Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

  Fauldon’s Dream

  And the Karier of the Task

  By Enoch K. Enns

  Published by AuthorHouse 01/13/2017

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  Copyright 2017 Enoch K. Enns. All rights reserved.

  Heed These Words

  For those who wished rather a sequel, I heed you to not take for granted the significance of the story herein. This is a door to that Grand Hall that bears much weight and meaning in that which is to come. To those that this is the first: welcome. Welcome to the Realm of Euphora and its inhabitants. May your attention be swept into an adventure so refreshing, so imaginative, that you rediscover the youth of your mind and the creativity it retains.

  I could not have done this without you, Alaina—my wife and greatest companion. Your support was unwavering as you corrected far more mistakes than I would like to admit in my perfectly flawed writing. And to you, Abram—my son—I am joyed to raise you in a household filled with imagination and adventure. May you come to love these stories as I have loved reading them to you. May you renew my youthful mind and laugh and join in an endless adventure of the mind’s limitless imagination. For I publish this for you to enjoy.

  For you to read one day.

  And to you, my reader, I solemnly welcome your eyes and mind to read further, deeper, and in the richness of that which is to unfold before you and within your very mind.

  FAULDON’S DREAM AND THE KARIER OF THE TASK

  SCENE I:

  He was just an ordinary man—why should I have chosen anyone else? To be simply answered: it’s because the simple man is the one who often brings about the biggest and greatest changes. And so he walked, hands in his coat pockets, eyes set forward through the bustling city crowds, on towards a small stand-alone booth of hope, his mind and heart progressing more swiftly than his anxiety and tired body could meet. Etched upon the wood paneling read deliverance to any city tramp: HILTON’S WORKS & HIRE. For work in such times was packed and the economy was complicated to say the least. Most would hold a job if only for a single task in a single day and have to resort to scurrying about for another job. All that to say, the life of a city tramp hinged upon a day-to-day existence—a never ending pit of seeking.

  So seeing a “works and hire” would most obviously spur excitement and crowds as many would rush the opportunity to land a career job. In light of such, I should have admired more the timing of the choice being as there was no line awaiting him, for he now stepped into the booth—a small trickle of nervousness touching his spine. Before him a single desk resided, behind which sat a stout man in suit, hat, and tie. He took the cold steel chair in front of him, straightening his coat as he did. A sense of desperatecy to the occasion held him at the edge of his full potential, but that could have mattered less to me. Every man gets desperate. It’s what he does in it that should be of consideration. He was a respectable man.

  “What is your name?” the man asked.

  “Mr Fauldon,” answered he all in attempt at dodging the frog in his throat.

  “Are you a respectable man?” sir Hilton, the interviewer, asked (for that was what the name Mr Fauldon could make out from the tag clipped upon his left).

  “Why, yes, I do strive to be, sir Hilton,” replied Mr Fauldon, utilizing the awareness and hoping for the best.

  The man showed a smile and leaned his arms upon the desk. “Good,” he said, “and it is good that you can read, though I’d hope you wouldn’t try anything too bold.”

  “By no means whatsoever!” Mr Fauldon alarmed. “The thought would never have crossed my mind and neither would I ever conceive myself as doing such a thing.”

  “So, you must be in your mid-thirties?” sir Hilton asked.

  “Thirty-four, to be exact,” Mr Fauldon said with much dignity and pride, his nervousness starting to rub off.

  “Mind me asking what it was your previous occupation might have been?” the man proceeded, flipping out a pen and loose leaf paper from his sleeve.

  Mr Fauldon pondered for a moment.

  “Never mind that,” sir Hilton added. “It’s the events at hand that you seek and that make you, not a reminiscence of the past. Now, why should I trust you with this job in comparison to, for say, the man who had come in before you? He too has looked worthy.”

  “Feats of honor and heroism I may not have to offer,” Mr Fauldon answered with much considering, “but I do promise you my utmost effort and care in any and all tasks.”

