We meet the great warrior whom we knew

One moment ago I finished writing the next adventure for my fake novel BRYAN THE TYGER. In this chapter, my hero and heroine visit an island and speak with one of its inhabitants.

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 Sixteen

I Bryan the Tyger and my shadow-self Myala the Black Panther now set sail in our Burning Chariot. (Even tho Myala is an individual with her own volition, I refer to her as my “shadow-self” because she fits me so perfectly as a Best Soul-Mate Ever.) As I think I explained earlier, our ship is like an amalgamation of the sieves used by Edward Lear’s Jumblies and Alfred Jarry’s Doctor Faustroll, crossed with the mobile throne that was invented by Ezekiel and stolen by Dante. I now take all these ideas for myself.

Immediately, as we sail the seven seas, it begins to snow. This is neither altogether good nor bad — it is a little annoying because I don’t relish the feeling of wetness on my coat; but this nuisance is outbalanced by the soft, sizzly sound that each flake makes when it hits our ship. Now, accompanying the ongoing hiss that our fiery chariot emits as it tears thru the water’s surface, there is also a constant gurgle-popping noise when each flake enters our blaze and melts and evaporates; which has the bonus benefit of shrouding our vessel in a mist of gloom, from all that vaporized ice. This visual effect, I think, goes well with our glowing fur.

Thus, all in all, I am happy that it is snowing.

We therefore hiss-fizzle up to our initial destination, hoping that we will soon find ourselves in a wild, suspense-filled adventure.

“What is this place?” asks Myala.

“If my navigation is correct, we have reached the Happy Isles,” I answer proudly.

A small group of humans comes out to see what this strange sight is: “Who is this Burning Tyger and sleek Black Panther coming to haunt us in a misty sieve-ship?” I hear someone say. – I can tell the crowd is scared of us, but they’re also too intrigued to run away. So I raise my voice and address the question above, even tho the speaker didn’t really expect an answer from us:

“It is I, Bryan the Tyger, and this is my soul-mate and shadow-self, Myala the Black Panther. We have come to the Happy Isles to seek adventure. Is there anything to do here?”

“Happy Isles?” sez a fellow in the front who looks like a tall, strong warrior. “You think you reached the Happy Isles?”

“Yes I do,” I hold up the map that I have been using, and, with my mighty right forepaw, I pat the place on the parchment where there’s a depiction of a treasure chest. “It sez twenty-five degrees north and seventy-one degrees west — isn’t that your longitude and latitude?”

The warrior squints at the map that I am referencing, then he shakes his head and sez:

“You’re holding it upside-down, backwards and askew. Plus that map is from the future, so it’s not ripe to read yet. It doesn’t even have any dragons on it. — I wonder where you found that worthless thing.”

“What do you mean?” I say, crestfallen, “A man named Astro Bryan gave it to me, in a dream the other night.”

“Well then you have been duped by the Devil,” sez the warrior. “You’ve been chumped — that map is garbage. This ain’t the Happy Aisles; no, you’ve reached the Torrible Zone.” He then points upwards and we all notice that there’s a large blinking neon sign spanning the firmament overhead which backs up his claim.

The warrior then sez: “Here,” and he uses his sword to point to a place on the map that’s almost directly opposite of the treasure-chest image. His sword’s tip is so sharp that it pierces the parchment right where there’s a picture of a green-and-blue seraph.

“Oops, sorry,” sez the warrior; “I was only trying to indicate your whereabouts — I didn’t mean to skewer the demon.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” I say. “The cut worm forgives the plow.”

The warrior’s eyes widen: “You know Blake?”

I look askance, wondering where he’s going with this.

“That italicized remark that you just said,” explains the warrior, “is one of the ‘Proverbs of Hell’ by William Blake.”

“Yeah, so?” I reply. “I quote Blake all the time. Is that not legal here?”

