No, my place is here. There is more yet to tell… so much more… and I’ve already done my part in this battle. On top of everything, someone has to prepare for the unthinkable, the inevitable.
*
“Karna?” said Bobbin, suddenly interested. A moment later, he nearly tripped over an exposed root in the middle of the game trail. The trampled grass was slick from the morning rain. If the afternoon sun came out at all, it went unseen from beneath the dense crown cover of the mixed forest.
Holly thought herself clever. “It would be easier if you could see the ground.” She grabbed Bobbin’s flabby waist and gave the handful a teasing tug. Bobbin jerked away and pushed her hand gently.
“Yes, Karna,” Fyorn repeated, before himself stumbling on a root. The long-strider kept his composure well.
“What’s your excuse?” said Holly. She reached to grab his stomach. He deftly out-maneuvered her, and then grimaced.
“How do you know she’s false?” said Gariff. The Stout looked to the woodsman for an answer as eagerly as Bobbin did. They had been waiting a long time.
Fyorn started over again. “The First King’s so-called Karna, the Mother of Rejuvenation, is the reason we’re all here.”
“She’s not my mother,” said Bobbin.
“Are you ‘Rejuvenation’?” said Holly. Gariff laughed.
The woodsman fumbled for the right words. “What I mean is… we were not supposed to be here. You all must have heard the story of the First King. It’s more than just some ordinary faerie tale. He led the First Men out of Karna’s all-consuming, destructive path, on a long journey that ended on the shores of Fortune Bay.”
“Yes,” said Bobbin, who proceeded to recite the meat of the story as though he’d just heard it told yesterday. “The Orbweaver was consuming the Universe, and by doing so she gained more and more knowledge. She wanted to know everything, but she could only know the nature of things by eating them. She consumed nearly everything, but when she arrived one day at the hall of the First King, he cheated the Orbweaver out of her prize in a game of dice. He rigged the game so that no matter what the roll, the Orbweaver could eat everything except the First King and his followers, and yet believe that she had actually eaten them a thousand times over.”
“In a sense,” said Fyorn. He let out a soft chuckle. “That’s an interesting twist on it.” The woodsman stopped for a moment to clear the way, chopping at branches with his axe where the trail had become overgrown.
Gariff added the next part. “Yep. But the Orbweaver eventually became aware of the ruse, and now relentlessly searches for the First Men and their descendants to—”
Bobbin and Holly chimed in to form the chorus, “…consume them all and claim that final grain of knowledge, Hers at last.”
There were many variants of the story, but they all ended with that familiar phrase.
The woodsman chuckled once again, nodding his head in acknowledgement of a tale well told. “Very interesting… and highly symbolic, but it captures the essence nonetheless.”
“Karna is the Orbweaver?” Gariff asked, rhetorically.
Fyorn nodded. “Quite literally,” he continued, “but not a spider in the normal sense. Everything we know about Karna suggests she is the consumer and destroyer of all material things, not something to be worshipped. Karna bleeds knowledge and delivers death to mankind. She is a mechanical thing, a self-replicating doomsday construct.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Gariff. “How could the First King get things so opposite? How could she be the Mother of Rejuvenation if she destroys everything?”
Holly had an answer. “The circle of life,” she said. “Death feeds new life. Life leads to death. It’s everywhere in nature. Maybe after dying and being rejuvenated, The First King came to the conclusion that Karna – the Orbweaver, or whatever, would somehow renew all life and make it better.”
Fyorn looked at her, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “The man went mad.” The woodsman swiped an overhanging branch aside, and then another. “Damn it,” he said. “I missed the mark.” He backtracked a ways and cursed when he couldn’t find the trail. After walking in circles for a minute, he cut away a larger branch with his axe, and then followed up with a blaze on the same tree. “This way,” he beckoned, with a sideways nod.
The woodsman picked up the conversation where he had left off. “But I believe you are right in your way of thinking,” he went on. “The First King believed – believes – that his people were spared by Karna because they showed such promise at creating new knowledge and, realizing She could never truly know everything until all knowledge was created, he deduced that She needed them to feed Her appetite, or solve the Final Puzzle. That is why Harrowians sacrifice their leading intellects to Karna. They believe it feeds Karna’s hunger and keeps Her at bay, until the time comes for complete rejuvenation and unification – the day when all that can be known is known, and all is brought together as one to begin anew in perfect balance.”
