Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

by Enoch Enns

  They were out the door (a belly too full for Mr Fauldon to keep up), and down the planks until they came to a structure just off center of the town. Kish ran on ahead of him and opened the door without a single knock. “Mommy!” she said disappearing behind it. Mr Fauldon could hear the mumbling of conversation as he drew near himself.

  “Hello?” he said while peering about the door’s frame. There stood the same lady to whom the little child had ran when he had first entered the town. “Oh… you’re Sairi.”

  “Yes,” she said, “this is my stead, but you may rest here. Brewer said I could stay at the inn.”

  Mr Fauldon looked around and saw that there was no bed, for no beds did the people of Threshold have, being as their days were not like those we are used to. Each turn of the Lighthouse was different from those of hours and seconds. It seemed the whole function of life was different in such a place, as people only “rested” when rest was needed. Mr Fauldon was reminded of Beelstow and the people of Obliviouseh and how they but drank Obliquor to stay away.

  That was right! He’d almost forgotten he still had some!

  “Make yourself at ease. You are welcome to anything here,” Sairi said to him as she stepped by. “I will try to keep Kish from disturbing you, as she is used to doors always being open.” With a smile did they depart and Mr Fauldon eased shut the door to the small dwelling. The wooden chairs and table took up the area immediately behind him. Behind them, shelves and bookcases clang to the wall. Ornaments filled their spaces, as did many plates, bowls, cups, and utensils. It was almost as though one’s dwelling was a place of constant visitation. When Sairi had said “doors always open” she truly meant it, for even the chairs looked worn in from countless guests—a lifestyle quite welcoming and intertwined.

  Pulling himself up a chair, he entertained the thought of how enticing a bit was rest would actually be, for it seemed like he hadn’t slept for the longest time. And, gently seating his tattered self, he began to imagine all that was still before him.

  How he was still to recover the stolen stone.

  How he still had no idea where Grevious had gone, nor how sir Knowington expected to find the man.

  He was altogether unsure of what lie ahead, only that for the sake of his own integrity, he was to do all he that could to finish the Task given to him. Even if the only true encouragement he had found was in the admiration of a child.

  The encouragement from an innocent and believing embrace.

  Yes, he would rest for now and save the Obliquor for when he awoke, that he might regain his strength where the lack of sleep would otherwise hold it captive.

  SCENE X, Part I:

  An orange sickle-feather perched upon the square window pane, through which light of the most peculiar shade shone. Mr Fauldon stirred to the bird’s pecking as it knocked against the colorful mosaic. He hadn’t noticed it before for the shadow cast over the town felt as close to night as he’d come to know.

  So he stood and stretched out his hands and legs, bending backward then forward then sideward before unfolding the sack of Oblique within his coat.

  He also saw the sash made for him in such craftsmanship he’d never seen before. He wondered as to what would come of Nobaph since his enlightenment. Also of Beelstow and whether the man would ever overcome Lerchah. He wondered of Nomad and if the traveler had found what he sought in Mauhg.

  The knocking came again. He saw the sickle-feather flutter off in an instant—the door to the dwelling bursting open.

  “Hey, Mr Mister!” came Kish’s childish voice as she beamed to the sight of him being awake. “Knowy told me to wake you,” she added with a blush, turning then to escape her shyness.

  Mr Fauldon watched as sir Knowington stepped through the doorway in her absence. “Shall we proceed?” the man said (as though it definitely had not been said before).

  “Yes, I do believe the Obliquor has settled in,” Mr Fauldon replied, feeling his senses jitter to the rejuvenation. “And to where are we headed, oh ‘mysterious’ one?”

  “Through the Shadow Bean Hills, Mr Fauldon, and to the Wiliswall.”

  “The Wiliswall?” Mr Fauldon could not believe his ears. Ever since he’d first seen and second asked, it had always been an aspiration to venture beyond to that which was held secret on the other side. “But why the Wiliswall?”

  “Come, we best bid the townsfolk farewell and be on our way.”

