The Legend of Sia: An Entrepreneurial Tale
- by Rowena Forbes

- illustration Jody Clark

The Wrong Peg

Sia heaved another crate of metal pegs onto her ergonomic desk with a sigh. The strains of Better the Devil You Know were echoing around the office for the fifth time that afternoon, or perhaps it was the sixth – she was losing count.

In an attempt to stave off the incessant Kylie, Sia hummed a little tune that had recently seeped into her subconscious. She didn’t know the words, but the rhythm tugged insistently at the corners of her mind: Di-dee di-di-di-di dee dee, dee di-di-di dee.

She pulled a shallow metal box towards her, fitted it with a metal lid studded with small square holes, and sighed again.

How exactly had she ended up here?

---

Growing up in the Suburbs of Ambition, Sia had always eyed the twinkling spires of the nearby City with a mixture of awe and desire. On her thirteenth birthday, her parents had presented her with a Map to Successful Adulthood, upon which sparkled a glitter-strewn route to the City.

From that day forth, Sia followed the Map’s directions religiously, studying hard to pass all her exams, until finally she graduated and received an Honorary Visa, which allowed her to move to the City.

Gleefully, she packed her Imagination, her Creativity, a spanking-new Manual of Corporate Ambition (a leaving present) and her best pair of Killer Heels; she said a fond farewell to her parents and childhood friends, and marched off to meet her future.

As she reached the City’s heavy iron gates, an imposing figure stepped forward. Easily nine feet tall, he was clad from head to toe in metal armour that at first glance appeared to be a steel mesh, but on closer inspection proved to consist of thousands of paper clips, all hooked together. Sia held out her Visa with quaking fingers.

“Hello,” boomed the figure. His deep voice echoed within his cavernous helmet, which Sia saw was made from staples. “I’m the Guardian of Conformity. Hand me your bag.”

Sia passed it over and watched as the Guardian rifled through her belongings. Carefully, he removed her Imagination and Creativity, re-zipped the bag and handed it back to her.

“You won’t be needing those,” he said.

“But, I don’t understand,” said Sia in confusion. “The Director at Tess & Co really liked them. He said that’s why he gave me the job.”

The Guardian shrugged. “All I know is that they’re not allowed in here. Don’t worry, I’ll keep them safe for you. Should you ever want them back.”

He bowed low and heaved the gates open for her. Sia stepped through.

“Welcome to the City of Bureaucracy,” the Guardian boomed. The gates clanged shut.

---

That was three years ago. Since then, Sia had spent every day working nine-to-five at Tess & Co, sitting at her ergonomic desk in her strip-lit office and inserting square metal pegs into square metal holes, while listening to Kylie Minogue on repeat. And, if she didn’t hurry, today she was going to miss her quota.

She emptied out the next crate of pegs onto her desk. But, as she was about to insert the first cube into its cubic hole, she stopped.

For something was different.

In amongst the standard metal squares lay a new shape. Sia picked it up and traced its sharp points with a wondering finger. It was a star. Where had it come from? And why?

She leant towards her bin to discard the misshapen peg, as office protocol dictated, and then, following a sudden impulse, slipped it into her bag instead. Quickly, she reached for another peg and slotted it into the next hole, humming innocently to herself. Di-dee di-di-di-di dee dee, dee di-di-di dee.

---

Two hours later, Sia was queuing for the exit and the welcome promise of a post-work pint in the Blue Sky Bar, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find the Director of Tess & Co standing behind her, a stern expression on his face.

He beckoned silently and strode off down the corridor towards his office; she followed, heart pounding. Had she been found out?

She wasn’t kept in suspense for long. Upon entering his office, the Director nodded to the wall on the left, which was covered with a mosaic of square screens showing CCTV coverage of every office in the building – including, Sia noted, her heart sinking, her own.

They sat. The Director pulled out a file from his desk drawer and started to flick through the pages.

“So. You’re… the Spirit of Independence and Adventure, is that right?”

“Yes, sir. I’m Sia,” said Sia.

“I don’t need to tell you why you’re here, do I?” asked the Director.

“N-no,” she stammered guiltily.

“You do realise that your actions today constituted a clear violation of Code Four-Oh-Seven of our Office Management Health and Safety Policy?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

“So, then.” The Director leaned forward and looked her full in the face, his grey eyes blank and unfathomable. “Why did you do it?”

Sia searched her mind frantically for the correct corporate answer, before giving up and confessing the truth. “I don’t know,” she said.

The Director studied her for a while with an inscrutable expression, before picking up a pen and scribbling something onto a piece of paper in front of him. He crumpled the paper into his fist and stood up.

