Entry #601525, added on 11-11-08 @ 1:03 pm EST
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| Chapter Fifteen: Pair o' Bulls in the Garden | Entry #601525 |
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 Fifteen: Pair o' Bulls in the Garden
"This is why I speak to them in parables, because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand."
~Y'shua of Nazareth
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"Stop pointing your foot at me!" I hissed.
Michael was sitting next to me on the couch in the living room. The RCA cabinet color TV kept promising coverage of the July 4 Bicentennial events, but so far was only producing beer and antacid commercials. Michael chose to amuse himself by sitting cross-legged with his right ankle resting on his left knee, thus exposing me to the disgusting creases of his bare foot...for about the thousandth time in a week.
"I'm comfortable," he answered distractedly, eyes fixed on the television.
"Fine," I said. I took my left shoe and sock off and rested my own left ankle on my right knee. Michael grimaced, and I could tell it took all his willpower to resist complaining.
I wiggled my toes.
"Mom!" he shouted. "Tim's pointing his foot at me on purpose! Tell him to stop!"
Mom was in the highback chair next to the sofa, reading a magazine while she waited for the show to start.
"Both of you settle down or I'll send you to separate rooms and you'll miss the Special," she said. She said it like she meant it.
We settled down, but made faces at each other.
Aunt Eva, sitting in Uncle Martin's recliner, decided to break the tension and avoid another book-throwing incident with a reminiscence. "I remember my grandmother's sister telling me about the Centennial, the one in 1876," she mused. "She must have been about your age when she experienced it. She thought it was pretty nice that we would see the Bicentennial."
"We?" asked Michael.
"Me and Max," she answered softly.
Max was Aunt Eva's brother, mom's father, and my grandfather. He died when my mom was little.
I glanced up at Max's picture on the mantle, the fresh-faced, bald-headed youngster with the big ears sticking out, handsome anyway in his Air Force uniform.
"Oh," said Mike.
"It's starting!" I exclaimed as images from New York Harbor appeared on the screen. Fifty Warships and sixteen tall ships from around the world were gathered around the Statue of Liberty, and many other ships and boats joined in the flotilla. Ships with powerful hoses sprayed water into the air and the Stars and Stripes flew proudly aboard every vessel. Music played. President Ford waved to happy crowds.
"We needed something like this after Vietnam," my mom said to Aunt Eva, who nodded sagely. Whatever that meant.
The phone rang. Aunt Eva got up and went into the kitchen to answer it.
"Awwwww," I called after her. "You're going to miss it!"
Ship after ship paid homage to the nation. The warships were cool, but the tall sailships caught my attention most. I could imagine the sails snapping in the summer wind, the timber hulls creaking like the hulls of the ships that carried the pilgrims to Cape Cod. The parade of vessels went on quite a long time, and I forgot that Aunt Eva was still on the phone.
"You're missing the whole Fourth of July!" shouted Michael, and I was startled out of my television hypnosis to realize that Aunt Eva still had not returned.
"I'll go get her," I grumbled when Aunt Eva did not reply.
When I walked into the kitchen and dining area, I found both rooms completely Aunt Eva-less. The phone hung placidly on its hook.
I looked out the large kitchen window to the side yard and garden. Something moved in the garden, a head bobbing up and down. Aunt Eva was bent and on her knees, apparently pulling weeds.
I slipped out the screen door and quickly headed around to the garden. A growl from Loner, prone and by the carport, momentarily paralyzed me. But when he put his head down to rest I resumed my journey, just a little more slowly.
I opened the fence gate and walked between rows of tomato plants and cabbages to where Aunt Eva was pulling weeds. She glanced up once as I approached but did not greet me.
I knelt beside her and began pulling a few weeds myself.
"Don't you want to see the Special?" I asked.
"If I let these weeds get out of control they'll choke out the good plants," she said. I wasn't sure if she was answering me or just making an observation.
"But you can weed later," I said.
"In the end," Aunt Eva went on,"the good plants don't fare any better. I pick their fruit or pull them up by the roots like these carrots. Nothing escapes the Dark Gardener."
I stopped weeding. Was my aunt losing it?
"You think they don't like it?" I asked.
She chuckled. "Yes, well, that's where the analogy breaks down, of course."
I was really confused.
"Timmy, we've found Perry," she said. "I just spoke to his wife."
My head swam. The idea that Perry was alive and was a real person was surprise enough. The thought of that little kid in the picture having a wife was another jolt. But of course, he would be an old man now.
"They live in Madeira Beach, Florida. Isn't that near where you live?" asked Aunt Eva.
"It's in the same county!" I exclaimed. "Maybe twenty miles or so from our house! How did you find him?"
"I didn't find him personally. The Private Investigator I hired found him." Aunt Eva still wasn't meeting my gaze. Something was wrong.
"I wonder why it was so hard to find him, though," I said, still in amazement at the news.
"For one thing, his first name isn't Perry," answered Aunt Eva. "That's just his middle name. I guess he didn't like his first name as a child."
"Well why did you only talk to his wife?" I asked. "Why didn't you talk to Perry too?"
Aunt Eva paused in her grim weed-reaping for a moment, deciding how to say it. Finally, she just said it.
"He's dying, Timmy."
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"I wonder if he will live long enough to see the fireworks," I mumbled as I opened my eyes. I was staring up at a ceiling of criss-crossed branches with only a glimmer of blue sky poking through the thick foliage.
My back was itchy. I sat up and looked at my makeshift bed, a mound of fern leaves and moss. I was totally naked, except for some fern leaves that had been modestly placed over me.
My lips and cheeks were sore, and I touched them, remembering the strange Eel that pasted itself to my face.
A little forest alcove surrounded me. The air was warm but not oppressive, and I could hear some kind of bird calling from nearby. That was probably the sound that wakened me. I rolled over to get up and nearly upset a clamshell filled with water at my bedside.
I was thirsty, so I drank it up.
Next to the clamshell was my stile. I'd almost forgotten it. I pressed it to my chest.
