“It was a construct of something picked from my mind. That’s my Polly Jackson painting, upscaled to life size.”
Then things are getting worse, Merle. I couldn’t tell it was a construct.
“Conclusions?”
Whatever’s doing it is getting better at it, or stronger. Or both.
“Shit,” I observed, and I turned away and jogged on.
Perhaps something wants to show you that it can baffle you completely now.
“Then it’s succeeded,” I acknowledged. “Hey, Something!” I shouted. “You hear that? You win! You’ve baffled me completely. Can I go home now? If it’s something else you’re trying to do, though, you’ve failed! I’m missing the point completely!”
The dazzling flash which followed cast me down upon the trail and blinded me for several long moments. I lay there tense and twitching, but no thunderclap followed. When my vision cleared and my muscles stopped their spasms, I beheld a giant regal figure posed but a few paces before me:
Oberon.
Only it was a statue, a duplicate of one which occupied the far end of the Main Concourse back in Amber, or possibly even the real thing, for on closer inspection I noted what appeared to be bird droppings upon the great man’s shoulder.
“Real thing or construct?” I said aloud.
Real, I’d say, Frakir replied.
I rose slowly.
“I understand this to be an answer,” I said. “I just don’t understand what it means.”
I reached out to touch it, and it felt like canvas rather than bronze. In that instant my perspective somehow shifted, and I felt myself touching a larger than life-size painting of the Father of His Country. Then its borders began to waver, it faded, and I saw that it was part of one of those hazy tableaux I had been passing. Then it rippled and was gone.
“I give up,” I said, walking through the space it had occupied but moments before. “The answers are more confusing than the situations that cause the questions.”
Since we are passing between shadows, could this not be a statement that all things are real-somewhere?
“I suppose. But I already knew that.”
And that all things are real in different ways, at different times, in different places?
“Okay, what you are saying could well be the message. I doubt that something is going to these extremes, however, just to make philosophical points that may be new to you but are rather well worn elsewhere. There must be a special reason, one that I still don’t grasp.”
Up until now the scenes I’d passed had been still lifes. Now, however, a number occurred which contained people; some, other creatures. In these, there was action – some of it violent, some amorous, some simply domestic.
Yes, it seems to be a progression. It may be leading up to something.
“When they leap out and attack me, I’ll know I’ve arrived.”
Who knows? I gather that art criticism is a complex area.
But the sequences faded shortly thereafter, and I was left jogging on my bright trail through darkness once again. Down, down the still gentle slope toward the crossroads. Where was the Cheshire Cat when rabbit hole logic was what I really needed?
One moment I was watching the crossroads as I advanced upon it. An eye blink later I was still watching the crossroads, only now the scene was altered. There was now a lamppost on the near right-hand corner. A shadowy figure stood beneath it, smoking.
“Frakir, how’d they pull that one?” I asked.
Very quickly, she replied.
“What do the vibes read?”
Attention focused in your direction. No vicious intent, yet.
I slowed as I drew near. The trail became pavement, curbs at either hand, sidewalks beyond them. I stepped out of the street onto the right-hand walk. As I moved along it, a damp fog blew past me, hung between me and the light. I slowed my pace even more. Shortly I saw that the pavement had grown damp. My footsteps echoed as if I walked between buildings. By then the fog had grown too dense for me to discern whether buildings had actually occurred beside me. It felt as if they had, for there were darker areas here and there within the gloom. A cold wind began to blow against my back, and droplets of moisture fell upon me at random intervals. I halted. I turned up the collar of my cloak. From somewhere entirely out of sight, high overhead, came the faint buzzing sound of an airplane. I began walking again after it had gone by. Tinily then, and muffled, from across the street perhaps, came the sound of a piano playing a half-familiar tune. I drew my cloak about me. The fog swirled and thickened.