Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task Page 4

  “Ha!” Grevious laughed, reaching out to grab a glass from the table (his hand seeming to ignore the physics that there was a cloth-like material covering the cup and simply picked it up). “Such naivety these days! Then again, I was once the same….”

  “Enough mourning,” sir Knowington added in. “Tell him why he is here.”

  Grevious walked over to one of the book shelves, grabbing the nearest petrified book (yes, actually petrified. A book, made of paper, made of wood, becoming petrified). Holding it over the glass, he began shaking it until the ink of its words trickled out and into the glass. He looked to sir Knowington as though scoffing at his methods, then turned to Mr Fauldon and handed him the glass. “Why should I tell what the book had contained best…”

  And as the words slid down Mr Fauldon’s throat, his mind began to swirl as a voice filled him from within. He felt like tumbling to the ground but instead looked wildly at the spinning objects about him. The table, the chairs, the cloth, the utensils—all the objects of the room were lifted into the gentle whirlwind that was in his mind. To its current did the scene unfold and a voice spoke out to him:

  “A Violstone so blue, so filled with red in fainted hue;

  A stone which’s veins of essence grow a smoldering sense of fortitude.

  It has long since brought the rifts of herald near,

  Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear.

  Placed in the Lighthouse, the stone foretells of that which is to remain,

  Though the weight of its task adds to it strain—

  Such strain that causes a need for it to rise up again.

  Thus, a Karier is brought to bring it to its place,

  Out of place and to its place, a balance replaced in its wake.

  But caution to the one who carries

  For a mind in ponderance oft overlooks its pains.

  Should such mind finally awake, to distant places will it take,

  And the longer the stone without dwell shall be

  The more unstable all that is held is becoming.”

  Before him (that being Mr Fauldon—or, rather, his mind), unfeld the most peculiar of scenes. A spooned figure fell upon the table’s surface, engulfed by white streams until naught but a sugar cube rested before it. Wielding the cube, the spoon progressed the many chairs that came its way until a fork stood in its path. The two fought over the cube till finally the spoon overcame. Dreary and worn, the spoon approached the last chair and, climbing it, was able to place the cube within the small tea cup. And as it did, the vision erupted to the intruding figure of Grevious as he broke the silk of illusion within Mr Fauldon’s mind.

  It took a moment for Mr Fauldon to realize it was over now and that indeed Mr Grevious had stepped nearer to him (all while sir Knowington watched closely).

  “You see,” Grevious smirked, “that cube is the Violstone and you are that spoon. It is you who must carry it all the way up to the Lighthouse.”

  “So all I must do is bring a stone to the Lighthouse? I was brought all the way into this place of disbelief believing my only purpose is to carry a rock?”

  Grevious chuckled, “Yes, you could say that. I would do it for you, but it seems I am not as liked as before.”

  “What do you mean? You were once the Karier?”

  “Where is the stone?” sir Knowington bud in (clearly not much in favor of hearing sir Grevious’ story, whatever it be).

  Grevious paced back about the table with his mind in deep contemplation. The man reached out towards the table so as to straighten the slanted spoon. Mr Fauldon recognized all its contents to be that which had engulfed his vision. Grevious adjusted the small tea cup that it might reflect the distant shimmering ray coming in through the glass panes facing the Lighthouse. Then he scooted in one of the lonely chairs until it accompanied the other about the small dining table.

  At last did he draw up the fork which had somehow fallen to a seat and held it in admiration of its silver reflecting, placing it nearside the spoon.

  “It resides at Obliviouseh,” he finally answered, “just beyond the Crookstath Crossing.” Looking up, he caught eye of sir Knowington with a smile. “Not that I’ve been following it or anything….”

  “That is all for now, sir Grevious,” said sir Knowington. “We will be on our way.”

  “The Porhtree is up, by the way,” Grevious added, “if you would like to use it.”

  “The Porhtree?” Mr Fauldon inquired, still just as eager to know more about this Grevious and why he seemed to be so disliked.

  “That would be much appreciated,” sir Knowington remarked to Grevious’ offer. “This way, my good sir. Shall we continue?”

