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| The Merlin Factor. Chapter Nineteen. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Dec 17 2015, 09:58 PM (83 Views) | |
| crow | Dec 17 2015, 09:58 PM Post #1 |
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The Merlin Factor. Chapter Nineteen. Answers. Cruise Ship "Viking Princess". Latitude 35, North-Eastern Pacific Ocean, 1990. The Captain was a pleasant fellow, by the name of Daniel Gurney. He had an aura of vast experience about him - one might guess that in his youth he could have been quite dangerous - and wore a faded pair of R.A.F. pilot's wings on the lapel of his white captain's tunic. A distinguished, greying personality that had she been introduced to, only yesterday, would have fallen madly in love with. He was even a Brit. As it was, she admired his cultured manner and his quiet, self-confident looks, while part of her sought out the tired, wretched wisp of a man she had brought back from the dead. "An incredible coincidence..." he was saying, his accent carrying the barest trace of Lancashire as he offered V.S.O.P. cognac in a wide, heavy snifter, suitably serious. "...that you could have known he would be there. In all my time at sea..." She was courteous, as was he, but each one knew that something very strange was at work here. Something you didn't explain away by explaining. She had to see him. "Captain Gurney. I am a trained nurse. I have credentials. I know you have your own highly-trained medical staff, but I do feel some - some attachment - for this poor, lost dear." She smiled alluringly at him, noting the effect it had. "I would very much like to be able to nurse him back to health. I am sure you understand." She even patted his knee. There. The final touch. "Oh - yes. Quite." He rubbed his neck, slightly uncomfortable with it, but seeing no real harm. "Rather irregular, of course, but I really don't see why not..." "Then you'll take me to him?" She had him. "But of course, Ma'am." He rose and offered his arm. "If you would follow me, please?" The sick bay was down deep in the hull. There was very little point in wasting the better locations on people too sick to enjoy the privilege. Besides, this was a cruise ship - a holiday afloat - and nobody had been seriously sick in many years, other than the occasional bout of nausea or the ubiquitous hangover that was better treated by walking the decks in the good ocean air. It took almost five minutes to get there from the bridge and Daphne had to pay close attention to her route in order that she should not become hopelessly lost. She felt an enormous affection as soon as her eyes fell upon him, weak as a kitten, and peeling like a snake grown too large for its skin. The poor little dear. "My God!" she realized. "I love him..." "Ah - nurse?" The Captain crooked his finger at the ship's nurse, guiding her aside and explaining in low tones the new situation. "This - ah - this passenger is a qualified nurse and she rather wants to attend to the patient. Yes. Yes I know you're paid to do it. Yes." He held up his hand and ushered her outside. "Look here, Margaret. This is a paying passenger. We are here to cater to her needs. And whims. She is a qualified professional whose idea of a holiday cruise seems to be nursing some half-dead sailor back to health. Let her. She'll call you if she needs help, all right? Good. Go and have a holiday yourself. No harm in that, eh? Good show. And Margaret?" He laid his arm on her shoulder. "I've been having a spot of bother with the old war-wound. Could you arrange a little massage, perhaps?" He winked at her. The nurse blushed and then smiled. "Of course, Sir. Your cabin?" The captain watched her walk away, admiring the firm, young behind. It made a lot more sense, he reminded himself, than being tempted by the hordes of paying women passengers. Much more sense. He re-entered the sick-bay. "Everything is sorted out, Madam. Feel free to call the bridge if you need anything. I'll tell them the situation." He saluted, feeling slightly silly, and left her to play hospitals with her new interest. She took a deep breath and turned to the sleeping form, lifting the stat. chart from the end of the bed and studying it with an expert eye. Hmmm. Nothing wrong with him that some good food and tender loving care couldn't remedy. He looked to be about thirty. Hard to tell, though. He'd been through a lot and his forehead and cheeks were infected and puffy. Wide-spectrum antibiotics would soon take care of that. Dehydrated, of course. Electrolyte I.V., she decided. With dextrose. Get him eating again. Slowly. She had another six days to work her magic. Six days in which to find out who he was and just why it was she had dreamed about him the way she had. A sudden thought crossed her mind. Would he even be able to communicate with her? He might be Russian or Bavarian, or whatever. There was no way of knowing until he came round... ***** Mmmm. What a nice smell. Warm. Soft. Oh this ain't so bad. Mmmm. Different from the last... Hands. Warm. Smooth. Hot water? Uh? Ooooh... Good. Mmmm. She was washing