“They sacrifice people?” asked Gariff.
“Don’t worry,” said Bobbin, “You heard him – only the smart ones.” That won him a solid punch in the arm. Fyorn ignored the antics.
“They hold the ceremony in a sacred cave during the Solstice and Equinox festivals,” he said. “The Summer Solstice is being celebrated right now, in fact.”
Holly looked to Fyorn, her skepticism obvious. “The story of the First King is just a myth… something grown-ups tell their kids as a fun scare.”
Bobbin nodded. Gariff shook his head.
“Indeed,” the woodsman admitted, “but all legends and myths come from somewhere, and some hold more truths than others.”
After a steady climb up a high hill, the forest thinned and, whenever the clouds gave way, rays of sunlight streamed through the overhanging branches. The game trail they were following ended at an old road overgrown with weeds, wildflowers, and small shrubs. Boulders covered in white and rusty red lichen lined the roadside. Pine warblers sent their penetrating trills and slurred chips through the treetops, and a raven could not help but to caw at them.
Pine scent was in the air. After a quick drink, Fyorn resealed his waterskin and pointed up the road, north-east.
“The cabin’s just up ahead,” he said.
Twinkling sunlight on water flashed through the tall pines. A short, brisk walk later, the hikers broke through the tree line. Fresh winds whipped off the sparkling blue narrows of the small lake – their destination. Across the water, a plunging ridge of folding rock formed the opposing shoreline. The trail ended abruptly at a pebble beach that stretched to the mouth of a quiet brook. Inland from the beach and nestled among tall pines sat the trapper’s cabin.
It was a humble and submissive cabin, with a low roof, covered porch, and walls made of greyed over logs once kin to the surrounding trees. The windows were shuttered and the only door was barred shut. Firewood had been stacked in a neat pile under the porch.
“Last one in is bog bait!” said Bobbin. The rollicking Pip dropped his pack and cloak, flung off his shoes and the remainder of his clothes. Off he dashed, leafless as they say, giggling and jiggling ridiculously in all directions as his little legs sped him towards the lake.
“He has no shame,” said Gariff, shaking his head.
Holly cried after him, yet looked away. “That’s not funny!”
Unable to resist a challenge, she shrugged her shoulders and sprinted to the lake after him, shedding clothes and gear behind her as she ran. At least she kept her underclothes on; conveniently made for water sports.
Holly looked back as she ran, laughing. “Come on, Fyorn,” she said. He respectfully declined.
Gariff looked to Fyorn and rolled his eyes. “Froglings.”
Holly gained on Bobbin easily and the two frolicking Pips crossed over the beach together, with him laughing and her screaming. Each claimed victory over the other when they finally hit the water, erupting into a frenzy of splashing and falling
over themselves.
“Wild time,” said the woodsman. “We all need it. Time to do what you want when you want.” If he didn’t feel the beguiling draw of the cool lake water himself, he sure looked it.
Soon, both swimmers stood soaked and shivering. Bobbin dove to deeper water, and then popped his head out.
“Come on,” he said to Holly. “It’s warmer once you’re all in.”
Somewhat reluctantly, she followed.
Having seen enough entertainment, Fyorn turned to open up the night’s lodgings with Gariff at his side. Before getting far into it, he called out to the lake.
“Hey Bobbin,” he said, interrupting the Pips chatter. They were half way out to the opposite shore.
“Boat’s upstream in the brush,” said Fyorn. Bobbin looked confused. “B-O-A-T,” he continued. “Fish’n hole too.” Bobbin’s blank look froze onto his face.
The woodsman spoke slowly and clearly. “S-P-E-C-K-S.”
The bobbing Pip finally got the message, and his eyes went wide at the suggestion. With unseemly grace, he dipped underwater and propelled himself back towards the beach like a pike on a minnow. The markings on his back and neck shone orange and red through the sunlit water. Holly changed her position to a peaceful back float, and slowly drifted to shore.
