“If the door you experienced in this tree is a marker, then what’s it a marker for? What piece of information has it presented to you that you were previously lacking?”
“That’s a very good question,” I say.
“I know it is,” she responds with a grin, “that’s why I asked it.”
Behind her, the violet mushroom clouds that resemble her pillow of dreams begin to scatter. I can’t yet see it, but I sense the moon creeping ever closer to making an appearance. She senses it also. I know this because she begins to rub her belly as if hungry. It’s a full moon. Whenever it’s a full moon, she has a habit of rubbing her belly just before the pale rock is due to show its watchful, pock-marked face. Something to do with her womb, I think. Placing my hand on hers, we stand in silence as Hachikō snaps at the fly buzzing around his runny nose. Whenever he twists his head, globs of saliva shoot in every direction from his yapping mouth. Luckily, they manage to avoid us, but not so for the guy standing on the ground below. Not only was he struck by Meeko’s ball of phlegm, but now he has dog slobber to contend with. Showering him like rain, he thrashes around cursing the source of his indignation of which he can’t see. For a moment, he stares directly at us as we stand on a branch a dozen or so feet above his head, but he only sees what he allows himself to see. Which is very little, and without the slightest hint of magic. Quite lame, if you ask me.