A thud sounded at the door and he went to investigate.

Abou Juba had kicked it, his arms being full of Lt. Jeffarry. Maxathon

stood there, mouth agape, staring. Abou Juba nearly dropped Jeffarry.

The African was the first to find his voice. "I knew I would see you again,"

he said, grinning from ear to ear, "but not yet...not yet!"

**********

"Juba!" cried the delighted Maxathon. "You...here?" He looked at the

sagging Jeffarry then back up at his old friend. "He was expiring in some desolate wasteland?"

"Yes," Abou Juba replied, "about 3 or 4 pastures over."

"That far?" Maxathon whistled in wonderment. Maxathon looked back down

at Jeffarry. "I see it is good you never run out of your maggot supply."

"Truly," Abou Juba agreed, "though he does seem to swallow most of them."

Jotha joined them, wiping her hands on her pink and purple checked apron. "Guests for breakfast?" she asked, then added, "But I see Jeffarry has

already dined."

"N...no," Jeffary gasped, spitting out a particularly large and wiggly maggot

onto the welcome mat.

Jotha, fond as she was of Jeffarry, frowned. The one thing she could not

abide was maggots on her clean welcome mat. Bending down, she picked it up between thumb and forefinger and carefully plastered it back on Jeffarry's l

ower lip. "A..aaa...aaaagh," he gagged.

"Some people are just so hard to assist," Abou Juba commented.

"Jotha," Maxathon said eagerly, placing his hand on her shoulder and nodding toward the tall, handsome African man, "This is Juba!"

"Juba?" she exclaimed. "I should have known! Not all that many of Maxathon's friends are dressed in leopard fur with a full supply of maggots so readily available!"

Abou Juba leaned Jeffarry against the door jamb as Jotha took one of his

large hands in both hers. "Oh, I'm so glad to meet you at last!" she continued. "Were it not for you, there would be some fat, happy lion running about the northern deserts of Africa." She turned, indicating the interior with her hand. "Please come in! You, too, Jeffarry."

Jeffarry staggered to a softly padded chair, flopping down heavily. Jotha

ran quickly to the kitchen, coming back with a mixing bowl she placed in his

lap. "To catch falling maggots," she said softly. As glad as he was to be an insider again rather than perishing in some distant, desolate pasture,

Jeffarry still looked quite despondent. "Jeffarry, what's wrong?" Jotha

asked in concern.

"Uthne left me," he replied, a tear tracking down his cheek, dripping onto

his lip where its saltiness made a maggot cry out.

"I did not know that," Abou Juba said seriously.

"What? That Uthne left him?" Jotha asked.

"No. That maggots had vocal cords."

Turning back to Jeffarry, Jotha continued, "Why did she leave you?"

"I...I...didn't save annsail!" he cried, burying his face in his hands, choking

on a few more inwardly-directed wound-healers.

Jotha gasped, looking at Maxathon with wide eyes. "Annsail was not...saved!

How could annsail not be saved?"

Maxathon squatted in front of the distraught Jeffarry. "Tell me," he rumbled, "How and from what was annsail not saved?"

Jeffarry opened reddened eyes. "Por...porcupines," he stammered.

Maxathon turned his head, looking up at the hovering Jotha, his brow

creased. "Are there porcupines in this storyline?" he asked her.

Swallowing hard, she responded, "Well...yes. But just a small herd of a few thousand migrating albino ones is all."

Maxathon sighed deeply, then looked back at Jeffarry. "Did she perish upon their spines?"

"No," he whispered, "there were giant logs and...and...huge chunks of the exploded dam."

Looking back at Jotha, Maxathon said softly, "Now really, Jotha!" She

shrugged and made a small grimace. "How did she...meet her doom?" he

finally asked.

Jeffarry let out a long, ragged breath. "She...didn't," he said. "Terry cut

the ends of the suspension bridge."

Not at all surprised at that, Maxathon went on, "Then why, Jeffarry, why

did Uthne leave YOU?"

"Because," he sobbed, "I was there FIRST! She... she gave me...this." He

held out the black crowe feather in shaking fingers.

Maximus whistled in surprise, taking the feather in his own hand. He stood, looking directly at Jotha. "Do you know what this means?"

"I...I'm trying desperately to figure it out," she said, biting her lip,

"but juggling eleven plus movies isn't all that easy, you know." Her eyes

filled with tears and she ran back into the kitchen to pour more canned mushrooms into the scrambled eggs.

Maxathon quickly dropped the black feather into the maggot bowl and ran

after her. She was standing in front of the stove, stirring the eggs

furiously, her shoulders shaking with sobs. He came up behind her, placed

a hand on each of her shoulders, resting his chin atop her head. "There,

there," he soothed, "I know the eleven movie thing isn't easy."

