Travelogue: The Mad Adventures of William and Tara

2011-08-24T14:55:00.000-07:00

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Will: at the end of the day

2010-03-08T18:42:00.001-08:00

I would like to record this fact for posterity: When Louis de Pointe du Lac says that he is entirely at one’s service, he is telling a bald-faced lie. That or he missed my hints on the ride on back, but I find this latter possibility remote at best, as they were rather broad hints.

However, I shall put aside Louis’s uncanny ability to pay very precise attention and still completely avoid taking one’s meaning, and return to my homecoming.

Being once again in this room, and seeing the ladies and Voldemort at long last, was nearly overwhelming; perhaps I had not fully credited how much I missed them. I stopped a moment to watch them and recover from the intensity of my relief at being home; Louis respectfully faded into the background whilst I got ahold of myself. (This proves his perceptiveness and thus goes even further to convince me that his ignorance of my wishes is entirely willful.)

Ariel was the first to spot us, and soon after her cry of delight, we stood upon the dresser and I, in Tara’s arms. The others were, naturally, glad to see me as well, although Ariel was unduly distracted by Louis, who had been gone only a few hours to my three months.

The babble of greetings was, however, cut short by Meep. He announced himself, as is his wont, with a meep, and the conversation died rapidly.

“Is - is that, um -” Tara started.

“Is that alive?” Mulan finished, recovering from her evident astonishment enough to sound suspicious.

“Meep is most certainly entirely alive,” I said firmly. “Why?”

“A stuffed animal? That’s just silly,” Jasmine said.

“It did bother me, but I couldn’t place why,” Louis mused.

“Because it doesn’t happen,” Jasmine insisted.

“He’s adorable!” Ariel said. “Mulan - can we -”

“Ariel,” she protested. “We’ve got an evil overlord and a vampire. Could you just wait until we figure out what’s going on?”

“I don’t know how we’re going to figure it out,” Tara said, patting Meep dubiously. He meeped. “It’s against all laws of God and man, but here it is, and I don’t know how to even start… unless you’ve got any ideas?” This last was directed at Lord Voldemort, who shook his head. “And we don’t have any other experts on magic. If Giles or…” she shrugged. “But I don’t know.”

“Dumbledore would know what to do,” Lord Voldemort said mournfully.

“David would at least know where to start,” Louis murmured wistfully, then looked rather surprised at himself.

“Dumbledore wouldn’t have to know where to start,” Lord Voldemort muttered. “He’d already be finished.”

“We know, sweetie,” Tara said tolerantly, trading a significant look with Jasmine.

Jasmine rolled her eyes. “I’m sure we can all think of someone who’d be handy to have around, but we could also try working with what we’ve got.”

“Where’s his other eye?” Ariel asked.

“I have it,” I said guiltily, handing it over. “I’m sure it can be reattached.” I should perhaps not have provoked that cat.

“So until then, he’s in a strange country, half blind, about to undergo surgery,” Ariel said. She blinked her startling eyes.

“Alright,” Mulan said, and Ariel’s face lit up. “I didn’t mean we had to turn him out, it’s just that things have been so…”

“Yes,” I interjected as Ariel made off with Meep and the eye, apparently intent on his surgery taking place sooner rather than later, “how have things been? I understand there’s been some cause for alarm.”

“Well, the spiders are still around,” said Tara, “but they’ve got help now. Snakes.”

“Really big ones,” Mulan said. “That Voldemort can talk to.”

“They won’t listen to me, though!”

“No,” she acknowledged. “Anyway, they’re definitely unfriendly and uninformative. And then we had a flood.”

“It’s been a little bit biblical here,” Tara said, with a distinct lack of condemnation worse than any actual accusations might have been. “How was Spain?”

“Sunny,” I said, abashed. “And I fear I failed in my objective, technically speaking - but I did retrieve something of use.” I produced one of the odd stones from the beach in Cádiz. “Lord Voldemort, I believe I have something of yours.”

“Oh," he said breathlessly, approaching me with trembling hands. He took the stone and cradled it gently in his arms, all but cooing to it.

Ariel approached him, expression reverent. “Is that…”

“Yes. I can feel it," he said. “The first of my Horcruxes.”

Mulan closed her eyes and looked to be praying for patience.

Behind them, Louis looked contemplative, then as if he had remembered something, and then as though he were fighting the urge to laugh. His face cleared completely when Ariel turned to share their triumph with him, and I left them to it.

“I brought this back as well,” I announced, and produced the coin in question. “Since you two seemed so fond of him.”

“Ooh, it’s Cervantes,” Jasmine said, brightening considerably. “I’ll hang it on my wall. When I have a wall to hang it on.”

“He writes in Spanish,” I informed them. “I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.”

Tara snorted. “Head or tail…” When she remained alone in her amusement, she added, “Because… it’s a coin… Oh, never mind. Will,” she moved closer and lowered her voice, “What’s up with the Horcrux? Did you actually, I don’t know, feel something?”

“Yes, please,” Jasmine said. “Do tell. This is only making Ariel worse. And him, but Mulan isn’t going to be broken up about his obsessions.”

“It was an interesting rock,” I replied with a shrug. “It needn’t be anything real to help him, so long as he believes it is. I saw one like him in Spain, one who had chosen no identity…” I shuddered. “We are fortunate that he has. I think us better off in supporting his delusions than allowing him to see their falsity and reverting to that, that empty husk, aware only of pain.”

“That’s… actually… well, good.” Tara patted my hand. “Thank you, then.”

I was distracted momentarily from my well-deserved accolades by Louis taking his leave of us, apparently for the day. His departure was flawlessly polite, but most rapid. Ariel’s variation was its only prominent feature; she shook his hand solemnly, and as though this had become their custom. He looked touched; Mulan, immensely irritated.

“Gone all day, then?” I inquired wistfully.

“Comes with the territory,” Mulan said. “Of being a vampire. At least, apparently.”

“It does,” Tara said. “I mean, not where I come from - they can at least stay awake - but his…” She waved her hands about. “I don’t know. His kind. They pass out all day.”

Realizing that Mulan had in fact already mentioned that Louis was a member of the growing legion of the undead, I managed to cover my shock and asked only whether he’d let slip in casual conversation the relative nature of his being a living soul.

“No,” Tara said, blushing furiously. “I - um, I actually - that was me. I read those books. When I was younger. It didn’t occur to me…”

“I’d rather know than not,” Mulan said firmly.

I decided to forego asking which books these might be in favor of changing the subject, tact being one of my many gifts, and asked after this flood they had suffered in my absence. And so we traded stories well into the coming morning.

Having been up all night, most the others retired for naps soon thereafter. I was forced to come to terms with the new sleeping arrangements: as Louis disappeared completely for the day, I would not be sharing quarters with him. Instead, Lord Voldemort would be sharing my side of the drawer. Even after my experiences in Spain, which have opened my eyes to many possibilities concerning love, I find myself utterly uninterested in Lord Voldemort, so this is rather pointless. At least I can once more gaze upon the bewitching features of my Morgan.

The exception to this retreat was Tara, who suggested that we go to see the house. With a promise to scream if the spiders or snakes put in an appearance, we essayed this venture and were, at last, alone.

“We cleaned it up a little,” Tara said. “Moved the furniture to the attic for safekeeping, wiped the place down, tried to get the carpet to stick to the floor again… But. Things have been crazy.”