So. Somebody was taking care of me, and whomever it was didn't have designs on my stile. I looked down at my fern-and moss bedding. That took a while to put together.
In vain I looked around for some clothes, remembering that I'd left mine at the shore of the Ryemellow. I had an urge to cover myself with fern leaves and just wait for whatever creature or friend was helping me out.
I could hear the sound of water int he distance: I decided to make for it.
I didn't have far to go. After a dozen yards or so of trudging through ferny undergrowth, the forest ended and a beach appeared. Waves lapped against the shore. I looked out ans saw islands in the distance, a couple with mountains, and wondered where I was.
Movement caught my eye, and I looked to my right to see a small human figure squatting in the surf, digging around in the sand. The figure had a pile of little rocks behind it on the dry sand, and after a moment l saw it walk over and add a few more to the pile. This must be the one who has been taking care of me, I thought. My heart beat faster in my chest, wondering if it were friendly indeed. But then it shook some of the water out of its hair, and its hair popped up like a yellow broccoli.
Michael. Definitely not friendly then.
Grumbling, I trudged toward my naked brother, who was gathering up the rocks in his arms and starting my way. He stopped when he caught sight of me, dropped what he was carrying, and ran toward me.
I folded my arms and grimaced to ward off any approaching hug. Especially a naked hug.
He stopped a few feet away, smiling. I noticed he was a little sunburned, and...no longer 'husky'. In fact, it looked like he was acquiring a muscle or two, the little jerk.
"You're okay!" he panted.
"Yeah," I said. "Thanks for leading us on that stupid chase," I said.
His smile disappeared. "I'm sorry about that. It was a stupid thing to do. I see that now."
I blinked. Michael said he was sorry...to me? Was he sick or something?
"Where are we?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Can you believe this is one of the islands we saw in the Ryemellow Delta? Well, close to the delta anyway. It's awesome! There is a mountain inland with streams and waterfalls coming down it. There are pools of springs, meadows, a nice forest, small deer and turkey and racoons...and there are no people here because of the Eels. And there are lots of other islands probably just like this one. It's like a verse all to itself, a verse left to the animals!
"That's nice," I said. And then I blurted out the thing that was bothering me. "So what happened with the Eels? Did they give you your stile back?"
"Yeah they did," he said.
I looked at his hands. "Where is it then?"
His face grew redder than the sunburn could account for. "I gave it back to them."
I blinked again. "What?"
"Lemme get the oysters over there and bring them back to camp. Then I'll explain."
Michael ran back to the pile of "rocks" and I helped him carry them to the little clearing, where he started smashing them open with a rock. That made for a mess, but the oysters were good. Fortunately, we had both picked up the taste for raw oysters back in Florida, though I liked them a lot more than he did.
"Once I got to the riverbank I didn't waste any time," he explained as we continued to smash away at the oysters. "I was scared to death but I knew you guys were close behind. People along the way warned me about the 'Pursuers' so I knew you were closing in. I ditched my clothes and even my sword just like I read old King Askeweteau did centuries ago when he wanted to parlay with them. He didn't have a stile either so I figured that was the right approach.
"It wasn't long before I was dragged underwater and a Trubenta Eel covered my face. That was scary, but it gave me hope since I know that is how the Eels help Overlanders to breathe underwater. So at least they were going to talk to me. They took me to a giant under-river city like nothing I'd--"
"I saw it too," I interrupted. "Get on to the part about the stile."
Michael frowned but continued. "Anyway, I was brought before their Chief, and he spoke into my mind demanding to know what I wanted. I detected a little fear in his words. Imagine! Afraid of me! But I think he suspected why I was there.
"I didn't know how to reply with that Eel on my mouth, but found he could hear my thoughts when I wanted him to. So I told him I was there for my stile. I'd dropped it accidentally and I wanted it back."
I winced inwardly a little at the 'dropped accidentally' part. "Go on," I said.
"Well," he continued, "there was this great wail that filled the waters and nearly flooded my mind - a crying like you wouldn't believe. I think every Eel in the river screamed. The Chief put a stop to that and sadly addressed me.
"He said, 'Young human, it is your right to demand the return of your stile. We are constrained by treaty and by Shozer's command to give back the stile of any kingfinder who loses it in our midst. But the cost is heavy for us.'
"An Eel swam over to me, the stile cradled in its mouth, and placed it in my hand.
"I wanted to get the heck out of there, but I was curious about what the Chief meant about the cost being heavy. I asked him.
" 'We were once a world-faring race,' answered the Chief. 'We colonised this river tens of thousand of years ago from our homeworld. We could travel to the Twelve Streams of Esalladalia by means of the Portrigos, the Globe-that-opens-the-way. But many thousands of years ago an Ysarda Chieftain, with whom we were allies, begged to borrow it so he could defeat his enemies. We were promised great advantages in return, so our ancient Chief unwisely lent that Ysarda the Portrigos. We never saw it or any Ysarda again. Perhaps they lost the war, or perhaps they used our treasure to flee to another world. In any case we lost all contact with our brethren.
" 'Long have we sought o accept our fate and see this water as our new, permanent home. But we long to swim in our ancestral homewaters and reunite with our lost kin. In the ages between we have become embittered and are at emnity with all land creatures, including you humans. Except for Treaty and Shozer's will, we would not even suffer the bridge you have built to scar our home. But the currents reversed their courses when the little Portrigos dropped into our mouths from your hand. A gift! So we hoped. Others feared it was a mistake and that we would lose our new hope. Or sages believe that they can, in time, learn how to apply the little Portrigos to perform the same duty as the one we gave away. Someday, they have said, we can again reunite with our great race.
"' But now we see our hope was unfounded. Honor and obedience demands we return the little Portrigos to you, and we will remain in exile forever.'
