Entry #460550, added on 01-23-07 @ 1:34 pm EST
Entry Access Restriction: None.
| Chapter Seven - City on a Quill | Entry #460550 |
Elkwater's King
  | ID: 998876 (Rated: ASR)
Elkwater's King 
Two brothers follow a wary white German Shepherd to search for the King of a secret realm.
by Basilides   |
Chapter Seven - City on a Quill
"Never lose a holy curiosity."
~Albert Einstein
*************************************************
Michael and I just sat at the dining room table and stared in fascination at the old wooden box Aunt Eva had set before us.
“Where did you find that?” I asked.
“It was hidden in that piece of wall you broke apart with your bottom when you two were messing around in the shed-room,” she answered.
Michael giggled.
I ignored him.
“Who put it there?” I asked as I examined its rusted hinges and padlock, its heavily varnished pine sides, and its curved top that shouted ‘treasure chest’ to any normal nine-year-old.
“It was apparently there when we bought the farmhouse all those years ago,” answered Aunt Eva, “and probably there when old Mr. Geimler bought it before us. Look at this…”
She pointed to some lettering burnt into the pine at the bottom of one side. It read, ‘Manufactured exclusively for Sunnydell Farm by Branson Wood and Cabinetry, Baltimore.’
“Sunnydell Farm is what this farm used to be called before it was sold to Mr. Geimler back in the 20’s,” Aunt Eva explained. “Among other things, it used to be a sort of summer camp for city children and kids from New England or the Midwest. This little chest must go back to those days.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Did Tim hide my gargoyle inside that?” asked Michael, which was a really stupid thing to ask.
“You and your ugly gargoyle,” I said.
“It is not ugly!”
“Yes it—“
“I seriously doubt this box has been opened in over fifty years,” interrupted Aunt Eva, “and remember that it was walled in that little step Timmy accidentally broke through.”
“Oh yeah,” said Mike. “Well then, what’s inside?”
“Can we open it?” I asked.
“We are about to find out,” answered my Aunt, and she reached around the corner and brought out a small crowbar.
“Cool!” Michael and I cried out in unison.
Aunt Eva slipped the crowbar between the padlock, but before she even exerted much pressure the lock fell off, disintegrated by rust. She grasped the lid and opened the box, destroying the hinges in the process.
We all looked inside. The look of excitement on Aunt Eva’s face nearly matched my own.
There was no treasure inside. At least, not the kind of treasure we were hoping for.
Aunt Eva pulled out an old notebook containing penciled-in numbers and receipts, some business cards with “Sunnydell Farm” printed on them along with an address. Last of all, she pulled out a stack of advertising brochures. That was all. The box was empty.
Hiding our disappointment, we opened one of the brochures.
Send your children to SUNNYDELL FARM for a summer of hiking, fishing, canoeing, and camping by beautiful Little Fox Creek in Foxton, Maryland. Your children will learn the value of play and work on the Farm, where they will milk cows, gather eggs, and pitch hay just like the local boys and girls. A summer at SUNNYDELL is a summer of joy!
Beneath the wording were colorful drawings of children in canoes and with fishing poles.
On the next page, just under the caption, ‘Explore the forest and find the hidden stream!’ was a drawing of children looking delighted by a small creek.
“Hey, that looks just like the back creek!” shouted Michael.
“What’s on the other side?” I asked.
Michael moved in closer, and in so doing knocked the stack of brochures over and spilling onto the floor.
“Idiot,” I said.
But Aunt Eva said, “What’s this?”
A small packet had been tucked in the stack of brochures, but now it was exposed. It was a little paper wallet, bound together with a string and with a note attached.
There was writing on the note attached. Aunt Eva strained to read it.
“The note is faded and waterstained, but it looks like it says ‘Perry S. (or A.) left this behind, September 1908.’”
She slipped the note off the wallet, which was printed, “Take-Home Packet.”
“Cut the string, Aunt Eva!” said Michael. I was ready to tear it off.
She took forever finding a pair of scissors. She must have been torturing us on purpose.
When she finally cut the string away and opened the little wallet, we gasped. There was a very large one dollar bill folded inside. It looked like elaborate play money. There was a woman reclining on a box that read “One Silver Dollar”. Her arm was around a child and her other arm was outstretched, her finger pointing to an open book of some kind, an obelisk in the background. On the back of the note were portraits of George and Martha Washington.
“Is it real?” I asked.
“I think so,” said Aunt Eva. “It says ‘series of 1896.’ I seem to remember large-sized money when I was little, but I don’t remember one exactly like this.”
“What else is in there?” Michael asked.
Behind the dollar bill was an old leaf wrapped in a piece of paper. On the paper was written, ‘Perry, here is a leaf from your own Special Tree.’
“The kids got to take home a dollar…and a leaf?” I asked, chuckling.
“Well, a dollar was a lot in those days,” said Aunt Eva. “And maybe each boy had to learn about a specific tree. The leaf might help them remember about it.”
“What kind of leaf is it?” asked my brother.
Aunt Eva examined it closely. “It’s hard for me to tell. I’m not a leaf expert. But it reminds me of a pecan leaf, or maybe hickory.”
“What else is in there?” I asked, impatient and totally unconcerned with leaves.
Aunt Eva unfolded the packet to reveal two old photographs: one large and folded up, the other much smaller. The larger one was a photo of maybe twenty kids, all standing straight and unsmiling in funny clothes. Written at the bottom was “Summer Camp 1908 – Kingston Orphanage”, and on the back were the names of all the children.
They were orphans. And so, apparently, was the boy who never took his packet home.
“Aunt Eva,” said Mike. “I wish we could give this stuff back to Perry.”