“So I gather,” I said. “I am sorry, you know - that I didn’t find her. I left word everywhere I could, so that she might find us should she happen to be in Spain at some future date.”

“Will,” she said. “You don’t have to find Willow. But we have to talk about -”

“And I do regret not telling you before I left. It was ill-done of me.”

“That. Will…”

“O,” I said, the words seeming to leap in response to my desperation, “never say that I was false of heart,
“Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
“As easy might I from myself depart
“As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie…” I coughed. “Well, you take my meaning.”

Tara sighed. “You have to tell me next time.”

“I swear it.”

“That’s the last time you’re poetry-ing your way out of something.”

I nodded.

“Did you read that?”

“No,” I realized. In fact, I hadn’t had my book while I was gone at all. “I think I may have remembered it.”

She smiled and took my hand. “Good, then. Now let’s go back and get some sleep.”

Will: fly away

2010-01-14T10:26:00.000-08:00

I have made a trip to a nearby mall, and would like to alert the world in general to a menace to our continued survival on this planet.

They are amassing their forces, they are angry, and they do not know mercy.

That being said, it was a very pretty mall.

In retrospect, I realize that I did not accomplish much there as such, being as I was too busy defending life and limb to ask after Willow.

Close to the La Giralda there is another palace, and I have been frequenting it of late as a way to pass the time well clear of store-window dummies.

The palace is stunning, a sprawl of beauty, and the gardens no less so.

It has as well a fine collection of portraits and fans pleasingly painted, and I have passed many a pleasant day perusing the collection.

I have also discovered my calling in life.

The majesty and awesome power of the sea, the sweeping beauty of a ship - so impressive a sight on land, a mere speck once at home on the waters - this shall be my office. Eventually. I do have a quest to finish.

Still, wanting to feast my eyes upon salty waters, I betook myself to Cadiz.

Whilst exploring, I discovered some very strange rocks, and have taken one with me on the possibility of it being part of Lord Voldemort’s soul. It has as good a chance as anything else, I suppose.

There were two intriguing old castles on the beach, the exterior of one of which I explored for signs of life without luck.

This cheery if disconcerting man agreed to watch out for Willow, as well, and so the time was not wasted.

It has been rather a long time since I’ve seen Tara at this point, and I have taken to going for long walks in order to distract myself from the cruelty of loneliness. Along the way, I have met a host of very interesting people. With some of them I have even formed quite close relationships. Still, I admit that sort of thing is not the same as the companionship I have come to depend on.

There is a very sobering sight on my way towards town, which I have taken to crossing the street to avoid. A mannequin, identical to Lord Voldemort in make, sits naked and faceless in the window of an orthopedic store. I have on occasion tried to address this figure, but it can only moan piteously. I intend to inform the ladies that, as unwise a choice as a child’s villain might be by way of personality, it is better than some alternatives. We should perhaps be grateful that our man had the chance to choose an identity at all.

At any rate; yesterday it was terribly foggy, and I found myself somewhat turned around.

It was then that I stumbled across this bevvy of lovely ladies. They all seemed a bit distracted, as did the bronze fellows (especially the one with dagger through his side, but that is only sensible).

I might have lost interest, had not the man atop the pedestal spoken up.

In the end we had quite a chat. He is a person of no small fame in his country, and I can indeed understand how his words might sway a nation. They certainly had a profound affect upon me. More, though, than anything he said (particularly that bit about telling Tara that she is poetry when apologizing for having left to go overseas without warning or farewell, as I have a creeping suspicion that she would not be impressed and also have no intention of apologizing), it was the fact of the conversation that made up my mind. I find myself in need of steady companionship.

We spoke also of the travails of unrequited love, and it is past time, too, that I set eyes again upon my lovely Morgan.

And so, finally, I have prepared myself and Meep for the journey home, stowing us as planned in the bag. I offered the small lady Giralda passage as well, but she preferred to remain.

It was a grueling journey and involved a railway station, an extremely odd hotel, and a tussle with a stray cat during which Meep regrettably lost one of his eyes.

(I managed, despite the odds, to heroically rescue the eye after it had been torn so cruelly from Meep’s face, and shall keep it until such a time as it can be re-attached. Meep has been remarkably sporting about the whole thing.)

Finally, however - after what must have been a full twenty-four hours of travel, some of them on an airplane which was almost certainly not air-worthy - Meep and I found ourselves on the last leg of our trip. This was where things began to go less in accordance with the plan.

For while the car did await us as expected, there was within it a person entirely unknown to me. I had not expected to be met by others of my ilk at all, never mind a stranger who seemed to be anticipating my arrival.

Upon sighting me, he hurried forward to shake my hand. “William Shakespeare?” he asked, a strange note in his voice. His eyes were fixed upon me with unnerving raptness, as though I were a god and he supplicant - or possibly as though I were an insect and he a scientist over the magnifying glass.

“I have the fortune of being William Shakespeare, yes,” I said with great dignity; one mustn’t disappoint the fans. Meep bumped against my back and meeped. “And this is a lost soul I’ve picked up - well, one of them. I’ve been calling him Meep.”

“Ah,” he said, looking nonplussed for a moment but covering it directly. “It’s very nice to meet him, then,” and he then dismissed Meep from his notice so thoroughly that it was, in contrast to his attention to me, somewhat discomfiting. "And more of an honor than I can say to have made your acquaintance, monsieur,” he added warmly. “Are you tired?”

“I admit that I am. It was not an uneventful trip.”

“We should be back within the hour, but if you want to rest your eyes, please feel secure in doing so. Miss Maclay asked me to meet you in order to be sure that you got back safely.” He smiled faintly. “I don’t pretend that I ever saw myself as a bodyguard, but I think I can manage for fifty minutes.”

“What on Earth would I need guarding from?” I protested. I had no intention of sleeping regardless; his eyes remained intent upon me, and he was very pretty.

“I don’t mean to worry you, monsieur, and I don’t think I truly understand the situation myself,” he demurred. “Perhaps Miss Maclay should explain it?”

“If you like,” I returned. “I take it, then, that Tara is awaiting my arrival at home?”

“With the others,” he confirmed.

“Then perhaps you would make the drive shorter by telling me about yourself?” His expression turned slightly hesitant, and I amended, “Your name, at least, you will not deny me?”

His eyes widened and his cheeks flushed. I realized belatedly that he was terribly pale, and wondered if he might be ill. Then he chuckled wryly. “I’m very sorry, I - I must have been more distracted than I realized.” He extended his hand again. “William Shakespeare, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Louis de Pointe du Lac, and I am entirely at your service.”

Will: for keeping things on

2010-01-09T13:18:00.000-08:00

As my stay has progressed, I have made a further three noteworthy journeys. The first was to a picturesque town called Valencina; while I have no particular reason to believe that Willow Rosenberg has ever been or will ever be in the area, I nonetheless could not refuse the marvelous opportunity presented me.

It was an occasion of religious festivity, and so the church’s courtyard was the center for the day’s gathering, and very pretty too.

A well on the inner wall of the church has rather a morbid story attached from the civil war, of a girl drowning and not being found for longer than one would hope. I suppose this explains the grate.

Here you see the olive tree growing within the walls of their church, one photograph from each side of the wall. Naturally it has a story attached as well; it’s survived periods of drought without ever coming off worse for it, and is a miracle.

