[Rimbaud]

Halfullion stroked his chin, literally absent-mindedly. He enjoyed stroking his chin; not only did he find the contact soothing, but he felt that it lent to him an air of great wisdom and deep thought. Unfortunately, his last action had been to search through some of Tofu’s more recent deposits for a valued ring that the great steed had consumed earlier in the week. He had found the ring but neglected to clean his hands, making the chin-stroking line into a paragraph.

He was attempting to think through the events of the day and he felt an onus on him to take firm control of the group. These Questors are inept…they need guidance…I am epter than they, and with this level of eptitude I am surely the one to do it… he thought, in italics. His dreams of leadership were undermined only by his incomprehensible level of incompetency.

The journey through the long dark of the Subway filled them all with trepidation. Halfullion was also nursing a pint of gibbering fear, with a side-salad of mounting panic. His thoughts were rudely interrupting by the continuation of the story.

“How will we get our horses on the Tube?” asked Orogarn Two, somewhat understandably, being the only one unhorsed. Dehorsed. Horseless, rather.

“We’ll have to rely on the benevolence of the Porterog,” said Halfullion, amazed at his own knowledge. He countered their inquisitive stares with a slightly baffled expression and wished he were a waffle. “The Porterog is a fearsome guardian of the Subway, but he may well allow us to board with our horses. A bit hypocritical of him to accuse us of taking up space anyway,” Halfullion continued, “given the amount of room his great wings take up.”

“He can fly?” asked Pimpi, nervously.

“Not to my knowledge,” interjected Orogarn Two. “To my knowledge, his co-guards are trolls, there to protect him. Unlikely his guards would not be able to fly if he could. I think the wings are decorative.”

“That’s a shadowy subject,” argued Merisuwyniel. “You can’t be so positive.”

“I have my sources,” replied Orogarn, politely.

Kuruharan felt a stab of fear at the thought that someone might cut into his profitable condiment market share. It turned out that it was simply a stab of his fea, and somewhat more troubling. He mused briefly upon corporeality and wondered why Halfullion’s face appeared to be covered in chocolate.

“Look, Orogarn’s point seems fair enough to me,” said Halfullion. “This is not getting us anywhere. We need to decide which line we need and which stop.”

“White City?” asked Etceteron, feeling a bit left out.

“Near Acton? Not where we want to be,” replied Merisuwyniel. “To get nearer to Topfloorien, we should try for Shepherd’s Bush.”

“Why would a shepherd want a bush?” thought Halfullion noisily.

A bush can be useful, thought Tofu, but said nothing.

“You wouldn’t,” began Halfullion, warming to his theme as a ferret warms in a ferret-warming device. “For instance, let any of your decisions be made by a bush would you?”

Orogarn grimaced. “Come Halfullion, take these weighty matters from your broad and ever so muscular shoulders, and let us make haste! From my knowledge, gleaned from the annals of Hero weekly, we need the red line for Shepherd’s Bush!”

“Ah, the thin red line,” murmured Halfullion. “Sweet words have been said of the thin red line.” He stood some three steps from the remainder of the party and quoth:

”Oh Subway of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Oh red line of joy and despair!
Whenever we are destinationless,
You seem to get us there.
Passengers you must surely hate
Being as you are, ever late –
But no grudge do I bear thee, o Central, my dear
No other line do I hold so near
For when all hope is lost
And men in the mirk go out
You are there to take us home,
Slowly and at great expense.

The Subways are dark and subversive
Some can only talk in cursive
Awkward rhymes are hard to find –
But ‘tis good to take the time,
For when your praises must be sung
And in the tunnels your sweet bell rung
I’ll be there, the first in line
Timepiece in my pocket hung!

Beware the frumious Porterog!
Outgrabing in the coach class cabin.
Take thee thy vorpal ticket,
And payest thou the manxome fare,
Or else galumph will you not
But in your grave, you shall rot.”

Merisuwyniel breathed a sigh of deep shuddering relief when it was over.

“Seems we still need a ticket!” said Tofu, suddenly, confusing all of them, especially Halfullion, who had been unaware of the horse’s hitherto unseen loquacity.

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]