Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task Page 3

  “And so shall you learn—the both of you,” said sir Knowington, “for there is a bridge now further swen of it to which we shall journey.”

  The traveler was overjoyed and turned with anxiety toward Mr Fauldon, “Ah! And you must be the new Karier! Bless my ankles, I surely thought I would never accompany such a privilegee. I am Nomad—at your service. Well, at least I like to be called Nomad. My actual name is Nomadicus in full and Nom by calling. I am not from these parts, rather the far lands of Distontay. It has been my dream to settle down and raise up a town.”

  “Quite the endeavor you have,” sir Knowington added, not in the least bit caring. “Shall we be on our way now? There is some footing to be done yet before reaching Costle Bridge.”

  “Right! Then off we go!” Nomad charged (only in a matter which allowed sir Knowington to lead, for he knew not the way).

  And so they strode down the hills swen of Chestleton and toward the Hygh Pass cliffs. Mr Fauldon could not keep count of how diverse his surroundings were in the least. The stone palms wove themselves about every slope of dune grass; lilies of fruit sprouted the edges of their winding path and they ducked beneath clovers the size of small trees. Petrastone wood was more than abundant about them in those hills as they neared the outskirts of Chestlewoods and to the sound of the river Floweth.

  Nomad was perfect company to Mr Fauldon and just as admiring of the plethora of life and terrain—only he seemed to know of it all, or at least the traveler claimed (though Mr Fauldon could have sworn he saw the man always glancing at encyclopedias stashed all about his person). The man was full of energy and admiration—something sir Knowington seemed to lack altogether. Yet the guide led them on and at good pace despite the many inquiries Mr Fauldon wished to make and Nomad’s seemingly prompt reading.

  “Look! There!” Nomad had quickly proclaimed. Mr Fauldon froze in step and sight, for just a little ahead and on up the slope poised a faerydeer (but that did not stop Nomad from swishing through his papers to find its description). “It’s a faerydeer!” he exclaimed. “They are said to appear when the bonedilies are near bloom and are renowned for the pollen they sweat.”

  Nomad’s expression seemed confused, as was Mr Fauldon’s. Such a weird trait to be known for one’s sweat. But Nomad kept reading: “Their sweat is essential to nature’s pollination and integration of kinds, allowing species of plant to travel vast expanses and find home next to the bonedilies for protection.”

  “Bonedilies?” Mr Fauldon inquired. “What are bonedilies?”

  It was then he caught sir Knowington’s gaze just off to the left of their path. Sure enough, there resided a bonedily as it stretched itself to the veins above. It was naught but ten feet tall and bore membranes of boney substance (resembling that of a venus fly trap in composure, also taking notice to the travelers passing by it—that being sir Knowington, Nomad, and Mr Fauldon). In a sudden jolt did the bonedily sweep toward them. Mr Fauldon had but enough time to spread himself upon the ground as it chased Nomad to the opposing ledge. It was then that the faerydeer leapt in. Mr Fauldon could not put into words the magnificence he saw as the faerydeer swayed the bonedily away from Nomad and soon had it postured back to the sky above. The pollen brushed against the stem of the bonedily until, in soothing submission, it became still again.

  “Well, then,” sir Knowington remarked, “have we had enough excitement to continue moving?”

  Nomad, still slightly shaken, was back upon his feet, seemingly fueled by the adrenaline. “Yes!” he agreed, “That truly was exhilarating! My second encounter with a bonedily now successful!”

  “Second?” Mr Fauldon asked, brushing off his shoulders and knees. “Then what of the first?”

  “Oh, no need to go in depth there,” said Nomad, “Only that I am now in good company.”

  “And also in sight of Costle Bridge,” sir Knowington added.

  Much to Mr Fauldon’s relief, there resided just on down the last slope a glimmer of the waters of river Floweth. The humming sound now came to him in full as though a breeze were swirling above their way. He was reminded of the warmth and comfort of his coat which bore no stain from his recent visitation with the ground. Any bits of dirt or moist seemed to roll right off it, though his shoes spoke otherwise.