And here one has the inside of the church, complete with testimonials of miracles and the detritus left by said gifts from God - crutches from cured cripples and so forth. I’m not entirely clear on why one needs so many chains in a church, but it is their way I suppose.

Another day, I made the journey to nearby Santiponce, and from there to Italica. Being as this is a hugely significant site historically speaking - the most important Roman city in the region, once upon a time - I believe it plausible that Willow might go there were she ever in a position to do so.

This might well have been the single most disturbing thing I have seen since awakening. Think of the waste.

At the end of the day, I finally got a word in with this chap, who was most kind and promised to pass the word along if he should happen to see Willow.

The following morning, something rather odd occurred - I awoke to find myself face to face with these odd books. As they are in Spanish, I can make nothing of them, and La Giralda refuses, whispily, to be of any help. Rather forbidding things they look, but ah well - ever onwards.

Another trip I have made was one to, at long last, the Cathedral of Seville, and this magnificent structure is quite simply beyond my power to capture. It is labyrinthine in its structure and humbling in its beauty.

I had a word with these gentlemen, who fortunately spoke a bit of the Queen’s English, and they promised to pass my message on. I also discovered that their task is to forever hold aloft the remains of Cristopher Columbus. In a cathedral. So that’s fun.

Within the cathedral are a great many treasures - paintings, statues, old confessionals, jewels, and the like; all of these I perused at my leisure, as they were a delight to the eye. Some of them were in fact the bones of dead saints and the like, but the people will have their little quirks.

There were a great many people buried in the Cathedral, in fact, in enclaves set all around the edifice. All in all, I can’t help thinking it’s a step above even those church-sized edifices in the graveyard.

I finally climbed La Giralda, as that was the purpose of my visit, and got several truly spectacular views on the way up and most especially when I’d reached the top.

And in fact one can see here the roof of the hotel in which I later ended up, but that’s another story.

At the end of the day, I did speak with the Lady Who Turns herself, after a fashion. She’s rather more disconnected from reality than even her small counterpart, I find, and speaks overmuch of ants, but I believe we understood each other. As useful as she may prove to my quest, seeing as she knows all that passes in the city, I was much fonder of her counterpart on the lower levels, with whom I passed some most time most satisfactorily.

Will: are you now or have you ever been

2010-01-02T13:38:00.000-08:00

I have of late spent a good deal of time at the University of Seville, as some quick research informed me that Willow Rosenberg is “a bookworm” and likely to, if she has been in the city, have spent time in such an establishment of higher learning.

This proud edifice, once the royal tobacco factory and the setting of Carmen as told by Bizet, is now bustling not with attractive and darkly passionate gypsy lasses but with studious young people on earnest quests to earn their degrees in various subjects, and also, I suspect, to display the entirety of their deeply fashionable wardrobes to the maximum number of people.

I explored the maze-like edifice as fully as possible within the time at my disposal.

At about this point, I inevitably became lost.

Fortunately, I made a number of extremely mutually pleasurable friendships along the way.

None of these delightful statues (extremely capable despite missing arms, some of them; despite being nominal Romans and of Spanish manufacture, they seemed charmingly determined to live up to the Grecian reputation of having invented the business, as it were), however, had heard anything of Willow, although with the international population they did at least speak English. This put them a step above the fountain figures, which only burbled at me unhelpfully.

Fortunately, the good founder Rodrigo took pity and suggested that, while it might not be possible for me to find the proverbial needle in the haystack, I might in fact not need to, given that the needle has ears and legs and presumably wants to be found. I have since made it my business to not only ask after Willow, but to leave my contact information with those to whom I speak in the hopes that they may see her and be in a position to relay said information to her.

I also made a journey to a local cemetery. I imagine that Willow, like my Tara, would need supplies for any dark arts she might practice, and thus if she has ever been or will ever be in the city, a trip to this locale would be on her agenda.

The graveyard was exceedingly complex, crowded, and ornate, and lent itself extraordinarily well to Gothic tales, as there were a great many crypts lying open.

As you can see, there is here an even greater gap between the extremes of what one can get for one’s money (regardless of taking it with you) than in Tara’s graveyard. One can have anything from structures the size of functional houses down to coffin-sized slots in those great banks. What is more, I am informed that the slots come at rental prices, and should one’s family be unable to pay, one’s corpse would have to be removed to a less distinguished location still.

At any rate, I found no help and very little English within those dire straights, and left forthwith.

I spent that night in a most pleasing flat which I enjoyed exploring thoroughly.

All in all, while I may not have made actual identifiable progress in my quest, I feel my time thus far has been well-spent.

Will: tales of the alhambra

2009-11-17T14:37:00.000-08:00

And so I have found myself in the Andalusian region of Spain, land of olive groves and bluest skies, for which assessment I offer pictorial evidence.

My first stop was the Alhambra, a once-mighty city within Granada.

Much of it is now ruins, although as you can see the gardens remain stunning. One palace still stands strong, however, and it was here I made my first contact in the form of some monstrous little guardians. I was fortunate to escape with life and limb from these accursed creations.

I climbed then the mighty fortress shown here, and enjoyed a magnificent view but no contact with any creature bearing resemblance to a witch.

There were many gardens, labyrinthine in their complexity and overwhelming in their beauty but once again useless for my purposes. Still, I had great fun exploring them, ever alert to the presence of danger.

And there were more buildings, of such splendor as to make grown men weep, seeming almost to be carved of lace.

And so, all in, a lovely but perhaps unproductive trip.

I found myself next in Cordoba, and there I did at least make contact with sentient beings. There was another palace, more gardens, and a magnificent cathedral. I have been given to understand that the fondness of gardens and fountains are a remainder of the days of Arabic conquest, being as the garden represents Paradise unto the Muslim.

Regardless of the Islamic ethos of their surroundings, it was here that I discovered Christopher Columbus, along with those most bloodthirsty and Catholic of monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella. Despite my patriotic scorn for their sort, I made an effort to explain to them for whom I was searching, and to ask whether they might have seen her in their lands. Unfortunately, they spoke not a word of the Queen’s English, and furthermore seemed too busy arguing amongst themselves to care for my quest. That’s royalty for you.

There were then hedges lined with statues of yet more kings and knights, or at least so I assume. They were all quite unforthcoming.

At long last, I arrived in Seville, in which city I shall be making my temporary home. The room here is quite cozy, and I am pleased.

Here, too, I have made my first real acquaintances in the country, such as they are. The first, the night I came, was in the form of a herd of elephants. They proved hostile. I have not returned to their table.

In my room, however, I was no sooner exploring the bed than I was accosted by a creature which I can but call an octopus, but which is so cute as to be impossible to look directly at for extended periods of time; I feel a most unmanly urge to kiss its head and coo at it.

This creature I have dubbed Meep, as this sound is all it seems capable of articulating. I find it immensely relieving to have his companionship, as I admit I find myself feeling some trepidation of spending such a span of time away from Tara. All manner of horrific things might happen in my absence, and I know it would grieve her deeply were I to come to any harm.

Further, I have discovered in my room a book by this Cervantes of whom Jasmine and Tara spoke. I attempted to read it, but of course it was all in Spanish. Nevertheless, if I could read it I feel quite certain I would find it not to be so impressive as my own work, and I am sure Meep agrees with me.

