I am out near the Bonfire, but further up the stream. There is a short little waterfall there, the run of water over a shelf of rocks as the streambed sinks a few feet.

I haven’t been to the Oasis in a while. I have missed it. And there have been times when I have been lost and needed help. I kept turning to human agencies, and while that is good, sometimes it is good to get an insider’s point of view.

“Am I falling up or down?” I ask the waterfall. It does not reply, and keeps crashing down over the rocks.

“What do you think?” Ishmael asks.

I scowl at him. “Don’t be unhelpful.”

“Why am I dragging my feet on this? On the letter and on the ticket.”

“I don’t know,” Ishmael says. “Why are you?”

Oh. I shouldn’t check with him. I should check with myself. I kiss his cheek to apologize for my temper, and blink to the Jungle.

The house in the Jungle has a turret. I’ve always loved turrets. And it’s now surrounded by a wooded landscape, verdant with tall trees. I walk in, because this is my house.

Source Me walks into the parlor, soft and beautiful and smiling. I still have no idea how I will ever look like that. Source Me frowns.

“What brings you?” She asks. I snort.

“Everything.”

“Come now,” She says. “I know you aren’t really worried about the letter.”

“True. But why is this trip eating at me?”

She reaches over and takes my hand. “Send the letter and it won’t,” She advises.

“And the money?”

She shrugs. “There’s always more money. You’ll have more soon. Will you ever seriously let money stop you? That’d be a bad habit to break, my dear.”

This morning is not a morning for lounging; there are things to be done! I simply do not know what things….

The Oasis is quiet today, and everyone seems busy taking care of life. I wander the paths, and feel slightly out of place and at loose ends.

“I have plenty of things to do,” I say to Ishmael.

“In the outside world, you have plenty of things to do,” Ishmael says.

“I don’t usually come here when that’s the case,” I reply.

“Hmmm,” Ishmael says, and gives me a wink. It’s strange to think that I have to find a place for myself in my own place, which is, essentially, in my own head.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Harley says with her usual impatient twinge to her voice. She’s appeared out of nowhere, but then, that is not unusual in the Oasis.

“I thought you said I’d have to explore,” I say. Well, that’s *something*, isn’t it?

“A quest!” Ishmael says with the lunacy of a sidekick.

“You want to come along,” I suddenly realize. “Does curiosity kill angels?”

“Often,” Ishmael says, and he is not smiling.

“Harley,” I say, “why is everything working out now, and last week it wasn’t?”

Harley shrugs. “What’s different?”

What’s different? I feel better. I feel like there was something I couldn’t get enough of, and then I did. And that having whatever that was slaked now left enough time and attention to parcel out among other parts of my life. And at the same time that one need was fulfilled, something else that was overwhelming feels to have left. All I can think of was a huge monster sniffing near the place I was hiding, but then overlooking me and leaving instead (Shire! Baggins!).

“There’s a metaphor in my metaphor,” I complain. “Can’t I just think in straight lines?”

“Then you’d have been crazy a long time ago,” Bagheera says affectionately. I pet his great big head and he butts me playfully.

“Where have *you* been?” I accuse. “I could have used your help.”

“Then ask,” Bagheera says, without a trace of bite, figuratively or literally.

“Which would be the other problem,” Harley muttered.

“Fine,” I reply. “Then where do we start?”

“The Jungle,” Harley says. “You’ve left it woefully untended. You shouldn’t ignore gifts. Especially when given to you by a god.”

I shake Ismael’s arm. It’s not moving but I continue trying to shake it anyhow.

“TBC has a *you*?”

Ishmael looks disgusted. “Of course he does. Everyone does. Everyone means everyone.”

“I want to meet him! Can I meet him?”

Now Ishmael looks amused. “Sure.”

“In the Conversation Tent?”

“If you like,” Ishmael says. His mild reaction to my excitement gives me a twinge of annoyance. I hate when I am excited and others don’t share in the fun. I punch his arm.

“Ow. Look, I talk to angels all the time. It’s of no great consequence to me to talk to another one.”

“Well why didn’t you suggest it to me before?”

Ishmael looks uncomfortable. “That’s not really the way it works,” he said nervously. “That’s a little too….meddling.”

