Shamans and Philologists

He wears a hetman’s hat, bauble and frilled with a plumage so colourful and sublime it sears the eyes. Unlike the Witness, who lived a life of depravity and slow-wittedness, he exists on a horizon known only to a few, shamans and philologists, men with uncluttered thoughts. Some say he can double-knot a cherry stem with the brad of his tongue, or twist elephant leaves into yoga mats; there are those, too, who say they have stood witness as he pulled a tortoise from his hat, then made it vanish as quickly as it appeared. There are those, few in number, who claim they have seen him, albeit at a distance, on a foggy, overcast night, juggling cats and hamsters, and rats he’s coaxed from their warrens, double-knotting their tails with the scup of his tongue, his eyes seared shut with deft concentration, pockets full to overflowing with baubles and nip. Some say that he is so inured in thought, so parasitic with his own metaphors, that he seldom sees the light of day, living in a world of his own making, a world of cherry stems and rats, elephant leaves and yoga mats.