him. All day yesterday he had slept and she was beginning to worry if he wasn't in a coma. Still, he mumbled from time to time. Even smiled. All in his sleep. He had played with himself for a while, weakly, ineffectively. Then he had urinated. She had been watching him intently, spellbound, seeing the sheet move at his groin. Then it had grown wet. She had lunged for the bedpan and threw back the sheet, trying to catch as much as she could and stared at the erection that urinated at the same time. He smelled bad, down there, and she had realized it was necessary to clean him. Now she leaned over him, softly soaping, holding him gently while he throbbed and gave off heat, admiring this secret thing that only men had. She didn't notice when his eyes fluttered and half-opened. Then gasped and stiffened as his hands suddenly clutched at her breasts, pawing, clumsy. She had been a nurse for many years. It was quite common that men, coming out of anesthesia, would lunge for their nurses' breasts. Most men did it. Automatic. Mama. They took a few seconds to remember the social graces. Nurses soon learned to anticipate and move aside. She wondered why she let him fondle her. Standing there, holding his private parts while he groped and squeezed. A long moan gurgled from his lips and suddenly he was awake. They looked at each other for long seconds, wondering. "Marion?" He implored her with a little, croaky voice. She gasped, her heart fluttering, at the name. Mere coincidence? She did not much believe in coincidence... "There, there, dear. My name is Daphne. You're safe on board a liner, dear. How do you feel?" Thank God! He could even speak English. Daphne? Disappointment. I wondered how I felt. Noticing my hands were wrapped around her bust I swallowed and blushed, letting them fall to the sheet. "Ah - Ohhh..." Oh it felt so indescribably good. Her hands, warm and soapy on my sex. She seemed to suddenly become aware of what she was doing to me and turned red, hurrying through her rinse. I swam in comfort. What? "Liner?" I said the word and for some reason my left hand grasped for something down at my side. Something that wasn't there. Liner. What did it mean? "A cruise ship, dear. We picked you up from the water." She laid down the towel and sat on the bed, beside me. "I've been wanting to know your name since yesterday..." She waited, smiling, stroking my hair. "Johnny." It sounded unfamiliar. "I think..." She felt quite faint. Johnny. Marion. Just like that. Could this really be? But then again, why not? She struggled for control, took a deep breath... "That's a nice name. Do you have a last name, Johnny?" I frowned, stopped frowning in a hurry as my forehead reminded me how badly it was sunburned. Name? Johnny... "Hawkins," I croaked. No. That wasn't right... "Hawken.." It sounded closer. I tried again: "Johnny Hawken." Her jaw dropped and stayed that way. She looked at me strangely. She seemed taken aback. Stunned. "What a remarkable coincidence." She shook her head as if at some incredible thing. "Unbelievable! Johnny Hawken. Fancy that!" Was she upset? Maybe I'd got it wrong. I tried again. "Dave." It sounded only slightly more familiar than Johnny. "David." I tried it out to see if it made her feel better. "David..." No more would come to me. I gave up. She laughed. And I was instantly in love. She was very attractive. I wanted to touch her breasts again. "Are you hungry, Johnny? Or is it David?" She leaned closer, examining me for who knew what. "Ah - I - I think so..." Hard to speak. My stomach felt like lead. Either very hungry or very sore. "How about some milk? Nice warm milk. Would you like that?" I stared at her breasts. Oh yes. She stood up, smoothed her skirt in a strangely familiar way and picked up a telephone. Her voice was low and the words sounded strange. I looked around. Where was I? My mind kept hiding from me. Annoying. Dreaming again? Could you ever really tell? She came back and sat down. "I've ordered you a glass of hot milk and some cereal. You don't have to eat anything, only if you feel you can manage it, all right?" Her smile was wonderful. A happy woman. A kind woman. A woman you didn't mind waking up to. "I'd like to know how you came to be there, Johnny. Can you remember? Are you awake enough to tell me?" "Where?" I felt rather confused. "In the middle of the ocean, silly! In a little boat." Oh! Oh yes. The boat. A gate opened and a torrent of garbled images enveloped me. I gasped under the sheer volume of all the junk. Too much. Wow. "Merlin." One word came through. Only one. It was enough. Her jaw dropped again. Stayed there. I smiled at the way it made her look. She went on staring at me, eyes out of focus. "Merlin?" she asked at length. "Who is Merlin?" I tried to remember. Who was he, anyway? "French chap. Funny. Smart though..." I rubbed my jaw. This was hard. "Jacques Merlin. Hundred - two - hundred years old. I got his boat. He got mine..." I tried again, "we fly together. Flew. Night..." She started crying. Just like that. I reached out for her face, to stroke it, but my arm wouldn't reach. It just fell back