Bagheera snorts. “Idiot pansy angels.”

Ishmael glares at the panther. “I’ll get him,” he says, and vanishes.

“C’mon Bagheera!” I rub the big kitty’s head. “We’re going to meet TBC’s angel!”

“The last thing this place needs is more angels,” Bagheera grumbles. But he stands up and I place a hand on him and will us down to the Conversation Tent.

And she is there. She’s got a neat, dark bob, and has a very traditional robe and even a faintly glowing halo. She is not slight, though. She’s got almost horsey-strong features, and looks like she could bench press my weight. Easily. She is holding herself very strong and tall, and looks utterly unlike Ishmael, who is strong but looks entirely like a surfer dude. He wears sandals and slouches. He doesn’t have anything remotely resembling a halo, but he has huge, big strong wings that are solid and real to the touch. TBC’s angel has bright blue eyes, and dainty wings that look to made of light, not skin and bone.

She looks very solemn.

“Hello!” I say. I am so happy and also feel like musing her up a bit. I cross the tent and take her enthusiastically into my arms. She returns my hug, but is stiff with surprise. “Welcome to my Oasis,” I add.

Ishmael is grinning, and Bagheera is purring loudly. “Tezareal, this is my charge, Eliste. And her spirit guide, Bagheera.”

Tezareal squints at me, then looks at Bagheera with distaste. “Hello little oracle,” she says. “Ishmael, you do end up with the oddballs.”

“Tezareal,” Ishmael says with a warning note in his voice, “she’s not dreaming. She’s an oracle. This is her Oasis. She *built* it. Consciously.”

“I–” Tezareal’s eyes get very round. “Oh, my.” She looks around more carefully. “You’re quite right, of course. My apologies, oracle. You indeed aren’t what I was expecting at all.”

Now isn’t that interesting. “Sit down, please,” I say. “There’s tea. Or would you like to see more of the Oasis?”

“More?” She asks faintly.

“Of course,” I say. “This is just the Conversation Tent. Most of the Oasis is behind the gate.” I look over at Ishmael, confused.

“Darling,” he says, “surely you’ve noticed by now that you aren’t much like most other people?”

“But–” I break off. Tezareal should know me. Inside and out, shouldn’t she know what he knows?

“Don’t worry, dear,” Tezareal says soothingly. “You are in the best hands with Ishmael.”

“Let’s sit,” Ishmael says. Now he sounds nervous. The two angels flank me, and Bagheera flops himself down on my feet. Idiot cat. I rescue my feet and thump his broad side. Ishmael hands me a plate of madelines, and somehow I feel like this isn’t going well. I hand out tall glasses of Persian tea and set a bowl of sugar cubes on the low table in front of me.

“So,” I say. Tezareal reaches out all of a sudden and touches my cheek with her fingertips. Then she leans in over her tea and gives me a quick kiss, right on my lips.

“Ah,” she says, sitting back with a half-smile on her face. “I do know you.”

I want to cry and shout all at once. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Wrong?” She looks baffled by the question. “Whatever could you be doing wrong?”

I feel Ishmael rub my arm but I ignore him. “I want to go out there,” I say. “I don’t want anything to stop me. I want to just be out there. I want it to just be easy. I want to just do what I want. I want him to love me as much as I love him. And just that. Nothing more, you see? There doesn’t have to be more. But not this. I’m fighting this all the time and I don’t know how to stop fighting.”

“Of course you do,” she says. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you do. Ishmael, haven’t you been telling this poor child *anything*?”

“She’s a bit stubborn,” he says through gritted teeth. I consider spilling my hot tea on him.

Tezareal puts down her tea and takes my hand in hers. “He loves you as much as we do,” she says. “Are you listening? Because you need to hear me now. He doesn’t love like you do. He loves like we do.” She looks me right in the eyes. “He loves you like angels love.”

Like angels love. Boundless, never ending, with perfect faith.

Not like I love. I hang my head.

“I’m not a burden then?”

Tezareal sits back a bit. “He’s a human,” she says. “Humans trip over themselves. He does that like any other. So that love he feels for you gets expressed in sometimes…” she grimaces. “…faulty ways.”

