Chicken Little: The Inside Story (A Jungian ... - Inner City Books

A Stitch in Time 97
as I dare say there are in yours. Only an outright charlatan sets out
deliberately to deceive. The rest of us”—and here I looked pointedly
at Arnold—“do it willy-nilly.”
I turned to D.
“To whom was your paper on Chicken Little addressed? Did you
write it for Jungians or Chickle Schtickers?”
He thought a minute.
“Either . . . no, both . . . maybe neither . . .” he fumbled. “Well to
tell the honest truth, I don’t remember.”
“Exactly,” I said. “The cobbler’s children go barefoot.”
There was more small talk, which I didn’t mind at all. I was in
no hurry. I enjoyed the company and I knew it wouldn’t be long
before I was on my own. I felt somewhat like a genie who’d been
let out of a bottle: soon I’d be stuffed back in.
Yet there was D., getting restless. Funny thing about him, he
says he likes things the way they are, but get him started on something
new and he won’t let go.
Finally he couldn’t hold back.
“Professor Brillig, Adam,” he said, “I don’t mean to rush you,
but you did say you knew the location of other Kraznac tablets.”
“Indeed, and I do.”
“And where might they be?”
I pulled the stone from my pocket and held it up to the light.
Dear Ms. Little. Normally a dull shade of mousy-brown, I had
cleaned her earlier with salts of ammonia. She did gleam and her
finely etched glyphs stood out like canyons.
“Here,” I said, “in potentia.”
D. gasped. Arnold snorted. Ms. Rachel wrinkled her brow.
I must admit I relished their consternation. My words hung in
the air like balloons. The only sound was the soft, whistling escape
of gas from the blessèd dog.