Finally, I have made the acquaintance of a charming and English-speaking if somewhat absent-minded young woman who resides on the top of the bookshelf and makes a point of turning herself around every hour on the hour, in lieu, she says, of swinging with the wind. She seems rather alarmingly fixated on her much-larger counterpart, which personage tops the Cathedral of Seville. All she will say in response to my questions after Willow is that she recommends I ask this figure, as she will most certainly know anything about people coming in and out of the city.

I will most certainly endeavor to do this, but I intend to enjoy the city thoroughly while at it.

Will: where the heart is

2009-10-23T05:46:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader:

I left you in cruel suspense, I have no doubt, with my last entry, and I shall rush now to relieve your anticipation.

The morning after our eventful day with the ladies - containing as it did another attack, a move, and Jasmine - I was mightily wearied, and slept far later than is my habit. The others were still asleep as well when Mulan hailed us from without, and we rose to find that this day promised no less by way of excitement.

“I don’t know where this came from,” Mulan said from the roof of the dollhouse, “and it’s no Barbie Dream House, but I’ve checked it out, and it’s safe enough to look over.” This last she pronounced with the resigned air of one who would prefer we didn’t, but accepted the odds of this happening.

For my part, I had no intention of passing up a stroll through such a fine abode, and indeed the others seemed to share my point of view. For all its size, it is too small for the three princesses, leaving them to look at the lower floor while Tara and I wandered the upper two.

The house is, as is evident, in rather poor repair at this point, and missing much of its accessories - a sad sight if ever there was one. However, it is really rather remarkably suited to Tara and myself. I have no doubt that I am capable of putting it in living condition again, and it would likely do her good to have a proper house to look after, rather than a drawer and a jewelry cabinet - especially if I am to be gone, questing for her loved ones and leaving her on her own.

After our exploration, the princesses aided us in gathering the accessories left to the house in the living room so as to take stock of our new treasures. Many of them are falling apart, and all are most dusty, but their appeal remains.

“I just don’t want you to get too fixated on the idea,” Mulan said hesitantly when I elaborated upon my plans. “Not yet, anyway. We can help you fix it up, but with the spiders acting this strangely, I don’t want anyone actually staying here. Until we figure out what’s wrong, no one needs to be staying in this place. It’s a strategic nightmare, all these flimsy walls and windows, out in the middle of the room this way…”

“A man’s home is his castle,” I replied. “I can most assuredly protect my own castle.”

“I thought the point was that you wouldn’t be here.”

“And she saved you, remember?” Jasmine put in. “You couldn’t protect yourself then.”

“I was not in possession of a house then,” I explained.

“You know what, Will, it’s fine,” Tara said. “I’m really okay with just fixing it up for now. I don’t think I’m ready to hang out around windows all day. They make me queasy.”

“As long as we’re clear,” I conceded. “It is our house, isn’t it - yours and mine?”

“Sure,” she said, glancing at Jasmine with a slightly helpless expression. “Definitely our house.”

“You will lose everything,” someone announced in what were, now that I look back upon the incident, quite sinister tones.

“I’ve said I can protect it,” I said impatiently and I admit rather heedlessly, and then followed the others’ gazes up the bookshelf nearby.

“You will lose everything,” this strange person repeated, with less force this time.

Mulan grabbed her lance and scaled the building with alarming rapidity, facing the stranger from one of the peaks of the roof. “What do you want?” She asked guardedly.

(On the ground floor, Tara murmured, “He looks really familiar. Does he look familiar to anyone else?”)

He seemed to grow rather more sure of himself now, raising his alarmingly glittery stick in a threatening fashion and twisting his head in a snakelike gesture which was most unnerving. “You will lose -” he started again.

“I heard,” Mulan said, sliding down to the attic. “What do you want?”

“Don’t do that,” Ariel said when he continued to wave his glittery stick, and she clambered rather more awkwardly up to join Mulan in the attic, evading Jasmine’s attempts to keep her with us.

(Tara added, “This is driving me nuts. I’m sure I know who that is.”)

“Ariel,” Mulan snapped, “not now -”

“Go away,” Ariel insisted, her voice stretching tight with panic, and she waved her own small weapon at the mysterious figure.

He reacted with rather more alarm than this merited, as her weapon is a tongue depressor - he recoiled, pointed his glittery stick with more purpose, and cried, “Avada -”

(“You’re kidding me,” Tara said.)

Ariel threw her stick at his, which was in the process of admitting a sickly green light, as he finished, “Kedavra!”

The green light hit Ariel’s weapon as though striking a physical blow, whereupon the entire thing went up like a match in midair, raining down several pieces of twisted, blackened wood upon the table before us.

A moment of stunned silence clutched all of us, including I daresay the man looming above us, as he managed a second later to say, “Oop-” still with his gaze fixed below.

Mulan struck before the word had fully left his mouth, making the not inconsiderable jump to the shelf with catlike grace, and rendering him instantly helpless with her superior physical force irrespective of his dark powers.

“Ow,” the person protested hollowly.

Mulan rendered him defenseless with alacrity, keeping her lance at his throat until he had been tied securely and then dragging him back to the dresser for questioning, which she began with a strongly-worded request for him to reveal his motivation for attacking us.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said forlornly. “I was practicing, and then you lot got very confrontational.”

“We didn’t try to kill anyone,” Tara pointed out. “I’m not an expert on Harry Potter, but I’m pretty sure ‘Avada Kedavra’ isn’t something you say to signal your peaceful intentions.” She gestured to the debris of Ariel’s weapon, which Jasmine had brought back as evidence. She paused, and then added, “And do you seriously have Voldemort’s face taped to your head?”

He pulled himself up to his full height and announced in tones more ringing than usual, “I Am Lord Voldemort.” Deflating, he added, “It was the only spell I could remember.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mulan said. “Who’s Harry Potter? Who’s Voldemort?”

“I’ll go get more evidence,” Tara said. “Hang on. Will?”

Naturally I did as she asked, although it was menial labor, and aided her in carrying a truly monstrous book back to the dresser. Jasmine plainly knew more about this affair than did Mulan or Ariel, as she was saying when we returned, “…very popular. Sort of a… Sword in the Stone set in a British boarding school deal.”

“It was quite the cultural phenomenon,” Tara agreed. “Actually, I guess it still is - there are two more movies coming out, I think. I used to… well, I haven’t really kept up with it. But it was a global deal.”

“I shouldn’t think it displays unparalleled disinterestedness, or unparalleled range and profundity of insight, does it?” I inquired anxiously.

“Not everyone can be -” Tara started.

Jasmine finished hastily, “Cervantes.”

“Yes. Him.”

“And who, pray, is Cervantes?”

“Let’s worry about Lord Voldemort first,” Mulan interjected. “I understand that you needed a… well, a personality, and everything, but you chose the arch-villain of a kids’ series? That doesn’t seem healthy.”

“I Am Lord Voldemort,” he repeated. “I researched the matter and concluded that it was the only possibility. I have torn my soul into seven pieces, which explains my feelings of emptiness and doubt, and must retrieve the pieces to be whole again.”

Mulan and Ariel looked at each other for a long moment, and then Tara said carefully, “Okay. But… what about the, you know, murder?”

He looked shocked. “I never did!”

Tara leaned against the book, rubbing her eyes. “Have you read Harry Potter? At all?”