“He’s long gone,” I said, eyeing that one dollar bill.
Aunt Eva thought for a moment. “Not necessarily,” she said. These children look to be between eight and ten years old, which would make Perry in his late seventies now if he survived the wars.”
“Let’s find his picture!” said Mike. And we scanned the names written on the back of the photograph.
Not one was named “Perry”.
“Oh well,” I said.
“Wait,” said Mike, “what about the other picture?”
The other photograph was of two boys. The shorter one was dressed like the kids in the larger photograph, but his face was obliterated by a water stain. The other boy was dressed in a straw hat and overalls, had a grass stem sticking out of his mouth, and wore a mischievous smirk.
“That boy dressed like a bumpkin looks oddly familiar,” said our aunt, pondering. “It’s a shame we can’t see the other boy’s face. I’ll bet that one is Perry.”
“Look on the back!” suggested the always-too-helpful Mike. I rolled my eyes.
“Perry and Ned, August 1908,” Aunt Eva read. “Ned! I wonder if that country boy could be old Ned who works on Uncle Frank’s farm. “He’s lived in this town all his life I think.”
“Let’s go talk to him now then!” Mike was halfway to the door.
“Hold on now,” laughed Aunt Eva. “I’ll have Martin take you to see him this week. Old Ned’s a little rough and I don’t want you boys going there alone. Besides, Perry has been waiting sixty-eight years for his Sunnydell Farm dollar and leaf. I think he can wait a few more days.”
I grumbled a little, mainly because Michael was so excited about the idea of giving some really old kid his stuff back. But at least it got his mind off the “lost” gargoyle.
***************************************************
I woke up to the less-than-lovely sound of my brother coughing. I grit my teeth and tried to go back to sleep and recapture the dream of the Farm and the newly discovered "treasure-chest". But sleeping on tree branches which had been fused together into a suspended road over the forest wasn't exactly like sleeping on a feather bed. Ouch. I gained a new respect for the wisdom of bats: they know how to sleep in trees.
Michael coughed again. Maybe his asthma was acting up. The thought cheered me. Maybe he'd have to remain behind while the "new Loner" and I did the Kingfinding ourselves. I smiled at the memory of going from "surprise guide" to "surprise second Kingfinder", and replayed the events leading to that change in my mind.
After Michael had chosen me as his guide in the Grand Hall, the King and his advisors had an emergency meeting behind closed doors. I think they were trying to figure out how to keep me out of the Quest. They met for a long time. But in the end, they soberly exited and the King pronounced me the guide and servant of the Quest, under the charge of Could-Warrior. He was determined to give me the lowest position possible, but I didn’t care. I was going on the Quest to find a King, even if I wasn’t the “Kingfinder” per se. Best of all, Michael had by this time figured out that going on the quest was what I really wanted all along, not to go back to the farm. He was furious at himself and at me for his unwise choice of a guide.
Things got infinitely better – for me – when we left the Grand hall and proceeded ceremoniously to the Glade of Stone. This was the final stage of the Meros, when the Kingfinder and his guides would be officially sent forth.
We wound our way through a sturdy roadway made of living tree branches into the Forest. “This is part of the King’s Highway,” Morning-Tamer had explained, “a living highway.”
“Do the trees just grow this way?” I asked, incredulous.
“No, they don’t,” Erm. Phos chimed in. “They are grown this way by the ancient art of the Tree-Tenders, who keep the highway alive. But it isn’t polite to speak of them when they are standing nearby, so have some respect and keep silent. This is a solemn procession.”
I wondered if the “Tree-Tenders” were some of the shadowy figures who stood still, watching us walk by under their hooded robes. They did not follow us as we passed them.
We wound our way to the ground below after a mile or so of walking on that arboreal boulevard, finally entering a part of the forest that at first I supposed must have been gutted by fire. Tall tree trunks were all around, but without branches or leaves. The sky shone bright and blue above with no clouds obscuring all three moons in the sky. The floor of this part of the forest was covered in ferns and wildflowers. The Glade of Stone looked like a giant pillared hall with the roof missing. I put my hand on one of the tree trunks, which was not charred or blackened at all. It was as cold and hard as granite, though still textured with bark.
“Petrified,” the Earth Mage whispered to me, unable to keep his own silence. “It has turned to stone forever. But long before Carthalo - the first King - discovered this place it was a living tree like any other.”
“But how did they all turn to stone?” I asked, gazing in wonder.
“Shh…quiet. We’re almost there,” Phosphorus said. I wondered if he only said that because he did not know the answer.
The procession stopped, and I noticed we were standing in an open area among the trees. There were twenty-seven stone monuments, each identical and made of some kind of white marble. Steps led up each to a small pedestal. On each pedestal was a hollow area, an empty spot where something important must have rested once.
Two monuments did not have hollows in the pedestals, though. They were covered over with stone, like doors that were shut. The procession stopped at the nearest of these.
We stood there silently for a moment until King Warren cleared his throught and looked pointedly at the Earth Mage.
“Oh!” said Phosphorus-Ambellicor, snapping out of some daydream. He swiftly climbed the steps of the monument and stood on the pedestal, facing us.
“Here are the Kingfinder Cairns, laid hither long ago by magic in the days of Carthalo. Twenty-five Kingfinders have gone before and retrieved their talismans. When the twenty-seventh is opened, we know that the days are near when Elkwater will either be destroyed or renewed, as foretold by the Prophetess Miriana. But the long years of the reign of a new King will come first, and so that is the worry of another generation. Today, this Cairn will open for a true Kingfinder - the twenty-sixth. It will open for no one else. Kingfinder Michael, are you ready to retrieve your Talisman?”
“I am ready”, Michael said.
I was bored. I started to wander off a little.
