by Daniel Kozuh
“We should go there, then,” Norman suggested. “See if anyone is in the know.”
“And what of the beast?” Roe spat.
Janey was already snoring. “Yeah, I don’t think she’ll be much bother.”
FOUR
The Clurichaun was clearly inebriated. He had, apparently, discovered and eaten some of the apples that had been stored in his master’s cellar. Due to improper curing techniques, the apples had fermented, and the poor creature had helped himself to a late-night snack after his chores were completed.
In his stupor, he managed to traverse the streets and kick open the door to the tavern. His master, sitting at the bar, pulling from a stein, turned red and demanded the rapscallion return home.
The townsfolk, however, found the sight of the drunk gnome stupendously amusing.
“Sing us one of your little jingles,” they demanded.
- Tales of Lingeria: The Forest Vigil, Chapter 9
Norman hurried Roe out of his own home, anxious to see the world that was Highpoint. Unfortunately, dusk had settled and, without the cast of golden streetlights, there was little to see. Norman immediately noticed how quiet it was. He thought he had found absolute silence in his Appalachian outpost, but this was a whole other level. It felt as if his eardrums had been pierced. The white noise of the modern world was gone and the stillness made Norman feel rather uneasy. The only thing to be heard was the gentle crunch of the gravel, as they walked, and whatever the Lingeria equivalent of a cricket might be.
As they entered the more urban area of Highpoint, Norman could make out a bit more, thanks to torches dotted along their path. Tall, slender, alpine buildings welcomed him. The main street ran for no more than a quarter of a mile. It was just as he’d written it: decorative, white eaves scooped above every door and ornate trim laced every window. These windows, handmade, shone in a bright gold from the candles within, but they slightly warped the interior, when viewed from outside. The Whittles that were not farmers were artesian craftsmen – two trades to which Norman always aspired but never achieved. The entire town had a sweet smell, as if it were someone’s job to constantly stir a hot pot of chocolate and roasting pecans. Norman hoped to come back when it was decorated for Christmas (and reminded himself to invent an equivalent to Christmas in Lingeria).
The signpost of The Flapping Gander was a sun-beaten wooden shield. It featured a crude painting of a goose, either trying to take flight or attacking something, its grey wings spread open wildly and its black beak agape and displaying a fat, pink tongue. Roe pushed open the thick, wooden door.
The interior of pub was like walking into a fraternity house of rowdy soccer hooligans. Norman stood a head and a half over the tallest Whittle in the room and had a clear vantage point to watch fifty or more Whittles scuttle about the room, holding pints, pitchers, and even pails of ale. While the pub was built proportionately, to accommodate a taller traveler, the low-vaulted ceiling made an architectural point that its main objective was to serve Whittles.
The Flapping Gander was run by a Whittle named Jayce and only remained in business because the ale was cheap and everyone felt sorry for Jayce. Jayce’s brow hung lower and forehead rose higher than other Whittles. He was also one of the few with naturally curly hair, his father always saying the boy was so stupid that his hair didn’t even know which way to grow. Now, in his later years, Jayce managed to wear the mask of a brute more than that of a moron. He preferred to act sullen and irate when he didn’t understand something, rather than stand mouth agog. The village took advantage of Jayce’s folly but also ensured he wasn’t so maltreated that he didn’t live comfortably.
Roe stood just within the doorway, thumbs hooked into his suspenders proudly drawing little attention to himself but rather letting the attention come to him or rather his accompaniment. Slowly, heads turned towards him and the flickers of chatter were put out like candles. Soon, all of The Flapping Gander was looking at Roe and the lanky stranger.
“Who’s your friend, Wet Cloak?” belched Cannon, a Whittle at the bar with an obscenely wide, pockmarked nose.
“Who? Oh, him,” teased Roe, letting the nickname slide past without a wince. “It’s just The Author. No big deal. Came in through my stove, he did.”
The crowd was silent for a moment, staring at the pair. They all looked at Norman like one would upon seeing a game show host at an airport; a knowing squint of confused recognition.
