xliii. Recover Something Dear

This is where I am come to, &
 returned. Where I dreamed
to travel & explore, where I studied
 from the Architect’s Tower, through
his great spy-glass. This is where.

The Tangled Gate is an ancient old
 thing, more like the One Woods
themselves than crafted by men’s
 tools & plans. I find myself lingering
it, passing through it a ways, then
 lingering back to it.

Is it stone or very old wood or
 cooled & shaped heat from the world’s
fiery heart? While gone from here
 those years, a refugee from this
magickal Island, I tried to sleuth scholar’s
 answers to its what & why.

Little & less. The oldest books quietly &
 briefly told of a place of origins,
Woods where the world began on an
 Island more mystical than earth,
& a Gate to or from other worlds. A myth
 to be little remarked, powerful old
heresy, alien & unuseful like a crag
 of fallen star.

It’s warm to my touch, not stone or
 inert wood. Like the skin of a Beast,
marked minutely with sigils & symbols,
 maybe an ancient tongue’s most important
stories. I wonder, as I sometimes do
 in deep dreams, what else has fallen
from those far skies.

And at its great apex words I can
 barely see from below, but know by
those spy-glass peerings, from my many
 dreams. Words: “for those lost.”

Again I pass beneath & choose to let
 it keep me this time. Not many steps
& come to the great Fountain. Singing
 high its bubbling waters, compelling
me near, compelling me drink. Did I do so
 in those childly dreams?

I don’t recall it. I never started outside
 the Gate but deep within. Crackles
with life, sparkling with a kind of madness,
 drink, drink.

How is it this water tastes like remembering?
 Yet so. I drink with both hands. We calm.

Two paths to choose from, to left & right
 of this Fountain. Which way?

I think of the Architect, who taught me
 of this Gate & yet denied me waking entrance.
Once I asked him how best to navigate it,
 since its paths shifted again & again.

He looked me dead on, as rare, his eyes
 a swooping stroke down my cheek, across
my neck, among the more daring for
 attention clothes I ever wore for him.

One finger tapped his head, another his
 heart, a third his nose, but twice.

I think of the Pensionne, my adopted home,
 my dear teacher there whose nose often
assessed & confirmed first & last. Miss all
 this fresh. Leave it again, sniff twice
with this feeling, & choose left.

The familiar walls around me, twice
 my height, a dark thick mix of stones &
vines. Very alive. The sky above me like
 the close, sweet, musical blue I knew
in my dream travels here.

Something pauses me. I am not dreaming.
 I am not sure here, much as I wish
to be. Something. I have my Blue Suitcase
 with me, & in it a box of colored threads
I took from the Tower, behind a loose
 stone once hidden behind a couch.

I’d looked because he held me on that
 couch the day he sent me away,
because it felt like beginning not ending.

His words gentle, salved my grief.
 Gestured the loose stone in the wall
behind the couch. “That rock knows
 more of time than men can reckon.”

Sang to me: “The many kinds of time,
 oh! the binds of time! & how it looses
to the air!”

I return to the Fountain, kneel to
 open the Blue Suitcase, pull out the
box of threads. Made of something
 warm like the Gate, swimming in sigils
like the Gate. I count a dozen through
 the number is strangely uncertain
to my summing. A legend inside. For those lost.

Ah beautiful. I study these threads, try to
 remember I once knew & loved this place,
travelled it many times in dreams
 with my childly friends.

I want to remember.
I want to trust me as I did.
I want to love without caution.

Sniff twice. Select the green thread.
The legend says of it: “Recover something
 dear.” I tie it to a stony hook on
the Fountain. Begin again.

Move slowly now, learning again
 to walk here, learning new how to
walk here. Do not feel the child
 I was nor the girl I bloomed
nor whatever I am now, but like
 all of them. Ranging across my years
like this a gift of the Fountain & its mad waters?

Occasionally there is a breach in the walls,
 not decay, nor time. The ruin of anger
& blows. Yet the ground beneath my
 bare feet gentle like always, how my
dreams remember.

I hurry. I dance. I remember a little.

I round a turn & recover something
 dear. My friends. My friends!
From behind the hole in my bedchamber’s wall,
 discovered only in childly dreams.

Too many to count. Have they all come?
They crow & cry, squeak, jingle, click
 & howl. Oh.

Nothing to forgive. There never was.

* * * * * *

xliv. Her Exile

There is no gap of time between
 us. Creatures do not live in the
simple years of men, their straight
 arrow, their before & during & after.
In dreams, this made sense, a part
 of how they live & prosper in the
Cavern below the Tangled Gate.
 Time like the Wide, Wide Sea.

But I am not dreaming. Is there
 anything different between us?
I want to ask them how they
 see me, child or woman, or the
vague range I am feeling?

They wait. The White Bunny & her
 fellow Tenders. Three Giraffes.
Bloo-eyed pair of Kittees. A number
 of Bears. The Turtle not a turtle.
Even the tiny cackling pandy bear. Many more.
 My friends. All of them. And yet.

I try. “I dreamed all of you back then.
 Through a hole in my bedchamber’s
wall, down a tunnel, to more tunnels &
 caves, & a great Cavern, where we
would visit & play our games.”

