Entry #487820, added on 05-08-07 @ 2:53 pm EDT
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| Chapter Nine - Sting Parade | Entry #487820 |
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 Nine- Sting Parade
There was a castle called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair.
~John Bunyan
Our hunt for clues felt a lot like goofing off that day. We'd come to a dead end in our search for the boy named Perry, so one day Uncle Jim offered to help us hunt for clues all around the property. He suggested we follow the creek and see if we could find some artifacts dating back to the "Sunnydell Farm" era. Naturally, he knew the chances of finding something helpful were nearly zero, but Jim knew that adding a hunt for clues to a creeking expedition (our second that summer) could make it even more fun for us.
Uncle Jim was not our uncle. He was something like a cousin. He was (and is) married to Aunt Eva and Uncle Martin's daughter Barbara. Full of an almost inhuman patience, stability, and kindness, he also never hesitated to sacrifice his time for me and Michael. Because of these qualities, we wanted to hang out with Jim any chance we got.
Since Jim felt perfectly at home outdoors (due in part to extended membership in the Scouts), most of our activities with him took place in the wild. This day, we put on our "old" tennis shoes and followed his lead, exploring the most remote sections of Little Fox Creek.
While skirting the southern edge of the property, Michael let out a shout. He'd spied something shiny sticking out of the bank of the creek. He scrambled up the side of the creek, right next to the giant fence erected by the chemical plant that stood next to the wooded southern edge of the Farm.
"Don't touch the fence!" I yelled. "It might be electrified!"
Michael gave the fence a nervous look, but Jim said, "No, it isn't electrified; but it is property of Porter Wiokol Industries. Touching it is technically trespassing."
Michael stayed away from the fence, but after what Jim said, I had an itch to touch it.
Michael pulled the object free and immediately ran to us with excitement.
"A bullet! A bullet!" he yelled.
It was coppery in color, and longer than I expected a bullet to be.
Jim looked at it closely. "It is not a bullet, but a spent shell casing." He looked at it closely. "It says KS 41 06-30. I'm not an expert on ammunition, so I don't know what that means."
"You mean it was fired?" I asked.
"Hey, maybe someone shot Perry! Maybe he was murdered! Maybe Ned killed him with this bullet!" Michael was developing a theory in his mind and shouting it out at the same time.
"I don't think so," said Jim. "This looks like more of a military round, I think. And there used to be a military ammunition factory around here years ago. Barbara told me that her brothers used to dig up old ammunition when they were kids and sell it for scrap."
"Was any of it live?" I asked.
"I don't know," answered Jim. "But live ammunition is dangerous."
Right on cue, a tremendous thundering sound came from the chemical plant next-door. We'd heard the rumbling before, of course, but never from this close up. It startled me nearly out of my clothes.
"What was that?" asked Mike, poking his head out from behind a tree.
"Porter Wiokol is testing rocket boosters," said Jim. "They will be used for a new kind of spacecraft. They are supposed to roll it out in September of this year."
"It's loud," said my brother.
"Duh,"I replied. And then I turned to Jim. "Who told you they were building a spaceship over there anyway?"
"Not a spaceship," he answered. "Rocket boosters for a spaceship. Martin told me. He still cuts the grass for them, you know."
"I think Uncle Martin's pulling your leg," I said. "Nobody is building rockets just south of the family Farm."
"Then how do you explain the rumble?" asked Mike.
"I can think of a bunch of things not related to spaceships," I answered. We were all walking again, following the creek.
"Why do you have to be so stupid?" Mike asked.
I started to shout in reply, but Jim put his hand on my shoulder.
"That's all right, Tim," he said,"you don't have to take my word for it. Maybe Uncle Martin can take you there himself sometime."
Before I could reply, Loner began barking wildly up ahead.
"There's Loner!" said Jim. "I wonder what's got him all--"
Suddenly there were black bees all around us, some kind of dark mud wasp I suppose. They swirled. all around because we'd apparently one of us had stepped onto their underground nest.
"Run!" shouted Jim. "Follow me!"
I did, but I watched in horror as one of the insects flew right onto my forearm. Black as night and slender, it flipped its wings and was gone,leaving serious pain in its wake.
I shouted a vowel of some kind. My brother screamed behind me.
The next few moments were a blur of running, yelling, barking, and wanton insectoid fury. We left the woods and ran straight through a cornfield, knocking down innocent stalks in panic-filled abandon. Finally, we broke out onto Geimler Road. The wasps were long gone by then, but Michael and I were still flailing our arms in the air and yelling.
"My arm!" I shouted.
"My finger!" screamed Michael.
Suddenly a pickup truck came cruising by with three teenage girls riding in the back. They were occupants of one of the rentals in the back woods. They waved at us.
We waved back, calmly and completely without painful gesticulations.
"Seems like you both recovered nicely," said Jim, a big smile on his face.
"Pride's more important to me than pain," I said. One of my old soccer coaches had said that once. It occurs to me today that we were both clueless.
****************************************************
"Wake up, Sneaky Bull. Breakfast," growled Cloud-Warrior.
I sat up quickly, excited to get on with the day. I brushed aside the lingering dream-memory of bee-sting pain and tried to think of happier things – like the positive turn the quest had taken. Almost as if on cue, the sound of strumming filled the air. Kwotik’s morning ritual of playing a tune on his guitar-like minguilin was a part of that positive turn.
The inclusion of Journeyman Kwotik (his official title) to our quest made the whole affair incomparably more pleasant. He enjoyed talking, singing, and playing the minguilin to our own hearts’ content. It was not cumbersome for him to carry; he could assemble it from his sack. He had dozens of traveling-games at his disposal, had a knack for keeping Mike and I from arguing, carried a lot of supplies (thus reducing the weight of our own packs considerably), and even seemed to improve Cloud-Warrior's overall disposition.