Michael walked to the base of the steps of the Cairn, where the King and the Mage and several others gathered around him and laid hands on him. Everyone bowed their heads, as if in prayer. I walked a ways, wanting to be as far away from the ceremony as possible.
Michael walked up the steps of the Cairn. Loner and Phosphorus-Ambellicor stood at the steps. The King stood halfway up. When Michael reached the spot where the Mage stood, there was a grinding sound as of stone against stone. The "door" was opening for him. I watched as he bent down and picked something up from the hollow.
It was a black sword.
King Warren spoke with a booming voice. “Behold the blackmetal blade of the Kingfinder, forged in the forgotten craft of ancient days! Who can read the inscription on the blade?”
“I can,” responded the Earth Mage, though I thought I saw his lips whisper “I hope”.
Erm. Phose examined the black sword carefully and then smiled.
“The word written here means in the ancient tongue, “Reconciler!”
The gathered people cheered.
I noticed I was at the foot of the last unopened Cairn, the twenty-seventh. I figured there would be no harm in my climbing the steps, since it would only open for a “true” Kingfinder.
Behind me, I heard the crowd chant, “Hail Kingfinder Michael, who shall find a King to Reconcile us! Meros!”
There, at the top of the pedestal on the 27th Cairn, a dog had suddenly appeared. Another German shepherd, or something very near it. But it was not white like Loner. Its face was mud-colored, and swirled with gold. Its hair was longer than Loner’s. It was staring directly at me, its gaze serious yet calm.
I felt something so powerful in my chest that I wondered how I could hold it all within me. More than anything, it felt like longing. It was as if every good thing I’d ever tasted, every fun place I’d ever been or hoped to be, and every person I’d ever loved was all just beyond my reach. It was incredible thrill and unquenchable thirst at the same time.
Suddenly, the dog was gone. And all that was left of that powerful feeling was a wisp of a memory.
I looked at the pedestal again. I climbed the top step. There was a grinding sound of stone against stone, and the stone covering slid away to reveal a hole in the Cairn before me. I found myself staring at a sword, the most beautiful I had ever seen, black and glistening in the sun.
All was strangely silent.
In a moment I felt a presence next to me. It was King Warren. He looked down into the Cairn. And then he looked at me, and there was resignation in his eyes.
“What have you done, Tim?” he quietly asked.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said.
King Warren took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. “Please retrieve your sword, Kingfinder.” he finally said.
My heart leapt within me. I reached down and lifted the sword from its rocky bed. It felt lighter than I expected. I handed it to King Warren.
He said again, but in a subdued voice, “Behold the blackmetal blade of the Kingfinder, forged in the forgotten craft of ancient days. Who can read the inscription on the blade?”
Erm. Phos stepped forward solemnly and examined the inscription without a word. He moved his lips. Then he froze. There was no smile on his face. His chocolate countenance turned a dark, dead grey. He looked up with despair in his eyes and said nothing.
“What does it say?” asked the King in little more than a whisper.
“The word in the ancient tongue,” said the Mage in a trembling voice, “is Olothreutes.”
“What does it mean?” the King slowly asked, his eyes locked with the wizard’s.
“I will not say,” answered the Mage. “I will not say to you or anyone, my lord.”
Anyway, that’s how I was made co-Kingfinder, and that’s how I got my own cool sword.
**
“Get up or you don’t eat, Sneaky Bull,” growled Cloud-Warrior.
I snapped out of my daydream. I had already gone without breakfast once in the last week and I did not want to repeat the labor of walking through the trees along the “King’s Highway” with an empty stomach a second time. As usual, Michael was up and waiting impatiently so we could all eat our dried meat and cold potato together. Our guide insisted we take our meals together whenever possible. We ate rations while he always managed to have caught some squirrel in the night. It did not do much for my appetite to see him tear the freshly killed little animal apart with his teeth.
“You’re disgusting,” I said. “You eat like a hyena.”
The dog barely looked up at me. “Look,” he said, “I have to watch you eat three-month-old dessicated meat and a waterlogged root with your hands, raising what you call ‘food’ to your mouth like a bottom-feeding crab. Don’t talk about disgusting with me.”
I hated that he was such a good communicator. He didn’t talk exactly. But he was smarter than any animal I’d ever heard of, and he could communicate in a canine fashion. Due to the magic of the stile both Michael and I could detect every nuance of meaning and every subtle undertone of his thinking…at least what he wanted us to detect. Even his names for us (Sneaky Bull for me and Angry Bull for Mike) revealed his thoughts. As far as names go, he refused to respond to “Loner”, which I called him by mistake a couple of times. “Cloudy” didn’t work either. “Cloud-Warrior” was the only name to which he responded.
We got moving with many groans and whines. Even after a week of eating rations my pack seemed heavier than ever. But what lowered my spirits the most was the fact that our guide could not seem to tell us when we would be out of the forest and into the next town. His time sense was different than ours, he simply said. So Mike and I had no idea whether we would be on this miserable branch road for days, weeks, or months. Michael let out a particularly loud groan.
“If you did not want to carry so much on your back, Angry Bull, then you should have chosen a bigger guide,” said Cloud-Warrior to my brother.
“He’s not even a guide any more,” said Michael in defense. “He’s a Kingfinder too. He should have chosen a guide before we left, like Mountain-chaser!”
My refusal to choose a guide, since I’d been named a Kingfinder after all, was another terrible scandal. I just didn’t want anyone along who could tell people how things really went down at Pepperwood Manor and the Glade of Stone. I wanted away from the Hickory King and all his self-righteous henchmen. I’d choose my own guide when I felt like it, and the King reluctantly agreed that it was my right.
