his hands childishly and hopping from foot to foot exclaiming over and over, "Oh, good puppy, good puppy, good puppy..."

Dripping Sea God smiled in surprise and declared, "Oh! Okay, do you recognize him? It is really, really nice to see him. Gosh, what a load lifted!"

Jackpot Pastiche had a look on her face that indicated that she almost had it.

Dripping Sea God supplied the hint, "Soft bunnies."

Her eyebrows sprang upward, her mouth dropped open, then into an open mouthed grin, "Lennie?"

"Yep."

"Oh, you're right, Seagod, it is a relief to see him. Oh, good for him! I'm beginning to get the sense of this place, and I think I love it already. Let's look some more."

Dripping Sea God put a hand on her arm, "Do you want to talk to them, Ophelia or Lennie?"

She seemed surprised at the notion, took a step forward and then stopped and turned and replied (and I swear to you that as best as scholars have been able to determine, this statement really issued from that confident mouth), "Oh, Seagod, I feel suddenly bashful. I don't know what I'd say, what to ask. I'll probably kick myself later, but can we just look...for a bit anyway?"

This, I break away to observe, is where most Formalist critics point as proof of the Queen being a dynamic character, one who evolves, changes through a story (as all good protagonists must, some law proclaims). But others (the Psych aficionados) talk about her façade of confidence being a classic cover for insecurity and craving for affirmation, all that conditional love from her Father. While others, Deconstructionists, for goodness sakes... But really, such interpretations are essentially beyond the ken of narrators, and I only bring it up in a cautionary sense, my real opinion being that most literary critics are parasites who like to act the role of High Priests who are needed to mediate the experience of art for the masses. Pardon my candor. We were observing the Queen's attack of shyness. Let us return to it, for there is a beauty in it that is like that of a cool, still, and misty day after a month of heat wave.

Dripping Sea God (who, it must be acknowledged, has a jump on all interpreters) gave her a quick hug and said lightly, "You're so right, My Lady...good manners, after all...to intrude as if they know us as well as we them...just so. We'll watch discreetly."

And so they tiptoed silently past the Handsomest Drowned Man in the World, who, looking flushed with pleasure, seemed to be enjoying the massage he was getting...serially, it appeared, from every lady in the fishing village, and watched for a while a rousing game of tennis between Miss Havisham (who seemed to have retained her wicked serve and volley) against Antoinette Rochester, who fell with mad screams of delight on each ball, attempting to stroke fiery passing shots.

Then, somewhat to their surprise, a pleasant looking college aged fellow (well, perhaps a bit long in the tooth for college by today's standards) approached them. He seemed a little distracted. "Can you tell me," he began, "what with thinking too precisely on the event, and hoping the sunny day doesn't resolve itself into a dew, and whether to eat or not to eat...you know? Well, I'm afraid I've rather lost track of where she is, my fair girlfriend, that is. Have you seen her?"

"Ophelia?" Dripping Sea God asked.

"Indeed, yes. I fear I am tardy (again), and may have to cover it (again) with an antic disposition, words and more words, don't you know."

The Queen, somewhat still under the influence of bashfulness, and understandably somewhat intimidated by this soul of wit, pointed and stammered out, "She's there, swimming in the brook."

"Singing dirty songs?"

"Well...perhaps they..."

"That's my cue. Must suit the action to the word." And he scurried off.

Dripping Sea God called to the back of the departing doublet, "Uh, bye, have fun."

And he in turn threw back over his shoulder, "Buzz, buzz."

Dripping Sea God and the Queen ambled on, twin bemused smiles on their faces. They came to a bench overlooking a small crescent beach and sat down. Each inhaled and made as to speak at the same time, noticed, and said in unison, "Oh, you..." then laughed. Dripping Sea God bowed his head in courtly fashion and said, "Pray, Lady, speak."

"Thank you, Consort. I was just thinking about the organizing principle here, the

modus operandi, if you will. It seems that... Oh! Look at that huge man coming out of the water! He's running over toward that couple on the beach towel. He's immense. My God, he looks like he's going to jump on them... Oh, look out!"

At that instant the huge man reached down and swept up the man and woman into his arms and lifted them into a tight embrace. His rumbling voice could be heard to say gleefully, "Mommy, Daddy, how I love the water!"

And the woman cried, "Oh, son, put us down. Victor, Make him put us down!"

The man, laughing, replied, "Yes, yes, Elizabeth. That'll be enough, my boy. Set us down. That's right." And when all were once again on their feet on the sand, he continued, "Now how about some more of our story, hmm? You want Daddy to read to you, or do you want to read to us? We have time for a chapter before Grandma and Grandpa's barbeque."

The monstrous boy flopped down on the towel, picked up a book and said, "I'll read, I'll read," and while his parents settled in, he said, "I think we were at the scary part with the snake." And further words were lost in the roar of the surf.

Queen and Consort looked at one another wide eyed in mock horror, and the Queen said, "As I was saying, there's this twist, this inversion for these people, these characters: dead in the stories, but alive and somehow inverted, or fixed, or..."

Dripping Sea God nodded, "In Dante, it's called contrapasso, the ironic reversal of how life was lived before. Apparently here too, only set towards the agreeable as opposed to the punishment in Inferno. Who knows why; perhaps they await various reincarnations in cinematic form."

Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen said simply, "I love it."

The two then spent several hours there in the sunshine among the happy shades, tickled afresh at each new appearance of the likes of Piggy, Leon Trout, Santiago, Erik, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Narciso and Florence, Louise Mallard, Troilus, Thorin Oakenshield, and many, many others that you can imagine if you close your eyes.

27. Lives Abeach

Contemporary readers may be getting antsy by now. Many, faint of heart, may have departed altogether...long since, perhaps. They will be those who love those modern, deeply revelatory, relational novels, those emotional, post modern, post psychological tales of empathy, growth, spiritual awakening, characters of insight connecting to other characters and readers alike, pulling all into palpable verisimilitude and resonance of vicarious feeling. Or they may expect, trained by page turners and thriller films (or, Heaven forefend, television), plot twists, action, suspense, unveilings, dark murder puzzles and their resolutions, or simple mindedly amusing situational comedies about city dwelling friends. Doesn't anyone read the likes of Chaucer, Boccoccio, and Cervantes anymore? Are these masters of the picaresque found wanting for their paucity of the aforementioned literary (come now, really, literary is too strong a word for most of them) elements? Must we, so deep into this nouveau picaresque parody, justify in some defensive mode our following of such luminous stars? Well, I suppose we are not above throwing some few small bones to the hungry.

The latter class of readers described above (You've forgotten, haven't you? Plot driven. Now try to stay sharp!), may have made the connection (again, if they're still with us) that being finally on the west coast of the continent (whatever actual shape the whole may currently have taken), and being in the neighborhood of Hollywood, we might expect to come across some characters who had previously exited stage right. Care to guess? (Here one is tempted to leave a large blank space so you actually have to think without the temptation of simply glancing ahead. But save a tree, eh?) It's that truant band of Queen's retainers, of course: the posse of academics who had galloped off in vain hope of rescuing Her Majesty after she was abducted. Remember? They were said to have, and here I make bold to quote myself (arrogance? self absorption? laziness? plagiarism?), "found no city of gold, [but] they did end up coming across one of tinsel, and while immortality too hid from them, they did find a certain lasting notoriety. Yes, after many vicissitudes, they reached the Pacific Ocean (please don't ask to see the map), where they became hack writers for the Hollywood film industry." (Oh, well put!)

It was a strange and strained audience there on the beach near the famous Colony at Malibu between the Queen and her erstwhile truant rescuers. The Queen sat in a lifeguard tower (Dripping Sea God behind her looking brazen), gazing stonily down at her late courtiers, who, having shucked the veneer of cowboys, now sat in a circle of low beach chairs. They were attired in clothes that many nouveau Californians and Hollywooders think as quintessentially SoCal, Hawaiian print shirts under unstructured sports coats, faded jeans, penny loafers without socks, and, of course, mirrored shades. The little amount of visible skin these costumes revealed all had the exact same tint of slightly orange-ish tan.

Though the day had started out with that drippy infusion of marine layer that residents call June Gloom, it had resolved itself into, to use Shakespeare's apt phrase (again), or actually, unresolved itself out of a dew into a sweltering forenoon with Santa Ana breezes blowing off the inland deserts and across the LA basin, painting a dense glaze of smog across Santa Monica Bay. The Queen enjoyed the only shade around. Those below sweated.

And if the heat wasn't wilting enough, the Queen's withering stare pretty well completed the process. She said with calm-before-the-storm mildness, "So learned friends, we meet again. I understand that failing to rescue me, you hightailed it out to the coast to do for yourselves. Writers, I understand. Is it really possible for ivory tower academics to be creative? What about the old dictum, 'Those who can't do teach'? Or are you teaching still...the huddled masses now? Didactic yet, are you? Well, let us see. To use the local parlance, I think it meet that you should each pitch me your current project. Professor Helfritz, is that you under that surfer's mop? I thought you affected baldness last we spoke. How about you first."

