PRYMILLA PROPPA

Pastor Oldpash undid his string tie, removed his frock coat and loosened his overly starched collar, then lay down on the bed in the small rectory behind his church. A band of late afternoon sunlight slanted across the bed, right below his head – like a guillotine blade poised to exact final punishment on a condemned man. He shut his eyes and placed a forearm across his brow. Why had he blurted out such impertinences to Miss Proppa? Why had he projected his own impure thoughts and deeds onto her spotless soul? He, not she, received parcels from the infamous Holywell bookstores and devoured the explicities within, filling his mind with sickening swill! And strangely enough, he derived little pleasure from it now. The female characters in the novels and stories had begun to bore him. Their wanton lifestyles, their brazen acts, the ease with which every rogue conquered them – it left him yearning for something better, the type of woman you’d have to wed in order to bed; an unattainable target, ten times more tantalizing than the easy pickings. A woman like … Miss Prymilla Proppa. There were many wholesome and respectable young women in the town, to be sure. Many even came to church. But they were bland and plain and aroused no passions within him. Miss Proppa, on the other hand… Every time he passed her home he wondered what she was doing at that very moment, and he pictured her in his mind – sitting in her parlor reading her Bible, or in her sewing room crocheting doilies, or in her kitchen preparing a meal. That was his favorite – Miss Proppa standing by her stove, stirring a pot of beef stew as the rising steam caused beads of perspiration to form on her forehead and a lock of her auburn hair fell limply onto her brow… *Stop it! You’re obsessed! Resist the devil’s efforts to divert you from the holy Path! Cleanse your mind of these forbidden desires!* He visualized himself washing his body with pure white soap and drying off with a pure white towel, which somehow morphed into the fluffy shank of an innocent sheep. He summoned a new image, drinking wholesome fresh milk supplied by a pure white cow, under which he lay in a fragrant meadow, tugging on its teats again and again. “Stop it!” He slapped himself hard across the face, knocking the twisted fantasies out of his head, and summoned a new image – his Saviour upon the Cross, beaming down at him as he knelt before the altar, a Bible clutched to his bosom, his trembling lips intoning the Lord’s Prayer. Slowly he drifted off to sleep, and entered the realm of dreams. WARNING: Depravity, dead ahead. [[Seeketh sinful sentences]] [[Readeth not and repent!]]

“Good to see you again, [[he had wavy<-Professor Wulhong.]]” [[likewise<-Continue]]

Prymilla fought growing unease as she came up the walk, sensing that someone was watching her from behind the closed curtains. She stepped onto the porch, hesitated, knocked on the door. It flew open instantly, startling her, and a short, skinny girl with a mop of dishwater hair stood there, wearing a long black dress covered with green, red and yellow beads depicting cats and dragons. But Prymilla barely noticed, for her eyes were fixed on the girl’s face – the spitting image of Erpera Sewed, one of Prymilla’s childhood friends who drowned while bobbing for apples during an ill-fated county fair in Deddinburg. “Uh … hello,” Prymilla said. “I’m here to see…” “I’m the one you wish to see,” the girl replied in an unplaceable accent. She beckoned Prymilla to come inside. The cottage was sparsely furnished with several plain straight-back chairs and a low, unvarnished table with one bent leg. Six strange glass figurines depicting deformed creatures lined the mantle above a bricked-up fireplace. A drooping philodendron sat in a cracked clay pot in one corner. Innosenz gestured at one of the chairs and Prymilla sat, finding it surprisingly comfortable although there was no cushion. Innosenz sat in a similar chair facing her from about six feet away – and Prymilla suppressed a gasp, for the girl’s face now resembled Jurna Uptan, a seventh-grade classmate who died during a cooking class while preparing yams when a defective pressure cooker lid blew off and struck her in the head. “Would you care for some cognac?” the girl said. Prymilla didn’t normally imbibe, but she felt an urgent need to steady her nerves, so she nodded her head. Something touched her skirt. She looked down and saw a black cat with a milky left eye carrying a small silver salver in its mouth with a long-stemmed glass sitting in the middle of it. Prymilla picked up the glass and took a sip of the amber liquid. It went down warmly. She emptied the glass and returned it to the salver and the cat slinked away. “Better?” Innosenz said. Prymilla looked up – and saw the face of her cousin, Zishynne, who was stabbed to death by an irate card player who caught her cheating during a high-stakes canasta game on board the riverboat *Snatchez* just south of New Orleans. “I think I need a refill,” she muttered to herself, unnerved by her hostess’s chameleon countenance. A moment later the cat reappeared. Prymilla picked up the second drink and took a swig, then rested the glass on her knee and cleared her throat. “Miss McDarleng, I came here because …” [[I know. I’ve seen<-Continue]]

“That’s all I can conjure up for you right now,” Innosenz said. “But I know the rest of the story. The Gathors were high muckety-mucks in Drauthenboch nearly a century ago. The girl was Luridia Charbold – not a muckety-muck by anyone’s definition, just a working girl trying to get by. On that horrid and fateful day, Trotton Senior carried her body down to the cellar and then took his son to the family’s summer house near Phezinton. Later that evening the father returned to the mansion, armed with a pick and shovel from the garden shed. He’d never done a lick of manual labor in his life, but this was one chore he couldn’t entrust to anyone else. When he got down to the cellar he discovered Luridia’s body was gone. No one ever found it.” “You mean she survived?” Innosenz shrugged. “Many have speculated. No one knows for sure. But ever since that dark day, lurid clouds resembling young Trotton and Luridia have haunted the Gathor clan.” “But I’m not a member of the Gathor clan.” “I know. But you have something in your possession that once belonged to the son. The aura of that object has attracted the cloud.” “Oh? And what object is that?” “A slim book with a scuffed-up forest-green cover and the title embossed in gold leaf…” [[“Tozzath's Phantasmagorium.”<-“Tozzath's Phantasmagorium”]] [[so how do I<-Continue]]

Betrayne Rendo had died on impact. The pilot, Chard Torbun, had been killed moments earlier, thanks to a bullet in his back fired by Sir Bloris’s Webley revolver – an accident, since Rendo was the intended target. [[the plane had been in the air<-Continue]]

When she was a little girl, [[Prymilla Proppa]] and her friends used to lie in the fragrant heather atop the hills near Brexdreth and gaze up at the clouds, imagining pictures within the fluffy lumps – puppies and kittens, unicorns and dragons, castles and sailing ships. But one friend, Amorala Borvus, saw things a bit differently. Her dragons unleashed gouts of flame at knights on horseback, roasting them alive in their suits of armor; the castles crumbled under a rain of huge boulders flung by ugly one-eyed giants; the sailing ships sank, gripped in the slimy tentacles of gigantic sea serpents that crushed their hulls and devoured their helpless crews; and the unicorns impaled the puppies and kittens with their thrusting horns. Disturbed by Amorala’s strange envisionings, her mother took her to the doctor, who sent her to Breshus Sheldars, a noted hypnotherapist who had studied in Vienna, and he eventually straightened her out. As Prymilla and her friends grew to adulthood they no longer pictured things within the clouds and rarely gave them a second glance unless they turned dark and portended rain. But all that changed for Prymilla one fateful day when she glanced up at the sky and beheld images that made Amorala’s warped visions seem tame by comparison. “Disgusting!” she muttered to herself as she stood in the well-kept garden of her tidy home in the nicer section of town. “Filthy,” she added. “Degenerate! Obscene!” [[Describe the cloud]] [[why am I<-Ditch the description. My mind is pure and I intend to keep it that way.]]