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm done this time,” he said. “Just be warned that such transgressions of key areas of office protocol will not meet with such lenience in future.”

“No sir,” Sia said thankfully, and followed him to the door. As she stepped outside, he leaned forward suddenly, pushing the crumpled piece of paper into her hand.

“Good luck,” he whispered into her ear. And then she was alone in the corridor once more.

With trembling fingers, Sia folded out the note and read the three words scrawled upon it in black biro. Her face screwed up in confusion. What on earth did they mean? She read them again, and then once more, trying to make sense of the message they held for her.

Find Crazy Wendy.

Chapter 2: The Elixir of Truth

The Elixir of Truth

It had been six months since the Director had handed Sia his mysterious instruction to ‘Find Crazy Wendy’, and nothing had changed.

Actually, that wasn’t true. She had changed.

No longer could Sia perform her simple tasks with the precise, detached actions of an automaton. She was distracted, rattled, losing focus. Strange cravings gnawed at the edges of her mind. And the tune in her head was getting louder, more insistent, with each day that passed.

Di-dee di-di-di-di dee dee, dee di-di-di dee.
Di-dee di-di-di-di dee dee, dee di-di-di dee.

At least it was drowning out Kylie.

Every night, Sia cried herself to sleep. Every day she awoke to restlessness pacing inside her belly like a caged tiger, increasing in intensity with each stride.

Until, one day, she strode with it.

She walked straight past her office. Fast and furious, with no notion of where she was heading, she strode past uniform block after uniform block of grey, soulless streets. She walked until the wind whipped at her eyes and made them weep; until her Killer Heels rubbed raw blisters into her soles; until she couldn’t walk any more.

Exhausted, embittered and crying once more, Sia collapsed onto the side of the pavement, panting heavily with effort and emotion.

And then she heard it. The tune in her head.

Except this time it wasn’t in her head. It was floating on a side street breeze. And there were words, too, although she couldn’t quite make them out.

Oo-aay uh-ee-uh-uh ow-or, aye ee-or-a aye.

Picking herself up from the gutter, she hobbled in the direction of the music, turned into the nearby side street and paused in amazement. For there, tucked incongruously between two identical gloomy grey buildings, was a tiny bungalow painted in golden sunshine, upon whose frontage danced the merrily scrawled words:

Crazy Wendy’s Thai Restaurant and Spiritual Guidance

---

Sia blinked in the dimly lit restaurant and wondered if she were seeing things.

In the centre of a makeshift wooden stage, a diminutive figure clad in a glittering, hot-pink showgirl dress, a matching feather boa and a massive orange beehive wig was strutting her stuff enthusiastically, as if performing for a wildly screaming audience at Glastonbury, instead of rows upon rows of empty tables.

Grasping a microphone with thin golden fingers bejewelled with cheap plastic rings, the showgirl was bellowing:

You ain’t nuthin’ but a hound dog, crying all the time!
You ain’t nuthin’ but a hound dog, crying all the time!

“Er, excuse me?” Sia called out. “Are you Wendy?”

“Hey!” cried Wendy in delight – for yes, it was she – and bounded off the stage towards Sia. “Come in, come in, sit down. You want food?”

“Actually, I was more interested in the spiritual guidance?” Sia ventured, hesitantly.

“Bah,” snorted Wendy, and clapped her hands. “Look at you, skinny girl. You need food.”

And, before she knew it, Sia was sitting at a table tucking into strange and exotic dishes with fragrant aromas that tickled her nostrils and made her mouth water.

“I’ve never tried anything like this before,” she mumbled through mouthfuls.

“Ha! Nowhere like this place in this City,” said Wendy. “In fact, nowhere like this place in the world. It is my place; it is one-hundred-percent Wendy. Well, me and Elvis. I couldn’t have done this without him.”

She beamed and waved her hand around the room at the walls that, Sia now noticed, were plastered with pictures featuring the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll at various stages of his life. The plastic rings on Wendy’s fingers caught the dim light and shone like real crystals, blinding Sia momentarily.

“Wendy,” Sia whispered, leaning forward, “Is it true? Are you… Crazy?”

“Ha!” cried Wendy again in delight. “Isn’t everyone? Aren’t you?”

Seeing Sia’s confused face, she leant closer and hissed confidingly: “Everyone a little bit crazy, you know. Some people, they try to bury their craziness deep inside, some so deep that they’ll never find it again. But you.”

She peered into Sia’s eyes, smiled and nodded.

“You have the craziness. It bubbling up inside you. But you have to recognise it, accept it and act on it. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise what?” Sia hissed back.

Wendy threw back her head, almost dislodging the orange wig, and cackled uproariously. “Otherwise you really WILL go crazy!”