“I’d rather have this heavy pack on my back than have one of those Knights on my back,” I said.
Suddenly the white shepherd stopped and sniffed the air.
“What is it?” Michael asked, looking annoyed for having to stop.
“We should be before Floris before nightfall,” answered Cloud-Warrior, and trotted on ahead.
Michael and I let out a cheer, and my pack seemed suddenly lighter.
“So do you think we will find the king in Floris?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” Cloud-Warrior called back. “But in any case who you find as King will be decided when we are finished with the quest.”
“Where will that be?” I asked.
“At the end,” he answered.
Something still bothered me.
“But I don’t even know what I am supposed to be looking for,” I complained. “No one will tell me anything.”
“Me either,” said Michael. “I mean, how can we find a king when we don’t even know how to look for one?”
Cloud-Warrior trotted back to us and looked us over, one after the other.
“It is only because you do not know what you are looking for that you have any chance at all of finding it.”
Michael and I looked at each other, and shrugged.
“Whateverrrrr,” I said.
Cloud-Warrior trotted on ahead again. “Do you have your stiles?” he barked back at us.
“Yes, we always do!” I yelled. “How come you have to ask us that a million times a day?
“Because if you lose them, then we might as well go home and wait for the Tempest of the Torc to come and destroy us all.”
I really wished we had a different guide.
I felt in my clothes for the walnut shell and saw Michael do the same. Still there.
Knowing that we had beds and hot baths awaiting us that night made the day's journey the most pleasant since we had first started. Michael and I barely argued, and after luch, we spent a good hour or two playing the "bagpipe game."
In the bagpipe game, Michael was nearly always the drone and I was the chanter. While my brother hummed out a nasally deep note, I "deedled" out a melody to match it.
Don't laugh. You'd probably play games like that too if your mother was a music teacher.
Our hearts light at the prospect of the night's lodging, we used our bagpipe game to belt out Greensleeves, Amazing Grace, Danny Boy, and Lord of the Dance. I barely noticed the oppressive muggy heat of the forest or the weight of the backpack pressing my sword's sheath uncomfortably between my shoulder-blades. All was well.
We were just beginning our third round of "Whiskey in the Jar" when Cloud-Warrior spun around and snarled, "We have seven hours yet until nightfall. You will stop the sceeching now."
Something in the way he said it, and the way his lips curled up to show all his teeth and gums, took all the air out of our bagpipe.
The next seven hours were not so joyful as the first few. Fatigue set in, and Michael and I started snapping at each other again. The way was tiresome and lonesome.
"Doesn't anyone else travel on this stupid road?" I asked Cloud-Warrior.
"Normally, yes," answered our guide. "But it has been cleared for your journey."
"That doesn't make any sense," I grumbled. "How are we supposed to find a King if we don't meet any actual people?"
"You will meet plenty of people," said the dog. "But the beginning of the Kingfinder's journey should be one of quiet and reflection, according to some human tradition. Not that you are getting either, the way you two growl at each other."
"But I'm supposed to pick a guide, too! When will I be able to meet some more people so I can choose a guide?" I was really beginning to crave the company of someone other than my brother and this grouchy canine.
"You will have some people to choose from when we stop for the night at the city," answered Cloud-Warrior.
"Good. I'm ready to pick someone," I said.
"Don't pick a doofus," said Michael.
"I won't," I retorted. "I already have one doofus to worry about."
"You shouldn't talk that way about Cloud-Warrior," said Michael slyly.
"Only a doofus doesn't know when he is being called a doofus," I said.
"Shut up," said Michael.
"You started it so you shut up," I said.
"No, you--"
"Listen, young Bulls," interrupted Cloud-Warrior, who was baring his teeth again, "I've decided I prefer your screeching to your bickering. And I like silence most of all. Stop speaking to one another."
Mike and I just grumbled at shot evil glances at each other until dusk, when the sounds and smells of human habitation drew near. A bend in the "road" led to the edge of the treeline, and for a moment we looked down on a teeming city of dark wood and earth at the brink of the forest. Lights, and people were everywhere. Trees and gardens grew throughout the city, and the sounds of stringed instruments wafted up to us, accompanied by the smell of sausages and hot herbs. I could see where our road wound down to the forest floor just beside the city gates which faced the trees. I very much wanted to try out some of those sausages.
"This way," barked our guide, and he began to lead us down a side road which split from the main path.
We hesitated. Michael frowned. "Does this path take us to the city too?" he asked.
"No," said Cloud-Warrior, "it takes us somewhat east of Floris."
"What?" Mike and I cried in unison. And then I said, "I thought we were spending the night in the city! You said I could pick a guide when we stopped for the night at the city!"
"You can," Cloud-Warrior answered, "but we are not stopping at this city. I meant a different city."
Squelching a miserable disappointment, I tried to recall the maps I saw at Pepperwood Manor and where the nearest cities were.
Michael obviously studied them longer. "But the nearest city is two days' journey from here!" he shouted.
Cloud-Warrior continued down the side path, daring us to stay behind. "We are not stopping at the nearest city either."
"How long will we have to travel, then?" I asked, fighting despair.
"I do not understand the time sense you humans have," answered Cloud-Warrior. "But the name of the city we are headed for is Kurmanta."
"Kurmanta?" Michael shouted. "But--but that's the Living City. It's all the way by the sea. It will take us weeks to get there!"
"There's your answer then, Sneaky Bull," the dog said to me, "Weeks, whatever those are."
Suddenly all the stuff I was carrying on my back got a lot heavier.
"But we don't have enough provisions to last weeks," Michael said. "Can't we at least stop in Floris to get supplies?"
Cloud-Warrior growled at my brother, which was fine by me. Mike was starting to sound kind of whiney.