That silence was broken by a long, low, raspberry from somewhere at the back of the bar. “That ain’t no blinkin’ Author,” a Whittle finally decided. The crowd detonated into noisy disagreement. “The Author is taller,” one shouted. “Naw, he’s our height, stupid,” added another. “He’s pious-lookin’! That gnat you got there ain’t holy.” “The author of what? The Malnourished Man?” another laughed. “All hail The Balding Bard!” “Wet Cloak is a minor character and how he’s having visions of godliness.”
The heroes in the doorway shrunk. This was not the triumphant welcome Roe was expecting and Norman’s feelings were more than a little hurt. “It’s really him,” shouted Roe, as the bar returned to normal conversation.
Roe begrudgingly swam his way through the crowd, over to the bar, and helped himself behind the counter. Before Jayce could shoo him away, Roe was already pushing himself back towards Norman, with something in his hand.
“See,” Roe screamed, holding the pub’s framed illustration of The Author next to Norman’s face.
The bar had moved on from Roe’s attempt at a practical joke and few took the time to look back. Those who did, however, had to admit that there was an uncanny resemblance between the drawing and the gangly man before them. Roe noticed that he hooked a few curious drunks.
“Okay, yeah! Yeah, see? See?” Roe stumbled, unsure what his next move should be. He knew it had to be done quickly and it had to impress. His eyes suddenly widened with a manic brilliance. He elbowed Norman in the thigh and pointed at the bartender. “Who is that?” he asked of Norman.
Norman had actually once participated in a Lingeria trivia competition and came in third. A public interrogation was not going to end well. “That’s, uh… that’s Jayce. He owns and operates The Flapping Gander.”
“So what?” Said one of the wavering curious. “Every drunkard from here to the Five Rivers knows Jayce.”
“Okay, okay,” said Roe, panicking. “Tell them something about Jayce that only Jayce would know. Something that isn’t public knowledge or in The Volumes.”
Norman was silent. He felt his back dampen with sweat. He was not good at being put on the spot. He had once taken an improv class, to help him loosen up and, perhaps, help his writing feel a bit more impulsive. He ran out of the class with a panic attack during a heated game of ‘Zip, Zap, Zop’.
Were Norman’s glasses fogging up or was it his imagination? His jaw flapped but no sound came out. They had the entire tavern’s attention again. Everyone watched, as Roe’s jester melted into a puddle of glossophobic flesh. Norman yanked open the filing cabinets of his memory, searching the index for any speck of personal trivia about this stupid bartender! Stupid! That’s it! He’s a moron!
“You grew up your whole life with your father telling you that you were born stupid, when, in fact, it was your father’s fault because, when you were two, he found out you weren’t his biological son and that your real father was a nomadic puck, so he threw you out a window!” Norman spewed it out in a single breath, as if trying to beat a buzzer.
The entire bar turned their attention to Jayce for verification.
The stein Jayce pitched at Norman’s head was confirmation enough for the crowd. “Perhaps that was a bit too personal,” Norman thought.
The mood of the joint instantly changed from drunken mockery to drunken revelry. Roe and Norman were ushered to the stone-walled party room near the back of the inn and ales were shoved into their hands with frenzied velocity.
Norman could, frankly, use the drink. The craggy walk from
Roe’s house had left him parched, not to mention the fact that it had been almost eight hours since his last drink. He could feel a slight shake starting to set in. The first beer was downed before he could even taste it and a second was handed to him without request. The Whittle-brewed ale was yeasty and thick. Every sip was like taking a bite out of homemade bread. Additionally, the served-room-temperature beer boasted an alcohol content comparable to Canadian lagers. The head of foam bathed the sweat from Norman’s upper-lip and he licked it off, contentedly. Roe simply pushed his to the side and another Whittle drank it, absentmindedly.