"When I heard the words of the Great Chief I felt terribly guilty. I had to admit to myself that the reasons I had for getting the stile back - to save Elkwater from your evil influence - were false. I was just jealous of you. I was jealous and envious, and I didn't want to get upstaged by you just because of one moment of carelessness at the Potter's Bridge. But these creatures really needed the stile to have hope in their lives. If I took it back from them, it would mean I was worse than everything I'd imagined you to be.
"So I gave it back to them. They were surprised to say the least. The shout of joy filled my head and almost made me pass out. They promised..certain things in gratitude. These certain things I am to keep secret (well, some of them) until I can reveal them to the next King. The King you find. Yes, I said you Tim. You are the Kingfinder now. I've given it up. I'll help you if you let me, but I won't try to compete with you any more. That's over."
I didn't look directly at Michael. Something about his generosity made me sick to my stomach. But I had to say something.
"So you found me on the beach?" I asked.
"Yeah. I woke up on the beach myself a while ago and explored a bit. I sure was surprised to see you laying there with your stile. I was tempted for a second to take the stile and throw you back int he water!" He laughed, expecting me to join in. I didn't think it was funny. "But I didn't. And then when I looked into the water, guess what I found?"
"What?" I asked, barely interested.
"Well, you remember that crystal willow in Roseluc's basement? The one he found on a beach like this?"
I was getting more interested. "What about it?" I asked sharply.
"Well, I found a smaller version of it!" Michael reached under a pile of moss and retreived the shard...my shard...my magic Grohnin and my only way of communicating with Ari.
Michael continued: "It's almost as if Shozer was rewarding me for doing the right thing, sort of a consolation prize. I wonder if Roseluc felt that way too?"
"It's mine," I said, firmly.
Michael shook his head and looked at me in disbelief. "What?"
"I said it's mine. You didn't find it; I brought it with me just like my stile. Roseluc gave it to me." Well, that was half-true. I believed Roseluc knew I had taken it.
"You're full of it," shouted Mike. "How come you never said anything about it before.?"
"Roseluc didn't want me to." I retorted, in full deceit mode now. "He didn't want you to think he was playing favorites. Give it back!"
Michael looked at the shard in his hand, his lips trembling. He almost made a stand for it, a hand on one hip and a defiant look on his face. But then his whole frame deflated like a spent hot air balloon, and he dropped the shard to the ground.
"Have it then," he said in a choking voice. "Who cares anyway? I don't." And he turned and ran from the clearing into the forest.
I ran to examine the shard, cursing Michael for dropping it carelessly. Fortunately, it was all right. Come to think of it, my shard and stile were intact, Michael had abdicated the Kingfindership, and best of all he was off sulking int he woods somewhere.
Things were looking up. If only I could find some clothes and a way back to shore.
Neither of those things came any time soon, and Michael decided to leave me alone the rest of the day. That night, he slept far away on the beach while I took over the little alcove in the wood. I ate what acorns I could find and slept on the moundof ferns, careful to keep my stile and the shard under my body in case Michael got any ideas in the night.
In the morning I accidentally rolled over onto the hard ground. I groaned. I was hungry, still full of sleep, and covered with bug bites of some kind. Fleetingly I wondered if Michael had sprinkled ants on me in the night. Then I noticed that my stile was missing, though the shard lay exposed on the ground.
Just about the time I was going to go after my brother in panic and anger, I found the stile in amongst the ferns that were my makeshift mattress. The scare fully awakened me, but I was still itchy and even more hungry.
I strode through the woods to the south in the direction of the mountain, partly to find something to eat but also partly to keep away from my brother. The canopy of boughs protected me from the sun and the carpet of leaves made for easy going on bare feet. When the friendly forest cleared to make way for a rocky stream, I got a good view of the island mountain. I drank my fill and followed the stream mountainward to get a better view of the island. This was rougher going, especially when I had to climb the occasional boulder, and before long both by knees and the soles of my feet were scraped and sore. The stream was leading me to the western side of the mountain, and I grew a little excited at the prospect of seeing the southern side of the island from there.
I wound my way up, following the swiftly flowing stream until I came to a small waterfall. I showered there for a moment and then carefully clambered to the western slope. I found a little ledge, and when I looked below I saw the mountain falling almost sheer to the Ryemellow. But glancing south, my eyes beheld the grandeur of an unspoilt river island, seemingly vast and dotted with grassy hills, blue lakes and clumps of forests. A respectable river meandered through the landscape, presumably emptying into the great river at the island's southern edge.
I remembered how jealously the Eels guarded the river, and the pride of discovery welled up in me, that sensation known only to great explorers who know they look upon a scene no person has ever before beheld.
I'll call it McFaddenland I thought to myself, and envisioned farms and towns taming the wilderness, and a great castle fortress at the southern foot of the mountain.
At that moment the shard began to glow, waking me from my pleasant dream.
It was Ari.
"Where the Frosty Sea are you?" she demanded.
I explained the island in great poetic detail until Ari cut me off.
"Oh, yes. That's Misclappa Isle. I used my powers to visit there long ago. I've visited most of the river islands, actually. Pretty, but useless with those damnable Eels preventing any real concourse to the mainland. How exactly did you get there?"
Deflated, my pride of discovery gone like a brief gust of wind, I related my underwater adventure.
"You fool!" she hissed. "You came out of it alive but stranded. Who can rescue you now? No one! And likely your brother is back on the mainland with his stile!"
"No, he is here too," I said. "And without his stile. He left it with the Eels."
"They took it from him?" Ari asked. "Then soon he will be after yours."
"No, no," I explained. "He decided to let them keep it. They need it for some crazy reason."
"He lies," said Ari, flatly.
"I doubt it," I said. "He could have taken mine a bunch of times. He seems to have given up. He doesn't want to be a Kingfinder any more."
Ari was silent for a moment, pondering. "Perhaps. Perhaps he has been indoctrinated enough with the foul religion of Shozer that his willpower has been weakened. But I wouldn't count on it. Don't trust him."
"I won't," I assured her.
"Have you any idea how you will leave the island?" Ari asked, her gaze piercing.
"Uh..." I said.