"The provisions will be taken care of," said our guide. "You need not concern yourself over food, Angry Bull."
Mike looked at me for support but I shrugged my shoulders.
"I'm sure our guide has a good reason to do this, Michael. You should really have a little more faith in him."
I said that to annoy my brother, and it worked. He got all red in the face, and I think his puffy hair stood a little taller.
"You want to go to Floris too!" he accused.
"Sure I do," I said, "but I'm trying to develop a little self-discipline."
"No you aren't!" shouted Mike. "You are just trying to make me look bad!"
"You're better at that than I am," I said, smiling.
Michael clenched his fists and for a moment I thought he was going to rush at me, but the quickly turned down the new path and ran ahead, passing Loner's doppleganger in his haste.
It was going to be an interesting couple of weeks.
There was a sack of provisions hanging from a tree ahead as if it had been left there for us. Every few days - just when we began to run low on rations - more would mysteriously appear. It was the same every time: dried meat or fish, flatbread, dried fruit, and fresh water. I asked Cloud-Warrior who left the stuff for us, and he only grumbled something about having friends we didn't deserve.
The best part of leaving the strange tree-formed road of Pepperwood Forest behind was that no matter how hard the ground is, it's still a lot nicer to sleep on than tree branches. But we came to miss the canopy of leaves overhead because the sun (a welcome sight for the first couple of days) nearly burnt us to a crisp in the open wildflower fields. By the time we finally took Cloud-Warrior's advice and put our hoods over our heads, it was too late: we were red as lobsters from the neck up. Mike even had a couple of blisters on his forehead. That's another thing you never read about when people go on adventures in magical lands: there's no such thing as sunscreen.
One night when I was having trouble falling asleep due to my burning face, Mike whispered to me in the dying firelight, "Tim!"
"What?"
"How long do you think this whole journey is going to take?" he asked me.
"How should I know?" I brusquely replied. "You should have asked the King or Erm. Phos that when you had the chance. What the heck did you do all those days while I was cooped up in my bedroom?"
"I did ask," Mike whispered, a little louder, "But all Mountain-Chaser said was that it would depend on me. But now I guess it depends on both of us. So I'm asking you."
My brother was so annoying sometimes. "At this rate, probably forever. We can't exactly find a King unless we actually see other people. As a matter of fact I'm not going to even be able to choose a guide at this rate. There's something fishy about all this. They probably just want us to wander around out here until we get old."
"They do not!" Mike responded.
"Probably we'll never get to go home again," I said. I had decided that being mean was the best way to get my brother to shut up.
It seemed to work. He was quiet for a minute or two. I started to drift off.
"I've been having dreams about the Farm," he whispered.
My eyes popped open.
"Every night, I dream about what we'd be doing if we were there instead of here," he continued. "Last night I dreamed Jim took us fishing on that little pond near Uncle Frank's farm. You actually caught a bass."
I didn't say anything.
Mike stirred. "Uncle Martin promised to take us back to Uncle Frank's to see old Ned in a few days, so we can ask him about...ask him about a boy named Perry in an old photo. We found a cool dollar bill and what Uncle Martin thinks is a hickory leaf in a treasure chest, and we think they belong to Perry. Ned might know about it."
My heart began to pound in my chest. Michael and I were having exactly the same dreams.
"Tim? Tim, are you awake?"
I tried to make my breathing sound regular.
Mike stirred again and I heard him sigh. Soon after, I heard his gentle snoring. But it was a long time before I went to sleep.
***
The days that followed should have been some of the best of my childhood. The friendly beauty of field and forest, the gushing giggle of the occasional creek, and the summer smells of wildflowers and hay should have combined to snap me out of my growing resentment. We passed countless cozy-looking cottages, welcoming farmsteads, and small villages; but aside from seeing distant figures carrying out their daily routine we met no people. Cloud-Warrior resolutely steered us clear of any place we might chance upon other humans. Whenever our supplies ran low a cache would mysteriously appear in the path before us. We ate in the light of our own campfires, we slept on hard ground each night, and we bathed in wild water when we could.
I hated it.
I began to wish I'd chosen a guide like Morning-Tamer, if for no other reason than to have someone reasonable to talk with. The otherworldly Loner was useless for conversation. His crisp, vague answers to any question either Michael or I asked transformed into a simple "No questions from the Bulls today" only three days out of Floris. That left only my little brother for chit-chatting.
That didn't go well. When our fourth serious argument threatened to turn physical, Cloud-Warrior demanded absolute silence. Although our mother had made this demand with little success in the "old" days (that is how I had come to think of life before this adventure), there was something about the white shepherd's feral gaze, bared teeth, and low growl that inspired obedience. So our journey was quiet, reflective, peaceful,and just plain miserable. I began to imagine that the whole "search for a King" quest was a pretense for some wicked an unnatural purpose. Maybe we were to be thrown into some volcano as a sacrifice, or into a dark pit where some monster worse than the venomous "Lady" waited to tear us to pieces. Perhaps the reason why we avoided all human contact was because Loner didn't want some conscience-stricken villager to warn us about our impending doom.
I had trouble sleeping.
On the eleventh day from the night we slept on the outskirts of Floris, we suddenly turned east off the little path we'd been travelling south. The going was not as easy, since there was no path to follow. But Cloud-Warrior's mood seemed to improve. He got more talkative, too, even telling us a story about chasing a bobcat through these woods some years ago. I decided to risk talking to Mike.
"Do you know where we are?"