She pushed a bowl of steaming liquid towards Sia. “Here. Have this. You’ll see.”

Obediently, Sia grasped a spoon and took a gulp of the liquid. Instantly her mouth was flooded with a warm, tingling sensation that tangoed with her tongue and bounced at the back of her throat, making her cough and splutter.

And then, the magic started to happen.

That cheeky tingle danced its way through every inch of Sia’s body, shooing away her torpid fatigue and shaking every nerve ending into life. Suddenly she realised: this was what she had been missing. This feeling of herself, fully conscious, feeling alive.

And, she thought further: this was what she wanted. To be, like Wendy, original; to be eccentric, even crazy, if that were required. But, above all, to be true to herself.

“Wow!” she gasped. “What is this stuff – is it some kind of Truth Elixir?”

“Actually, we call it tom yum soup,” shrugged Wendy. “But whatever work for you. Now,” she leapt up and danced back towards the stage, “I must continue rehearsing for tonight!”

“But, me, hang on, what do I do?” cried Sia.

But Crazy Wendy was whirling her pink feather boa once more in renewed Elvis-inspired ecstasy:

Ohhhh, you ain’t never caught a rabbit, and you ain’t no friend of mine!

---

The Guardian seemed smaller somehow. Less intimidating. And he was sat idly at a table, playing Patience.

“You’re not quite as scary on this side of the gate,” Sia said. The Guardian of Conformity looked up.

“Oh, it’s you. Are you leaving? Hang on, I’ll get your stuff.”

“Is that it?” asked Sia in surprise. “I thought you’d try to stop me.”

“Oh no,” chuckled the Guardian. “You can leave any time you like – anyone can. It’s just that people rarely do. Better the devil you know. You know?”

From the inky depths of his helmet, Sia was sure she saw a pale eye wink.

“Oh,” said the Guardian, spotting the bag on her back, “You can’t take all that with you. Company policy, you know how it is. Choose three things and leave the rest.”

“Okay,” said Sia.

---

She stepped through the gate. Reunited with her Imagination and Creativity, her corporate Killer Heels replaced with practical purple pumps, and with her new travelling companions of a compass, the star-shaped metal peg from Tess & Co and a flask of tom yum soup, Sia was ready to set out on the next stage of her journey to she knew not where.

However, as she breathed the air of freedom with deep satisfaction, she failed to notice the Guardian of Conformity quietly transforming himself into a tiny spider, scuttling up behind her and tying a silver cobweb to the shoelace of one of her purple pumps.

Chapter 3: The Exceedingly Honourable Ally

The Exceedingly Honourable Ally

“Argh!” cried Sia, flinging herself to the ground in frustration. She’d come to the end of yet another path that had petered out into nothing.

For weeks now it had been the same story. Sia would see a path that she thought looked promising, she’d follow it for a while, and then it would either turn into bleak, impassable territory, or it would simply disappear.

That wasn’t all.

The tom yum soup had kept her sustained for a while, but she’d consumed the final sip over a week ago. Now she survived on what she could forage – and, while there was plenty around, Sia found that it unaccountably varied each day.

One day she might find a fruit that she thought was delicious and sustaining; the next day it would be too bitter for her to swallow. Another day a gurgling stream tasted as sweet as lemonade; the next it would leave a rotten, metallic taste in her mouth.

Sia rolled onto her back and sighed.  How long could she carry on like this?

---

Her favourite time was at night.

Initially, she slept out of habit curled up on her side, her face pressed against the ground. But on the eighth night after leaving the city, a giant Moth had fluttered down and whispered into her ear:

“You’ll never find inspiration staring at the ground all the time. Look up and discover your dreams.”

Sia had turned over, following the Moth’s trajectory up into the night, and gasped. The City smog had always hidden the night skies from view; but now, in the clear expanse of freedom, she saw the twinkling stars above her, paving a shimmering path to infinity.

She fingered her own star-shaped peg and imagined its cousins above as great sparkling crystal balls, each foretelling the unique story of one individual below on earth. She wondered which one belonged to her.

From that night onwards, she always fell asleep facing the sky. And she would dream the same dream.

She would be walking through her very own giant crystal ball. And she would come to a White Closet. Sia knew that the White Closet contained her future. With tentative fingers, she would reach forward and pull its doors open.

And out would fly a myriad of bright stars, blinding in their brilliance, which surrounded her and swept her up into the sky with them, higher and higher and higher.

And she would wake, and smile.

---

Lying at the end of the path, Sia was wondering what to do next, when she heard a rustle in the long grass nearby. She held her breath.

