“Then I walk past these buildings and sow new thistle-down and thistles, and they penetrate the very concrete of the sidewalk, splitting it for their roots. Then younger men and women are stung with new visions, that make the Sunset Towers seem commonplace, and all but the Springfield Flag, the Star Spangled Banner, and the World Flag, dim things.”
The Thistle of Dreams is growing around Avanel as she speaks. It looks like a gigantic fleur de lis, but from it comes endless silk as though from the pods of the milkweed. She says of that silk: “It is full of thorns sharper than Cupid’s arrows, more transforming than any drug from Asia. They work their way to many a heart and brain. When the young citizens are tormented by these they will build things greater than Springfield has yet looked upon, people’s palaces, as yet without a name.”
“And who are you, Lady Avanel, and by what authority do you speak?”
“I am only the breath of the prairie, I am only the West-going Heart, and by that authority I speak to you, and by that authority I sow the thistle.”
“Lady Avanel, Miss Fantastic, while the star chimes are ringing another new tune, what are you sowing from your close woven willow basket, so full of seed?”
“I am sowing the appleseeds of Johnny Appleseed and Hunter Kelly and the Acorns of Rabbi Terence Ezekiel and the seeds of the Golden Rain Tree of New Harmony. But they are now breathed on by the winds of chaos and their glory comes suddenly.”
At once in her path appear saplings, then they become full grown trees. And there are many earthquakes, as the boughs begin, this very midnight, to bear flowers and fruit. Then come up from the roots explosive scraps of earth and volcano coals. Treasure sacks of strange jewels, neither scorched nor smoked, are tossed to the surface of the ground. These sacks are full of coins of celestial gold, stamped with a picture of Hunter Kelly, as though he were a President or an Emperor of some strange dominion.
From each heap of celestial gold come two or three bright spirits with wreaths of tiny leaves or flowers round their baby foreheads, weeping angels, an hour old, little boys, most sturdy and kicking.
And now angels will come to bear them to the houses of the laughing people. Citizens who are not at home will find them later on the table, and in the wood box and in the waste-basket, strange little visitors and sons.
“Lady Avanel, Miss Fantastic, what of these children from the sod?”