Reasonably pretty, with a fawn-like face and eyes the color of freshly baked brownies and auburn hair done up in a French twist, and a trim figure clad in a modestly tight brown gingham dress. [[1<-Continue]]

(enchant:?passage,(text-colour:white)+(bg:purple))[''Images of a naked man and woman shagging shamelessly – her vaporous vagina welcoming his cumulonimbus cock as his hands grasped her silo-sized tits. And even more bizarre, the cloud was hovering, defying the strong westerly wind, yet there was plenty of motion within it – hips thrusting, backs arching, toes curling, tongues darting, limbs jerking. Thankfully there was no sound except the wind’s own bluster.''] (text-colour:yellow)[[why am I<-Continue]]

*Why am I seeing this? Am I suffering from the same affliction Amorala endured many years ago? What possibly could have brought it on?* A knock on the front door interrupted her musings. She left the garden, walked around the side of the house and approached the porch, where she saw... [[Pastor Oldpash]] [[Dr. Sheldars]]

Pastor Hushian Oldpash stood there with the tails of his frock coat whipping around his bandy legs, stirred by the stiff breeze, as he glowered at Prymilla with normally docile brown eyes and his usually mild voice rang out with fury. “Miss Proppa, what is the meaning of this?” Her eyes widened. “The meaning of what, pastor?” He thrust a ramrod-straight arm toward the sky. “That … abominable obscenity! It’s shocking! Shameful!” A wave of embarrassment swept over her – and also relief, for his comment confirmed the cloud was real. She had not taken leave of her senses. She clasped a hand to her bosom. “Pastor, I assure you I had nothing to do with it. I’m as shocked and horrified as you are.” “Pah! God controls the weather. It is His holy hand that sculpts the clouds.” He leveled his arm at her, aiming an accusing finger. “This is His label upon you, his ‘scarlet letter,’ as it were, only in this case it is not an ‘A’ for adultery, but a ‘P’ – for pornography! Tell me, Miss Proppa, how often have you frequented the bookshops of Hollihell Street in Lundownia and purchased those prurient publications that corrupt the mind and soil the soul, instead of perusing wholesome works of literature? How often have you lain in bed at night, feeding filthy fantasies with your revolting reading matter?” Her face reddened – not with embarrassment this time, but rage. “How dare you make such vile accusations, Pastor Oldpash! I have never even heard of Hollihell Street and I have never been to Lundownia! I insist you leave my property at once! Good day to you sir!” His cheeks colored and he bowed his head, running a hand across his fevered brow, his voice chastened as he replied. “I … I do apologize, Miss Proppa. I don’t know what came over me. The devil himself must have placed those words upon my tongue, just as he placed his foul imagery within that cloud. I shall return to the church now and pray the Almighty drives the Dark One’s evil influence from our fair city.” “Apology accepted, pastor,” Prymilla said stiffly. “I believe our conversation is at an end.” She turned and entered her house, shutting the door firmly behind her. [[Follow the pastor]] [[Follow Miss Proppa]]

“Doctor Sheldars!” she said as his piercing blue eyes peered at her through the lenses of the pince-nez glasses perched at the end of his aquiline nose. “What a coincidence! I was just thinking about you!” His eyes were his best feature, islands of gleaming azure intensity in a sea of blah. “I’m flattered,” he said, smiling. “What brings you here?” “I happened to be passing through town on my way to the annual Quantum Hypnotics Conference in Loxfordham and the train ran out of steam just as it pulled into the station. Something to do with the pistons, I believe. They said it would take a couple of hours to fix, so I thought I’d take a little stroll to kill some time, maybe visit with a few acquaintances to see how they were doing. I hope I’m not intruding.” “Intruding? Hardly! In fact, you’re just the person I wanted to see.” He arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “How serendipitous. I’m intrigued. Go on.” She hesitated, her face reddening. She lowered her voice. “This may be an odd question, doctor…” [[there are no odd<-Continue]]

As Prymilla sat down in the parlor and reached for her Bible, hoping to console herself with a soothing psalm or two, she heard childish laughter outside. She got up and went to the window, parted the curtains and looked out. “Merciful heavens!” [[Two children]] stood on the sidewalk near her front gate, pointing at the sky. Panicking, Prymilla rushed to the door – but forced herself to calm down as she stepped onto the porch. She took a deep breath and casually strolled up the walk. [[Hello children<-Continue]]

Pastor Oldpash’s arching back settled onto the mattress of his bed once more and he jolted awake and lay there panting as the lurid imagery vanished from his mind’s eye. He arose from the bed with a groan and left his room, exited the rectory and returned to the church. As he neared the chancel he stopped short, staring at the blue towel lying on the altar directly below the crucifix. *But that was just part of my dream. How did it get here?* He clambered onto the altar, grabbed the towel and pressed it to the wet, wooden cheeks of his Savior to dry His tears as he muttered, “Lord have mercy! Lord have mercy!” over and over again. [[Follow Miss Proppa<-Continue]]

Omali Shapman, age ten, and her brother Middol, age eleven. Omali had blonde pigtails and a gap between her front teeth and was dressed in a blue smock. Her brother wore his grubby dungarees as always, with a slingshot protruding from a back pocket. [[Two children 2<-Continue]]

“Hello, children,” Prymilla said. “What are you laughing at?” Omali gestured at the cloud again. “Them. They’re doing funny things.” “Look at ‘em go!” her brother said. Prymilla’s mind raced. *I must protect these innocent children! I’ll tell them the man and woman are just dancing. Yes, that’s all it is, a funny dance. I hate to lie, especially to children, but it’s for their own good.* She looked up at the cloud and started to speak… And her mouth fell open and she stood there speechless, gobsmacked by what she saw. A dachshund was running circles around a chow – until the bigger dog bit him in two and gobbled up the front half while the back half kept circling. The chow suddenly squatted and pooped out the mongrel morsel, which resumed running as if nothing had happened, its back half giving chase until it caught up and the two pooch pieces reunited as the chow wagged its tail so hard it snapped off and flew away. The children unleashed more giggles and the cloud critters shifted back to their original positions and began the scene all over again. After one more encore the dogs vanished and nothing but lumpy fluff remained, pictureless and pure. “Aww,” Omali said. “They went away.” “That was the bestest cloud ever!” Middol said. “Do you think the doggies will come back, Miss Proppa?” Omali said. Prymilla shook her head. “Oh, I doubt it. Not for a long, long time.” “Let’s wait and see!” Middol said. *Oh no! I can’t have that! What if the dirty picture returns?* [[prymilla thought a moment<-Continue]]

Prymilla thought a moment, and hit upon a desperate and devious plan. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, children. Surely you’ve heard the old saying: (text-colour:yellow)[*If you see dog spirits up in the sky You’ll have good luck till the day you die. But see them twice and they lose their charm And bring you woe and grief and harm*] “I never heard that rhyme before,” Omali said. “Me neither,” scoffed Middol. Prymilla crossed her fingers behind her back. “Well it’s true. My cousin Prenupton saw the sky dogs once.” “Oh yeah?” Middol said. “Yes, when he was a child – a weak and woebegone waif living a life of hardship and misery. But after he beheld the dogs everything changed. He grew strong and healthy and his family flourished. Fruit baskets appeared on their doorstep daily, as if by magic, and chocolate milk filled their wishing well weekly, and each morning mint candies appeared on their pillows. But Prenupton wanted to see the sky dogs again, so he hid in the rose bushes out in the garden and stared up at the clouds for hours every day, and one fateful afternoon the dogs reappeared and he got a second look.” She bowed her head. “From that day forth, rotten fruit filled the baskets and dead mice replaced the mints and runny dog poop filled the well.” “Eww!” the children chorused. “Very eww,” Prymilla said. “And then one day Prenupton was out working in a turnip patch and cut off his left toe with a hoe and developed gangrene and the doctors had to amputate his entire foot! And a few days later he got his arm caught in a combine and they had to cut that off too. And a few days after that he was thrown from a horse and landed on top of a picket fence and they had to cut off his…” “We get the idea, Miss Proppa,” Middol said. He turned to his sister. “Come on, Omali, let’s get out of here! “Right behind you,” she said, and they took off running as Prymilla stifled a smirk. *A fine performance, if I do say so myself. [[Mrs. Clork]] would have been proud!* [[she turned toward<-Continue]]

Her high school drama teacher. [[she turned toward<-Continue]]

She turned toward the house, humming a happy tune – but the mirth died on her lips as she glanced up at the sky. The copulating cloud couple had come back. She shut her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead. “I think I’d better lie down for a spell,” she muttered, and went inside. When she awakened from her nap she poked her head out the back door and looked up at the clouds, hoping – praying – to see the dogs, or some other acceptable images, or nothing at all. No such luck. The lovers were still going at it, with even more vigor than before. “Oh Gods!” she moaned. “What am I to do?” [[perhaps she should write to prof wulhong<-Continue]]

Perhaps she should write to Professor Rodus Wulhong, one of her old teachers from Tautley College, an expert on strange phenomena who had authored three [[scholarly books]].

