The Word Cloud

Quest for the Soul: 7

 

 

Creatures previously encountered:
·       Free Will – and its trusty assistant, Envisaging
·       Discernment – and its debatable alias, Resonance
·       Thinking – and its handy accessory, the Internal TV
·       Pre-thoughts – and their home, the great internal Reservoir
·       Creativity – and its mighty manifestation, The Flow

 

In previous weeks we’ve travelled our internal jungle, encountering dark and mysterious areas – but also passing, without remark, many shafts of sunlight. Let’s remark now. Let our Cameraman point his lens where they stream through the top foliage, sweep their way through mid-level vegetation, and finger their light below. Let our Sound Recordist register the chatter of birds and insects as they receive energy and warmth from those sun-shafts.

 

In our quest so far, water has acted as the creative principle, symbolising the unconscious mind – be it the swamp of Pre-Thoughts or flow of Creativity. By adding sunlight we now symbolically add the necessary, missing factor – conscious Imagination – and thus complete the conditions for life and thriving.

 

Imagination is a creature of light. It sees into things, seeking an answering light in them. It seeks to bring that answering light out of them. It warms and quickens its objects, opening vistas for them, wishing the expansive best for them. Because of this it acts like Love.

 

The human equivalent is eye-light. When we love and approve, our pupils dilate as if to let through ever more energy to touch and encourage the life before us. And so our eyes transmit their own version of sunlight. In concept, I see a mother shining eye-light onto her baby. I see a lover shining eye-light onto his beloved. I see a gardener shining eye-light onto his flower beds.

 

Teachers do something analogous by leading (“ducere”) hidden potentials from (“ex”) their students – and thus educating (“ex-ducere”) them. In another sense, doctors and nurses do it, drawing potential health from illness. In a further sense, police and administrators do it, leading order out of chaos. And so the works of Imagination – mundane or magnificent – continue; they go streaming on into the cosmos. I see a Leonardo angel shining eye-light onto its charges. I see a Creative Deity shining eye-light onto a universe. I see stars answering that eye-light with brilliance of their own.

 

Let me tell a tale. Years ago we hired a holiday cottage, and in its lounge was a bookcase containing, amongst other items, The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard by Arthur Conan Doyle. I knew Conan Doyle as the creator of Sherlock Holmes so was curious what other characters may have inhabited his mind. I soon discovered Brigadier Gerard was a treat. A Hussar in the French Napoleonic army, Gerard was replete with gallic joie de vivre and – in his own opinion – savoir faire and bon mots, as well as tours de force and quite possibly force majeure. However, from the reader’s perspective, he was more notable for his many faux pas. In fact, a humorous delight.

 

Light. De-light.

 

And I felt Conan Doyle’s secret was that he loved his characters into existence. He shone, as it were, eye-light into them and thus they existed in imaginative reality. And that reality included as much mulch as merit. So Sherlock Holmes didn’t just embody the shining light of awareness, he also carried ennui, drug dependency, neediness for applause, unhealthy fascination with crime.

 

That’s how it is with the other eye-shinings. Parents know perfectly well that babies are poo-producing, sleep-disrupting, brain-cudgelling monsters of selfish dictatorship. So what? Mum and Dad still beam the eye-light at them. Lovers know perfectly well – or ought to – that their partner is human as well as divine, and can therefore be as obstreperous, uncomprehending, grumpy and confused as anyone else. So what? They are still marvellous. Utterly, utterly marvellous.

 

Gardeners know they need strong backs for their labour. Leonardo’s angel has a tough job staying patient with its charges. Creative Deities can emit exasperated whistles and regret bestowing Free Will on humans. And stars – well they don’t just shine, they explode, they annihilate themselves, they reduce themselves to cosmic dust, they produce all those useful elements for building the next generation of solar systems and galaxies.