A plump fellow of late middle age wrestled for a moment with the folding beach chair, it being in doubt to all for quite a still moment which would emerge victor. With a flurry of sand Helfritz triumphed and spun toward the Lady. He tried to bow, but lost his balance in the loose footing, and in trying to recover, staggered forward several steps bent at the waist. He was prevented an embarrassing fall on his face by the good offices of the upright of the lifeguard tower, which curtailed his momentum but left him with a nasty bump on the head. Erect, he gazed almost vertically at Her Majesty, majestic indeed, the sun's rays dazzling him from the sides of the tower's penumbra. He took a step backward, everyone inhaled, but he arrested his retreat by looking at the Queen's feet (fetchingly decked out in a set of rainbow colored flip flops).

He cleared his throat and began, "Uh, well, yes, um...Your Gracious Highness...uh...we rejoice at your well-being...and..."

"Cut the crap, Helfitz. Let's hear the pitch."

"Yes, Milady, of course. Uh, well, you see, it occurred to myself and my colleagues here," he made a sweep of his hand that threaten to topple him again. "We considered genres on our travels...that is, those done by Hollywood over the years...Westerns and..."

"I am familiar, sir. Proceed."

She was not making his discomfiture less. A sweat stain was gradually spreading across his back, hypnotizing the rest of the anxious assembly.

"Well...we realized that there had never really been any good, dramatic, full-length films done in the field of Self Help. And yet in publishing, it was all the rage for decades."

"Wait," the Queen raised a hand (which of course he could not see, but the flinch of a foot was enough to make him choke on whatever the next word had been...and at that moment, he had no idea what it had been). "You're saying that you make dramatic films of self help books?"

"Oh, but Your Highness, we write them as well!"

"Indeed. And, pray, what is your contribution to this noble genre?"

He perked up and said proudly, "Oh, it's wonderful, actually, a startling and subtle conflation of Vertigo, My Dinner With Andre, Henry IV, and Jurassic Park. It's book title was...well, we are working on another one with more panache for the film, but as I say, the book is called, Eating Your Way to Prosperity."

The Queen's silence stretched long enough for three small waves to thump on the shore, and then she said in monotone, "Sounds like a real barnburner, Helfitz. Brilliant I have no doubt. I don't suppose you have a copy of this book on you?"

The smile on his face was a mixture of Cheshire Cat wide and Polonius synchophantic, "Why, as it happens, I do." He flopped around in his blazer pocket and pulled out a gaudy, thin volume, proclaiming, "I took the liberty of inscribing it for you, Your Highness."

"Thoughtful, sir, thoughtful indeed. I'm charmed, I'm sure." You may place it there on the sand before you for the nonce...mind your head! Ah, good fellow. Please, take a seat. Thank you." She looked around at the marginally more relieved looking faces ringed before her and said, "Well, this is quite illuminating. A whole new genre of film. And, I must say, gentlemen, one for the ages. Yes, indeed, for the ages. Now who shall we hear from next? Doctor Psillia, how about you...yes. Let me say as you make your way forward how well you look. That old academic regalia really didn't suit your...how shall we put it...well, style will do. Now, sirrah, what about your creative endeavors? "

Well, I think this is an instance in which telling rather than showing might be best. Actually better might be allowing you to imagine the rest. Suffice to say that it was a long, hot, tedious afternoon in which the ire of the Queen rose along with the thermometer and the pile of books, screenplays and videos at the base of the lifeguard tower. A brief sampling of titles may spur your imagination:

Spiritual Promises of Promiscuity

Gardening Your Way to Clarity (or Green Thumbs Across the Universe)

Transmigrational Veganalysis

Pets to the Rescue: Teaching Your Pet CPR

Pot o' Gold Velvet Painting

Your Friend is an Enemy to Your Self

Telekinesis in the Kitchen

Parachuting for Dummies

Singing on the Train

ABCs of Do it Yourself Invitro Fertilization

Counterfeiting for Profit

The Thrill Seeker's Guide to Chess

Meditations for the Self Mutilator

Highbrow Pornography Production

My Mother, My Mystic

Xenophobic and Proud

Ten Steps to Developing and Marketing Your Own Ten Step Program

One might pause here to offer up a word of thanks that we live in a century in which these instructive little dramas do not serve as backdrop, or foredrop one should say, to our popcorn, soft drink, and chocolate gorging. Just be careful not to live too long or you may see the likes of such ushered in. Stay vigilant; watch for prophetic signs and wonders...the coming of a queen in a red bustier, for instance.

Said Queen, her role as protector of language burning in her bosom like a Mormon confirmation of faith, realized with dismay how little she could do faced with the disturbing cultural phenomenon. This notion was substantiated on seeing the predominant publisher's imprint on the spine of the books at her feet: a stylized logo of none other than Au Currant, the Dragon of Popular Culture. Sighing in resignation, she dismissed her late nobles with a tired wave of her hand, and they shambled hurriedly off to some hip VIP watering hole as fast as their sand laden loafers could take them.

In the deep blue that ends the gloaming, we see the single blanket-wrapped silhouette of Queen and Consort sitting before a diminishing fire on the sand. They are staring at the rich pulsating embers of what remains of a pile of books, roasting marshmallows.

28. Just Plain Folk Tale

Jackpot Pastiche, Harlot Queen of English was depressed. There she was, on a beach in sunny California, and she was thinking that she didn't really like the sun, all that insistent radiance of light; it was just too much for her fair skin and her subtle mind. Or the feel of sand rubbing on her bare feet, and, shudder, those gritty particulates between her toes. And the water seemed so uninviting, chilly, salty, in spite of Dripping Sea God's rapture. No, she was definitely depressed. And don't think Dripping Sea God was insensible to it, or insensitive, for that matter...just because even then he was bodysurfing with abandon and glee. Oh, he knew well enough that something was amiss the night before after the marshmallow roast when the normally frisky Queen was unresponsive to amorous blandishments. In fact, that's why he was in the water even then: it served as a way to let her sleep-in undisturbed, and also as a sort of palliative cold shower for his restive predilection for corpus delictatio.

This depression of characters is something of a modern curse, you know. Authors these days are necessarily stuck with it; readers expect it. Bloom suggests that it was Hamlet who got it started, all this introspection, awareness of personal shortcomings, and self recrimination. He (Bloom for you antecedent sticklers) may be right, though a century or two earlier Gawain seemed rather down for the first eleven months of his quest, but then he may not have known he was down. It's not like he stood there with the icy rain dripping down inside his armor telling Gringolet how bummed out he was about the whole adventure, wishing he'd never let the Green Knight's taunts get under his skin so. Of course too, Gringolet may not have been that great of a listener. What do war steeds know about empathy?

Be all that as it may, we are left with the contemporary truth, or the pseudo-intellectual understanding of some post Freudian paradigm that currently passes for such: the Queen was depressed. Not that she is without cause, I hasten to add (lest she call for my head Salome-like, or perhaps more fitting, Queen of Hearts-like). The state of ars loci on her watch was certainly lamentable, and she saw that no royal decree was going to tame Au Currant. And, frankly, having resorted to book burning the night before had sent a chill through her that no amount of Californian sunburn was going to ameliorate.

Her chilly air gave Dripping Sea God goose bumps (for readers in the Hawaiian Islands, read, chicken skin) as he walked up the beach from his dip, dripping indeed. His cheery smile froze in the arctic blue of her aura (being California, it should come as no surprise that such things as auras should come into play, in spite of the fact that the Queen's apposite chakra was last night unresponsive to the forces of kundalini as conjured by her Consort. And, were she to think on it, vis-à-vis her greater conundrum regarding English, her gloom might indeed deepen, for what would Esperanto do with such concepts?). His mouth opened as if to speak, but he didn't.

Jackpot Pastiche, though, did. Quoth she, "What?"

To which query he replied, "Uh, umm...hmm, cat appears to have got my tongue."

"As I suspected."

"Stormy weather?"

"Threatening, I guess."

"Anything I can do?"

"Yes, please, anything."

"Oh, that narrows things down."

"Why don't you tell me a story while we begin the northward trek."

"Anything in particular?"

"You know what I like. Surprise me."

"Oh, that fun little story William IX sings about...with the two ladies and the guy pretending to be a deaf mute. Hmm...perhaps not in your current mood. How about that one...uh, what's it called? Oh, it's on the tip of my tongue."

"I thought it was with the cat."

"Oh, well, I appear to have it back...and so the title of the story is on the tip of it."

"Well then, stick it out and I'll read it to you."

"Won't it be backward?"

"Seagod, for heaven's sake!"

"Okay, okay, hang on. Maybe I'll just start and we can dispense with the title."

"Capital idea."

