by Enoch Enns
“But an ever so strange reality this is to me—nothing like the one of which I thought to have known,” Mr Fauldon said.
“Indeed, reality in of itself is strange—regardless how unfitting such a word be. But you shall come to it all the same in due time. Now please, do eat since you ever so gullibly complied to this unnecessary deviation from our task.”
“Oh, quiet your temper, Wisum!” the old beldam cracked, rapping her spoon across the rim of sir Knowington’s bowl. “Now, where was I? Oh, I recall! It was fourteen hundred eighty six turns ago,” she began (the equivalence, of course, to fourteen hundred eighty six days for us, though one turn not actually being anything like a day.. go figure):
“For there he stood, teeth in glisten,
A heart of purest reason—a mind
Filled with good intent, and a
Sword from which evil he did
Vanquish, its edge of top awaiting
To pry at life; its edge of bottom
To be filled with glutton. And so
He held forth true judgment,
Careful not to be overcome by
His lusting weapon—”
She began stirring the pot of stew; her eyes were wide with the absorption of the tale. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now he could make out faint figures in the vapor that steadily arose. In them, fish (bearing much resemblance to that of sharks, only with a feather-scale-like complexion) were swimming about a single form protruding from the center of the stew. She proceeded with the words of which he did not care to hear, his mind as a whole trying to simply grasp the moving shapes in the stew.
The tale proceeded as so:
“The figure standing amidst the fish looked down
upon another form—which knelt so low so as to have
its head touch its toes. The figure looked
shamefully upon the wretched form, stepping
forth with a heavy foot—his great sword (of some
vegetable of sorts) dragging behind him. Kneeling
down himself, the two were now head to head.
“Sword behind him in one hand, the figure
lifted the weeping form with his other—so as
to remain on his knees instead. The form, once
in tears, was now rejoicing—though in an instant,
all the fish scattered. From behind them, another
form arose, taking up the sword and striking the
first...”
Mr Fauldon was nudged back to his senses, looking dazzledly at his surroundings (much like a child returning from a fairy-land tale). “What was that for?” he inquired disappointedly to sir Knowington (who had been the one responsible for breaking his concentration).
“It is late,” he replied as if it were good enough an excuse.
“But what happened? Who was that assailant? Why did he kill the first?” came Mr Fauldon’s stampede of questions, the interest of a child burning in his eyes.
“Why, did you not hear anything I said?” remarked the beldam, taking up his empty bowl (he hadn’t the slightest recollection of ever finishing it) as well as sir Knowington’s, and placing them into the empty pot of stew.
“You have finished eating and are undoubtedly refreshed now, so we might as well, if you please, continue on our way,” said you-know-who.
“Oh, have patience already!” cried the beldam, turning back to Mr Fauldon with a smile. “The ‘words’ you missed go as such:
“Though wielding he the sword of
Judgment, death he never sought. And,
Looking deep into the eyes of the
One guilty of crime, he forgave—
Taking it upon himself and giving a second
Chance, knowing it a worthy action. But
This act, in the hunger of the sword,
Found discontent within itself, and
The sword called upon its own judge,
Who, being as corrupt and yielding to intent, wielded the
Sword and took the innocent life in
Place of the one forgiven.”
“Oh my, what an act of heroism he did!” Mr Fauldon exclaimed.
“Yes, indeed,” said sir Knowington, glancing toward the beldam and addressing her, “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we best be on our way.”
She smiled at them both with her crooked teeth and wrinkled skin, “And thus you shall! It was a pleasure bearing company!”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mr Fauldon gratified, “the pleasure was mine.”
“Hm, well, for your time I now grant you the rear door,” she said, pointing (with a freckled hand) to a door in the back. “It should make light this delay.”
“Ah, in that case I myself am grateful!” sir Knowington replied, leading Mr Fauldon to the door. “Now, shall we be off?” he asked, and they proceeded through.
