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©1981 Consciousness Solutions International


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Well, last time I left you, dear readers, in the unfortunate position of being suddenly and unexpectedly confronted by a sentient Brussels sprout. *Sigh* Now, I'm sure you remember me mentioning the unexpected final summoning that my great uncle's summoning rod performed, but I didn't think I'd have to deal with the consequences of a repeat performance. I suppose this all must seem very amusing to some people. Well you don't have to deal with it! Anyway, here's the next "exciting" installment.


I think it was one of those moments when you wonder if your sanity is slipping, or about to slip away, where any idea of how the situation will resolve itself is completely impossible to see. Now, just for your information, the world I live is probably more inclined to provide stuff generally along the lines of what I'm telling you about right now, as I'm sure you realise, but take it from me, talking sprouts are not normal wherever you live.


I sat on the floor and funnily enough, I couldn't think of a thing to say, when faced by the scene before me. Instead, I sat and watched as the Brussels sprout put its hat back on. It fussily adjusted its large, wide brimmed hat and dusted itself down, then cleared its throat dramatically. It had very bushy eyebrows and a slight reddening around the cheeks and its rather bulbous nose. I felt it was about time to say something.
"Er, Hello?" I said, tentatively. Sorry I couldn't think of anything else to say, but what one earth would you actually come out with in a situation like this? Come on! I'd like to hear.


"Good evening, good evening" said the sprout. Its voice was in directly inverse proportion to its size, sounding like a cross between an elocution lesson from ninteen thirty three and an elderly thespian who'd taken to the drink. "Good evening indeed, laddie. I trust you are ready for me to begin?"


I thought it was best to try and get some kind of hold on the situation.


"Um, you know, I might seem a bit slow here, but what exactly is going on?" I said tentatively.


The sprout looked affronted.


"My recitation, my young fellow! My performance! Why on earth else would you have summoned me here if not to practice my art? Did you think that dramatic entrance was for nothing? Where is my audience?"


Oh dear, things were heading towards official "sticky situation" status.


"Well, I'm sorry, I think there might have been a slight mistake...."


The sprout raised its eyebrows. I continued as tactfully as I could. Angering it at this stage seemed like an unwise move.


"I don't think there's actually going to be much of an audience for you here, I'm afraid. I kind of called you up by mistake actually. I'm trying to figure out how it happened."


The sprout didn't seem to take the news all that well, in fact, it looked pretty temperamental.


"Uhh!" it said, rolling its eyes dramatically, evidently disgruntled. "This is the first gig I have had in over seventy years, seventy years I tell you, SEVENTY YEARS!"


At this point, I was almost on the verge of putting my fingers in my ears, so loud was the bizarre creature's voice. It seemed to be able to deafen you without even breaking into a shout and was swishing its arms about dramatically.

"
Seventy years, and this is the scene that greets my eyes? Complete amateurs! Calling me up without the slightest concern.... what is the world coming to, when an artist, an artist, Sir, such as my good self is so abominably abused!"


It pinched the bridge of its nose, closed its eyes and assumed a pained expression. I suppose there are a thousand and one questions I could have asked it at this point, but I thought it was best to try and calm it down a bit. After all, I had no idea what the thing actually was, and what it could do; for all I knew it could be some new and particularly odd kind of demon. Still, demons usually weren't very subtle and would typically be tempting you with some kind of deal that usually included the prospect of naked women and piles of gold by now, not having a big tantrum. I suppose it could have been a whole new line in demonic evolution, but I doubted it, somehow.


"Sorry about that. By the way, if you don't mind me asking, who exactly are you?"


OK, I should really have followed the question with, "and why are you a Brussels sprout?" but never mind. The sprout's countenance changed completely, it drew itself up pompously and assumed a magnanimous expression.


"Sir, it is I who have been rude. Of course, it is indeed a shame that my fame does not proceed me, but I do admit that my absence on the stage has indeed been somewhat protracted. I am known, the length and breadth of this fine land, as Sir Harold Henry Arlingworth-Crumborne-Barningsford-Trumblewake-Digsbottom the Third. But of course, you may call me Sir Henry Barnisford-Trumblewake, or just Sir Henry if you like."


"Yes," I thought to myself, "I suppose I actually have gone mad." Well, it had been a long time coming - it was almost a relief to get it out of the way.


"Well," I said brightly, "My name is Ivan the Limpet, very nice to meet you, Sir Henry."


