You've Got Another Thing Coming

After what seemed like an eternity consisting of me running around in circles like a beheaded chicken I plopped down on a patch of high grass and felt a dire need to cry my heart out, despite what Noel and Liam Gallagher had to say about it.
At that moment I was thoroughly bent on looking back in anger at this entire mess; and I was not particularly happy about the present situation either.

I had searched the entire area, which consisted of high grass, short grass, a couple of rocks, some more high grass and a little less short grass, some pebbles and not a single trace of Cherokee.

Defeated, I sat there with my head in one of my over-sized hands, the other hand in my too-short reddish brown hair and glared down at my ridiculously large feet. I had no idea where I was, I had no idea where I was going, and I had no idea how the hell to get back to where I was before, as my walking behind Cherokee had mostly consisted of me staring at his broad shoulders and nicely-shaped behind, not paying much attention to the surroundings.

It was safe to say that I hated the world at the moment.

A bit consumed by anger I stood up and began walking in circles while dragging my feet in the dirt. Soon enough a nice little path had begun to form in my wake, and I muttered curses under my breath and pondered what my next move should be. Then, like magic, a little bell went off in my head.

My dream. The potions!

I rushed over to my bag which lay very carelessly tossed upside-down in the tall grass and opened it, causing all of its containments to tumble out in one gloriously messy heap.

“What did that old witch say?” I grumbled through my teeth. “The blue one is a truth serum and the green one is poison? No, that’s what the kid said: the kid’s interpretation. What the hell was the Grandmother’s description?”

I probably looked like a maniac when I stood there bent over a pile of clothing, talking to myself while rummaging through the insides of the bag.

I repeated in my mind over and over again the words I thought young Tilda had spoken, all the while searching for the flasks. Then, finally, I hit my head on the nail – figuratively speaking, of course. My guess would be that nails were not present in this place at all, unless they were by Nature quirkily designed stones.

I brought to my own attention the time I had flung Rose off of me by mere willpower when I first landed, literally, in the World of Dreams (such a stupid name, really), and the time in the cave where I had lost Cherokee and Rose all together and then asked for light, and it had come to me.

So, apparently, I was in control of some sort of magic. Magic that I was - according to the witches - currently high on. But, sort of in control of.

I smiled.

“So, if I just find the right trigger for this magic thing,” I put a finger to my cheek in order to physically prove that I was thinking, “then I can find out what the hell the Grandmother said about the potions, and then maybe one of them will help me out of this mess, and I’ll be able to go home and never again see the stupid face of that stupid fairy and his stupid friends and the stupid, never ending forests, and that goddamned, idiotic package!” I glared heatedly at the package that lay separated from the rest of the contents of my bag.
That package Aberton Olav Pears had sent with me, and I felt a surge of pure loathing scorch my entrails.

“Stupid package,” I muttered maturely, glaring a little more at the manila box before walking over to it and picking it up.

It rattled when I shook it.

“I hate you,” I told it sincerely. “If it weren’t for you, none of this would have happened. I would have gone straight back home after being turned back into a girl, and I would have been happy. You ruined that. Right now I could have been lying on my bed and reading a good book and cursing my friends for not calling me on a Saturday night and ask what the hell I’m up to. Because of you, I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere all alone with nothing but poison and blue, sparkly fluid to keep me company. Heck, I don’t even know what you are! You’re such a MacGuffin!”

I shook it again, and it rattled some more. “MacGuffin.” I tasted the name, derived from the plot device that motivates the characters in a story or advances it, but the details of which are of little or no importance otherwise.

What’d one do without Wikipedia, eh?

Shaking the package a third time and once again hearing the satisfying rattle, I made a decision. Solemnly, I held it up in eye level and said:
“I now name you MacGuffin, because you are such a thingamajig and I don’t like you.”

The package said nothing in return, and I took this as an acceptance of my little ceremony.

“Right,” I stated, felt a bit stupid because of the whole situation and shrugged it off. “So, trigger of magic, right?”