“Ishmael, what am I doing wrong?”

Tezareal looks supremely annoyed for a moment, but then Ishmael scooches closer to me and wraps his arms around me. I lean back into him. He smells like fresh ocean breeze.

“You’re learning,” Ishmael says. “You’ve never dared to love like this before. It’s all right. You’ll figure it out.”

Tezareal nods.

“I think I’m going to make him mad,” I say. “If I do what I want to do I’m going to make him mad.”

Tezareal shrugs. “Perhaps.”

He loves like angels love. “He’s not going to run away,” I say.

“Can’t you feel the connection?” Tezareal asks. “If you turn away from him, he will turn away from you. That is the pact between you. What else do you need?”

“To think,” I say.

“NO,” they all three say in unison.

“Stop it,” Bagheera says.

“Just live,” Ishmael says. He cuddles me closer. “Just live.”

I sigh. “It’s going to be a long day.”

“It might be,” Ishmael acknowledges. “But we’re here if you need us.”

A screenshot. I need to take screenshots. My morning and afternoon will consist of pushing buttons and the emotional effort to get it done feels like Sisyphian task.

“I remember when I was young I said I wanted to push buttons for a living like the girl at the grocery store. That sounded like fun to me. What other ridiculous ways did I curse myself unknowingly when I was 5?”

Bagheera chuckles. I feel like hissing at him. I take a sip of tea and instead wrap my hands around his warm neck. He purrs and leans into me obligingly. The full weight of cat leaning into me nearly bowls me over.

“I should have moved,” I say.

“Not necessarily,” Ishmael says. “You should have made a decision unhampered by anything but what you wanted to do. That’s what you should have done.”

“The quote,” Bagheera says. “You need to read it again. Find it and paste it here.”

Real difficulties can be overcome. It is only the imaginary ones that are unconquerable.
- Theodore N. Vail

“I almost lost it there,” I say to Ishmael.

“Almost,” he says. He gives me a big hug. It feels a little like TBC’s hugs. It feels *a lot* like TBC’s hugs.

I’m supposed to get that “almost” is not “did.” I get it, but I still feel badly.

“Will you ever get how incredible you are?” Ishmael murmurs into my hair.

I don’t feel very incredible. It’s been a horrible day. It’s that time of the month and I ache, and whatever hormonal convolutions my body has to do to start off the fireworks always makes my mood go south. Every time it’s the same: my focus on what will be is ripped away and all I can see is what is, and what is is what I don’t want. And then I get desperate and start looking at scams online, like I have for the past seven months or so, trying to understand how a smart, educated person like myself has failed to figure out an effective way to make a solid income.

And *then* I get angry that a smart, educated person like myself managed to make enough mistakes in life (really, in love) that it took me ten years to realize that I wasn’t happy. And I get angry that I went out on a crusade to figure out how to make me happy, which included a long detour into who I am when my own happiness is my guiding star, and for all of that I am still living a life which doesn’t make me very happy…

…yet.

“Almost,” Ishmael whispers.

Balthazar watches me put a canister on the ground. “What’s that?” He asks.

“Napalm.”

“Oooh dear. I’ll get Darzee.”

“I wasn’t planning on using it on you, you know.”

The sun is directly overhead, and the Oasis bakes. The blanket of heat is mildly comforting, but not enough to distract me. The Bonfire before me burns without heat. The symbol of fire is all I need, and it won’t throw off warmth until the sun sets. The river slinks by behind the Bonfire, quiet and smooth, looking to keep out of my attention.

Darzee and Balathazar approach me cautiously. “Why the napalm, beloved?” Darzee asks.

“Because I’m going to find today and kill it,” I reply. I don’t get how the hose and nozzle attaches to the canister, and while I don’t want to burn the Oasis down, I’m also not in a mood to figure out logistics.

“You can’t kill today,” Darzee says, a little timidly. “You’re still in it.”

“My Oasis, my rules.”

“Um,” Darzee says. She looks at Balthazar. He shrugs.

“How can we help?” Balthazar asks.

I throw down the hose. “You can tell me what in the hell went wrong!”

They start making reassuring noises and come forward to hug and hold me and I step back. “Guys. I love you, I really do. But not right now. I need answers.”