to the bed. She came closer. Leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. Nice lady. Bit older than me. Not too much. Nice. "I - I had a dream," she ventured. "A man - I think he had a French accent - a man called Jacques Merlin. He came and showed me where you were. He even knew my name. We flew through the air. Through the night. I stopped the ship because of it. Stopped the ship and here you are." She stopped again. Blinked. Wiped her eyes. There was a knock on the door. "Sustenance for the shipwrecked sailor. How is he?" A smiling nurse walked in carrying a tray with a glass of milk and a bowl full of shredded wheat. My stomach jumped. She was younger than Daphne. Not as pretty. She'd just been fucked. I could tell. Worried, under her smile. No. Not worried. Jealous? Angry? "This is Johnny," Daphne said, taking the tray. "Thank you, nurse." "You're welcome, Matron." She left the room abruptly. "She's angry at you." I said. "Angry?" She laughed. "What a funny thing to say, Johnny. Why should she be angry?" I didn't know. But it was obvious. Surely she could see. I looked at her. Studied her. Saw things I hadn't noticed before. "You're wearing stockings." She reddened. Checked her skirt. Seemed baffled. "Ah - yes. I find them comfortable. How did - ah - how did you know?" "I like stockings." It seemed to say it all. "Marion wore them too." She sometimes acted very strangely. "Johnny..." she paused, collecting her words. "Who - who is this Marion?" I thought about it. Who was she? Hard to say, really. Difficult to put your finger on it. "Nice lady." I decided. "I loved her. Don't know when that was. Can't remember. She wore stockings too..." Daphne fed me with a spoon until the bowl was empty. I had difficulty swallowing the soggy shreds, had to drink lots of milk to wash them down. I hated hot milk. The lead in my stomach turned into aluminum. Daphne considered: it seemed - amazingly - to have happened just as Marion had suggested it might. Now, against her wishes, she would have to do as she had been asked. "Remember, Daphne," her mother had said, "should you ever find him, or find someone you think might be him, you are to tell him about your Auntie Marion. You are to be my niece. It is important, dear. Will you do this for me?" Daphne had said that of course, she would. Never for one moment expecting to actually have reason to do so. She was not a woman to intentionally mislead anyone. But... "I have an Auntie Marion." She said it so abruptly that I choked on my final mouthful, spluttering all over the bed. Auntie Marion. The words opened up a floodgate of images that poured out of nowhere and buried me in strange, violent emotions. I realized I was sobbing and leaning forwards into her bosom, clinging like a child. She soothed me as if - as if... "There, there, darling Johnny. My dear, sweet Johnny..." I clung and clung, hiding from the pain and the sorrow. Faces flashed before my eyes. Voices. Names. Fire. Sound. "Which way do you break, Johnny?" "...guzzle a pint at the King's Skull, Johnny?" "Fuck you, Johnny..." "...like me to spank you, Johnny?" It went on and on and on... ***** Daphne spent almost all her time with me, talking softly, asking about my journey, holding my hand as I struggled back along the winding, uphill climb to recovery. She smiled often, filling in the blanks whenever she could, searching out my little mental trapdoors and hidden passageways whenever she couldn't. By and by I came to know whatever could be known, learning to live with the absence of what could not. I became a complete person again. Well, almost complete. Almost... The dory bothered me. It took a little while to be able to pinpoint exactly what it was about it that continued to nag at my mind. The dory... "Daphne?" I grasped her hand once more. "Daphne? We must call the Captain. I need to ask him something. Something important. Will you ask him to come and visit? Please?" She patted my head. Nodded. Of course she would. Naturally. The Captain knocked and waited. The polite professional. Daphne thanked him for taking the time to make this little detour and made him comfortable in the sterile, antiseptic-smelling room that she had so effectively commandeered. "And how is our favorite survivor today?" He offered me the large bunch of fleshy green grapes he had brought. The easy smile that put his passengers at ease and made them feel a part of this shining ship. "Feeling better, are we?" "Captain Gurney, please allow me to introduce Johnny Hawken," Daphne smiled from me to him and back. The Captain stared, looking puzzled, before reaching forwards to shake my hand. He glanced at Daphne, back to me: "Hah! Used to know a chap by that name." He laughed. I sat up, bright-eyed and anxious to convey this feeling I'd come to have. This strange conviction. This necessary thing. "The dory," I began. "Is the dory on board?" He nodded, intrigued. "We thought you would like us to keep it for you. Hauled it up with the cargo derrick. It's up on the foredeck, under tarpaulins. A very nice craft, too. A little gem, you might say. Best piece of small-boat