 

And it’s all wonderful. All marvellous. Why? Because it’s Love. It is the Creative Imagination having a whale of a time. It is the Creative Imagination saying “Wow, this is so much better than sitting back and contemplating my own smugness. This is It! This is Life! I totally, totally Love it!”

 

And if you’re an author – say Conan Doyle, or Shakespeare – or for that matter, you – then you don’t just shine the light outwards. You shine it inwards. You create not just characters, you create yourself. You don’t just discover what amazing things you can get Holmes to do or Hamlet to say, you discover how much more amazing you are than you’d ever realised. That’s what it’s about, this expansion of potential: the discovery of what you – and that baby, and Sherlock Holmes, and that flower bed, and Hamlet, and your beloved, and Brigadier Gerard, and that Universe – are capable of.

 

Let’s pause for a moment, though. How have our wildlife film crew been getting on while we’ve been reading Conan Doyle, considering babies, and pondering the cosmos? Busy. The Cameraman has tried capturing the dance and life and tingle in those jungle shafts of sunlight. “Think I got something,” he breathes, half doubtful.

 

And the Sound Man has tried recording their almost-audible songs – of inspiration, of in-spirit-ation – their breaths, their elusive presences, their dissolvings back into light. “What next?” he asks, eyebrows raised in bemusement.

 

Ah, next will be the End of the Quest. The Ultimate Target: Soul...

I have always written.  When I was a small child I would spend my pocket money on exercise books and dream of being like Enid Blyton or Roald Dahl.  As I got older this turned into lever arch files and loose pages and I dreamt of being like Virginia Andrews or Stephen King.

And now in my thirties the dream is the same.  The writers have changed and I have now discovered gadgets, but I am drawn to story writing as strongly as ever.

But am I good enough?  Will anyone want to read my book?  Or buy it?  How do I get better?

With these questions in mind, I have enrolled here...  My mission is to learn and to grow - and to keep the dream alive.

Well.  Actually.  I want to live it.

From the outset, a poem by Gillian Clarke, Climbing Cader Idris, has been in my mind while writing The Blackbird Effect. Today, she gave me her permission to quote from it at the head of the book. A tiny step, seeing as I haven’t yet sent the present draft of the book out to agents, but for me, this makes the book more real.

Gillian Clarke is a poet who writes in a way that has always drawn a response from me – even to the poems I find uncomfortable. I grew up in Cardiff, her place of birth, and my novel breathes South Wales air – in a way, I guess it’s the writing of an exile. It’s easier to love a place when you don’t have to live there!

I won’t quote the poem here – I would rather you discovered Gillian Clarke for yourself.  (see http://www.gillianclarke.co.uk/ )  And, in the fullness of time, maybe you’ll discover the two sisters in my novel who are not unlike the two climbers in the poem.

And, if by some remote chance you discover this blog, thank you, Gillian! 

Imagination... it slowly slips away. Pulling me down from the world I once knew, and few have found. Desperately clinging onto that glimpse of hope I have left that it will return to me. Rise up beneath my feet and sweep me away. But for now, I hang here, dangling in what sanity I have left.

I watch the world below me, following their patterns, rules, and regulation, trapped in their little box they think is so large. I watch through the eye of insanity, who blinds their creative splendor, masking this beautiful world I have love from the beginning. But then, I see those who glance up through the eye, and it's power cannot hold them. Their dreams and thoughts flow right through as they enter into this world.

I look above me now, away from the eye of insanity, and into the eyes of those watching me in worry. "Why does he look at the eye?" They said. "Slowly it drains what is left of him away." The look between each other, and I can see the colors jump between them. Above them, the beautiful world was clouded, and vague. What was happening to me? I had to see it again, desperately needed to touch those colors once more, but my strength failed me. So here I cling, staring up at what was a clear and beautiful world to me, hoping for the strength to climb, for the eye had taken it away from me.

