Chapter Nineteen. Rejuvenation

The weather warnings which had streamed my PIS system were sluffed (see chapter two or insert your own definition. Without sluffing we'd all be totally wild by now). So the wall of water took me by surprise.

As the sheets and layer after layer of crashing rain soaked every stitch of me, Duchess seemed to be smiling. "The Chinindians call rain--money." It seemed strange to be having a conversation with an ancient Pinus Lambertiana (Sugar Pine). Duchess was nearly 200 feet tall, perhaps the tallest tree in the world. When the planet was populated more by trees than parking lots, she would have been one of the tallest, even then, as the Sugar Pine towered above the rest.

Let me draw a better picture folks. My mom and best friend have been missing for...what chapter is this? God knows this crazy thing seems to go on forever! Anyway, for a long time.

If it hadn't been for the story about a gathering of people reading the paper and acting odd (hugging, laughing, in the absence of electronics), I wouldn't know Ryan, a decent guy.

Zol is...well. I'm really torn on that one. Maybe he isn't ALL after all. All being a really really big concept. And these central characters, Hasan, and Warbling, they are pretty cool, I've got to say. Yes indeed.

More in a minute about Hasan DuBois (as the rain seems to be working quite a miraculous baptism), but we will be mild with our description of him and say he is like no one we've met. Andrew Warbling too, as monks go, is...well, more on him too. I started to say an unorthodox teacher--but who am I to brand what is orthodox when it comes to monks. Let's face it, monks are a weird lot. Period.

As to cartoon characters appearing in my dreams, some fixation about Elmer Fudd



and other abominations of imagination which seemed to resurrect (or rearrange) my pysche, I didn't realize that the many diversions and bizarre twists were bringing me (us precious reader) closer to the end--hey you know why a Flamingo has such long legs, right?--to reach the ground silly--same here. We will get to closure, I promise. Please forgive me when you find we're really in a giant figure eight here and that old black magic just has us going round and round.



She continued. "Would you like to know why the Chinindians thought of rain as money?"

I looked up at her. Majestic. The two of us stood alone. A deluge. I'm not exagerating. Rain like you've never seen. Really rain, the word, doesn't capture it. It was a block. An unending mass extending from Heaven. It seemed to be powered by some big, churning machine. Like an ice maker gone berserk, except on hyperdrive, and melted. Like an upside down volcano, right over your head, but instead of really scary molten rock burning off your face (forget singed eyebrows), it was harmless rain. Usually beautiful but now a bit too much. But Duchess seemed to be soaking it all in, quite cheerily in fact.



With eye brows dripping, nose dripping, flooded vision and covered in clothing still in heavy rinse mode, I offered my guess, "it must have something to do with making things grow?"

"Exactly." Being a tree of few words, she guided me to understand, without having to say it, "stand near me and I'll be your umbrella."

Such a gentle suggestion, and received so...naturally, it made me understand that plants are always trying to communicate to us. I wondered for a moment, "is it possible that we'd be more advanced as a species without Jet Phones? Which came first, the chicpea or Zol?"

I moved closer. Her energy seemed to warm me. I felt clean. Refreshed. Clear. What is it about a good rain that can really wash the layers of cat dander and creepy crud build up away? And why do I feel like I'm really wanting to hug this tree? My flailing internal chatter was just as gently replaced by her soothing continued suggestions...

"Hasan and the Chits...you've attracted them to you Derby. Rejoice my love. You are reborn."