Bobbin arrived, dripping wet. “Hooks and line are in the cabin,” said Fyorn.
The Pip shivered as he dabbed the water off with his cloak. Besides the hooks and line, Fyorn outfitted him with a proper knife that he kept in the cabin, pointed to where he might find some bait worms, and then pointed him in the direction of an old rowboat, partially hidden under some branches.
While Bobbin was out fishing, Gariff built a fire out in front of the porch and Fyorn tinkered away in the cabin. Holly explored the grounds.
By the time Bobbin rowed in with his catch, a moderate wind had blown up, sending flames reaching out of the fire pit towards the porch steps.
“That boat has a leak,” Bobbin said to Fyorn.
“Really?” said Fyorn. He raised an eyebrow to Gariff. Gariff smirked.
Chest out and puffed, the proud Pip held three trout on strings, as far out in front of him as his arms would allow. They were a good size, with the largest maybe a three-pounder. After receiving high praise from Holly, attesting to his greatness in all things culinary, Bobbin went to work boning and filleting the catch of the day.
Even Gariff had to admit that the meal Bobbin concocted was the best fish fry ever.
As the firelight dimmed to the glow of burning embers, fueled by a skin of wine Bobbin had thought to bring, Fyorn spun a night-shimmering web of war stories. Strand after strand of tall tales he wove: Narrow escapes, lucky shots, lucky misses, good instincts, those with bad instincts, and superstition. Those who didn’t make it, but should have. Those who made it, but shouldn’t have.
When he was done, Holly called him on the sum of it all. “These stories,” she began, “are not believable. I enjoyed them greatly – don’t get me wrong – but you’ll have to come up with something better than that.”
Fyorn stared at the burning embers for a long moment, a thousand miles away. He looked to her, grimly.
“Death was ever present. Life a gift or a curse, depending.” Fyorn paused, and then looked to each in turn.
“Those I fought with who survived only did so by outside chances – a day too sick to fight, a moment’s privacy to relieve oneself, a well-timed stumble to dodge an arrow – killing the man next to him, or a blow to the head that knocks one out of a losing battle. It was that bad.”
“And so many of them – the Outlanders – so many of them were like us. They could have been us. They could have passed as Men. All lost. We won, but we all lost. We were disciplined. They were learning. We stopped them in time – just in time – before they gained too much.”
Holly, for once, curbed her curiosity at that juncture. It’s the wine speaking, she thought. Fyorn soon became drowsy and they decided to call it a night.
*
The next morning, Holly was the second-last to wake up. She awoke to clinking and clanking, and set her eyes on Bobbin stirring a pot on the woodstove. A smile crept across her face as her eyes widened. She tilted her head up from the pack pillowing her head. Gariff was even slower to rise. Fyorn was nowhere to be seen.
“Bobbin… is that for me?” she said in a playful tone, rolling her blanket around her body like a personal cocoon.
“But of course, who else? You’re the one I’m trying to impress. This oaf doesn’t deserve any.” Bobbin motioned to the bundled up lump of Stout flesh still sprawled out in his bunk.
Holly laughed. “Fine by me,” she said. “And I expect service with a smile, if you’re hoping for a gratuity.”
“What sort of gratuity did you have in mind, fair lady?” said Bobbin, winking.
“My secret,” said Holly, eyes smiling.
Holly’s delighted state and Bobbin’s banter soon stirred a grumpy Gariff. He rubbed his eyes and aimed to sample Bobbin’s cooking as well. Bobbin gave in. He had found the time to gather slate tablets from a rocky outcrop not far from the cabin, which he rinsed in the stream and warmed on the woodstove. They served well as platters. Before long, Fyorn returned and all enjoyed fair portions, together with a swig of leftover wine and a roll of thin bread that Bobbin had packed. Sweetened sausage, taken from the Flipside stores, made for a tasteful main course.
After breakfast, Fyorn told the others his plan. Simply put, Fyorn and Holly would search the outlying areas while Gariff and Bobbin went into Harrow to gather information.
