by beth
Once upon a wish, there lived a brave hero named Jullee. Well that was the posh name which she used upon state occasions (which also required rather copious amounts of velvet and lace). Day to day people just called her Jiw[1]. �Do you fancy going and sorting out that evil Baron, Jiw?� they would say. Or �Do you fancy helping calm down that red dragon and relocating him to a place where he can�t decimate the livestock population, Jiw?�. And the answer was invariably yes, for Jiw was brave and active and keen to help.
But despite the great deeds she had to her name. ( Her full name, the lacy velvet one she wore on state occasions) Jiw felt that there was something missing, something still to do, something calling her beyond the mountains that bordered her small but prosperous kingdom.
She spoke of her worries to her maiden aunt, the formidable Duchess Petunia. She would have taken these concerns to her mother the queen, but she had been preoccupied with the recent decrease in the quality of treacle sponge in the palace kitchens, and thus quite literally had more than enough on her plate. So Jiw instead ascended the stairs of Aunt Petunias West Wing Turret Suite. There she found her tutting over abuse of the apostrophe by a local newspaper. But laying aside such grammatical trials, she listened sympathetically to her niece�s concerns, paused in thought awhile.
�It sounds like perhaps you should take a wander my dear� said Petunia thoughtfully, �you know, trip the light fantastic, discover yourself under a lotus flower or something. Perhaps try yogi[2].� There was a small pause as Jiw considered this, then suddenly she burst forth with �By jove auntie! I think you are quite right. What a fool I was not to think of such a smashing plan before! Saddle my horse!�
�Wait, just a moment, dear� cautioned petunia �I�d like you to take something of mine to remind you that you have a family to come home for. I wish I could give you my trusty bloodthirsting battle axe, but I lent it to Gordon to prune the roses. Ah! Here we go� and saying that she reached up to a bracket on the wall and pulled down a sword, �here�s old Blood Drinker, back from my days of questing. Mind you� she continued, misty eyed, �I was a bit of a merciless mercenary back then�.�
Handing the sword over she watched in silence as Jiw took it, kissed the blade, saluted and strode out the door. Then she quietly went back to her desk, took up her quill and began to write Dear Mr Editor, I realise that every generation changes the language, but I do feel the apostrophe warrants a special place in our hearts and in our syntax�..
Blissfully ignorant of her aunt�s ongoing battle on behalf of the apostrophe, Jiw was already riding out of the castle grounds, along the great road and into the northern most reaches of the kingdom. Thinking to head out and over the mountains, to See What Lay Beyond, Jiw soon found herself cantering merrily through the enchanted forest. It is not hard to canter merrily in the enchanted forest, it�s the kind of forest which demands that most actions be merry, and there are often heard choruses of �hey nonny nonny�[3] echoing through the leafy green. Now and again one can sometimes hear the odd �falala� too. Thus it was with no surprise that Jiw found herself stumbling into a circular council of unicorns. The creatures, a wash of silver and white, were congregated around one of their number, a small beast, and were deep in deliberation. Dismounting out of respect, and giving a deep bow, Jiw gave her formal greetings to the guardians of the forest, before asking what the council was debating. The small centre of the circle spoke up a little sadly, � my fate, friend. For you see, I am smaller than the rest. In horse terms you might call me a pony. But I am a unicorn, and thus cannot be known as a pony. But my meager stature prevents me from being properly called a unicorn. And our ancient and noble laws state that only those named by the clan can live amongst them. And I am too small to be named unicorn.� The gathered clan whinnied their distress, but Jiw knew, as surely everyone does, that unicorns are wise creatures, too wise to overturn their laws and set dangerous precedents.
She sat for a while and thought. Then finally she asked of the small beast, �What is you name?�
The little creature made a sound that is closest to the melting of ice mingled with the crash of a waterfall, the scent of seaspray and the creak of wood in the wind.
Jiw listened to the silvering splinters of language with great care, then slowly managed to pronounce the name herself. �There!� she exclaimed �let the clan name you that, and then let them each name their own names� and surely through bearing such exquisite names, you are named unicorn amongst them. It is no matter of naming everyone with the same tag, but a matter of naming each of you as separate, each one with their own name, and thus each of you are one.�
There was then the same exquisite sound as each beast called their name aloud, but the beauty was increased a hundredfold, and the beauty burned so intensely, so that it became a thing almost too terrible to bear.
So great was the sound, and so overwhelming that the smallest unicorn stepped forward, tapped Jiw with his horn and thus she dropped into an enchanted sleep, to wake hours later in an empty clearing, with a head clear as a bell, she leapt upon her horse and went on with her quest.
Followed by faint fa-la-la-laaaing.[4]
By noon on the third day Jiw found herself approaching the forbidding bulk of a brick tower. Wondering if this were the stuff of legend� the fabled tower wherein a maiden lay imprisoned, she approached with caution, but mild excitement. The journey thus far had been reasonably quiet, there had been only three bandit attacks and a small run in with a flying cat. Looking for the deeds that would gain her recognition she crossed her fingers that a dashing rescue would be required.
Positioning herself under the tower�s only window, she cautiously called up, �er� helloooo there� I say, you don�t need rescuing do you?�
There was a pause, followed by an unmistakably annoyed sigh, a yes-dear-i-do-know-where-your-socks-are kind of sigh. A mussed up blonde head appeared at the window.