“Not precisely. I saw the trailers and found further information on the internet,” he said. “Having given the matter some thought, I suppose I may have killed some people. A bit. But I am certain that all I need in order to be converted to the side of good and to regret my unconscionable actions is a great big hug.” He looked expectant.

Mulan made an incoherent sound expressing her deep dissatisfaction and slight amusement with the situation.

“Really?”

I had forgotten Ariel’s presence, and looked over to find her approaching Lord Voldemort with an expression of rapture.

“You need to find your soul, too?” She breathed, reaching out to him.

“Oh, Ariel,” Mulan groaned. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I do,” Lord Voldemort said mournfully. “And it will be a long quest, and difficult, because the bits could be disguised as anything at all. Like a stick, or a pebble, or a marshmallow, although I certainly hope not, because then someone might eat it.”

“Ariel,” Mulan warned.

“But he thinks he can. It’ll be hard, but he can,” Ariel said, grasping Lord Voldemort’s robes, and then she widened her eyes and did speak those words most dreaded: “Can we keep him?”

Mulan shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t trust him. He tried to kill you!”

“That was an accident,” Lord Voldemort promised. “I shan’t do it again.”

Jasmine raised a finger. “I have a question. I’ve lived around those spiders for going on fifteen years now, and they’ve never tried to attack anything. Now they’re like a little guerilla army. Do you know anything about that?”

“I don’t know about any spiders,” he answered promptly. “I’ve been upstairs.”

“So were we,” Mulan said suspiciously.

“I was in the living room. Perhaps they’re frightened of the cats?”

“Mm.”

“The ropes do cut a bit, you know,” he said. “And I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“You still have a superior weapon,” Mulan replied.

“No he doesn’t!” Ariel disappeared momentarily, and climbed back up bearing another glittery stick. “I saw this earlier,” she said. “I want to do magic too! Then we’ll be even.”

“I don’t think that’s how magic works in Harry Potter,” Tara said hesitantly. “But in a logical world, that wand wouldn’t work at all, so…”

“Okay,” Mulan said. “I don’t know what else we’d do with you, anyway. I’ll untie you, you show Ariel how to do something simple, and if that works, then we’ll talk.”

“Thanks ever so.” Upon being released, Lord Voldemort said, “And for my next trick, I will require something dead.”

“About not being evil? Try harder,” Jasmine suggested.

“How about a flower?” Tara said by way of mediation.

“That will do.”

Ariel arranged herself before him, awaiting instructions, and Mulan remained vigilant and rather hostile as Lord Voldemort nudged her into what one assumes was the proper position for spellcasting, although it looked not unlike standing around aimlessly, albeit with more pointing at things.

“And now,” Lord Voldemort said, “you shall pronounce the incantation: Cretum!”

“Cretum,” Ariel said dubiously.

“It sounds like an insult,” Jasmine murmured.

The flower appeared not to care whether or not it was being insulted; it obediently proceeded to twist and grow, never losing its overall brown and unquestionably dead appearance.

“It worked!” Ariel exclaimed.

“Well, good,” Mulan said, sounding distinctly unhappy. “Ariel, can I talk to you for a minute? Privately?”

“I was going to ask anyway,” Ariel responded blissfully, and they retired with the newly-stemmed rose, Mulan casting highly suspicious and displeased looks over her shoulder.

“I suggest you leave off the soul talk around Ariel,” Jasmine said firmly. “You’ll just feed her issues, and then Mulan will be unhappy.”

“Well, I can stop talking about it, but I have to keep looking,” Lord Voldemort said anxiously. “I am missing the most essential part of my being. It’s terribly nerve-wracking.”

Jasmine nodded wearily. “Okay. Fine. Two insane ones. Wonderful.” She walked away as well, leaving Tara and I alone with the new insane one, which struck me as rather unfair.

In the spirit of British brotherhood, though - for here, indeed, was just what I had wished for the night before - I offered sympathetically, “Never mind - they will scorn quests, these women. I too seek something not easily found, and they were distinctly dismissive.”

“I wasn’t dismissive,” Tara protested.

“Oh? What are you after, then?”

“I intend to travel the world in search of the Tara’s lady-love, Willow, and her daughter in spirit if not in blood, Dawn,” I informed him.

“Really? Do you suppose you could keep an eye out for pieces of my soul, while you’re at it?”

“While it would be no mean feat, I suppose I could watch for them,” I conceded generously. “Do you have any inkling of what they might be?”

“In the books,” Tara said, “he - you - he chose things that were important to him.”

Lord Voldemort shrugged with a defeated air. “I don’t remember, do I.”

“How do I tell when I’ve found them?”
“Oh, I’m sure that you’ll know,” he said, cheering up. “You’ll probably feel an electric shock, or something will resonate within your heart, or similar.”

“Where have you already checked for this stuff, then?” Tara asked. “Just so that Will isn’t stuck with a repeat performance.”

“The house, mostly,” he said uncomfortably. “And the yard, a bit. I like it here.” He met my eyes solemnly. “But I can show you the way out, if you like.”

“Down there,” he said a few moments later, pointing below us.

“What? That?”

“Yes. Whenever it gets cleaned out and packed up, especially with the laptop, just make sure you’re in it as well. It always goes missing after,” he explained, leading the way down to my ticket out. “I wonder that Tara hasn’t mentioned it.”

“She may not want me to know,” I confessed. “I suspect that she doubts my ability to find her family.”

“Women. They don’t understand. Quests and that.”

“Even should it come to pass that I find nothing on my first trip,” I said, “my absence will likely worry them.”

“Makes the heart grow fonder,” Lord Voldemort agreed.

“When do you think…?”

“Now you mention it, it was cleaned out recently."

“Truly? Now that’s interesting.”

Will: enjoy the show

2009-09-06T18:52:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader:

Having made their introductions and received ours (Jasmine seeming duly impressed by my name, Ariel and Mulan remaining sadly indifferent), the ladies expressed a desire to change their clothing and to take stock of their possessions, as they have long been confined to small and uncomfortable places and were unsure of what they might still have about them. I was strongly in favor of this plan, but Tara drew me away for a time and thus spoiled the exercise entirely.

When we returned, the ladies had finished changing and were only now taking stock of their remaining possessions (having done things in the wrong order in my opinion). It did cheer me, pettily, to see that while they have far more accessories than I, they also dwarf Tara's collection.

"We still have the laptop!" Jasmine exclaimed upon seeing the object in question, and Tara seemed equally excited to have a size-appropriate connection to the outside world.

For my part, I went to join Mulan and Ariel. Mulan was alternating between keeping watch (in case of more spiders) and fiddling with a record player. "It's not exactly cutting-edge technology," she said, "but if we can put together some records, it'll be nice to have music."

"Where are Blaine's?" Ariel asked without looking up from the globe she was spinning, and occasionally stroking in a most affectionate and suggestive way. "He had a bunch of records."

"If we still had Blaine's stuff, we wouldn't need this," Mulan said regretfully, tapping the phonograph. "He had something to play them on, that table-looking thing. I think the sewing machine and phone will be good to have, but the cash register..." She looked at it speculatively. "I think I could rig up a catapult. Then we could launch it at things if we need to. It's got a good heft to it." She looked at me. "Speaking of violence - William, I realize this is kind of sudden, but I hope you and Tara will move over here with us. This is a comparatively defensible position, we have somewhere to fall back to, and there’s strength in numbers. I don’t want anything to happen to you two while you’re over there alone,” she finished, gesturing to our dresser.

