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Blue Moon 8.3

by Donna Lamb

Jo and Richard sat on a bench facing the double open doors of the limo. Mr. Dar Gmunro could see them and they him -- which was a sight to see. Chiliburger after chiliburger simply disappeared, some in three bites, some in four. Occasionally, the big man paused to slurp root beer from a plastic cup, or even more alarming, a tamale from its paper wrapper.

"Arr," said Richard, doing a creditable Captain of the Frying Dutchman, "'Tis no man. 'Tis a remorseless eating machine."

Jo almost snorked soda out of her nose trying not to giggle. "Richard! Don't offend him, he's got stuff he can tell us."

"Yeah, like how the heck he ever got into an airplane."

"Not that. M-maybe he didn't use an airplane." She grinned at Richard's expression. "He's a w-wizard, he knows about w-w-wishes."

"There's your mom. Go take her the food and I'll talk to Mt. Guh-Moon-Row."

Jo wanted to ask Richard why he was being such a Dick -- again -- but changed her mind. She headed toward the familiar Mom-mobile, carrying her own drink, Mom's food and drink in a paper tray, and her big straw purse.

Richard watched her go then got up to sit in the open door frame of the limo's passenger compartment.

"You are studying Oliver Hardly to being human, one ferruginous day?" asked Gmunro.

"I guess," said Richard, not turning to watch his fare finish the last three burgers. "Jo says you know something about what happened to her."

"Some azimuth things, yes. Not all horizons are blue, not all pavementings to Rome are leading, I know what I know that I know I am knowing."

"Did you swallow a fortune cookie factory? The way you talk gives me a headache right between the eyes." Richard pointed to the area.

"A crosshairs is not just ill-tempestuous rabbit; your head hurts because evil is intended toward you."

"Huh?" Richard did look around at the unusual clarity of the statement, not just its meaning. "Who? What?"

"You think just every Dick at Tommy's gets three hairy wishes?" The fat man waggled a fat finger at Richard. "You are Shining Defender, yours to protect Beloved Angel. Die for her if you have to." He sighed. "But also, you can hurt her that no one else may do. You see?"

"No," said Richard.

"The last wish, she must be to be the maker of it, not you. Not even to save her can you take her wish. But she must to make her own before midnight. But not too soon. Time is ripe like a peach, early it is hard, late it is worthless and rotten but in that time when the fruit is golden, then can no one wish a sweeter wish."

"Huh?" Richard tried to keep a slight whimper out of his voice. Somehow Jo was in danger, he'd known it already, sensed it. But what sort of danger, where from, and what could he do about it?

Gmunro licked his lips, savoring the last chili-and-onion-covered steamed tamale. "Impossible as a fruit fly to be carrying these morsels to my island home, but peaches we have abbondanzas of them," he said, sounding wistful.

"Wait, wait. There's a third wish to make, Jo has to wish it, not me, and, and...?" Richard took a deep breath. "What's she supposed to wish for?"

The fat wizard put a finger beside his nose. "Moonlit secrets of truth, bright omens of clear red wine mornings, mountains to stub one's toes on, midges to drink up oceans...."

"Look! If you don't know, just say so!"

"I know," said Gmunro. "Betimes, the knowing of a thing is to become the careless unmaking of it." The scars on his face had never looked more ominous as he frowned at Richard.

"Damnit! How will we know?"

"When the stone is hard, when the moon is golden, then the peach is ripeness."

"That's no help, old man," said Richard between his teeth.

"'Tis more light than you will find in a coal mine, lest you light a fateful match. More wind than you need is a gale, more sand doesn't make a better tuna sandwich, and a fish big enough to swallow you is a whale."

"Ar!" Richard made a gesture.

Gmunro nodded. "Tis veracity in pantaloons, I am a remorseless prophesying wizard. Not without pity, not without pity. Remorse I lack because I do the thing rightly, fearlessly, sans merci, sans anodyne. But not without pity." He put a big fat hand on Richard's shoulder. "Defend her, Defender."