This was the point where I got to work.
First I tried to find the magic within.
It didn’t work.
So, I tried reasoning with the magic within to reveal itself, but that didn’t work either.
All of this turned into one long ranting with which I shall not bore you. Often during this time I felt like Peter Parker in the movie where he stands on top of a high building and tries to get the web to fly out of his wrists.

Let’s just say that Peter Parker is one hell of a lot smarter than I am, and obviously has a bit more self-control.

Soon I was screaming, raging about and cursing everything magical ever made. Grass was flying about the place, rooted up with my large fists and kicked about with my larger feet. Shirts, pants and other pieces of general clothing were also tossed around during my little hissy fit, but regardless the profanities I shouted at the sky nothing magical occurred.

When I had finally drained myself of all the pent-up anger I’d been carrying around I sat down in the middle of my self-conjured path and let my back hit the ground with a heavy ‘humph!’
I stared at the sky which was darkening in the corners, and to my great embarrassment a tear rolled from the corner of my eye down my cheek, leaving a wet trail which grew cold in the breeze.

“Please,” I begged out to no-one in particular, like a cry for mercy without being able to put a finger on what’s the most bothering about the situation at hand. “Please.”

That’s when it happened. The corners of my vision blurred and refocused, blurred up again and turned all of my attention to the centre spot of my visual field, where a ten year old girl with freckles and long, dark hair was talking:

““Grandma said,” Tilda clearly cited this from memory, “that ‘the blue is for the pleasant passion; it’s the one to bring truth and clarity to you’.” She gave said flask a nod. “Personally, I think it means that it is a truth serum.”

“And the green one?” I urged, shaking the flask slightly only to see the potion move no more than a fraction of an inch inside its container.

“Grandma said,” repeated Tilda, “that ‘the green is for the one in pain and suffering; it is nothing but the last outcome for those in desperate need’.””

The vision re-blurred, and as suddenly as it had appeared it disappeared and left me with a slightly awed feeling.

“Cool…” I breathed, perplexed by the illogical workings of this Universe, but sort of grateful that it hadn’t left me here all alone without supervision.

“The green is for the one in pain and suffering,” I repeated. “For those in desperate need, it said.”

I looked over to the bundle of clothes and began rummaging through it again, only this time a bit more carefully. I soon found the two flasks, and I picked up the green, yucky one.

“I think this qualifies as a ‘desperate situation’,” I stated and watched the non-fluent fluid move a bit inside. “I don’t think I could be more desperate than this,” I admitted, then looked over at the package which now lay neatly on a pile of un-neat clothes. “What do you think MacGuffin?” I asked. “If you agree; don’t say anything.”

The Universe held its breath.

“Thought so.”

Proceeding from there I grabbed a hold of the cork and pulled. To my great amazement and slight horror, it was sealed. Now, when I say ‘sealed’ I don’t mean ‘sealed’ as in with a little bee wax and hold-it-under-hot-water-and-it’ll-loosen-up. I’m talking about rock hard, downright, it-won’t-open-unless-you-find-yourself-a-diamond-drill magically sealed.

After that, it was generally a repetition of the words and actions I’d been using just a few moments before.

I was just on my way to throw MacGuffin in the lake – that is to say, I had picked the box up and was now furiously threatening it – when a polite cough from behind me caught me off guard.

I spun around to face whatever had made the noise, but was faced with a wonderful nothingness full of grass.

A throat was cleared right underneath my belly button, and I looked down in order to find, to my amazement, the ugliest little man I had ever had the misfortune of laying eyes upon.
He was short and rather stout, with a chin that said ‘here I come’ in big, bold letters, a nose that stated ‘oh, the chin is right!’ and a mouth that said ‘don’t mess with the nose, man’.
The rest of his face resembled a root vegetable of unidentifiable character, with bumps and pits in very creative places, and tufts of black hair was spread across what must have been the jaw bone, and some other spots as well, including a quite impressive walrus moustache just beneath the outspoken nose.

The person had a hat on, a beret, to be exact, and it covered most of his head except the part I felt really needed to be covered (aka: his face).
He brought up a hand the size and consistency of a small rock and jabbed me in the stomach with his index finger. It was like being prodded with an iron pipe.

“Garçon!” he barked. “Où est le quartier général?”

