The Shaman Has Appeared!

WELL THIS IS ODD.

THINGS FEEL OFF-KILTER AND THE LIGHT'S DOING WEIRD THINGS, NOW,

AND I'M NOT EVEN SURE WHAT I SHOULD BE LOOKING FOR ANYMORE,

BUT SIMON DOES AS SHAMAN SAYS, TOSSING HIS CROWN OF OILED HAIRS AND HARDENED BROW, PONDERING NONE TOO DEEPLY, AS EVEN AS THE MAZE TAKES HIM, AND COAGULATES THICK HIS SENSES AND SENSIBILITY TO SLUDGE.
HE FOLLOWS THAT STRANGE, SHIFTING, UNCERTAIN SHAPE INTO THE ABYSS AND WALKS INTO  WONDERS AND MY, WHAT WEIRDNESSES!! MORE OR LESS NAKED, WIELDING NOTHING CLOSE TO ARMOR. PERHAPS A WEAPON? NAY, THOUGH MAYBE A METAPHORICAL CANE TO BEAT THE NEAREST HYDRA TO DEATH WITH, SHOULD SUCH AN OPPORTUNITY ARISE.  WHAT  THE HELL'S


WONDERING IF HE'S FALLEN INTO SOME KIND OF PRETTILY LANDSCAPED, MANICURED HELL, OZ WALKS ON RAZORLIGHT FOOTSTEPS RIVALING THE GRAZING, TASTING, TEASING BRUSH OF CHICKENSKINNED NAPE AND BRASIL-CUT HAIRS. THE MORE HE RUNS, THE MORE IT FEELS LIKE A STRONG CASE OF SEQUELITIS, AND FAR TOO MANY HEDGES FOR HIS SANITY'S RATCHETY, BITTERLY-AGED TASTE CLOSE DOWN ON HIM LIKE FANGS.

THE WALLS WRAP FAST, THEY SCRAPE, AND DECIDE TO SURROUND HIM LIKE WICKED VULTURE COYOTES, WICKING SKIN AND SWEATY GOOSEFLESH TO A COLD CLAMMINESS. THE SHAMAN'S TEASINGLY, ALWAYS-OUT-OF-REACH TAIL END BEGINS TEMPTING FATE BY OZ-CAUSED CRUSHED LARYNX AND THE REST OF THIS PLACE MAKES A STRONG CASE FOR THE SMALLNESS OF MEN IN SPONTANEOUS WONDERLANDS . . .

. . . IT SIMPLY DOESN'T END.

. . . IT SIMPLY DOESN'T END.

"I can't help you," says
the dark.

"Who am I following? Why am I here? Reveal yourself!" he seethes.

"I can't help you," says
the dark.

At that, his pinned ears flex, and ease, feeling that violence, or aggression, are weak weapons today. "I SEARCH FOR THE RELIC, BUT NOT KNOW WHY. I SEARCH FOR THE STONE-COLORED CREATURE (WHO ELUDES ME THUS), BUT NOT KNOW WHY. NOTHING IN THIS DAMNABLE PLACE KNOWS WHY," HE SAYS, "NOR I, LEAST OF ALL."

At that, the great, gaping dark extends a slender, striped paw. "YOU SEARCH FOR THE RELIC, BUT NOT KNOW WHY. YOU SEARCH FOR THE STONE-COLORED CREATURE (WHO ELUDES YOU THUS), BUT NOT KNOW WHY. NOTHING IN THIS PLACE KNOWS WHY," SHE SMOOTHLY, SILKILY SAYS, "NOR YOU, LEAST OF ALL. I LIKE THE WAY YOU TALK AND SEE, ONCE-WARRIOR; I'M LIKING THE WAY YOUR HEART THRUMS, THE WAY YOU PRETEND TO BE WEAK. NOT EVERY DAY A SOLDIER, ATTEMPTS TO BE INTELLIGENT."

SO THE GREAT, GARGANTUAN SHOULDERS, AND DAINTILY SHAPED MUZZLE RISE ABOVE HIS HEAD, EMERGING FROM THE SHADOWS, FROM BENEATH HEDGE-COPSE FROM WHENCE SHE'D BEEN SITTING, DANGLING HER FEATHER WINGS AROUND HIS STALLING, BAY SHAPE; HER CODDLING VOICE SMOKE SWEET AND RIPE AS OPIUM BURSTING.

"I'LL POINT YOU IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION," SHE SAYS, THE DARK, "IF YOU CAN DO ONE THING FOR ME- JUST ONE ! "

A N Y T H I N G, HE MOUTHS SILENTLY, STARING FROM HER ANKLE-HEELS. SHE SMILES DOWN AT HIM.

"ANSWER A RIDDLE," SAYS THE SPHINX.