"Twice a fool," she murmured. "You may have to ask the Eels, or get Michael to ask them, since he seems to get along so well with them. But once you get off the river, you should dispose of him."
"Those Eels creep me out," I said.
"Let them," she said. "You have to get back on track. You have work to do."
"I have to find something to eat, first," I whined. My stomach chimed in with agreement.
"There may be clams by the shore," suggested Ari in a tone of forced patience.
"Oysters," I said. "But that means I have to be around Dungface."
"It's a big island. Find your own shore!" Ari snapped. "Unless you want to wait for a Wind Mage with culinary experience to show up or an innkeeper to sprout wings and fly from the mainland to set up shop just for you, I suggest you eat clams."
"Oysters," I corrected again, but she was gone.
I glanced back the way I had come. Had I really traveled all that way? The journey back seemed daunting. I could, as Ari implied, head to a different shore and get my own oysters, but frankly I'd rather have had Michael get them for me. I wished I hadn't climbed partway up the mountain.
I took a deep breath and began the descent.
All the way back to the stream Queen-Anne's-Lace grew in abundance among the wild grasses. Here and there a buttercup poked out its golden head, and green bees ambled from one patch of clover to another. Wildlife seemed sparse, although plenty of birds were a noisy exception, and once I spotted a rabbit in a small clearing. It froze in place and looked at me as if I were an alien from another planet.
"Yeah, I kinda am," I said to it.
It sped off into some tall grass, leaving me to ponder the possibility of rabbit stew.
Going over old territory wasn't nearly as fun as exploring, and somehow the abrasions on my feet and knees knew it. Going was slow, and by the time I reached the waterfall it was early afternoon. I decided to take a break, lying down on a flat rock with my feet dangling into the gurgling water.
"Tiiiim," came the faint cry, right as I was getting comfortable. "Timeeeeeeee!"
"Go away," I whispered.
But my brother's voice got louder, and finally I sat up and gazed in the direction from whence it came.
Brillo-hair spotted me.
"Tim!" he shouted. "I've been looking all over for you!"
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I asked, and lay back down.
"I should," he retorted as he stood next to me on my rock. "I should leave you here to starve. But the Eels are going to take us back to the mainland sometime before sunset, and if you miss the boat there will be no one to find the King."
"Boat?" I asked. I sat up again.
"Yeah. They are building some kind of raft or something. But we'd better be at the beach when they show up. You coming or not?"
My annoyance was vicious. Michael should have told me about the plans of the Eels the day before. I hated to be at his beck and call. I didn't want to go anywhere with him or be transported by his slimy friends.
I also had no desire to stay on the island for the rest of my life.
I followed him, calling him names under my breath, trying to look forward to getting back on the quest as the [i]only[/i] Kingfinder. We scrambled along the rocky bank of the stream until we came to the forest, entering among a stand of Ash trees whispering in the light breeze. I was glad for the leaves under my feet again, and for some minutes the walk was not unpleasant. We happened upon a little lemon tree on our way back, the only citrus I'd seen in all of Elkwater. Hungry as I was, I couldn't resist a taste. Michael and I each picked a small fruit and bit into our treasures simultaneously.
After coughing and sputtering at the sourness, we each tried again. Michael's face was scrunched up like a prune, and the sight made me laugh. That got him laughing, and the sight of him laughing with a puckered face brought me to the edge of hilarious hysteria. This devolved into my accidentally squirting him with the juice of my lemon, resulting in a Battle of Lemon Squirts complete with seed-spitting artillery. For a few minutes our cease-fire in the form of a food fight banished my resentments toward him, and we were not brothers-at-war. We were just regular brothers.
A rustling in the leaves just beyond the lemon tree got my attention. I stood in place, rooted to the ground like a conifer, beholding the intruder.
"I didn't think there were dogs on this island," whispered Michael behind me.
"You see it?" I asked.
"Sure I see it. Why wouldn't I see it?" asked Michael in an exasperated tone.
It was the black-and-gold shepherd, the Troublemaker, the dog I kept following in spite of my better judgment.
"I've seen it before," I said.
Michael walked up close behind me. "On this island?"
"No," I whispered. "Maybe...maybe..."
"You think it's the Hound of Soranou?" Michael was such a dimwit.
I tried to sound casual. "I don't know. So what if it is?"
"Maybe he wants us to follow him," suggested my brother.
"I really don't want to follow him. Every time I follow him I have problems."
In the midst of our whispered debate, the Hound turned and slowly walked east into the deeper part of the wood.
"Well, I'm going to follow him," said Michael in a slightly louder voice, which cracked.
I stood there for a moment watching the two of them leave.
"I saw him first," I mumbled, and followed as well.
I hurried to catch up to Michael, who was straining his eyes to keep the Hound in sight. It wasn't running exactly, but it was all we could do to keep up. After a few minutes, I became aware that the forest had changed. The trees were larger and the leaves fuller, but the forest became suddenly bereft of rotting logs or mold growing on bark. Well, there might have been mold, but if so it was clean mold, if there is such a thing. The moss hanging from the limbs was cheerful; the fungus grew joyfully. It was as if the forest was all about growth and not at all about decay. The forest scents became more pleasant, like lavender and cinnamon and citrus. The citrus might have been from the lemon juice sticking to my face, but there was without doubt a change for the better, for the more wholesome, taking place all around us.
I had gotten used to the increased realness of Elkwater in comparison to the world back home, a realness I first experienced when the Usher dropped the stile in my hand. These weeks in Elkwater caused me to adjust to the vibrancy and subtlety of the new world. But as we followed the Hound into that wonderful forest, the realness of that place was yet another level higher even than Elkwater. It was the most foresty forest I had ever been in.
I think it was Holy.
Suddenly we came upon a tall hedge, and with a single backward glance the Hound disappeared into it. We stopped a few feet away from it. I sensed it was some kind of important barrier. I feared to cross it. I turned to look at my brother's face, and he was scratching his forehead.