The wind flowed around me, calming, comforting, and I felt strong hands all around me, pulling me, helping me. I could see the worried and caring eyes of those I knew, and the clouded world began to become vivid once more. I rose higher and higher until I finally reached the solid ground, my vision blurred from tears, and no more, the eye of insanity. It is time to come back, to regain the imagination I had so carelessly let slip away. It is time...

Of the dream,
The musing of Mythwriter

Superpowers?
Were do I begin?

I can fly, run super fast, hold my breath underwater for days, shoot laser beans from my hands, I’ve got x-ray vision, super hearing, I can turn invisible at will, control another persons mind with my own, I’m indestructible and can jump so high I’m up above the clouds.

But I’d trade them for just one, the ability to turn back time.

My powers didn’t come to me through any freak accident and they weren’t bestowed on me by some higher benevolent force.

My powers just happened..

Bit by bit I found I could do things no one else could.

I remember the first time I found I had super hearing.
I was in my room drawing pictures of super heroes, I loved drawing super heroes, I had pictures of them stuck all over my wall.

There was Magnet Man, The Fifty Story Boy, Nepta King Of The Ocean, The Zipper, The See Through Man, Rock Man and The Mind.

My ambition was to grow up and become a super hero myself.
 
Anyway the day I discovered my super hearing, my mum and dad were downstairs in the kitchen talking about adult things that I didn’t really understand.
I heard my mum telling my dad to get out and my dad said he was going to leave for good.

My dad had been having an affair with Mrs Murray over in Robin Street.

My mum said he was a no good lying bum and she’d be better off without him.
No one asked me what I wanted.

I heard silence, then the door slammed as my dad left with a suitcase of clothes and his stamps that he’d been collecting since he was twelve years old.

I never saw or heard from my dad again.
He just seemed to disappear from my world like fog in the morning only it wasn’t because of the warmth from the sun that he disappeared, rather it was the coldness of my mothers heart.

She changed heaps after that.
She no longer read me stories at bedtime or made my favourite dinners.
She stopped giving me hugs and kisses and spent most of the time locked in her bedroom drinking to drown her sorrow.

I knew then I was on my own and it was a scary feeling, luckily I had super powers to help me deal with all that had happened.

Because I was left to my own devices I began to run wild.

I had formed a friendship with Micky Stibbles who lived in the next street over the way.

We both had an interest in drawing super heroes and we would spend hours talking about the things we would do when we left school and became proper super heroes.

We would both sneak out at night and paint our superhero symbols all over the neighbourhood, on the sides of buildings, train tunnels, rubbish bins, car tires and sidewalks.

Mine was an S surrounded by four stars, one for me, one for my mum, the other for my dad and the last one for Micky my best friend.

Mickies was a H with lightning bolts coming out the sides.

Our symbols were painted over by order of the mayor who thought it was just pure vandalism so we decided to paint the side of the mayors house with our symbols to let him now we were good guys and were there to help (as soon as we left school).

As far as we were concerned our super hero symbols were there to give people hope, to let them know help was coming in the fight against injustice and breaking the law.

It made us feel very important, so much that we came to believe that we were invincible and certainly weren’t doing anything wrong.

It was one summer night that reality hit us like a freight train.

We had just finished decorating the side of Mr. Elphintons sweet shop when a patrol car came around the corner catching us in its headlights.

At first we just stood there like stunned rabbits until Micky screamed “RUN!”

We dropped our paint brushes and tins of paint and led the two police men in the patrol car on a merry chase through the neighbourhood but they must have radioed for back up because in a short time there were police cars driving around everywhere looking for us with their spotlights.

We knew they’d never find us because we knew all the best spots there were to hide in the neighbourhood but so did other kids who the police questioned.

It was a kid called Skinny Jones who told the police about the hiding spot we had chosen and they caught us pretty easily.

We’d fallen asleep and they just walked over to where we were hiding and woke us up.
If we hadn’t used up so much of our super energy running from them, we wouldn’t have fallen asleep and they wouldn’t have caught us.