Was this a friend, or foe? Someone who could point out the right path, or someone who would drag her back to the City of Bureaucracy?

I’ve come too far to run, she decided, grimly. Keeping perfectly still, she listened to the rustling getting closer and closer.

And then, she pounced.

Leaping into the grass with a wild yell, Sia grabbed blindly with both hands and lifted her struggling trophy high into the air in triumph – and curiosity.

It was a huge, shaggy ball of white, fluffy fur.

“Oi! Let go of my ears!”

A ruby eye glared balefully at her from the centre of the ball of fur. Sia squealed and dropped it in surprise.

“What are you?” she asked.

The furball picked itself up and brushed its long white hair down in indignation.

“I take it you ain’t never caught a rabbit before, then?”

Sia looked uncertain. The furball didn’t look like any rabbit she’d ever seen. She thought back to a storybook that her mother had read to her as a child.

“Are you the White Rabbit?”

The rabbit snorted. “I’m not just a white rabbit, darling. I’m a White English Angora Rabbit.”

The rabbit flicked its head back proudly – for there actually was one buried in the fur – and lifted its nose high in the air. Fur flopped back over its eyes.

“You could do with a haircut,” Sia observed.

Inhaling sharply, the rabbit drew itself up onto its hind legs.

“Do you mind? “ it thundered. “English Angoras are the only rabbits to have hair covering their eyes. That doesn’t mean I need a haircut – that means I’m special.”

“Sorry,’ mumbled Sia.

The rabbit dropped onto its forepaws again. “I’m groomed twice a week and I’m shorn every season. That’s plenty of hair care for your average metrosexual bunny. Now, do you have any lettuce?”

“No, I don’t,” said Sia. “Sorry Mister… Rabbit… Er, what’s your name?”

The rabbit shook his fur out grandly. “I am the Exceedingly Honourable Sir Macleod Bradley,” he announced with a flourish. “But you can call me MB.”

Inadvertently, Sia chuckled. “That’s a pretty big name for a rabbit,” she said.

MB twitched his nose with irritation. “Well, excuse me, but ‘Spirit of Independence and Adventure’ doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, either. Anyway, you’re asking all the wrong questions.”

“How did you know my…” started Sia, then thought better of it. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the Wilderness of Confusion, of course,” said MB, ”but that’s not the right question, either. The question is not: where are you? The question is: where are you going?”

Sia flopped to the ground once more, opened her mouth and started to wail.

“I don’t know where I’m going! My compass is useless without a map. And nothing’s what it seems to be. The paths keep changing, or disappearing. One day I find food that I like, the next day I hate it. And I don’t, I don’t know…”

She paused, sniffed loudly, and sighed. “What do I want?”

Macleod Bradley broke off from scratching delicately behind his ear. “Finally, a decent question!” he exclaimed. “Now think about it. What do you want?”

Sia pondered for a few minutes. MB yawned, whisked a tiny hairbrush out from beneath his fur and started combing his front paws.

“I want to… create,” said Sia, slowly. “To do something meaningful, that expresses me. Something good; no, something great. Something… gorgeous.”

“Well, you’re on the right track,” said MB, still combing. “Although if all you’re looking for is ‘gorgeous’… But I guess that’s what happens when you’ve got that thing hanging off you.”

He extended a be-groomed paw towards Sia’s purple pumps, where for the first time she spotted the strand of cobweb that the Guardian had attached to her shoelace.

“What’s that?” she wondered aloud.

MB sniffed. “Looks to me like you’re still tied to Conformity,” he said. “If you can just bring yourself to cut that final thread, you’ll really be on the road to adventure. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he added, rising to his paws, “I’ve got to get to the farmers’ market before they run out of carrots.”

“But, wait!” cried Sia. “I still don’t know where I’m going!”

MB smiled. “Ask your Belly Button,” he said.

“Er… What?” asked Sia, wondering if she’d heard correctly.

The rabbit sighed. “Haven’t you learned yet? Your gut always knows which way to go, even when your mind doesn’t. Start listening to your belly. It does more than digest food, you know.“

And, with a hop that was surprisingly agile for such a hefty furball, MB vanished.

Sia pondered the rabbit’s words for a moment; then she lifted the cobweb tied to her shoelace and bit it sharply between her teeth. The slender thread separated, dissolving into silvery dust between her fingers.

She brushed herself down and picked up her compass. Then, pulling up her top, she rather self-consciously addressed her stomach:

“Er… Belly Button? Which way should I go?”

And she watched in amazement as her Belly Button pursed up its lips and replied:

“Go West.”

“Oh. Right then. West it is,” said Sia. And, with a tap of the compass, she was on her way once more, to a place that her brain knew nothing about, but that her gut could feel was waiting for her to discover.