A few quiet sniffs. I think. Remember.

Human language spooked them. I tried
 to avoid it. They liked touch, dancing,
hmmming together. Clustering up in dreams.

I try again. “I have been gone for a
 long time from this Island. Traveled
to far places & lived years there.
 I’ve returned here, bid so by my
dreams. By the Architect.”

Many sniffs. They did not seem to
 like him or . . . something. He was
like human language to them.

I look about this clearing where
 we all sit, perch, float calm
upon the air. There not even
 the twitching of a nose. A stray wind
raises fur here & there, a few green spikes,
 royal purple feathers.

“I left here because there was to be
 war with the Mainland. The King
my father was ready to return & reclaim
 his throne. It was a Kingdom he had
founded when younger, long before me,
 with a group of men like his brothers.
Of them, only one remained. He who had
 driven my father & his followers to
this Island.” I quiet a moment. “I knew
 there was more. But he wouldn’t tell me.”

The trees are bare around us, a few
 fallen yet all lovely. A glint of
water in the distance. I find
 this telling hard. I find it sad.

“The Architect also knew more than he
 would willing tell me. I knew this
wasn’t a simple blood-feud. I knew
 this Island wasn’t a defeat’s
simple exile.”

Remembering like this brings more
 memories along. Strange ones.

Several Creatures have crept near to
 me, better to listen, as though touch
amplifies their understanding.

I stroke, pet, smile these magickal
 little beings, not animals, not people,
not quite like anything else. I don’t know why
 my dreams found them, for years, or why
I remembered so well, a second life lived
 at night while seeming quiet in my bed.
I don’t know what they thought I was then,
 or am now, or if they knew a difference.

Speak again. “My father scared off
 any Mainland invasion with his talk
of a terrible Beast in his harness, & the Gate
 at his command. Made them deliver
tributes to assuage this Beast, though
 the Architect told me in those last days
that the Beast did not consume them.
 In truth bore them far away though
he knew not where.”

I continue my sad telling. “I’d known
 this Beast as I had known all of you,
in my childly dreams. Knew what
 my father the King did not, that he
was no threat. The Architect crafted a plan
 to deceive the King & escape me from
the Island.”

Shake my head at my heart’s old furies.
 “I didn’t want to leave this Island,
leave all I had known. Leave all of you
 & the chance of seeing you in waking one day.
The Architect convinced me the invasion
 would fail & I had to go. I fooled myself
into thinking he would come for me, that
 we could be together somewhere else.
That I would convince him to return here
 with me later on.

“He made no such promises. Yet here we are
 again.”

My mind is starting to fade now.
Remembering what happened more like
 a fiction then the dreams at night then.

I want to finish. “He told me I would
 be leaving on a boat come with new
tributes. Instructed my part. He took charge
 at their delivery to the Gate, & thus
the Beast. I was given a black thread,
 like the one in this box, & hid close by.

“When they came, I revealed & demanded
 inspection. A frightened gaggle of ill-fed
dancers, with one Hero among them, easy
 to spy out.

“As our soldiers watched, I knocked him
 about the head, cursed, pushed him
down, him smiling & scoring a hidden stroke
 of my breast, I told him to follow
 the thread quickly in & out of the Gate,
& return safely, make for the boat.
 The King my father watching some of their progress
from the Architect’s Tower, his great spy-glass.
 It had to look true.

“We sailed away unnoticed in the
 darkest of the night. The Hero came to
my cabin that night but my fool’s heart
 awaited my Architect, & used words
he’d given me to repel him if he tried.”

More Creatures nearby now. Hmmming to me
 very low & sweet. “He left a few of us
stranded on another Island a few days
 later. Poisoned cups during a night of
celebration. I was relieved though now
 looked to by a half dozen terrified faces.

“A boat came eventually. I told of our
 shipwreck. No long a Princess from a
mythical Island of pagans, I was now a traveler
 & scholar from far lands. My group
followed me in this.”

They want me to sleep. “A little more please.
 Eventually, we returned to the Mainland;
no victor in the war. I chose to keep
 my exile & disguise, even when my
companions left me. I stayed in hiding
 so that only my Architect could find me,
& choose our path on.”

I lay back now, to finish. “The Pensionne
 I came to, I wondered if it was a last
gift from the Architect. They knew me
 true & cared for me. I thought I’d found
a new home, but maybe they were simply
 letting me rest, should I choose to return here.
I never stopped yearning this Island,
 missing my father, the Architect, all
of you. But for a long time I lived apart,
 unknowing to return. I’d moved on.
I hadn’t.”

There’s more to tell but my exhaustion.
 My friends lead me slow & stumble into
a deep bed of thick green ferns. I feel
 more fully like once I did, feel their love,
so simple, so vast. I fall asleep &,
 mercy of mercies, I do not dream.

* * * * * *

xlv. Traveling Troubadour

I wake rested in this endless bed
 of ferns & find most of my friends
have gone for now. Creatures will come
 & go in whys I’ve never known.