craftsmanship I've ever seen. A perfect replica of a very old design." "We must leave it here." I was certain about that. He looked at me not quite knowing what to say. "Ah - I really don't think that would be a good idea, Johnny. Why waste such a sweet little craft? It is seemingly undamaged, and of course it even has a little bit of history attached to it now, wouldn't you say? What a lovely heirloom it would make..." "It's not mine." I broke in. It wasn't. It belonged to Jacques. He would need it, here, in this watery place. Was sure to. "Jacques?" "A good friend, Captain." Daphne touched his sleeve. "Please, Captain. There must be a good reason for Johnny to want to do this. I would like you to do this simple thing for him. Please?" "Just - leave it? Throw it overboard?" He didn't know what to make of it. "The boat must be left here, Captain." I had to make him understand. Jacques might need it. It was his. He smiled, wagging his head from side to side. "A strange business, all of this. But if it is what you wish, I see no reason..." He stood up, anxious to be gone from this strange atmosphere. "But of course. We'll slow the ship again and winch her down into the water." Actually, the more he though about it, the more he liked the idea. Strangely romantic, somehow. The little boat that had saved a life being set free to wander forever upon the open ocean. I suddenly noticed the pilot's wings, incongruously sewn to his lapel and pointed at them: "Are you a pilot, Captain?" He glanced down and smiled, a strangely sad, wistful smile brimming with deep pride. And sorrow. "Long time ago, I'm afraid. During the war." I stared at him, seeing him as if for the first time. Recognizing him, without it being possible that I could. "Spitfires?" I asked, feeling like someone else was speaking through my lips. "Er - actually, yes. Battle of Britain. Then Typhoons and Tempests." He laughed a sad little laugh, remembering. "Actually lived through it. Lots of us didn't." He looked at me, curiously. "Before your time, of course, eh?" "Dangerous Dan," my mouth said. God only knew where that came from, but the Captain's jaw dropped while he scratched vigorously at his right temple, momentarily unbalanced. "Hah! Too right, mate!" He stopped and blushed, coming back to the present. "Sorry. Not often I think about all that. Lost a lot of friends... Anyway; the dory. Right." He was eager to be gone. "I'll see to it at once. Was there anything further you wanted to see me about? Very well. Good-bye, Johnny. Miss Hanworth." He rose and gave his awkward, self-conscious salute. Made to leave. Then stopped again, cleared his throat and asked: "Miss Hanworth. Do any of your family live in Norfolk, by chance?" Daphne looked at me, wonderingly. She turned back to the Captain: "Actually, yes we do. My - ah - Aunt and I live in Gunton, near North Walsham. Do you know the area?" "Oh, well indeed. Flew over often when I was stationed at Coltishall. Used to know a Lady Hanworth. That's why I asked..." He stopped and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his perspiring forehead. He was putting pieces together to form an impossible picture and it was making him very, very uncomfortable. "I - ah - knew her through..." he stared at me as if I might have been a ghost, "...through Johnny Hawken." He abruptly decided that whatever it was that was going on here, he wanted no further part of it. Intrigued, yes. Spellbound, even that. But as the captain of this ship, no. Definitely no. He drew himself up, put his armor back on and bowed to Daphne. "And now, if you'll excuse me. I've taken as much of your time as I can, in all good conscience. I'll have the dory lowered down now. Will that be all, Madam?" A final searching glance at me: "Mr.Hawken?" Daphne leaned forwards and touched her lips to his. "Thank you Captain. You are a true gentleman." He seemed to rush from the room, eager to return to the comfortable reality he had known before he had entered. And who could blame him? I felt as precariously balanced myself as he had appeared to be, upon the shaky ground of reality. Daphne stood at the little brass porthole, wondering at all that had just happened, and if any of this were really possible. Even though she knew now that it was. Did everybody, everywhere, know each other? She almost giggled at the craziness of her thoughts, while marvelling at the same time, at her calm acceptance of such unlikely events. As the steady vibration of the engines changed from the constant background note they maintained night and day, Daphne relayed back to me the activity going on outside. The ship became very silent for a few minutes. I felt so warm and happy as she told me that the little boat was back in the water. I had to see for myself. She helped me over to the glass and supported me while the engines trembled back into life and slowly, slowly the sweet little craft slipped away astern. It dwindled to a tiny speck, bobbing like a gull, finally blinking out of existence altogether, along with another chapter of my life. Daphne eased me back into bed, sharing my happiness that we could