As they walked us up to a patrol car that was going to take us down town to police headquarters, Micky tripped and fell.
The police man who was holding on to both of us let go of me to help Micky up and I ran.

I ran as fast as I could hearing Micky yelling for me to run faster and the police yelling for me to stop.

It seemed a few minutes later that the police had given up the chase as I couldn’t hear them with my super hearing, huffing and puffing after me.

When I stopped I saw that I was at the docks where the ships would unload their cargoes from distant lands.
I couldn’t remember how long I’d been running for but figured it was probably only a couple of minutes, that’s how long it would take a super hero to get there.

The docks were old and rickety, built something like sixty years ago and there were heaps of places to hide and I knew the police would never think of looking for me here so I just sat on the edge of the pier and thought about my super powers.

I just accepted I had developed super speed and maybe I should compete in the olympics when I got older.
I would amaze everyone with how fast I could run, I could also compete in the shot put because I knew I that if I had super hearing and super speed then I must surely have super strength and probably also the ability to jump higher then anyone else so I’d have to enter the high jump as well.

As I sat on the end of the pier thinking about how amazing it would be to be in the olympics and amaze the rest of the world with my super abilities, the police found me again.

I was so caught up in my imagination I didn’t hear them sneaking up on me until it was almost too late but my super hearing saved me.

I got up and turned around to face the five police men who were walking slowly towards me telling me that everything was alright, that I wouldn’t be in trouble they just wanted to talk to me.

I knew then that I had developed another super power, the ability to know when someone was lying to me, I also knew that I better develop the power to fly and quickly, if I was going to escape the lying policemen.

Just as they thought they had me I turned around and flew up into the air, flying out over the bay and then dove into the water where I knew I could hold my breathe for days or until they gave up searching for me.

I don’t remember anything after that but eventually the police gave up the search.
They said I’d drowned and the strong currents had washed my body out to sea.

I let everyone believe that because I didn’t think they would be able to accept the truth.

My mum drank even more after I disappeared, and died not long after in a car accident.

My dad married Mrs Murray and they had three kids, living a reasonably happy life until dad died of brain cancer.

Micky was sent to juvenile school where he learnt all sorts of things he’d had never learnt if they’d just given him a warning and sent him back to ordinary school.

He grew up to become a criminal and a good one to, making heaps of money and living the high life until the long, lying hand of the law finally caught up with him and he died in jail after an argument with another criminal over a bar of soap of all things.

The town changed lots too, growing bigger and bigger until it became a city and my neighbourhood was demolished to make way for a freeway leading to the new airport.

 I was a kid with superpowers and when I grew up, I was going to save the world from all the evil and injustice.

But if I could have turned back time, I wouldn’t have run from the police and I wouldn’t have dived into the cold waters of the bay that day.

I would have hung up my dreams of being a super hero and just been a normal boy.
I would have tried to help my mum overcome her grief and I would have forgiven my dad.

Instead I’m still holding my breath underwater and no one knows I’m here.
 

    
Dramoo was a weaver of the bridge between life and illusion, the bridge upon which all souls pass between this world and the next.

He was a good weaver, although sometimes he would confuse the threads between reality and illusion and the pattern would become erratic but he would quickly find the right thread again.

Dramoo was also a romantic soul.

He had carved a ring from the centre of his heart to give to the Maid of the Seven Seas when next she came visiting but for now, he kept the ring loosely tied about his kneck.

Tonight was the night of the Dreamers’ Dance where Dramoo hoped he would see the Maid. 
If he did, he would ask her to honour him with the Night Waltz and would give her the ring which hung about his neck. 

However before the dance, Dramoo still had a long shift at the Laughing Loom with many patterns to design and weave. 

He was both excited and nervous thinking about his forthcoming encounter with the Maid of the Seven Seas. 

She was as fresh as a spring blue sky and smelt as sweet.
She was both intresting and intriguing and whenever she was near his heart sang a new song.