Darzee sucks in her breath. “Anger, huh? You’re moving up the emotional scale pretty fast these days.”

“You’re going to figure it out, you know,” Balthazar says.

When I first built the Oasis, I created a form for myself. I was so disconnected with all my internal states back then that I had a hard time seeing from my own vantage point internally. The Oasis always appeared as sort of a diorama that I, like the the other beings in the Oasis, moved through. I would observe the character I designated as myself moving from a high vantage point.

I have built up a sense of self (and of Self) again, and now live comfortably in my own skin in the Oasis. But that empty vessel I created to pretend to be me in was a Huntress, with white skin and hair and white leathers. And Balthazar’s words of platitudinal reassurance made me so angry that I became the Huntress in an instant, and pulled a long, wicked white glass knife out of the sheath at my hip. The Bonfire flared up with a roar and poured forth heat, and the stream frothed and ran at a wild pace, burbling and crashing over rocks.

I can see Balthazar swallowing hard. I’m watching the muscles in his neck twitch, his Adam’s apple bob.

“You have unfinished business,” Darzee announces and grabs me by the arm. I swing at her but she steps aside before my knife comes anywhere near her. It’s all the time she needed; we are back on the plain and the warrior is there. She has nearly killed the many-tentacled thing. It bleeds and bellows pitifully.

I know exactly what to do. Wielding the knife like a machete, I rush the warrior. She twirls to meet me and cold iron screeches against the white glass. For a few moments we fence, and I feel thrill and bloodlust chase down every vein and capillary. And then I let it take me over and I press her hard, and she bleeds. The warrior falls back, and I cut her and I cut her and I cut her.

She never says a word. She never asks for mercy. Her face never changes one iota from a fixed, grim mien. Not even when I beat aside her blade and run her through, punching right through her armor. Screaming, I bring her down and pin her to the ground with my thrust. She lays motionless, her eyes fixed upon me. She makes no move toward the white glass blade.

“That’s right,” I say. “Stay there and shut up.” My hands and forearms are covered in her blood. I stand and go over to the many-tentacled thing. I rub the blood of her enemy in her wounds, and the thing no longer bleeds. The bellowing stops, and silence descends on the plain. I stand. Darzee is watching me, and Balthazar is here too. He’s brought Ishmael, and Bagheera has tagged along.

I want to tell them to go away. It is my head, mine! And they had no right to stand there so *opaquely* and not be helpful.

Of course, I’d turn on them if they tried.

“Great Stone Dragon,” I say.

Great Stone Dragon, or Tau for short, followed me home from an Asian art exhibit in Portland that I went to one day. I still don’t know what piece he was hiding in, but a few hours after the exhibit, he playfully got my attention. He’d been traveling with the exhibit for a number of years, waiting for someone he liked to come along. Turns out he really liked me.

I’d always wished to be friends with a dragon.

He appears next to me in his man-shaped form. He is a water dragon, so he is as blue as Balathzar is red. His features are slightly indistinct, and the form rather resembles a man made out of blue clay. It is a convenience to me, nothing more.

“Tau. Thank you.” He presence is so calming. I can almost hear the wash of waves or the run of a river when I stand near him. I am suddenly so, so tired. I lean against him, and he wraps us both in a richly-colored silk robe.

“I need help,” I say in his ear. “Please.”

“Come,” he says, and leads me back over to the many-tentacled thing. We stand over her. She doesn’t move.

“What are you?” I ask.

“I don’t remember. I told you what I know.”

I feel the faint stirrings of anger again. “Shut UP. Yes you do. You are what you are. Be what you are, right now. I command you.”

Tau raises an eye ridge at me, and the many-tentacled thing begins to moan and shake.

“STOP IT! I am tired of dramatics. Take the form of whatever you were born into my Oasis as.”

There is a short, sharp earthquake as the Oasis shifts and groans to support the sudden change. I fall into Tau and he steadies me. The plain is a meadow and not barren, but filled with flowers and butterflies and soap bubbles. The many-tentacled thing is gone, and instead a thin little fairy lies motionless on the ground.

The warrior growls like a cat in heat but does not move.