  The light flickered above him as the ground quivered to the tiniest and most insignificant earthquake to a city too distracted to notice. For the city’s structures were built tall, brave, and proud and able to withstand such accustomed occurrences. He sat there waiting for it to putter out and when it finally did he returned his gaze from the ceiling to the man in hat and suit. A whole new look had come across the man’s face as if he had just remembered something of greater interest to him. That man, folding up his loose leaf paper and putting away his pen, abruptly stood and pushed back his chair, not a single occurrence to his mind that he still was giving an interview, or that Mr Fauldon still sat in his cold steel chair waiting.

  It was only a matter of moments before the man left the booth—Mr Fauldon utterly confused at the events. Not only that, but the man had exited through a rear door (there had only been one when he’d entered). To his surprise, having turned around to see if his own door was still there, he found it not! Queer—the look on his face. The kind that reminds you of a man who has struck such an un-knowing-ality of his surroundings that he is suddenly unaware of his own existence and perception of what had been reality to him.

  He could only ponder for so long before his curiosity took the better of him (and I could quite agreeably agree.) Straightening his coat once again, he stood and proceeded to the rear door. I would be content enough to say he simply wanted out of that small booth now—though indeed he did want the job. Reaching out, he grabbed the door handle like any other ordinary man would in any other ordinary circumstance (which dealt with opening doors, that is). Also like any other ordinary man, he stepped through it—the slightest bit of disappointment crossing his mind to a much anticipated interview, seeming at abrupt end.

  There he stood utterly dazed.

  Before him was a world he’d never seen (one of more splendor than he could even possibly dream of—and I say “dream” because that was the look on his face). Colors filled the skies with streaks of vivid hues, and streams of silky wateriness flowed freely and independently high above him. Plants and shrubs and trees alike were of quite overly-peculiar shapes and in-proportional sizes. It was all nearly too much for him to take in (and much of it he didn’t).

  Behind him, the once familiar booth now turned to earth and crumbled down upon itself. To make matters even more abnormal, a gigantic cloud tree sprang forth from the ground and began raining down upon the rubble—turning it to mud and flowing hence forth down the opposite side of that hill.

  He stood dumbfounded looking at a slender man who had suddenly appeared as he always did in a bright suit—as if to find some certainty he hadn’t gone mad. He found no certainty of any sorts. Instead, the man lifted his head upright in utmost satisfaction, saying, “Shall we carry on then?”

  “Carry on?” Mr Fauldon exclaimed, “I just saw a man walk through that door naught but moments before. Sir Hilton was his name. Have you seen him?”

  The stranger seemed astounded at the preposterous thought of yet another person. “Sir Hilton you say? Never heard of him. Now, if you please, Mr Fauldon, might we progress?” He (the strange man in suit, of course) motioned with his body
down the winding hill.

  “And who might you be that I’d follow ever so blindly?” Mr Fauldon asked, not moving an inch.

  “You may call me sir Knowington, dear sir. Now honestly, if you don’t mind, shall we continue with delay of pointless conversation or jolly well got on our way?”

  He had no choice but to follow (or rather he had simply not thought of anything else more reasonable to do). And who might blame him? He’d long since lost sight of reason as he knew it, and so they proceeded through the all-too-queer land of some totally different reality. He was led down from the hill—the cloud tree still raining its mist and growing larger, and the pile of once familiar rubble now a puddle of mud that ran down and began gathering further on at the foot of the slope and began forming a pond of memories and reflection.

  “Well, hello there!” came a distant and filled voice (as if drunk yet retaining some sense of awareness and intellect). And there, in but a blink of unawareness, now resided a table covered in white cloth with a bearded man in blue tux—obviously over-worn and under-washed—and hat sitting behind it (the first impression of course being a gambler of sorts). But that would have been an understatement and quite unfairly a far-fetched conclusion. Upon reaching the table closer, Mr Fauldon could make out several cards spread neatly over it. On each card was a symbol—a simple one of no foreseeable purpose, or so I have come to know.