(text-colour:black)+(bg:#b3b3b3)[*A Quantum Conceptualization of Nonlinear Causation The Myth of Reality – New Theories about Fortean Factualization An Inquiry into the Iniquities of Paranormal Paradigms.*] [[but even if he agreed<-Continue]]

But even if he agreed to help her – and didn’t dismiss her letter as the ravings of an unsound mind – how soon could he clear time on his busy schedule for a visit to Brexdreth? It would be much quicker to consult with Innosenz McDarleng, the mystic who lived in the house catty-cornered from her own. Prymilla did not believe in – nor approve of – occultists, but traditional prayers had not helped and she was getting desperate. She could not endure this torment much longer. She must act. [[prof wulhong<-Write to Professor Wulhong]] [[Visit Innosenz McDarleng]]

He had wavy gray hair and a wavy gray face and uneven mutton chops and a large purplish acid stain on the left side of his cheek and chin, and he wore a yellow-and-black checkered vest and baggy gray-and-maroon pinstriped trousers and yellow suede shoes. Pince-nez glasses perched at the end of a pointy, veiny nose. He held a bulky suitcase in one hand, made of blue metal. [[likewise<-Continue]]

“Likewise,” he said. “I was delighted to receive your missive, Miss Proppa. I’m intrigued.” She ushered him into the parlor and gestured toward her overstuffed pea-green couch with a floral motif. “Please have a seat.” “Thank you.” “Would you care for some chamomile tea?” “I’d love some.” She excused herself and went into the kitchen, returning with two steaming cups. She handed him one and sat down in a troll-leather easy chair a few feet away. They exchanged a pleasantry or two before getting down to business. “So tell me, professor, do you think there might be a scientific explanation for this horrid phenomenon that has plagued me of late?” He nodded. “Most definitely.” Her ears perked up. Hope sparked in her breast. “There is?” “Oh yes. Indubitably. Please allow me to demonstrate.” [[he got to his feet, picked<-Continue]]

He got to his feet, picked up the suitcase and set it on an end table next to the couch, then snapped open the latches and raised the lid as Prymilla joined him. Inside was a gramophone, devoid of tone arm and horn, and next to it a compartment containing a twelve-inch-long silver spindle to which six disks were attached at two-inch intervals, half of them copper, the others brass, all about six inches in diameter and embossed with strange geometric shapes and arcane glyphs made of blue, green or red crystal. The professor picked up the spindle and inserted it into the center of the gramophone’s platter with a satisfying “snick,” then opened another compartment and took out a black stone flecked with gold, about the size of a softball and carved in a roughly trapezium shape with little scalloped facets. He turned the crank on the side of the gramophone thirteen times, tightening a spring mechanism, then pressed a small lever and the platter began rotating. (text-colour:black)+(bg:(gradient: 0, 0,#e61919,0.5,#e5e619,1,#19e5e6))[''The spinning discs flickered and flashed, spawning a foot-high cylinder of reddish-gold light with streaks of silvery blue coruscating along its length. The crystal symbols glowed brightly, detaching themselves from the discs and swirling around within the cylinder like flakes in a snow globe. Prof. Wulhong held the rock above the cylinder for a few seconds, then carefully let go. To Prymilla’s amazement the rock hovered there, wobbling a little but not falling. The professor placed his hands on either side of the cylinder, running them up and down its shimmering length, and a mist welled up inside it and spilled out the top, flowing past the black stone and forming a cloud above it, about the size of a pillow. Wulhong’s fingers flexed and his palms pressed as the cloud altered its shape.''] The cylinder brightened. The lumps of cloud-fluff swirled and swelled. An odd tingle surged through Prymilla’s body and she felt a little woozy, as if she herself were caught up in the spindle’s vortex. Images began to form within the cloud. Very familiar images. “And that is how I created your cloud, Miss Proppa,” he said in a husky voice. “Yours is much bigger than this one, of course, because it’s been around longer.” She gasped. “*You* created the cloud that bedevils me so?” “Yes, it was I.” “But … but why?” [[ah, therein hangs<-Continue]]

“Ah, therein hangs a tale. You see, years ago I was exploring Aztec ruins in Guatemala – or was it Mayan ruins in Mexico? I can’t quite remember. Anyway, I unearthed some ancient papyrus scrolls – or was it clay tablets? – that described a magical device the priests supposedly used to make rain clouds to nourish their crops during the dry season. I tried building the device but encountered one failure after another. It occurred to me that perhaps the Aztecs – or the Mayans – had not succeeded either, and the stories in the scrolls – or tablets – were just tall tales. But the project had seized my imagination and I couldn’t give up on it. Imagine, turning deserts into fertile fields to feed the world’s starving millions, with abundant drinking water to quench their thirsts. I could win the Nobel Prize. I’d be the toast of academia. And best of all I’d have an achievement I could shove into the smug face of Chancellor Eruditz to take him down a peg or two!” Anger flashed through his eyes, but quickly receded. “I persisted and at last I achieved success, of a sort. Combining modern technology with the magical spells of the ancient holy men, I was able to harness at least some of the primordial energies they invoked and create my own clouds. Alas, they produced negligible amounts of rain, but I discovered I could sculpt them into interesting shapes. Not the kind of thing that wins you a Nobel prize, but a remarkable achievement nevertheless.” “But why didn’t you create clean images instead of this … this dreck?” He shrugged. “Oh, I tried making clean ones – unicorns and dragons and castles and sailing ships – but somehow they always ended up looking like naked men and women screwing across the sky. At first I was baffled and ashamed, and then I had an epiphany. Some of the greatest sculptures in the world depict the glory of the naked human body, yet if two such bodies are enjoined in the most natural and glorious activity known to mankind, the basis of motherhood and the survival of the human race, somehow it is deemed offensive and must be hidden away. Isn’t that absurd?” Her cheeks colored – with anger just as much as embarrassment. “There is such a thing as propriety, sir! Some things are meant to be private, not crudely spread across the sky for all to see, especially innocent children! Modesty and discretion are virtues.” He startled her with a raucous laugh and his eyes took on a fiendish gleam. [[That's what always<-Continue]]

“But I quickly grew jaded and the floozies began to bore me. Then one day you showed up in my Vibrational Studies Seminar. … Or was it Introduction to Ancient Inductions? No matter. There you sat, your ankles tucked demurely beneath your chair, your shapely body modestly covered by a tasteful brown dress.” “Professor Wulhong, I…” “You took copious notes, glancing up at me only occasionally. Your face was fresh and natural, not encased in powder and rouge and lipstick. And I said to myself, ‘This one will never throw herself at me, seeking good grades through degradation. She is a scholar with no interest in deviant dalliances or casual cavorting.’” He laughed. “It drove me mad! You were the one woman I couldn’t have, the one whose charms would remain a mystery. And then one day while I was working on my clouds I found my hands sculpting the woman’s face into your likeness, without any volition on my part. And the man … oh yes, the man was me! And as I watched them bang away at each other I grew more and more agitated! I…” “That is quite enough, sir!” “I finally changed the faces back to their generic origins and I was about to shut down the machine when something happened. Much to my surprise, the cloud shot away from the cylinder of light and flew across the room and shot up the chimney and soared into the sky, growing and spreading, sailing faster than a clipper ship. I knew where it was headed. Oh yes, I knew!” His hands shook violently as they dug even deeper and harder into the cylinder of light, and much to Prymilla’s disgust the man in the cloud took on his appearance. And the woman became herself! “Stop that!” she demanded. He yanked his hands away from the cylinder and released a monstrous bellow that shook the window panes. “Now you know, Miss Proppa. Now you know! It is my own pent-up lust that swells within the cloud above us! And I cannot control it any longer!” He lunged at her, seized her by the arms and pulled her toward him, his slavering mouth closing in on hers. “Unhand me, you brute!” [[she delivered a swift<-Continue]]