“We would be happy to join you in a more defensible position,” I agreed instantly.

“Good. Jasmine’s been here the longest of anyone, and she says the spiders never used to be like this - I’m afraid there’s something worse that’s making them -”

“Mulan,” Ariel interjected, “I really need to find an atlas.”

“Right now? You’ve got the globe.”

“It’s small and wrong about a lot of things, and it hasn’t got any statistics,” Ariel insisted.

“I guess we could stand to get the lay of the land a little better,” Mulan sighed, clambering to her feet. “Come on, then, I’ll need help carrying it back.”

“Yes! Thank you!” Ariel hopped up and kissed her cheek, and with a wave she was off.

“Sorry,” Mulan winced, chasing after her. “Jasmine, we’ll be right back.”

Forlorn once they were no longer close enough for me to admire in their leaving, I joined Tara and Jasmine, who were doubtless talking over feminine trivialities. “Why, pray, does the lady Ariel need an atlas with such urgency?” I inquired.

“Oh,” Jasmine said carefully, glancing at Tara. “That’s her... thing. Maps.”

“I apologize, but I fail to understand. Her ‘thing’?”

“Her... crutch. Maps,” she repeated, as if this were explanation enough.

“I don’t understand either,” Tara said apologetically.

Jasmine looked taken aback. “Maybe it’s just Barbies,” she mused. “I just assumed it was all of us. Well, then... Isn’t it ever hard for you two, to sort of remember who you are, but not all of it, and to not have all of the people who made you who you are?”

“I do know who I am,” I announced, although I admit to being somewhat worried by realizing that I didn’t recall my wife or children at all clearly.

“I have the DVDs for when I miss people,” Tara said distantly.

“Hm... That’s interesting. It doesn’t work for us that way, though. Or maybe - if we had access to the movies, that might be different. But the way things are, we tend to need something to lean on, to help establish ourselves. And then after, we can be a bit dependent. Ariel gets antsy when she goes too long without some new maps.”

“And what, my dear lady, is your ‘thing’?” I asked.

“Stories. I collect them and tell them. We have to make our own entertainment a lot of the time, so it’s useful,” she answered placidly. “Mulan, though - she’s never really needed anything. She remembers more of her origin legend, and as long as she has people to take care of, she’s fine.”

“You do remember some of that, too?” Tara looked intrigued. “I was wondering.”

“I think that’s why Ariel’s the way she is,” Jasmine confided. “It can’t be fun to half-remember killing yourself in order to get a soul. At least Mulan and I have happy endings.”

“What endings are these?” I asked. “I fear I am unacquainted with your stories.”

“I’ll be happy to tell you the entire stories later on,” Jasmine answered, and I marked this as a victory and made note to procure this interview with her in as much solitude as was possible, “but to keep things brief, I get married and live happily ever after, and Mulan saves her Emperor, her father, and most of China.”

“China?” I frowned and searched my memory. “She is from the Orient, then?”

Tara laughed, and then stopped hastily. “Um, yeah. And also, no, because it’s called Asia now.”

“From whence, then, do you come, my good woman?” I asked, turning to Jasmine.

“Well... Baghdad, mostly,” she said. “But the original story took place in China, only it was a version of China that sounds like the Middle East.”

“Oh,” I said, crestfallen, for although I could see plainly enough that she was Moorish, it was nonetheless rather disheartening to have it confirmed aloud. “I suppose Tara and I remain the only Englishmen, in a matter of speaking.”

“Not... really,” Tara said, stifling laughter again. “I’m American. And you know, you’re not... we’ve been talking about this, Will. You’re not exactly English-English. You talk sort of funny, but not Elizabethan funny, and your accent isn’t even as strong as Giles’s.”

“I most certainly am entirely English,” I said stiffly, cut to the quick at this denial of my proud heritage and bone-deep connection to the greatest of empires. “Come hither, my good lady, and I shall prove it to you.”

Having guided Tara to the stand of flags nearly directly above our new home, I pointed proudly to the Union Jack. “Does your bosom swell with pride almost to the point of pain, your head pound with the knowledge of her proud line of kings and queens, at the very sight of this flag, do your feet ache for their native soil?” I asked.

“I... no?”

“Whereas mine does,” I said with no small satisfaction.

“Which plainly proves it,” Tara said, and although she sounded more amused than convinced I am sure I shall bring her around to the sight of sense.

Considering the matter settled, I removed one of the flags from its stand and brought it back with us to the dresser where Jasmine was once again checking things on her laptop.

As we were thus engaged, Ariel and Mulan were concluding their exploration of the perimeter in hopes of a collection of atlases, having achieved their goal.

They chose only one for the first trip back, the books being of prodigious size, and upon their return Ariel made a production of presenting it with as much pride as if she herself had written and illustrated the tome, nearly giddy with relief.

The first page being a spread of the world, I looked eagerly for Britain, and the sight was sobering, putting the rest of the world in perspective as it did. “Tara,” I asked, “do you have any idea where Willow might be?”

This necessitated an explanation of my quest, one Tara did no justice to and which I took over in order that the ladies might appreciate the romance and generosity of my nature.

Ariel failed to realize the magnitude of my spirit, preferring to dwell on cold, unfeeling details. “You’re going to look for a five-inch action figure,” she said, “somewhere in the five quadrillion, five hundred two trillion, five hundred thirty-two billion, one hundred twenty-seven million square feet of the planet?”

“That’s not a needle in a haystack,” Tara mumbled, “that’s a needle in Kansas.”

“I am unswerved from my purpose,” I insisted.

“Will,” she said gently. “It means a lot to me that you care, but this isn’t the most practical way to -”

“I have given my word, and shall hear no more on the subject,” I announced grandly. “Now, let us retrieve our possessions.”

This, too, we essayed (all except Ariel, who remained with her atlas); several of us transported the jewelry case, and while the others went back for the trunk, Jasmine hung back in order to help me place a few objects on the top of it in order to reduce clutter. When she was done muttering about being a princess, she added, “Who’s the picture of?”

“I beg your pardon?” I had forgotten, and she opened the case, removing the portrait.

“Oh. Morgan le Fay?” She frowned. “Is she some kind of role model for Tara?”

“She is my love,” I said devoutly, “and an Englishwoman born and bred.”

“You’ve met her?” She asked dubiously.

“I have no need of it. A true melding of souls -”

“How... wonderful.” She pursed her lips, checking the progress of the others and Ariel’s relative attentiveness to our conversation, which was in negative numbers. “Listen, William, I want to clear a few things up quickly. One, if you make a pass - excuse my language - at Ariel, Mulan is going to hurt you. And two, for very different reasons, if you make a pass at Mulan, Ariel will probably kill you in your sleep.” She winked. “Best of luck with Morgan, though,” she finished, and sauntered away.

Having thus undermined my plans for the evening (although I notice she made no threat as to her own virtue), Jasmine suggested that we bed down for the night and, maddeningly, was the one to suggest that I get my own room, as though it were a boon (however, her smile in my direction made plain she intended no favor, and shall also likely fuel my dreams for several nights to come).

In defiance of Jasmine’s irritating brand of flirtation, I insisted on placing Morgan in my new room. Tired of women and foreigners (I was shocked to learn that even Ariel is Danish), I confess that I wished that evening for the companionship of a good Englishman.

I should perhaps have been more specific.