Yet they’ve not all gone. Three of my
 dearest remain, & will guide me,
my dangers their own, always, White Bunny,
 the gnattering little imp, the turtle
who isn’t a turtle.

I dawdle in their grasp & these soft
 green ferns. Wonder again how little
I know here now. Why I returned.
 A dream? That my old obsession
summoned me, as I yearned, summoned
 me return here to him?

Then I hear distant music, like a
 guitar strummed on the breeze, a man’s
occasional sweet voice. Tis the Traveling
 Troubadour I knew scattered many times
back when!

My thread played out, I chance our path
 now to follow him. We move quickly
from ferns to pathless chase.

These three know best how I would
 follow the Troubadour’s music whenever
we heard it back when. Rarely saw
 him & usually lost his music after a short
while in pursuit.

But once. It was the last time. I’m not
 sure why he let me discover him
as never before. I’d run as fast &
 never come close.

This time his music & voice led us
 on & on, my friends slowing for
my steps even as I felt I was
 careening along. But his songs never
drifted away, as usual, kept pace
 to my steps.

There is a clearing ahead we spy from
 bushes. I finger to lips hush my friends.
Did they know him? I’d never tried
 to ask? We, I spy.

He seems a human man, big, nearly
 as big as my father, is sitting on
the step of a small hut, strumming
 his instrument, eyes shut, a shining joy
on his face.

Think to flee, do not, instead reveal
 myself to him, seat myself near to
him, listen quietly his song.

Eyes sudden upon me, twinkling turquoise,
 a smile that simple glads me.

“What are you?” I ask, clumsily,
 sincerely.
He smiles. “I was someone else
 long ago. Now I’m here. Do you play?”

Shake my head. But when he strums
 newly, my Creature friends begin
to dance about & I join them
 as though mine own Dancing Grounds.

But not dancing for my father the King,
 nor from patterns & strange dreams.
I dance as one partner to his music,
 spritely, happy, free. He plays & we
all danced that day until well into
 nighttime, stars frothing into sky’s shore.

He paused in his playing after awhile
 & just gazed these many stars, a wonder
in his eyes simple yet unknowable. Talks,
 as is rare.

“We’re from those stars. We all return
 there.
“This is not our native world?”
Twinkling eyes upon me. “All is not
 as it seems.”

He plays on & on & somewhere in
 that night I slept & woke back
in my own bedchamber, which of
 course I’d never left.

But now years later, awake in
 this Tangled Gate, I follow
his music with near desperateness
 to hear, to talk to him.

But it fades & I cannot go fast enough
 to keep it, keep up. I finally sit
beneath a white birch. My friends
 close to me. We wait. Hours pass
neither day or night. I feel no
 hunger at all. Finally we nap
lightly in a curled grasp.

The Architect walks up to me, takes
 my hand. Grim as ever but glad
to see me. Leads me swiftly along,
 my friends close to me as ever.

We come to a black cave, silent within,
 seeming impenetrable to know.

He gestures us to enter, I stare him,
 gestures again, angily. “Go. Now.”
I want to say something to him but
 instead gather my friends & cross
into its abyss.

Something shocking within but I wake
 unable to remember. Still beneath
the white birch. No Architect.

I stand. Yearn the Troubadour’s music
 to follow as before. Consider the collection
of threads in the box in my Blue Suitcase.
 Choose the crimson red one. Labelled
“for greater understanding.” Tie it to
 the birch’s branches, & we then move
along again.

White Bunny hurrying us.
Imp gnattering crazily.
Turtle is quiet, not a turtle.

We are coming to something soon,
 my bones jitter to its power.
Very close now.

* * * * * *

xlvi. For Greater Understanding

I come to you again. I remember you.
 We co ntrived Creatures from the air,
like those I travel with. I remember you now.

The Architect told me your story, him I thought
 unknowing I dreamt you in Tangled Gate
visits. You are far older than men,
 old as the earth. You were created
long before men, to walk to the earth.
 One, none, many.

You were not given the rules by which
 to abide. A mortality. An I among
many. You shifted, & split, & you did
 not die. And then you did. And then you lived on.

I did not know you then as such
 an immortal, untold thing. You were
my friend, in dreams, in this Gate.
 I did not know why you came
to me then. What I was to you.

There is a break in the wall near
 where I meet you again. Because
we never spoke, I nod you toward it,
 & follow. There is an old log, half
sunk in the earth. We sit. My Creature
 friends sniff once, & then doze in a
cluster in a nearby tree’s shade.

You are troubled, make me to feel
 it in you. I close my eyes, hold on
of your great paws, listen you closer.

Danger, but not to you. To me, to us,
 men? I cannot understand.
You are trying to be gentle.

I speak aloud, softly, firmly.
“Show me what you would have
 me see. Be not kind.”

Suddenly, fiercely, I see. I treble in time.
 Tree, Tower, starcraft, but here is this
Gate. I look far & see how the future
 is collapsing back. Human hands &
faces reach back across time to salve,
 to heal the wounds before.

It isn’t working, what dream-magicks
 they try. Something familiar in this,
a knowing brushes beyond my grasp.