She delivered a swift kick to his shin, then kneed him in the groin. He stumbled, banging against the table, knocking it over. The gramophone fell out of the suitcase and the hovering black stone broke free from the cylinder and tumbled across the floor as the spindle popped off the platter, the metal discs clanging a complaint as they rolled through the room like cultivator blades. The cylinder fractured into shards of light that quickly winked out and the cloud broke up into little puffs that drifted through the air like cottonwood tree seeds. “No!” the professor cried. He limped to the corner where the black stone had come to rest, then bent over and picked it up. *Voff! Thuddud!* The professor vanished. And two black stones lay upon the floor. A bewildered Prymilla slowly crossed the room and stared down at the stones. *Gasp!* One of them looked exactly like the professor's head, the face contorted into an expression of astonishment and horror. She hesitated, then picked up the stones. The original felt ice cold and tingly. The effigy was warm and greasy. After pondering for a few moments she took the stones outside and placed them in her rock garden. And from that day forth she was never bothered by flies or mosquitoes when she was out in her yard, for they all gathered around the two black stones in thick and agitated swarms and came nowhere near her. And never again did obscene clouds bedevil her, for the sky above her domicile remained clean and clear, even on stormy days. [[Visit Innosenz McDarleng]]

The house of Innosenz McDarleng was not some dark and brooding Gothic mansion with gargoyles perched atop the cornices and a weed-choked yard surrounded by a tarnished wrought-iron fence with an unhinged gate. On the contrary, it was an immaculate white stucco cottage with mint-green shutters and a terracotta roof in good repair and a freshly whitewashed picket fence and a well-tended yard. Yet there was something disturbing about the place. The grass got cut on a regular basis, but no one ever saw who did it. Weeds were whisked out of the garden before they could run wild, but the gardener remained unobserved. In the fall, the leaves that fell from the two birch trees did not linger on the ground, but who raked them up? It was a mystery. As was the shoveler who kept the walks clear in the winter after every snowstorm. Innosenz herself was just as elusive. She never seemed to leave the house. In fact, the only people who ever saw her were the clients who sought her services. A small sign on the gate proclaimed: (bg:green)+(text-colour:black)[''Innosenz McDarleng Foreseer No Appointment Necessary I Knew You Were Coming Inquire Within''] Her clients’ curious friends and relatives often asked them what she looked like. And they always replied rather cryptically, “Familiar. She looked very familiar.” [[Prymilla fought growing<-Continue]]

“I know. I’ve seen the cloud lovers. Fortunately for you, most people can’t. If they could, you’d have gawkers gathered around your place from dawn to dusk, pointing fingers and shaking their heads and wagging their tongues and stirring up negative energy like crazy.” Prymilla shuddered. “Yes, I've been dreading that.” “It won’t happen. But that’s small consolation, isn’t it?” “Yes. Do you have any idea what's causing…” “Of course.” Innosenz held her hand in front of her face, the palm facing Prymilla, and moved it in a circular motion, like she was wiping frost off a window pane. A silvery oval materialized in the air, about thirteen inches high. She gesticulated with her fingers and an image coalesced within the oval... –– WARNING: SEX AND VIOLENCE DEAD AHEAD! –– [[Proceed]] [[that’s all I can conjure<-Avoid]]

(text-colour:white)+(bg:#b80000)[The woman disengaged herself and jumped up and staggered across the room, her big bare boobs jiggling, her arms raised protectively behind her head as the young man clasped his wounded prong, staring in horror at the deep and bloody bite marks just below his throbbing knob. The father pursued the fleeing redhead, his cane raised high, roaring: “Take that, you brazen hussy!” He struck her again, knocking her down, and stood over her, raining blows and words with equal fervor: “Evil harlot! Cheap whore! Miserable slut! Lowly tart! Despoiler! Jezebel! Succubus!” At last he stopped, exhausted – not his physical strength, but his thesaurus – then spun around and returned to his son. “You profligate fool! You wastrel! You fop! Expending your unholy lust on that kind of woman after I’ve warned you time and time again! You have disgraced the name of Gathor! What do you have to say for yourself?” His son looked up from his bloody dick with tears and anger shining in his eyes. “I need two bandages, father,” he croaked. “One for my member, and the other to seal off your big fat mouth!” “Why you!...” The father raised the cane once more, but before he could commence the thrashing the redhead stirred, lifting her bruised and bloodied head and gesturing at him with an outstretched arm. “A curse upon you, Trotton Gathor!” she rasped. “A curse upon all your clan, unto generations yet unborn! May a cloud of guilt hang over you forever, exposing your seamy, unseemly souls for all the world to see! May you … may … you … uhh.” Her arm fell to her side. Her eyes closed. The room fell silent. The image dimmed. The oval burst noiselessly, like a bubble, exposing Innosenz’s face – which now resembled Emily Dickinson.] [[that’s all I can conjure<-Continue]]

The title page proclaimed: “Dictated to and transcribed by an anonymous spiritualist while communing with the Djinn.” The poem was thus: (text-colour:yellow)[*Pellucid pachyderms wade across the purpling River Manjees and Tozzath watches from the bank, the seat of his maroon pantaloons soaked with mud, his nostrils flaring with the fragrance of ombadalias, whose lacey petals flutter like the wings of long-dead butterflies, bestirred by ghoulish breezes, the colors bleeding from moribund antennae, slim as a cat’s whispers Tozzath casts his gaze into the river’s ripples, where crocs lurk, awaiting unwary dreamers, ready to snatch their phrenolic flotsam in bejeweled jaws and shred it into despairing wisps spiraling into slanted moonbeams glimpsed from quiet rooms with carelessly parted curtains made from the silk of a once-noble lady’s sigh Tozzath’s gaze plumbs into a palatial abode atop the highest hill in Anakabrazan. He climbs a slim tower ringed by crenellated battlements, pushing his essence through walls of besooted sandstone, recoiling briefly from the reeking opulence of the pasha’s slumber chamber Scents of licorice and sandalwood and kershoolo rise from incense sticks, and Tozzath wends his way through furnishings of walnut and mahogany encarved with likenesses of winged beasts, and approaches a bed covered with damask cushions filled with nightingale feathers which sing nocturnal ballads when tossed and turned upon Tozzath eyes the furrows in Pasha Doasdra’s troubled brow, where seeds of doubt sprout like weeds, nourished by a rain of ruminations. Blue rivulets of dreamstuff run down the pasha’s weary face, lined with the memories of sixty sunsets, and creased by a dozen more, lost in moonless crevices Doasdra’s neatly trimmed beard belies the thicket of twisted briars in his brain, entangled entropies cloaked in a conscious canopy as convoluted as the treacherous undergrowth within the Night Woods of Shaddeshan Tozzath strides forward, unafraid, his mind encased within the protective curling confines of a conch snatched from a beach where the paw prints of forgotten creatures imprint shiftless sands drizzled through an hourglass of purest amber, overturned by the hand of Time Tozzath fights through the flora and breaches the beach, wading into waters where sad thoughts settle like silt in the somber depths He follows the flow, paying homage to a tributary, and dries his very best, as a dusty road commences beneath an umber sky. He sets his feet upon it, his soles shod in slipshod sandals He cuts across fallow, hallowed ground and nears a farmhouse where termites have made a banquet hall of the boards He steps onto the porch with catlike grace and finds no door to knock upon. He enters, stirring dust motes caught in a sunbeam pouring through a shingular aperture Tozzath ascends rail-less steps, heads down a hallway, pauses, passes through a closed door; its piney panels tickle A young girl clad in shadows lies on a bed of rusty spirals while her head squats in the corner, covered with cobwebs. A small spider splays in her open mouth. The eye sockets serve as a hovel for fruit flies. Her scalp is bare, the hair plucked long ago, prized nesting material for birds, none of them nightingales The girl’s thin arm moves, her bony fingers grasping an emerald nestled in her cleavage, attached to a scarlet ribbon draped around her cloven neck. She removes the priceless pendant and places it in Tozzath’s palm, cold as an unswaddled foundling Tozzath leaves the shadow girl and departs the farmhouse. The baked clay beneath his feet gives way to golden cobbles, and buildings of alabaster and porcelain rise on either side, topped by bulbs and minarets of finest moonstone The grand markets of Anakabrazan stretch before him, bursting at the seams with beggars and choosers, merchants and mendicants, overflowing with goods and bads. The clamor rings in Tozzath’s ears, mingling with nightingale songs He spies two ragamuffins in an alley. A boy picks up a piece of broken bottle and turns to a disheveled girl, draped in grimed homespun, not shadows, her eyes bright as emeralds. The boy entwines the bauble and hangs it around her neck. She kisses his cheek, leaving a smirk and a smudge Tozzath watches sadly as a wagon heaped high with melons rounds a corner, the driver cracking a whip over hunchbacked horses. A melon falls from the back and instantly a dozen urchins descend, their ears attuned to the sound of falling fruit. Their dinner chime. The boy and girl dash out of the alley. The boy steps in mongrel shit. He slips and falls, sliding beneath the clattering wheels. His head splits open like a melon and the girl screams. Somewhere, a mongrel mourns And in a silken bed in a marbled manse on the higher side of town, a noblewoman cries out also as the slippery head of a newborn pasha erupts from her womb. The odd indentations in his skull will fade in time In another alley the grimy girl stoops, prying up paving stones, clutching them to her heart. She’ll hurl them at the melon merchant next time he passes by A crowd gathers in a courtyard outside the army barracks and watches a soldier’s scimitar seek out the girl’s slim neck, sending her soul to the shadows Tozzath returns to the farmhouse where shades of meaning await the womb. The girl still tarries, tallying, carping about unkind cuts, refusing her rebirth But an old man, swaddled in silks, shall soon depart his bed, and recall the emeralds he made from broken bottles before he ever was And the boy shall come to the farmhouse, cleansed by the rains of remembrance, no longer confined to the prism of Fate’s fractals, and the two fast friends shall ride a kinder conveyance, with bespokened wheels encircling eternity And they shall quaff dregless brews from green, unbroken bottles*] Prymilla had purchased it from a used book store a few weeks earlier, intrigued by the pretty cover and odd title, but she had not finished reading it, finding it a little too bizarre for her taste. [[so how do I<-Continue]]