When he watched her he saw she walked on waves of air and her hair moved liked the long tendrills of light that sung through every atom of her being.

He felt being with her as natural as the songs his heart sang whenever they were near.
His heart yearned to touch hers and knowing the same was true was what Dramoo needed to find out.

His plans had been well thought out but there was one small vital piece missing; the ring had disappeared from around his neck.

Dramoo searched everywhere, he retraced all his steps but found nothing.
He looked in places where he knew he hadn’t been, just in case he might have been there and not remembered, but still he could not find the ring.

He had a ghastly feeling that he knew where the ring had gone and was trying to convince himself that it wasn’t possible. 

At that moment Hector, a messenger of the Master Weaver, came down to inquire why the Laughing Loom had been silent. 

Dramoo told him of the ring he had lost and how he had been searching but could not find it anywhere. 

Hector came to the same conclusion as Dramoo. 

The ring had fallen from Dramoo’s neck and been lost within the Weave.

“Oh dear, you are in trouble” Hector said.  “I could tell the Master but I know what he’ll say, so you might as well go and do it anyway before he notices.”

Dramoo looked at Hector, “What? What will I have to do?”

“Go into the Weave and retrieve the ring of course” replied Hector, as though the answer was as visible as the distress on Dramoo’s face.

Dramoo looked in horror towards the bridge then back at Hector.

“Go into the Weave?” he said, “but how will I find the ring and how will I find my way back again? The Weave is a very big place you know”.

“Of course I know” Hector replied.  “How you find the ring and how you get back here is something you’re going to have to figure out for yourself.  Know that it will only be a matter of time before the Master finds out what has happened.  I suggest you be on your way.”

Taking over from Dramoo, Hector sat down before the Laughing Loom and continued the Weave.

Dramoo stood upon the edge of the bridge and remembering where his last pattern was, placed himself within the Weave.

As he disappeared from the Weavers’ World, Hector looked to where Dramoo had been and said “Dream beautiful Dramoo and please return safely.”


                                                     ******


The kiss of the Black Wizard was like no other. 

It was terrifying, it was seductive, it was passionate and consuming. 

Afterwards it left the receiver with an emptiness and an ache that could not be filled until, once again, the taste of the Wizard’s kiss was upon their lips.

This gave the Black Wizard enormous power over the many who had fallen into his web of seduction.

Kings, princes, princesses, queens and scullery maids were all willing to do his bidding, if only to find relief from the aching emptiness which had consumed their lives from his first kiss.

The Black Wizard had come far from his days as an apprentice, not that long ago.

His master had died mysteriously.

Some said it was from a spell that had gone wrong, others that he had been poisoned from a drink laced with powdered dragon’s breath and still others thought that it had just been a common cold. 

The Black Wizard knew better. 

His master had died from an all consuming ache of emptiness, which captured his soul and erased any memories of love or peace, leaving madness his only relief. 

Of course it had been the Black Wizard himself who had caused his sad master’s demise, using the power of a ring he found one day while walking through the Attica forest.

At first he had thought it only a curiousity when he saw it lying on the ground, until he placed it on one of his fingers and began to realise the power it held within.

A power designed for love but when placed upon the wizards finger, had become twisted as it reflected the disturbed darkness within his soul.

After his masters death, it did not take the Black Wizard long to expand his web into the royal court where his master had once been held in high esteem.

Any opposition he faced was soon erased by his magic kiss wether it be through husband, wife or lover.

The only thing he cared for was control and power and it mattered not the cost extracted from those who fell under his spell.

Many lives had been ruined but no one would blame the Black Wizard for this misfourtune.

Mistaken love can be a blinding thing, especially to those who know not the true meaning of Love and its all giving and all taking embrace.


                                                     *******


Dramoo found his pattern easier than he thought.

The songs of Love guided him to where his pattern lay within the wonderful weave of Life and then it was a simple matter of transmuting the essence of his being within the confines of its reality and its illusion.