Will: plot

2009-09-02T16:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader:

A momentous event (at least, momentous on the scale we inhabit) has occurred since last I wrote, and I admit that my fingers itch to tell of it.

Since last I wrote, I have spent much time at work with my book. In that time, the room has again been altered, a fact to which I was wholly indifferent then, but which would later have great significance in the form of a dresser.

When I had finished the introduction to my book, I called out to Tara, who had been at work herself on her own affairs, of which I prefer not to speak.

While I had felt myself to be immensely important, I must admit that I had underestimated myself, and I said as much to Tara.

"Well..." she said. "Sort of."

" 'Sort of'? Wherefore do you qualify my import? You yourself said when we met that you were a fan, and see -" I began to turn, albeit laboriously, the pages of my book - "See what has been said of me, how scholars labor over my very punctuation even today, and look - 'Every form of drama that he touched he carried to a lofty pitch of perfection'. There are pages of compliments from other artists alone, penned as introductions to my art!"

"Okay," Tara said, "yeah, sweetie, but... I mean, yes. William Shakespeare was absolutely a really brilliant writer, and he's still famous and important. But do you personally remember writing any of these? Or any of the stuff from the introduction - London, Queen Elizabeth, all of that?"

I faltered. "I... I have unparalleled disinterestedness, unparalleled range and profundity of insight -"

"Sweetie. Enough with the book."

"I may not remember... everything, specifically..."

She regarded me quietly for some time, and then said, "Come with me. There's something I should have shown you first."

When the episode had ended, we retreated to a window (also on one of the upper levels of the house; I can see that I have much to explore here, although there are dangers in the form of three hulking beasts that lumber and slobber and yowl) and Tara said, "So that was me, kind of. A character on a TV show. She dies later." I expressed my alarm, and patted my shoulder, saying, "But I'm fine - see where this is going?" My lack of understanding must have shown on my face, as she sighed - though without irritation - and continued, "Look, Will, I remember being her. I remember Willow and Dawn - you didn't see her, but she's important later - and Buffy and everything. But Tara McClay is fictional, and she's dead, and she was never five inches tall and made of plastic. I'm not her."

I have, as mentioned, unparalleled insight, and was able to use this quality to glean her suffering. "You miss them."

She took an unsteady breath. "Especially Willow and Dawnie." But then she shook her head. "That's not the point -"

I laid a hand on hers. "I shall find them for you."

This gave her pause. "I don't -"

"I give you my word."

"...That's really nice of you." She closed her fingers around mine, and I felt that the rift between us would be healed. "I appreciate it. But I don't think you're totally understanding the situation yet."

We went back to the room, wherein she produced a sheet of cardboard and bade me look it over.

"Yes? I see nothing not already in my book, except for some incorrect punctuation and these malicious lies about others having anything like the talent or range to have written my works," I said after examining the words thereon.

"Will, it has a price tag. It says 'Made in China'. It has 'ACTION FIGURE' in big yellow letters on the front, and it says you're a choking hazard for small children. I'm not sure what you want me to do at this point to make it any plainer."

I sank down on my book.

"You're still... This doesn't change anything, you know," she said. "I just wanted you to understand."

Despite her attempt to comfort me, I admit that the blow was hard. So stricken, I wandered into the changed part of the room and onto the round table in the center. Tara followed - unfortunately without her potion. No sooner had she nearly caught me up than we were once again accosted by a spider, and this time there were no weapons on hand.

"Oh..." Tara said, and I turned to find that our situation had managed, despite the venomous spider and lack of protection, to get worse.

“Okay,” Tara said, “we can figure this out.”

I fear that we might not have done so in time, despite my admitted brilliance, for the spiders were fast approaching, their wariness over the fate of their comrade holding them back only slightly. It was then, however, that the event to which I referred at the beginning of this entry (or rather, one-fourth of said event) appeared.

A woman, tall and fine of figure, jumped before us, already wielding the lance I had availed myself of days before, and made such short and brutal work of the two monsters that I admit to being somewhat disquieted. When she turned to face us, however, she was smiling, and knelt that her height might not be such an encumbrance to our conversation.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry about the creeping and spying, but we just got here, and I had to be sure you guys weren’t dangerous too. There’s some weird stuff happening in this house, and it’s not just me I’m looking out for. I’m Fa Mulan.”

“Hi,” Tara said, sounding somewhat dazed. “I’m -”

“I know.” Fa Mulan gave a moue of apology. “The spying.” She gestured to the side. “There’s the rest of us.”

And indeed, standing in the drawer above us, two more women of like size and beauty loomed.

Dearest readers, loneliness, I suspect, shall no longer be an issue.

Tara: silentio, silentio

2009-06-25T18:04:00.000-07:00

Um. Okay. I'm not really sure about how to do this, but Will's... busy, and he asked me to take care of it, so... here goes?

I guess today might have been a mistake - I mean, it seemed like a really good idea at the time. Will was all hyped up after killing the spider, and he had been really handy during that, so I thought it would do him good to get some fresh air, and that he'd be nice to have along if something bad happened. Which, then something kind of did, but it wouldn't have if I'd had him stay home, so that was a not-good plan.

Everything seemed like it was fine at first; I explained that we had to go to the cemetery to get the ingredients for the spider-bomb, and he was fine with that. It seemed like we were just going to have fun.

Once we were there, he was... actually kind of adorable. He wanted to explore, and when I said that I thought maybe we should find the fungus before we went around asking for trouble, he said, "Alas! that so young and fair a maiden should already have forgotten the small joys which make this oft-toilsome life worth living!" and that's... hard to argue with. I mean, he is Shakespeare. So we did climbed on stuff for a while.

The weather started getting a little fitful, though -

- so I started us looking for the mushrooms. Good mushrooms, not the getting-high kind.

And about then there started to be badness. I think maybe I should have told him to keep climbing things; then maybe he wouldn't have noticed all the broken tombstones and everything. But he did notice, and he just sort of... wandered off looking at those, and got really quiet. I left him alone, because everyone needs that sometimes, right?

There really are a lot of stones there that are all defaced and broken, and some of them just get thrown in the woods. It's pretty sad. But I'm used to it, and he did just wake up... but I don't know, I was thinking, "He's William Shakespeare, if anyone's equipped to handle death, it's him" and that wasn't fair, under the circumstances. But he was doing his thing and I just kept looking until I found the mushrooms. Which, again, not the drug kind.

After that, I said, "Okay, we can go," and then had to repeat it to get his attention. He nodded and kept looking at the ground the whole way. I took his arm and fended off the grass blades and steered him around the pebbles.

It was just when we got back that he started getting kind of snippy about everything and mooning over his magazine clipping of Morgan.

"I don't think it's really very healthy to be this fixated on a picture," I said. "There are fairy tales about it."

"Indeed," he said, "and there are other tales one might tell of what works one might perform with herbs gathered from a grave, none of them healthful for one's immortal soul."

"Mushrooms aren't herbs," I said.

Then he started in on what exactly the spider-bomb had been made of, and what I needed the mushroom for, and brought up the s-word (Satan, not the other one).

I should have been able to handle it - I mean, if I can deal with an addict girlfriend and a troubled teenage sort-of daughter, I can deal with a middle-aged genius, right? But that's the whole problem, isn't it. I never have done those things really. So. I got snippy back, and asked, "Well, what do you think a woman with a book called Spells needs with a mushroom from a cemetery for?"