  “Oh, not now!” said sir Knowington in a discontented voice. “Mr Fauldon has no time for such games and business.”

  “But alas!” the man intruded, “Might I not, in the least, introduce myself?”

  “He might as well,” Mr Fauldon replied. “Not like nothing else is new….”

  “That’s the spirit! Welcome to Serve Per Card’s Place—where the deal is and always will be! And just for giving of your time, I shall deal you your first card on me!” The man spoke with such enthusiasm in his work as he drew a single card from his white-spaced deck that he’d flung from his sleeve. The card fell face-up with the symbol showing.

  “Hm,” he mumbled, scratching his beard, “the ‘Inquisitor’. It seems your life will be filled with questions I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, well what good that is to my situation…” Mr Fauldon sarcastically remarked.

  “Don’t ask me!” the man said, “Ask the card! Or can you not read?”

  “I can to read,” Mr Fauldon pronounced, “and I need not a card to tell me what to do.”

  “It hasn’t told you anything yet,” the dealer laughed. “You haven’t asked it anything!”

  “Foolish this is,” said Mr Fauldon, handing him his card, “Here, have your card back.”

  “Hmm, very well then. Perhaps another?” the dealer asked, a childish look of anxiety awaiting a positive response (for that’s all he seemed to do with his life—drawing cards).

  “Mr Fauldon seems to have had enough, let him be,” sir Knowington said.

  “Ah, well too-ta-loo! But here, I’ll at least give you another card free for just having met!” The man’s huge smile was accompanied by a firm open hand.

  But before Mr Fauldon could reach out for it, the man had jerked his hand away, quickly adding, “Never mind that one! Would have hated for you to have Misfortune. Here, have this one—it was mine, but I give it to you!”

  His face lit up as Mr Fauldon took it. “It’s blank?” he said.

  An even bolder smile stretched across the man’s face. “For now, yes,” he answered, “it is.”

  “Very well now!” burst in sir Knowington (who felt as though the whole conversation had been too long already). “Shall we?”

  “Where is it you’re going?” the dealer asked.

  “To Chestleton,” replied he, and the both of them were off—Serve Per Card’s Place disappearing behind the curve of the road.

  SCENE II, Part I:

  It was rather shortly thereafter (having passed all sorts of exotic plants and shrubbery and trees) that they came to stand atop a ledge which was overlooking Chestlewood Forest. And of all the bizarre things Mr Fauldon had seen, it was to his relief to finally see some ‘ordinary’ looking trees (though one would not necessarily say a tinted orange oak of yellowish-green leaves was all that normal). Enormous great oaks showed the very outskirts—boasting of their strength in age and beauty. And as they moved deeper in, the rays of light glistening off the thick moss, the trees seemed to grow younger and less compact. Soon enough, the forest had opened somewhat up to a pasture of sorts (bright and majestic trees of different kinds now showing). In the middle of it all—and still a little ways off—lay tiny structures of a small town.

  “And what might this place be?” asked Mr Fauldon.

  “This, Mr Fauldon, is Chestlewood—a small little town we Calnor are very fond of.” Sir Knowington spoke this with much confidence, straightening his shoulders and putting on his best act. “Shall we?” he said for the fifth time.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” Mr Fauldon burst uncontrollably. “You say it as if I knew where we were going, but I have not the slightest clue! I don’t even know anything!”

  The last statement gave sir Knowington a queer face (as though he’d never thought of the awkward position Mr Fauldon presently was in). And so he disregarded it, saying, “Oh, don’t cause such fright to yourself. You must have only lost your recollection momentarily. Now, let us keep on, this is not the place yet.”

  “Then why are we even here? And where is this CHESTLETON anyway?” Mr Fauldon asked.

  “Beyond Chestlewood, of course,” replied he reluctantly. “Why do you ask so many questions?” Sir Knowington chuckled to himself and let it go—putting aside his next line for another time. “Let us proceed,” he simply said.

