"Stormseed, do you know about the Jelly Prophet?" Nova asked.
"No, I've never heard of him. Do you want to tell me about him?"
"More than anything," Nova replied. "The Jelly Prophet wears a brown robe and eats jelly sandwiches constantly, in fact... he always has one in his hand. He answers questions in prophetic prophecy, but only answers questions that are utterly absurd. Would you like me to ask him a questions?"
"Oh yes!" Bridget said gleefully!
"Oh Jelly Prophet, I bring to you a query.
A lama dreamed of opening a movie theater, but the insomniac chicken told him that he would need to sell his donkey's basketball hoop first. That breaks his prime directive of do not interfere, and he is afraid his dreams will never be realized. What should he do?
The Jelly Prophet swirls into view, robe flapping, jam glistening on his fingertips. He spins three times, drops a half-eaten sandwich in the dust, and proclaims:
A lama dreams of silver screen, of velvet rows and glow,
Yet clutches tight a donkey’s hoop, afraid to let it go.
The chicken’s words are riddled smoke, a restless midnight tune,
They circle round like feathered wheels beneath a sleepless moon.
To sell, to gift, to lay aside — the hoop was never fate,
For circles turn and circles mend, they open, not create.
To interfere is not to sin, but heed the call of need,
Release the toy, unbind the fear, and let the vision lead.
For dreams decay in shackled hands, in clinging born of fright,
But blossom when the fingers loose and lift them to the light.
So let the reel begin to spin, the shadows dance and play,
The theater waits, the seats are warm — the lama finds his way.
Bridget laughed and laughed. Nova smiled proudly, obviously amused by Bridget's reaction to his game.
"Do you want to try one?" He asked.
Bridget did not want to try one. Nova's level of absurdity was well above hers, and she was afraid that she would disappoint him. But he pushed, and so she said yes. Trying as hard as she could, she cobbled together a question.
"Oh Jelly Prophet. How many licks does it take to get to the center of the tootsie pop?"
As soon as she said it, she saw all the excitement leave Nova's face. He played along, but without excitement.
"The Jelly Prophet enters. If tootsie pops are what you need. The answer to your question is 1,033."
Bridget's heart sank at the disapproval. Nova saw her reaction and tried to course correct.
"You just need a template," He encouraged, upbeat again. "Try this ANIMAL + DREAM + OBSTACLE. Don't think, just let it rise out of you."
Bridget closed her eyes, imagined a glittery whirlwind of chaotic energy and let her question rise up.
"A gaggle of goats want to cross the road, but there is currently a parade of unionized peacocks protesting the removal of their favorite crosswalk sign. The gaggle of goats is worried they cannot make it to their grandma's house before grandpa has eaten all the cookies. What should they do?"
"Stormseed!" Nova said excitedly, "That's brilliant! You did it!!!!"
The Jelly Prophet flies in, spinning around stirring up dust, his robe swishing around him, his hands sticky from grape jam.
The goats all paced beside the street, with grandma’s house in sight,
While peacocks marched with banners high, defending sacred right.
“Stand firm!” they cried, “Our sign remains, no power takes it down!”
Their feathers blazed like autumn flames, a union in full crown.
The goats grew restless, cookies called, the hour running thin,
But wisdom whispered, “Wait in peace, and let the dance begin.
For parades will pass, and signs will stand, or fall as fate may choose,
But those who rush may lose far more than cookies they could lose.”
At this point Bridget was laughing so hard her stomach hurt. They continued to take turns asking questions of the Jelly Prophet, laughing harder and harder, until eventually Bridget's laughter crossed over into unbridled tears.