He had never experienced being a part of his own creation but soon found his way around until he found the rite thread and from there on it would be smooth sailing or so he thought.


                                                       *******


The Black Wizard had absolute control over the Royal family and their servants, in fact he had poisoned the soul of everyone within the Royal kingdom except for the Royal Fool Adyan.

The poor man was too stupid to fall under any spell and certainly not worth kisssing, as he contained no power at all within the kingdom and would forever be the servant of he who reigns.

Besides, he was an ugly bastard thought the Black Wizard as he walked out onto the top of one of the castles towers.

A dark storm was approaching, filled with savage forks of lightning that licked the ground with obscene menace.

The wizard smiled and began to laugh for he felt the power he could summon to be greater then the raw energy of the eternal elementals.

He was immortal, invincible.
Nothing could hurt him or defeat him.
He was scared of nothing and then he turned about and went inside before he got wet.

The dark, bruised purple black clouds, rolled heavily across the ground with a scream of wispy faces that could no longer contain the unfolding of their being.

The lightning burned in fiery streaks across the storms bloated body and the stabbing rain erupted in savage fury as the Black Wizard sat at his table discussing sinister plans with his shadow.

Why?

Because he was just a very nasty person at heart, that’s why they called him black not brindle or cream or muave as that fool Adyan called him all the time.

But what can you expect from an idiot who can’t even tell you what day of the week it was much less the colour of a colour.

First though he needed to find out what other powers this ring posessed, he was getting rather tired of having to kiss people all the time, except when the pleasure took him.

The only person who could remotely have any answers to what he needed to know, was a old mad man called Pook who lived up in the Fairyway Mountains.

It looked cold up there in those mountains and the journey wasn’t going to be an easy one.

It was at  times like these that the Black Wizard wished he’d studied the art of body transferance a little more closely, because whenever he tried it he always ended up in places he didn’t wan’t to be in. 


                                                           *******


Pook was also called the Father of the Mountain Dasies and as he sat talking to his petaled children, he saw a wizard flying through the air towards him, this is a sad man he thought.

The Black Wizard was using an old broom he’d stolen from a defenceless witch many years ago and was shakily trying to guide it to a safe landing upon the ground.

He almost made it but the broom was just as frightened of landing as he was and they crashed with an undignified thump.

The Black Wizard quickly picked himself up from the ground, brushed himself off, straightened his hat and gave the broom a swift kick for the landing and turned towards Pook the mad man.

He didn’t know why, but for some reason this old loony frightened him. which wasn’t a good thing.

In the future he’d have to do something about it but for now he questioned the old man about the ring.

Where does it come from?

Who made it and what else can it do?

The old man refused to say a word until the Black Wizard let him wear the ring, so he just rolled around amongst the tickling daisies until the wizard finally gave in and let the old mad man put the ring upon his finger.

Pook began to kiss the ring and ran off through the dasies showing them all what a lovely thing it was.

The Black Wizard stood up and shouted for him to come back but the Father of the Mountain Daisies was lost in the passion of Love for his children.

The exasperated wizard finally found the mad man making daisy chains on the other side of the mountain and when he finally got close enough, he snatched the ring back off the old mad man and demanded some answers to his questions.

Pook giggled and stared into the joy of a daisies heart.

The Black wizard contemplated turning the old loony into fire wood and would have, except for the fact that that also was a spell that tended to backfire upon him.
Damn he wished he’d paid more attention to his studies.

The old mad man suddenly stopped giggling and looked at the Black Wizard with the clearest, sanest eyes he’d ever seen and said “The only true magic in this ring is in the heart of that who made it and no other can unlock its secrets, would you like a cup of tea?”

As the old man started giggling again in his mad, mad world, the Black Wizard who understood nothing the old man had said, turned around and stomped back to his broom crushing as many innocent daisies as he could along the way.

The old man was worse than the fool. He’d have to find out what other powers the ring held himself, the Black Wizard cursed darkly to himself as he flew shakily back to the castle.