Chapter 4: The House of Glass

The House of Glass

After seven days and seven nights of following her Belly Button’s instructions, Sia finally emerged from the Wilderness of Confusion and came upon a little village that struck her as rather unusual.

She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what made it unusual, but she was intrigued nonetheless and decided to explore.

While wandering the streets, she heard a jazz tune breathing on the breeze and followed it to its source: a lone saxophone player sat outside a dinky café. Sia noted with interest the café’s name: Bistro West.

Well, I guess I’ve reached West, she thought. Now what?

“Hello,” said the saxophone player.

Sia started. He hadn’t stopped playing.

“How did you do that?” she asked. “Talk while playing?”

“It’s my Unique Talent,” said the saxophone player. “You must be new to the area. Are you thinking of moving here?”

“I’m not sure,” said Sia. “Am I?”

“Yes, you are,” said her Belly Button, its voice slightly muffled through her top.

“Ah. Yes, I am,” said Sia.

“Oh, perfect,” said the saxophone player, improvising a celebratory riff. “Have a look around. Your house will be waiting.”

---

As Sia walked, she realised why the village was unusual.

Every house was completely unique. Each was a different size, shape and colour, and was constructed from different materials. She passed houses made of bricks, wood, straw, tiles, distressed denim, gingerbread.

And then she discovered the House of Glass.

It was a three-dimensional mosaic, painstakingly constructed of thousands of tiny squares of multicoloured crystal. The entire house glittered enticingly in the sunlight.

Except in one small space.

And when she spotted this empty space, Sia didn’t need to ask her Belly Button to know what to do.

Opening the gate, she stepped up the pathway to the house and reached out to the empty space in the shiny mosaic. Stroked its sharp points. And then opened her bag, drew out her metal, star-shaped peg and slotted it neatly into the star-shaped hole.

Instantly, the door swung open invitingly. She was home.

---

Inside the house, Sia was struck by a strong sense of déjà-vu. She knew that she had never been here before, yet her purple pumps guided her with certainty through each room, as though they knew exactly where to go.

Mounting the stairs, her feet carried her into the back room, which was entirely constructed of plain, translucent glass that threw a milky white light over everything.

It’s like walking through a crystal ball, Sia thought.

And then she realised where she was.

Turning around, she spotted in a corner the White Closet that had haunted her dreams with the promise of her future. With tentative fingers, she reached forward and pulled its doors open, half-closing her eyes in anticipation of the swirling stars of her dream.

Nothing moved.

Sia leaned forward and gazed directly into the closet.

It was stacked with block upon block upon block of solid glass. On top of the glass balanced two boxes; Sia carefully lifted them down. The first was crammed with twinkling gemstones of all imaginable colours; the second held tiny tools with sharp, glittering edges.

Sia knew exactly what she was going to do with them. It was what she’d always dreamed of doing.

Create.

---

Several months later, an intensive training course under her belt and many instructional books stacked on her shelves, Sia was in full, satisfying flow. She was now a fully-fledged glass sculptor, carving multifaceted crystal figurines of all colours, shapes and sizes.

Starting with the inspirational star that had initiated her journey, she had since scoured the Internet for ideas and progressed onto more complex figures: puppies, fairies, trolls, dragons.

When the house was full, she stood back to admire her work.

Gorgeous, she thought.

And then she frowned slightly.

All at once, the derisive words of the Exceedingly Honourable Sir Macleod Bradley came back to her, echoing in her head:

“…if all you’re looking for is ‘gorgeous’…”
“…I guess that’s what happens when you’ve still got that thing hanging off you…”

She looked at the instructional books on glass-sculpting, whose directions she had followed so painstakingly. Conformity, she thought.

For yes, her creations were gorgeous. But gorgeous had been done before, and would be done again. If Sia wanted to be truly original, she had to create something more. More than gorgeous.

Moregeous.

But how?

Closing her eyes, Sia took a deep breath, feeling the air of freedom expand every fibre of her being. She summoned up all her memories, all her experiences, all her beliefs, allowing them to course through her body; she felt once more that tingling sensation that she’d experienced at Crazy Wendy’s, drinking the tom yum soup.

And then she exhaled, gently, but firmly, breathing her own unique brand of Truth over every single object that she’d created.

She opened her eyes. And slowly, gently, so did all her figurines.

The puppies wept tiny tears of jade. The fairies donned sparkling dresses of pink topaz and sang karaoke. The lumbering trolls wielded clubs of shiny pewter paper clips. The dragons breathed fiery constellations of shimmering ruby stars.