  “But—”

  “We will have time to discuss on our way,” sir Knowington interjected, knowing all too well Mr Fauldon’s attentions to ask more questions.

  “It is like a tunnel,” Grevious answered for the ‘know-it-all’. “The roots of a Porhtree are deep and vast, and where they sprout, the tree is the same. It is by such trees, when they do decide to sprout at random times, that one can travel between identical Porhtrees, just like the one atop my house.”

  “You have a tree on top of your house?” Mr Fauldon asked.

  “Why, yes! Who doesn’t?” Grevious laughed (though everyone knows having such a thing is by no means ordinary; in fact, it is rather weird). “Come, I will take you to it.”

  Thus, they were led up the creakity steps from which Grevious had first appeared and through a narrow winding hall with tight-knit doors, all labeled for convenience: the Room of Hospitality, the Room of Hostility, the Room of Reflection, and the Room of Retirement. Finally, they came to the end of the hall, at least two more flights above the first, and Mr Fauldon saw with his own eyes the floor that knew no bottom and yet a bottom did it have.

  Grevious smirked in pride to Mr Fauldon’s admiration. “You see!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t it something?? You can see all the way down and yet not moments before were you looking at the ceiling!”

  “Truly…” Mr Fauldon gasped for words, still caught in wonder.

  “Here it is,” Grevious pointed. To his direction was noted a small door upon which was the label: This Way To The Porhtree.

  Before he could take in everything, Mr Fauldon found himself standing atop the Protruding Tower and seeing the Porhtree, like a giant spore mushroom, poising a proud ten feet above them. Its veins pulsed a dark blue as though it were alive and breathing and having a heart.

  “What now?” Mr Fauldon asked, seeing no door upon the Porhtree.

  “Why, this is where you climb in,” Grevious replied.

  “Climb in?”

  “Yes, you climb in between the veins of its outer membrane.”

  Sir Knowington stepped right up to it, though Mr Fauldon was hesitant. “Come now,” sir Knowington urged. And so he cautiously did—inching himself ever slowly toward the odd idea of pushing through a living mushroom’s membrane.

  His hand shook and trembled as it stretched out to the sporey membrane. The Porhtree seemed to react to his touch, almost as if aiding him in pushing through. It felt like pushing through a harp’s strings, but only that they stretched about one’s body as though one pressing though a large crowd of moving people (yes, the thin threads of the Porhtree’s exoskeleton were in constant motion, bending and warping as though Mr Fauldon were a part of their terrain).

  And so he was entranced, slipping through a funnel of indescribable color and array. Not even color. It was more like flashes and beams of light. He could feel no form and yet his form slid continuously on.

  He felt calmed.

  He felt relaxed.

  He felt as though he could watch the same flickers for the rest of eternity to come.

  And he felt out of the world, apart from everything. So the feeling grew—more separation until it bred into anxiety for it to end. From pleasure and ease to tension and disease, he was now more than ready to reach the end.

  Thus he emerged
ever quickly—his form slipping through the veins once more and stumbling upon solid ground, though vision ablur and mind out of focus. It took Mr Fauldon a moment to gather himself, only to see sir Knowington on ahead of him at the ledge of a grand abyssal canyon.

  His sight and sense returning to him, Mr Fauldon edged himself closer to the overlook—a gasp in awe of the granditude ahead of him.

  SCENE V:

  The view was enormous to scale. Along the entirety of the mainland’s ridge were streams of water falling upward and creating a mist that seemed to touch the silky veins of wateriness which still etched themselves about the sky.

  “Beyond this,” sir Knowington said, his gaze still cast over the expanse of abyss, “lie the lands of Distontay. The springs that arise here are what separates the mainland of Euphora from its extension. They are continuously dividing us as the great City of Ebony stretches further and further away.”

  Mr Fauldon held his hand against the glow of ember that radiated from the land beyond. He could almost see through his hand in the same fascination one has when they are young and shining a flashlight through their palm.

  “This city,” Mr Fauldon asked, “is it to where we tread?”

