by Daniel Kozuh
“And you have goblins in your land?”
“No, we don’t. We have creatures who aren’t human, but most are not intelligent. Well, at least man has convinced himself that he is the only civilized, intelligent habitant.”
“It sounds dull.”
“It can be. But, then again, my world has peanut butter, so …”
“What is peanut butter?”
“You see my bag there?” Norman nodded to the duffel that hung off the side of a horse. “Reach in there and pull out the red package.”
The goblin gave him a weary look.
“It’s not a trap,” Norman assured him. “What would I do? I am surrounded.”
The goblin cautiously lifted the flap of the bag and peered inside. He reached in and pulled out a red cellophane square with the words “Nutter Butter” stamped in blue across the side.
“You eat it,” Norman explained.
The goblin put the packaging directly into his mouth.
“No, no, no. Open it first.”
The stubby fingers of the goblin worked at the edges of the wrapping. Finally, the foil opened with a slick tear. The goblin withdrew the brown sandwich cookie, sniffed it, and then popped it into his mouth.
For a moment Norman wondered if nut allergies had transferred to Lingeria. But then, a smile spread across the goblin’s face. “Good, right?” Norman confirmed.
They continued in silence, aside from the gravelly chewing of the second biscuit, before Norman tested their friendship.
“What can you tell me about this Wrence guy?”
The goblin’s red pupil darted from side to side as he decided what might be confidential. “He is a most great and powerful wizard,” he said, finally. “He serves The Author and oversees all of Lingeria.” The words came out clunkily, his mouth still sticky with peanut butter.
“Well, as The Author, I can tell you he most certainly does not serve me.”
“It is for him to decide if you are truly The Author.”
“Fair point. Have you ever seen him?”
“I have had the honor to be in his presence on three occasions.”
“Yeah? What’s he like?”
Norman could see an unpopular opinion bubble up in the goblin’s face, but he swallowed it down. “He is a great and powerful wizard.”
“You’ve said that, already.” Norman paused, deciding on a new direction, “How would you like a name?”
The goblin physically reacted, pretending to have tripped over an invisible stone.
“As the Author, I can do that, you know.”
“Goblins are not allowed to have proper names,” came the textbook answer.
“They don’t have to know about it. It’ll be my name for you. If you choose to use it, that is up to you.”
There was no response, but also no retort.
“You need a strong name – short, but mighty.” Norman mulled it over, for a moment. “In my world, you would be a ‘Rick’, so you need a Lingerian version of Rick. Hmmm.”
“Rick.” The way the goblin said the word made it sound as if he were pulling out a knife. “Rriiick. I like that. I will take it as my name.”
“No. No. Rick is a name from my world. You need something fancier.”
Rick the Goblin stabbed Norman, emphatically, with his name. “Rick.”
And, so, the decision was made. The two continued on his silence, but Norman caught Rick smiling subtly to himself and mouthing his name.
“Rriiiiiick!”
****
The tower appeared over the top of a hill and grew taller with every step they took. Wrence’s tower was a sleek, obelisk that, from a distance, looked to be carved from a single block of flawless white marble.
It brought to mind, for Norman, the image of a hypodermic needle, piercing the sky. It also made him think of the Catholic cathedrals he attended as a child – ominously beautiful; aggressively humbling. Buildings designed to remind all those in their presence that there is a force greater than themselves. Norman hadn’t been in a church since his wedding day but seeing the wizard’s spire gave him the same guilty feeling in his gut that he felt when he gave his first confession as a boy.
The tower rose from the level ground of a green valley. It had a perfect circle of a moat cut around it. A single, gated entrance – small enough that Norman wouldn’t have managed to drive his SUV through – cut into the west side of the building. Above the entrance, nothing – not even a window – disrupted the smooth, pearly veneer, until fifty yards up the structure. Then, simple vertical slices in the stone opened, at perfectly-placed intervals, spiraling up the monument. They ceased at a humble stone balcony that jutted from the top of the tower. It was, Norman estimated, at least twenty stories in the air.