Letting the spoon fall into the pan and disappear beneath the egg mixture,

she turned, burying her face in his chest. "Oh, Maxathon, it's just so...

hard," she sighed. "And I used Andy in the dark, spooky cellar instead

of Johnny and now I don't know what to do with poor Anna Shadow."

Kissing the top of her head, he said, "You'll figure it out. I know you will."

"But...but...," she continued, "Martvy got all the comforting last night

trying to keep Jeffius from slash and I don't have to keep YOU from slash because you always have ME and...and...I need comforting TOO!"

Looking down at her up-turned, tear-stained face, a slight smile playing

about the corners of his lips, he said, "I shall comfort you tonight...I

promise." How desperately she wanted to believe that, but with the way

the blue glow was spreading down the steps from under the locked bathroom door, she had justifiable fears.

Back in the living room, Jeffarry picked the black feather up from the

bowl. Quietly he studied it now that there were several maggots clinging to

it. He shook his head sadly side to side. Life was on a downward spiral. He expected if he had a mailbox these days and were to check it, a maggot

would leer at him from atop the bullet.

From the porch of the neat, white farmhouse, Wannie Kinsella called loudly, "Breakfast!"

Her husband, Lachlay, was, as usual, out wandering amongst his cornfields.

Unlike his potato patch, which tended to be grumpy, his cornfield always

made pleasant conversation. This morning, though, after deconstructing a

few Shakespearean sonnets, the corn wanted to talk about crop circles.

"Listen, Lachlay," the cornfield said, "I know you didn't personally build it,

but, still, they have come."

"I'm really sorry about that," Lachlay replied sincerely. The corn was

beginning to sound nearly as grumpy as the potatoes. Lachlay figured a lot

of it had to do with the whole anti-carb movement that was sweeping the

country.

"It's bad enough," the corn continued, "having acres of my stalks bent

to the ground like that, but when those ball players slide into third base,

well, they cause complete uprootation. It MUST stop!"

"What about Jim Braddson?" Lachlay brought up. "He takes off his shoes,

trying to be considerate."

"Not good enough," the corn complained. "You must unbuild it so they will

go away."

"Unbuild it?" Lachlay repeated. He looked across the huge, flattened circle

of corn then bent down and pulled one of the stalks upright. As soon as he

let go, it immediately fell flat again.

"OW!" the cornfield said sharply.

Just then Russham walked out into the circle. "Good morning, Father Russham," Lachlay said.

Russham smiled. It was all right again to be called 'Father' now that he

had seen Andygan come back from the brink of death. Besides, he WAS

 rather much a father to all the characters, now wasn't he? "Good morning,

to you, Lachlay," Russham responded brightly, "and what are you doing out

here so early?"

"Oh, I was just talking to the cornfield," Lachlay explained.

Russham cocked one eyebrow. "Does it talk back?"

"Only to me," Lachlay said with a slight grin. "Most folks, knowing that

cornfields have ears, presume they can only hear. But there's far more to

a good cornfield than that."

"I see," Russham replied, "and what does it say?"

"Today," Lachlan continued, "it's upset about the baseball players in the

crop circles."

"Indeed?" Russham said, nodding. "I had presumed the signs were made by

alien invaders and not baseball players. I did see Sigourney in The Village, you know."

"Be that as it may," Lachlay went on, "the cornfield wishes to be unsigned."

"Completely?"

"Entirely."

Russham, who didn't know all that much about corn since his movies tended

to have very little of it, was at a loss. "How is that to be done?" he asked.

"Maybe the aliens would know?" Lachlay wondered.

"Well," said Russham, "when I go into The Village later today, I shall ask Sigourney about it."

"Thank you," Lachlan said, then they both walked off in different directions through the standing corn.

"Humph!" humphed the cornfield.

"I still sometimes dream that I'm the mother of your children," Frankianna

said softly, wistfully, as she watched Nashtan tightening his cinch. In spite

of her dreams, Frankianna was not yet used to the long, blond locks that

Nashtan was now sporting, nor even that she was actually in a movie she

had found rather depressing, especially considering her character's ultimate

end. Jotha, though, had convinced her that such things never happened in

epis and, so, being the good sport that she was, Franki got on with the job.

"I wonder why our good Captain did not get Nashtan's role?" she mused

and was surprised when the answer came from just behind her. It was

Colonel Eastiam, Nashtan's father and a former cavalry officer.

He watched his son with narrowed eyes. "He hears his own inner voices

with great clearness, Frankianna. Such people become crazy, but they

become legends."

She knew it was almost an exact line from the movie and sudden

understanding flooded through her. It wasn't his horsemanship or

his way with cattle that had landed him as Nashtan. Eastiam walked

away, leaving Frankianna alone with his son. Nashtan turned, smiling at

her with his ever-beguiling smile. "I'll wait for you, Nashtan. However

long it takes. I'll wait for you forever."