do this small thing for Jacques Merlin. Happy that we could do it together. She held me close and hummed a little tune, a soft, haunting refrain that reached deep down inside me, stroking and comforting. It lifted me in feathered arms, bearing me gently forwards, carrying me back into perfect, untroubled sleep. ***** I became stronger. The way in which the human body is able to bounce back from whatever it is hurled against is something to wonder at. The incredible machine. So brave. So noble. I saw it, more than once, as a gorgeous flying-machine. Imagined it to be a symmetrical, lightweight creation filled with miles of tubing and wires. Powered by the sweetest engine ever conceived. The Sound it made! Oh, the Sound. The cockpit was cozy. Tight and contoured. Everything within easy reach. Radios, weapons, power. The eyes, a smooth-curved perspex hood, armored in front, mirrored to see where you'd been. A beautiful, worthy mount. A place into which the rider could climb, settle himself down and soar into the heavens. Able at any time to climb out, to fall free, to fly unencumbered... Daphne grew very quickly to be more than a nurse to me. Shining chestnut hair, emerald eyes and soft, fragrant warmth. She gently probed the essence of what I was, always interested, ever intrigued; a woman building her very own man from a wispy, come-by-chance shadow. There was never any doubt that I was her man. She took it for granted, and so did I. The woman who nursed me back into life, listened to my tales and wondered at the beauty of our meeting, so far from home, under such intricately-woven circumstances. The moment we both really knew for certain was when I asked her if she might bring me something to read. She slipped away to her stateroom and returned with an old, faded book bearing the title "Child of the Air". She handed it to me with trembling hands - so very solemn - kissed me and excused herself. I stared at the door for minutes after she had gone, perplexed at her strange behaviour. Remembering the book, I opened it and glanced at the fly cover, there to see... Marion. There, for the world to see. Lovely, smiling Marion. I looked at her for an hour, wondering. So very familiar. But how? Why? By sunset I knew. Johnny. Her own, dear Johnny. She had written this book as a monument to her memories. She had loved her Johnny with such passion that it stunned the senses and paled the sun. Tears ran down my cheeks as I read, my heart balling up in exquisite poignancy as she led me through their short, short time together. Such tragedy! Such awesome, heart-rending sadness. It was not a long book. Their time together had been all too short. She spoke of him as if he were some youthful God, soaring on wings of fire towards Valhalla. Then she described how he would come to her and weep in fear and horror at the things he had done. It was all laid out in dated English so poetic it brought your heart into your throat and squeezed you 'til you shook. Nothing was left out. She had been a sensual woman. She said it with humility. But not with shame. Doing to him and with him, things almost too immodest to describe. Her need to discipline him, his need to kneel at her feet. And finally, his decision to stand alone, a Man, and meet his death with honor. The ending was inspired. He would return, she wrote. Someday, before she died. He had told her he would return, and so he would. She knew. She waited, alone and faithful. For she believed his every word. I had been there. Right there in the story. In the air and on the ground. I knew what it was like to be drowning, alone. I knew her every thought. I had been there right beside her on their final, tearful night. I knew her as if... I laid the book down. Moved to heartbreak. The wonder of her love. The power. The faith. I cried myself to sleep. ***** "You must meet her, Johnny." Daphne tucked the book away once more; a necessary part of her life. "My Aunt Marion. I've carried her book around with me everywhere, for years now. She only ever wrote the one. It's the finest book I've ever read. Not just because my Auntie wrote it..." I knew exactly what she meant. I had nothing to go back to. Nothing at all. My entire world had been on that little trimaran. Everything. Even my cat. Daphne wanted me to come home with her, and how could I refuse an offer like that? "Besides," she said, "we have a cat, and I should warn you I am authorized to use force, if necessary, to bring you back with me!" I gaped at her, half amused, half excited by her words. Then we both burst out laughing. I felt so very, very fortunate to have found her. How incredibly unlikely that we should have met. How very, very strange. The cruise ended amid laughter and celebration, happy people at the end of a happy time. I was the guest of honor at the final bash; toasted as the highlight of the voyage. It wasn't every day, after all, that the passengers got to be in on the real-life rescue of a shipwrecked sailor. I was overpowered with too much of everything. Several women, young and old, threw themselves at me, competing for a chance to make love to the