A new smell wafted from the other side of the hedge, a scent that pierced my irresolute senses.
"Is that tea?" asked Michael.
A smile rose from my lips and a spark of joy ignited my heart. As I plunged into the hedge I answered, "That's not tea! Someone is brewing riga!"
The thick hedge immediately impeded my progress. It was no well-manicured garden border; it was a wall of tangled branches and stems. If it were ever planted on purpose, it had since gone wild. I soon found myself trapped somewhere in its center, with no sign of my entrance or my intended exit. Still, I was not afraid. In fact, suspended as I was in the matrix of twigs, I began to laugh. Not far away, I heard the distinctive laugh of my brother. The whole predicament was so incongruous.
A temptation came over me to stay in the hedge, to delve deeper into its depths and not bother about the other side, to wallow in its strangeness forever. The thought trickled over my mind and coated my heart with an icy comfort.
'Stay,' came the whisper in my mind, a whisper of light and calm, a whisper with the texture of velvet and the smell of autumn. Light sparkled all around it: a bright and shining emptiness. I stopped struggling. I had a desire to do away with my desires, an appetite to drain the life from my appetites.
But the scent of freshly brewed riga penetrated even that whisper, and my longing for a taste of that drink became my only desire. It did battle with the whisper. The whisper was like a bright Knight tempting me to renounce my expectations and find peace in his Kingdom of Emptiness. But the riga-smell charged in like a many-colored Paladin, drawing me to a Kingdom of Fullness, where my strongest desires would be exposed for the pale shadows of what they could be. It was not so much a battle of good versus evil, or darkness versus light; it was more a contest between Nothing and Something.
Something was stronger.
My flaccid limbs awakened, and I squirmed and wiggled my way forward until I fell into an open space, a multi-hued meadow of wildflowers under a perfectly blue sky. Michael stood a few feet to my left, already free of the hedge for a moment. He took no notice of me, however. His gaze wax fixed ahead, squarely upon a white, thatched-roof cottage only thirty yards from the hedge.
I looked also, just in time to see the dog slip in through the cottage door.
"Guess we'd better go in," said Michael. I didn't disagree.
The cottage was old-fashioned, like something out of a picture book of the Irish countryside, and it had all the signs of habitation. Marigolds hung in baskets under the windowsills and lilacs lines the stone walkway to the door. Smoke rose from a chimney on the far side of the house, and a clothesline ran from two wooden poles. On the clothesline hung two articles of white linen, gently swaying in the breeze. A few other white textiles hung there as well.
A little wooden table and three chairs sat just a few yards from the clothesline. Three yellow-and-blue cups and saucers were on the table.
We were at the door and I was just about to call out to whomever lived there when both of us were nearly knocked on our backsides by a tall, plump woman carrying a yellow-and-blue ceramic teapot. Her salt-and-pepper hair was modestly tied in a bun, and her freckled face beamed at us as she rested her dark eyes on each of us and said:
"There you are. Perfect timing, as the riga is simply piping! Have a seat at the table, will you? I've only got to bring the scones and butter, and we'll have a nice chat. Watch yourself, the rigapot is hot as blazes!"
The woman scuttled off to the little table, placed the rigapot on the center of its top, and breezed back into the doorway of the cottage, leaving me open-mouthed and Michael blinking.
"Michael!" came her voice from within the cottage, "just pull down some napkins from the clothesline, will you? That's a good boy. And help yourselves to the clothes there! "
To our surprise, perfect-fitting outfits were there for each of us, tan and brown in color, and sandals waited for us by the table. It was good to wear clothing again.
Michael complied with Sophie's request for napkins, and in a moment we found ourselves seated with buttered, cherry scones in front of us and hot riga passing our lips. The woman sat down too, relishing the amber elixir.
"Needs a bit of lemon," she said with a smile. "But you boys have that already."
She was right. The lemony sourness left in my mouth from moments before complimented the riga perfectly.
"Um," said Mike after a few moments of silent feasting, "we followed a dog here."
"Good on ya," said the woman. "That's the only way to get to that hedge properly."
"But where is the dog now?" I blurted out.
"Better to ask where isn't the dog now, but in any case the answer's the same. You have a drop of butter on your chin, Tim."
"You know," said Mike before I could put the napkin down, "there's something kinda creepy in that hedge."
The woman put her cup down and stared at Michael with intensity. "More than you know," she said in a low voice. Then she picked her cup up and took another sip. "Of course, there's something wrong with the hedge itself too," she went on cheerfully after she'd swallowed, "but we have ways of incorporating bitter ingredients into delicious recipes. How's your lemony riga?"
"Delicious," said Michael.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm called Sophie, sweetheart. Thanks for asking. And never fear - there's nothing unusual about meeting me. It's part of your Quest to chat with me. It's what Kingfinders do."
"So this is the mysterious part of the journey I've heard people hint about," I mused. "But I thought we were to meet Shozer or something."
"Or something," quipped Sophie. "There's lots of mystery ahead for you boys."
"Everybody seems to know what's going to happen but us," I grumbled.
"There's a crumb on your lip," answered Sophie. "Big one. Well, whenever you boys are ready, you can begin your little project."
"What project?" me and Michael asked in unison.
"Oh, just a bit of gardening," she answered.
"Will that dog be around?" Michel asked.
"I daresay," chuckled Sophie. "When you're ready, just meet me on the other side of the cottage by the garden gates. I'll clean up after."
Sophie brushed off her apron and strode to the cottage, her long brown dress swaying at her ankles.
"This is weird," I said to Michael.
"Funny time for you to say that," he answered. "Anyway, I'm going to the back of the cottage."
"In second place," I said, and shot off like a rocket.
I barely beat him there.
Sophie was waiting by a pair of old wooden gates. Whatever lay beyond was obscured by low bushes and sycamore trees to either side. She pulled the latch on each and swung them open.
"Michael, the near gate is yours. Tim, the far one is for you. Once inside, you will each see a garden: two gardens, one for each of you. It is your task to make them perfect. Then the Gardener will come and judge."