SCENE II, Part II:
To say the scenery was still a shock to him would not have been the half of it, for it had completely changed. Mr Fauldon himself couldn’t even find the door through which they had just used (and what was with all these appearing and disappearing doors anyway?). Before them, tall limb-and-leafless trees stood having an orangish-brown appearance (similar to that of a totem pole, only having more ‘natural-like’ carvings). And along the single winding path leading further on and up were the strangest of red grasses (mixed with purple pick-a-dillies).
“What is this place that nothing is as it should be?” Mr Fauldon asked, all awhile he suddenly realized that the streaks of silky wateriness above him were actually genuine streams of water flowing independently of the gravity that held most of everything else. (And another fact of reality: these ‘torrents of water’ replaced the need of the gloomy, sad, and depressing aura that clouds brought. Instead, whenever the Beasts of Rayne that swam through them like turtle-whales strayed too closely to the currents’ edge, their fins would scathe it, causing a break in concentrated flow and sending forth trickles of descending water—what you call rain. And there you have it, yet another phenomenon.)
He needn’t have asked again, for sir Knowington knew well the face that showed—though for him it was hard to grasp why so, being as it was always as such to him. “You ask far too many questions to be productive, you know,” he said with an onward look.
And so they walked past the algae turtles and yawning mushrooms with faces, coming up to two large bronze gates that were supported by massive boulders which stretched like walls around either side and back. To their left lay a hidden staircase (which wasn’t so seemingly hidden, for sir Knowington quickly ascended them). Reaching the top, Mr Fauldon could finally catch a glimpse of the magnificent, marble city of Chestleton.
“Here inlays the pride and proud of all Calnor,” said he with satisfaction.
“Calnor? You keep saying that. What exactly are they?” Mr Fauldon asked.
The statement terrified the man (if one could say his response held any such sense of personal involvement, rather just dazzlement at the stupidity of new-comers). “Why, I myself am one!” he pronounced, just as quickly shrugging it off with ignorance. “Now, please follow me to the Hall.”
As they descended the city streets, Mr Fauldon could hear his name being called out from behind. “Why, hello there, traveler!” It was Serve Per Card (though how so he had not the slightest reasonable clue). “How fanciful for you to show on such an occasion!”
Even Mr Fauldon could tell that the man intended more business—having already motioned toward his table and deck of cards. “I have another special offer for you, if you spare the time... and I see you are still with the guide!”
“Could your inconvenience be of even more inconvenient timing,” commented sir Knowington, hoping to have simply brushed by, but the man had grabbed hold of Mr Fauldon’s sleeve.
“It is you I ask of,” he reiterated. “Have you used that card yet?”
“What card?” Mr Fauldon asked—and it suddenly struck him. “Oh! I had completely forgotten….”
; He drew forth the blank card.
“Ah, there you have it. Go ahead; make a request!” the gambler intrigued.
“Now?” Mr Fauldon asked, not wanting to do so.
“Yes, ‘now’. I want to see you use it—after all, what is a gift that has never been opened? Shall it then but go to waste?”
He paused for a moment. Of all the hundreds of millions of questions to ask, he was finding it hard to think of even just one. “Uh... how do I use it?” asked he.
“Just ask a question. It’s as simple as that! You need not quote fancy riddles or perform pointless ritual, just ask, ask, ask!”
Mr Fauldon looked back to the card. “What is Sir Knowington’s real name?” he asked it (having not the slightest idea as to why that question in particular had arisen above the other and more reasonable ones).
The card shuttered briefly before glowing a tinted white. Words then began to etch themselves upon its surface when—and rather suddenly so—a firm hand took grip of it and covered the writing. He looked up at the card dealer who spoke sternly but with smile. “Within reason, of course. Show Mr Fauldon his heart,” he demanded instead.
The card once again lit up, only this time its edges turned into that of autumn colors.
“Well?” the gambler anxiously spoke, “What is it?”
“It’s a picture... of a girl—a beautiful one,” Mr Fauldon replied (a familiar and yet completely unknown feeling overtaking him).