  “Yes,” answered the great guide (never before had Mr Fauldon seen the man so caught up in thought, for something must have been deeply pressing upon the ‘know-it-all’s mind). “Shall we continue?” he said to Mr Fauldon.

  “How will we get there? How are we to reach that crooked, narrow, deathly-looking path so inconveniently placed amidst gloom and shards of flame and deso—”

  “Are you coming or not, dear sir,” sir Knowington interrupted (for he knew the intent of Mr Fauldon’s elaboration and wished not to delay).

  But sudden nausea filled Mr Fauldon’s senses as he looked down the steep slopes to which a path etched onward. “I must be honest with you,” he said to sir Knowington, taking his first step and coughing to the frog in his throat. “I am terribly not in favor of the direction this task seems to be headed. Might I just catch a flying walrus…”

  “They are whale turtle, Mr Fauldon, not flying walruses. Have you not still the gift Serve Per Card handed you? Ask your card something. Let it keep you entertained, so long as you watch your step.”

  Mr Fauldon was shaking. For the strangest reason, he felt cold at the core of his body, even though his exposed hands and face felt the warmth of the glow across the abyss. “Why do I feel cold beneath this coat, yet warm to touch?” he asked to sir Knowington.

  The man reluctantly replied: “It is the Korgath hide—known to counter-react to its surroundings so as to find a balance for its host.”

  “But the chill is rather cold to me,” exclaimed Mr Fauldon as he tucked his hands inside his coat, feeling then how hot they actually were (which now it made sense to him: the coat was but accounting for how hot this exposure actually was amidst the ember). He decided it better to leave his hands uncovered, else his head burn up in flame.

  As his hands slid out from the coat, so did the card of ponderance. “Tell me more of this place,” he said, wondering if such a statement were close enough to the broad stroke of questions he wished to ask. Sure enough, the card shook loose of his grip and fluttered before him as though getting a better glimpse of what was about. It then quickly gathered form until it resembled that of an ancient monk (one without staff, but his large head made up for it).

  It spoke to him: “This is Rys’ Springs—the great ascending waterfalls of Euphora that separate the mainland from the Crookstath Crossing which leads to the desolate and firing lands beyond Obliviouseh, the City of Ebony.”

  “Why are the lands separated?” Mr Fauldon asked, not sure himself where the questions came from, only that they seemed to keep coming like a river with no beginning and seemingly no end.

  “They separate that which conflicts. Much as the thistle bees form the great river Floweth in order to preserve, so is the work of Rys’ Springs, keeping the mainland from the smoldering of Obliviouseh and that which is beyond.”

  “But I know a man from Distontay, and he is a man of great regard. Nomad is his name. How could such a man of great intent be as cruel as the lands of which you speak?”

  “I do not speak,” the answering monk answered, “I only answer your inquiries.” (And yes, he knew he had just spoke). “Besides, when did I say the lands of Distontay were cruel?”

  “You said they were smoldering,” Mr Fauldon remarked. “Where I come from, that usually means something has been laid waste to.”

  The monk looked plainly. In fact, Mr Fauldon wouldn’t put it past the man if he hadn’t heard anything Mr Fauldon had just said. Despite being lifelike, it was still but an illumination of the card. “What is your name?” Mr Fauldon asked to the levitating monk (oh yeah, was it failed to be mentioned that the figure hovered over the abyss?).

  “I am Inquiry, the answer to your question and a question to be answered.”

  “Ouch!” Mr Fauldon exclaimed, noticing a pain to his shin as his footing collided with a protruding ridge. He would’ve fallen had a firm hand not gripped his shoulder just in time. Somehow, at some point, and by some means, sir Knowington had closed the distance and braced him (and some distance it had been of at least ten or more feet).

  “We are here,” he said to Mr Fauldon as they drew near to a plateau that spanned right and left. To their right did the path cut between the towering cliff-sides and into shadows unseen. To their left did it wrap about small craters of smoldering embers and lead to the Crookstath Crossing. The illuminating monk was no longer present but replaced by a figure poised off in the distance to their left, too far at the moment for Mr Fauldon to tell much else.

  But sir Knowington knew (seriously, he had to…). “Stay close, Mr Fauldon, and whatever you do, do not take off that coat.”