"A contest?" I asked, the corner of my mouth rising. I was eager to make up for my failure at the King's table.
"A task," she answered. "Neither of your work has anything to do with each others'. There are some garden tools in the far corner. And remember, th work you do must be perfect."
"Wait," said Michael. "What's this all about? What will we get if we accomplish the task?"
"Everything," she chuckled.
"And if we fail?" I asked.
"Less than nothing, which is Everything Else," she sighed.
"How much time do we have?" asked Michael.
"That's a secret," said Sophie, winking.
"What if I decline this task?" I asked, feeling nervous about the whole business.
Sophie raised her eyebrows and head, looking down at me. "That depends on the manner in which you decline," she said.
"OK, I respectfully decline the task," I said.
"That was the wrong manner," she said. "You fail the task. Go sit over there--"
"Wait!" I interrupted. "I changed my mind. I'll do it!"
"A second chance?" Sophie asked. She threw her head back and laughed. "Of course. Right through the gate, then."
I took a deep breath and crossed the gateway, passing the low bushes and sycamore branches into my garden.
Boy, was it ever a mess. Brambles and nettles covered the fenced-in area of about five hundred square feet. Piles of junk and garbage were the most prominent features, with litter scattered everywhere. Weeds and grass grew over a little stone pathway, and here and there were a patch of flowers nearly choked out by creeping vines. A fruit tree of some kind grew in the far right corner, but it was covered with moss, fruitless, and nearly leafless.
Forward, to my right, and behind me by the gate the garden was surrounded by a post fence, but beyond the fence was night sky with blazing stars, whirling galaxies, and colorful nebulae. I peeked over the edge of the fence and saw that my garden was suspended on nothing, hanging in the open universe like an island, yet well-lit by the nearest large star. To the left side, I could see Michael in his own garden, our two plots separated by that same fence. He looked as overwhelmed at the task ahead of him as I felt.
I could see it in his eyes: he was in despair. My heavy heart lifted a little. Maybe I couldn't make the garden perfect, but I was sure I could do better than him.
For the next several hours, I applied myself to backbreaking labor. At the far corner of the garden rested any tool you could desire, though nothing was powered. I weeded, raked, dug, trimmed, and hurled the garbage over the side of the fence into empty space. Unfortunately, the garbage just sort of hung suspended in space, and even when I flung it with all my might I couldn't pitch it out of sight. Once I gathered up the courage to climb over the fence and try to push the garbage further out, but something kept flinging me back to my side of the fence. After a while, I decided that just getting the garbage out of the garden proper was good enough.
Six hours later I'd barely made a dent. My improvements were ragged and uneven, and so far it was at the stage where it looked worse than when I'd started. Much, much more work was left to be done. Fatigue crept through my joints. The task appeared impossible.
I glanced at my brother, and was encouraged. He'd piled up some garbage in one corner, but the scope of the task had him moving slowly. Mostly he was poking about, exploring, then picking up a few sticks or pulling a weed, then looking about in frustration. He noticed me staring at him and he had a burst of energy, pulling weeds from a patch of peonies, but he slowed down again in a moment and resumed his picking, plodding pace.
I looked around. I'd already done better than him. By comparison, it was beginning to be apparent which one of us was working harder. I redoubled my efforts, ignoring soreness and fatigue, and resumed my gardening like a maniac.
After an hour I glanced at Michael again. He was standing with his hands on the fence that separated our two gardens.
"Tim," he shouted, "this is impossible."
"It is if you just poke around," I said.
"No, its not just that," he said. "Even where you've worked hard, it looks worse than before." He pointed at a small patch I'd cleared. It indeed looked barren and lifeless.
"I'm not finished with it. And anyway, at least I'll get an "A" for effort. Will you?"
Michael's head dropped and he sat on a stump near the middle of his garden.
"I can't do it," he said, his voice breaking into a sob. "I give up. I need help." He covered his face with his hands and his shoulders shook. The big baby.
Gradually Michael's garden grew lighter, as if a spotlight shone upon it. Every messy nook and cranny was highlighted, every imperfection exposed. Michael still wept, oblivious. The light grew too bright for me to look upon directly, and then in a flash his garden was gone. All that remained was bare universe.
My garden was alone in the cosmos.
If I worked hard before, I worked like a demon after Michael's demise. Fear drove me, and I wondered how much time I had before the Gardener would come. I scratched my arms in the nettles and thorns. I was bitten by ants and stung by a bee once. I didn't care. I worked as if tomorrow would never come.
The gate behind me made a squeaking noise.
I turned, my arms full of moss from the fruit tree, and saw a Man. He was dressed in dark brown pants and a tan tunic, a leather belt at his waist. His skin was bronze, his black hair long and curly. He drew near to me, looking about the garden as he came, and I saw that his face was kind. He looked right at me when he was just a few yards away, and that's when I noticed the eyes. His irises were blood red.
"Hello, Tim," said a voice like a wave crashing against the shore. "Working hard, I see."
"I'm trying," I said. "Could I have a little more time?"
"If I thought it would do any good, I'd be glad to give you more time," he said. "Why don't you stop and have a sit with me?"
I dropped my load of moss and sat indian-style next to the Gardener, who reclined in a patch of weeds, idly pulling up a stalk and twisting it in his fingers.
"How do you think it looks?" he asked me.
I looked around. At least before, it looked like a littered wilderness. Now, it looked like a disaster area.
"It looks like a lot of work was done," I said hopefully.
"That's putting a positive spin on things," he said. His voice was grave.
"Doesn't effort count for something?" I asked.
"It sure does," answered the Gardener. "But only if you learn the right lesson from it."
My head spun. What lesson?
"How long would it take you to get this garden perfect?" he asked me.
"I think it would be a lot better in a few weeks...ok months," I answered.
"Hardly," he said. "But I'm not interested in a 'lot better'. I asked you how long it would take to get it perfect."
"Forever," I said.