“Ah, very beautiful indeed,” complemented the dealer, “You’d do great to treasure that face—it’ll bring more than just light and strength to you if done so wisely.”
“Why? What must I do? And who might this girl even be? Do I know her—”
“Tush tush tush! Slow down! ...Maybe revealing to you the Inquisitor wasn’t such a good idea. You need to learn patience and temperance, my dearest client.”
It was at this time that sir Knowington stepped into the conversation. “You’ll know soon enough,” he said.
“And why not now?” Mr Fauldon probed.
“Exactly, not now. Or at least yet,” sir Knowington restated, turning back to the dealer, “For we must be on our way. To the Hall shall we go then?”
“Well, here!” the dealer exclaimed, desperate to deal business with Mr Fauldon if only for one last time. “I return to you the card you returned to me as a parting gift. All you must do is ask it should questions arise. Remember that, my inquiring friend, that the card may serve you well.”
And they were off—Mr Fauldon once again finding himself with nothing better to do than to follow the ‘guide’. Such a queer place full of questions unanswered. Who could choosingly live in such a bizarre world? It was as if everything had lost its sense of reality and the norm.
Thus so, he was led into the most magnificent hall he had ever seen. The palace structure itself towered above the proud city of marble and marvel, though compared nothing so spectacular as the Hall of which to it led. Massive pillars arched overhead and extravagant stones formed the walls between them. Streaks of green and yellow flowed across the floor and ceiling like veins giving of life, warmth, and comfort. A deep blue velvet carpet held the middle, running from door to door (that is, from where they had entered and all the way to a glorious elevated throne of indescribable, petrified wood, the palace door just behind it).
“Welcome,” came a deep, reverberating voice of a man seated on the throne. He wore the most genuine of red cloth, complemented by his purple robe and golden spectacles. His face was set, jaws firm, and he bore the longest sideburns Mr Fauldon had ever seen. All in all, he looked as though he was once a man not to be reckoned with, the kind that may have been looked upon as a hero. “And who might this one be?” he spoke already-knowingly.
“This is he,” replied sir Knowington (standing more postured than he had previously been, if that were ever possible).
“Would you be ever so confident in this one as well?” the man asked.
“It is so,” answered sir Knowington.
“Yet he looks weary and unfit for any task,” the man further added.
“But he is all the more prepared in heart,” said sir Knowington.
Keyno (for that was what the bearded man went by) looked prolongingly at Mr Fauldon, a hand lifting to scratch at his rough face. “What is your name, traveler?” he asked.
“Mr Fauldon,” replied he, straightening out his throat (for it seemed frogs loved his throat as of late).
“And are you true to your word, Mr Fauldon? For it is one’s word alone by which he stands—whether that be in confidence or shame.”
“Why, yes,” Mr Fauldon confirmed, “I am a man to my word, less fate say otherwise.”
“As often it does,” Keyno spoke, a glance back at sir Knowington with the raising of a brow. “And would you be willing to bear this task as its sole carrier—being it your fate?”
“Yes—” came the ever so unpredictable word of Mr Fauldon (not at all knowing how it had come out so). He swallowed down his regret and tried to hold true, regardless of the fact he had no clue as to what he had just agreed to.
A satisfied look took to Keyno’s face as he leaned back. “He looks somewhat dazed as of still yet. Have you acquainted him with all the unfamiliarities?” he said to sir Knowington, who also showed signs of relief.
“No, my lord. He seems to be yet awakening to all that surrounds him,” he answered.
“Ah, well then, you shall accompany him as his guide and guardian. Now bring forth his coat,” demanded the Calnorian lord, and Mr Fauldon’s old, withered coat was removed from him. With it off, he could feel the waves of cool breeze lurking through the Hall and shuddered.
“You needn’t wear that anymore,” Keyno added, nodding to the side, “but one of mine.” And there appeared, hanging on a stand, a new clean coat of a red leather (that of the Korgath hide).
“Bear it well,” Keyno proceeded, “and never take it off so long as you’re here. For it will be what all shall know and recognize you by. And that you shall hence forth be known as Karier of the Task. Journey you now and seek out sir Grievous, from whom you shall receive further instruction.”