They came to Life. Their own unique Life, imagined by their creator.

Sia looked upon her handiwork and smiled.

“This is it,” she whispered to herself. “I’ve found my Unique Talent.”

She was still smiling when she heard the knock at the door.

Skipping happily down the stairs, Sia opened her door to find a medley of people of various shapes and sizes, all clustered on her doorstep. They grinned up at her eagerly.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Hi there,” the crowd chorused in union. “We’re Folk.”

Chapter 5: The Twin Demons

The Twin Demons

“Folk?” repeated Sia, in confusion.

“Yes, Folk,” chorused the crowd on her doorstep. “We’re all Folk. This is Albert. This is Frankie. This is Bond.”

“James Bond?” Sia interrupted.

“No, just Bond. This is Ferrious. This is Steranko. And this is Joe.”

“Can I interest you in a pincho?” asked Joe, waving a tempting platter of fragrant king prawns beneath Sia’s nose.

“Er, no thank you,” she replied. “What are you all doing here?”

“Well, we’ve heard about what you’re doing here and we’re very excited by it,” said Folk, smiling as one. “We’d like to welcome you to the neighbourhood and see if we can help you at all.”

Sia scowled. She drew back, her brow furrowing with suspicion.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said. “I haven’t escaped the City of Bureaucracy, trekked the Wilderness of Confusion, found my House of Glass and developed my Unique Talent, all by myself, just to get suckered once more by some shape-shifting Guardians of Conformity. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” protested Folk. “We’ve all been where you are now. We just want to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” Sia snapped, backing away from the doorway.

“We want to be friends.”

“You ain’t no friends of mine!” she yelled. And slammed the door shut.

“Be careful,” she heard one of the Folk call out to her. “You don’t know what’s in there!”

Sia ignored them.

“People,” she muttered to herself. She gazed at her crystal figurines, which winked at her in the light as if sharing a secret.

“Look at these beautiful creations! If I let these strangers in, they’ll probably shatter all my hard work into pieces.”

“Exactly!” squeaked two voices behind her.

Startled, Sia whirled around.

There, at her eye level, two tiny red creatures hovered in the air, each about the size of a bumble bee. It was difficult to make out their features distinctly, but Sia noted that each wore what appeared to be a tiny crown, and grasped in its fist what appeared to be a tiny blossom.

“Your work is so delicate, so original, so stunning! You can’t risk it being ruined,” squealed the first creature.

“Those people just want a piece of you,” whined the second. “They don’t understand. You don’t need them.”

“Who are you?” gasped Sia.

The creatures bobbed up and down in the air, emitting high-pitched chuckles of glee.

“We’re all you need from now on!” they cried.

---

Time passed.

Folk had stopped knocking on her door some months ago, realising that Sia wasn’t going to answer.

And life wasn’t exactly perfect.

Sia still loved creating her crystal figurines. But, in order to maintain her Moregeous standards, she had had to re-stock her White Closet and invest in further specialist equipment – diamond abrasive tools, silicon carbide wheels, fairy dust – all of which meant she’d had to take out a hefty loan.

And in order to make the repayments on that loan, she had to make and sell a lot of crystal figurines. Which meant she was working all the time – and yet she still wasn’t selling enough to make ends meet.

She rarely ate. She couldn’t sleep. In fact, she was so utterly drained and exhausted that she often wondered if leaving the City of Bureaucracy had been the right move after all.

And then there were the Demons.

The Twin Demons of Pride and Solitude were making her life a misery.

They were constantly demanding to be fed. And no matter how much Sia fed them, they always wanted more. With insatiable appetites they sat and gorged, and gorged, and gorged, and gorged.

And as they gorged, they grew.

The harmless bumble bees they’d been upon arrival had swollen to the size of elephants. And as they grew, they revealed the true extent of their horrors.

What Sia had initially believed to be crowns were in fact crooked horns, grasping greedily outwards from the Demons’ engorged heads.

And what she’d mistaken for blossoms in their hands proved to be spiked tridents, which they used to jab her with at every opportunity, demanding to be fed more, more, more, cackling disdainfully at her pain.

One night, a despairing Sia ran outside in the moonlight, threw herself down on her pathway and cried. She cried and cried until she could cry no more. And then she rolled over onto her back and gazed once again, with tear-stained eyes, at the twinkling skies.

She thought back to the night when the Moth had whispered into her ear and revealed the secrets of the stars.

How far have I come since then, she thought. How far have I really come?

And, all at once, she knew what to do.

---

Pride was now so bloated that he had difficulty getting out of bed. He sat propped up against the pillows, rolls of blubber billowing with his every laboured breath, and played with Sia’s favourite crystalline figure – a young man in a pirate’s hat, dancing a sea shanty. Pride held the figure up to the light and chuckled with delight at its reflected brilliance.