Kwotik was annoying for his stubborn denial of several things, however. He steadfastly refused to believe that Michael and I came from a different world ("That's the result of some hallucinogens imposed upon you," he would say), that we had any real communication with Cloud-Warrior ("Such imaginations you two have, thinking a dog is talking to you"), that our stiles were anything more than cheap, third-rate buzzers ("they sell better at magic shops throughout Dollgoquany"), or that we could speak any language we came into contact with ("You already knew these languages before they drugged you"). He also laughed at the suggestion that a Kingdom called Soranou lay to the South of Elkwater or that there was ever a person named Shozer.
Michael argued that since Kwotik believed in magic, he ought to have no trouble at all believing in Soranou or Shozer.
"That Shozer stuff isn't magic," Kwotik had replied. "Magic is, after all, verifiable. Religion is another story, totally unverifiable. It's just made-up myths to keep people in line."
"Did you have to go and pick an atheist?" Michael whispered to me that day.
"Well, he does have a point," I said, to my brother's horror.
Yes, things were much better with Kwotik around.
At first, our journey south along the west bank of the Ryemellow brought us through heavily populated areas. The Potter’s Bridge was Elkwater’s only link to the Second Verse and thus to Heron Bay, the islands of the First Verse, and the sea beyond. The Ryemellow River, an amazing concourse wider than a river has any business being, ran the whole North-South length of Elkwater from the impassable Northern Trake on the northern side to the Sea of Soranou (or the Kingdom of Soranou, depending on whom you asked) on the southernmost border. This arrangement effectively made the long strip of north-south land known as the Second Verse, Graphe, a great island since it was bordered on the West by the Ryemellow and on the East by the Sea. The savage Eels prevented any crossing of the great river except by the one route made possible by the Potter’s Bridge. The miles around this crossing thus became a center of commerce, and this caused the population to swell like bread rising. Kwotik expressed wonder that the Kingdom could sustain so many people and yet maintain a surplus of food.
Of course, he hadn’t journeyed through all those endless fields of okra.
“There isn’t even a city proper here,” commented Kwotik, “just towns merging into one big mass of humanity. It’s a lot more sanitary than a big city, but the total population probably rivals Dollgoquany back in the Kindred Lands. What did you say the name of this verse was?”
“Thanatos,” Michael answered. “The Fifth Verse.”
“Thanatos,” mused the Bard. “I wonder what that means.”
“Death,” I said, because I understood any spoken tongue.
Kwotik stopped and looked around with a smirk. “Those verses don’t always seem to match the reality of the situation, do they?”
Michael added, “The whole verse is ‘From the living King comes death, from the dying King comes life,’ so there is life too. It has something to do with Shozer, I think.”
“Ah,” said Kwotik, “so this ‘Shozer’ is at the center of one of those ‘dying god’ religions. The Ysarda have a similar belief, but they are the bad guys you know.”
Michael looked as confused as I felt (but didn’t show). He said, “I’ll ask Lon…I mean, Cloud-Warrior.” And he proceeded to do so.
Cloud-Warrior, who was leading the way as usual, seemed to know a little about the matter, which was unusual considering his regular apathy toward human history.
“This is the Verse where the great fire mage discovered a way to kill Shozer,” the dog growled. “But Shozer had already been killed.”
Kwotik watched the animated exchange between Michael and the canine guide with amusement. “You kids are really, really too much,” he said. “Can you do kitty-cat impressions too?”
Michael’s face got red. “I’m not going to tell you what he said, then.”
“Convenient,” chuckled Kwotik.
In the following days, the towns became more scattered and finally disappeared altogether. Soon, even the occasional farmstead stopped appearing, and the land gave way to a friendly wilderness of rolling hills and light forests. Meanwhile, the bank of the Ryemellow became ever more steep, and by the time I had the dream about the stinging mud wasps the bank had become a small canyon. The eastern bank was too far to see, but Michael assured me that it too was becoming steeper. His knowledge of Elkwater geography was beginning to aggravate me.
Cloud-Warrior was leading us to the southernmost border of Elkwater, and I was full of butterflies at what we would see when we got there. Michael said some of the maps showed only “The Kingdom of Soranou” south of Elkwater with no topographical details. Others simply showed an end to the land and the beginning of the “Sea of Soranou.”
Kwotik had no doubt in his mind what we would see. “Look, I’ve talked to seamen who’ve skirted the edge of the Sea of Soranou. It is impassable due to the deadly epic currents, but I assure you there is only salt water south of Elkwater. Once you round the southeast corner of the kingdom by boat, there is one barren island to land on before you risk getting dashed to pieces on the rocks or carried away to sea, sails notwithstanding.”
When asked, Cloud-Warrior would only say, “You will see what you will see.”
Before we reached the southernmost point of Tuntuq-teague, though, the Ryemellow had a surprise for us. The river – and thus the canyon – began to widen. By this time the canyon was so deep it rivaled the Grand Canyon back on our world, and I saw islands here and there in the middle of the river. The islands became larger the further south we traveled, and finally there could be no doubt that we were gazing down upon a massive delta. The islands were so large that it appeared the Ryemellow had divided itself into dozens of rivers. Some of the islands were fairly elevated above the river, with streams and creeks of their own running through. Many of the islands were forested, but some of the larger ones also had bare hills and fields of wildflowers.
“Whoa,” said Michael. “Those islands are beautiful. I wonder why no one lives there?”
“Because of the Eels, you idiot,” I said, glad for an opportunity to make my brother feel foolish.
“Shut up, Tim. You are so immature.”
“I’d rather be immature than a tick-chewing moron,” I replied. The power of the stile was helping me to become more inventive with my insults.