You cannot save this world from men
 & they cannot save each other.
Something, someone else in all this,
 but hid from my view, call for help.

Oh. I start awake on the ground
 I’ve fallen. You’re gone. My Creature
friends sniff me twice, & wait.

I remember something. That cave.
 You were in there. The crimson
thread in my hand. I think I know.

* * * * * *

xlvii. Reunion

I am near you, & I hesitate. We will
 soon decide, & I am uncertain. Is it
braver to stay or go? Will either bring
 you nearer me? You are not dreaming
this time. Soon you’ll know me as
 you never have.

There are many magicks in this world,
 & I watch you walk among several.
Your friends gird you powerfully with
 their love, their deep roots in the earth.
The cave you would enter to know better
 is deep magick, & danger, but I cannot
get there, protect you from your idea
 of the Beast as your friend too.

Near you, & hesitate. Follow you instead
 as wind, as glare on water, as fallen
leaves, Lingering, like never before, like
 the plain boy I long ago was, watching
one girl paint the air like twas
 her fingers’ canvas, watching another
dance vaporous among her ’witching
 songs. I was humble. I was nothing.

Drift nearer & breathe once, twice,
 relax. Your Blue Suitcase. I affix
myself as hummingbird, like old,
 & wait. Listen to you hmmm sweet
with your friends. Music a hungry
 protecting braid they try, wish to
return you with them.

I panic. I can’t let you go. I begin
 to hmmm close to your ear, risk this.
You distract, look around, but nothing.

But your friends sudden sniff twice,
 & I am exposed.

At the far end of history, where I landed
 in my escape, where I came from,
escaping it too, looking for you, where
 I sent my Blue Suitcase from, to
disrupt history, to give you & me another
 chance, there are no Creatures.
There is no Tangled Gate. Or there
 wasn’t either before I returned here.
There was no Beast. This world
 was ending. Its many magicks
were gone. What I do, what we do
 now, is all for what’s to come.

You look at me mutely. Beatiful,
 too beautiful. Youth’s bloom powerfully
about you, yet I reck something
 old in your eyes, the drag of your
years returned you here. To me.

We sit. The tiny one comes up to me,
 merrily noisy & gnattering at me in
an ancient unknown tongue, cackles
 from lava from times fathomless.
Sits in my hand, & I close my eyes.
 Enters my mind, pushing things around,
re-ordering my ineffables. I cry out
 finally, & you mercy utter a word
to retrieve her to your hand.

The long-eared one stares me
 intently, & I strangely calm, lean
back, her in my lap, nearly dream.
 She does not press or pry, but
salves & smoothes, & I weary, &
 I cannot respond, but to whimper.
Again your word retrieves. I remain crooked.

The green-shelled one does not
 but sit in your lap quietly, protecting
you, guarding me away.

“I have no such friends as these,”
 I finally say, more sadness than
humble truth. “I did not summon you
 to harm you. Please believe me.”

You stand, motion me, bid your friends
 wait We walk apart from them.
You look up at that close blue sky,
 your face still muted to mine.

“You asked me to find you here.”
I grimace, nod. “You’re greatly needed.
 You nod obscurely. There is a silence.
  between us. We return to them.

I am no longer your teacher.

You pick up your Blue Suitcase
 without a word. Your friends sniff
me follow at a distance.

I have to tell now, whatever comes.
I know the helpless fear of ordinary men.

* * * * * *

xlviii. Reveal

We walk a fair while in quiet.
To tell why I summoned her is perhaps
 to tell all. And then words
run out, to let her consider & respond.

I find that I do not have artful or eloquent
 ways to say these things right now.
Neither confidence nor surety
 of purpose. Just a strange story. I speak.

“You are not what you seem, a Princess,
 a usual young woman. You are from
a far far place, maybe now long gone.
 A beautiful place that decayed,
over many millennia, until it was
 too late for those who lived there
to save. It was called Emandia.

“You were sent here, as a child,
 to live in this world, of it,
until one day you would decide
 to keep this place, stay here,
or depart it, let it go dark.”

Her step is steadier but a little
 slower. She is surely listening.
I want to tell of my part in
 this, how I built the Gate,
how I contrived her rol, how
 I had chased her so long, terrored
sent her away from the Island,
 to protect her & the world, how
I trembling summoned her back
 again. I want to say all this,
but different words come. My guise
 will remain for now.

“They could not know what
 you would come to when they sent
you off, but they gave you what powers
 they could. To dream powerfully,
to treble in time. The Blue Suitcase
 you carry was my gift to you, given
when you left the Island. Lined
 with power, protection.”

It’s not the moment to tell what
 I am in all this. Not yet.
A tightness in my chest argues this
 decision, but I talk on.

“I am learned. I see through shells,
 but I am just a man. I come from
a time men have ruined toward
 final decay, & I will not return.”
True enough. Yet not enough. Yet I continue.

“I’ve come from beyond the Dreaming
 to find you, to help you, & now,
finally, the Tangled Gate bears
 our way together.”

She stops. Does not turn. Breathes
 quick. Testing words. Speaks.

“What do we do?”
“Pick the next thread. They forge
 our path.”
“How will I know?”