“So how do I dispel this aura you speak of?” “You could give the book away. Or sell it. But that would only transfer the curse to someone else. So you must take the book and…” (text-colour:red)[[burn it<-Burn it]] (text-colour:#d98530)[[bury it<-Bury it]]

“No!” Prymilla cried. “I cannot countenance the burning of any book! It is uncivilized!” “Do you wish to rid yourself of the accursed cloud?” “Of course, but…” “Then that is the price you must pay,” said a girl wearing the face of Elizabeth Stride. [[on the night of the full<-Continue]]

“You must take it to a graveyard during the night of the full moon and bury it six inches deep at the foot of a woman’s grave.” “Which woman? Which graveyard?” “It doesn’t matter.” “And that will make the dirty cloud go away?” “There are no guarantees in matters such as this. But it is your only hope.” The girl rose from the couch, now wearing the face of Anne Boleyn. “If you’ll excuse me now, I must go take a nap.” Prymilla stood. “Thank you, Miss McDarling. How much do I owe you?” “Nothing. You have paid in full.” “Uh…” The girl turned and glided silently into the shadows at the far end of the room. Prymilla heard a door softly close. [[as prymilla exited<-Continue]]

On the night of the full moon Prymilla went out into her garden at precisely twelve and regretfully set the book atop her sundial, opening it to the middle before setting it alight with a Lucifer. As thick, oily smoke rose from the tome Prymilla started to walk away, but the smoke curled down to the ground, coiled like a snake and shot toward her, swelling and engulfing, imprisoning her in a cocoon of doom. The next morning, the citizens of Brexdreth arose to a baffling and bizarre sight – a massive storm cloud, as big as the town itself, hovered above them, shaped like a human head with the face of Prymilla Proppa, bearing an expression of extreme consternation. Within hours of its appearance the cloud expanded dramatically, spreading itself over the surrounding farm fields, and then the storm began, a deluge that flooded the streets and turned the fields into quagmires – and continues to this very day, with no sign of ever letting up. [[bury it<-Try again]]

As Prymilla exited the house something brushed against her hem. She looked down and watched the one-eyed cat slink away. It hopped off the side of the porch, peeked at her over its shoulder and disappeared into the bushes. [[Grabbing her lantern<-Continue]]

“There are no odd questions, Miss Proppa. Only odd answers. Ask me whatever you wish.” “Do you see the cloud above us?” He glanced up at the sky, then back at her, a bemused expression on his face. “What about it?” “Do you see any, uh … pictures in the cloud?” He smiled. “Imagery is in the eye of the beholder, Miss Proppa. Or to be more precise, in the subconscious prism through which we all filter the visual stimuli our eyes send into our brains. What picture is your prism presenting to you?” Her blush deepened. “Uh … it’s difficult to find the proper words to describe … certain things. Let’s just say … oh, how shall I put it? The cloud depicts two people who are … um …” He chuckled. “Say no more. I comprehend your meaning. Rest assured, Miss Proppa, it’s not unusual for Freudian paradigms to manifest themselves, even in the healthiest and most respectable minds. Shall we probe your prism to derive further understanding of the subconscious roots underpinning this manifestation?” “That would be marvelous, doctor! When might I have an appointment?” “Oh, no need.” He took a brass pocket watch out of his vest and flipped up the lid. “I still have plenty of time. Why don’t we do it now?” “Really? Oh, you’re too kind, doctor! Are you sure I’m not inconveniencing you?” “Positive.” “Then by all means, let’s proceed!” [[would you care<-Continue]]

“Would you care for some wine?” she said as they entered the parlor. “That would be splendid.” She herself did not imbibe, of course, but she believed a good hostess should provide the customary comforts to her guests. She gestured toward her overstuffed pea-green couch with a floral motif and he took a seat. She crossed the room to the cabinet where she kept the wine, returning moments later with his drink. She handed him the glass and sat down facing him in a troll-leather easy chair a few feet away. He took a sip, then dipped a pinky into the glass and swirled it around as the wine swiftly congealed into jelly. He turned the glass upside down and caught the blob in his palm and began rubbing it with his thumb, sculpting facets into its surface till it resembled a gem. “Oh, how remarkable!” Prymilla said. He blew gently on the blob, then tapped it against the rim of the glass. *Clink. Clink* Satisfied it had hardened sufficiently, he gripped the bauble between thumb and forefinger and held it up at eye level, then scratched his neatly trimmed gray beard with the thumb of his other hand. A small flame erupted from the thumbnail and he positioned it directly behind the bauble, producing glittering ruby light that dazzled Prymilla’s eyes. And mind. [[miss proppa he said in a mesmerizing voice<-Continue]]

“Miss Proppa,” he said in a mesmerizing voice, “imagine your mind leaving your body. Your slim, youthful body. Imagine it floating out the window and up toward the cloud. Up … up … up…” “No,” she murmured. “I don’t want to go anywhere near it!” “Of course not. But you have the power to change the cloud, to mold it into a new shape, a clean and wholesome shape. Use the power of your will to shuck your corporeal form and arise! Visualize your soul soaring into the sky, unfettered by fears – or the encumbrances we call clothes, which suffocate the skin as well as the soul.” She gazed unblinkingly into the twinkling bauble, her voice a low monotone: “Soaring … unfettered … up … up … up …” “Become one with the wind. Meld with the mists. Conjoin with the cloud. Feel its fluffy froth filling you. Sense its insinuation into your soul. Streak across the sky, free of all restraints. Billow rebelliously. Your earthly form is of no consequence now. You have escaped that fleshly prison. You have liberated yourself from its corporeal confines. You are a spirit of the sky, with no need for earthly encasements. You are the cloud and it is you! Without limits. Without boundaries. Totally free!” “I … am … the … cloud …” Suddenly a second cloud appeared in her mind’s eye, a dark cloud, massive and formidable, surging toward her, blotting out the sun, sliding to a stop as it loomed overhead. *CRAKKABOOM!* [[a thunderclap<-Continue]]

A thunderclap. Followed by a blinding flash of lightning. “Oh!” [[Shocking details]] [[Expurgated version]]