“Ya know,” Kwotik cut in, “if I had hair like either of you two noble kingfinders, I’d be more worried about ticks chewing on me. But I’m not sure we could find a barber to tackle either project. I think a Barber would lose his tools in that billowing cumulonimbus atop your head there, Mike. And as for you, Tim, I wouldn’t be surprised if those tangled tentacles of matted hair could swipe a razor right out of the poor barber’s hands and use fend him off with it. I wouldn’t be joking about ticks, oh no.”
I resisted the urge to check my scalp right then, but Michael put both hands immediately to the top of his head, pressing his hair down in the process. It was amazing how much shorter he looked when he did that.
“I don’t feel any ticks,” he said.
“I’m surprised you can feel your head,” said the troubadour.
“Why don’t you cut our hair then?” I asked him.
Kwotik stopped walking and turned to face me, an expression of comic gravity on his face. “I?” he asked. “I?”
He threw off his pack and leapt up to the top of a boulder near the ledge of the Ryemellow Canyon, raising one arm in some kind of victory salute. “I once climbed to the top of Mt. Caldobobble on the Isle of Tukpoor, pursued by the frenzied zealots of the K’miltoy Tribe. There on the summit, surrounded by smoke and steam from that bubbling crater, I stood my ground against seven angry Shamani and fifty of their goons until a terrific belch from that infernal peak sent a volley of hot rocks into their midst, securing my escape.”
Kwotik descended from the boulder in one bound and crouched, making swimming motions with his arms. “It was I alone who vaulted over the rail of the Paradise and into the sea when the dreaded pirate ship Inferno won the day. I swam the three miles in rough seas to the shores of Carolton, having lost everything but my life and my will to sing—“
The Bard stood up straight and puffed out his chest, looking out to an invisible audience. “—yes, to sing to the inscrutable Swimming Birds, the most dastardly innocent race on all of Tos, when I was in the process of being digested by a carnivorous vegetable. They had taken me literally when I’d boasted that I could invent a song while being swallowed by a rutabaga if need be. Unfortunately, they happened to have some sort of man-eating stalk at hand, and put the idea of whether I could “sing to save my life” to the test. They decided that I should sing a song about the first word that came out of my mouth once I woke up in a state of being halfway down that cursed lichen-crusted gullet, and when the first word that escaped me was a certain expletive, they had me figured for fertilizer. But they underestimated my prowess as I made up this now-famous ditty on the spot:
I’ll sing of a man from Barkool, a fisherman by trade,
who’d never an extra copper, because everything he made
went to feed his many uncles and aunts, his parents and sisters and brothers,
his nieces and nephews and cousins-in-law, along with a host of others!
He worked day and night to sustain them all, no time for rest or sleep,
He’d come home for an hour once a month, and fall to the floor in a heap!
Poor auld Phineas Feck,
The most honorable man on Tos,
He’d offer his coat to a shivering goat,
And his glass eye to an albatross – hoss,
His glass eye to an albatross!
One day on his way to his house from the wharf, all covered with fish guts and grime,
He spied a gull flying over his head a second and then a third time
Which meant (of course) he could make a deal for anything he could wish,
No matter that he was ugly and poor, or smelled like a rotting old fish!
But the catch, you see, was that the payment required by the magic, incongruous bird,
Was the thing that Feck most valued, and so this is what next occurred…
Oh poor auld Phineas Feck,
He couldn’t resist the temptation
Asking, ‘Bird, please gimme a life of ease,
I’ll pay with my reputation –shon,
I’ll pay with my reputation!”
So he had more gold than he knew how to spend, more dough than he’d ever hoped,
And his parasitic relatives? They moved, died off, or eloped,
But the price he paid was terribly high, and he’d trade his plenty for lack,
That’s right! He’d be thrilled to cancel the deal just to have his good name back,
For Phineas could not sleep at night without waking up disturbed
That the mischievous gull (as part of the deal) turned his surname into a verb.
Poor auld Phineas Feck,
A man nobody could blame
Wished for all the gold his house could hold,
But he lost his feckin’ good name – aim,
He lost his feckin’ good name!
‘Cause he paid with his reputation – shon,
He paid with his reputation!
Raise your glass to an albatross – hoss
Raise your glass to an albatross!”
Michael and I stood open-mouthed, our faces beet-red. We were never, ever allowed to curse. Using profanity when we were upset was forbidden to us, but using profanity in humor was a crime punishable by a week’s grounding , starvation for a meal, or both.
Kwotik realized that he had forayed into the inappropriate when he saw our expressions. He froze in mid-bow and cleared his throat.
“Gophersnot,” he said, making it worse. “The point is, the point I’m making – gosh you two goody-two-sandals have really thrown me off here – the thing I’m getting at is although I have done all these brave things, I’d never dare attempt to tackle the tops of your heads.”
We still stared at him.
“Oh come on! Welcome to the real world and all! You kids can’t tell me you have led such sheltered lives that you—Hey, will someone please tell me what that stupid mutt is yapping about?”
Cloud-Warrior was indeed trying to get our attention. When I finally turned to pay attention to him, he was growling impatiently.
“If you are finished being entertained by the stick-carrying string-plucker,” he barked, “you might be interested to know that you may begin to see what we have journeyed here to see.
“Behold the Empire of Soranou.”
We followed Cloud-Warrior, and even Kwotik was silent. The land continued south for some distance, but to our right - to the West, the ground ended suddenly at the edge of a cliff. To the West, a line of mountains marked the end of the land as far as the eye could see. To the North, there was a bit of land that jutted further South, but after this the Ryemellow delta emptied out into the sea. Below us, powerful waves crashed against innumerable rocky shoals.
To the South, the sea stretched out to the horizon, an unbroken white-capped floor of blue.
Soranou, it appeared, was a fairy-tale after all.
I saw Kwotik put his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Hey, kid, there's enough real magic left in the world to make up for all the myths, you know? Don't take this so hard."
I couldn't see my brother's expression, so I don't know why Kwotik was so concerned. But I could see Michael's fists clenched at his sides as he looked out at the empty sea.