�No, I do not need rescuing. I�ve always rather been the kind of girl to rescue herself. Sort of why I built the tower, to get away from it all.�
�You built the tower, yourself?�
�Yes.�
�No wicked witch?�
�No�
�No evil stepmother/father/guinea pig?�
�No�
�Not even a noxious next door neighbour?�
�No�
There was a pause. �Oh, righty-oh then. But, don�t you find it a bit lonely?�
�No no� rejoindered the practical princess �I stay in touch via the world wide crystal web. I even get lute music and scrolls sent in by an amazon I met on it�
�Oh. Um, I don�t mean to be nosy, but how do you get your food in?�
The princess, annoyed by the tiresome questions answered Jiw in the tone one normally reserves for particularly cretinous species of snail �I get it delivered, of course. By a pelican�
At that precise moment there was the sound of flapping wings and the hitherto spoken of fowl sailed into sight. Jiw looked up in surprise, not at the fact it was purple, but rather at the thick cockney accent issuing from it�s beak.
�Awrigh� guvnah? Not entertainin� are yeh? Well, I�ll be! �ow�s she gonna get �erself up the apples and pairs then? Bit of a sticky situation me old china plate.�
Thrown by such strange vernacular Jiw felt it was time to be hurrying on her way, giving courteous but swift goodbyes to the self sufficient princess, and the bespectacled pelican, she turned her mount away and galloped north once more.
Ah would that we had time to recount the adventures she stumbled into, no time to speak of her defeat of the evil Sir Roderick, using just an asparagus and a small necktie. No time to dwell on her ascent of the amazing banana mountain, and her freeing of the billy goat people who were frozen at the summit. But these things have been written about by the bards, and are not the point of our tale.
The point of our tale is the arrival of Arbuthnot, and as it happens, Arbuthnot is just about to enter the scene. The scene, is, incidentally midnight, in the middle of the disenchanted forest[5] where Jiw rests fitfully by the fire. The months have left her looking tired and drawn, the road has been long and her lessons have been hard. But she is about to find her trials have been worthwhile�.
�. For around the corner of a tree trots arbuthnot. Approximately the same height and weight as a Shetland pony, but of canine feature, the creature seated itself by the fire and asked for a sausage. Wordlessly Jiw passed him said snack and pondered at him for a while. Eventually she broke the silence that had sprung up, mushroom like, between them.
�You can talk.�
�Observant little bugger aren�t you. Yes my dear lady, it appears that I can talk.�
�There�s a legend that the talking dog appears when your land has need of you.�
�oh dear good dog! Not too quick on the uptake are we? Yes, there is that legend. But its entirely unfounded. Well, not so much unfounded as misunderstood. You know like, belladonna the beautiful of three lakes. She was misunderstood too.�
Jiw made the kind of noise that only those who have seen talking green macaracas birds of south east ontalasia would recognise. �Ah!� said Arbuthnot. �You make the sound of confusion. Dear me dear girl. The truth of the matter is that we talking dogs appear to, and then proceed to escort the wise, as soon as they are come to full wisdom.� He watched as Jiw dropped her charred sausage on the floor in shock �though perhaps I am a little premature. Still, here I am.�
�So you are. What does this mean, then? My people see you with me and thus learn to trust my counsel? Evil wizards see my fabled escort and quiver in fear?�
�oh no, I�m afraid only the wise can see me. Really I operate as a sort of secret badge. Other wise will recognise you by me. And vice versa. Except for old John. He got a cactus instead of a dog.�[6]
Jiw thought about this for a little while, and then finally concluded �so this whole journey was to develop my wisdom and to find you. I suppose, in that case, it�s time for us to head home, Arbuthnot Herman Munchenhausen the third.� (this was written on a small silver collar which Arbuthnot wore as an anklet. Jiw had particularly good night vision and managed to read this and thus avoid an embarrassing faux pas of how to address the poor chap.
�Indeed that is an excellent notion� consented Arbuthnot.
And thus the adventure began. But that is the two hours traffic of some other page.
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[1] Of course, you and I know that �jiw!� is a vernacular welsh exclamation. But they don�t have Wales in this story. Well, they do, but it�s fifty leagues north by north east past the rock python. And even then you can only reach it on Tuesdays. Thus the similarity went unnoticed most days.
[2] Despite the phonetic similarity �yogi� is not like our yoga. Rather, it is a kind of strawberry yoghurt which some believe has strange powers of enlightenment. Others believe it is mildly poisonous and the �enlightenment� is nothing more than feverish delirium. But the path of truth is ever strewn with difficult choices such as whether or not to imbibe such perishables.
[3] Hey nonny nonny may seem to be stolen from Shakespeare, and thus out of place in this tale. Well, stolen it is, but out of place it is not. Shakespeare, you see, got everywhere, at least through seventeen different kingdoms I know of. Naturally enough he wasn�t taken seriously in sixteen of those kingdoms, and in five of them he got right up people�s noses. I think they took exception to his ruff.
[4] In some kingdoms falalalaaing is a musical kind of hiccup. But here it is just a lighthearted and nonsensical filler of metre and verse.
[5] The disenchanted forest has several herds of bitter divorcees and several wild lawyers. While it is now illegal to hunt the divorcees for sport, the peasants of the region may take the scalp of a lawyer to any knight and receive a 3 ounces of sherbert for their trouble.
[6] Why John got the one singing cactus of wisdom rather than one of the six hundred and thirty three canines of wisdom is not entirely sure. But it is not a mystery which is pndered much, as old John lives in rthe Arizonan desert, which is located where wales is, but only accessible on the second Sunday of every month, between the blossom and the fruit time. So he is not the centre of a vast social sphere..