I want to assure her that she
 will know, that her will & instinct,
the love of her friends, my counsel,
 the deep power in the heart of
this world, will easily prove enough.
 But I don’t. The only evident map
is what trails the steps we’ve taken.

What does her choice mean to this
 world, to her? Can she choose wrong?
Does she, do these Creatures, survive
 intact either way? Can worlds
with Gates built from dreams
 trust these dream-stuffs to keep ever
stable in waking’s years?

I talk. “There are many threads
 in your box. Choose one & we
  will go.” It’s not much of an answer,
   she doesn’t move, or speak,
as ever the pretty stubborn head
 waiting for whatever words unsaid,
  like she often did when I taught her.

Talk again. “The world is countless
 mysteries to us, & yet we know
it cares for us by its own ways.
 But the world belongs to something
else.

“You’d stare yourself blind into
 the sun & never know, never be
sure, never be able to use for
 your survival what little you
learned.” Stop there. More than
that to be said is just more words.

She nods. Turns to me & gestures
 me near. Lays her Blue Suitcase
on the ground, removes from it
 the box of threads.

Her Creature friends sniff me
 cautious, & like this box even
less. I don’t suppose they would.

She studies the threads remaining,
 finger on her chin, stares a moment
into the weird blue sky here. Selects
 the purple thread. “A wish to heal,”
says the legend. Smiles vaguely.

We stand. She hands me the end
 of the thread. Shakes her head
at her friends, like an instruction?

“When you feel a tug, follow.”
 And then she is gone.

* * * * * *

 xlix. The White Tiger

A turn & I have left my friends &
 the Architect, the purple thread
trailing me. The path ahead falters &
 I find myself climbing over debris
of vines & stones. Soon beyond the remains
 of walls but the path clears again
as small stones, strange shaped,
 placed at equal distances.

Then I discover who is placing them
 & think me dreaming. It is the White Tiger
from the Pensionne! My friend, my
 next teacher after you, Architect.
A Creature yet not like the rest then
 from my dreams.

I worry this strange place will render us
 strangers to each other but when you turn,
see me, approach me, bow your beautiful
 striped head for my embrace—

For a moment, gone from knowing.
For a moment, simple, happy wonder.

They let me sleep many days when I arrived
 there. I had brought no treasure but was
told the Pensionne kind to poor travelers.
 My room was small but with a tall window
for sun & stars. They put me to work
 in the Great Garden, eventually, where
I met you.

I found peace in the Garden, from
 the frequent talk of the distant war,
songs I heard extolling the King my
 father as a returning hero, half a god
in his armor. Greed everywhere for
 news of the battles, a hunger for violence
against the zealots who had stolen
 so much. A deviling wish to burn them all.

The Garden my domain from before light
 to late afternoon. The many faces of the
many blooms, the shaking leaves in
 the wind of its beautiful white birches.
Like a music I tempted to dance, like
 the dreams of old but, tired & sad down deep,
I refrained. I did my work tending
 this Garden. I was quiet.

Sometimes scrubbing hours in the kitchen too,
 after the dinners, the one meal of the day
not nuts & fruits. Good work to lose
 my memories in, water’s hot breath
calming me, keeping me focussed on
 the simple task. When the war songs
began, I would step out quietly.

Then I noticed something moving in
 the Garden, swift & white. A trace
of blue eyes. Another time & again.
 I asked the women in the kitchen
but they just laughed. “The White Tiger
 appears to a lucky few, like
yourself, but never too close. Not a danger.”

I hadn’t felt my old curiosity in so long
 & yet now wildly so. I even dreamed
I was back with the Architect in his
 Tower, & asked him.

Tapped his head, his heart, nose twice, but
 I stomped.

“No. Tell me.”
“I don’t have to. He will himself.”
“He’s not an ordinary beast?”
“You know he’s not. He’s a Tender. Now
 you’ll be his apprentice.”
“A Tender?”

His smile on me so warm & sweet,
 I practically swoon open, but
then he’s gone.

How did we meet? Why did he choose me?
The Architect’s hand in it, somehow.

His beautiful white fur with its deep
 black stripes. His electric blue eyes.
His teachings so deep in me the passage
 of time & miles did not touch.
Like secrets for me to keep, a protection
 on them till needed.

I began to dream again like old.
I began to dance at dawn alone,
 those last mornings there.
Then you came again, my Architect,
 & summoned me return you.

You feel real now as I embrace you,
 the soft growl through your perfect coat,
the sweet crooked angle of your pink nose.
 I show you my purple thread in
a try to explain, avoid words you spooked
 over like every Creature I’d known.

You push close to my face, make me
 look you better. Your blue eyes
are now flecked with the same purple.
 We will go together again, like old.
Maybe your teachings will reveal?

* * * * * *

l. We Ride

Creatures are humble, sweet, & wise.
They know the world’s secrets as plain
 as men know how to breathe, eat, sleep,
They do not possess things, or each other,
 as men do.
They are of this world as men are of
 their passions, memories, fears.