“Feed me!” he bellowed, as he saw Sia appear at the bedroom doorway. “Cupcakes! Pies! Or maybe some of those Sicilian meatballs. I Love to Eat!”

“Tough,” said Sia. “I’m not feeding you any more. In fact, I think it’s about time you and I had a chat.”

“Oh yeah?” asked the Demon, suspiciously. “What about?”

“What about how you’re ruining my life?” asked Sia. “What about how you’re consuming everything that I have?”

She moved closer to the bed. Pride looked at her with an indecipherable glint in his eye.

“Not quite everything,” he said with a wry smile. “I haven’t consumed… YOU!”

And, in a surprisingly sudden movement, the Demon heaved himself forwards, forcefully propelling his gargantuan body onto Sia.

He may be unfit, but he’s certainly got the weight advantage, Sia thought as she wrestled desperately with the strong Demon of Pride.

“You’re suffocating me!” she gasped.

“You wouldn’t be anything without me!” shrieked Pride. “Do you realise that I’ve been with you every step of the way, ever since you left the City of Bureaucracy? And I got you here. Me and me alone!”

“That’s not true,” cried Sia. With a tremendous effort, she freed her arms and started to punch the Demon, calling out names with every blow.

“I had the peg. The Director. Crazy Wendy. Macleod Bradley. The saxophone player. Even my Belly Button. ”

The Demon of Pride cried out in pain. And, with every fresh name, Sia realised he was shrinking in size.

“They all helped me when I didn’t know where to go, or what to do,” yelled Sia. “And neither did you!”

Pride wailed a last great mournful wail. And, as Sia watched, he shrank away to a tiny, flailing dot, which hid itself under the bed.

Panting from her exertions, Sia rolled herself up to a sitting position. I did it, she thought exultantly. I’m free.

“Not so fast,” hissed a low voice. Sia looked up to see the great hulk of the Demon of Solitude blocking the doorway.

“That’s right. You’ve still got me,” said Solitude. “And we may be Twin Demons, but we’re fraternal, not identical. You can’t just beat some new-found understanding into me and make me shrink away.”

The Demon took a step forward. Independence groaned.

“Enough!” she croaked, tiredly. “I need to get out of here for a while.”

Solitude’s eyes widened in horror.

“You can’t leave!” she gasped. “There are people out there. You won’t know who to trust!”

“I don’t care,” cried Sia.

And, pulling herself to her feet, she dodged past the Demon’s grasp, half-fell down the stairs and stumbled out of her beloved House of Glass, out into the village beyond.

Chapter 6: The Garden of Collaboration

The Garden of Collaboration

Sia was walking once more. But, unlike in the City of Bureaucracy, she didn’t have the strength or the inclination to go far.

At the end of the street, she looked round. The Demon of Solitude was lumbering behind her at a distance. Screwing up her eyes, Sia could also make out a tiny red dot floating next to Solitude. Pride. Clearly, the Twin Demons hadn’t finished with her yet.

“Time out!” she whispered to herself, tiredly. “Where can I go to escape all this?”

She turned the corner.

And there, barely 50 yards from her home, was a little café with a sign outside that read:

Thyme Out.

Without questioning its fortuitous location – for she was getting used to serendipity by now – Sia limped to the café door and practically fell inside.

---

“You’re up bright and early,” commented the waitress. “If you don’t mind me saying, though, you look a little under the weather. Would you like a refreshing cup of Green Tea?”

“Er… Yes please,” said Sia, with no notion of what Green Tea was. She glanced back at the door nervously, wondering if the Twin Demons had seen her come in.

“It’s a lovely morning,” said the waitress, following her gaze. “How about taking your tea in our garden? It’s really quite pretty. Plus, you’re our first customer, so it’ll be nice and quiet.”

“That sounds perfect,” said Sia, gratefully.

She followed the waitress to the rear of the café and through the back door. As she stepped outside, Sia looked up and saw a scarlet trellis draped over the arched entrance to the garden. The vines had been carefully trained to form words, which proclaimed proudly:

The Garden of Collaboration.

Collapsing onto the nearest wooden bench with relief, Sia sighed deeply. The waitress popped a mug of steaming tea in front of her.

“Now, you stay there as long as you like,” she said, kindly. “You won’t be disturbed. Well, except perhaps by the chickens.”

“The chickens?” queried Sia. But the waitress had gone.

Sia picked up the hot mug and lifted it towards her lips – and then stopped, leaving the cup hanging in mid-air as her eyes focused for the first time on her surroundings. She caught her breath in awe.