So, in the bright midmorning, treading north along the western edge of the tortured continent, Dripping Sea God told this story to his Queen in hopes of soothing her mind, the tectonic plates of which were in similar shifting realignment. The title, occurring to him as he began to speak, was, "The Sad Fable of the Fall of the Passive Voice."

There is a rule, and as you know, rules are rules, for without rules where would we be? And this rule is a big rule as rules go. It is not, perhaps in the rank of Love Thy Neighbor, but in the second tier of rules it can be said to have a certain precedence, for it is a rule taught to all who aspire to college, and yea, those who indeed aspire further, even to one day being called educated. Yes, we can say that this is not simply a rule that is to be followed, no; it is so much more, for it is to be inculcated. That is to say, of course, that once learned it will be adhered to unconsciously! And though it is difficult to trace the etymology of any rule, this one goes way back to an Oracle of a dim early day, perhaps predating even Strunk and White. As surely you have guessed by now, you knowing your rules (who better!), the rule in question is the simple admonition, "Always use active verbs (unless a passive verb is called for)."

Where does this come from? Why is it a rule? Well, like most legends, it has it roots in fact. (You're thinking of Arthur, aren't you? Artorious. Good example. Bravo!)

Once upon a time, there was a set of fraternal twins, one gregarious, one shy, the former an extrovert, the latter, introvert, and in all their activities it could be said that one went out into the world and pursued that which interested him, while his brother let the world, as it were, bring into his sphere things that he found of interest. That is to say, one was active and the other passive. And their wise parents laid no value judgment on these temperaments, realizing the duality inherent and manifest in the souls of their Piscean offspring.

One might here invoke Plato's cave and the shadows cast on the wall, reflection, as it were, of actions taking place outside, but to be pondered, understood there in the cave. Remember, caves need not be uncomfortable and damp. The cave is simply the mind undistracted, the reservoir of contemplation, the font of insight.

The passive twin had and loved his cave, had it decked out in understated luxury, wood paneled wainscoting in the library and a fine view from the lanai. There he received his friends, did his work and led a fairly quiet life. And while he didn't get out all that much, he did enjoy travel and knew a fine wine when he tasted it.

The active twin, also lively of mind, was more...well, the word used before was gregarious. He could flit about with the best of them, reveling in outdoor sports and argument for the mere sport of it. A late night of drinking with friends was his cup of tea, and those friends described him using that highest of American accolades, fun.

The trouble began, as it does in many folk tales, with the coming of a dragon, or was it a witch? It hardly matters: some despicable, malignant character whose depredations threaten the established order. It could be a political figure for that matter. But let's stick with a dragon, you know, laying waste, carrying off virgins (to eat? It's never all that clear; these being generally children's tales, one wouldn't want to disturb them unnecessarily with difficult to visualize or comprehend sexual implications).

Such, as conventions for these stories have it, was the situation, and clearly something had to be done, and something in a hurry, virgins then as now being rather thin on the ground.

Various expedients were attempted, appeasement, as always, first and least efficacious. Imagine, how does one appease a pyromaniac, virgin hungry dragon? Offer up regular servings of disguised girls of easy virtue, delivered on a platter at a given hour? Assimilation was then suggested, but again, what does that look like? Would the dragon marry (and whom?), produce offspring, serve on the school board (bringing in his filthy pedagogical notions)? No, no, and no, sometimes conflict is the only course. But what shape does it take?

All able-bodied young men were called, and it being an enlightened society, each was to serve in a capacity that best suited his temperament. Oh, you have egalitarian questions? What, you ask, of the able-bodied, and numerous, female non-virgins? Or the male virgins, for that matter? Must we muddy the waters with these post-feminist, politically correct niceties just because I said it was an enlightened society? Well, let's back up a bit and retract that aspect. It's just too complicated for the modest fruit of moral that hangs on the slender limb of plot.

So the twins, each true to his temperament responded, the active one, garbed for battle, rushing out to the cheers of his compatriots, the passive one retiring to his cave.

It's easy enough to see how the latter act might be perceived as cowardice by the simpletons that make up the mass of society, always praising the gladiator, paying him vast sums, while dubious of the scholar. And so it was.

You can guess how it went. Active Twin went forth and took on the dragon, a veritable Grendel of a creature. And Beowulf-like ("the vorpal blade went snicker snack"), he nobly slew it "and with its head he went galumphing back," to choruses of "Callooh! Callay!" As you may imagine he was fêted across the land. Congress proclaimed a day in his honor, Action Day. His image appeared on cereal boxes, children were encouraged to emulate him, while hapless Passive Twin was excoriated in the press.

He did publish in a rather obscure journal a monograph on the subject of his "Dragon Meditations," but it was generally passed over as intellectual philosophizing amounting to little more than self justification for his failure to act on the order of his brother. It was only later that his treatise was studied by some grad student desperate for a topic of some originality, and it came to be understood that Passive Twin's thesis was brilliant and would very likely have saved the day. His bold approach had been to invite the dragon to the cave (everyone knowing dragons' love for caves and their possibilities of glittering hoards of jewels), where he would be challenged to puzzles of mind, a riddling contest Passive Twin had devised with one real stunner riddle on the nature of fire in the glint of a jewel that would have kept the dragon hypnotized for an Age. Alas, too late. And as that had been the last of the dragons, they are now no more (save Au Currant...and we can understand now his animosity toward human kind).

Such is the way of the world that all this came to light slowly and dimly. And thus society, even child rearing itself, changed, and no amount of ministrations of the likes of Doctor Spock could undue the notion, later the dictum, that action was better than passivity.

Erode, though, yes, for eventually the idea came to reside in our grammar texts, taken as such a given that no explanation, no answering of the question of why was, is, deemed necessary (though some mumbo jumbo about taxonomy is sometimes mouthed by true believers). It is a rule and that is enough: use action verbs (unless a passive verb is called for). That is the way it is. And here concludes the "The Sad Fable of the Fall of the Passive Voice."

Jackpot Pastiche sighed and wiped a tear from her eye, saying softly, "So poignant, Seagod...but what is the moral?"

He replied gently, barely audible above the rhythmic susurrus of hooves through sand, "Ah, my dear, you know that only the youngest of children are told the moral at the end of a folk tale. That is something you must discern for yourself. But I will give you a hint, you will find it if you think quietly about it...passively."

And thus they rode on silently.

29. The Devilish Deep Blue Sea

Though it is highly doubtful that there are any geologists reading this little saga, there may yet be some liberal arts majors who took geology as a perceived easier path, a Zen watercourse way, through the requisite science course. And in their minds, though I have earlier done my best to shame the thought into quiescence, there may flicker the smallest curiosity regarding the geologic underpinnings of the tale, which may in turn be tiring the muscles used for suspension of disbelief. If you are (or are not) among their number, I will elucidate their as yet unconscious doubts, for I find that we are on the cusp of dealing with the issue whether the audience needs it or not. You may remember some expositional mention of antecedent action pertaining to geologic shifts that brought the latitude of New York City to approximately that of Hawaii, which as any nincompoop knows straddles the Tropic of Cancer. Then too we saw that California had remained more or less fixed in its position, and is thus currently to the north of New York. Did the continent spin clockwise? Certain sections slide? Some stretch? Rivers widen (and flow in new directions)? Mountain chains crush and rend?

Well, yes, they did. Still there was enormous pressure on California to conform, its predilections to the contrary notwithstanding. It's as much psychological as geological. Haven't we for decades heard predictions of California's immanent demise, snapping off like some kind of giant cantilevered cookie and disappearing Atlantis-like into the milky sea? It, of course, is a ridiculous, not to say ignorant, notion. But people elsewhere, dealing with months, years of blizzards, tornados, humidity, and deer flies want the cheery, benign place to get some kind of comeuppance for its audacity of being pleasant (as if fires, mudslides, earthquakes, and melanoma aren't enough). The rest of the country would breathe a sigh of relief if California would just slip under the waves. Then they could stop envying the black sheep brothers, or cousins, or braggart in-laws (with their infernal palm tree Christmas card gloatings).

These petty jealousies and misapprehensions about the realities of plate dynamics are not to say that California is immune to some serious tectonic mischief. Strollers along any seashore should well keep in mind the old Hawaiian admonition: never turn your back on the ocean. Easier said than done, especially on a planet that displays a regular tendency to remove the faculty of vision through a process known as night (facing the water being then of little efficacy).

Now, counter to what we saw in a recent chapter in which telling rather than showing seemed the wise narrative choice, I find that going any further in this explaining vein, indeed, having come this far, rather deflates the potential for surprise. Lights, camera, action! (Oh, and make it daytime. It's so hard to have a really good cataclysmic event in the dark.)