My brother furrowed his brows. "I think so. We must be somewhere in the Verse of Thanatos. If we had kept going South another day or so I think we would have hit the main north-south road of the whole Kingdom. And if we'd gone beyond that, we would have eventually gotten into the Verse called Katallage. But if I remember the maps right, if we keep going East from here, we'll get to the Ryemellow River in a few days. The Living City is on the other side. But the only way to cross without getting eaten by eels is to take the Potter's Bridge, and that is attached to the main road. So I guess we will be going to the main road eventually."
I glanced at Cloud-Warrior, who was well ahead.
"Mike, do you get the feeling that Loner doesn't want us to see any people?" I asked this in the language of the Golden People, who I'd briefly met in the halls of Pepperwood Manor.
"Hey, what language is that?" Mike asked in the Elkwater dialect. "Why are--?"
"Shh," I cautioned, nodding my head at our guide, and then I continued to whisper in the Ahang. "Suppose our canine friend wants to kill us off or something?"
Michael got very red. But he spoke in the Shah's language when he answered. "Stop it, Tim. You can't scare me, so quit joking around."
"I'm not joking. Look, why won't he let us meet any other people? Why won't he even let us talk to each other? Why were we given all this money to buy supplies in villages and yet these sacks of food keep appearing? Maybe he is part of a secret society of animals who don't want a King and who would be happy if Elkwater was destroyed so the animals can rule? Ever think of that?"
Mike stopped in his tracks. He stared at me, breathing hard, and then he raced off toward Cloud-Warrior. I watched in horror as he shouted to the dog everything I'd said.
Cloud-Warrior turned his head to me, eyes flashing. His ears flattened against his skull and even from the fifty yards or so that separated us, I could hear the growl forming from deep in his chest. He sprinted towards me, his teeth bared.
I turned and ran, thinking back to that day when the giant mice were chasing me in the darkness of the Durshone Wall. I let my pack drop from my back. I looked for a tree to climb.
I'd just decided that I'd better draw my sword when a weight came crashing against my back and I fell forward, my face hitting the grassy earth with painful force. I felt a wet nose against my jaw and hot breath on my neck. This is it, I thought, I wonder if dying will hurt much.
But I did not feel the teeth sink into my throat. Instead, Cloud-Warrior growled, "Sneaky Bull, I was warned that you might try to undermine my authority. I expected it. But no one questions my loyalty to the King or my love for this land. If you do so again I will kill you, Kingfinder or no. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, yes," was my muffled reply.
The weight left my back, and in moments we were on our way again. But things had changed. Cloud-Warrior did not seem to mind questions from Michael, but neither of them seemed interested in talking to me. I was on the outside.
I vowed in my heart to find the king, to release Ari from her prison, and to ask as my reward that Cloud-Warrior be placed in a kennel with a bunch of chihuahuas for the rest of his life.
The next day, the terrain changed from sparse woodland to farmland. Tall stalks with broad leaves filled our vision. Large white flowers with dark centers covered the stalks. Loner led us right in their midst.
"What the heck are these?" asked Mike.
"I cannot pronounce the name humans have, but my kind call them 'nose-of-two-legs'", answered Cloud-Warrior. "The flowers do not last long. Soon men will come and harvest the buds."
Michael examined a bud. "Hey, this does kinda look like a big nose on a witch or something."
"It's okra," I said.
"Okra doesn't grow ten feet high, Tim," answered Michael with a smirk.
"Dogs don't talk and walnut shells don't help you get into other worlds, either," I said. "It's okra."
Michael snapped off a bud and broke it in half, then smelled it.
"Well, I guess it is kind of like okra," he said. He smelled it again. "You know," he said, "I don't really like okra."
"It is the wealth of Elkwater," said Cloud-Warrior. "The Kingdom has prospered because of it."
"Why?" asked my brother, frowning.
"I do not completely understand," answered our guide, "but I know in Kurmanta they make a special paper with the gum and fiber of this plant, paper that is desired all over the world. It seems wealthy humans in distant lands will give much for this special paper, and for quills made from the feathers of the Gold Herons which live near the city, and for the famous inks. They say traders call Kurmanta the City of Quill and Scroll."
"So they just make paper out of all these plants?" asked Michael.
"No," said the dog. "The fruit is cut up and fried and served as treats in the cities. Ground up, it is given to cattle and hogs and horses as feed. Boiled, it is also eaten by you humans. When other food is scarce, there is always "nose-of-two-legs" to eat. But the most important use is the paper."
"But I thought no foreigner is allowed into Elkwater and no one from Elkwater is supposed to go out," I said. "So how is anyone from another land supposed to get the paper?"
"Idiot," said Michael, "weren't you paying attention to Erm. Phosphorus? Remember, the Islands of the First Verse - Elpis - are like a buffer zone where Traders from foreign lands are allowed to bring their ships. Then the traders of Elpis bring the goods to the mainland and then bring Elkwater stuff to the islands again, where the foreigners buy them. So no foreigners actually get anywhere near the mainland, and the islanders technically never leave Elkwater."
"Don't call me an idiot," I said, "Nobody ever told me that because I wasn't supposed to go on this stupid quest in the first place. Besides, it makes no sense. If the islands of Elpis are part of Elkwater, then the foreign traders are breaking the rules. And if they aren't, then the Islanders are breaking the rules by coming to the mainland. Sounds like a way to cheat the law just to make profit. Why not just change the law and let foreigners in and Elkwater people out?"
Cloud-Warrior turned and growled with seriousness, "When Elkwater was conquered by Soranou, this law was made so that Elkwater's armies would never again conquer other lands and so foreigners would not come in to harness the power of this land again as the old Sorceress did. The law was made to protect the world from the potential destruction of this Kingdom."
"This kingdom seems harmless enough," I said.
"May it remain so," said our guide.
"Seems to me like the law ought to change with the times," I said.