Within minutes the room was packed, and an informal folk band had set up on a small stage in the corner. The room was a pit of stocky bodies, vying for the prime real estate next to Norman. He was inundated with questions that made him feel like a prophet, maker, and fortune teller. Norman had never felt this kind of adoration before – not from his wife, agent, publisher, or even any fan. He always got the impression that most felt he had little, if anything, to do with his own writing, as if anonymous sprites hopped up and down on his keyboard while he slept and all he did was deliver the manuscripts upon completion.
Roe’s attitude transformed into a slumped sulk. He had figured that bringing The Author to the pub would warrant him at least inclusion into conversations, but he was quickly forgotten. He propped his chin into his palm and pressed his cheek upwards, towards his eye – as close to a tantrum as an adult Whittle can get away with. Roe didn’t want to be simply a part of the conversation, he wanted to be the conversation. But now, just like in The Volumes, he was once again reduced to a means of exposition – a base upon which the more important characters were to step.
Norman was gifted with pats from the men, kisses from the women, ale from everyone, and a shepherd’s pie was brought to him by the cranky Jayce himself. The strong drink took hold of him more quickly than he expected. It was a good thing that others were getting the rounds for him, because his legs had grown warm and lax. He would have had a hard time making it to the bar.
He was able to dodge most of the prophetic inquiries with soft details or pretending he couldn’t hear the question over the racket. At times, though, he was able to spout some truth, feeling the mental cobwebs of age and indifference being swept away.
Finally, Jayce (supposedly the dimmest torch in the room), asked the question everyone should have asked at the outset: “So, why are you here, then?” His bulbous arms were crossed, as he leaned against the wall.
“We are going to the tower to defeat Wrence the Wizard. He’s been lying to us! He is the cause of The Black Cloud that ravages our lands!” Roe volunteered.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Norman interjected, with a nervous laugh. “We aren’t going to defeat anyone. We are just going to talk to him. Find out where he came from and if he knows what this Black Cloud is all about.”
“The what?” Jayce asked.
“The giant thing in the sky that kills everything in its path,” Norman stated.
“Oh, you mean The Darkness,” Jayce explained.
“I thought we were calling it The Death Mist,” shouted a voice from the back.
“It ain’t very misty, is it?” wondered another. “I’ve been calling it ‘Mardana’, after me mother-in-law.”
Other proposed names included, but were not limited to: The Fatal Fog, The Vicious Vapor, The Ghastly Gloom, The Super Sucker, The Tempest of Terror, and The Big Bad Bloated Black Bloody Bleakness.
“We are using The Black Cloud. It is a black cloud, so that is what we are calling it,” Norman said, cutting them all off. “No need to get creative and I find alliteration clumsy.” He cleared his throat. “This wizard seems to be connected to it, somehow. Maybe he’s even responsible.”
“I thought you sent the wizard?” Jayce cut in.
“No, I didn’t. It seems he made that part up.” Norman went on to try and explain how he and Roe and came to meet one another, leaving out the attempted suicide. He went on to detail the various inconsistencies he and Roe had discovered, between his tales and the current theological state of Lingeria. Then, he tied his tale up with, “So, that’s why we are here tonight. Show of hands – how many of you know about Wrence?”
Norman’s colloquialism was met with fifty Whittles shoving their palms into his face. “In the air, if you please,” he sighed. Each Whittle raised both his hands, as if they were approaching the crest of a roller coaster. “And just one hand is fine.” He was left with all of the room with one hand raised. “Okay, how many have you have met this wizard?” All hands went down. “Even seen him?” One ancient hand in the back of the room popped up behind another Whittle’s head.
The crowd parted as a plump, elderly woman walked towards Norman. To his surprise she was of the race of man, even hunched she was slightly taller than the tallest Whittle in the room. Norman leaned into Roe and whispered, “What’s her name?”
“Corrie,” Roe responded in kind.
“Corrie, yes!” Norman announced. “You have seen the wizard?”
