After another hour spent rearranging the whole of the small but superlative library – by now engulfed by a vast, dark shadow-web of captured dreams – the witness ascertained that Pros Theon was definitely not on the bookcase.
The situation had become intolerable and a prayerfully desperate sound escaped the witness’ lips. Then, suddenly, a brainwave struck: Did I put it in a safe place following the comet’s ominous portent?
The specific thought yielded an equally direct response from one of the witness’ spirit guides. No, you’ve lost it, man.
The witness sighed. Thanks for that Jim… any idea where it could be?
It’s the mother of all mysteries.
The witness sighed again, more loudly this time; why couldn’t Soaring Eagle have flown by? OK, but at least let me know if it’s been stolen?
You’re paranoid, man…
Give me a clue will you?
Maybe it’s in the outer limit.
“Must we go there again,” the witness muttered, looking up all the same. I just need some light to be shed on the whereabouts of Pros Theon.
We need lights out here in the perimeter as well.
And why would that be? Inquired the witness, unable to refrain from scowling. As if we didn't know already...
Because out here in the perimeter there are no stars; out here we are stoned….
Immaculately, eh, you don’t say!
Why don’t you just chill, man, It’s not ME whose lost it?
Deafening etheric silence was followed by another two hours of frantic searching, during which time all the drawers in the building were pulled inside out (the contents checked thoroughly for the first time in years) and every cupboard and closet, including the drinks cabinet, turned upside down in the feverish quest.
Finally giving up in despair, the witness poured a quadruple Jack Daniels and injected it with a splash of coke, smoked a large pipe full of pure marijuana and headed off to the bathroom with the latest edition of Psychic Circular.
That’s the spirit, man, if you relax, it’ll find you.
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