  Upon a closer look at the small town, Mr Fauldon could define clearly the many buildings protruding from the ground in all-which-ways (a sight by which even the ‘Leaning Tower’ would be considered standing straight). All the structures were made of wood—most two floors high with an attic topping them off along the chimneys. Their windows and frames were often over-bulked as if pride were found in the thicker wood. Small scattered stone paths made up where most walked. It felt as though, when passing between buildings, they would fall on oneself at any moment, and yet they looked to have surpassed greatly the effects of time and wear.

  “Quite the place you got, but no one’s here,” Mr Fauldon said, scoping the deserted-ness in all directions.

  “Of course not!” sir Knowington replied, “They’re all at Chestleton—”

  “Why, good evening!” came a shrill voice which sent a quiver down Mr Fauldon’s spine—and sir Knowington didn’t like it either (but more from the side that no one was ‘supposed’ to be there).

  “And what would you be doing here, madam Shrewg?” he more so inquired rather demandingly.

  “Oh, just making sure I wasn’t missing out on anything,” said the old beldam.

  “Anything worth missing definitely isn’t here I assure you, ma’am,” sir Knowington replied harshly.

  “So who’s the fellow?” she asked.

  “Not now, please,” said he before Mr Fauldon could even raise a lip (nonetheless his tongue). “We have been trying to reach Chestleton ourselves all day it seems, and we both could use without any more delays.”

  The beldam took a good, long look at the newcomer—her grey, old, fringed hair showing almost as though clear to the light’s complexion. With a crooked smile she spoke, “He looks as though he could use a rest! Come now, come by my place, and I’ll give you some good ‘ole stew!”

  “We really have no time to be meddling in other’s affairs, I heed you,” sir Knowington said, giving over the choice to Mr Fauldon (who was utterly lost in his senses).

  “Yes, I think I could use something to eat,” said Mr Fauldon, not remembering the last time he’d eaten a decent meal.

  “Ah, good, good!” the old lady rejoiced, bounding up the path to the right with surprising youthfulness. Mr Fauldon followed behind—a
slight heat to his chest (maybe it was his exhaustion or maybe his hunger, he did not know).

  Not only did she live in a corner cottage, but they had to pretty much back-track all the way to the front of the town to get there. The widowed old woman spoke proudly of her shrubs and heterogeneous plants (in particular the ruby bush—not to be mistaken for the ruby thorn weed).

  “This is it!” she announced, bouncing (as if it were) through her old, creaky shack door.

  “Careful, my friend,” said sir Knowington, “This is prime time to make acquaintance—you for sure don’t want her on your ‘non-friendly’ side.”

  “Come in! Come in!” beckoned the beldam, removing a large stew from the smoldering fireplace.

  “You were expecting us?” Mr Fauldon asked astoundedly.

  “Of course not! Who would want to visit poor old me?” she replied (besides, she would probably have eaten the whole thing herself had they not shown up).

  “Oh, hush now,” sir Knowington spoke, sitting himself calmly at one of the three stools. (Interestingly enough was it that she had but three sit-able stools, three eat-from-able bowls, and three usable spoons at the time. There was, of course, other miscellaneous furniture and artifacts, though all seeming near their death to crippling age.) “You know we can’t stay long less the Lighthouse go around three turns, there is no need to fill us with extravagant tales of self-pity.”

  “Why, is that not up to you but to my new guest?” answered she all awhile serving them. “My dear, do you wish to hear a tale of old? I shall tell it to you now if you so choose.”

  “By all means,” Mr Fauldon agreed, “I should do well with stories of this foreign land, for it is still but an awakening dream to me.”

  Both of them—the beldam and the ever-so-persistent-accompanyist—stared with blank faces at his remark.

  “Ah, but surely you shouldst soon wake to this reality,” said sir Knowington, more so to reassure himself of his decision.