"Not this one," said Cloud-Warrior. "Shozer decreed it."
Michael asked what I'd been meaning to for weeks: "Who is Shozer, anyway?"
Cloud warrior turned and continued through the okra field. "You will discover that yourself," he said.
Two days later, after trudging through fields of corn, wheat, beans, and more okra than an army of gumbo fanatics could eat in a lifetime, we reached the banks of the mighty Ryemellow. It was so wide I could not see the other side, but a little to the south I could see pinkish-colored bridge beginning at this bank and extending across the river until it disappeared over the horizon. I could dimly make out what must be people and wagons and horses going one direction or the other over the bridge.
"You must wait here for a few hours," said Cloud-Warrior. I am going to make sure the bridge-wardens know you are coming."
"How will they understand you?" Michael asked.
"They will know when they see me."
"Why can't we go with you?" I asked.
"Because I said so. There should be fresh supplies behind that rock. Stay away from the river. No one should come near you, but if anyone does, show them your swords and they should leave. Do you have your stiles?"
"Yes!" we both shouted.
"I will return, then," he said with a bark, and ran to the south where he disappeared over a hill.
As promised, we found fresh supplies behind the rock Loner pointed out. No one came anywhere near us. Michael took a nap, but I kept looking at the people moving across the bridge and longing to be among them. Surely there would be people nearby when we crossed the only way from the Living City to the rest of Elkwater. But something strange happened in a couple of hours. The traffic across the bridge became sparse, then stopped altogether. Two hours after that, Cloud-Warrior returned.
"We may go now," he simply announced.
For a while, the going was rough. We skirted the mighty Ryemellow as we headed south in the direction of the Bridge, and for the first hour this meant plodding through fields of rye and okra. But then we came upon a little path which grew into a respectable road, and this sped us up considerably. We stopped in our tracks when our own little road intersected the King's Highway, broad and paved. All around us were traders' buildings, the wares of their owners displayed proudly. To the north, the buildings seemed to morph into a town. To the south, the pillars of a great entryway sprang up from the road. The entryway led to the Potter's Bridge, which stretched off to the east as far as my eye could see. But there were no traders, no townspeople, no "Bridge-wardens", no bridge traffic of any kind.
"So you told everyone to scram before we got here," I said to Could-Warrior.
"Follow me to the bridge entrance," he barked. "Do you have your stiles?"
"Yes," we both groaned, exasperated.
He stopped us right in front of the pinkish-colored pillars, where to our right a large pile of stones lay. They were the same color, but of every size and shape. Hundreds of wooden pails were also stacked nearby.
"Fill a pail with those stones," said our guide.
"Why?" asked Michael.
"It is the price of passage. The Eels become unfriendly if you do not cast some of those stones into the river as you cross the bridge."
"How far do we have to bring them?" I asked, feeling the weight of my pack more than ever.
"The more you take and the closer to the center of the bridge you take them, the less the Eels hunger for your flesh, they say." Was their a trace of amusement in the dog's growl?
I filled my pail a respectable amount, but my brother took the white shepherd a little too seriously, filling his pail to overflowing and then filling his pockets with smaller stones. He was grunting and shifting the pail from arm to arm even before we stepped onto the bridge itself.
The bottom of the bridge was about twenty feet from the water, made of the same pink stone as we carried in our buckets, and wide enough for fifteen or twenty to walk abreast. I couldn't see the other side of the river. My pail began to feel pretty heavy.
"What do the Eels want with rocks, anyway?" asked Michael, who seemed to be in growing distress.
"These rocks become soft as clay for a short time when they are wet, but then harden when they dry to the hardest stones of all," Cloud-Warrior answered. "That's why they were used to build this bridge, the City of Kurmanta, and most things in the Second Verse. The Eels use them for their own building projects, or so it is said."
"What do Eels build?" I asked.
"That is their affair. But the constant supply of stone was their price for the building of this bridge, long ago."
"So they are smart Eels," I mused.
"They are unfriendly. You cannot swim in the Ryemellow, or wade, or even boat on it, lest they devour you. You cannot cross it at all except by this bridge." The canine Knight picked up his pace, perhaps unconsciously.
"Unless you have a stile with you," I said.
"Care to test the theory?" asked Cloud-Warrior.
I think I already did, I mumbled to myself.
"How come you didn't bring any rocks?" I asked the dog.
"Non-humans are exempt from the toll," he answered.
Figured.
A few minutes later we stopped so Michael could massage his arms. He pointed to the north and west.
"Tim! Look at that!"
I looked, and the late afternoon sun shone over a surreal mountain or cloud in the distance, a rectangular block rising from the ground and stretching out to the west.
"The Durshone Wall." Michael whispered. "It is almost more amazing from a distance."
I shuddered, thinking of what was behind it. "What is that lump on the corner there?" I asked.
"That would be one of the Season Statues. I cannot pronounce her name, but it stands for the time of year when you two-legs harvest," answered our guide.
"Lady Phthinoporon," said Michael proudly. "Autumn."
"Her parents must have hated her to give her a name like that," I quipped.
"This would be a good place to throw these rocks," said Michael, ignoring me. "It's a nice view."
I almost said I'd go further along out of spite, but my arms were tired too. Instead, I went over to the side of the bridge facing away from that wall.
"The wall gives me the creeps. I'm throwing them over here."
I dropped a largish one over the edge, and there was a swirl of activity around it. "Cool!" I yelled.
Michael came over to see, and brought his own rocks with him. Before long, we were dropping rocks with abandon, excited to see what must have been Eels whisking them away. I paced myself halfway through the bucket. I didn't want run out of rocks before Michael.
It was kinda fun.
My brother got through his bucket, then emptied the rocks out of his pockets and set them on the ledge of a stone railing we had been leaning against.