“Oh, you fixed me!” The fairy jumps up and claps her cute little glowy hands together. I hate her with all the hate that I can muster.

“I killed the wrong monster,” I said. The fairy pouts.

Tau rubs my arm gently. “It is much deeper than that.”

“They lie to me with every word and motion. All I know is that they hate each other.”

“Are you sure?” Tau asks. “If nothing is as it seems with them, how can that be true?”

Thoughtful, I raise my arm. The warrior is lifted by my will and floats over to us. I yank my sword out of her abdomen. The fairy recoils.

“They were both one,” I say. Tau nods. I am so tired now. “Tau, could you help me here?”

He steps forward and mutters some harsh syllables. There is a loud shriek like a braking train, and they are merged into one. The Oasis groans again.

This time, there is moonlight and a wide, circular pool. It reflects the stars, or perhaps the stars are in the pool. Clever rock formations line the pool, and deer wander through this small clearing in the deep woods. I sit on one of the stones. Tau kisses the top of my head. A hand rests on my shoulder, and I look up to see Ishmael smiling down at me.

“You doubt,” he said. “Oh my love, how can you doubt when you have come so far that you can do this?”

And on his words the waters of the pool froth and part and rise up to form the thin figure of a woman made of water. The gems in the crown on my head shine softly in pleased remembrance of her, but I do not remember.

“Who are you?” I ask. I feel inelegant to her graceful arc and demeanor, but I have so little energy left to spare. I have no room for delicacy.

“I am your star,” she says. “Your guiding star. The star you wish on.”

I rub my forehead. “Someone? Please? Small words.”

“When do you wish on a star?” Ishmael asks with a vaguely rhetorical air.

“When you want something,” I reply.

Tau leans into me. “You only wish on a star when you have hope that the thing you wish for could come true. Otherwise, you wouldn’t bother wishing, would you?”

Darzee comes up from behind and puts her arms around me. “You have been able to think positively. You’ve even been able to have faith. But you haven’t had hope that things will work out for a very, very, *very* long time.” I wrap her hands, laced gently together and resting on my collarbone, in mine.

“And the warrior and the many-tentacled thing?”

“Smoke and mirrors,” Tau said. “You tried to substitute iron will and pure determination for hope. Then you turned the joy in fulfillment, the gratitude, into something ugly, into a monster.”

Bagheera is purring again. “You have done so well,” Ishmael says. I feel a half-hearted effort to turn aside his praise, but it is weak. He is right. I have done well.

“There is no confidence without hope,” the Star says. The Star. Her name, I know suddenly, is Raiden. “WIthout the strength to hope for something better, there is no basis or even reason for confidence.” Raiden grows brighter, and trails of light fall from her as she moves.

I am so tired now I can barely stay upright. I lean against Darzee. “Sleep,” she says. “I’ll hold you till the morning, and everything will be better then.”

“I am Shethged,” the warrior replies. “This is Vantoo. Now get out of the way. We are destined to fight this battle to a bloody end.”

“Really.” I turn to Ishmael, who has walked over to a safe distance. “They can lie to me?”

“You lie to yourself all the time. Incoming.” I hear the swish of the blade and I know I can’t do anything to stop it. This is going to hurt.

Except that I am surrounded by glowing pink energy, shimmery and translucent. I turn to see the warrior’s blade stuck in the pink energy. She is tugging at it, but the sword is stuck fast. I hear chuckling coming from the many-tentacled thing.

“Darzee?” I ask.

“Here,” she replies. She steps up next to me, her form diaphanous and indistinct. “That was close.”

“It would have hurt, but they can’t really damage me,” I say. “But thank you for the caring thought.”

Darzee looks over at Ishmael uncertainly. He doesn’t move, just stares back at her. Darzee looks away from both of us.

Huh. I grab Darzee’s hand to make sure she doesn’t rabbit on me, because clearly I’m going to need her. Then I turn to the many-tentacled thing. “Your turn. Who are you?”

Then I stagger, as “Shethged” has launched herself against Darzee’s shield hard enough to move me and it. “I must fight,” she pants, and reigns down more blows upon me.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter. This is *my* head. I blow away Darzee’s barrier with a burst of energy that I redirect at the warrior. “Sleep,” I say, and she staggers as if I’ve hit her. I can feel my own energies shift as whatever she is crumples, unconscious. I’m starting to get a light headache. My palms tingle with unleashed power. Whatever she is, she has been using up a huge amount of my personal energy to maintain this fight. I feel a little light-headed.

