would be about the size of a door.
Barnaby struggles in my arms. I almost drop him, managing to grab him by the neck before he falls. And then he … well, relieves his discomfort. “Relieves” is the word, all right. I don't know if you've ever seen a horse relieve his discomfort, but it's pretty spectacular. My grandma used to sing a song about someone named Jeannie with the light brown hair, flowing like a river in the soft summer air. That's Barnaby, only it isn't his hair that's flowing.
It all lands on the proteor. Barnaby keeps going, producing a full and steady stream of … well, a full and steady stream.
–
Look out!
cries Norbert.
The proteor is attacking. A huge piece of plastic toast flies out of the slot, heading right for us. I dodge out of the way, keeping Barnaby pointed in the right direction. The toast missile falls to the ground. I aim Barnaby at the open slot.
He's amazing. Like the bunny on TV , he keeps going, and going, and –
–
Smoke!
cries Norbert.
I peer down. A wisp of black is leaking from the heart of the toaster. Something's gone wrong with the mechanism. “Good for you, Barnaby,” I say.
It feels good to hit back at the proteor. A personal message.
Say it with showers.
The smoke gets thicker and darker. Something is burning. The snap-together pieces begin to melt. From up here I can see the bumps and dimples disappear, the straight edges blur and warp. No more transforming for them. There's a loud grinding noise, and one side of the toaster collapses. Norbert and I cheer.
Barnaby's finished. I tuck him under my arm, and fly down the far side of the mountain. The slope is gentle and easy. The wind is gusty, driving a fleet of clouds across the sky like so many purple-gray battleships. Sun and moons peep from behind the clouds, and then disappear behind them again.
Lightning crackles ahead of us, and thunder follows close by. This would have been important to the Ancient Greeks, who believed there were spirits everywhere. * I'm more concerned about getting rained on.
It doesn't take us long to reach a plateau – high flat tablelands that stretch into the distance without a break. A sea of grass rippling in the wind.
“Welcome to the Plains of Ich,” says Norbert.
Barnaby is no part of the ancient prophecy. I decide to let him go. But when I release him on the grassy plain, hestands there, looking at me. “Good-bye,” I say. “There's a little pond here, and grass. Have a nice life!”
He doesn't move. I shoo him away. He moves closer, and nuzzles my thigh.
Norbert is drinking from the pond. He comes back, wiping his face, looks at me and Barnaby, and doesn't say anything. After a moment I put the horse under my arm and take off again. Norbert follows me. I ask which direction we should head, and he shrugs his shoulders.
–
It's your show now, Dingwall
, he says.
*Naiads and Dryads, for instance, were nymphs said to inhabit waters and trees. Other nymphs included Whyads and Paiads, who inhabited interrogative sentences and baked goods. Lemon Meringue Paiads were especially beautiful. For more information on classical mythology, see chapter 12: “Our Friends the Greeks.”
It's a couple of hours later, and we haven't come very far in a straight line. I've been leading us all around the compass trying to avoid the storm, but I can't get the wind to stay at our backs for any length of time. The path of the storm seems to veer with us, so that there's lightning wherever we are headed.
I haven't found the Lost Schloss.
Not a sniff of it. Not close. The Schloss has got to be a big building, but I haven't even found a little building. I haven't found the Lost Bungalow. I haven't found the Lost Tent.
I'm not worried. I figure it doesn't really matter where I look for the Schloss. An orderly search is great if you know all about what you're looking for, but I'm looking for something only I can find. So it's all about me. If I'm supposed to fulfill the prophecy, I will.
Barnaby struggles in my arms. I almost drop him, managing to grab him by the neck before he falls. And then he … well, relieves his discomfort. “Relieves” is the word, all right. I don't know if you've ever seen a horse relieve his discomfort, but it's pretty spectacular. My grandma used to sing a song about someone named Jeannie with the light brown hair, flowing like a river in the soft summer air. That's Barnaby, only it isn't his hair that's flowing.
It all lands on the proteor. Barnaby keeps going, producing a full and steady stream of … well, a full and steady stream.
–
Look out!
cries Norbert.
The proteor is attacking. A huge piece of plastic toast flies out of the slot, heading right for us. I dodge out of the way, keeping Barnaby pointed in the right direction. The toast missile falls to the ground. I aim Barnaby at the open slot.
He's amazing. Like the bunny on TV , he keeps going, and going, and –
–
Smoke!
cries Norbert.
I peer down. A wisp of black is leaking from the heart of the toaster. Something's gone wrong with the mechanism. “Good for you, Barnaby,” I say.
It feels good to hit back at the proteor. A personal message.
Say it with showers.
The smoke gets thicker and darker. Something is burning. The snap-together pieces begin to melt. From up here I can see the bumps and dimples disappear, the straight edges blur and warp. No more transforming for them. There's a loud grinding noise, and one side of the toaster collapses. Norbert and I cheer.
Barnaby's finished. I tuck him under my arm, and fly down the far side of the mountain. The slope is gentle and easy. The wind is gusty, driving a fleet of clouds across the sky like so many purple-gray battleships. Sun and moons peep from behind the clouds, and then disappear behind them again.
Lightning crackles ahead of us, and thunder follows close by. This would have been important to the Ancient Greeks, who believed there were spirits everywhere. * I'm more concerned about getting rained on.
It doesn't take us long to reach a plateau – high flat tablelands that stretch into the distance without a break. A sea of grass rippling in the wind.
“Welcome to the Plains of Ich,” says Norbert.
Barnaby is no part of the ancient prophecy. I decide to let him go. But when I release him on the grassy plain, hestands there, looking at me. “Good-bye,” I say. “There's a little pond here, and grass. Have a nice life!”
He doesn't move. I shoo him away. He moves closer, and nuzzles my thigh.
Norbert is drinking from the pond. He comes back, wiping his face, looks at me and Barnaby, and doesn't say anything. After a moment I put the horse under my arm and take off again. Norbert follows me. I ask which direction we should head, and he shrugs his shoulders.
–
It's your show now, Dingwall
, he says.
*Naiads and Dryads, for instance, were nymphs said to inhabit waters and trees. Other nymphs included Whyads and Paiads, who inhabited interrogative sentences and baked goods. Lemon Meringue Paiads were especially beautiful. For more information on classical mythology, see chapter 12: “Our Friends the Greeks.”
It's a couple of hours later, and we haven't come very far in a straight line. I've been leading us all around the compass trying to avoid the storm, but I can't get the wind to stay at our backs for any length of time. The path of the storm seems to veer with us, so that there's lightning wherever we are headed.
I haven't found the Lost Schloss.
Not a sniff of it. Not close. The Schloss has got to be a big building, but I haven't even found a little building. I haven't found the Lost Bungalow. I haven't found the Lost Tent.
I'm not worried. I figure it doesn't really matter where I look for the Schloss. An orderly search is great if you know all about what you're looking for, but I'm looking for something only I can find. So it's all about me. If I'm supposed to fulfill the prophecy, I will.
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