"I will be gone many, many years," he said, intending to sail the

South Seas.

"Hmmmm?" she thought. There he went again. Long blonde hair...sailing

the seas. Casting was just so...so...inscrutable. He kissed her softly,

tenderly, then mounted and rode into the cornfield. She watched his

head and shoulders above the tall stalks as he got further and further

away.

"Good-bye, my love!" she called. He heard and turned, lifting his hand

for one final wave, but with a sudden whumping whoosh, disappeared down

into the dense stalks.

Russham, passing by on his way into The Village, commented, "Aliens or

ball players. Hard to know which from this distance."

"Aliens or ball players?" Frankianna repeated, greatly agitated from

Nashtan's sudden downward whoosh.

"That got 'im," Russham explained. "Too far away to tell which."

"That..that...GOT...him?" she stammered.

"Yep," Russham said. "He's either dismembered or got a catcher's mitt

by now."

"Is...is..this hell?" Frankianna asked.

"Nope...it's Pennsylvania," Russham replied cheerily.

Having left Sinnie to deal with a now-enlightened Cort, Budeph and

Bertannon continued their be-oaked stroll. "What kind is that?" asked

Bertannon, pointing to a nicely-shaped, though still young tree.

"It's a quercus muhlenbergii," he answered, "sometimes called a chinkapin."

He hesitated a bit then added, "It's thought to have the sweetest of all

acorns."

"Do you have a story for me?" she prodded, wanting to hear again the

sound of his voice in storytelling mode.

"The young plumber ran home through the familiar streets...." he began.

Jeffius woke with a start and looked around. Though the air was still

filled with the scent of freshly made honey almond pastries, Martvy was

not in the house. What was it that had awakened him? He ran out to the

porch, looking toward the yellow farmhouse. Martvy had been returning

home, counting the 39 steps 12 times to allow for the distance, when

the dormer window of the upstairs bathroom of the yellow house blasted

outward. The force of it caused Martvy to stumble and fall to her knees. Instantly Jeffius was beside her, lifting her up, running his hands all over

her to make sure she was in one piece. "Do...do you need...comforting,

Martvy?" he asked.

"I'm sure I shall very shortly, Jeffius," Martvy said, "but tell me what happened?"

                                    
Jeffius looked toward the yellow farmhouse. "There's a big hole in the

house," he said, "and I see Bunna Bang standing inside, looking out."

"What's she looking at?" Martvy asked.

"Oh, NO!" Jeffius gasped.

"What's the matter? What IS it?" Martvy asked, getting a bit impatient

as very intelligent women are wont to do when handsome, young males

describe things a bit too slowly.

"Sid's...happy," he croaked.

"NO!" shouted Martvy. "Bunna wouldn't let that happen...again...

would she?"

"She may have," Jeffius gulped, watching the giant blue plasma ball rolling

into the cornfield.

"Not the cornfield!" shrieked Frankianna. "Nashtan's in the cornfield!"

"So's Lachlay," said Wannie.

"As are the ballplayers and the aliens," added Russham.

Maxathon rushed out of the yellow farmhouse, Abou Juba and Jotha

close behind him, Jeffarry just a bit further back. Biebill ran toward

the large bell that served as The Village's alarm, giving it a mighty

puckwhack. The sound rolled over the hills, summoning all the scattered characters to assemble on The Village green. Maxathon seemed

determined to follow the crispy blue trail into the corn.

"You CAN'T!" Jotha cried desperately.

Looking at her, mouth grim, he said, "I must. He's my son."

"No, he's not!" Jackonel Crowethor announced.

Maxathon looked from Jackonel to Jotha and back again, a scowl gathering

on his face. With just the slightest rasp, his gladius was in hand and he

had taken a step toward the older Crowethor, so easy was it to get caught

up in the moment of an epi. Just then, Terry ran onto the green, his facial

camo rather smeared and with clovers clinging to it here and there. Quickly

he placed himself between the two men, as was, indeed, his correct

positioning in any filmography. "What's going on?" he asked, turning his

head back and forth from Maxathon to Jackonel.

Maxathon growled. "He was in my bed!"

Terry gulped, finding this too hard to believe, what with the way Jotha

always dealt with slash and all. "That can't be true," he said, "surely there

is some explanation."

Maxathon spat on the lawn. "He says he fathered Jotha's child."

Terry's eyes widened considerably and he turned to look at Jackonel.

"I said no such thing!" Jackonel retorted. "I said Sidark was not your son."

"That's true," Biebill agreed. "It's what he said."

Maxathon took another step, causing Terry to stumble. "Whose, then?"

he hissed.

"Marlon Brando's," Jackonel replied.

"Gosh!" Russham said admiringly. "I used to want to be like Marlon Brando."

Maxathon whirled on Jotha. "Who is he?" he rumbled, his eyelid twitching.