For the garden wasn’t merely ‘pretty’. It was, quite simply, the most magical, wondrous place that Sia had ever seen.

A kaleidoscopic profusion of colour filled her vision. Flowers and plants of all descriptions comfortably embraced, nodding happily in the breeze; their fragrant aromas mingled to form a warm, multilayered scent that would stir envy in the heart of France’s most talented parfumeur.

Various forms of bountiful produce waved merrily to each other, from the juicy stalks of giant green and purple Rhubarb rooted in the earth, to voluptuous Silver Apples swaying heavily in the sky.

And, as she drank in her surroundings along with her tea, Sia noticed other, more unexpected items inhabiting the undergrowth.

Sparkling cobalt-blue bangles and sultry amber rings sprang from the blossoms of an emerald bush, whose tiny gold-edged leaves chimed like tiny bells in the breeze.

Baby shoes embroidered with dinosaurs danced at the base of a tree whose branches were draped with long, floating wedding veils, which shimmered in the crisp rays of the morning sun.

Patchwork ducks in designer sunglasses lounged on red leather sofas next to a sparkling fountain, whose curvaceous water droplets changed colour every few seconds, like solar-powered disco lights.

So far, so very beautiful. But there was an even more magical aspect to this garden.

For, as Sia rose to her feet, tiredness forgotten in her desire to explore, she became aware of soothing murmurings, which filled the garden with gentle, harmonious music. Cupping her ears to discover the source, Sia realised what was happening.

The flowers were talking to one another.

As they conversed, tiny luminous sparks crackled between the petals, electrifying the air. Sia bent towards them, feeling contagious pinpricks of excitement tickling the back of her neck in response. She watched in fascination as a few tiny seeds dropped from an amethyst bloom onto the ground below where, Sia noticed, new seedlings were already beginning to sprout.

“They’re collaborating,” squawked a voice at her feet.

Sia looked down. Three white china chickens were pecking the ground next to her purple pumps. Each had a name painted in swirling silver letters on its chest:

David.
Gavin.
Cachumba.

“What’s collaborating?” asked Sia in curiosity.

David stopped pecking and looked up, eyeing her beadily.

“You know. Talking. Sharing. Helping,” he cackled. “Conceiving and creating.”

“Everything here comes from people with Unique Talents,” cooed Gavin. “They bring them to this garden to put down roots in a nurturing, supportive environment, where fruitful discussion sprouts creative ideas that help everyone to grow.”

“Plus, it’s a great place to showcase your work,” clucked Cachumba. “Having lots of Unique Talents all in one place attracts a lot more visitors than one Unique Talent would do. That’s just good business sense.”

Sia imagined the jade tears of joy that her crystal puppies would shed if allowed to scamper freely in this garden.

“Could I… bring my Unique Talent here?” she asked, shyly.

“Of course!” crowed Gavin. “There’s room for everyone here. We’re very sociable.”

Sia beamed, then frowned slightly as she glanced back to the garden’s entrance, where a now-shrunken Demon of Solitude hovered dolefully next to Pride. “What about them?”

“Oh, you’ll still need them from time to time,” croaked David. “Just avoid over-feeding them from now on. Everything in moderation.”

Sia closed her eyes in relief, letting the sun’s rays warm her smiling face.

“It’s perfect here,” she whispered.

Cachumba scowled and pecked Sia’s shoe, making her squeal and open her eyes.

“Don’t go making that mistake,” she squawked. “Nothing’s ever perfect. We have the Storms of Recession to contend with. And of course the Evil Weeds of Rent Rises raise their heads from time to time, threatening to strangle some of our prize plants.”

“The truth is that Life can’t promise you a happy-ever-after ending,” cooed Gavin. “But over the years we’ve found that…”

“You’ve found that you’re stronger together, as united independents cooperating with each other, than you are apart,” said Sia, slowly.

The chickens crowed in unison.

“By George, I think she’s got it,” squawked Cachumba in glee.

“Who’s George?” clucked David. Cachumba pecked him in disgust.

And, as the first few members of the village’s Folk entered the garden, ready for their morning Eggs Benedict, greeting the newcomer in their midst with surprise and delight, Sia finally understood the truth behind the starry skies that she had grown to love so much.

For each star, when closely observed, has its own unique qualities, which lend it a clearly identifiable personality as it shines brightly and proudly throughout its lifetime.

But a star also has its own place amongst a constellation of stars. And a constellation, when viewed on a crisp, clear night, has more meaning, brilliance and beauty than a single star can achieve on its own: enough to make the world gasp, wonder and dream as it gazes in awe from below.

The end.