“Uhm, what?” I eloquently asked him.

The man squinted at me through narrowed eyes, surveying me suspiciously.
“Êtes-vous un part de la Resistance?” he asked me, now glaring threateningly.

“I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re saying,” I confessed, a bit mesmerised by the man’s white-and-blue striped shirt which made him look even rounder. I couldn’t see from where I was standing, but I could almost have bet MacGuffin on his shirt not reaching all the way down to cover his enormous stomach.

The man looked surprised, his small, beady eyes becoming less small and his mouth popping into a very impressive o-shape beneath his luxurious moustache.

“Vous êtes anglais?” he wondered, amazed by the mere thought. “Are you English?”

His voice was heavily accented, and only after a while I understood what he had said.

“Oui, I am,” I said, recognising as much as knowing that the language spoken was in fact French, and responded with one of the few words I knew of said language. The rest of them were not precisely fitting for unknown company.

“Ah, zen you are not familiar wiz the landzcape, non?” he wondered, a strange gleam in his eyes that I did not take too fondly to.

“No, not at all,” I admitted, silently wondering who the hell this ugly little man was and why he was still speaking to me.

“Ah,” was all the said. He then turned his attention to the package in my hands. “What iz zat?”

“It’s a package,” I blurted without thinking, my grip tightening around MacGuffin. “I got it from a wizard who wanted me to deliver it to the Queen.”

The man jumped, his short legs in his red, too-tight-for-public-comfort trousers startled and did a little nervous dance.
“Really?” he asked, feigning nonchalance but I noticed the way his eyes were now practically glued to MacGuffin. “And what wizard would ziz be?”

“Aberton Olav Pears,” I told him, narrowing my eyes. “Hey, who are you, man?”

The wizard’s name caused the large walrus moustache to tremble as a large gust of wind blew out from the tiny man’s mouth, making the air smell vaguely of garlic and cheese.

“Ze wizard Pears?” he asked, his moustache still trembling. “Zat must be a very important package, non?”¨

“I don’t know,” I narrowed my eyes even further in order for the man to catch the drift. “Now, who are you?”

“Je suis le président de la Resistance!” he proudly declared and puffed up his chest.

I shook my head at him. “You’re the whatnow?”

The man deflated and he glared at me for not recognising his greatness. “I am ze ‘ead of the Resistance,” he growled. “And I came over ‘ere to ask you for directions to ze new ‘eadquarters which recently waz relocated, when I notized you be’aving like a madman.”

“Oh,” I said, even more eloquently than before.

“Now, ‘owever,” the President continued, “I ‘ave become fascinated by ze package you are carrying. I would like to ‘ave it, s’il vous plait.”

I grinned patronizingly and lifted it to my shoulder. “Well, it’s too bad you can’t have it.”

The man puffed up his chest again. “I am ze Président of ze Resistance!” he bellowed. “I shall ‘ave what I want!”

Snorting, I lifted the package even higher and looked down at his black beret pointedly.
“And how do you plan on getting it?” I grinned evilly. “Shorty?” I added, for emphasis.

The President looked at the package, appreciated my weight, height and amount of muscles. He sighed in defeat.

“You are right,” he proclaimed. “You are stronger zan I am.”

I grinned, and lowered the package an inch or so, relaxing.

Suddenly, the little pestered man charged at me. He collided heavily with my stomach which caused me to bend forward, and then he hit me squarely in the jaw. An elbow came flying out of nowhere and hit the back of my neck with a sickening sound, and a knee jerked up and proved to me just why boys are very protective of those specific parts of their anatomy.
With a heart-felt squeal I toppled over, landing in a neat pile on the soft grass in a world of pain.

Through the mist that covered my eyes – must’ve been tears now that I think of it – I heard several pairs of footsteps running over, and the President barking out orders in rapid French to what appeared to be newcomers.

I felt MacGuffin being torn from my weak grip, and several hands searching me for hidden weapons. When they found none, they proceeded with lifting me up and carrying me on their shoulders over to the President, who barked another command and reached up with his stone-like hand and struck me across the head, causing my world to hurriedly and thankfully fade into black.