  “Who would have thought I was so close to it this whole time!” Nomad announced, not in the least ashamed as they proceeded down the slope and to the river bank.

  The bridge was flat and stretched boldly over the rush of current. It was only that he now stood next to its swarming roar that Mr Fauldon realized the river was actually, indeed, one continuous swarm of thistle bees. He knew them to be thistle bees for Nomad had yet again dove into the wonders of his encyclopedia (which Mr Fauldon was becoming more and more grateful for—after all, it wasn’t like sir Knowington cared to answer all his questions). Then he remembered the card. Pulling it from beneath his coat, Mr Fauldon held out the card. “What of these thistle bees?” he asked, “Why do they flow in stream?”

  The card began to gleam and shake as the hum of the thistle bees began to ripple words upon its surface, and he read: “From where they flow the most fruitful grow, and to where they speed, a border between greens.”

  “A border between greens?” Nomad reiterated.

  “Yes,” sir Knowington said, “Much as the saying ‘the grass is greener on the other side’, so does the river Floweth keep all that is within the greener side. But let us instead cross this bridge, shall we?”

  Mr Fauldon would never have guessed the bridge to be made of honey cone. Not the sort of honey cone that seeped of only honey, rather one that teemed with thistle bees joining in the rush. They were not so small up close as they emerged from their cones to join their brothers (in fact, Mr Fauldon could have swarmed he saw one as large as a soup bowl!).

  Upon reaching the other side, sir Knowington turned to Nomad saying, “It is here I must ask a favor of you.”

  “Aw, yes! Anything to the all-knowing Knowington who has helped me in my travel across the river Floweth.”

  “There is business I must tend to for the moment,” said sir Knowington. “If you would, lead my friend here to the threshold of the Protruding Tower and there I shall meet you.”

  Nomad’s body bowed in agreeance as the guide in bright suit vanished in a purple dust. “Truly a guide to be zealous for,” Nomad remarked, turning back to Mr Fauldon. “I am honored to assist you to Mauhg, sir Karier of the Task.”

  “This task,” Mr Fauldon asked, “what exactly is it? I agreed to it but only because I felt convicted to when in all actuality I know nothing about it.”

  The traveler smiled as they continued down the path, answering Mr Fauldon over his shoulder, “I noticed the card you drew at the bridge. Perhaps you’d do better asking it than me.”

  And so Mr Fauldon had to yet again resort to the card he neither approved of nor necessarily condemned anymore. “What is the task I carry?” he asked of it.

  The words whispered across the smooth surface. “Journey to sir Grevious, from whom you shall receive further instruction,” he read. “But that does not answer my question…”

  “Exactly,” Nomad answered him. “That is why you must seek out this sir Grevious first. Maybe then you will learn more of that which you swore oath to.”

  Mr Fauldon was beginning to regret agreeing to such a task. Especially now that he was beginning to realize he knew nothing of it. And where was this ‘sir Knowington’ now? Where did he have to go that was so important? Hadn’t the great Keyno himself told the guide to remain with him? Not that he needed a guide for the sake of security, though he was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed again by his surroundings. Perhaps he felt uneasy because sir Knowington had been the only consistent figure thus far. But now he had Nomad.

  And Nomad had gained quite the distance before him by now. “Wait, Nomad!” Mr Fauldon shouted. But the cliffs of Hygh Pass rose steep and bent harsh and soon he lost sight of the traveler. “Traveler!
” he yelled again, now feeling as a child in a room all too enclosed and dark. About him towered hollow roots of cliffs long unswept. Like web did rock climb the walls. Upon closer look, Mr Fauldon could notice the tiny insects climbing out of the path’s belly and on upward (much like rhino beetles, only without wings or hard shells). He suddenly felt guilty of stepping upon them with his every move, and so he stopped, only to notice more and more of them—his gaze following one in particular that moved against the flow of the rest. This one also seemed to grow in size until it was a proud three foot to Mr Fauldon’s petrified form and not but five feet from where he stood.

  “You… seem… loooosssst,” the insect croaked, its look unwavering. “Tell me, booooooy… why don’t you find a plaaaaace heeeere…. wiiiith ussss….”