  Upon coming closer, Mr Fauldon could make out the ravaged thief. The crooked man’s intention was fully upon Mr Fauldon, but did nothing, seeing who his guide was. “Well, well, well, if it is not the babysitter himself come to make easy the Task of a man.”

  He glared at sir Knowington, but still looked with zeal at Mr Fauldon’s coat. “Such a nice coat you have there,” the man grinned.

  “And you will have nothing of it either,” said sir Knowington. “Now let us pass, you have no right to tax this crossing, for you do it only in your own name, Ravage. Leave us without dispute.”

  Ravage (for that was indeed his name) crossed his arms so as to show his preposterous figure of strength (even though he was, indeed, a man of smaller size). “Had not word spread,” he said to sir Knowington, “I would do otherwise. That being on account of this nuisance sheltered beneath your wing.” Ravage turned back toward Mr Fauldon with just as crooked a smile as the path that lay behind him. “Mind yourself. The second you’re alone, I will strike.”

  The ravaged thief vanished from sight (for it seemed a lot of people could do that here). Sir Knowington looked back at Mr Fauldon with the slightest hint of seriousness in expression. “It is here you will be put to the test, Mr Fauldon. For two may not cross the bridge too closely else the whole framework fall into the abyss. I will go on ahead to show you the way, but you must follow in my steps exactly.”

  Mr Fauldon gazed out onto the path. It was not your ordinary rope and wood that spanned the distance, rather a special stone wood from further swen and a vine of coiled metals, which were just slightly more flexible than the strongest of cables. The platforms between which the bridges stretched were seemingly floating freely of ground (hence the ‘crooked’ crossing, as they would sway up-down and side-to-side to the drafts swirling about and beneath them like floating islands).

  From where he stood, it seemed the path never had an end as it pressed ever ongoingly over the abyss. Mr Fauldon was hard at work remembering to which stone wood planks the ever-knowing Knowington had stepped upon and those he had avoided.

  As they reached the first platform, Mr Fauldon finally had time to take notice
of the many other levitating plates with all assortments of hosts. The platforms were all over the place, revolving (as if to say) about the main islands that the bridge connected. These smaller plates were as though tiny ecosystems in and of themselves—some bearing but one plant, others a tree, and still others life. For one bore a small crater of glowing ember and what looked to be a mud totem with a creature much as a golem patting it down. The creature took quick notice of Mr Fauldon as well, its empty eye sockets beginning to glimmer.

  “What is that?” Mr Fauldon asked of sir Knowington, who had already started the next span of bridge.

  The guide looked back distastefully. “You should be watching my steps, Mr Fauldon, not asking questions. But for the sake of informing, that is an embermud golem—a creature lacking intellect but wielding a devastating power and it especially despises being intruded upon, as is the case with you staring at it.”

  “But I have never seen one before!” Mr Fauldon exclaimed, ever so intrigued by their mystery and uniqueness.

  “Best you not have to encounter one…” sir Knowington mumbled, freezing in his steps. For behind him and just before Mr Fauldon, had an embermud thudded onto the bridge, the golem’s crevices and joints beginning to radiate an orange heat and slowly leak of putrid tar. Sir Knowington was more concerned with a second embermud approaching from whence they’d come, and Mr Fauldon soon noted as well.

  “Uh, the weight, sir Knowington. What of this bridge again?” he asked with a stuttering voice.

  Sir Knowington stretched out his hand toward them. “You will not continue in this manner, else I will be the one you’ll be dealing with,” he proclaimed.

  Though thick in the head, the embermud most definitely understood the guide’s words and were torn in their interest of Mr Fauldon.

  “They’re not stopping, Mr. Fancy Man,” Mr Fauldon remarked as the bridge creaked to the added weight of the second embermud.

  “You will cease!” sir Knowington exclaimed one last time.

  It was the embermud that had first appeared who lost its temper—a crackle of sparks spewing from its every joint and mouth until a substance as lava began to seep. It turned viciously at sir Knowington, a blast of fire hurled in his direction. Even just the backlash of its heat was enough to singe Mr Fauldon’s hair.