The sprout assumed a rather ridiculous expression, as if it was mulling over some vintage wine.


"Hmm," it said, "The name seems to ring a bell. You're not related to that tall chap who summoned me up last, are you, by chance?"


"Yes, I suppose that must have been my great uncle!" I stood up in excitement. "Did you know him?"


"Yes, yes, terribly nice chap. He called me up by mistake as well, as a matter of fact, right in the middle of his fight with Lord Khaltastrom of Durngëwald. He wasn't too happy to see me at that moment, I can tell you! He was after one of those big, black wassernames to use in the battle. Still, we had a good old laugh about it afterwards."


"Nice?", I said, a bit confused. "I thought he was supposed to be a famous black mage?"


"Oh no," said Sir Henry the sprout jovially, his earlier anger seemingly forgotten. "He was a famous, or at least reasonable famous white wizard. Never really got the respect he deserved, I though. Not really headline grabbing at all, but then again he wasn't much of a self-publicist."


I don't mind saying, this surprised me somewhat, but for the time being I'll keep my own back story private. After all, I only started this thing as a general purpose chronicle of my deeds, in the hope of aquiring a minion or two, though the way things have been going this past week or so, I'm not certain it's going to work as I expected. The sprout continued.


"I'm sure he'd have been quite surprised that you're a black mage," he peered at me critically, then said, sceptically "You're not really a black wizard, are you now?"


"I think you'll find I am," I said, hurriedly. "A definite fully paid up member of the black wizard club, with the badge and everything."


Sir Henry didn't look entirely convinced.


"You know," I said, changing the subject, "you're the first person I've met that hasn't taken up some kind of issue with my name?"


"Oh, a fine name, fine indeed, Sir, very fine. Grafts a sense of the semi-permanent contemplative tempemoral elasticity to a nuance of majestic containment of the primal collapse. Did you know I'm also a noted art critic?"


"Err, no, I didn't," I said, feeling the conversation was once again slipping away from me. What on earth does "tempemoral" mean, anyway?


"You know, I'm really sorry about this, "I continued, trying to sound dipomatic, "But I was actually about to go to bed right now. If it's OK with you, maybe we could continue this conversation in the morning?"


The sprout looked slightly suprised, as if he thought that nobody on earth could possibly want to cut short a conversation with him.


"Oh, very well, very well. You don't feel like a short soliloquy first, do you?"


"Well, how about one in the morning if possible, it's been a very busy day..."


"Yes, yes," said the sprout, looking slightly put out. "I wouldn't like my audience unable to give its uttermost attention, after all. So then, I shall bit you adieu until the 'morrow."


With that, he doffed his hat once more, bowed and then disappeared suddenly in a puff of green smoke, accompanied by a soft but decidedly flatulent sound. The smell that followed, though, was truly eye-wateringly bad. It was a shame I couldn't open the windows, as the rain by this time was lashing against the panes, so I opened and closed the door repeatedly until it was bearable. It took me a good while to get to sleep, what with the unexpected excitement, plus the sound of the storm battering the tower didn't help at all. Just before I dropped off, the thought occurred to me that I hadn't ask Sir Henry why he was, in fact, a sprout. It was probably for the best, though.


In the morning, there was no sign of Sir Henry's reappearance, and were it not for the lingering after-effects of the smell, I would have put it down to a dream caused by Grott's cauliflower cheese of the evening before. After a quick breakfast, I fired up the laptop and wrote this account of yesterday's outlandish events. You know, that inter-dimensional modem wasn't a bad investment after all. So, as of twelve-thirty, there's no sign of anything much happening. I'm sure something will, though.


The weather outside looks cold and damp. The whole landscape looks washed out by the storm of the night before, and it's so overcast as to be practically perpetual twilight. Oh yes, one last thing before I go and decide what to do with the remainder of the day - I saw Eldrigar again! About quarter of an hour ago, I happened to be looking out of the bedroom window, when I saw movement from the top of his tower. I could just make out the figure of Eldrigar himself, rising imperiously, his feel wreathed in billowing purple clouds. I watched as he rapidly floated away into the grey skies. So, he can fly as well, can he? That is not a good sign at all. I wonder where he was going?


Still, I've got other problems to worry about for the time being. I wonder if something sane will happen in the near future? Stay tuned for the answer to that.... and some other stuff.