Getting back in touch

The previous episode of BRYAN THE TYGER was risky, suspenseful, & life-threatening. Today's episode is the reward for a job well done, because we (my Black Panther soul-mate and I) get to meet up with old friends.

P.S.

In other news: my Public Private Diary is fully printed; also I made a list of my latest novels that have been printed but not included in any collection.

Chapter Nineteen

When we reach the Happy Isles of Golgonooza, we dock our sieve and run straight for the Chankly Bore. On those hills, we find William Blake and Edward Lear and all of our other friends whom we dearly missed: we hug each other and weep tears of joy, and we tell each other all the things that we’ve been up to. Blake has many new poems and tales for us, and so does Mr. Lear. We reunite with countless old friends — too many to name here — if I listed them all, this book would burst; but I’ll just give two, so that you can get the idea:

We meet Emily Dickinson and Emily Brontë. They are so happy to see a Burning Tyger and a Glowing Black Panther in their hometown, they allow Myala and I to spend the night with them in their house by The Lakes. (It is called The Lakes because it is truly THEE lakes.) So we all rack up a memorable experience.

The only problem is that Dickinson and Brontë keep two lovebirds in a cage on the coffee table in their living room, and Myala and I end up eating them — we just can’t help ourselves. (They taste exquisite, by the way.) I don’t know how much this act shall augment the fate of futurity, but I hope that our lady-friends, when they question us, do not see through our attempt to deny having done this. It will be less of an intentional deception than an instinctive desire to conceal our own embarrassment.

Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna skip past all the rest of the good stuff that occurred on the Happy Isles, because I’m more interested in telling you about the adventures that we had as mutant felines (I like danger more than safety, and Myala agrees); so let us just leap straightway into the next chapter.

NEXT CHAPTER

Now the extraterrestrials who picked me up and dropped me off earlier in my adventures — I’m talking about those aliens I met just after I visited Saint Paul in prison — I say, these beings now reappear and land in their flying saucer on the side of one of the hills of the Chankly Bore:

Their craft parks at an angle, because the ground is tilted (for it is a hillock). When the door panel glides open, I am very happy to see them:

“Welcome back to our dimension, friends!” I say. “I was worried, ever since we crash landed — I thought you were dead!”

“Yeah, so did we,” sez Mr. Peterson, their leader.

“Are you serious?” I say. “Please elaborate.”

Mr. Peterson nudges his saucer-mate Mr. Shelton and sez, “You, Shelton, go ahead and answer the Tyger’s request—you’re better at talking than I am.”

“Sure thing,” Mr. Shelton the extraterrestrial speaks from the open entryway of the flying saucer that is parked on non-level ground . . .

(By the way, lest anyone accuse these aliens of being mere names on pages and devoid of personality, let me say that the main difference between Mr. Shelton and Mr. Peterson is that Mr. Shelton is a dentist whereas Mr. Peterson is a pipe-smoker whose tobacco is cherry-scented.)

“Here is what happened, from our perspective as extraterrestrial aliens,” begins Mr. Shelton. “After we crashed our saucer into the top of that volcano on Planet Earth, there was fire and lava and smoke billowing out of the ship, and all the control panels were busted, and the doors were broken, plus the ceiling had caved in. We assumed that we were goners. But then we watched you escape from the wreckage and skulk away into Transylvania. So we said to ourselves, ‘I hope that Bryan the Tyger gets to accomplish some riveting missions.’ Then we each privately offered a prayer to Hermes, asking him to remind Zeus to help you.”

“Thanks for doing that,” I say.

“No problem,” sez Mr. Shelton. “The only other thing to relay about our own alien experiences during the interim is that we all got up onto our feet from wherever the crash had floored us, and we set to work repairing our ship, which required so much labor that it took us from that time until now to fix it; and then, as soon as the saucer could fly again, we drove straight here to Golgonooza and landed on this hill. Note that we did not end up crashing this time.”