  “Who… what are you?” Mr Fauldon asked, his eyes now getting heavy to keep open and his focus becoming ablur.

  The insect replied: “I… am Rhaeeeee… I always am seeeeeking the company of the lossssst.”

  He could no longer move. Not that he wanted to, either. He felt as though content with just standing there even though his body grew weary of it. He did nothing to the inching insect as its lungs rattled their luring tunes—only now the insect’s attention was upon something else.

  “What’s thisssss?” it asked, drawn to the small card that illuminated from beneath Mr Fauldon’s coat—all while he was still unaware. The insect drew closer to the emerging card (as though a magic trick) that came to levitate between the insect and Mr Fauldon. Slowly did the Henser rise until it had also caught the attention of Mr Fauldon’s numb eyes. The two gazed wondrously into the radiance of mystitude.

  “What isssss this?!” the insect demanded, somehow caught in the same trance it had lured Mr Fauldon into. “Where did you get thissssss!” it hissed out at him, its lens starting to dry out. A whiff of dust began spurring about Mr Fauldon, his very fibers beginning to shake, as the insect realized its prey was escaping its clutches.

  “Noooooo! I will not let you!” the insect roared as it tore its gaze from the illumination and lashed its limbs at its prey—but Mr Fauldon was not there, instead appearing upon the ledge above the insect, dazed himself as to how he got there. “What isssss this?!” the insect croaked, but before it could lunge again, it was met with a sudden-appearing force. The force was that of a staff.

  The staff of Nomad.

  “No, say I!” Nomad cried as the insect was beat to the ground. “This man, you shall leave be!”

  Mr Fauldon rushed to his senses, seeing Nomad clobber the insect to the dirt. Relief swept over him as did exhaustion, and he tumbled back down the ledge. Nomad came to him and braced him—the insect already vanished into hundreds of rhino beetles continuing up the slopes.

  “Are you alright?” Nomad asked of Mr Fauldon.

  “Yes, whatever did just occur, it seems I am alright,” Mr Fauldon answered. “To where did you go? I lost sight of you amidst the twists and turns of these paths. Had it not been for your impeccable timing and this card, I may have just failed the great king.” Mr Fauldon looked back upon the blank card that had just saved him and then to Nomad.

  “Come,” said Nomad, “let us get on from this place before the next turn.”

  SCENE IV:

  And journey they did all about the curves and turns of the winding Hygh Pass, tracing back over the path Nomad had uncovered during his strange un-presence. The traveler went on and on about the odd peculiars he had discovered almost as though discovering them again for the first time (his head in constant paring with his encyclopedias, as usual). Be it the rectangular Otis rocks, the bizarre flares of vines that behaved as limbs of an octopus, or the queer eeriness of a gargling croaker (the likes of which were shared by gloating throated frogs).

  “And look at this!” he would say, pointing to an overturned plant with scales of dust. Or “look at that!” while pointing to a daisy whose pedals were outstretched on threads of hair. If one trait were prominently noted amidst all the bizarritude Mr Fauldon had beheld in that pass, it would be the prosperity and near boastfulness of a depravity of hydration—for they both, despite Nomad’s enthusiasm, grew wearier each step.

  But blessed was the damp soil and laden grass to which they now clang. Mr Fauldon found his acquaintance sprawled about the ground in praise of the moistness. “Why is it you lick the grass?” Mr Fauldon asked, a little taken aback by the strange behavior.

  The traveler looked up at him, realizing how weird it might have looked to Mr Fauldon. “Why,” he answered, “it is the dew! Here, try some.” At that, the traveler reached into his linen clothes and withdrew a small cloth with which he proceeded to brush across the surface of the ground. Mr Fauldon gazed in wonder as he saw the damp cloth now struggling to retain any more dampness. It was then that Nomad handed it to him. “It’s dew soil,” said Nomad with a smirk.

  Mr Fauldon took it and clamped his fists that the liquid might trickle down his hands and between his wrinkled lips and dry tongue. It tasted like sugarwater with a dash of honey in it (something quite overwhelming when one is just starving the second before).

  “How is this possible?” Mr Fauldon asked.

