The cyrus tree loomed large, its bulbous black shadow threw itself across the park like a huge shatter proof ruler, but like, a big fat one.

I crept - shrew like into its shadow, much like Howard Carter into the tomb of a Pharaoh, which was a poignant simile, because I felt this late night rendezvous was cursed from the outset.

I waited for some time, leaning against against the mighty bark of the cyrus to rest my weary weight, and yet it served a dual purpose; to evade the midnight creep of Phyllius and his marauding band of shirtliftereers.

After forty-five minutes, I resigned myself to this being another prank, and was fixing to rise, when of all of a quiver I went. My teeth chattering like the knees of a man with his strumpet in some alleyway tryst.

I beheld, by the halflight of a park lamp, the figure of some tall stranger. A long black heavy coat he wore, despite the mildness of the evening. He wore also a wide, black rimmed hat. He spoke from distance - a harsh, uneasy argot which made me shiver despite my courage.

"Come closer"

"Who are you. I am looking for Rambling Bob. I have not time to waste on games. Talk now, and talk keen."

"Come closer"

"I have no time to parley with you my friend. Either give me the information you claim to hold or be gone and sour my turnips no more"

He seemed silently puzzled by my rural remark, common to Dumfries born rambers. After a moment he laughed coldly, and his breath appeared on the air, despite the mildness of the evening which I discussed previously.

"If you're here on some mirthless joke, please speak the punchline, so we may both warm ourselves by our fireplaces more the sooner. I grew weary of your jape."

I turned to make off, but something vexed me about him. I turned to give him a piece of my mind but he was gone.

"Up here"

I looked up and he stood among the branches of the cyrus. Impossible. He could not have made it up there in two seconds with nay sound. I gasped. Genuinely terrified. This man was not of this realm.

"What do you want stranger?" I beckoned.

" I have belonephilia. Strange and unusual. Some have known me to be anthophilous, but that is not true. Many more claim to have seen me anogenic from rock. I am not, as some have written, an agamogenesis of strange fell beasts. Rather I am what you would call anthropogenesis. You look lost and in puzzle. Have you fallen victim to ceruminiferous? Do you listen? I am not here as some great fructiferous sayer of truth. Rather I am guttiferous with information regarding said medicaster Robert Rambling, of whom you seek. He is but a musicaster, a parasitaster, whom I regard to be a simple witticaster. He hath no rule here. He who fell with that naumachy specialist. That fool of ocean born. This is no theomachy. Neither is it poetomachia. This is a petty squabble of cynartomachy. And I am but the speaker of this. You may wonder where I get such knowledge. I can tell you that I procure my wisdom from ailuromancy. And sometimes cromnyomancy, but not often via bibliomancy. So, you wish pansophy of Bob? Thus I shall grant it. But you are blind. Bob's pseudosophy is a trifle to mine ear. His, and the psilosophy of your ilk gives me giggle in the twilight. I could tell you anything you wish. Palaeosophy? Ontosophy? Helicosophy? Woodwork? And yet you squander the one chance with me the Master of Cosmosophy to ask 'where be the fool of the fields?' You are but a babbling rulley stanhope phaeton. So be ready. I give you the knowledge you seek.

"Thank you so much kind Sooth!"

"And save your grandiloquent blandiloquence, for I give you it in a most ambiloquous manner!"

...