"He's Sidark's real father," Jackonel tried to explain, "only it gets

confusing because Terrence Stamp who used to be the bad General is now Sidark's Dad."

"A bad General?" Maxathon repeated, most of what Jackonel having said

being jibberish to him...as, indeed, it likely is to most hapless readers do

they not watch the WB at 8 on Wednesdays. "What bad General?"

"You wouldn't know him, Maxathon," Terry added.

"Zod," Biebill supplied.

"I thought he was Buzz Lightyear's evil Dad," Jeffius interjected.

"No, that's Zurg," Biebill, who seemed to know such things, corrected.

Maxathon was breathing heavily. Face sagging, he looked at Jotha."How...

many?" he whispered.

Jotha stretched herself up to her full height of 5' 4 1/2". She wasn't sure whether to be insulted, worried, or angry...so she decided to go for them

all at once. "Maximus!" she said, setting her jaw. "Remember the wheat...

the dance...the cellular dissolution? How COULD you think I would...would... with...with...."

"Well" Jack said, returning to full Captain-speak, "there was the room

filled with pink sponge."

"Oh...oh...,"Jotha spluttered, "that was...that was...."

"That was WHAT?" Maximus said, his seagreen eyes the merest slits.

"That was before the epis were on Enchantments!" she defended.

Maximus turned his narrowed gaze on the Captain. "Sponge?" he said, the

word all low and deadly.

Jack's fond grin of remembrance did little to help the situation.

"Jack! Stop that!" Jotha shouted. She looked at the General. "I was being

good to Juditha," she said quickly. "I was letting you be with her, only

Sid had you locked in his laboratory and was trying to embed computer

chips in your brain and you weren't having all that good a time of it."

He took a step back. "I was...suffering...and you and Jack...sponged?"

"It was before Enchantments!" she cried."Nothing before Enchantments

COUNTS!" (See Elder Epi: Lucilla's Party)

Jack's smile broadened, recalling how the 12" of pink sponge filling the round tower room had been compressed to 3.

Maximus studied the smile, his nostrils twitching, then turned on his heel

and ran into the cornfield, following the singed trail of blueosity.

"NOW look what you've done!" Jotha cried, glaring at the Captain.

He cocked his head, looking at her with the slightest smile. "Did I write it?"

was all he said.

"Aggggh!" Jotha replied, then took off running after Maximus.

Bertannon arrived. "I smell cornstarch in the air. Did someone just thicken

the plot?"

"Plot?" Martvy repeated. "You know of a plot?"

Bertannon threw back her head and laughed. Then, catching sight of Jeffius,

she reached into her pocket and recalling Budeph's last story, tossed an

acorn to the surprised plumber. "Here, Jeff," she said merrily, "sweets

for the sweet."

Maximus ran blindly through the corn stalks, their large, sharp-edged

leaves striking his cheeks. Where was the plasma ball? Perhaps he could

just fall into it and forget everything? He began to search for it rather

as a thornbird looks for the largest rose bush, driven to the blissful

nothingness of impalement. He paused a moment, finding some flickering connection with that thought, then continued forward, slashing at the corn

leaves with his gladius.

Jotha was about 30 yards behind him, tears stinging her eyes as she

recalled his promise to comfort her tonight. Surely he would not be

taken from her again! Surely he would not lose all knowledge of her

identity...of his own? She had shared him once...only once...and look

at what her generosity of spirit was costing. Would he ever love her

again in that full-hearted, wheatish way? What could she say...what

could she ever DO to make it better?

Maximus stopped. The blue plasma ball hovered over the center of the

largest crop circle, only a foot off the ground. Before, back in Uganda,

it had been more the size of a basketball...but now...it must be because

Sid was being Sidark that the plasma ball was larger, more...charged

with power. Sheathing his sword, the General walked slowly, deliberately

toward the ball, only halting when he was within six feet of it. His palms

itched and tingled as he recalled the feel of it under his hands as he had squeezed it with all his strength, squeezed it to save the life of the

expiring Captain. His eyes narrowed. Perhaps he had been mistaken to

save that particular life? He had, at the time, been unaware of the

sponge. He stretched his right arm out full length, permitting a small

spark to leap from the plasma ball to his central fingertip.

At that moment Jotha entered the circle. Her eyes widened in pure

horror at the sight of Maximus deliberately extending his hand toward

the plasma ball, a ball that was a good five feet in diameter. As though

her bare feet were winged, she ran and placed herself between him and

the ball.

For long moments he didn't even look at her but merely studied the dancing

spark on his fingertip. How...HOW...had the two of them gotten so quickly

from apple pie to THIS? She knew, though, that it was the implacable, inexorable law of epiangst at work.

Finally he spoke, though his words were darts of fire to her heart.

"You think to keep me from what I choose?"

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