“Okay,” I say, transferring my grip from Darzee’s hand to her shoulder. She lets me lean on her silently, and I squeeze her shoulder a bit in gratitude. We turn back to the many-tentacled thing. “I have a wood chipper and I’m not afraid to use it. Who are you?”

“Please,” it says. “Free me.”

I can feel my energy still shifting, and my forehead is tingling. “You have a story,” I say. “Tell me.”

The Story of the Many-Tentacled Thing

I don’t remember what I used to be. All I know is that I have not always been a many-tentacled thing, and I didn’t live here. I lived somewhere with meadows. There were flowers and butterflies. I love butterflies.

But one day something picked me up and shook me. And they kept shaking me until I thought all my bones were going to break. I couldn’t even tell what was shaking me. It looked like a concrete arm. It wanted something from me but I didn’t have anything to give it. Then it threw me into an oubliette for I-don’t-know how long. I missed the sunlight and the butterflies. I missed them so much it felt like I hadn’t eaten for weeks. I don’t eat but I was starving. It was awful.

Then the oubliette faded away. And as it faded I became this many-tentacled thing. And when the walls were gone I was a monster and that woman rushed at me, and we’ve been fighting ever since. Every once in a while she takes a break, so I can take a break too. But the rest of the time we fight.

“I see,” I say, although I really don’t see. “If you don’t like this life, why keep fighting? Why not just let this warrior woman win?”

The many-tentacled thing shivered. “Oh no,” it says. “That would be much, much worse.”

Finally I have time to come back to this image.

On Monday I met with Lori and she did a process with me. Her processes generally involve her asking me questions about a subject that is making me uneasy that I asked for help dealing with. The point of the asking is to listen inwardly for an answer.

My answer to one of the questions was this:

Two figures on a plain. One is a woman warrior in full plate mail. She doesn’t have a helmet, and she has long blonde hair. The other is some sort of monster. Most of the monster is outside the image, and all that I see of it is three or four tentacles. They are fighting each other. They are dirty and exhausted and both spattered with blood.

My unconscious is, if nothing else, creative.

The strange part was that in answer to another question, something like: “And when is this problem not a problem?” My first inner response the the question was: “When I am out, with people, looking outward instead of inward.”

This lucidity was followed up by another image: the two fighters sitting just out of reach of each other, panting. Like they were finally able to get a break.

And that is where we are at.

“Ishmael,” I call. I call and he is there. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” he says. “Though you really don’t need me for this.”

“No?” I ask. “Then what do I need you for?”

“To remind you,” he says. I take his hand and lead him down the hill to the warriors. We are deep in the Jungle, so deep that I don’t recognize it.

I can hear the warrior’s heavy gasps for air as we come closer to them.

“Please,” I call out. “Could you stop for a bit? I need to talk with you.”

There is not even a hitch in their battle. I frown. Usually that works. Most things that live in my head acknowledge my wants as something important to make time for.

“Not with them,” Ishmael sounds almost cheerful. “They’ll keep going at it till you look away.”

“Don’t tell me I need to do something ridiculous like close my eyes and approach.”

“Fascinating idea,” Ishmael says. “I’ll pay you to try it.”

“Sadist. You’re supposed to be helping.”

“Aren’t I?”

Clang, clang, clang go the blows the tentacles score on the warrior’s mail.

Gritting my teeth, I say: “You’d better have Bob at the ready.” And then I march down to put myself between blade and flesh.

Neither creature could check their blows in time; a tentacle walloped my back, and the flat of the blade caught me on the shins. Well, I thought as I staggered, pain ricocheting through me, at least she managed to turn it.

“Who are you?” The warrior-woman demands. I’m bent over, trying to work out which hurts worse.