In my childly dreams they taught me
 of how the world was to them, ways
which stayed in me even unto
 my travels far from those dreams
& this Island. My White Tiger teacher
 gave my roving tangled grown mind
better knowing of what I’d been carrying
 so long.

The hmmming  is like the world’s first tongue,
 before dressed in the party & poverty
of language. For direction, for calming,
 for sharing the down deep of being,
sole being, shared being, whether how
 men think in time or as Creatures think
in space.

Sniffing is alert focus for mapping out
 safety, danger, sharing this back &
forth. Somehow Creatures sniffed me
 friendly & my Architect not. The Queen
had warned me sniff the intent of men
 near me but was this the same?

Creatures cluster for warmth, comfort,
 to share dreaming, to tender, protect.
These things are for survival. Creatures
 are not lapdogs, parrots scolding in
cages, kittens mewing in a basket.
 Clustering is affection & purpose both.

I wondered if they ate & did not know
 until my White Tiger brought
me to a strangely hmmming clearing
 deep in the One Woods up the
brown hills from the Garden, a great
 clearing where was a great kettle
of marvelous soup, dishes & spoons
 stacked next to it. I did not eat
again for days, & even then only
 by habit.

We hmmm’d, we sniffed, we clustered,
 we dreamed in colors so thorough twas
like the whole world really a
 dream of colors, shifting, moving,
delicious as that soup, world
 a colorful dream of hmmming soup,
to be sniffed, enjoyed close, ohhh—

My childly dreams of what lay behind
 the wall in my bedchamber’s wall
woke softly with me, a knowing that
 I’d been there again; that it was
real, at least to me, & dreams were
 how I was able to visit there.
Able to be with all of them again.

The beautiful White Bunny who
 could hop whatever far she chose.
The tiny cackling imp who was like
 a merry chip from the world’s first days.
The turtle not a turtle who could not
 tell me in words what he really was.

The Great Cavern was where they
 lived, where our games & songs &
clustered dreamings. They felt safe
 there, & warm, & we often found
our way to the branches of the
 Great Tree in its center, or among
its vast roots which ran to shadowy
 lower places.

Clustered, hmmming, soft fun, many
 colors, games so simple in dreams
yet I could not untangle to explain
 by daylight’s duller hours.

It was the White Tiger who later gave
 more bone & sinew to these sweely
recalled childly blurrings. He learned
 me slowly how linear my mind thought,
how simple my hardest questions.
 He slowed & cohered with me.
Finding him recovered me to myself.
 He was why the Architect led me
 to the Pensionne.

Now here, this Island home of mine
 returned, the Creatures rediscovered,
& here my White Tiger friend & I pushing
 the stones into place, restoring paths
to a great length of the Tangled Gate.

The Architect’s strange story of my
 origins in the stars. What of
this? I’m but a strange, slight girl            
 on a mad careen.

Sometimes we separate & work
 at different paths, & I worry
he’ll be gone like he never was.
 But he finds me, head down for embrace,
blue eyes flicking purple, & we go on.

Eventually come again to the One Woods,
 it is never far from here, & we walk side by side
through its great trees. My purple thread
 running low, & I have to decide:
 return, tug & wait, or go on?

When I reach the end, we stop.
 I think of my Architect, & my
dear friends back there. Love them,
 adore him. Sniff twice, & look at
my tender friend. Really look.
 His fur a wildly bright white,
his stripes a moonless night’s dark.

White & black. Like my threads?
He rears back & roars with wonderful joy.

I tie the purple thread to a low
 tree branch. Half bury the box of
threads among the stones at the tree’s
 base. Tug. I hope my clue is
clear to them.

My White Tiger bows low that
 I may mount him & ride. Now we
can go at his pace, which as swift
 as the White Bunny’s. We ride.

The swifter we go, the blurrier
 the landscape, & I seem to see
other things. Outlines of strange
 buildings, vehicles. I look up &
there are metallic crafts endlessly
 shifting form. Familiar without memory.

I feel purpose without words.
A sense of hurry.
Stronger than ever, a wish to heal.

Clustering blur of colors, sniffs,
 hmmming, dreams. A world
without words. Without difference.
 Passions, memories, fears.

Then out of the One Woods, up over
 a hill & there below a place I should
know but don’t quite. Several buildings close
 together among wide fields, but these
buildings look half fallen, deserted.

My friend slows his pace, becomes
 almost hesitant. Sniffs twice. Ahh.

I pat him quick, he kneels &
 dismounts me. We are here.
I am here, again. Somewhere, again.

He does not go further. I wouldn’t
 let him. We embrace & I see
his eyes again are their own summery
 blue. I turn & continue my path
as he silently bounds away.

* * * * * *

li. Entering Clover-dale

Alone, I approach. No threads, no teachers.
The main building, the smaller one
 flipped over behind it. The tilted glassless
barn nearby. Overgrown brown fields.
 Looks magic-less. Isn’t. Isn’t by far.

Here I am again, entering the main building, its
 exterior walls painted a terrified red,
now as dryly crumbling as these steps are.
 Release to the earth as my bare feet
touch them. But there is no real give
 in this place, no release in its tight,
furious heart.