Sensing the journey’s end, the pack picked up its pace and trotted, like a military unit, towards their destination. Norman fell back, in order to speak with Roe. Rick afforded him some slack.
“I know you are mad at me. But I don’t know what to expect from this wizard, so I am hoping that you’ll stop pouting and be on my side when we get there.”
“Why didn’t you just leave me there to die?” snapped the winded Whittle.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m just going to claim to be your prisoner,” a third voice interjected. Tahra had silently joined them. “I will say that you used magic to twist my brain and make me your servant.”
“Don’t listen to her, Roe,” Norman said, “Look, again, I’m sorry for killing you. I’m sorry if that made you feel any less special. You may not have been special to me then when you were just a figment of my imagination, but you are special to me now – not the Roe I created, but the Roe I met. The Roe I befriended. It may not seem like it, but I don’t have a lot of people I can call a friend.”
Tahra couldn’t get a sarcastic syllable out before Norman told her to “shut it.”
“I need your courage, Roe. I need your friendship. I have a bad feeling about what we are about to walk into and I need to know you’ve got my back.”
Roe stopped, which stopped Norman and Tahra. He looked up at Norman with a skeptical squint. “Yeah,” he finally said, puffing out his chest. “You can count on me.”
“And I have your back, Roe,” said Tahra.
“So, if he has mine and you have his,” calculated Norman, “you technically have my back as well.”
“I’d sooner let the wizard turn you into a bald Bashar,” said Tahra, with a hint of playfulness.
“Hey,” shouted Rick, from up the road. He yanked the rope. “Let’s keep moving.”
And, with that, they did.
****
A market square was set up on the opposite side of the moat. Carts and ramshackle vending structures were lined up, selling foods, spices, and assorted wares. As they were marched through the bazaar, the bound prisoners were stabbed with angry glances by the buyers and sellers – there was no “innocent, until proven guilty” in Lingeria. A rotten tomato was anonymously thrown and exploded on the back of Tahra’s head.
The drawbridge to cross the man-made moat was let down, with little effort or sound. It was as if it had been commanded, rather than drawn. It set itself softly on the grass before the goblin hoard. The captain of the brigade was the only one to lead the three guests into Wrence’s lair.
As they approached the looming archway, the horse’s hoof-beats echoed through the antechamber of the tower. Norman had expected to be greeted by a valet of sorts – some wormy servant, draped in velvet, beckoning them forward from opulent room to opulent room. At the end, they would find the wizard, perched upon a throne of gold-plated bone.
They were, however, greeted only by silence. The hollow room was empty, save for a wax-soaked candelabra, standing near the staircase, and a book displayed on a pedestal, under a glass cake dome. The Volumes. The book was viciously damaged, with a torn and weathered cover. The pages were browned and crimped from heavy water damage.
“Hello?
” Norman asked. The question bounced off every surface, as it worked its way up the tower.
After a moment, there was a loud bang, from somewhere within, followed by a gentle slapping sound that seemed to emanate from every direction. It sounded like the beating of a bat’s wings. Flap-flap-flap-flap-flap.
The source of the noise was the sandaled footsteps of a robed figure, racing down a staircase that wound itself along the wall of the turret. Wrence The Wizard, Great and Powerful, arrived not in a plume of smoke or flash of magic, but gingerly springing down a flight of steps, holding his robe up so as not to trip.
“It’s you, it’s you! You’re here! You’re here,” shouted the giddy wizard, from under a hood. “You are finally here!” Wrence reached the foundation and scuffled towards the party, almost dancing.
Wrence’s torso was shaped like a sagging water-balloon. A massive gut and rear could be seen, despite the loose robes. Doubled-up ham-hocks served as arms, ended with sausage.
When Wrence was within a few feet of Norman, he threw back his draping hood. His head was like a basketball, with almond eyes. Wire-rimmed glasses pinched the sides of his face. A wild beard seemed to be predominantly attached to his neck, with a few patches about his cheeks. His hair was an inflated crescent of curly black hair that instantly reminded Norman of Gilda Radner’s Roseanne Roseannadanna character from Saturday Night Live. He seemed lost somewhere between boyishness and manhood; a stunted maturity that made him look like a kid playing a grown-up in a school play.