"That's another way of saying 'never'," replied the Gardener. "And that's the correct answer."
I stood up, my face red. "But that's not fair!" I nearly shouted. "Why does it have to be perfect anyway?"
The Gardener lay on his back and looked up at the stars. He pointed. "Do you see those two stars right overhead: the orange one and the fainter blue one?"
I looked up. "No, I--wait, yes...I think so."
"Between them there is a star too distant for you to see," he said. "Spinning around it are four planets. The second planted has eight moons. On the fifth moon there is a mountain composed entirely of blue crystal that rises four miles off the surface. It is the largest single crystal in this universe. It really is something."
"Is that where you are from?" I asked, impressed in spite of myself.
The Gardener laughed and propped himself up on an elbow. He threw the weed he's been twisting at me and laughed. "That's like asking if an engine designer is from the spark plug. No, that's not where I am from."
"Where, then?" I asked.
"The reason your garden has to be perfect is because my garden is absolutely perfect. And if yours is to be joined to mine, there can't be any weeds. There can't be any garbage. There can't be any poor gardening."
I made a face. "Because your garden has to stay perfect, right?"
"Because my garden is perfect. The fact that it is perfect and the fact that it is mine are intrinsically interconnected. For it to be imperfect is logically impossible. Got that?"
"Not really," I said, because I didn't.
"Look at your hand," he said.
"OK," I said, looking.
"If it became a foot, would it still be your hand?"
"Uh...no." I still didn't get it.
"Perfection is no longer perfection if it allows for a little imperfection," he said.
"But if I lost a finger, my hand wouldn't be perfect...but it would still be my hand!" I was pretty proud of my counter-argument.
"Your hand remains a hand as long as it keeps a hold of its handishness," said the Gardener, without missing a beat. "Perfection itself must remain perfect, or it is something else. My garden is not just perfect in quality, it is perfection defined."
"So where does that leave me?" I asked.
"A total failure," he said.
My heart dropped. The Gardener seemed so kind, but his words were so devastating.
"That's mean," I said.
"It's true," he said.
"You...you're hurting my self esteem," I managed. My eyes filled up with tears.
"Good. At least something got accomplished today," he said cheerily. "Are you ready to rejoin your brother?"
"You aren't going to kill me?" I said.
"Apparently not," he answered.
"But...didn't you kill my brother?"
"Yes, but you may not notice right away," said the Gardener with a smile. "Anyway, we've finished for today."
I looked around at the total mess that represented so may hours of toil.
"Will I get another chance to get this right?" I asked.
The Gardener stood and put his hand on my shoulder, then looked deeply into my eyes.
"Yes you will, Tim."
I felt a little better. "I still don't think its fair," I said.
The Gardener threw back his head and laughed, a sound that shook the garden and made the stars shine a little brighter.
"No, fair it is not," he said when his laughter abated. "But it is not fair in your favor."
He led me to the little gate, opened it for me. I looked up at him in time to see him surveying the unkempt garden behind us. I had the impression that he was mentally going over his own plans to clean it up. He caught me staring at him, winked at me, and gently pushed me through the gate.
The sky was blue again, the lawn tended and wide, the thatched cottage pristine and clean. Sophie stood beside it, bent down a little as Michael spoke to her intently.
My stomach in knots, I made my way to them.
Michael heard me when I was still a few yards away, and he started to rush towards me...as if to embrace me! But he got a good look at my face and thought better of it.
"I don't want to talk about it," I growled.
Michael looked at Sophie for direction, but she only nodded encouragingly at him.
"Okay," Mike said, "that's okay. But I have to tell you something."
"What is it?" I snapped.
"It's just...look, what I said before about you being Kingfinder and me helping you...I sort of meant it and sort of didn't mean it. But now I really mean it. I've found my King; now I want to help you find yours."
I didn't like the implication. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked sharply.
"Don't be upset! I just mean that I think I was meant to come here and find a different kind of King, not a - a political King. A spiritual one, you know? And I've done that. Mission accomplished. So now, there's still the job of finding Elkwater's King, someone to rule over all these Verses and different kinds of people. King Warren is wise and good, but he was wrong. You are the real Kingfinder, not me. And if you want me to, I'll help you. But if you don't, I'll just stay out of your way. Maybe I'll go back to Pepperwood Manor or something and wait. You can even have my sword."
I was confused. Part of me was elated that I had won, that Michael was actually surrendering to me. But my gut suspected that Michael was still coming out ahead in all this, somehow. But I had to act gracious in front of Sophie, or I knew I'd look really bad.
"You don't have to leave," I murmured. "And keep your sword. I don't need two of them."
"All right, thanks," said Michael.
"You boys should rest before going," said Sophie, interrupting an awkward silence. "And then you do need to get going. King Warren's adventures are about to begin, and we wouldn't want the Tempest of the Torc to start prematurely, would we?"
"Don't you mean that King Warren's adventures are about to end?" I asked. "He's dying, after all."
"No I don't and yes he is. I'm very precise about what I say, Tim."
"Well, how do you know there really is such a thing as the Tempest of the Torc, anyway?" I asked.
Sophie didn't answer right away, and so I glanced at her kind, freckled face in time to see something happen to her eyes. They deepened, as if a lid was taken off a well or a cap off the lens of a great telescope, revealing a startling array of nebulae and starfields beyond.
"I know because I'm the one who brews it," she said, as simply as if she were talking about riga.
*************************************************************************************************************
I awakened before Mike did. The sand was soft beneath me and the freshwater waves of the river lapped upon the shore. I remembered lying down in a patch of wildflowers near the cottage, drifting off as Sophie told me to ignore the harmless buzzing of the honeybees. They sort of droned me to sleep. I certainly did not remember walking back to the beach.
I beheld an otherworldly craft floating a few feet from shore. It was made of the same pink stone as the Potter's Bridge or the buildings of Kurmanta, was more or less oval in shape, and was decorated with spirals and whorls reminiscent of the shapes I had seen in the underwater realm of the Eels. A little solid stone railing nearly three feet high surrounded the deck, and the whole contraption was no more than ten feet from bow to stern and seven feet at its widest.