  “Hold on, hasty sir, how is it you know to where he went?” Mr Fauldon asked.

  Sir Knowington held an expression of one who simply always knew (as though it had slipped his mind that Mr Fauldon knew not). “I will tell you more as we get moving. Delay is the twin of procrastination, and we have a task to do.”

  Most of the townsfolk were already scattered about the old planks, greeting, mingling, and fiddling about the days of old and what they might do to ready themselves for Mr Fauldon’s return. Some even speculated about the disaster coming should the Overlap continue. Already did the sky look more bleak, even with the plethora of hues, shades, and veins that flowed like vines about a lattice. For a moment, Mr Fauldon couldn’t help but to look into the sky—seeing the splendor and taking it in again. It felt like he’d almost forgot how bizarre every feat of this imaginative realm was.

  How real it felt. How lively it felt.

  How real it was.

  “It draws nigh,” Brewer said amidst the crowd gathered. “We need that stone, if you don’t mind, sir Karier. We look forward to welcoming you back.”

  Sir Knowington wasn’t one for prolonged farewells, as he already had nudged Mr Fauldon that they continue swen. Glancing back over his shoulder, Mr Fauldon almost caught a glimmer of discomfort coming from the people in Threshold.

  “Why is that?” he turned to sir Knowington.

  “Mister!” came the little voice he cherished as Kish ran out from the crowd and leapt into his embrace once more. “Don’t worry, I believe in you,” she said, pushing away and running back to her mother.

  Sir Knowington showed a smile to the little girl’s gesture. “It’s because,” he then replied to Mr Fauldon, “they are already suffering. The Lighthouse gives light and growth to the fields they grow, and with it as such… well, the less light there is, the more critters there are. And as builders of the great Lighthouse, they know all too well what the Overlap is capable of doing, which is why its best we hurry along.”

  The urgency was becoming more and more real to him. One might ask then why he was given a night to sleep, but it mustn’t be forgotten the realm they are in—nights hardly existed. Rather, just when the turn of the light was blotted by the plate rotating about it, there in lay only a brief moment of darker shadow. So in reality, Mr Fauldon had not slept long at all—only rested. Had it not been for the Obliquor given to him by Beelstow, surely he would be incapable of the journey ahead. For in every crevice of his body, exhaustion sought to seep in and lay hold of his conscious.

  And so did the presence of the small town steadily grow fainting behind them with new terrain befalling Mr Fauldon’s gaze. He looked forward to the many hills laden with moss and speckles of humps (resembling much of potato farms in the regions of a more known world but less known places). The mounds sprouted the hills as though warts and to each clang vines woven in pair and bearing many seeds of brown and black. According to Brewer (whom he’d actually spoken a great deal to), the brown seed was a sweet nectar that could be cooked and savored, but the black seed (or rather the Black Shadow Bean, as they called them) was far more tart and, if cooked, would poison flavor and dry up any seasoning. It was, however, said to him to be good for the wound, as it dried out the exposed skin and soaked up what toxins there may be.

  All this only adding to the intrigue that a whole town might build up for itself a reputation just off a simple bean. Though, to the townspeople, it was no simple bean.

  The aroma held thick in the air as though a coffee-bean farm whilst the two pressed through and over and around the
hills. Mr Fauldon admired the many paths formed by the small trickling trails of mucky water—if it were water at all. Upon closer look, he noticed it to be the same soil as what made the hills, only softer and more saturated, making it slip and fold over itself until forming miniature flows. It seemed as though the means of self-sustained irrigation.

  “Sir Knowington,” Mr Fauldon finally spoke out, his mind being filled with new thoughts and even more questions, “I wonder if we will be able to recover this stone…”

  The man in bright suit had took notice of Mr Fauldon’s doubt and discomfort even before the thoughts had come to him and just before the words had been spoken (not that he could read minds, only that he would have known sooner had the smell of caffeine not been so steep).