“First off. Immediate impression,” Wrence was suddenly serious. “Is the hood wizardly enough? I tried the traditional pointy, cone hat but it just felt forced; too … Gandalf. But I dunno. What do you think?”
Norman was so perplexed, he felt like he had been punched in the face again. “I, uh, the hood is fine.”
The wizard smiled and threw his arms around The Author. “You have no idea how happy I was to hear you’d finally arrived in Lingeria,” Wrence said his chin resting on Norman’s shoulder.
There was something off about Wrence, aside from the despicable lack of personal hygiene and space. His speech pattern wasn’t that of Lingeria. The way he pulled his A’s almost seemed … Midwestern?
Wrence withdrew from the hug but kept his hands on Norman’s shoulders. They locked eyes. Wrence held the gaze as if he expected Norman to recognize him. “Is he about to kiss me?” Norman thought.
Then, Wrence saw the fabric handcuffs.
“You idiot!” he shouted at the goblin. “These are guests of honor! How dare you bind them! Release them at once. Did my men do that to your face?”
“No, this was a separate incident.”
The goblin took out a blade and cut the travelers free.
“I am so sorry,” Wrence said to Norman. “I told them to go get you. Kinda’ forgot the specifics. Gotta spell things out for goblins, you know? Look who I’m talking to – of course you know!”
“It’s no problem,” said Norman, rubbing his raw wrists. “I hope you don’t mind I brought along –”
“Roe and Tahra! I would recognize you two anywhere. Of course, I don’t mind! Welcome, welcome.”
“Look, I am just curious –”
“I am sure you have many questions.” Wrence cut Norman off again. “And I will answer all of them, but not in this draughty hall. Let’s go to the dining room. I bet you are starved.”
Wrence waved them towards a massive oak door. “Not you,” he said to the goblin. “You’re dismissed.”
The goblin grumbled and exited out across the drawbridge.
As they walked, Calamity Jane’s nails clicked on the hard marble flooring. Wrence stopped, suddenly.
“What is that noise?” He turned to the group and a smile burst across his face when he saw the aged coonhound. “Oh, my god!” Wrence knelt down so far that his robe pooled around his feet. He dug his hands into Calamity’s coat and tugged at her wrinkles. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen a dog?!”
It was while Wrence was asking Janey who the good girl was that Norman decided there was no way this “wizard” was from Lingeria. Roe and Tahra shared a look of confused disconcertion watching this man of magic roll around on the ground with a dog.
“So, where ya’ from, Wrence?” Norman tried.
“Questions, questions! So many questions,” said the wizard, as if it were a riddle. “Plenty of time for questions.”
Wrence pushed the story-tall door open and the warm glow of candlelight poured out. He entered the room and the party followed.
Inside the room, a long wooden table ached under the weight of a smorgasbord of sweet and savory delicacies; meats and cheeses, puffs and pies, vines of ripe grapes and tomatoes, olives in pools of oil, what appeared to be a rustic pizza, and carafes of hearty red wine. The cooked food smoldered and sizzled as though taken directly from oven to table.
Wrence spun around on his heels.
“I’m sorry – where do you think you are going?” he asked, pointedly, looking towards Roe and Tahra.
“To eat, I hope,” replied Roe.
“Oh no, no, no – I’m so sorry,” Wrence sputtered. “Just me and Norman, this time.”
Wrence picked up a padded mallet and drummed it a few times against a golden gong. Within seconds, an elderly, shabby goblin arrived, wearing what looked like a beat-up, home-sewn tuxedo.
“Ah, good! Please show these three to the kitchen.” Wrence pointed at Roe, Tahra, and Janey. “Let them have their fill of scraps.”
“Right this way, if you please,” the goblin said, slowly and politely, enunciating as if he had been practicing the Queen’s English.