The woman nodded, subtly, her fingers twisted around the frayed edges of her shawl. “You see, m’lord. I was arrested by the Wizard’s forces for … well to be honest, sirs, I am not sure why I was arrested, to tell the truth. I was only selling fabric, in the market outside the castle, when a buncha goblins just took me away. No matter that cuz, instead of the dungeon, they bring me to room in the tower with all these doors, you see.”
Norman had to clarify. “Doors?”
“Yes’sir, a whole mess of ‘em, on every wall. And, you see, sir, the Wizard, he told me that if I walked through one of the doors, I would be free to go – the charges would be dismissed. But there ain’t no ordinary doors – they’s magic doors. People go in but they don’t come out.”
Roe looked at her as if he didn’t believe the story. “So, how did you escape?”
“I didn’t,” she explained. “They done pushed me through the door, all right, and next thing I know I’m tetterin’ on the edge of a cliff on the Bay of Moratund.”
“That’s hundreds of miles away from the wizard’s tower,” Roe gasped.
“I know!” she shouted. “Took me nigh on a month to find another living soul! I nearly starved. To the best of my knowledge I’m the only on to have been found again. I’ve been hiding in Highpoint ever since.”
“And you have no idea why the wizard pushed you though the door?”
“Well, sir,” she said, sheepishly, “I ain’t nothing special to him, just another body. But before his little helper shoved me, the wizard said something to the likes of, ‘I hope he finds this one’, or something like that. It was awfully frightening, sir. I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s okay,” Norman assured her. “Did you see anyone else in the tower?”
“Other than his guards? No, sir. I don’t think he’s the type to accept visitors.”
“Well, he’ll open the doors for The Author and me, I’m sure of that.” Roe brandished his confidence like a sword.
Aptly, from the stage, one of the minstrels strummed was looked like an art-deco lute. The performer stepped forward, with a swagger, straightened his spine, and sang:
Hear our story, it must be told;
Of The Author and Whittle bold;
They shall burn a path to Wrence’s Tower,
And show the fiend his godly power!
There was a proud clap from the audience and the troubadour bent his legs in a bow. He stood up, with a sudden look of terror, and ran to Norman. He knelt at Norman’s feet. “Forgive me, my lord – I forgot for whom I was performing.”
Norman was taken aback by this, “No, it’s… fine. You did a good job.” He tried to start a round of applause for them as a distraction.
“Oh, my words are but that of a simpleton and I most humbly apologize for defiling your ears with them. How dare I perform, when we have you, The Author, in our presence? It is you who should tell us a tale!” The musician humbly raised his instrument to No
rman.
“No, no,” Norman said, waving away the strange lute. “Yours was great! Good work. I do more prose than verse.”
“It would be an honor to hear new words from The Author, fresh like an apple plucked from a tree,” the minstrel pleaded.
Norman felt the panic attack swell within him. He actually had a ghost-writer pen the Whittle ballads and poetry, he just couldn’t get the syllable timing right to make music. He knew how to sing covers and played a little guitar in college to help him with the girls, but a musical improviser he was not. The crowd cheered with encouragement, there was no way out of this.
He took the little guitar from the musician like he was being handed an active grenade. The instrument was little more than a ukulele in his hand, he hoped that the strings may miraculously pop but had no such luck. He pulled the guitar to his cheek and plucked the strings a bit, as if testing the tuning. The room was completely silent, he could feel their aching passion to hear his genius.
His voice quivered as he felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. He played a few of chords but his mind was utterly blank. He couldn’t even remember why he was in Lingeria in the first place. Something about the Wrench?
Maybe it was the out of tune guitar, the smell of sweat and booze, or the woozy quasi-English accents of the Whittles but an image of Norman’s Scotch-Irish grandfather Murdoch Halliday bubbled up in his mind. Specifically, the potent memory of the six-months Norman lived with him in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in a cabin build by his grandfather’s own hands. Every day would end with the same routine; Grandpa Murdoch would drink himself to sleep while singing the same song.
“This is called The Bluebells of Scot … I mean, Lingeria. The Bluebells of Lingeria,” he began. Norman strummed again, this time with a purposeful, confident G-Chord.