I noticed that he had inadvertently laid his walnut shell on the railing too, mixed up with the stones.
I almost called him an idiot for that. But I didn't say anything.
He wasn't really looking at what he was doing as he would grab for a rock on the railing and throw it into the river. His eyes were on the swirling beneath us. I watched his hand out of the corner of my eye without, I hoped, being too obvious. I knew if he picked up the stile he would know it was too light, and it would go right back in his pocket.
But a tiny little push from me, a brush of my hand, and I knew my brother's stile would go tumbling into the water. It would so look like an accident, and who would really be to blame? It would be my brother's fault for stupidly putting it on the ledge in the first place. I inched a little closer.
Michael grabbed the rock right next to his stile, and the walnut shell moved right to the edge of the rail as he brushed it with his knuckle. He felt it and looked down. He saw it. He gave a shout.
Cloud-Warrior padded over to see what was the matter.
Thus, we all were watching when Michael opened his hand to drop the rock he'd just picked up. We all saw the rock roll right against the stile, pushing it over the edge of the rail like a cue ball. We all saw Michael desperately grab for it, but too late.
The stile fell into the river as if in slow motion, blown a little to the side in the breeze, tumbling over itself in a graceful dive.
When it hit the water, there was a swirl of activity as before with the rocks. But the swirling intensified, and soon a dome of foam and froth rose from the river, a blue-green light at its center. And then the swirling stopped, and all was calm on the river again.
No one said anything for a moment. Then Cloud-Warrior began heading down the bridge again.
"Bring your empty buckets," he barked.
"I didn't mean to!" Michael wailed, rooted in place. His face was red, his lips shuddering.
"Let's go," called our guide from up ahead.
"But my stile," Michael cried, his hands open in pleading.
Cloud-Warrior pivoted and ran right at my brother, teeth bared. He was all Loner at that moment. Michael cowered and covered his face as the dog barked inches from his ear, "I'm getting you two foolish Bulls over the bridge as fast as I can now. No more breaks. No more chances to throw away the last stile. Now move!"
And we did.
***
When we reached the far side of the Potter's Bridge, dusk was gathering. No one had spoken a word. Cloud-Warrior set a breakneak pace in quiet fury, my brother stumbled along behind with the occasional deep sigh or sob, and I trailed behind, weighed down with a strange mix of emotions. On the one hand, my brother's loss of his stile was a terrific victory for me, since it meant I would probably be the one to find the King. This meant that I'd be fulfilling Ari's command and therefore I'd be one step closer to rescuing her from that horrible snake and those filthy vermin. But something about the whole thing made me sick to my stomach. For one thing, I didn't like the feeling of everything depending on me all of a sudden. For another, I actually felt a little guilty for not alerting Mike to the precarious state of his walnut shell when he first took it out of his pocket. I know I had done far worse in the past few weeks, but there was something about this minor omission that felt more like a betrayal than anything else I'd done. I just could my finger on exactly who I'd betrayed. Michael, sure. Cloud-Warrior, yes. The King and the kingdom, maybe. Myself? Nah, too corny.
I'd betrayed somebody altogether different. After a while, I just decided not to think about it.
Silently, then, we exited the far side of the bridge and wound our way up a small mountain at the East side of the River. Roads branched out from our main highway every thirty yards or so, and I could see homes built onto the side of the mountain, pasture land, and flocks of goats. Higher up, I could see great boiling vats of liquid (unattended), and I supposed (correctly) these had something to do with the papermaking.
When we crested the small mountain, I could see the Living City below, stretching out for miles to the coast. Its walls were pink, but plants grew all along the walls, giving them a veined appearance. Torch and candle lights were flickering everywhere with the approaching night. People moved about in the distance.
In the center of the city was a statue of a great animal horn rising up into the sky. It was also made of this pink stone. It was the horn I'd spied from the top of the Durshone wall, a distant monument like some proud spiral of the Serengeti.
And everywhere, trees and plants grew. They did not overgrow the city, but they were not placed like a garden either. It was as if the wilderness and the metropolis found common ground together, and decided to be friends instead of foes.
We descended to the Main Gate, which was unguarded, and wound our way through the city. I could hear voices in the distance, and occasionally saw movement in the higher windows of some of the buildings, but it was clear everyone was avoiding us.
After five or six turns we came to a large building with several stories. Nice smells were coming from it, like roasting meat and corn. Cloud-Warrior pushed open the door and we walked into what could only have been some kind of fancy Inn. But the restaurant to the right was empty of people. Bowls were on the tables, still steaming, and mugs were at the bar. It looked very recently abandoned.
On a peg on one wall a single key was dangling, and our guide removed it with his jaws and headed up the stairway. Entranced by it all, I followed. My brother wasn't sobbing any more. Maybe the prospect of a hot bath and soft bed was distracting him from his sorrows.
We climbed the ornately-carved staircase to the top (fourth) floor, and walked down a hall where we found a single, large door. Vis Cloud-Warrior dropped the key at my feet. I stared at it.
"Unless you'd like to camp out here, I suggest you unlock the door," said the dog.
I did. And opened it too. But I hardly noticed the rich fabrics, the fine terrace, the marbled floors, or the spacious rooms of this royal Inn. All I could see were the two large men who rose from their seats to greet us, their arms folded, their expressions stoic.
Morning-Tamer and Mountain-Chaser were obviously expecting us.
"I trust you both have your stiles," said Morning-Tamer, flatly.
It was going to be a long night.
***CHAPTER END**** |
© Copyright 2007 Basilides (UN: basilides at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Basilides has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|
Log In To Leave Feedback
Static Items
Books
Forums
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