"Well, that's that," said Kwotik. "Now I think we're supposed to go West, unless our not-so furless leader has an objection." The bard picked his pack up off the ground and began to walk in the direction of the mountains.
"We keep walking to the south until the land ends," said Cloud-Warrior, taking note of Kwotik's intentions. And he trotted off down the bit of land that still jutted south.
"You're kidding me," said the bard to himself when he saw where the dog was going. "Enough's enough. I think we got the point." But he shrugged and followed.
I walked after Kwotik, but Michael remained behind, staring over the edge of the cliff. Kwotik eventually came back for him, and whatever he said broke my brother out of his trance. He followed, but at some distance behind.
We travelled down that southern spike for a couple of hours, and where it ended there was a monument. The monument was a stone dog, one that very much looked like a German Shepherd, cut from black rock. The stone reminded me of the kind of rock I saw at the place of tombs, the building where Ari was trapped and where the Lady slithered.
"Hey, look!" joked Kwotik. "It's Cloud-Warrior!"
Mike came jogging up, a look of forlorn interest in his red eyes. But the statue did not look anything like Cloud-Warrior to me. Though missing the golden swirls, it looked to me like the Shepherd I'd seen in the glade of stone.
Below, there was an inscription.
"What's it say?" asked Kwotik.
"I don't know," I answered. "I can only speak any language, not read it. I only read English. I thought you could read."
"I read sixteen different languages," said the bard in a huff, "but I haven't had time to learn much of this blasted script. Maybe the nice doggie can read it."
I asked Cloud-Warrior.
"I was kidding," shouted the bard.
"I don't have to read to know what it says," answered Cloud-Warrior in spite of the human guide. "This is a statue of the Hound of Soranou."
"He says it's the Hound of Soranou," I told Kwotik.
"Well duh," answered the Bard, "and you didn't need Cloudster to tell you that, but nice try. That still doesn't tell us what the inscription says, though. I'm guessing it says, 'The real Soranou is in your heart' or some similar tripe."
Kwotik looked past my shoulder. "Now what's gotten into your brother? He--oh gophersnot." Kwotik said this last as his gaze took in the scene to the north and west.
I turned and was, in turn, astounded.
From this southernmost point we could see the southern shore running East and West since we were some miles from where most of Elkwater met the sea. But the shoreline was completely unnatural. The mountains that ran all along it were perfectly halved, their northern sides (which we had seen on the journey south) sloping and irregular just as mountains ought to be, but these southern sides were perfectly sheer all the way to the peaks, or partway to the peaks in cases where the mountains were oriented more to the North.
It looked like the entire coastline, mountains and all, had been sliced like butter with some gigantic celestial knife.
Michael's eyes were shining, but not with tears of despair.
"For the land of shadows is cut asunder from the Kingdom which casts them, and separate shall the two remain until the Destroyer's work is done, and the Prince of Soranou rides forth to gather the sons and daughters of Carthalo. That's what it says," Michael beamed, "That's what the prophecy says. And this is proof."
"Look," explained Kwotik, "let's not get carried away here. I admit that this is unusual and...impressive. But there are a number of possible explanations that don't involve the supernatural."
"Like what?" asked Mike.
"Like...tectonic forces. I'm no geologist, but maybe there is some kinda unusual fault line here."
"Uh huh, right," Michael said.
"Or...or magic of an especially powerful kind."
"You don't believe magic could make me understand all languages, but you think magic could cause this? Try again."
My brother really had this "man of the world" on his heels. It was kind of disturbing to watch, to tell you the truth.
Kwotik folded his arms. "Listen, it is obvious what has happened here. This mysterious geological phenomenon was clearly like this before your little prophecy was written, and then the foretelling was foretold to 'explain' this phenomenon by conveniently using the local religion. This sort of thing happens all the time and in lots of cultures. Hey! I'm talking to you!"
But Michael was bounding away, a spring in his step and laughter in his eyes.
"One more generation for the mystics," muttered Kwotik under his breath. "Behold the birth of another religious nutcase."
He didn't mean it this way, but his words made me think of the walnut shell in my pocket, and made me wonder.
*************************************
For the next several days, Kwotik spent a great deal of his time explaining the known historical beginnings of several religions, none of which involved anything outside science or magic. He also gave us a list of rational arguments against the likelihood of any religion whatsoever that involved the supernatural. These lectures had no effect on Michael at all, who had clearly reached the stage of some sort of conversion. As for me, I hadn't made up my mind. On the one hand Kwotik seemed to make a lot of sense, and I really wasn't interested in swallowing the beliefs of this foreign culture anyway. On the other hand, the fact that Kwotik put the fact of my own world and the stile - both of which I knew to be real - in the same category as religion made me question whether he really knew what he was talking about.
I don't think he was really trying to convince us, anyway. I think he was ticking off his favorite arguments against the supernatural more as a comforting measure, since his faith in doubt was being put to the test.
We journeyed in a more northwesterly direction than due West, since there was no reason to scale those mountains which lined the great slice of southern shore. Kwotik explained that we were headed to the Sixth Verse, Katallage in order to very briefly contact the strange citizens who lived there - the Waskinde.
"Just 'hello' and 'goodbye', as I understand it," said Kwotik, in-between philosophical rantings. "I've heard of these creatures, or bits of legends about them. I don't mind saying I'm tremendously excited about meeting one. I'll be the envy of Hollenwain."
"What do they look like?" I asked.
"Ah," Kwotik waved his arm dismissively, "I'm not supposed to tell. There's a bunch of stuff I promised to keep from you two until you find out for yourselves, and I hate to tell you this but I do intend to keep the promise. The consequences for opening my mouth are sufficient to keep me honest, although personally I think most of it is silliness."
"Should we be scared of these things?" I asked, hoping Michael didn't hear me.
"Hey, a little bit of fear is healthy all the time. You never know which sneeze is going to break a blood vessel."