Enter the Queen's entourage, to whit: Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen, Dripping Sea God, Roscoe (Keeper of the Book), Sheila (and her fetus, still traveling incognito), and the not yet proud papa, Coffee Page, all horseback. Having just rounded Point Magu, which marks the northern spur of Santa Monica Bay, they have officially (cartographically speaking) left the Los Angeles area behind. Port Hueneme, just around the point, and once a naval base, was in the era of Jackpot Pastiche abandoned. There was talk of bad karma, which had put a damper on plans to develop the area like the harbor/villa/marina models that throve just to the north, something too about unexploded ordinance, but mostly some mumbo jumbo about the naval raison d'être and spilling of blood, as well as concern for a rare indigenous newt of some sort. Thus it was a wee break in that long coastal city mentioned earlier with only small exaggeration.

The harbor was still there, but was essentially unused, empty of vessels, unless you include in a broad definition certain homemade, semi-derelict, untenanted crafts that had their nautical roots in the houseboats of Sausalito in a prior age. The harbor mouth had silted up and the bay was returning to an estuary, from which it had been carved (many waterfowl, indeed even the Purple Gallinule, having no concerns per se about karma, had returned in number). Dripping Sea God had urged the party across the dry isthmus to the sandy spit that separated the two bodies of water: harbor and sea. It seemed he wanted to check out a recurring wave, or breaker, that peeled around the curving sandbar at the old entrance, calling it a "sweet, juicy right," using nomenclature, or at least nuance of meaning, your current narrator is unable to document or attribute.

A helicopter view would insure understanding of the situation (and had the Queen opted to trade horses for helicopter...if wishes were helicopters...well, anon). One would see, were one hovering above, the vast ocean on the left (we being oriented on a traditional cartographic north/south axis), and then the thin strip of sand running the same direction, that is, vertically, and then the harbor, which is also a more or less horizontal body parallel to the coast (the old entrance being on the southwest corner, now closed), and finally the rest of the true coast backing all to the right (east). It is on that narrow finger of sand in the middle that the party now rides. Whew, see? A picture really is worth a thousand words, or more precisely in this instance, 119 words.

An odd thing began to happen, and everyone seemed to gradually notice in the same span of drawn out seconds, horses included. All simultaneously stopped in their tracks and gazed quizzically at the edge of the ocean. Just as a wave upon spending itself on the sandy shingle slides back down the incline from whence it came, the whole sea seemed to be sliding gently outward. Only it didn't halt as usual with the arrival of the next wave. No, it just kept receding with an odd sizzling sound, out, out, as if the ebb tide had realized it was late and now had to hurry like the White Rabbit to make up lost time.

They could suddenly see purple starfish, crabs, and even a variety of fish, all surprised at their rapid stranding (you quibble about the capacity of starfish to feel surprise? Shame on you!). It was an arresting vision, as if a curtain had been pulled back to reveal another world, for is it not the case that we usually consider the ocean essentially the flat plane of the surface, a surface that we can break and dip into along the edge, to be sure, but not that descends into unimagined depths, an entire cosmos of foreignness, creatures and modes incomprehensible? But that is what it is. And it was in the very act of pulling back the hem of its skirts...hmm...I find this metaphor may cause difficulties if followed further. Well, it was damn near hypnotic to see such a thing, and everyone was drawn to it, stepping gingerly on the suddenly revealed seabed, looking with wonder at myriad secrets revealed.

All but Dripping Sea God, who seemed mesmerized indeed, his head cocked to one side, as if trying to remember something. Suddenly, it came to him (there is an apocryphal story passed down through generations of a certain royal line of squirrels that claims it was Diving Squirrel who alerted him), and he bolted upright in his saddle and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Come back! Run! Run! Tsunami! Tidal wave! Run for your lives!"

The party, as one looked up, then at him, then back toward the pacific Pacific, placid as a summer lake.

"Run!" he repeated. "It will come back! It's drawing out to feed the wave! Run, you fools!"

At that, the Queen came to her senses, wheeled her horse and cried to her retainers, "Fly! Follow Seagod!"

And they pelted up to him, but he was looking nonplussed up and down the shore. He realized with dismay that they were trapped on the spit. To go either way would only be to run parallel to the incoming wave. No they must run away, but the waters of the bay blocked flight inland. He made a sudden decision and hoped there would be time.

"We'll have to try to swim for the far shore. Come on, not a second to lose. The horses will do it. Hurry!"

Suiting action to word, he slapped the Queen's horse, and directly behind, splashed into the still waters of the old harbor. The others, hesitating a fraction of a second, plunged in after. Thus in two groups separated by maybe forty feet, they bobbed, while their mounts swam vigorously, thin legs and hooves ill suited for the task though they were. Yet they did make relatively swift progress.

Alas, not swift enough. Turning in his saddle, Dripping Sea God saw the tsunami surge, not as a wave, but as a suddenly rising tide (hence the name) over the sand spit, engulfing it with no more sound than a huge oceanic sigh. The bay, the little lake, filled suddenly like...well, pardon the analogy, but it was quite like a just flushed toilet bowl. Wavelets reached the party, then strong fingers of current, Sheila's screams arcing overhead, horses swirled, a general rapid rising of water level, packs swept off horses (the OED!), chaos, panic, horses valiantly keeping above the surface, washing, washing...east!

And that, typically is the better (if it can be said that there is a better) half of such a tsunami: the influx. It is the drawing back out, the rush of seawater back across the conquered shoreline, now infused with tree limbs, chunks of buildings, and all the flotsam, and more, that can be imagined that holds the most danger. That is when people are often crushed, or inexorably drawn out to sea and drowned by sheer exhaustion. Unless left high and dry by some lucky eddy, or snagged by a fateful twig.

And so it was. Sheila in panic had leapt onto Coffee Page's back (the coffee...all that beautiful French roast...gone), and they were borne right up the sluggish creek that empties into the bay, past flooding farm fields, through cement storm canals between housing developments (simultaneously deluged), and right up into the foothills, where they were lodged, terrified but unhurt in the branches of a huge sycamore.

And here, all too abruptly, I fear, we must bid the lovers adieu (though not so abruptly as if they had drowned), for they pass out of all record, except that alluded to before when they arrived after considerable travail (not least of which was childbirth in open country) home. Vayan con Dios.

As for Roscoe, who had frantically risked life and limb (clearly, considering the situation, above and beyond the call of duty) by swimming, yes, leaving his horse and swimming after the sinking OED! To no avail. Pulled under repeatedly, turned upside down, every orifice plugged with mud, choking for breath, he too was washed far inland and, in an astonishing occurrence of coincidence and Lord knows what else, was plucked from the water by his very own horse, which had preceded him in the flood and had found footing at the very crest of the flow. Talk about loyalty!

Roscoe here too passes from our tale. (However, the student of the genre will be quick to recognize the genesis here of an entire new cycle of tales. For it is just as with the Arthurian tales, where one redactor mentions but does not develop, say, some obscure paladin, and then a later writer makes that knight the central character of his addition to the cycle. Thus by such accretions the stories grow over the decades and even centuries. So here we have the seminal germ of the scores of stories that many are now familiar with, built up in like fashion, namely, The Peregrinations of Roscoe, which trace his adventures as he tries to return to civilization...and you recall how that turned out. Interestingly, one of the earliest of these episodes, so it is claimed by certain scholars, may well have been recorded in Roscoe's own hand, and, it is further, somewhat dubiously, asserted to have been written upon the somehow recovered palimpsest on which Dripping Sea God had recorded his earlier experiments in prosody!)

And of our heroine, Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen, her Consort, Dripping Sea God, and their noble Mascot? You will know already that if we cannot kill off the supporting cast, it is unlikely that our principals have perished. Can you imagine? The Queen and her Consort (and Mascot) have departed this life. The end. Of course not. Where, then, have they fetched up? one is right to inquire. Well, such as luck will have it, our royal trio were able to pull themselves from the waters rather early, in a way luckier than the rest. They had, you see, been swept right next to one of the derelict houseboats and were able to clamber over the side, the thing having only a few inches of freeboard. Actually, Diving Squirrel, remembering that earlier unpleasant dunking in the County of Non Sequitur, made the transfer from horse to boat clinging to Dripping Sea God's head like Davy Crockett's coonskin hat. Thus they were saved...but, I fear, not for good. (By the way, you'll be relieved to learn that their trusty mounts also survived, somehow making it ashore, even figuring into some of Roscoe's subsequent adventures.) No, luck being that fickle changer, they were immediately cast from frying pan to fire, for the great sweep of water inland now began its inexorable return to the sea, becoming a vast, raging torrent crammed with snags, roofs, and autos aplenty, all perilous to any craft aspiring long to floatation. The royal couple fended off each and sundry threat as their craft spun madly over the inundated harbor entrance and back out to deep water, only to be faced with a fresh surge, now wavelike indeed bearing down on them. Dripping Sea God spied the old outboard motor on the stern, and praying to the god of internal combustion engines, managed providentially to coax some life into the machine. Thus they putted farther out to sea, breasting time and again fresh onslaughts of tsunami waves. Then the little motor finally conked out for good, but they were now safely beyond the coastal waters. In fact, in the continued swirl of currents, they were soon swept miles from the coast.

