Thursday, January 14, 2010
Will: fly away
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.” 
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