"What?" I asked.
"Never mind. Don't worry too much. After all, you've got one guide who is trained to Sapphire level on the quarterstaff, and another who is a testicle-eating monster. What could possibly go wrong?"
For five days we walked with the breeze. At first, there was a stiff wind at our backs compelling us forward. After a full day of traveling the wind lightened and gently swirled around us as if it wasn't sure which way to blow. We skirted the feet of the Starlit Mountains - that range so strangely sliced on its southern side - and after the first day they were always to our left. Since it was the month of Glevis (roughly corresponding to the end of June back in my world), the heat should have made our journey much more difficult. Instead, the playful wind invigorated us and kept us going even in the midday sun.
Most of the five days were easy going: through meadows, across mountain streams, and past thinly wooded forests. On the third day we had to hike down a steep ravine, then up again the other side. It was on the way back up that Michael was stung by some spider or scorpion (we never found out what it was) as he felt around some rock for a handhold. He pretended to take it like a man, but the rest of the way up the ravine he was coaxed and coddled insufferably by Kwotik. Then, for the next two days as his hand swelled, he was treated like some kind of trauma patient by the Bard. Even Cloud-Warrior seemed sympathetic, and the whole quest went at a slower pace because of a little sting on the big baby's palm.
Worst of all, the contents of his pack were divided between me and Kwotik so as to "improve the circulation to Kingfinder Michael's arm". The injustice of having to suffer because my clumsy brother failed to look where he was sticking his hand was almost too much to bear.
For a while, I was distracted by Kwotik, who told us some pretty colorful stories about the Kindred Lands. I gathered that the place was a collection of large islands or small continents, each ruled by separate governments but held together by an alliance against the evil guy, Halma. Kwotik's own homeland was "Lowellia", and he was still half-convinced Mike and I were from there too because of our knowledge of its language and perfect accents. It was the language we all spoke together on the quest. Because of that we could get little out of him regarding his own land. But he did tell us a lot about Hollenwain, the school for bards located in the north of his country.
"Will you ever go back?" I asked.
Kwotik laughed. "And do what? Teach? I'd rather stick my tongue in boiling bear fat than to waste words on most of the tone-deaf upstarts that end up flunking out of Hollenwain. Not that I'd last long. I have this fantasy about putting firecrackers in the breakfast bowl of one or two of the Masters, and I doubt I'd be able to resist the temptation if I had to dine with them."
"People can't help it if they are tone deaf," I said.
"No, but you don't go to a school that requires good singing to graduate if you can't differentiate high notes from low notes, even if your parents are rich and influential and you are born too late in the family to have any inheritance left over. It's like the dad says, 'Gee, Junior isn't good at anything else so I'll pull some strings and get him into Hollenwain.' Ha. The Masters will take the poor klunk's money but there isn't a chance the kid will ever become a Bard."
"So what's the big deal about being a bard?" I asked. Unfortunately.
Kwotik stopped in his tracks. "What did you say? Did I hear you right? Are you feeling well?" His face reddened and his eyes bulged out a little. "The big deal is that Bards hold human society together, remind folks of past mistakes and lift their spirits with tales of glory. We are the entertainers, the objective third party to any dispute, the diplomats, the negotiators of treaties, the news reporters, and the defenders of justice and benevolence. We are the keepers of the spoken word, the vessels where the wine of human experience is stored. We are the explorers, the frontiersmen, the wizards of language, the tamers of the tongue. We are counselors to Kings and comforters to slaves. Well do the common folk call us 'Word Mages', for by my powers I can start a war or turn an army aside. I can turn an ugly fourth daughter of a King into the most beautiful and desirable Princess on Tos, or turn a gorgeous Prince into a foul and despicable maggot-ridden leper. I am Rin Kwotik, Sapphire level Bard of the Cunlaney Order, the youngest ever to achieve that distinction. And it is indeed a big deal."
"Yeah, Tim. What's your problem?" Michael chimed in.
"You are my problem," I answered, enraged.
"Ahuey, ahuey, ahuey, Mike laughed and danced away, unencumbered by a pack and seemingly much recovered from his spider bite.
"I swear I'm going to kill him before this is all over," I said to Kwotik.
"Ah, what's a little razzing? But don't joke about killing, Tim. You should know there is nothing in killing worth a joke."
I almost asked him where the joke was, but decided to keep my mouth shut.
Kwotik stopped telling stories after that, which was a bad thing. Worse, Michael stepped in to fill the silence. He told stories of the Farm, not all of which pictured me in the best light. Several arguments erupted because of that, and soon I developed a hobby of correcting him in his details. Mike had a knack for hyperbole. If he said the Farm was 700 acres, I corrected the number to 675. If he said there were a dozen feral cats in the barn, I corrected the number to five.
But when Mike claimed the large 1896 series silver certificate we found was worth a thousand dollars, I made the mistake of correcting him again.
"No, you idiot," I said. "Mr. Fletcher at the A&P looked it up and said it was probably worth a hundred dollars, not a thousand. He wrote down some reference number in Aunt Eva's address book. Get your facts straight and stop exaggerating."
Instead of launching into a tirade at me, Michael said nothing. He didn't even look at me. A moment later I realized my only experience with that silver certificate was in the nightly dreams of the Farm. Now Mike knew I was having those dreams as well. I groaned inwardly. I'd kept this from Mike because I didn't want to have anything to share in common with him, nothing to bring us closer together in the Quest.
Sure enough, that night Mike woke me up - maybe the first time in my life when I'd fallen asleep before he did. The revelation was clearly on his mind.
"Why didn't you tell me you were having the same dreams?" he asked.
"Because I didn't want your stinky face waking me up in the middle of the night to discuss them," I said, truthfully enough.
"What do you think it means?" he asked.
"Probably that this is the dream and what we are doing on the Farm is the reality," I said.