Roe looked to Norman, heartbroken. As they were led out of the dining hall, he mouthed the word, “Scraps?” Norman gave him a shrug, as if to say, “Sorry, I’m a guest here too.”
The door closed and Wrence spun back around to face Norman, “First rule of Lingeria: always assert your dominance over the … lesser beings. It is damn prison rules around here. First, they are eating at your table. The next thing you know, you have a rebellion on your hands.”
Wrence bobbed to the head of the table and pulled the chair out, directing Norman to sit.
“Oh, no. Please, it’s your fortress.”
“I insist!”
Norman reluctantly took the seat, while Wrence sat next to him, uncomfortably close. His arms stretched out along the rim of the table. He grinned, goofily. Norman did not eat.
“Do you not like the food?” Wrence asked. “I can get you anything else.” Wrence picked up the mallet.
“No, no!” Norman held up his hands. “I am just … not hungry, at the moment.”
“Then, how about a tour?” Wrence proposed.
Aside from the dining hall they had just exited, Wrence’s home felt like a bachelor’s fortress. Large, practical rooms, with little in the way of decoration or ambiance, were lined up, one right after the other. There were no tapestries, oil paintings, or lavish furnishings.
“It took my men almost five years to build this tower,” Wrence said. “Some of the walls literally contain the bodies of unlucky construction crew members. I still haven’t found enough stuff to fill it. I am trying though. The Red City doesn’t exactly have an Ikea, if you know what I’m saying.”
“What part of Lingeria are you from?” Norman asked, again, while they walked.
“Oh,” Wrence said, casually, holding a door open for Norman, “I’m not from Lingeria.”
“You don’t say. So, where are you from?”
“I am from Tomahawk, Wisconsin. Ever hear of it?”
Norman wasn’t surprised Wrence was from Earth, but Wisconsin?! “How the hell did you end up here?”
They had entered the fifth in a row of identical bedchambers.
“First off, can I just say –” He turned to Norman, looking at him, lovingly. He placed his hands on Norman’s forearm. “Can I just tell you what a massive fan I am of your books? Not only the Lingeria one
s, but your early work as well. Death Be Thy Neighbor, The Executioner’s Stone, and even your short that was featured in ‘Science Fiction Writing Forum’. Uh! What was it called?”
“’Salmagundi’,” Norman said flatly.
“Yes! ‘Salmagundi’! It was so creepy!” Wrence gushed.
“I appreciate that.” Norman could sense Wrence was stalling. “But how did you end up here?”
Wrence looked at Norman in the same way as he had done in the entrance hall. His eyes were filled with anticipation. A desperate anxiety was painted on his face. “You seriously don’t recognize me?”
This took Norman aback. He squinted his eyes and tilted his head, trying to find something in this kid’s face that he could recall. Nothing came.
“I am sorry. I don’t –”
“We met twice, actually.” Wrence looked dejected. “The first time was a book signing so, you know, I understand that. Lots of people … The second time was at a party.”
Wrence’s right hand slipped into the left sleeve of his robe. He removed a perfectly-splayed deck of cards.
“You!”
“You remember me!” Wrence squealed.
“You were that shitty magician who ruined my release party!” Norman’s hand unconsciously formed a tight fist.
“First off … Language!” Wrence reprimanded. “And, secondly, I didn’t ruin anything. People loved my illusions. I was a hit.”
“And you thought you’d impress me by humiliating me in front of my friends and colleagues?!”
“God, learn to take a joke.”
Norman slapped Wrence’s hand. The cards fluttered in the air and littered the floor.
“Why won’t you tell me how you got here?” Norman shouted.
“Have you ever heard of the Lingeria Abacærium?”
Norman gruffly dug into his satchel and yanked out the massive, soft-cover manual, throwing it on the bed.
“You own a copy of it!” Wrence’s danced a bit with excitement. “I can’t believe you actually own a copy of it!”
“Yeah, so what?”
“I wrote it!” Wrence exclaimed.
“What do you mean you wrote it? This says, ‘Compiled and edited by Lawrence Farrow,” Norman’s voice slowed. “La-wrence. Wrence.”
