I saw a dainty woman sitting upon a crypt. Her color was the pallor of a pearl, a paleness perfect for a gracious lady and her hair were as locks of gold. She was clad in fetching garb, a house uniform of orange and white, brilliant as light and joy. She was staring at a head covering, which had a cow’s head on the front and a rooster’s tail on the back. I took this as a sign of the great wealth of her house. She was reciting lines from a poem, “Nothing here is real. Nothing here is right,” in a low voice. And as the water rises in the Comacchio Marsh(13), so too pity swelled within my heart at this sad sight.

As she saw us approach, she said, “Hey, Spike. And look, men in dresses.” She jumped down from the crypt like Erato(14)  in motion and moved to stand before us, “You know, while I totally don’t want to put down your keen fashion sense, but that look is like totally last millennium.” She paused, “Well, actually, last millennium, last millennium. Last millennium? Well, you get the idea.” She turned to Spike, “Who are they?”

Spike, who was in the process of lighting another paper tube, said, “They’re a couple of prats.”

The Lady put her hands upon her hips and said, “And you brought these prats to me…why exactly?”

I watched this exchange somewhat confused. By word and glance and leaning gaze, I knew the Lady to be the Slayer, for Spike loved her. And yet, that this tiny girl could be a Slayer astounded me. I had imagined Antiope(15), a mighty woman with wild hair and arms like oaks. Not this tiny child with old eyes. 

“Sign of my eternal love pet. Anyway, they’re looking for the Slayer and I thought either helping them or killing them, well, killing the one that’s alive might cheer you up.” His eyes full of meaning, he gazed at her. And that dainty and petite creature, like the sylphs that guard the wood, rolled her eyes at Spike.

“And they paid me. You can have half.” said Spike.

“Only something as disgusting as you would do something like that.” The Slayer moved to stand before Spike and seemed about to strike him.

As the cat which eyes the king, Spike smiled, “Love, as fond as I am of this tune, could we get to the part with the thrashing and the growling.” 

The Lady jumped back from Spike, her eyes rolling like fly stung 1000 eyed Argus(16) . “There will be no more thrashing. And no more growling whatsoever. Ever.”

 “Actually, I meant you could rough up the live guy for information,” the air between them sparkled like a lightening storm in the Appenes . “but, if you’re interested, I do have some new furniture for us to wreck. Come on Slayer. You know you want to.”

“What a minute.” said the Slayer, as she crossed her arms like one who seeks to have something to do with her hands, “I thought you were all ‘Oh, boo hoo, I’m a man changed because of love.’ ”

“Wrong book of the month love.” Spike reached into his coat of billowing black leather and pulled out a shiny purple book. It was like no book that I had ever seen, except that I had in fact read the book. It was that book called The Art of Courtly Love by the one known as Andreas Capellanus, whose writings were indeed well known to me. I had always found his admonition not to love nuns because of their emotional cruelty to be not so much confusing as enlightening about the author’s love life.

As I was sunk deep in the lake of my thoughts, the headwaters of Spike’s discourse had moved on. He opened the book, “See here, dialog between a man of middle rank to a woman of upper rank. It’s all, let me love you cause your love will reform me into a more socialized dog.”

“So, socializing you is somehow my responsibility?” said the Slayer, who uncrossed and then re-crossed her arms. Furthermore, she shifted the weight of her body from one leg to another, like a crane standing in the rushes of a placid stream.

“Well, yeah.” said Spike.

At the same moment, I was forced to speak, for love is a theme upon which I yearn to discourse, “Indeed. The power of love is borne in a gracious ladies’ eyes and imparts its grace to all she looks upon and when she greets a man, his heart beats fast, the color leaves his face, he bows his head and sighs to think of his imperfections. Thus may love for a pure and good Lady serve as a guiding star for one who chooses to turn to the right path. ”

“Okay, that kinda bites. Don’t I get a guiding star? said the Slayer.

I would have gone on about my concept for a fifteen book series(17) explaining such philosophical points that Courtiers, and the Ladies as well, might read, when my Teacher, who had been impatiently glancing at the sky, turned to me and said, “There is some question as to whether Spike has free will. For he is not only left handed(18), but by some estimations soulless and without heart.”