After whisking it into the dustpan, she took the bauble outside and dumped it in a rubbish bin. A few moments later – or perhaps it was several decades – Sir Bloris Hatt stood on the crest of a dune over five thousand six hundred miles away, in the middle of the unforgiving savagery of the Sahara Desert, shielding his eyes with a sand-gouged hand as he scanned the arid wasteland in hopes of seeing an oasis, a caravan, a road, anything but the bleak and barren nothingness that seemed to stretch into eternity. Four and a half miles behind him, a Ford tri-motor aeroplane lay crumpled atop a similar dune. A trail of unsteady footprints marked his pathetic progress away from the wreck, but the desert winds would soon obliterate all trace of them. The other two occupants of the plane remained inside, their corpses partially enshrouded in wind-borne sand streaming through ruptures in the fuselage. [[Betrayne Rendo]] had died on impact. The pilot, Chard Torbun, had been killed moments earlier, thanks to a bullet in his back fired by Sir Bloris’s Webley revolver – an accident, since Rendo was the intended target. [[the plane had been in the air<-Continue]]

*Vifffibofff!* A spark tingled her fingertips, spread up her arm into her shoulder, neck, head, flashing into her retinas. She blinked and the flash faded from one eye, lingered in the other for a few seconds more. An odd sensation of serenity came over her – as if she had just sunk into a soothing bubble bath, soaking away all her problems. A hopeful feeling swelled within her. *The cloud lovers are gone.* The thought popped into her head, an irrational hope, mere wishful thinking. But she couldn’t resist the urge to have a look. She went to the rear of the house and stepped out the back door. Gasp! “Oh my Gods! They *are* gone!” The cloud was plain and pure, and no longer hovering over the house, but drifting slowly eastward. “Thank heaven,” she muttered. “Thank God!” Flooded with relief, she strolled through the garden, glancing up occasionally at the beautifully empty sky, then went out the back gate and headed down the street. A nice, brisk walk in the fresh air would do her good. As she passed the home of one of her neighbors she gave it a casual glance. And stopped abruptly, her mouth falling open. Cedelia Rumpas was in her kitchen, stirring a pot on her stove. And Prymilla wasn’t seeing her through the window. In fact, there was no window. The entire kitchen wall was gone, affording an unrestricted view to anyone passing by on the street. Yet Cedelia seemed completely oblivious to the fact. “What on Earth?” Cedelia walked to a cupboard, opened it, grabbed a bottle of cooking sherry. She twisted off the cap and took a swig. Smiled. Took another. Prymilla gasped. *A fine way for the treasurer of the Teetotalers’ Society to behave! What hypocrisy! … But it’s none of my business. I’d best move along.* She hurried on, approaching the Maddup home. Froze. “Merciful heavens!” WARNING: SLEAZE ALERT [[Show the sleaze please]] [[afternoon miss proppa<-Sleaze makes me sneeze. I’ll pass.]]

Sir Bloris’s right-hand man, vice president of the Yorkshire Camel Breeders Association, of which Sir Bloris was president. [[Betrayne rendo had died on impact<-Continue]]

The plane had been in the air roughly five hours when the tragedy unfolded, as Rendo opened a leather document pouch lying on his lap and took out some papers related to the annual Camel Breeders Conference in Cairo. Some of the papers fell to the floor, a few of them landing at Sir Bloris’s feet, and Sir Bloris reached down to pick them up. One of them was different from the others, a brief note written in a feminine hand on fancy pink stationery. As Sir Bloris started to read it, Rendo snatched it away from him – but not before Sir Bloris got the gist of the message: (bg:#fbaccc)+(text-colour:black)[''*“…cannot stop thinking about your delightful size, which fulfills me so utterly. I shall count the hours until our next coupling with a pitter-pattering heart…”*''] He recognized the handwriting and the stationery. The author was none other than Lady Cheally, his own wife! Sir Bloris happened to be carrying a large amount of money in his valise for purchasing prime-grade camel sperm from a private party who insisted on cash only, so he had taken the precaution of placing his old Coldstream Guards sidearm in his pocket in the event he was accosted by ruffians. But now he drew the pistol not in self-defense, but fury, and for a full minute he and Rendo struggled over it. *BANG!* The forty-five caliber bullet struck Torbun in the back and he slumped dead over the controls as the plane began a downward dive to its doom… [[after regaining<-Continue]]

After regaining consciousness, Sir Bloris had struggled to his feet. One glance into the cockpit told him Torbun was dead. He turned around and saw Rendo sprawled in the aisle, his head twisted at an impossible angle, his unblinking eyes staring into eternity. Sir Bloris smiled grimly, then clambered through the twisted, tilted fuselage from one end to the other, searching for his Webley. No telling what he might encounter in the desert. Best to be prepared. But the sound and smell of leaking fuel soon inspired him to exit the aircraft. As he trudged away from the wreck he tried to tell himself how fortunate he was, surviving the crash with nothing more than a few cuts and bruises, but he knew it was only a temporary reprieve; he couldn’t possibly survive a trek through one of the most inhospitable places on earth. If only he had recovered the Webley he could have put a swift and merciful end to his misery. But no such luck. And now, two hours later, with his strength and morale drained, his shirt soggy, his throat parched, he bowed his head in despair, tears streaming from his eyes, streaking his grit-caked cheeks. *Hello! What’s that?* A reddish twinkle caught his eye. He bent down and squinted at a small oval object half buried in the sand, then picked it up, running his thumb over its oddly shaped facets. “What in the name of heaven…” [[a massive shadow<-Continue]]

A massive shadow suddenly appeared in the sky overhead, covering the entire dune. A loud rumble broke the stillness. He looked up – and raindrops pelted his face. “Oh my God!” A storm cloud! It poured out its guts, washing the grime off his face. He opened his mouth wide, rejoicing as the cool water ran down his throat. He cupped his hands and gathered more, sipping it from his trembling palms. The rain slowly ceased, the cloud changing from dark blue to light brown, its shape morphing as it slowly descended from the sky and settled onto the ground before his astonished eyes. *A camel!* He got to his feet and staggered toward the beast, reached out and touched its fluffy flank. It seemed solid enough. The creature responded with the grunting-gargling sound so distinctive to camels and knelt on its front legs and Sir Bloris grabbed its neck and hauled himself up, seating his butt between the two humps. The dromedary rose and began plodding through the dunes as Sir Bloris took one last look at the cracked-up coffin-craft in the distance. He let out a deep-throated guffaw and the camel paused, glancing at him over its shoulder before resuming its trek across the trackless wastes, headed for home. [[Return to Prymilla’s house]]

Prymilla paced back and forth in her drawing room, pondering what to do. [[perhaps she should write to prof wulhong<-Continue]]

Another hole! This one on the second floor, revealing the upstairs bathroom. Someone was in the shower, the top of their head visible above a purple curtain. Suddenly a second hole appeared, in the middle of the curtain, revealing the rest of the abluter. Falza Maddup. (text-colour:#f5a8f5)[Prymilla’s vision zoomed in, unbidden, as if she had put a telescope up to her eye, and she saw something creamy oozing out of Falza’s slot and streaming down her thigh. It wasn’t soap. Falza wiped it off with a sponge, heaving a contented sigh, her eyes gazing dreamily at the faucet as Prymilla turned away, thoroughly aghast. Falza’s husband had been out of town on business for two weeks! Who had she been with? Probably Druke Mockets, her handyman. Yes, rumor had it he was very handy alright, especially at pounding nails and fixing loose slats…] [[afternoon miss proppa<-Continue]]

“Afternoon, Miss Proppa!” “Oh!” Prymilla spun to her left, startled, and saw the tow-headed Jendi boy approaching on his bicycle. He reached into the basket between the handlebars, grabbed one of his rolled-up newspapers and hurled it in the general direction of the Maddups’ front porch … and kept right on going – as if he hadn’t even noticed a big hole in the wall of the house and a naked woman in the shower! Prymilla put a hand to her forehead. *I’d better call it a day – and pray that sanity returns on the morrow.* The next morning she went for another stroll, hoping her vision was back to normal. It wasn’t. The two “holey” houses were still there, and a half dozen more besides, but much to her relief no lurid scenes presented themselves, just humdrum glimpses into everyday life. But that was little consolation. She had to get rid of this dreadful second sight, and that meant disposing of the bauble, for surely it was responsible for her affliction. *It would be a shame to throw it away. It’s such a pretty little thing. Yet I cannot in good conscience give it to anyone else. What am I to do?* She mulled for a moment. Smiled. “Perrio! Yes, I’ll take it to Perrio! This will be right up his alley. He’ll know what to do!” [[in a narrow lane<-Continue]]

In a narrow lane just off Harshmoon Street lurked Perrio’s Curios, nestled between a boarded-up boarding house and “Perryman's Masonry – Specializing in Grave Markers for Beloved Pets.” Prymilla surveyed the shop as she entered, taking in the jumble of motley merchandise and a mixture of mingled scents, spicy and musty and odd. The door to the back room was closed, yet she could see right through it thanks to a pear-shaped hole hovering in the middle, and there was Perrio Teccle, his diminutive body hunched over his workbench, his gnarled hands gripping a wood chisel, his beady green eyes peering intently, a faint smile curving his thick, chapped lips as he put the finishing touches on a foot-high [[figurine]].