Mr Fauldon took the coat and placed it on (and I can guarantee never before had he fell so in love with a perfectly fitting coat).
“Go now, Mr Fauldon. And may you be guided well in the presence of sir Knowington,” Keyno said, slumping back into his majestic chair to soon be consumed by swaying thoughts.
SCENE III:
The radiance of the sky infiltrated every crevice of creation before them. Mr Fauldon stood dazedly upon the cliff’s edge overlooking the vast terrain of odd-shaped tulip trees and illuminated rose-flowers. It seemed that the landscape was content with the soil about it—neither striving to compete nor overcome by feeble things. And so his sights turned to the horizon. “What is that way?” he asked of sir Knowington, flinging his arm far to the right and toward an all-too-distant wall that towered above and behind everything else—the coney hills, the viney plains, the crusted cliffs, and even the three-palm elms of enormous-tude.
Sir Knowington’s head jolted back as though it were a preposterous question of near insult. “Of all things to ask, you turn swenward and wonder what lies behind the unseen? How is it that your kind’s curiosity outdoes your sense and does so ever consistently? That, my friend, is the Wiliswall.”
“I never knew of a Wiliswall,” said Mr Fauldon.
“Not a Wiliswall. The Wiliswall. There is only one Wiliswall,” answered sir Knowington. “To confuse that you might as well say you are just a Fauldon—and by doing such, remove any significance of being original. Now, if you don’t mind, shall we proceed swenward?”
“You should respect my asking a little more,” said Mr Fauldon as he arranged his composure within his newfound coat. “After all, I’m not the one whose name is ‘know-a-ton’. And swenward? What on earth is that?”
“This is not Earth, Mr Fauldon,” sir Knowington said, “so there is no ‘o
n earth’ here. Here, there is no north, south, east, or west.”
“But how then do you have any sense of direction?” Mr Fauldon asked, altogether dumbfounded. “Where is the sun in this place?”
Sir Knowington took a breath in his bewilderment of Mr Fauldon’s lack of understanding. “The ‘sun’ you ask for is that lighthouse.” He pointed to the right before adjusting his spectacles. Sure enough, there stood, beside a large mountain of preposterous proportions, a lighthouse unlike any he had seen before. Its supports, like clockwork, wound their way up to the light. It was at that moment Mr Fauldon remembered the beldam’s reference to rotations as time.
“So… like a clock?” he inquired of sir Knowington.
The man shrugged to the simplicity of Mr Fauldon’s assumption. “A little more, I would have to say. In fact, it ties into our very conversation on how we’re wasting time asking such demeanor questions.”
“So which way is that lighthouse?”
“That would be swenward.”
“So we are headed to the lighthouse.”
“No, you just asked which way the lighthouse was. We are headed to where you shall receive further instruction upon your task.”
“And where is that?”
Sir Knowington brushed aside the embarrassment of the childlike questions (after all, Mr Fauldon’s name was far from resembling ‘knowing-a-ton’). “That would be there,” he implied, physically pointing his hand for the sake of not confusing Mr Fauldon more. And to his hand Mr Fauldon looked, following it down across the oakriss valley and collection of trees and jagged-jutting mountain ledges. It was a canyon of winding forests and plateaus and just beyond them (before the crest that led into gloominess craters) lay a settlement of sorts.
“You see that there?” sir Knowington asked, “That is known as the city of Mauhg, also the place of dwelling of Sir Grevious, to whom you seek the furtherance of your task.”
And just at that moment there came a man up the hill toward them. His clothes were loose garments of green and brown linen and resembled much of those who traveled without rest. “Hello there!” he cried out, a thin-bodied voice that was fitting to his clean-shaven face. He continued so: “I was but sitting down yonder and heard the mentioning of the city of Mauhg. I wonder if I might perhaps accompany you. For I have been in need of crossing the river Floweth for several turns now and would appreciate the assistance of ones with know-how.”