And thus, in the late afternoon of a most beautiful California fall day, Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen and Dripping Sea God, along with their little squirrel floated in shocked tranquility looking back at the demolished coast of California...and, as language itself is inadequate for such traumatized emotions...speechless.

30. Adrift on a Borrowed Vessel With Borrowed Words

Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen, stared out at the hazy landmass that was silhouetted in the sunrise, California, the inundated, newly washed state. The houseboat swayed slowly, almost imperceptibly on the calm sea.

She spoke softly, "Poor Sheila...and her little beau...and trusty Roscoe. Drowned, probably, the poor dears. Oh..." Tears glistened in her eyes.

Dripping Sea God, sitting nearby, said, "Oh, Sweetie...they may have escaped. That bay may have been sufficient protection..."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes, My Sweet. There are a hundred ways they may have gotten swept up to safety...the horses...trees...other people...," he replied with as much conviction as he could muster, and though he was right, he little believed there was much chance any of them, let alone all, had survived. But he knew too that it would do them no good to have the Queen mourn and feel guilt for causing, if indirectly, the deaths of these innocents. He and she were, themselves, yet in trouble enough.

Remember, they are on a dilapidated houseboat with bare inches between its rail and the water. It was made, God knows when, to float upon the calmest sheets of still water, moving only to change anchorages. A less seaworthy craft Dripping Sea God had never been on, and he feared the slightest breath of wind that would be enough to cause choppy seas. That's not to say it wasn't a homey little cottage, though shabby, quite cozy in its day. And surprisingly, it was still stocked and furnished with a fair bit of gear, having been inhabited, apparently, fairly recently. It almost seemed that the owner had just stepped out for the morning. There were some canned provisions and bottled water that looked like they might yet be safe...or at least after some heating, which they might be able to contrive. But for now his worry was staying afloat until rescue appeared. And that was an uncertain thing. Undoubtedly shipping had halted along the coast, as well as the coming and going of the fishing fleet, and they being so far offshore, search craft would be unlikely to spot them. No, he had his doubts on that score. The boat needed to be made as seaworthy as possible, and soon. To that end he focused his immediate attentions, building up the height of the gunwale with boards stripped from a deck or porch that had stuck out like a tongue over the stern area from the little second story bedroom. In this project, he employed the leaky, moss skirted dinghy that had been tied by a little painter alongside the houseboat and was further assisted by Diving Squirrel, who became quite adept at pulling the old nails out of the boards with his talented incisors.

Jackpot Pastiche, in the meantime, spent much of the time perched high above the water upon the flat roof, hugging her knees, gazing morosely at the distant shore, a shore that twinkled with no lights during the long nights.

On then they drifted upon a current that flowed steadily northward, the old southerly Japanese current of yore long since altered by continental movements. In answer to nagging practical questions of the literal minded reader, I note here that they were able to supplement such stores as they had found aboard (which included a number of bottles of what turned out to be a rather lovely late harvest zinfandel) by distilling seawater on the little propane stove, which seemed to have a modest supply of fuel, and fishing. They found, in the latter operation, that certain types of fish, notably the snapper, seemed rather partial to canned refried beans, thus effecting a tradeoff of protein sources sans flatulence the mariners were happy enough to make.

Still the Queen, though tenderly grateful of the ministrations of her partners, kept herself somewhat aloof, distant, and pensive. Dripping Sea God knew she would talk when she was ready...if they didn't sink first.

Right up the coast they floated, though quite a ways still offshore. They passed along the outside of the Channel Islands, Anacapa, the narrow series of flat-topped islands; mighty Santa Cruz, with its myriad caves; sprawling Santa Rosa; and wind scoured San Miguel, still hiding the bones of the Spanish explorer Juan Cabrillo. Here laid out before them (threateningly though, for every sailor knows the perils of a lee shore, though Dripping Sea God kept his worries to himself; they were after all a good distance off even these shores) was a scene which could very well have been a California of a thousand years earlier. True, no signs of Chumash fishing villages were to be seen on Santa Cruz, but the empty coast was also barren of any signs of modern, indeed, any human trespass at all. Still they floated on. Then, they were beyond Point Conception, that great, projecting divider of southern and northern waters, and there was Point Arguello, where the fleet of naval destroyers ran aground in dense fog in the 1940s, like so many suicidal whales beaching themselves. No such danger was there at present of something like this happening to our royals. In fact, at the moment they couldn't have gotten within ten miles of the coast if they'd wanted to...which, of course they did, for the coast of California gets gradually less hospitable, more and more ironbound, the farther north one goes, at least for the next hundred miles or so. This did not bode well, for now nearly a week had passed afloat, and it was beginning to look like a voyage, a drift voyage like that of Thor Heyerdahl in his tiny Kon-Tiki, which as you recall ended up in Polynesia...not exactly on Dripping Sea God 's preferred itinerary of ports o' call. The current though, generally concurring, continued to slide them through the remarkably calm seas northward, though always farther from shore.

Sea legs thus were easy enough to come by, though in the interests of full disclosure it must be reported that Diving Squirrel (that appellation being strictly of land based derivation) was somewhat seasick for a short time after the passage of Point Conception, the long-period swells of the deep northern Pacific adding a bit of a roll to the beamy craft. A greenish squirrel is not a pretty sight, and so let us not dwell on the image.

Finally, with the dim and distant cliffs of Big Sur penciling the horizon below the crystalline sky to the east, Jackpot Pastiche sat down next to Dripping Sea God as he jigged for halibut. They sat in silence for a long time, noticing disconcertedly that they gradually lost sight of even those high mountains. Into that desolate void she began to speak, but he was not expecting what was on her mind.

She began, "I know that although we would probably have gone a progress this year, this particular one has been driven by my grand scheme regarding Esperanto. And I know that we have been guided even in our stops by considerations pertaining to it, not least of which is ending up at the Oracle. So, I know too that we would not be here right now, in great peril, having lost everything we started with, people we love, perhaps the crown and even our lives. What I'm saying, Seagod," she continued, adding a mock sternness to her tone which immediately dissipated, "and don't you dare use this against me, you hear, is that I know it's on me...my fault, more or less...not the bloody tsunami, of course...but...well, I know too that you have never had a bit of confidence in the idea...Esperanto replacing English, and it's more love of the latter than being too lazy to learn the former (not to say you aren't!), but you know my motives, what I was, am, I mean, trying to achieve. Still no word of encouragement from you. You know, I suspect, that over the course of our journey, I too have had my doubts." Again her voice took on a threatening edge, "I only admit this because we're going to die any minute, my love, so don't think you can go blabbing this confession to all corners of the realm." She punched him in the arm, and he nodded in pretended submission.

"I just," she went on, "realized that you never have really told me why. Okay, I never asked, because, well yes, I'm the Queen, blah, blah, blah. But now I am. Why do you think it's such a bad idea?"

Dripping Sea God looked at her seriously for a while; her deep brown eyes were never so open to him as now, and though she and he had been always as close in their love as can be, never had they seemed to him so very merged in spirit as this moment. He took her hand, kissed her slowly, and thought for a moment how to answer, and then replied, "Thanks for asking, Sweetie. Well, yes, it's because I do love English and think it's irreplaceable, but also...how to put this...English is, in a way, not even English. It is a giant amalgam, a patchwork of other languages, a mongrel, impossible to protect like French, but great because of its lack of purity. It's constantly replacing itself all the time, a living organism, thus is unbelievably dynamic and rich. How can humble little Esperanto ever hope to compete, to translate? There are hundreds of untranslatable words."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, when English encounters something new, like in another culture, or another culture's way of saying something fresh, it just steals their word. It becomes an English word by the magic of appropriation."

"Loan words you mean, like from Latin, Norse, Saxon, Celtic and the like?"

"Sure, but even stipulating those as making up 'Standard English' for centuries, what of other words from all over the world, many, well most, more recent? It happens almost daily."

"Like?"

"Okay...give me a minute. Let's see if I can put together a sentence or two using entirely, or almost entirely, loan words from parts of the globe other than those you mentioned. Hang on...I actually have been making a list in my head for a while... nouns mostly...hmm...hmm... Uh huh, okay...here we go:

"Since the catastrophe of the tsunami, our trek, once a circus safari, has shrunk to a stunted flotilla on this bonsai catamaran, fearful of typhoons and piranhas, and our little canoe, hardly more than a cork, with barely a hammock or tortilla or banana, not to mention a lovely, steaming samovar of coffee, or barbeque, for that matter, is making me rather nervous, watching always the thermometer, wary of some new climatological climax, or some other voodoo assassin that will spoil our lovely saga. We need to powwow, Jackpot Pastiche, with our little chipmunk here, rather than drifting like robots until we are food for condors. The sooner we land and say ciao to this potential geyser-hull, trusting we have killed no albatross, the better, and we may yet be back in marmalade and molasses, or some other elixir, sherbet or tonic. Heaven forefend we become cannibals out here, that being taboo; oh, for a good curry of potato to go with our wine, and perhaps a bit of hula in the night as foreplay to another kind of climax altogether between the Queen and her harem, me, that is."