It had the head of a duck-billed platypus and the body of a squid. [[perrio put down<-Continue]]

Perrio put down his chisel, lay the figurine on its back, picked up a small knife and stuck the tip into the base of the carving, prying free a small square panel, revealing a secret compartment. He pulled open a drawer of the workbench and removed [[several objects]] – some sky-blue lozenges with red X’s on them, some black sprigs and a lock of reddish-gold hair. [[oh my goodness<-Continue]]

The lozenges were a narcotic, *katagrungica ovitiatal,* popularly known as “Elf Poops.” Some people believe they’re made by elven alchemists, but of course that’s absurd. They’re made by gnomes. The sprigs were “Witch’s Hair” – another misnomer, since they’re derived from the Pengzoit bush in the swamps near Glomogria, where witches fear to tread. The lock of hair belonged to a hanged man, but he was bald as a post and the hair came off his wig, so its efficacy was questionable. [[He pulled open a drawer<-Continue]]

*Oh my goodness! Illicit substances inside a fake artifact! Outrageous!* She tiptoed to a shelf where she had noticed a similar figurine during previous visits. The index card beneath it proclaimed: “Thulchulian religious idol from Guatemala, circa 878 BCE. Price: $2,000.” *Humph. Another fake, no doubt!* Burning with curiosity, she picked up the figurine and turned it over, peering at the base. Another secret compartment. She started to dig a fingernail into the bottom of the panel… “Miss Proppa!” “Oh!” She spun around. “Perrio! You startled me!” He shut the door to the back room behind him and approached her, his eyes appraising her like she was a curio of dubious origin. “My apologies,” he said in his silken and slightly sinister voice. He eyed the figurine, then her face. “What can I do for you, Miss Proppa?” “Oh … I was just browsing.” “Looking for anything special?” “No.” He came slowly closer. “You seem to have developed an interest in idols all of a sudden.” “Yes, I … uh … read an article about Guatemalan religious statuary recently and became intrigued.” She hated to lie, but her instincts told her it was the safest course of action. “Indeed?” he said. “In what publication?” “I … I think it was the Times.” “Ah. I must have missed it. What a pity.” She gave him a tight smile. “Quite. Well, I’m afraid this one is a little out of my price range, so if you’ll excuse me I really must be going.” She set the figurine back on the shelf and started toward the door. He quickly dashed to her side and grabbed her wrist. “Oh!” she said. “Unhand me, sir!” [[he jerked<-Continue]]

He jerked her close, shoving his face into hers. His breath smelled of betel nuts. “Not so fast, Miss Proppa! Would you mind explaining why you were prying at the bottom of that particular idol?” “I resent this rough treatment, Mister Teccle. Release me now or I shall report you to the constabulary!” His grip tightened. His poorly trimmed fingernails dug into her flesh. “You were planning to do that anyway, weren’t you?” “What ever do you mean?” “Don’t play me for a fool, Miss Proppa! Someone told you my little secret, didn’t they? And sent you here to snoop and tattle!” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “It was Stoley Brove, wasn’t it?” “Who?” “Don’t pretend with me. You know damn well who he is! It’s just like him to enlist the aid of some naïve and gullible female to do his dirty work!” “I resent your accusations, sir, and I have never heard of anyone named Stoley Brove! Now release me at once or I shall scream!” He gave her a frigid grin. “Very well. You wish to be released? I shall gladly do so.” He relaxed his grip. She wrenched her arm free and took a step toward the door. He ran to a nearby shelf and snatched up a [[dagger]] with a bejeweled handle. [[I shall release you<-Continue]]

The card described it as a “Sacrificial Aztec Dagger, circa 240 BCE, with emeralds, rubies and sapphires inset into handle. Price: Five thousand dollars.” [[I shall release you<-Continue]]

“I shall release you,” he growled. “From all your worldly troubles!” “Oh!” she cried, dodging to the side as the tarnished blade slashed the air inches from her waist. She delivered a swift kick to Perrio’s stomach (she was aiming a bit lower) and ran to the right. She spotted swords mounted on a far wall, but knew she’d never reach them before Perrio caught up to her, so she scurried down an aisle, frantically scanning the shelves for a weapon, ignoring a tray of pocket watches and a packet of letters tied up in a frayed red ribbon. In desperation she grabbed a teakwood music box with a picture of the Eifel Tower in an enameled oval on the top. She hated the thought of damaging such a pretty thing, even if it was a fake, but she had no choice. She hurled it at Perrio with all her might. It struck his hand, knocking the dagger out of his grip. The box hit the floor, the lid snapping off as a tinkly “Freres Jacques” began to play. “You’ll pay for that, bitch!” he snarled. She had a hunch he wasn’t referring to the music box. He bent down to retrieve the dagger. She grabbed another object off a shelf… * A black lacquered case with a green felt interior, containing a set of Italian dueling pistols with elaborately scrolled silver insets in the handles, circa 1820. [[A black lacquered case with a green felt interior, containing a set of Italian dueling pistols with elaborately scrolled silver insets in the handles, circa 1820.<-Select]] * A bamboo blowgun from Borneo, circa 1797. [[A bamboo blowgun from Borneo, circa 1797<-Select]] * A parasol from Paris with a bluebird-and-butterfly motif on pale pink silk, circa 1870. [[A parasol from Paris with a bluebird-and-butterfly motif on pale pink silk, circa 1870<-Select]]

Without poison darts the blowgun is worthless. In other words, you blew it. [[he bent down<-Try Again]]

As Prymilla brandished the parasol, Perrio smirked. “My, such a formidable weapon. You might poke an eye out!” Snickering, he started closing in. But the parasol contained a secret she had perceived with her second sight – a hidden pistol. She thumbed a small nub atop the parasol’s handle, cocking the firearm, as a little prong popped out of the bottom. Her index finger curled around the prong. Tightened. *BANG!* The parasol pistol fired and Perrio’s left eye burst open in a gush of blood. His dead body hit the floor with a thud. “Oh yuck!” Prymilla looked away, her mind and stomach reeling. She dropped the parasol and ran out the door, staggered a few feet and stopped, leaning against the wall as a wave of relief and disgust washed over her. Tears welled up in her eyes and she reached into her bag for her hanky and brought it toward her face. “Oh!” It was wet. And not with tears, but something red. She stared at it a moment, horrified and baffled, then peered into the bag again. The bauble was gone! She sniffed the hanky and smelled not blood, but wine. *Curiouser and curiouser!* She forced herself to reenter the shop – holding a hand to the side of her face like a horse’s blinder so she couldn’t see the corpse – and made her way to the back room. A lantern sat on a corner of the workbench. She dug into her purse for a Lucifer, opened the lantern’s glass door and lit the candle inside, then took the stained hanky and shoved it into the flame. For a moment the hanky reared up, juddering like a dancing ghost as the flame flared around it like a billowing cape. Then it sagged and crumpled, reduced to smoldering gray ash as Prymilla hurried out of the room. [[the subsequent<-Continue]]

Dueling pistols? Great idea – if they were loaded. They’re not. You’re dead. [[he bent down<-Try Again]]