“No, you’re misunderstanding my tone,” sez the warrior; “I’m not angry, I’m thrilled: I’m a huge admirer of his work. Ever since I ended up here, I’ve been re-reading him. Had I lived my life dif­ferently, I might have met him; but he presently lives among the hills of the Chankly Bore, over in Golgonooza. So now he’s replete with desires, whereas I’m rather bored. And beside all this, between our dimension and his there is a great gulf fixed: so that we who desire to pass from here to there cannot; for Scylla and Charybdis are no longer simply situated on either side of the canal where we would need to pass thru, but whoever is in charge of such things exacerbated the dilemma by making Scylla and Charybdis mobile! — so there’s no way that you can avoid hitting both of them now.”

“Wait, do you mean Scylla the ravenous sea-beast,” I ask, “and Charybdis the whirlpool whose mass has such strong gravitation that not even photons of light can escape from it?”

“Correct,” sez the warrior. “Those maritime hazards formerly were located so close to each other that they posed a nearly inescapable threat to passing sailors – but now they’re even worse: like I said, their improved versions are ambulant: so, even if you’re a top-rate pilot — as you yourselves seem to be, with your mystic Merkabah there,” (the warrior designates our chariot-sieve with his sword,) “these mythical sea monsters can simply walk over and snatch you.”

So I thank this man for his warning, while privately doubting his information. I still maintain confidence in my sailing skills; and I don’t believe that this threat of Scylla and Charybdis will prove unnavigable. But it’s good to know what to expect.

We talk to this warrior for a while longer, and at a certain point our conversation sours. If only we hadn’t paused to exchange names, everything would’ve been fine; for we were getting along great — I was enjoying his stories of adventure, and he was enjoying my stories of adventure — but then we both, at the same time, stepped back and exclaimed in unison:

“Fellow mutineer, let us pause for a moment and regroup, as we haven’t been introduced properly – I do not yet even know your Christian name!”

So this tough guy turns out to be Achilles, greatest of all the Achaean fighters, and (until I came along) the hero of the Trojan War. – And, as you know, I myself turn out to be Bryan the Tyger.

Now, as soon as Achilles hears my name, he flies into a rage; for the news had reached him, within the last couple weeks, that I slew his boyfriend Patroclus on the field of battle. — It takes me a long time to convince Achilles that this is a blessing in disguise, rather than a misfortune; and I must spend many words explaining that I was not fighting against his fellow Achaeans as an enemy Trojan, but that I had slain, with wild aban­don devoid of purpose, famed warriors from either side: Trojans as well as sturdy Achaeans. For I simply enjoy participating in warfare: as long as I get to shed blood, I don’t care who I kill.

“Don’t be upset about my dismemberment of Patroclus,” I say (by the way, I should explain that, in my own Tyger-version of Homer’s Iliad, which is what these present adventures are based on, Achilles expires long before Patroclus; thus, throughout my epic, the former advises the latter in strategies of combat, via prayers that he transmits forth from the Torrible Zone — that’s why, in the present scene, Achilles is already dead); “for, now that your lover is a shade,” I continue, “it shall be immeasurably better for the two of you. Think about it: While you were a shade and he was flesh, all you could do is paw at him with your human hands, and your hands went right thru his body; for you were a bluish phantom, and he was coarse meat. But now you both are shades — isn’t that more convenient!? Now you can embrace each other in love, fully and truly: without obstacles of membrane, joint or limb to mar your coupling. Do you not see, Achilles, how your fornications with Patroclus will now be as the Archangel Raphael explains to Adam in his creator John Milton’s Paradise Lost:

Easier than air with air, if Spirits embrace,

Total they mix, union of pure with pure

Desiring, nor restrained conveyance need

As flesh to mix with flesh, or soul with soul.

“Yes, and, if, being of little faith, you require a second witness, then I can quote a few lines from our mutual hero Blake – now that you and your inamorato are both holy spirits, you shall resemble the Spectres of Enitharmon and Urthona:

. . . their bodies lost they stood

Trembling & weak a faint embrace a fierce desire as when

Two shadows mingle on a wall . . .

[from Night the Ninth of The Four Zoas]

“So this is good news: you and Patroclus should be closer than ever. You might even find it fitting to thank me for killing him! And, best of all, having discarded his sullied flesh to join you in sprite-hood, you will note that his loins no longer smell like wet dog.”