"I...I don't think so," he replied. "I think we are getting to peek at what our other selves are doing on the farm because the search for Perry there has something to do with the search for the King here."
"Oh really," I said with a smirk. "So who is arranging for that peek? The Usher?"
"Maybe," he said. Then reverently, "Or maybe Shozer."
"You talk about Shozer like he's some kind of god," I said. "You are supposed to be a Catholic."
"M-maybe it's the same thing, kind of," Michael said in a low whisper.
"Leave me alone and go to sleep," I said, and turned away from him. I pretended to sleep until I heard him lie back down, then turned over onto my back and stared at the unfamiliar stars and one of the moons.
Mike was really freaking me out.
Rain woke me up in the morning. It was a drizzly sort of rain, but it had been falling long enough for me to wake up soaked. I sat up, blinking. Mike and Kwotik were standing by a fire under a ledge in the side of the hill we'd been sleeping on. They'd apparently decided to leave me out in the open.
"Thanks a lot!" I yelled.
"Hey I tried to wake you and you nearly bit my hand," said Kwotik.
"Ahuey, ahuey," laughed Michael, and I resolved to somehow pay him back that day.
Once I'd changed clothes and ate breakfast, I was feeling much better. Kwotik had made a really nice tea out of some local plant he'd found. Mostly it was nice because it was hot.
"Where's Loner?" I asked, suddenly realizing his absence.
"Who?" asked the bard.
"Cloud-Warrior, I mean."
"Dunno. Out doing doggie stuff I guess. He was gone when I woke up."
"I was awake," said Michael. "He said he was going to scout ahead and see how far we had to go. He said he thought we were getting close."
"Well there you go then. He's scouting," said Kwotik, rolling his eyes. "Or maybe he's off to give a dissertation on the depradations of cats. You boys crack me up."
"Did he say when he'd be back?" I asked.
"No," said Michael.
"Fancy that," said the Bard. "Tell you what, let's try these clothes over the fire - careful! Not too close! - and we'll go looking for him in a bit."
It turns out that it wasn't necessary for us to go looking. By the time the clothes were dry, Cloud-Warrior came padding under the ledge.
"We'll be there by this afternoon," he growled. "It is slippery to the top of the hill but not a bad walk for you down the other side. If the rain clears, you'll be able to see Waskindia from just beyond those trees."
"Is poor puppy growling because it's wet?" asked Kwotik in a patronizing tone. "Maybe next time we won't go carousing in the rain by ourselves, will we?" And Kwotik reached out to pet the canine Knight of the Hidden Stream. In response, Cloud-Warrior nipped the bard's hand.
"Ow! Hey, that broke the skin! Bad dog! No breakfast for you!" he shouted.
"I already ate," growled the white shepherd - though Kwotik didn't understand a word - and nestled up by the fire until we were ready to depart.
Getting up the rest of the hill was slow going. There were enough wet leaves to account for a few falls for each of us except Cloud-Warrior. Michael fell down more often than anyone. I think that was because he was miffed at having to carry his pack again. But when we crested the hill, the sight below us made the climb worthwhile. The rain had stopped, so we could see far down into the valley below. Before us and to our right was a carpet of green ringed with trees. In the middle of the green meadow or field were two tall stones, but they were too distant to make out clearly. To our left, the Starlit Mountains parted, and the valley continued between them, like a giant pass dug out between the shoulders of the peaks. But this part of the valley was not green - it was golden. The sea of gold extended nearly to the two large stones.
"What is that?" asked Michael.
"Flowers," barked Loner, and he began trotting down the hill.
We made our way down into the valley and straight toward to two stones, which Kwotik said were called the "Sentinels of Waskindia". These stones marked the prearranged meeting point for us and the representatives of the Waskinde. As we drew closer, the shape of one of the stones became clearer. It was a large statue of a woman facing North and holding out a hand in warning. The other stone, only a few meters to the west of the statue, was darker and much more difficult to make out.
As we drew nearer to the Sentinels, the sea of flowers drew closer as well, like a golden tide rising. They looked a little like sunflowers, but much taller and all facing south. The effect was such that we could not see the flowers straight on, since we were north of them, but could see the green stems and the backs of the large, yellow pedals.
"They look like compass-flowers," said Michael, "except the leaves are different and they are much taller."
"Why don't you become a botanist?" I goaded.
"Maybe I will," said Michael, as if I meant it seriously.
When we reached the Sentinels, my eyes became transfixed on the second stone. It looked as if it had been formed out of a dark concrete rather than chiseled out of rock. It was in shape something like an upside-down pyramid, but the bottom was as solid as rock. Hexagonal tubes covered the entire structure, but they became less complete - almost "unfinished" as they got nearer to the top of the structure. At the very top there were only angular little lines of material hanging in the air like twigs from a black crystalline tree. It was one of the strangest and somehow most disturbing intentional structures I'd ever seen. It was almost as strange and disturbing as modern art.
"Halma's tulips!" Kwotik exclaimed, "Now this is something to behold." He then turned to Mike and me. "See, the human Sentinel was built by - you guessed it - humans, while that polygonal pile of poop over there was built by the Waskinde. At least that's what I've been told. Seems likely enough, by the looks of it. But while the purpose of that stone woman is obviously to warn people to stay out of Waskindia, I wonder what that hive-thing is supposed to mean?"
"It is the Wiskinde equivalent of the human statue," barked Cloud-Warrior. "It warns the Waskinde to stay out of the rest of Elkwater."
"What's got into the dog?" asked Kwotik.
Mike looked uneasy. "Hey, are the Waskinde...bees?"
"Nope," said Kwotik.
"Good," sighed Michael.
"They are more like big wasps," said Kwotik. "At least, that's the legend. You're here now, so there's no harm in telling you."
"W-wasps?" I asked.