He bent down to retrieve the dagger. She grabbed another object off a shelf… * A black lacquered case with a green felt interior, containing a set of Italian dueling pistols with elaborately scrolled silver insets in the handles, circa 1820. [[A black lacquered case with a green felt interior, containing a set of Italian dueling pistols with elaborately scrolled silver insets in the handles, circa 1820.<-Select]] * A bamboo blowgun from Borneo, circa 1797. [[A bamboo blowgun from Borneo, circa 1797<-Select]] * A parasol from Paris with a bluebird-and-butterfly motif on pale pink silk, circa 1870. [[A parasol from Paris with a bluebird-and-butterfly motif on pale pink silk, circa 1870<-Select]]

The subsequent police investigation determined that Miss Proppa had acted in self-defense and she was not charged. But the death weighed on her mind and upset her delicate equilibrium, so her physician prescribed an extended holiday at the seaside. She left for Blightless Beach shortly thereafter and never returned to Brexdreth. [[perhaps she should write to prof wulhong<-Try another path]]

A few months later Prymilla read a report in the newspapers about a rare first edition of “Tozzath’s Phantasmagorium” that had sold at auction at Sotheby’s in London for a hundred thousand pounds. Although the article gave her pause, she quickly dismissed the incident as mere coincidence. THE END

[[Two children]] stood on the sidewalk near her front gate, pointing at the sky. Panicking, Prymilla rushed to the door – but forced herself to calm down as she stepped onto the porch. She took a deep breath and casually strolled up the walk. [[Hello children<-Continue]]

Grabbing her lantern and spade, Prymilla climbed down from her buggy, glancing behind her at the vast, dark countryside, brightened by one small island of light – the streetlamps of slumbering Brexdreth, where all sensible citizens had long since retired to their beds. She turned and trudged up the steep hillock, wading through foot-tall grass, shivering as she approached the listing, moss-mottled tombstones. She swung her lantern to left and right, peering at the names etched into the stones, some of them barley legible, and at last she found one bearing a woman’s name: Eleanor Wringo. She set down her lantern and softly said “Please excuse the intrusion” before shoving her spade into the ground. The earth was hard and did not yield easily, but she persisted, stomping on the kickplate with her boot-shod foot. When she had made a hole adequate to the task, she reached into her bag, took out the book, crouched down and lay it in the hole, then shoved the small pile of dirt back into place and tamped it down. She let out a sigh, picked up her lantern and headed down the hillock at a fast clip, anxious to leave this creepy place and get back home. *Rummmbullll* She stopped and looked up. A cloud hovered a hundred feet above the graveyard, its roiling mist glowing softly in the moonlight. Bolts of lightning flashed – but they came from the tombstone of Eleanor Wringo, not the sky, slashing up at the cloud like gigantic chisels, shearing off fluffy flakes and chopping up misty chunks, sculpting the faces of Luridia and young Trotton. One more clap of thunder boomed as a final bolt of lightning savagely struck the cloud, splitting it in two, uncoupling the cloud lovers, who drifted away from each other, looking over their shoulders with wistful, mistful smiles. *Vushhhh!* Rain poured from the vanquished vapors, pummeling Eleanor Wringo’s grave as the lovers stretched and thinned, their features distorting into gaunt caricatures the wind shredded into wisps that soon dissipated as the rain suddenly ceased and silence settled over the scene. And from that moment on, Prymilla Proppa was no longer bedeviled by dirty clouds. [[Epilogue]]

(enchant:?passage,(bg:purple))Suddenly Prymilla found herself back in her parlor – no longer sitting in her chair but on Dr. Sheldars’ lap, and the two of them were utterly unclothed, his mouth fastened to one of her nipples, sucking furiously, his right hand tucked between her parted thighs, his middle finger probing an extremely intimate orifice as his pulsating prong poked her tailbone! (text-colour:yellow)[[Expurgated version<-Continue]]

She slapped him hard across the face and leapt to her feet, slapped him again. He raised his hands to ward off a third blow and the red bauble slipped from his fingers, bounced off his throbbing dong and landed on the floor. His face turned bright red, then his neck, his chest, his stomach, his legs, as if he were a glass filling up with wine poured from a giant, unseen bottle. He stood up, staring at the bauble incredulously, then took a step and fell down. (bg:red)[*POP! USHH!* He burst open like a balloon, filling the air with a crimson vapor that drifted swiftly toward an open window, leaving only his empty skin behind, a pink and crinkled husk that sagged and settled to the floor like a stranded jellyfish upon some faraway beach.] Her mind reeling, her head spinning, Prymilla staggered to the middle of the room where her discarded clothes lay. “Did … did that just happen?” she muttered as she began redressing. “No, it couldn’t have. It must have been a hallucination.” But when she turned around the pink husk still lay on the floor near the twinkling bauble. She stared at the bauble with a mixture of loathing and fascination and then … [[fetched a dustpan]] [[picked it up]]

(text-colour:#f5a8f5)[Miss Proppa lay in front of the altar, stark naked and spreadeagled, her brown gingham dress tossed casually aside, her pure white undergarments on top of it. Pastor Oldpash climbed onto the altar and placed a blue wash towel over the top of the crucifix so the eyes of the Lord would not be subjected to this sacrilege, then jumped down to the floor and knelt between Miss Proppa’s legs, easing himself into her privates, breaking through her virginity, accessing her unexplored depths as she released several ladylike chirps of pleasure, her dainty hands firmly gripping his clenching buttocks. “God almighty!” he bellowed as a climax quaked through his lanky frame, and Miss Proppa cried out, “Good heavens!” as years of repressed desires burst forth in a wave of tumultuous secretions…] [[I don’t do depravity<-Continue]]

(text-colour:#f5a8f5)[“That’s what always fascinated me about you, Miss Proppa. You’re so virtuous. Before you came into my life I thought I had it made. There were female students in my classes who sat with their legs crossed, making no effort to pull down their hems, blatantly revealing their shins. And they wore blouses with two or even three undone buttons to expose their cleavage, or sweaters so tight I could discern their taut nipples beneath the fabric. The innermost thoughts of these girls were written all over their painted faces and shone from their feral eyes like signal flares aboard a ship at sea! Hungry girls! Loose girls! Wanton and shameless! “They lingered after class, asking inane questions about the lecture, or came to my office, inquiring about ‘extra-credit’ assignments. Ha! I knew what they were really after. They lacked the intellect or work ethic to get good grades honestly. Far easier to achieve academic success through sex, to bypass the books and hit the bed instead! And I was more than happy to oblige them! Oh yes, more than happy!”] Prymilla held up a hand. “Please say no more, Professor!” He ignored her plea. His hands trembled now as they continued to stroke and poke at the cylinder and the light changed to a bright, pulsating purple. His voice grew louder, harsher. [[but I quickly grew jaded<-Continue]]

(text-colour:#f5a8f5)[The back of a woman’s head, covered with curly red hair, bobbing up and down in front of a well-toned abdomen that rose and fell swiftly as slurps and groans filled the air. “Oh my!” Prymilla said, averting her gaze, her face reddening. “Pay attention,” the girl snapped, like a teacher scolding a bad pupil. “I’ve gone to great pains to summon these images for your benefit. You won’t understand if you shun them.” Prymilla forced herself to look at the oval, just as the point of view rose to show a man’s heaving chest and then his face. Prymilla gasped. “The cloud man!” The picture zoomed out to reveal the surroundings – a red velvet loveseat in a room with thick burgundy carpeting, mahogany wall paneling, forest-green brocaded draperies and a couple of Tiffany lamps on small marble tables. The décor included several porcelain vases, a pair of gilded mirrors, a fern stand and a “what-not” filled with ivory and crystal curios. *BANG!* The door of the room flew open and another man barged in – older than the first man and strongly resembling him. He marched toward the lovers brandishing a hickory cane with a wolf’s head carved into the silver handle. “Father!” the young man cried. “I should have known!” the cane-holder roared. He charged toward the redhead, giving her a second shaft to deal with – this one made of wood, not flesh – as he brought his cane down across the back of her head, driving her teeth into his son’s sausage. “Ahhh!” the lad cried.] [[the woman disengaged<-Continue]]

He pulled open a drawer of the workbench and removed [[several objects]] – some sky-blue lozenges with red X’s on them, some black sprigs and a lock of reddish-gold hair. [[oh my goodness<-Continue]]