I smile and nod my head slowly in pride for my friends’ hard work, “You guys did a great job. The saucer looks awesome.”

“Thanks,” sez Mr. Shelton.

“Guys, let me introduce you to my shadow-mate and my two best friends,” I say to the extraterrestrials in the flying saucer that is parked crookedly on the hillock. “This here is Myala. She’s a Black Panther from the Red-Spot District on Planet Jupiter.”

“I love you,” remarks Mr. Peterson.

“Yes, but we normally do not confess truths like that directly upon first meeting, here in reality,” I inform the naïve, innocent alien Mr. Peterson, “because of strong reasons. Howbeit, we’re in the same boat — I love Myala as well.”

“Accept my apologies,” cries Mr. Peterson.

“Dry your eyes, my friend: there was no offense taken,” I smile; “the only reason I informed you of your faux pas is that I want you to be successful in Paradiso, just as you proved yourself a resounding success in Purgatorio.”

“You are a good man, Bryan” Mr. Peterson dabs the corner of his eye with a green kerchief.

“Thank you,” I say; “tho I am a Tyger.”

Now Mr. Shelton asks: “Who are the lustful prophetesses beside you?”

“Illustrious,” I correct Mr. Shelton.

“Sorry: illustrious prophetesses,” Mr. Shelton bows. “May we learn their names?”

“Of course,” I say. “This here is Emily Brontë,” I make a grand gesture as she raises both arms and firmly displays the figs to these aliens (this act forces me to repress a smile); “and this is Emily Dickinson,” I make another grand gesture while Ms. Dickinson gives a barely perceptible nod.

“Friends,” I now address my own team, to tell them the identities of these beings in the saucer that is parked on the hillock before us (each extraterrestrial performs a deep bow when I voice his name aloud), “allow me to introduce . . . Mr. Peterson . . . Mr. Shelton . . . Mr. Christianson . . . Mr. Polis . . . and Doctor Kohault.”

My team, which consists of two human ladies plus a feline lady and a feline male, then boards the saucer and has a look around. Most of the interior is new to me, because the aliens replaced the old familiar decor after the fiery crash.

“I like it,” I say, referring to the repair job; “it seems cozier now.”

Doctor Kohault makes a note on his detective’s pad.

“What are you writing?” I ask, peeking over the alien’s shoulder.

“I’m recording your reaction to the environs,” answers Doctor Kohault. “It may prove beneficial to know that you Tygers find these surroundings visually appealing, when we start the blueprints for our next Galactic Empire.”

As proof of his sincerity, he holds forth his hand; so I lick the front and the back. It tastes metallic.

“Your Emilies are beautiful,” Dr. Kohault points in indication of my friends, who are gazing at a painting that is hanging in the adjacent chamber.

I smile, “You see the mind.”

The doctor returns my smile.

“What do you have on display there?” I gesture toward the room with the painting (it’s at an angle that prevents our viewing the canvas – we can only see the side of its frame).

“Ah, that’s one from our recent acquisitions. We needed to purchase a fresh library of works, since our former collection dissolved in the lava,” explains Dr. Kohault. “That one is a piece by Joseph Shannon — I think it’s called Pete’s Beer (1970).”

“Would you say that my friends are admiring it?” I ask.

Doctor Kohault looks at the damozels long and long. “I’m not certain,” he sez. “I’d need more data before I can answer.”

Now slouching in exasperation, I sigh: “Just take a guess.”

Dr. Kohault tilts his head: “Alright: yes, I’d say that they seem to like it.”

I smile widely: “So do I.” – For I recall this artist’s name, as well as the title of the work, from an artbook I once perused which contained full-color reproductions of the most recent offerings I’ve ever seen (I was born in ’77), and I fell in love with that very piece. Also, right now, I love the look of the Emilies eyeing it: the sight makes me wish I myself could paint, because I’d like to paint them, just like so. But visual art is not my calling, for I am a Tyger. My calling is WRATH.