I enter the first room, dank & cluttered,
 filled with kitchenware, weapons, books,
a tilting feeling that, long ago, packing &
 flight from here interrupted by deth,
or despair. No need to sniff here.
 The crush of old air shoves me
slowly forward. I come with new hours.
 New hours aren’t wanted here.

The next room shines with many reflections,
 mirrors, dirty pools of silver, warped &
unknown instruments. An unseen light
 on these shows me as a child, a crone,
a Queen, a beggar, a barebacked dancer,
 a Creature like my many friends, even
something like a Beast. Me a Beast?
 These are my discarded lives, my refused
choices, my missed chances. How I didn’t
 live, how I won’t die.

The Beast I linger to study, take her calm
 for my clue. She won’t let me stay
long, touches within me a panic like
 the building’s old brutaled walls.

I pass on. The becomes outdoors,
 chilled, & I find myself in a featureless
desert slashed by the sun’s winter heat.
 I walk & walk the hard, dry, cracked
surface, long in approaching an exit,
 a door in sight. Hurry.

But first a hut, & within sits a small,
 exotic man. Old as deserts.

He totters out, makes to bow me like
 a servant. I shake my head, touch
his small shoulder. His smile sweet,
 warm, green, fertile, like the
Wide Wide Sea no matter whatever here
 appears to be. I feel in him the same
calm power as my Beastly image.
 He is here for me, I am his effect.

Then he laughs, braying with delight,
 & begins to gnatter like my imp friend.

Not thinking, not feeling, not sniffing
 this time, I gnatter in return, high &
low click-clicks & noise-noises. A kind
 of strange play, but I knew that.
A kind of song too? The more we gnatter,
 the more we treble in time, & see this
desert as long ago watery basin, as
 far hence filled with starcraft.

Then the push, something in this,
  he doesn’t know, nothing here knows,
I must move on. World compels me.

“But what am I to do? I suddenly
 say in my own tongue. A slight careening
girl again. “What am I to heal?”

The little man smiles his beautiful
 toothless smile, & motions me
reck that door beyond his shack.

“Just play through, my friend,”
 he whispers. “Find the Carnival
Room as you did. Go now, Princess.”

* * * * * *

lii. Carnival Room

Soap bubbles. I remember now.
I woke the night in my bedchamber
 to soap bubbles floating around
  me in the window’s moonlight.
Raised my finger to pop one & heard
 a moment of music. Popped more &
  each time a pretty ting. Like music
   released, & then gone.

Then I raised up quick when I saw
 more at the foot of my bed, found
  they liked to be popped several
   at once, many of my fingers as I could,
    like an instrument. I followed, popped & played.

Until I was at the wall opposite
 my bed & saw whence they’d come.
  A hole in the wall, round, smooth
   at its edges, like twas always there,
    like waiting my middle-night notice?

I followed, kept popping the bubbles,
 like this was part of the magick. Listened
  too. The bubble music was being faintly
   replied to, a singing in kind, were these
    bubbles his? I was in a tunnel now,
     not dark but faintly glowing. No fear.

The music nearer, I learned its moods
 & modulations. Sometimes sounded gay,
  sometimes tragic, but it never ceased
   now, & became my path to follow,
    when a fork to choose, when unsure.

The music led me to the White Bunny,
 who was waiting for me by a long
  curving stretch down. Her glowing
   fur bright in the tunnel’s murk,
    her mesmerizing eyes & pink nose
     steady upon me. Long furry ears, slim torso.

She was close with the music too, like there
 was a hmmming she shared with the singer,
   how they spoke, how she knew to wait
    for me. She sniffed me twice & slow
     hopping led me along. I tried hmmming
      too & found it sometimes made all
       this seem clearer, friendlier.

She showed me how to travel the
 tunnels, how to sniff for the unknown,
  how to hmmm for direction, near
   friends. How to remember without words,
    feel deeper these places as between us
     something shared grew.

It was many dreams before I found
 the bones & grit to remember one to the next.
 Before I remembered on waking where
 I’d been, & that I’d been many times before.
 Until then, the bubbles would lead me
 to the hole, the music would take me
 to the White Bunny. Hop, sniff, hmmm, wake.

Then the first time I spoke to her upon our meeting.
 “Where do you live? Would you take me there?”
 She studied me closely for a long dream’s time.
 Then turned & hopped away, faster & faster,
 a blur I somehow followed. Then we arrived.

The Great Cavern seemed like the center
 of the world. Or close to it.
 I could not see its roof up there high,
 only study the Great Tree’s heightless
 height up there. Only feel like
 the Great Tree’s roots might lead
 to even greater.

I met the White Bunny’s fellow Creatures
 one by one, many more dreams the doing.
 They were shy & yet it felt like they
 knew, or expected, me. I . . . belonged to them
 in a way I had never felt before. Truth
 with no how or why.

All admired the gnattering little imp,
 like a tiny black & white pandy bear with
 crazy laughing eyes, her strange play
 with objects, now this, now that,
 now here? now gone!