"Yeah. Isn't it exciting? A species of intelligent insects. I'll be the first Bard in five hundred years to see one. This is where they come to meet with Kingfinders, I guess. Now let me see if I can remember what's next..."
"Kingfinder Tim," said Cloud-Warrior, "Do you have your stile?"
"Yes," I said.
"I will need it," continued the dog. "I will go into Waskindia with the stile and alert the Vespa through her Chieftains that you await. If I go without the stile I will be eaten. I will return tomorrow with the delegation, and you will speak with them in this spot."
"Why do I have to do this?" I asked.
"The Waskinde are citizens of Elkwater too, in their own way. Their input on the next King must be taken into account. This site was built as a meeting-place between the Vespa and Kingfinders. Give me the stile."
"If you are finished playing with the dog," said Kwotik, "then listen because I think I remember. You are supposed to give your stile to Cloud-Warrior there--yes! Just like that! And then somehow we have to get across to him that he - where is that animal going?"
"He's going to alert the Vespa that we are here," answered Mike.
"Oh. Well, that's a well-trained animal," he said as the white dog ran to the forest of flowers.
We ate a late lunch, then lay on th grass between the stones and had a long nap in the afternoon sun. Something about the crazy shifting breeze, the shade of the Sentinals, and the scent of the giant compass-flowers lulled me into a deeper sleep than I'd intended. And I did dream, but not of the Farm.
I dreamt that I was standing over a stream watching it flow. But there was no water in the stream. Instead, compass-flower blooms were cascading by, rolling over each other, tumbling downstream. I looked up into a night sky brightly lit by moons. On my side of the stream there was the moon from my own world. On the other side were three moons, the Three Sister of Tos. I suddenly felt as if I ought to cross the stream.
I felt a presence at my side. I turned to see Ari, not imprisoned in stone but alive and in the flesh beside me. I could feel her hair brush up against my arm.
"Do not cross," she said. "Do nothing, and all our dreams will be fulfilled. Do not cross."
"I don't want to," I answered.
"Then why even think of it?" she asked. Her green eyes were rimmed with gold.
"Because I think I ought to," I said.
"There is no ought: there is only want," she said sternly.
"Then why does ought feel so strong?" I asked.
"Because it has been injected in you like a poison," she said. Her skin glowed. It looked so soft. "It comes from the way you were raised. In other words, it is someone else's idea of how you should behave. Desire, on the other hand, is no one's idea but your own. Trust me, and we will rid you of the poison of ought."
"How?"
Ari smiled. Her teeth were sharp like needles. "Appetite, if you let it, can devour every last crumb of your conscience. Let it. Do not cross."
"Is there anything I want there?" I asked.
Ari winked at me. "Look and see."
I looked, but there was only a boulder. But as I gazed at it, it transformed in shape. It grew feathered wings, a simian face, and a hunched body.
The plaster gargoyle.
"No," I said, "everything I want is here." And I looked at Ari's beautiful face illuminated by my own familiar moon. I just wished she'd closed her lips when she smiled back at me.
I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Kwotik and Michael lay nearby, sleeping soundly. Dusk had fallen, and with it a mist had descended from the Starlit Mountains. The breeze had turned chill.
I woke up the Bard. He started and it took a minute for him to realize where he was. He cursed when he noted the lateness of the day and cursed again at his own dreams.
"We need a fire, if I can find any firewood before it gets dark," he said, and ran off to the nearest grove several hundred yards to the north.
Michael woke up just then.
"No!" he yelled. "Get away! It hurts!" And then his eyes focused on me and he fell silent.
"Where's Kwotik?" he asked.
"Off to the kindling lands," I quipped. "Bad dream?"
"I dreamed I was being eaten by Eels," he said.
"The worse for them," I said.
"Can't you be nice for one minute?" Michael asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and sat down with my back against the honeycomb-like statue, casually pulling blades of grass and tossing them at the human statue. They didn't fall anywhere near it.
"I guess I should be more sympathetic, considering you are pretty useless to the Quest without a stile," I drawled.
Michael sat up completely. "OK, just shut up then. Don't say anything."
"No, really," I continued, warming up to an old routine, "it must be awful to be such a fifth wheel, knowing everyone is treating you well out of pity - but in reality just being a huge inconvenience."
"I am not!" Michael said sternly, his face beginning to redden.
"Cloud-Warrior and Kwotik have wanted to kick you out several times since you threw away your stile, but they have to do what the King said. Still, 'ole Kwotik was joking the other day about leaving you asleep in a tree in the middle of the night while the rest of us made our escape! I think he daydreams about it."
Michael stood up. "You're lying! Kwotik didn't say that! Just shut up!"
"I'm telling you so you know how nice I've really been, Mike. But I tell you, it's getting harder and harder. The next time Cloud-Warrior starts growling about peeing on you in your sleep, maybe I'll just encourage him."
"That's gross and I'm not going to listen to you any more," shouted Michael as he began to walk a little distance away.
Time to bring out the big guns.
"Fine," I replied, "That's what Mom says anyway: you never listen."
Michael whirled around at me with fire in his eyes. He didn't say anything.
"But she's nice about it too. She thinks maybe you have some kind of disability. You don't realize how hard that is on a family, Mike. That's the reason for Mom's bruises--"
Michael interrupted me with a berserker scream as he ran to his sword. I hadn't anticipated that. My own sword lay some thirty feet away, instead of in its sheath on my back where it should have been. There was no time to get it.
I'd either have to apologize quick or bluster my way through and hope he didn't have the guts to kill me.
I picked what I was most used to.
As Michael came running at me, sword in hand, I shouted, "Oooh, look, baby has a sword! Baby shouldn't run with a sharp object!"
In a moment he stood before me, his eyes wild and face flushed with fury, an ancient blackmetal bladepoint poised to pierce my neck. The sword trembled in his hand.
"So now you're going to kill me, huh? Pathetic. I always figured you for a murderer. I'm not surprised at all."