Pleased with himself, he looked up for the Queen's approbation. But all she said was, "Okay, I recognized a few foreign terms, ones we have adopted..."

"A few?" he exclaimed. "A few? I counted at least forty four! I used words from everywhere...Iceland, Portugal, North, Central, and South Africa, Asia Minor, Russia, India, Greece, Japan, China, Hawaii, Polynesia, Italy, Spain, North, Central, and South America, Cuba, and the Czech Republic! And you, English speaker, understood it all, connotation, nuance, double entendre and all. It was almost entirely English, but almost bare of English vocabulary. Let's see Esperanto do that!"

Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen smiled and stroked his cheek, saying, "I love it when you get all worked up. I find myself becoming rather aroused."

Dripping Sea God raised his eyebrows suggestively.

The Queen added in a husky whisper, "You could, you know, have put that geographic list just now in alphabetical order."

And they both laughed loud and long, arms around each other on the stern of their frail craft.

Diving Squirrel, his red bandana tied over his head like a pirate, in the meantime was high above on the rooftop, higher still, on the little mast that stuck out above. He was looking to the east, peering with one furry paw to his forehead. He squeaked out a chirping call that sounded remarkably like, "Land Ho!"

31. Weeping What is Sewn

The line from "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" about water being everywhere but not for drinking had been gliding albatross-like around Dripping Sea God 's head for a while now, but he noted wryly that in the dense fog, one could practically breathe it. Water, though, luckily, was not their problem. Nor really was the fog, unless something had altered in the set of the current so that they were unknowingly poised for shipwreck on some perilously near cliff, which was certainly possible. No, the immediate problem, as he saw it, was not proximity but distance. How far was it to the coast? Rather far, he suspected. Try as he might, he could coax no life from the little motor. It had martyred itself to the cause of their initial escape, worthy creature. An alternate mode of propulsion was called for, and he wished he had not spent so much time trying to coax the two stroke Lazarus from its mechanical tomb. It would have to be, of course (even landlubber readers surely can guess this one), sail, tool of the ancients, magic of transport by way of fabric and wind. But how to jury rig it? Well, certainly we have seen enough by now of the cut of his jib to be buoyed up and reckon Dripping Sea God up to the task.

And soon he was barking out orders to the crew...basically Diving Squirrel and himself, Jackpot Pastiche being willing enough to pitch in, but taking orders was a custom to which she was, genetically and temperamentally unpredisposed (and she would keep getting distracted with trying to figure out etymologies of nautical terms and slang: pooped, bear down, cockpit, fairlead, lazarette, hard alee, head to wind, and topping lift among the numerous, long, distracting divagations...she as often as not thinking them somehow sexual double entendre). It was, though, handy indeed to have a squirrel aboard to run up to the masthead truck as occasion called, thus obviating the necessity of a bosun's chair and all the hassle that can entail, and before long they were clewing up bracing aloft and alow, running a boom (Dripping Sea God mindful, of course, of the advantages of a fore and aft rig over square, the craft being so much better at pointing up in headwinds) off the sturdy, though stunted mast (for what houseboat needs a mast? This one had been installed for two reasons: first, to give a jaunty nautical air to the otherwise quite unvessel-like craft, and secondly, on which to mount a huge television antenna, a device which supplied the shaft of the boom along with the spreaders above). Stays were essentially in place from the antenna guy wires, while the halyard, outhaul, and mainsheet were made from dock lines, the painter, and most of an anchor line (and a bit of coaxial cable).

After working hard for a couple of days, they were able to stand back (not far, mind), while enjoying their ration of grog (well, zinfandel), and admire their handiwork.

Dripping Sea God said proudly, "All belayed and shipshape, mates."

Diving Squirrel, sounding rather like a bosun's whistle, sang out a two syllable, "Aye aye."

Jackpot Pastiche, taking her turn, as well as some of the shine off the moment, asked, "What about the sail?"

Dripping Sea God, stung, turned and cried, "Lash her to a grate, let the cat o' nine tails out o' the bag, (hardly room here to swing a cat), lay into her, sir! Aye, that'll take the wind out of her sails! Saucy wench."

Jackpot Pastiche, amused, replied, "Oh, Dripping Sea God, that sounds so deliciously nautical and naughty, and I might well be persuaded to let you tie me up with some of those devilish sailor's knots you know and have your way with me, but for now don't you think it would better serve the larger purpose to make a sail? I mean, if we're going to drown soon, we may as well play out your charming fantasy and go down in pleasurable style (we being on a boat, the term rock and roll springs to mind), but as we seem to be operating on hope here, perhaps it would be better to postpone the game for a more auspicious moment ashore."

Diving Squirrel could positively have been heard to snicker at Her Majesty's rejoinder. Dripping Sea God shot him a withering look, muttering, "Scurvy, mutinous little ship rat. I oughta keelhaul ya."

Ah, who, you understandably ask, of our party of voyagers knows aught of needlecraft? No likely candidate, it's true, stands out. Rock, paper, and scissors may be as good as any other method of guessing, or I can just tell you. Surprisingly enough, it is Jackpot Pastiche, who on going off to college had been taught a few rudimentary principals by her thoughtful mother (not that she ever had occasion to put thimble to needle). To be sure, the Queen wouldn't know how to form a flat felled seam if her life depended on it, and luckily, her life only depended on her knowing a basic straight stitch. Truth be told, Dripping Sea God too could manage as much from his nautical knowledge, but he thought, let her play the expert...and do the work. As for Diving Squirrel, who knows what domestic skills his mother taught him. Well, Jackpot Pastiche didn't do all the work, providing also close (that is to say, insufferable) supervision of her compatriots' handwork, checking the strength of their stitches, repeating more times than anyone would dare mention to her in any kind of historically accurate manner, "A stitch in time saves nine."

And the fabric they used? Of that there was plenty aboard, though none of it large, none heavy, and none uniform, but, with doubling and piecing, pillow cases, sheets, furniture coverings, curtains, a threadbare set of towels, and tattered bath mat were enough to make an adequately large and sturdy, though somewhat esthetically ragtag, sail. Add some stiffening battens (more of the antenna), some grommets (washers from some unnecessary bolts), and it was ready to fly.

And though the boat did not itself fly with its patchwork sail spread, it did go forward fast enough to crease the sea with a small wake. Dripping Sea God sat at the tiller (something else he had crafted...I needn't, I think, report every detail of outfitting) and smiled contentedly. The fog had not lifted, but it was thinner, and a nice eight (or thereabouts) knot breeze was blowing perfectly from the aft port quarter. Diving Squirrel was up in the crow's-nest again, similarly content with being more or less treed and having the best of what little view was to be had. Jackpot Pastiche mused by the captain's side.

After a time, she spoke, "Captain Seagod, I've been thinking that our little craft deserves a name. What do you think?"

He glanced at her and replied, "Why, First Mate, Pastiche, that's a seaman-like idea (though I think I could make a...funner, to use our newly sanctioned form... play on that word, seaman)."

"I'm sure you could, Old Salt; I'm sure you could. The name, though..."

"Well, since the noble boat has saved the Crown from sure death, how about something like Jackpot's Reprieve?"

"Oh, that's kind of catchy and meaningful. Yes, it should be associated thus...a royal rescue, etcetera."

"One more thing," he added.

"What's that?"

"A royal pennant for the royal yacht."

"Oh, I do believe you're right, and I know just the thing. There was some of that red paisley left from the couch."

"Just the article, Your Majesty. May I suggest you get your sewing kit and join me here on the poop deck for happy hour. I believe we may be able to shake out a pretty fair pint o' grog."

And that's how they spent the early evening hours. A pretty picture, don't you think? Sailing smoothly along between a flat, ruffled, gray sea, and a muffled gray sky, this merry harlequin of a waterborne house with its sail of motley. Let us pull back to a middle distance shot and enjoy the striking composition and tender moment.

Okay, good. Now, as any blue water sailor is only too happy to relate (at length), such idylls afloat are short lived, for there is sailing to be done twenty four hours a day, there are contrary winds, corkscrew swells, mechanical difficulties, and navigational conundrums. Our royals (not to be confused with a type of sail known by the same name) were (as surprising as it seems) not immune to such vicissitudes, and the brunt of these fell on Dripping Sea God (no, not because he was the man; he was the sea god, remember? Jackpot Pastiche doesn't know starboard from shinola).