Then he got all self-righteous, so I brought Morgan le Fay into it (but he had to have known she was a witch too) and he got defensive. Since he was losing the argument, he changed the subject entirely and said, "There is enough of darkness and secrets in this place without your adding to it! I demand to be told what is on that shelf, that you should be intent on keeping it from me."

So, I mean, I'd had it, and was kind of bitter thinking about Willow and Dawn, and I just got his book down. I guess it would have been nicer to explain about me first - let him adjust to the idea on someone else, especially since at least he's a doll of a real person and that might make him feel better, comparatively speaking. Only I didn't.

He started at the beginning, and he's been reading for a while. I tried to apologize and offer to talk about it, but he just said that it would help if I'd take care of this for him, seeing as he's otherwise engaged.

I really hope I didn't mess this up. But, well, we'll have to get over it - we're all we've got.

Will: an attack

2009-06-14T13:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader:

As time has passed, our situation has grown increasingly less intolerable. The room in which we reside is now wholly clean and free of both dust and animal life (or at least, so I thought until this day, but more of that later). Tara is good company, being a clever conversationalist when she puts her mind to it. There is, however, much to be desired in my present situation.

Despite being grateful for her companionship, I am baffled by the lady McClay's resistance to my charms. While perfectly willing to listen to pretty words, she has yet to allow any outright advances on my part. What is more, she seems to find double entendres distinctly unfunny. This is a grave flaw in any friend or prospective lover, as I myself can think of nothing more amusing than a quip about a man's spear, unless it be a pie to a clown's face (unfortunately, we have no pies). Still, we are grateful for our improved circumstances.

Even our private residence is rather more impressive than was previously the case.

Still, perhaps Tara tires of having no female company, as she was the one to suggest exploring the room anew on the chance that all of this movement had shaken loose any previously unknown company. This I essayed with her most willingly.

The surface upon which our residence lies plays host to several gargoyles, but they have proved to be no more than they appear: rock, which although it has been given a mouth, has no words to issue forth therefrom.

At the next shelf we investigated, Tara insisted upon taking the upper shelves herself with such vehemence that I judged it unwise to argue with her. She is rarely so recalcitrant, but I have long found that such women are most to be feared when their ire is roused. I shall find her out eventually; for now, I allow her to play her games. For my part, I encountered several wondrous small buildings (one of which seemed passing familiar, although I cannot think why) and a fearsome likeness of a cat, but again nothing with life.

Tara also insisted that we not explore one shelf at all, saying that she knew well enough what was on it, and that everything would be easier if I allowed her to relate to me its contents in her own time.

And so we continued, and found a likeness of a wizard, giant both in size and in silence.

Upon the following shelf, we found first various items indicating the presence of an ocean, indeed with sand and the smell of fish still on them.

But then, dear reader, upon that same shelf, I did espy a woman who has changed my heart for all of eternity.

True, she is naught but a portrait, but even on paper her eyes have scorched my very soul. She is like unto a fevered dream, something conjured from the depths of desire. I stood stunned before her image for so long a time that the lady Tara joined me and asked if something was the matter.

I asked whether she knew of this woman. Tara answered that she did not, and indeed had not seen this picture before. I bemoaned that I should not know her name, and Tara, sounding a great deal more amused than she had by my witty jests, proposed that it might be Morgan le Fay, given that this was written along the hem of her dress and plain to see. I replied stiffly that I had not been looking at the hem of her dress, and Tara said, "I'll bet."

In order to keep the peace (women being jealous creatures), I proposed that we continue, to which suggestion she agreed with good will. The following shelf yielded several likely-looking figures, but again we were disappointed in our hopes for sentience.

We then found a large statue of St. Peter, equally unresponsive.

The next site yielded even fewer results.

It was during our last act of exploration that we found life, although unfortunately it was of a most despicable kind. We were resting our legs and admiring some portraiture upon the walls when, to my horror, I saw behind Tara, creeping toward her with pincers agape, a most huge and loathsome insect.

Naturally, I did as was my duty in the face of danger and defended the lady, although a lesser man might have quailed in my position. Seizing the nearest likely weapon, I set to beating the beast back.

Having convinced the beast to turn tail in the face of my wrath, I dropped the spear and turned to ask after Tara's wellbeing. She had in the meantime taken up a strange cup nearby and filled it with something which shimmered just from the corner of my eye, and which I was sure she had not had moments before. "Throw this at it!" She exclaimed, and I gave chase to do so.

The result was gruesome to behold: the spider seemed to melt, and its venom ate at the wood beneath it and even, once released, at the monster's own skin, so that the room stank with the oily, slick smell of burnt flesh for the rest of the night.

In view of this circumstance, I did not feel well in myself until I had convinced Tara to aid me in one last endeavor before we retired.

I shall sleep the better for knowing that she is safe nearby, and also for having had an opportunity to release my manly vigor. Tara has said that, in case of another attack, we shall have to gather more ingredients for her weapon upon the morrow, and I look forward both to the experience and to relating it to you, dear reader - always provided that we survive it whole and entire.

Will: upon awakening

2009-06-05T12:34:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader:

Today, after being a long while in the dark, I was granted light. I speak both literally and metaphorically—I have been a time in a box, which smelled of must, and only recently have I emerged into my life as it is here; and also I feel as though I have slept a long while without thought, but at last I dream again, and begin to remember. I am certain that I am very important, and that as soon as I can recall why, all will be clear.

Being as I am a person of great import, you can imagine my distress at my present surroundings, which seem to be the result of a particularly violent natural catastrophe. I present pictorial evidence, and would add that the air is at times so thick with dust that one might believe it to be the dead of winter, and snowing.

Therefore I am most pleased to report that I am not alone in this dreary and forsaken land, but rather have already encountered a companion.

Tara McClay, as she is called, is an Amazon of a woman, built on quite a large scale, but not displeasing to the eye. I shall in the future essay to woo her, and am certain of my success. I am (I do not remember this, but feel it in my bones) a man with a record of some luck with the ladies. Also she seemed quite pleased by my presence, and her welcome was warm indeed. She reported that she had been there some time without a companion, and understood my predicament precisely. She even guessed that I did not yet understand our situation, although I did not admit it, and she said quite mysteriously (given that I am certain we have not met) that she had admired me for some time. This is doubtless natural.

She also aided in our introductions by assuring me that my name was William when I stumbled over it, although she produced no information as to my family name.

I felt that she was perhaps getting above her station in her eagerness to care for me, and reminded her that of the two of us, I possessed both a book and a quill, while she seemed to lack in this area. It was a misstep, made in the foolishness of my fear and desire to impress. Tara possess not only a book, but also a pedestal, a candle, a bag, and a bottle.

I cannot understand the sense of inferiority with which this fact imbues me, but I can comfort myself in the knowledge that I have a pen and she is entirely lacking in this crucial department.

In the end, Tara convinced me that we would be best served by packing our things away for the time, as there were apt to be earthquakes (she hesitated over the word, and I suspect her of outright falsehood in addition to her obvious discretion) and it would all be simpler that way. I agreed to her proposal, although reluctantly.

I shall continue to appraise you of my wellbeing. For now, my foremost goal must be ascertaining my own identity (or rather, my two foremost goals must be ascertaining my own identity and also wooing the good lady Tara; fortunately Scottish women are as loose as they are lovely).