Michael struggled to speak. "You...shut...up!"
"Gee, Mike, you look a little stressed. You should chill out."
I pushed a little too hard that time.
Michael shouted and drew back his blade, then swung it in a decapitating arc. I sat frozen, paralyzed in shock. But at the last instant Michael brought the sword higher, and he struck the polygonal statue just over my head. A bit of it broke off and fell to the ground. He then turned away and took a swing at the air in front of him.
You'd think I'd have kept my mouth shut then, but with pride at stake I couldn't stop egging him on yet. No way was I going to let him "win".
"Great," I sighed. "First you toss your stile in the river, and now you ruin the statue-thingy of the Waskinde. I might have to take that sword away from you, Mikey."
"SHUT UP!" Michael screamed, and looked around for something to hack at with his sword.
"See, you're getting angry again, Mike. You should really try to be calm." And then I made my voice sing-song, as if I was speaking to a toddler. "Everyone can understand your needs better when you aren't making angry sounds."
Michael got so visibly furious that I was a little surprised he didn't explode in the literal sense, sending pieces of brother flying everywhere. I had never managed to get him so worked up before. But there was no one around to stop it now, and all the pent-up frustration I'd been collecting over the past several weeks was finally finding some release. Watching Michael lose control was so...therapeutic.
"Maybe we should find out if there is such a thing as a child psychologist in this world, Mike, because you really need some counseling." I stretched my arms. "Or maybe some medication," I added.
I had to shout that last part, because my brother was almost out of earshot as he made his way to the stalks of the huge compass-flowers, swinging his sword like a machete.
"Better not cut the flowers, Mikey-wikey," I yelled. "Remember your allergies!"
He cut the flowers.
In the fading light I dimly saw him taking wild swings between "shut ups" and "stop talkings" and "leave me alones". A nice little pile of the massive flowers was forming, and golden pedals filled the air around him.
Behind me I heard footsteps, and wood dropping.
"What in Sha'voth is going on here?" yelled Kwotik.
And that's when the Waskinde came.
At first I only heard a whirring, as of a giant turbine. And then, cruising over the stalks of the compass-flowers came what looked at first to be some kind of flying-machines. But they were alive. They were five huge wasps, each bigger than a grown man. Their long hanging legs, their clicking mandibles, and their antennae curling before their four bulbous eyes made them look armed to the teeth with natural weapons. I couldn't see their stingers.
Yet.
Two of the creatures left formation and descended on my hapless brother, now standing and gazing at the approaching insects in shock. At the last moment he remembered that he still held his sword, and he raised it to ward off the attackers. The first creature swatted it out of his hand with a foreleg.
The second wasp hunched under itself mid-flight and planted its sting in Michael's stomach.
"Nooooooo!" screamed Kwotik, who sprang forward, staff in hand, running past me and toward the fray. I watched in horror as the first wasp gathered up the pale and lifeless body of my brother and flew back over the sea of compass flowers, while three flew straight at Kwotik. Some message passed between them, communication that because of my stile-granted powers I understood.
They were shouting about the joy of war.
Kwotik fared better than Michael at first. The three Waskinde practically danced in the air before him, thrashing at the bard with leg, mandible and stinger. But Kwotik met every thrust and swipe with a parry of his quarterstaff - and made some thrusts of his own - until his weapon seemed to whirl in the air much like the wings of his opponents. A drone of surprise and frustration emanated from the attackers.
Then I wondered: where was the fifth wasp?
I looked to the sky just in time to see it streaking toward Kwotik's back from above. It had circled high and around, so that it approached Kwotik from his blind side while the three had him distracted.
"Behind you!" I screamed, but I do not know if he could have heard me in the midst of the noise of battle. Even if he did, the attackers kept Kwotik's concentration firmly on themselves with a sudden simultaneous press forward. The same wasp that had stung my brother hit the bard stinger-first right between his shoulders, and at that moment he disappeared beneath a writhing jumble of exoskeletal anger. In a few seconds, one of the creatures carried his body aloft and took it in the same direction as the other had taken Michael.
The remaining three gathered some things from the ground and slowly headed in my direction in close formation. I was terrified, but could not have run if I tried. Any strength I may have had, any will to resist, was gone. Only terror remained. The non-threatening messages the Waskinde were sending me did little to soothe me.
In a moment they were mere feet in front of me and inches off the ground. The wind of their wings cooled me. They smelled like licorice.
"I have a message for your King," said the middle Waskinde in its own language. Then the creature nearest the human-shaped sentinel lashed out at it with one leg, and a small piece of the statue fell to the ground. "Tell him the treaty has been broken," continued the leader, "and that we answer to no one but the Vespa now."
The eyes of the insect were full of hundreds of little windows. There were hairy or spiny growths beneath the mandibles. Its legs were lighter in color than the rest of the creature's rust-colored body.
The Waskinde went on. "And tell him that anyone who enters this valley from now on shall suffer the same fate as your companions. The Sentinels no longer mark our borders. From now on, the Vespa shall set our borders as she wills."
At a signal from the speaker, the other two wasps dropped weapons at my feet: Michael's sword and Kwotik's staff. And to my dismay, the leader dropped my stile at my feet. Had Loner given it to the creature or...
"Last of all, give this token of affection from the Vespa to your King," whispered the Waskinde who spoke to me. And it dropped something small and triangular at my feet.
The three Waskinde rose into the air and then streaked away at high speed in the same direction they had taken the bodies of my companions.
I reached down to pick up the "token" of the Vespa, nearly falling over from weak and shaking legs. The triangle was soft and white, but sticky at the base. I wondered at it a moment, then dropped it in horror.
Cloud-Warrior's ear.
Finally all signs of dusk disappeared, and the blackness truly overcame me.
**********************************************************************************************
CHAPTER END |
© Copyright 2007 Basilides (UN: basilides at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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