  “Why, you are looking at the downspout of Waterryse Mountain,” said Nomad. “It is in the heart of Waterryse Mountain that the thistle bees have their cone haven, and as their aroma is caught adrift by the rising waters, the scent and taste befalls the mountain’s slopes, descending even to where we are now.”

  “I am altogether still oblivious to the order by which this place functions. Waterryse? Thistle bees again? Where is this Waterryse Mountain?” asked Mr Fauldon.

  “It is just swen of us,” Nomad answered him, pointing to their right and up. Sure enough, in the distance and behind some purple trees, Mr Fauldon made out the mountain (though it was faint from the misty haze of the ascending waterfalls).

  “I would much like to visit there,” said Mr Fauldon.

  “All in time, my friend,” Nomad replied, “but first you must wait here for sir Knowington, for we have reached the threshold of Mauhg and the dwelling of sir Grevious.”

  Mr Fauldon turned back to see (as though he’d been blind to it at first) the rising cliff and the ominous protruding tower. “We are here already? I thought it would be at least one day’s travel,” said Mr Fauldon.

  “Ah, but you were with the great traveler!” Nomad laughed. “Alas, it has been an honor to accompany you. Truly, I am grateful to have met the Karier of the Task! I bid you well as I continue to Mauhg.”

  “Farewell,” Mr Fauldon bid in return. He’d almost grown fond of the obnoxious traveler and his plethora of books. For a nomad he was quite the informed—something not to be taken for granted considering how un-informative this sir ‘Know-a-ton’ cared to be.

  Which begged the question once more: Where was sir Knowington? Mr Fauldon took out the card of Inquiry once more and held it in his arms. Seeing no one about him, the temptation was great. He wanted dearly to ask what sir Knowington’s true name was. It was in moments as such that one felt almost a wave of excitement to do what one was asked not to in secretude. And so the guilty grin stretched across his face as he began to convince himself of it more—only to be interrupted by the exposure of the protruding tower above him. He seemed closer now to it than he was before, even though he hadn’t moved. Likewise, he hadn’t noticed before the ladder scaling the ledge to its trapdoor.

  And just like that, the card was back in his pocket as he climbed the ladder.

  With a creak did the latch lift to an interior unexpected. The floors were somehow stone-laden and about the old furniture were bags of thin, web-ridden cloths. Only the bookcases were left untouched by the cloth-like material, and upon each shelf were no more than two or three books (all of which seemed to have been petrified, but who reads anyway?).

  “So… you come at last,” came a voice mysterious. “I was beginning to wonder if you ever would. After all, I am still just as able.”

 
; Mr Fauldon heard the screeching of steps from a figure in an off-green suit that had seen too much dust. The man’s hefty boots crest the wood and even the stone (which sounded just like wood even though indeed it was not—or at least didn’t look like it). The man caught glimpse of Mr Fauldon’s bewilderment and made comment: “You should see the master room upon the floor above. From there, I can look straight down, even to the outside of this place. Yet, nothing sees up.”

  “That is beside the point—” came sir Knowington’s voice from behind a wooden beam on the far side of the room. Both the host and Mr Fauldon were caught off-guard as to how he got there (not that it mattered for they expected no less from the man).

  “Why, if it isn’t my old acquaintance. Who would fancy seeing you ensuring the Karier keep his task?” spoke the figure to whom Mr Fauldon had watched descend the stairs.

  “You know all too well why it must be him, Mr Grevious,” answered sir Knowington. “You would do well to inform him the best you can—even if only for lord Keyno’s sake.”

  Grevious’ face grew a slight taint to sir Knowington’s words, but he shrugged it off quick enough and refocused himself upon Mr Fauldon. “Ah, yes,” he said, “after all, it is all about the new Karier of the Task. What is your name, sir ‘chosen-one’?”

  “Mr Fauldon.”

  “And did you knowingly accept this ‘task’ as its sole new karier?”

  “Yes, I did,” Mr Fauldon answered him (even though he himself was confused as to why he’d agreed to such a task that he knew nothing about). “What, might I ask, exactly is this task? What am I carrying?”