  “And to you I would answer,” said he calmly and while yet progressing, “that, whether or not we do, it will not be without consequence. The first being that the Overlap draws nearer and has begun to reopen the old scars of those who here have dwelled for a very long time. Second, that with you not having it, opinions have swayed in doubt of the lord Keyno’s judgement and my selection. Though you may not realize it, many are losing trust in Keyno with the increasing fault-lines in reality.

  “Thirdly: with this imbalance already growing alongside time, not having the stone is only securing the suspicion and assumption that not all is well. In a land of such bizarre and imaginatude, you must understand the amount of fear this brings. That stone—your Task—has never meant more than now, even though it is just like all those before it. What you do now is not only affecting the task of the stone, but of people’s opinion of it. You are the Karier, sir, and though you may doubt recovering something that has slipped from this realm, I do believe you have no right to suppose that all hope is lost. Especially since, in essence, you are the carrier of that hope.”

  The ever-so-peculiar guide came to a stop and turned back to Mr Fauldon with eyes of sincerity. The man spoke factually and honest of Mr Fauldon’s predicament. He knew Mr Fauldon felt weighed of responsibility. He understood what Mr Fauldon felt inside.

  “Come—you see that?” sir Knowington said to him, pointing to the massive structure towering above them and stretching on in either direction. “The Wiliswall, and built that none should cross.”

  “Wait, none should cross? Then how are we to cross it? And why is it that none should cross? It seems to me the mainland is intent on separating itself. First the river Floweth, then Rys’ Springs, and now the Wiliswall?”

  “So many questions,” replied sir Knowington, a palm lifted so as to hush the conversation. Something moved amidst the moss and bushes. As the Shadow Bean Hills drew closer to the Wiliswall, so did the terrain enrich. Small and large, wide and skinny, thick and coarse—the nature grew more repulsing of ease.

  Mr Fauldon only caught a glimpse of what pursued them in the thickery. “What is that?” he whispered to sir Knowington as he crouched low, a break of sweat against his brow.

  “That,” said sir Knowington as he eased his position, “is our guide.”

  SCENE X, Part II:

  “Humph!” came the grunt of an emerging creature.

  “Good to see you again,” sir Knowington spoke as the Shrooblin stepped forward. “It’s been too long… Earold.”

  Mr Fauldon fought the urge to laugh to the name (after all, who names their kid “ear-hold”). Then it clicked for him: “Hold on, you mean to tell me this is the sibling of Aerold? The one who ‘forced’ her into servitude?”

  “Why, yes, I am kin to Aerold, the Devious Shrooblin Deceiver. She indeed has quite the grudge against me!” Earold seemed to laugh at the discomfort between he and his sister. “But do not worry, I only sped up what was inevitable. But I must ask: what brings you so near to the Wiliswall? The Shadow Bean Hills begin far swen from here and there is no reason to cross this far. Unless…” It was then the Shrooblin (whom Mr Fauldon was far more fond of than the grouch who’d deceived him) realized the intent of sir Knowington.

  “No,” Earold simply stated as though he and the bright suited man had held a whole conversation in the two seconds that had passed. “He is not ready,” he went on to say.

  “I would not be here otherwise,” sir Knowington reassured. “It seems the rift herald has slipped from this realm.”

  Mr Fauldon suddenly made the connection. The rift herald. It rang a bell to him. That verse! “It has long since brought the rifts of herald near, Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear.” The words had rolled off his lips without him even knowing he spoke them aloud.

  “Humph!” the Shrooblin disgruntled, “well fine, but he must first prove himself to me. Come.”

  Thus they followed Earold as the Shrooblin twist and wound his way about the thickening overgrowth of the Wiliswall. They soon came to be enveloped by large trees as boastful as the giant red sequoia, only having roots like web coming in and out of the ground and winding about other trees and roots. Only Earold knew the roots to follow as he lead them deeper in and along the wall until, finally, they came to the oddest of arches where two roots crossed. The arch rose a distance of a good fifteen feet, just shy of seven Shrooblins stacked upon each other. Vines wrapped and overhang the corners of each joint and a small column of smoke seeped from the cracks in the wood where a dwelling had been carved out.