Thus the next scene is a less tranquil one: it is Dripping Sea God in the deepest part of a soupy night, leaning hard on the tiller, trying to steer a straight course without aid of instruments of any kind, nor so much as a star (How? you ask. Basically, dead reckoning by swell direction, imperfect, yes, but better than nothing.) He is exhausted. Jackpot Pastiche, to her credit, sat with him until falling asleep, and he woke her and sent her off to bed. Diving Squirrel, well, he's asleep too, and that's okay. It's not like he can take a spell steering. Dripping Sea God was tempted to lash the tiller, but that's iffy in the best of circumstances, not, mind, that he has a particularly narrow navigational window to aim at...California, essentially. Still, in this state of affairs, it could be missed...or bumped into in the night. So he tried to stay awake, imagining for instance the knots he might use to bind the Queen for the postponed naval "punishment."

But fall asleep, he eventually did. The tiller slipped from his grasp, the craft yawed and then jibed, the boom swinging over with the sudden change in the wind's orientation with a bang. This woke him abruptly. He stood and yanked hard on the tiller, the rudder dug in and sent the boat back toward it's original course, the boom, caught again by the shift, swung back in the darkness, and like someone flicking an ant from a cookie, batted Dripping Sea God clean over the side.

Jackpot's Reprieve sailed on.

Dripping Sea God treaded water...cold water it was...yelling, yelling, yelling.

Jackpot Pastiche slept on.

Jackpot's Reprieve sailed on.

Sometime later, and who knows how long it was, long enough certainly, Diving Squirrel, having imbibed his share of zinfandel grog, got up to relieve himself over the side. Groggily (I had to use it), he noticed the empty cockpit, hurriedly checked to and fro, and immediately raised an alarum, gnawing through the painter of the dinghy towing behind, and squeaking a frantic "Man overboard!" into the Queen's slumber.

Panic, dismay, fear, heartache, stabbing loneliness, consternation, anguish are all inadequate descriptors for what the Queen (and Mascot) felt. They turned the boat around, dropped sail, and called into the night...the rest of the night. All to no avail. No sign nor sound of Dripping Sea God. Hoarse from hollering, spent from physical and emotional turmoil, bereft (again, inadequate language here), they sat staring into the dim light of dawn. Nothing...grayness everywhere.

Then, as the sun rose, the fog began to thin, burning off slowly, the sky beginning a slow drift from gray to blue. Suddenly, it was fully clear, a bright blue morning, the kind of morning that suggests to the naïve that there can be nothing wrong in the whole world at that moment. There was still no sign of Dripping Sea God, or the dinghy...so slender a thread to hang hope on...hope evaporating like the fog. Diving Squirrel caught Jackpot Pastiche's attention and pointed forward with a tired nod. She turned and saw that great, famous (and, yes, still standing) monument to civilization, The Golden Gate Bridge.

Numbly, they raised the sail and began coasting into the spectacular bay, the Queen's pennant waving an ironic hand of celebration above them to the people who soon saw, recognized their missing sovereign, and rejoiced. Rapidly, there was a flotilla of varied craft streaming out to meet them, turning and joyously accompanying Jackpot's Reprieve, the very name of which...its terrible lack of plural...burned Jackpot Pastiche's heart viciously. She could not wave to her subjects, no, only weep, for her beloved Consort was still lost at sea.

32. Ladies of the Tower

San Francisco, as the rest of northern California, was largely spared the ravages of the tsunami (permutations of wave trajectory being beyond the scope of this work, explanation is here omitted, though relevant maps and run-up heights can be found in the appendices). In addition to the genuine compassion residents of this area felt for the individual souls of their southern brethren, there lurked a wee righteous sense of regional smugness, with, yes, some guilt too (what is the modern age without guilt?). Northern Californians have long nurtured resentments against southern California, basically over the theft of water over the decades (Owens Valley, née Lake, being the most egregious example), but, it must be admitted, also as to manner of lifestyle comparison, looking down their cosmopolitan noses on the seeming crass, self-centered sun worshipers to the south. So, while they regretted the devastation of the neighboring Gomorrah, they also felt they themselves rather deserved being spared. Thus, Jackpot's Reprieve sailed slowly into a bay as magnificent as it ever was (save perhaps before western sail intruded altogether), and by and large, ready for a party.

But the happiness was all external to the houseboat, which floated, as it were, in a small bubble of despair, surrounded by joyous sights and sounds, but untouched by them. That bubble, I know, enlarges to enclose you, gentle reader, for I know you have drawn close to the Queen in her time of sorrow. I feel you may blame me, tell me to change it, joke it away, using my omnipotence as narrator. Alas, I cannot. The happy tale must bear the counterpoint of sadness (we remember that Hamlet is a very funny play at times). Forgive me. I needs must relate the events as they have been handed to me. I too mourn, yet still have faith in the redemptive powers of suffering...that of tragic heroines and the like, that is. Such now is Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen, joining the long, literary line of spiritually transcendent souls refined in the fires of suffering...able still to go forward into duty. Hail, Great Queen.

It (whatever noble thing that pronoun stands for) is there to be read on her face as she walks slowly up the suddenly silent quay at Fisherman's Warf, Diving Squirrel somber on her arm. The absence of Dripping Sea God is as conspicuous as the absence of the sun, and neither man, woman, nor child needs to be told what has happened. One and all spontaneously bend knee and shed tears, looking with shining eyes up at the stricken face of Jackpot Pastiche.

She speaks to one naval officer there, saying simply, "Please look for him," and he hurries off.

There are matters of bodily refreshment and matters of state that are attended to, relief for the south, political reassurances of the safety of the Crown, but I pass over them all, for they are but ephemera to the Queen, whose sole soul concern is Dripping Sea God. She pours over maps of the coast, tide, wind and current analyses, accompanies helicopter searches. To no avail.

Finally, as much to maintain a view of the blue bay, she ascends Telegraph Hill to the hewn stone promontory of Coit Tower, Abode of the Oracle of Style and Perspicuity, Mouthpiece of the Gods of Speech. (You ask, What of the Bed by the Ford? Ah, it is a somewhat misleading name, admittedly, for the ford in question is not what we commonly think of as being a shallow place where one might cross a stream, no. Rather it refers to the vision from this place of the two grand bridges that span the waters here, allowing for passage from one shore to the next. You see, it is the same, writ large. And as for the actual bed itself, the Oracle being a spirit? Oh, stop!)

Jackpot Pastiche is blind to the famed murals inside, climbing the stairs one heavy step at a time, as if she is carrying, well, she is carrying a weight, and so she spirals slowly upward some two hundred feet into the sky until she finally comes out to the top floor, the holed roof arching above, revealing the depths of heaven. Looking out the great arcing windows, the first thing her eyes light on is deceptively beautiful Alcatraz Island, prison of old. She strokes Diving Squirrel and says softly, "There will my heart reside..."

Glancing westward, she sees boats hurrying to and fro, not congregating, thus not finding. She sits down to wait for the Oracle (who, as you remember, being disembodied, may come and go at will, often making use of the glorious opening in the ceiling, it being a dramatic way of impressing on any suppliant the proper sense of awe).

Not this time, however, for suddenly there she is, Dianna Hacker, sweet, elderly Oracle, sitting next to Jackpot Pastiche, holding her hand and whispering words of comfort (which we will not intrude upon. Come aside a moment; look at the westering sun over the city, and now the bay, right out there to the Golden Gate).

Oh, now I think we might lean in and listen. The Oracle is speaking, "My dear, when I first heard of your plan to replace our venerable English with Esperanto, I was filled with rage. No, hear me out. I saw it as an attempt by you to usurp the sacred power that resides here...I am but a steward...replacing it with, or rather, adding it to your own secular power, absorbing it, demystifying it, robbing it of spirituality and creative power. I marshaled my forces to meet you, to confront you argument by argument, syllable by syllable."

She paused and looked kindly into Jackpot Pastiche's welling eyes, and then continued, "And now I see that you have suffered much, are suffering still. I can do less than nothing on that score, alas, and must confine myself to our own important, yet seemingly heartless business. I ask then of you, Oracle to Queen, what have you learned on your journey about the tongue of the land you are sworn to watch over?"

Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen squeezed her hand and looked at the floor, "I have learned that it is not my language; I have very little control. I too am but a steward, a Queen, yes, but also just a handmaiden to the Greater Oracle. I am the physical, political arm of stewardship of a creative, living thing, amorphous, big and unhandle-able. It is what Dripping Sea God was telling me last night..." She stopped and choked back a sob and continued, "College kids and writers and musicians, even those under the sway of Au Currant are pushing the language different ways, like the edge of a balloon or something more malleable, and that process is happening in many other directions as well...all the points of contact with aspects of the culture, the places cultures meet, immigrants, new pidgins...all that as well. The language is billowing like a cloud, absorbing things it touches...for good and ill...we can't, like the French protect our language from such change or pollution, though at times we can envy them. It's just that...as Seagod said...it's a promiscuous language, a patchwork of tongues, crazy, but something to celebrate. And I have learned too that in a way it is also who I am. My name and title, Jackpot Pastiche Harlot Queen of English, is symbolic. I have for a time won the prize of being Queen protector of the beautiful harlot, English. Esperanto was but a chimera."