“Hey, again. I’m standing right here.” said Spike, who began throwing small rocks(19) through my Teacher, who quite rightly ignored the damned soul.

“Although, many would contend that his Spiritus is sufficient to allow for free will. However, until the magical device within his head is removed, there is no way that the reality of his free will can be tested. Though there are some that would argue that the implications of free will towards good already exists within him through smaller kindnesses, which they counterbalance against past iniquities. 

The Slayer tried throwing her hat at my Master. It also passed through him. “Okay, that was cool. No wait, it’s gone. I’m depressed again.”

My Teacher continued, “There is also a great deal of debate as to whether Spike exists as the Slayer’s shadow self. The other, who represents her darker impulses.”

“Seriously, if you guys don’t shut up about Spike and start talking about me and why I don’t get a guiding star, I’m going to rip out your, well, your,” the Slayer pointed at me, “heart and wear it as a hat.”

“Actually love, that’s a lot less fun than it sounds.” said Spike.

My heart welled with pity, at the thought that the Slayer was sure to spend many years purging away her anger on the Mountain of Purgatory. So, tears filling my eyes, I sought to feel my way through to the bushel hidden lantern(20)  at the heart of my Teacher’s discourse and said, “Then their parallel would be like those souls we encountered where the brother was damned, while the sister was saved.”

The Slayer began to hop up and down in order to catch our attention. “Hello. I don’t feel particularly saved.” 

“Doesn’t matter anyway.” said Spike, impatient to interrupt this fascinating dialog. “All I was getting from the Courtly thing was a slow slide into becoming our friendly neighbor Brad(21).” Spike tossed the book over his shoulder. It landed squarely on a large block of cement that had not been there a moment before. Spike glanced at the cement, smiled slightly, and pulled another book out of his coat.

My Master leaned over to me and made me know by word and gesture and expression that we would continue this discussion later when the subjects were not present to interrupt. I responded with my smiles and then as a hawk hovers in flight, sought to see the name of the book. I was not familiar with it, although it too was French. 

“So, what, you want my love on a bet?” said the Slayer.

“Nah, it’s about dragging you down to my level for your own good and well you know…” he gazed down upon her as when the Lord of the Dead(22) looks up to see the Queen of Springtime return home after a long summer.  “I haven’t actually started the book yet, you’ve been a bit with the distraction lately, but I ‘m sure it’s not important. It’s all there in the title, dangerous people having affairs(23).”

Here my Guide, his face blanched in regret that he had so gotten caught in the web of our discourse, sought to return us to our journey, “We are on a journey blessed by the great Emperor, and now this man seeks to return to the lands of Tuscans. The next step on our journey lies through the City of the Lost strewn with strands of shiny metal. I was told that the Slayer would know the way?”

“Not sure who you’ve been talking to Caligula(24),  but I don’t know what you are talking about.” 

“I told you they were a couple of prats.” said Spike. 

“Shut up Spike.” Said the Slayer.

They seemed about to come to blows or embrace, when my Master interrupted them, “Perhaps,” he said, “you have friends or resources elsewhere which might be able to locate the city of the Lost, while you entertain us with your conversations and lives.”

The Slayer turned to my Master, “Since I can’t make myself care either way, you may as well follow me. I know where we can probably figure out where this Lost City is.”

She pointed at Spike, “You. Go away.”

“Think I’m leaving you alone with medieval Laurel and Hardy, think again.”

The Slayer looked us over in a manner which implied that we were boys and not men and then looked back at Spike. “I don’t need your help.”

“Fine. I hope they turn out to be Iouranal ne’kaptha demons and they eat your bone marrow.” Spike said in tone filled with anger that boiled and simmered like a river of blood and started to walk away. Then he stopped, paused and turned around, “Are you sure?”

“What are you going to do? Wince at them. They’re so totally human. Look at them.” Spike stared steadily at the Slayer, “Fine, have it your way. But we’re not walking together. We’re just walking in the same direction.”

The Slayer turned and flounced down a stone path. An enticing scent wafted back from her. It was a mixture of meat and fat and secret spices. No wonder Spike’s heart was filled with love for the Slayer. She smelled like a feast day dinner after Lent.