But her tricks ran deeper, like a wise
 funny book written on the water,
 finished in the air. She seemed
 both the most ancient & het
 most new of them all. Would sit peaceably
 in my palm, lazily gnawing, & then
 a sudden wild cackle & away!

So many friends to meet & know.
 Pretty little giraffes clustered in
 my lap to nap. Handsome dancing
 bears in hats & bowties, leaping
 from small stones to larger boulders,
 among shadows high high & low low.

Each time I climbed through the hole,
 & followed the musical bubbles, the White
 Bunny waited me. Yet she could not
 lead me to the Singer, could not
 explain who or what he was. My
 friends simply accepted him as so.

His voice was always in our
 songs, sometimes our laughter,
 even the gnattering little imp would
 seem to play & teach among his music.
 I sometimes heard his echo in my
 waking hours, distantly, like the
 morning tide of the Wide Wide Sea.

I wished to than him for bringing
 me here, gifting me all these friends,
 this whole beautiful world. So gathered
 all of my friends together in the
 Great Cavern. White Bunny, imp, giraffes,
 bears. Hedgedyhog, hummingbird, turtle who
 isn’t a turtle. So many more known,
 napped with, hmmm’d with. Because of
 this unseen friend.

“We must make him a gift, &
 find a way to give it him.” They all
 listened me closely when I spoke,
 like human language spooked them deep,
 & yet loved me. Finger on my chin,
 I wondered, what gift?

“Find me a small box, the color of the
 Wide Wide Sea. For next time we visit.”

With a few magickal waking words I
 borrowed from the Architect (he had
 so many!), this beautiful little box
 they found for me would be most protected.
 My friends gathered strange little stones,
 rough little jewels, pretty nuts, feathers.

With the White Bunny, gnattering little imp,
 & the turtle who isn’t a turtle, we traveled
 for many of my dreams, listening closely,
 nearing him, then not so near to him.
 I grew to fear will would not be enough
 to find him, despaired a little. His
 music we followed grew despairing too.

Then I sniffed twice, took a leap, & suddenly laughed.
 He joined me, merry sudden too,
 as did my friends. Laughing became
 a happy song, a song of finding, a song
 of gifts. We hurried, we slowed, no rules
 for finding him. He did not know where
 he was. We sang. We gnattered too. We neared.

I felt us very close now, we all did,
 the music filled us whole but, still,
 not quite. I sniffed twice, took a
 sudden leap again, & began to sing words.
 “There is a door. And now we pass through!
 There is a door! And now we pass through!”

And so we arrived the Carnival Room,
the root of the music, its Tower, its starcraft.

One had to look around like singing.
One had to listen close like singing.
One had to walk like singing, sniff like singing,
 & always keep singing, or one found
 one’s self back in an ordinary tunnel,
 & the singing close & elsewhere like always.

So much to see, a feast of wonders:
 vast, deep mirrors, with shifting tales
 writ on them—doors hung high
 upon walls, & other places they would
 lead—a painting of a great wheeled
 carriage on rails—& when I sang &
 laughed & gnattered my best, there were
 two exotic brothers, one playing a stringless
 guitar, the other dancing with a blue
 castle upon his head, their songs
 joining our laughter, & the general gnattering,
 & the Singer’s happy cries. Many, one, none.

The Singer, I finally learned, could only be
 found in this way, not a solid form,
 but by habitation. He was his many musics,
 & those he shared, & this was his function,
 & this was his happiness. In my many
 childly dreams, I did not question this.
 It was answer enough.

Now feeling like I am far from those
 childly dreams, & yet, I listen for his
 musics, any note or quiver of them. The rooms
 I pass through grow larger & larger,
 sometimes empty, sometimes furniture
 the size of mountains. Always a glowing murk,
 no sound but my hurrying feet.

I try to remember the musics, just one,
 but they elude me. We sang so many,
& many times over. Just one. Nothing.

Then . . . music! but not his hmmming. Instruments.
A squeeze box, two fiddlers. I come
 to a room of more familiar size again,
   dark but noisy. I follow the music,
    I croak, then croon, then hmmm with it.
Now a . . . platform above rails, like the
 picture from the Carnival Room!
  It is close, but I look for the musicians.

They are indeed three. An old man with
 a mess of hair, in a long grey coat,
 playing the sunniest day on the
 many yellowed keys of his grimy
 old squeeze box. The fiddlers, tall,
 thin, dressed in faded harlequin
 rags, dancing & playing with eyes closed.
They do not notice me. I listen.

Then, I begin to dance. Not just
 to dance like remembering. The years
 fall away completely & I am
 dancing with all of me. Dance like
 laughing, dance like gnattering,
 dance like singing under the big moon,
 under none. I dance like the tides
 of the Wide Wide Sea, like the tallest
 oaks, like everything I can conjure.

I forget the where & what of it all,
 forget to sniff twice, leap, & know.
 I dance back my years to far away
 unknown places, maybe other worlds,
 & dance on to the many I will become,
 & know in other times.

As the roar of the great wheeled
 carriage escalates, I return,
 as best I can. The musicians have
 finished too, & gaze me quietly.

I am arrived, finally, at this moment
 of my self, this perpetuity. I am ready.

******

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