Now the Oracle's eyes were also shining. She said in a soft teary whisper, "Oh, Jackpot, you have made me happy...and proud...for the country, the language, for you...and for me. And now it is time that I do something very important."

She closed her eyes and said in a thundering voice that echoed through the entire structure, "Conclave."

At that, persons of rank, political, academic, professional, streamed into the room. Shimmering above and behind the Oracle were the distinct shades of Strunk and White, and dimmer, other august Oracles of lore (back many years...is that Samuel Johnson?). The Oracle raised her hand for stillness, though the room was profoundly silent. Jackpot Pastiche's eyes were huge, opening deep into her being, glistening with tears.

The Oracle spoke, "A rare and beautiful thing is happening, but it is a thing that can only happen at great cost, and she before you has borne that cost. Her suffering, her thought, her love, has brought her both understanding and great humility. The Protector Queen has transcended the secular role, and it is now my time to be freed from the duties of my office and pass them on to this one here before you. I do so with joy. Our Queen has been transfigured, for humility and insight together form wisdom. I hereby pass my mantle of Oracle of Style and Perspicuity to Jackpot Pastiche, Harlot Queen and Oracle of English. Hail, noble Lady!"

Jackpot cried and cried, not for the honor and acclaim, of course, for what was all that to her now without her beloved Consort, her mate, her muse, her friend?

And so the night passed timelessly. The Queen, quite alone now with just her Mascot, stood staring out of the high tower as stars traversed the sky primeval.

Hours later, she watched the sun rising behind her paint the western horizon a faint rose, staring still as one hypnotized out of time. She found herself looking far out beyond the dawn-still harbor, watching two tiny lights, no, reflections, a pair of sparks, dipping, going out and rising, over and over, brightly dipping, extinguishing and rising again...again...and yet again, little twin reflections...getting so slowly...but gradually...yes, nearer.

She watched and watched and then cried out, "Oh!" and flew down the stairs, Diving Squirrel hanging on for life. Into Jackpot's Reprieve they raced, casting lines off madly, raising the sail into the light northery morning breeze, sailing out, out, yet achingly slowly.

And then, 'Oh frabjous day, calloo callay!' there he was, Dripping Sea God in the flesh, rowing the little dingy under the glorious rainbow bridge, his dipping oars reflecting brightly in the dawn.

And now, oh, if we could but join the embrace there on the deck of the silly old houseboat, the twirling, the kisses, the exclamations...the joy!

Well, we can watch and rejoice at the happy turn of events, the wonderful happenstance, of Diving Squirrel's loosing of the dinghy, Dripping Sea God 's seagodness...all of it.

Do you hesitate joining in because of the comment I made earlier about the Queen raving at Dripping Sea God's funeral? No, no, no, that sorrow comes, yes, inexorably, but much, much later. For the nonce, return your attention below; there the happy trio have wakened the city, and the postponed party, I do believe, is about to begin!

33. Epilogue Neologistics

It is, as surely you have guessed, about time for the happy ending. Were it a story for European audiences, the end may well have omitted that sentimental reunion of Queen and Consort, but inasmuch is this is a tale for, by and large, an American audience, no such overtly tragic end can be tolerated. Besides, sometime endings are happy, and as I have insisted, since this is a true story, it is easy enough to report the veracity of the huge celebration on Dripping Sea God's return to the embrace of Jackpot Pastiche. That there is sadness beyond the parameters of this story is something that can be said of any story. The scene of the generic happy couple of film kissing and riding off into the sunset is never really the end, is it? But enough on that. We approach the close of our tale, though there are still some things to wrap up. (Remember too that the episodes reported in this slender volume make up but part of the greater cycle of Harlot Queen Tales. There are sequels, prequels and...um...concurrentquels aplenty, which appear from time to time in The New Yorker (yes, still extant) and other literary and historical venues. There are also, for the serious student of Pastichelore, my own and others' analytical articles, monographs, and annotated anthologies and the like concerning all things Pastiche. Also there are circulating numerous apocryphal Jackpot Pastiche episodes, as well as a fairly robust online society of Jackpot Pastiche aficionados who attempt their own imitative versions...fanfic, they call it...within their little mutually back scratching, pseudoliterati community.) So you see endings are not among those things on earth that are easily pinpointed, fixed. Still, there is a certain satisfaction for the writer to put that final period in place (yes, it can be depressing too, in fact I may...well...ah, me...), and for the reader too, snapping the book shut that last time. Oh, but to have to come out of that small world that last time...never again new...but I lapse. Onward, "with an auspicious and a dropping eye," into denouement

Look at the reprise of the Queen's arrival up to Fisherman's Warf, the grand cable car procession up toward Nob Hill, the throngs of waving, shouting, laughing city folk, the bands and banners, the cheers for Diving Squirrel (our proud, newly knighted hero, resplendent in red sash, Sir Diving Squirrel), the heart warming public displays of affection of the royal couple. Oh! What a sight it all is! Confetti for all the senses (the streets fairly running with Ghirardelli Chocolate...I let the confetti metaphor stand; it's a party). The throng on foot, walking up Telegraph Hill, Diving Squirrel leading the way, scampering back and forth, flicking his tail in glee, leaping (diving!) into Dripping Sea God's arms. Right up again to Coit Tower, where they pause, Queen, Consort and Mascot acknowledging their adoring subjects. Cheers and song (including that crowd pleaser, "Hail, Bustier!").

Then there is a temporary parting of merry companies: the crowds off to various parties, fêtes, galas, celebrations, spelling bees, and carnivals; Diving Squirrel off to sit in at the Fillmore Auditorium with the ageless and still touring Alvin and the Chipmunks; and our royal couple, now finally alone, Jackpot Pastiche looking happily enigmatic, at the base of the tower, the new significance of which Dripping Sea God knows as yet nothing.

They turn toward each other, their cheeks sore from all the smiling. Jackpot Pastiche had not been out of physical contact with Dripping Sea God since their first iron embrace on the houseboat. She kept running her hands over him, his face, those shoulders she loves, and then smiling hugely and hugging him tightly. And he had been no less affectionate, stroking her rosy cheek, squeezing the back of her neck, which she very much liked, and kissing her impulsively.

Then he said, "You know, Sweetie, since we're standing here about to go up to the Oracle, I've been thinking about the whole thing...a lot, actually, while I was rowing."

She smiled with an unfathomable glint in her eye, "Uh huh..."

"Well, it's just that stuff we were talking about...you know English being a dynamic thing, being added to all the time..."

"Ah, yes, appropriation and all, I remember, Dear."

"And new words too, made up ones."

"You mean neologisms."

"Yes, I do. And I actually thought of some out there."

"Tell me."

"Well, since you are always winning arguments through warping logic," he poked her in the arm. "Along with the idea of new words, I came up with one to describe your novel reasoning."

"Do tell, Consort. I wait with bated breath."

"Neologician."

"That's the best you could do? Seagod, I'm disappointed."

"Well, delirious with extreme thirst, fear...and a certain other craving," glancing down the front of her bustier, "I, uh..."

"Hmm, now there's a place we can use a new word, the only other being so crass. I'm sure if we put our two...minds...together we can make a better, especially as I sense the craving may be somewhat on the...rise..." Her hand drifted down along his ribcage. "Perhaps a kenning. Let's see, somalust, perhaps."

"Somaplease"

"Somaneed"

"Semeneed"

"Ha! Such a guy!"

"Well, whatever we come up with we'll have to run past the stodgy old Oracle."

"Ah, Dear Consort, there, I believe, you do not know whereof you speak. Let us ascend the tower. Your pragmatic Queen has a bit of a surprise for you."

And up they climbed in silent anticipation. Then, in the upper open air chamber, Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen strode over to a carved wooden rack on which hung the magnificent cloak of the Oracle, the Mantle of Perspicuity. In one fluid motion, she swept it from the rack and twirled it over her shoulders, saying with authority, "Behold, Consort."

Dripping Sea God grasped the significance almost immediately (no slouch he), and his mouth dropped open, then rose at the corners into an amazed, thrilled, and it must be said, lascivious grin. He went down on bended knee, looking her still in the eye, saying "Hail, Oracle, Queen...Love."

Jackpot Pastiche, the Harlot Queen and Oracle of English walked very slowly up to him and stopped so that her breasts were right before him. She said, "I too have been thinking of new words, my dear..."

"Such as?"

She stroked his hair, "Do you know the name of this tower?"

"Coit."

"Yes, and I'm sure we are not the first to note its similarity to another word, one of those cold, formal words for intimate acts." Her hand slid down along his cheek, adding, "not to mention the shape of the tower itself." She paused and brushed herself against him, "Are you with me?"

"Most assuredly, My Lady. I grow in understanding."

"We need a simple, new verb."

"Coit?"

"Yes, please, Most Dripping Sea God. I thought you'd never ask."