Fyorn turned to address the young Numbit. “Bobbin—” The Pip nodded at the sound of his name. “Take the old loggers’ road north and then cut west to the edge of town when you see the lake.”
“OK,” said Bobbin. Fyorn laid out the young Pip’s tasks.
“I need you to find out what you can about talk on the street.”
“OK.”
“Find out what people are saying about the disappearances, and general sentiments about the leadership in Harrow. Strike up conversations with the locals, starting at the docks. Also, keep an eye on the tower and report anything that might be important.”
“OK.”
Bobbin was easy going and a fast talker. It was the perfect assignment for him.
“How do I get the information to you?” he said.
“I’ll send Janhurl – a ‘listener’ to shadow your movements. Just speak the message while out of doors, and she will hear. I don’t have time to explain.”
Fyorn turned to Gariff, who looked surprised to be included. “Gariff, you go with Bobbin. Don’t say anything, just keep watch and be there for him. Keep him out of trouble.”
“Too easy,” said Gariff.
Gariff and Bobbin gathered their gear. Once everything had been collected and packed away tight, Bobbin said his goodbyes with big, long hugs. Gariff held back a moment longer. He appeared somewhat drained, disheartened.
“Good luck,” said the woodsman. He put his hand on Gariff’s shoulder. “We’ll find your cousin, one way or another, and your best friend too.”
The burly Stout nodded and shook the woodsman’s hand goodbye, then gave Holly an awkward hug. Eyes down-looking, he backed up a few steps before turning around to follow Bobbin.
Later that morning, Fyorn set out with Holly to search the forest on the off chance Nud and Kabor had entered Deepweald at night and become lost. The woodsman taught Holly how to pace and direction-find. The two kept about a hundred feet apart and walked traverses bearing north-south for the better part of the day, calling out as they went, and stopping at the lake in late afternoon for a quick drink and a bite to eat.
By evening, while still searching for signs and calling out names, a breeze blew up. It was light at first, but it grew strong and gusty. Hidden in the rush of the wind and the rustling of leaves was a whisper, quiet but clear to the woodsman’s trained ear. Fyorn mouthed the words.
&
nbsp; It was from Bobbin, compliments of Janhurl, of course. “Mineral rights: Harrow has the right to exercise mineral claims in the bog and provide any security deemed necessary to protect the claim area – a technicality. It’s in the Treaty.”
“What does that mean?” said Holly.
The woodsman shrugged. “I’m not sure. But it was important enough to whisper,” he said. Fyorn contemplated his thoughts for a long moment. “Could be related to a loophole in the Non-aggression Treaty.”
“What about Nud and Kabor?” said Holly, frustration in her eyes. “Isn’t she supposed to send us information about Nud and Kabor? Who cares about a stupid treaty?”
“No, nothing yet,” said Fyorn. “The Hurlorns have their ways about them.”
“Hurlorns?”
Fyorn delicately explained that Janhurl, for all intents and purposes, was basically a tree.
Holly wondered a great many things, as can be expected, including where Janhurl, Bobbin and Gariff had gotten too.
Chapter V
Dromeron Odoon
Kabor’s last known location was crucial. “Chimneying up a narrow shaft” was the way I put it. More so, I had described how the shaft dropped drown from the bog into a network of tunnels that lay above the city chamber. The waters around the leviathan churned in response to my words. And I had depicted Kabor as a hardy Stout, about my size and age, with experience in mines and a knack for spelunking. By the glint in his many eyes, the great beast seemed most interested in that as well, but nothing so much as the last bit of news I told him, the part I kept in reserve. The last bit changed everything, according to the leviathan. He nearly rolled over when I explained that Kabor was half-blind.
The leviathan had taken over from there onwards, pointing out just where such an individual might have ended up on a string of chance events: given that he survived the cave-in; given that he did not reach the surface; given that he was not trapped; given that he had followed all of the obvious signs and that he knew where to search for fresh water; and so on, and so forth. On those assumptions, the oversized lore master had reasoned that Kabor would have made his way to Dromeron Odoon, if anywhere. “He should be there by now, or soon, Huum haa,” is how he put it, “…if all went well, as it should.”
SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (SPARX Series I Book 2) Page 5
