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neversremedy8Few enough people, it often seems, are natural drivers, born to it one might say, but even less are in their element as passengers.
Certainly this was the case with the one in the back of charabanc, alternating wails and grumbles and half barked orders as the driver shunted through the gears, whipping the bus around in a great slew of water, hurtling on towards the aerodrome through the dark and the solid seeming rain. The rain that splashed off the driver’s wide hat (shaped not unlike an umbrella, fortunately). It splashed off the passenger’s hat too, fizzing and hissing as it dropped into a blue flamed fire balanced precariously between thick gloved hands.
“Don’t blame me!” The driver called back. “It’s not my rain! Not my magic! Why couldn’t we have a roof – or just LESS RAIN!”
“No good without the rain,” the passenger was mumbling as the flames changed colour, as the elements burned and fused in a small golden cauldron and a dark metal crucible held by a twisted retort. “Better with a storm, good story, need a storm, ha, ha, ha! Good storm - lousy driving! And you should have put some bloody clothes on!”
The driver kept their anger in check. Now was not the time for a brabble, and there was no better welder after all, no better story-mage, none to match the skill as words were plucked from nothing, given form and thrown together, their separate properties forgotten in the frigorific fusion.
Even in these hollow times, story was more than just a commodity; it bewitched the very fabric of things. Without story none of them would exist, and that was something the driver shivered to contemplate. Men were indeed ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’, as the master often said, but it was the welder who took reality itself and ‘made it strange’. Oh sacred Alienist! Such ancient and mysterious magic and such wisdom to wield that staff and book!
Trumpeting then, the vehicle shuddered to a stop. “We’re here! The aerodrome lies before us.”
There was a great bellow of exaltation from the passenger. “Fly my chick, you know what to do!”
.......................................
It was a miracle, the Captain had said, that in such a maelstrom they had found this single spot and navigated their way through to it. Trooping in through the sludge of the airfield the beleaguered group had stood beneath the aerodrome’s fractured glass canopy. Things looked bleak until Steph found an old case of whiskey and broke it open.
“We’ll all feel better for a bever! Deeper then did ever plummet sound, we’ll drown our sorrows!” Steph was heard to say, although later he would deny it.
They were definitely addled when Ariel appeared and quickly had them clucking around protectively and possessively. Nakedness can have that effect. And though no/one was exactly certain if the stranger with the really long hair was a boy or a girl, they didn’t seem to mind too much either way and were content enough to fling a great coat round the slim shoulders and accept the name Miranda.
They were a little put out when Miranda’s Father appeared. However, reactions changed almost at once as Gonzo hailed him, in a tone of shocked recognition, as the long lost Duke of their own Milan.
The sun came out as if on cue.
Everybody bundled aboard the bulky Lancaster which rose into a sky unexpectedly calmed into blue.
Bumping about in the back, Miranda huddled close and whispered dreamily, “free, we’re finally free!”
“Yes,” said Caliban with a grin, “that foxed ‘em!”
Certainly this was the case with the one in the back of charabanc, alternating wails and grumbles and half barked orders as the driver shunted through the gears, whipping the bus around in a great slew of water, hurtling on towards the aerodrome through the dark and the solid seeming rain. The rain that splashed off the driver’s wide hat (shaped not unlike an umbrella, fortunately). It splashed off the passenger’s hat too, fizzing and hissing as it dropped into a blue flamed fire balanced precariously between thick gloved hands.
“Don’t blame me!” The driver called back. “It’s not my rain! Not my magic! Why couldn’t we have a roof – or just LESS RAIN!”
“No good without the rain,” the passenger was mumbling as the flames changed colour, as the elements burned and fused in a small golden cauldron and a dark metal crucible held by a twisted retort. “Better with a storm, good story, need a storm, ha, ha, ha! Good storm - lousy driving! And you should have put some bloody clothes on!”
The driver kept their anger in check. Now was not the time for a brabble, and there was no better welder after all, no better story-mage, none to match the skill as words were plucked from nothing, given form and thrown together, their separate properties forgotten in the frigorific fusion.
Even in these hollow times, story was more than just a commodity; it bewitched the very fabric of things. Without story none of them would exist, and that was something the driver shivered to contemplate. Men were indeed ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’, as the master often said, but it was the welder who took reality itself and ‘made it strange’. Oh sacred Alienist! Such ancient and mysterious magic and such wisdom to wield that staff and book!
Trumpeting then, the vehicle shuddered to a stop. “We’re here! The aerodrome lies before us.”
There was a great bellow of exaltation from the passenger. “Fly my chick, you know what to do!”
.......................................
It was a miracle, the Captain had said, that in such a maelstrom they had found this single spot and navigated their way through to it. Trooping in through the sludge of the airfield the beleaguered group had stood beneath the aerodrome’s fractured glass canopy. Things looked bleak until Steph found an old case of whiskey and broke it open.
“We’ll all feel better for a bever! Deeper then did ever plummet sound, we’ll drown our sorrows!” Steph was heard to say, although later he would deny it.
They were definitely addled when Ariel appeared and quickly had them clucking around protectively and possessively. Nakedness can have that effect. And though no/one was exactly certain if the stranger with the really long hair was a boy or a girl, they didn’t seem to mind too much either way and were content enough to fling a great coat round the slim shoulders and accept the name Miranda.
They were a little put out when Miranda’s Father appeared. However, reactions changed almost at once as Gonzo hailed him, in a tone of shocked recognition, as the long lost Duke of their own Milan.
The sun came out as if on cue.
Everybody bundled aboard the bulky Lancaster which rose into a sky unexpectedly calmed into blue.
Bumping about in the back, Miranda huddled close and whispered dreamily, “free, we’re finally free!”
“Yes,” said Caliban with a grin, “that foxed ‘em!”
