Will: enjoy the show

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

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

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

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.