When he arrived back at his room, he carried out his threat of burning the broom if it didn’t land safely and then he pulled out of his cuboards a whole bunch of secret ingredients and proceeded to experiment with them upon the ring.

All through the cold, dark night he experimented until finally the sun rose in all its glory heralding the brand new tapestry of another day.

The Black Wizard was exhausted and had not learnt a thing, the only power he could use from the ring was that of a kiss and nothing else would be granted.

Disappointed and sulky, he lay down on his cold bed and quickly fell into the comforting arms of the nightmares that lived in his dark, dark sleep.

When the Black Wizard woke, he was greeted with the saliva dribbling sight of the Royal Fool sitting upon the table before him.

“What do you wan’t?” the wizard gruffly asked as he rolled over onto his other side.

The fool started playing with one of the bells that hung from his hat and began to recite a nursery rhyme......

“There was a man with a heart so black,
darker than the night.
Who found a most powerful ring,
fashioned from the light.
He used its power in a selfish way
and now his darkness is here to stay.
What the dark man needs he lacks
and the owner of the ring now wants it back.”

The Black Wizard quickly opened his eyes and turned back towards the fool who was happily playing naughts and crosses with himself with some of the secret powdered ingredients upon the table.

“What did you say?” said the Wizard in disbeleif.

“I said, give me back my ring” replied the fool.

“What do you mean your ring?” asked the Wizard.

“I made it, it’s my ring”, the fool said simply.

“You’re a fool, what would you know about magical rings? You don’t even know the colour of my heart” said the Wizard.

“It’s black but it wasn’t always’ replied the fool.
“It used to be of a most beautiful blue until you found the ring and put it on, then your lust for power and your fear of yourself twisted your heart and soul. The ring only reflects what lies there and it was my mistake to have lost it and now I want it back, please”.

The Black Wizard tried to laugh bravely but it was obvious that he was scared, not because of what the fool had said but simply because the fool was no fool at all and was not scared of the Black Wizard.

 “I should have kissed you long ago, who are you?”

The fool hopped up off the table and walked slowly towards the wizard and said “Who I am and of my name is of no use to you wizard, I have very little time left and I want my ring back.”

The Black Wizard felt the ring on his finger softly pulsing as the fool walked towards him.
When he was close enough, the Black Wizard suddenly jumped forward, grabbed the fool and planted a kiss upon his lips.

The Black Wizard then laughed out loudly, thinking the fool was now in his power but he quickly realised that something was wrong.

His heart began to quicken in pace and his eyes swam with dizziness as he fell unconcious to the floor.

When he woke, the fool was gone and so was the ring.
He couldn’t remember who he was or where he was.

The spells he had cast through the magical kiss were lifted from all who were under them and they remembered nothing of the Black Wizard or his dangerous kisses.

They resumed their lives as though nothing had happened.

The wizard was found wandering aimlessly through the corridors of the castle and was promptly ejected through the servants entrance landing in a puddle of muddy water.

When he looked up he saw a little girl walking along the street talking to a daisy and he then remembered that he was invited to a cup of daisy tea up on the Fairyway Mountains.

As he picked himself out of the muddy puddle and started walking towards them, the old mad man Pook giggled and prepared to receive his guest.


                                                     *******


Dramoo rose up out of the weave and walked over to Hector who was happily operating the Laughing Loom.

“All is well?” asked Hector.

“All is well” replied Dramoo and took over the operation of the loom as Hector bade him farewell until the Dreamers Dance.
 
Dramoo thought of what a tale he would be able to tell the Maid of the Seven Seas when he told her of his adventure.

He thought tenderly of the ring he had made her, which was safely nestled in the pocket of his shimmering jacket.

“I hope she likes it” he thought and began to hum a few bars of a new song he was composing as he weaved another pattern of his Love into the bridge between the worlds of reality and illusion.
                                                
              
                                                   THE END
                                                     *******