famous survivor. Instant celebrity. People love a winner. It was all vaguely shocking. Even more shocking was the fact that I was never even tempted. I would glance over at a very discreet Daphne, trying her very best to allow me my freedom, and feel only gratitude toward her. Gratitude and almost painful affection. Nobody had ever before given me so much, and for so little reason. Unless... I loved her. No secret. And there was no hurry. I had soon stopped grasping for her breasts in a sun-struck delirium and come to share her company as a time of peaceful euphoria. The promise of sex glowed faintly, somewhere up ahead, but for the present, I had all the pleasure I could deal with, just looking at her, talking to her, being by her side. She told me, the night before we landed in San Francisco, that she had felt lost and unfulfilled her whole life. She had come on this cruise almost in desperation. Her Aunt Marion was old and frail and Daphne was at her wit's end. Marion, herself, had insisted upon the cruise, to take some sun, get away, maybe even find what she was looking for. And she had been looking for something, she realized now. Always had been. Like Marion. Her curse had been that she always knew exactly when whatever she found wasn't what she was seeking. Now she knew. She felt so at ease with me, so happy, that there was simply no question to be asked. The process of obtaining a passport for me had gone without a hitch, even though I had nothing at all to show who, from where, or what, I might be. And for the first time in my life, I felt genuinely grateful that someone, somewhere, was busily keeping records. We boarded the British Airways Jumbo at San Francisco and made our way back into the world. That little island out in the cold North Sea. That big, little island. Home of so many brave and insular people. A land like no other. Home of that seafaring race that so long had fought to hold on to their freedom; who treasured it above all else. England. I sniffed her air and touched her soil. It had been a long, long time. She was so pleased to have me back there with her. She let me know. No secrets. Somehow I'd always known I'd end up back in England. Someday. Daphne bought me clothes. In fact she bought me everything. I had not a penny to my name. Nothing but the love I'd found, and compared to that, what else was there? I'd mentioned to her that somehow, I'd find a job or something, and she had been amused. "Write a book," she'd laughed. "All the best shipwrecked sailors write books about their adventures, you know. Everybody loves a real-life survivor." Daphne. Dear Daphne. It really wasn't a bad idea... She honored me as I honored her. I'd never really thought I'd find what I'd made my voyage to find. Never really knew just what it was that had made me set out in the first place. So absurd. So unplanned. Yet leading me to this. She knew me just as I knew her. We always had. We always would. Be. Together. ***** Camelot: 1990. Merlin smiled, stroking Cleo's downy head, reassuring her. "Time to go back, my dear. The Club is being re-united. Would you like that? There's a little cat-body called Cleo, wandering around England without a cat in it. We can't have that, can we?" "Mmmm. How did this little cat-body wind up in England? And what about Loupe? I miss her, you know. Strange that a cat could miss a dog. But I find I do." "Loupe? Ah. Loupe is fine, my dear. Don't you worry. She did so well, loved so much, that now she is about to be born again. Do you know as what? Can you guess?" Cleo considered. Merlin looked very pleased with himself. What would be the next step up from a dog? What would be the reward for such love and loyalty? "A cat?" Merlin laughed loud and long. Great peals of delighted laughter rang through the halls of Camelot, a Camelot that had more substance to it than ever before. "A cat. Indeed! What cheek! Humility, Cleo! You must learn a little more humility. Do you think that being a cat is the apex of achievement?" "I like being a cat. As cats go, I am a good one." "Yes. I can see that. You are the finest cat that ever was. But no. This time, Loupe will be a little girl. A person! And you will know her. You will live in the same house. How about that?" Cleo considered this, liking it. Loupe had been a wonderful example of a dog, even though half of her was coyote. She had loved Cleo unquestioningly, even if she were just a cat. A very superior sort of cat, of course, but still a cat. Coyote-food. "A little girl? Will she pull my tail?" "She may. Will you forgive her if she does?" "I will try. Humility, you said. What will be my reward?" "You BARGAIN with Merlin?" Cleo laughed in that secret, hidden way in which cats laugh. It was quite funny, really. "I want to be a dog," she said, petulantly. "I think I would like to be like Loupe." "WHAT?" Merlin's eyes bugged in mock horror. "A DOG? Are you mad?" "Of course I am mad. I am a cat." She reminded him. "And yes. I am ready." "Then gaze into my crystal ball..." ***** Edited by crow, Jun 2 2018, 01:46 PM.
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7:11 AM Jul 11