“Funny,” I reply. “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

“It is created,” Anubis says. “There, in the jungle is the house you wish and the life that you desire. By the power of your will you have created it. By the strength of your desire you have created it. With our help you will find it. Because when you feel frustrated or angry or upset or depressed or anything negative all of us, by the bond you have called us here to witness, will remind you of the feel of this happiness. We will bring you here to the ridge and encourage you to step off into the life you are, to forget the life you have. And you will remember which way it is that you need to walk to get there.”

Anath takes my hands in hers. “Continue in this way, little lion,” she says, “and you will have need of me no longer.”

Hathor has come, and I am so glad to see her I throw my arms around her. “Every day you come closer to me,” she says. “I salute you and all that you are, and I cherish your vision in my heart.”

The others give their well-wishes and fade away. Ishmael comes over to me. “Do you see now?” He asks. “It must come true. There is no way that it cannot come true. Let the universe do the math and know that it is true.”

“Yes,” Balthazar says. “But for the love of little fishes, girl: keep walking!”

We laugh, and all is well, and all will be well, and all is well.

“And how are destinies not like jam tomorrow?” I feel insolent and ignorant, because this day has been long indeed to sit through and very, very short on belief. Soothe the thought, sweetheart. Soothe the thought.

“Jam tomorrow?” Ishmael asks. We sit as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed, as if I am as deeply rooted in my belief as I was two days ago. And I am not; I cling to the plant and hope the roots are buried deep enough to keep me from a fall.

I am so angry that here nothing has changed! It should change! It is me!

Ishmael crooks me a little smile. “Shall I answer the question you have inside or the one you posed me?”

“Hate you,” I mutter. Ishmael leans over and kisses my forehead, and I still feel grumpy, but….soothed.

“Answer both,” I demand. Because somehow in my life I am a person who demands things from an angel. But I lean my head on his shoulder so he knows that I am teasing…mostly.

“Alright,” Ishmael says mildly. “But you know you have to stop that habit of thinking one thing and saying another, right?”

“Hasn’t killed anyone yet. Leave off, Ishmael.”

“You know it leads to you thinking one thing and doing another, right?”

I sit up straight. “You mean how I work on what I don’t want to work on?”

“That is what I mean. Talking is action. Your mouth flaps and words come out.”

I feel the comforting, warm, solid presence of Bagheera behind me. He leans his big shoulder into my back and purrs his great big rumbly purr. But I glance behind me and I can see the tip of his tail twitching. Damn cat. He’s laughing at me.

Can you punch an angel?

“Noted,” I growl.

“Jam?” He prompts. I have to swallow a few times to get anything out. Bagheera pushes his head under my arm. I pet him until I feel better.

“Through the Looking Glass. The bit where The White Queen offers to pay Alice for her services. She’ll give her jam every other day. And since today isn’t any other day, that means jam tomorrow and jam yesterday but never jam today.”

“Ah,” Ishmael says. “You associate ‘destiny’ with ‘will happen sometime in the future that is not now’.”

“That is what destinies are,” I reply.

Ishmael shakes his head. “You’re overthinking. Just pretend. Make believe. Do things that are fun and keep doing them. As you said the other day, head toward happy.”

I want to shake him. I push Bagheera away, and the purring turns into a snarl and a snap. “Don’t get testy with me,” I shoot at him. “You’re no better.”

“You must practice,” Bagheera says. “It is a skill you must hone.”

“Must I?” I feel like screeching. “I’ve been pretending all my life, one thing or another. I have plenty of practice. I’m sick of pretending! That is the thing, you see! I’m always pretending something, and I want it all to be *real*, not pretend anymore!”

They both regard me steadily. “Are there so many things that you wanted that you haven’t gotten?” Ishmael asks me.

First I feel shame, then that sadness that I haven’t felt for quite a while. I had thought it was gone. It is still a weak echo of what it once was, so that is something.

“I have gotten many things,” I say. “Most of them are not what I actually truly wanted. They were what I thought I should want. They were what others want. Some were mine, and true.”

“Do you know what you want now? Truly?” Ishmael says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I do.”

“Then here is your other answer. The Oasis doesn’t change because it is your true self. It is You-As-Source. You have given the part of you that creates everything and everything a form that you can interact with. Anything you want to be here happens.”

“So make it happen here, and it’ll come true?”

“When you make it happen here,” Ishmael says, “it is true.”