I thought about exploring it on my own and letting Mike - who was ten feet to my right - stay in dreamland for a while, but I was still scared of the Eels, and this time no black-and-gold German Shepherd was beckoning me to wade out into the river.
"Mike," I said as I nudged his side with my foot.
He woke up annoyed, but his eyes widened as he saw the craft.
"Coo-ool," he said.
"Guess we'd better climb aboard," I tried to mention casually.
"Lemmee pee first," said ex-Kingfinder Michael, "Sophie gave me three cups of riga."
So. If all the events of the cottage and the garden were a dream, it was a dream both of us had together. I got the chills. The clothing Sophie had provided was nowhere to be seen.
In a moment we climbed aboard the HMS Buttsore, as I later dubbed it (sitting on hard rock for long periods can really hone a bad attitude), and it suddenly began to move.
"What's moving us?" I asked in alarm.
Michael was staring over the side. "I think there are Eels propelling us."
"Where are they taking us?"
"How should I know!" shouted my brother. Apparently our arguing days weren't over.
After fifteen minutes of shouting, we decided to talk to the Eels. Actually, Michael agreed to lean over the rail headfirst with his head in the water while I held his feet. When he was done, I lifted him back in the boat and we had to peel one of those "breathing eels" off his face. It left a red mark.
"Well?" I asked.
"They are taking us a long, long way via connecting rivers to a lake somewhat west of Ibn-Warna. From there we can continue our journey."
"On this?" I complained. "How will we eat? Where will we get clothes? How long will it take? How will Kwotik or Cloud-Warrior know where to find us?"
"How do I know? You ask them!" Michael retorted.
I was having none of that. "You're their friend, not me! Besides, you are supposed to be helping me now, remember?"
Michael was unfazed. "I didn't sign up to be your slave!"
We argued for the better part of an hour until we noticed the western bank of the Ryemellow was in view. There were people on it. Growing numbers of people, waving and shouting.
The Buttsore drew ever closer to the bank, and it was clear that our appearance was creating something like a sensation. No boats ever rode the Ryemellow on account of the Eels, so when we were first spotted in the distance crowds began to gather. As we came closer and the crowds identified who we were, everyone went wild.
Conscious of our nakedness, we strode up to the railing and pressed ourselves against it, thankful it was solid. We smiled and waved, weakly.
We drifted north with the current as the crowds continued to gather. Flowers were flung in our direction, though none of them made it into the boat.
"I wish someone would throw a loaf of bread or a pair of shorts," I said to Mike, who laughed.
Then they started chanting. I don't know who started it, and at first I didn't know what they were saying. I asked Michael if he could make it out, but when I turned to him, his head was bowed and his face was red.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Then I understood.
"Sojourner! Sojourner! Sojourner!" They shouted with glee and abandon.
Not one word about the Pursuer.
Damn them I thought. I wanted to give them the finger, but I just folded my arms and stared at the water.
I nursed dark thoughts for quite some time until Michael shouted out, "Is that Kwotik?"
I looked into the crowd and saw a single horseman picking his way through it, frantically trying to get our attention.
"He wants on board!" I said. "Quick, Mike, tell the Eels to pull up to the bank so he can get on!"
"I'm not hanging over the boat in front of all these people!" he complained.
"But you have to!" I argued with growing enthusiasm. Otherwise we will miss him and we will be naked and on our own. He probably has our swords and clothing and everything!"
"You do it!" Michael shouted.
And so it went.
Kwotik, meanwhile, got his steed galloping north along the bank and sped out of view.
"You wasted our last chance," I grumbled, and stomped my foot. I nearly stomped on the shard of lightning glass, which I tried then to move out of harms way along with the stile.
It occurred to me then that Sophie must have placed it next to my sleeping body on the beach when she took us there from the cottage. I wondered if she knew what it did.
We floated along without talk or incident until the thin line of the Potter's Bridge appeared in the distance.
"They'll look down and see us for sure," moaned Michael.
"Maybe they'll drop some clothes," I said.
We both realized it at the same time, and shouted at each other.
"Kwotik!"
Eagerly we tried to make out individuals on the bridge, but it was a long time before we could do anything of the kind. As we neared, I thought I could see a man with long, black hair laden down with bags trying to position himself on a rail.
"It's him!" exclaimed my brother. "He's going to jump for it!"
"It's like, over twenty feet down," I whispered. The deck of the Buttsore was really hard.
We neared the bridge to the sound of cheering. Spectators lined it, but they left some space for the funny man crouching ont he rail with all his stuff.
"Hey, Mike," I began as a morbit thought occurred to me, "if he misses and hits the water, will the Eels tear him apart?"
Michael stared straight ahead. "Yeah, probably."
We reached the bridge as Kwotik sprang from his perch, holding most of the travel bags in front of him. I thought he jumped too soon, but he timed it just so he reached the bottom as the boat drifted under the bridge. He fell atop the bags and then rolled to the back of the craft, hitting his head on the stone rail.
"Ow," he said.
The spectators atop the bridge gave the loudest cheer of all. I was afraid a few of them were going to try the jump themselves, but they didn't.
Mike and I covered our privates with a bag apiece as Kwotik stood rubbing the top of his head with one hand and waving to the cheering throng with the other.
"Hey guys," he said to us.
"Clothes! Do you have our clothes?!" we shouted in unison.
"Gee, good to see you too," he complained. But he dug out our clothes, colors and all.
Mike started to put on his shirt, but hesitated. "Do you have my other traveling clothes?" he asked.
"Only the bland ones," said Kwotik. "Why, what's wrong with those?"
"I am not a Kingfinder any more," he said. "I should not wear the green and gold."
Kwotik looked back and forth between us. "Okay, what in Sha'voth happened to you two? What were you doing out there in the river?"
We told him.
(Chapter End) |
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