  Where Shrooblin lead them in.

  For standing beneath the crossing and with a grin of utmost admiration did Earold tug upon one of the vines. Mr Fauldon barely had the time to catch his stance as a once hidden platform rose from under their feet and lifted them to the hole etched in the bottom of the dwelling. Climbing in, Mr Fauldon found himself crouched low amidst the many furnishing and collections Earold had obtained. Sir Knowington but resided himself in the near corner as the Shrooblin prepared the most peculiar of stew.

  In short spurts did the host continue adding spices and herbs to the petrified pot (yes, for Shrooblin were not known for their metal work, rather an adaptation using petrified wood in its place). Mr Fauldon also noticed that the fire indeed was no fire he’d seen before. Its glow was of a deep ember blue and hissed instead of crackled. The warmth coming from it seemed to skip the skin and go straight to one’s innards, which made him feel the slightest bit hot if not for the sweat beginning to cool him and the Korgath skin hard at work.

  “What causes the fire to do so?” he asked in wonder and awe as the Shrooblin yet made adaptations to the stew.

  “Young-Karier-sir-you, that is beside the point,” the odd Shrooblin answered him, obviously his attention more focused upon the mixing rather than conversing. And with a flicker of both hands and a dab of conclusive spice, the combobulation was complete. The small space that was home to Earold filled with an odorless aroma.

  Truly, all sense of smell, apart from the sweat of the Calnorian and Mr Fauldon, was absent. Bringing forth a deep spoon, the mischievous Shrooblin let loose the most whimsical grin as he held it out before Mr Fauldon. “Drink it,” he said hastily, his entirety consumed with what Mr Fauldon would think of it.

  Mr Fauldon was altogether confused how doing so would prove anything. Even sir Knowington seemed weary to the request of the Shrooblin (for who knew of the spices flung into that stew—not to mention that seemed to be all it was made of). Mr Fauldon gulped to the voidless odor, a certain nausea sweeping about his head as he gazed into the stewiness. Though but a spoon full, it almost seemed as a bottomless bowl from which there would never be an end.

  He was about to ask if it were required to drink all of it, but etiquette answered for him. If only a gesture of kindness, it is best one to finish the serving handed to him—no matter how bitter. Except in this case, he imagined it could just as easily kill him.

  The sweat creased his brow.

  Mr Fauldon reached out and took the spoon—Earold not blinking even once during this whole time. The Shrooblin anxiously and eagerly observed Mr Fauldon’s every expression as the stew, as a small train-game to a child’s mouth, stead
ily made its way to his lips.

  A sort of steam arose from the collaborative substances and penetrated Mr Fauldon’s nose—a feeling of grotesque swelling up inside of him. Forcing down his jaw, the tip of the spoon touched gently to the upper lip.

  It felt cold.

  Steadily he arched his hand until slowly did the rich texture reach his tongue and swell down his throat before he could think to choke.

  It was of mild warmth—until the additives brushed against his buds something fierce of heat and spice.

  Overwhelmed by the flavor and completely exposed to it, Mr Fauldon was unresponsive as his mouth but drew in all that was left in the spoon (for his hand had arched back even more and the contents poured so swiftly). Eyes lit aflame and throat practically eradicated, he finally gasped for anything other than the stew.

  Earold broke into a ravished cackling and even the chuckling of sir Knowington from behind.

  Mr Fauldon finally swallowed the last remnants his mouth contained and miraculously the taste disappeared, leaving him with the expression as though a two-day hangover had just hit (only this soon cleared up with a little smacking and shaking of his head to the daring endeavor).

  “There you have it!” exclaimed the Shrooblin, as though all his life goals had been achieved in that single act. “I will get you across that wall. If not to the death of you, at least I know his character!”

  “Know my character?” Mr Fauldon choked yet again. “How could you know it from that?”

  Earold smiled as he began stirring the pot once more, pulling up a bowl for himself. Two scoops did he place in it, setting the spoon down and guzzling what he’d served to himself—not one flicker amidst his devour to give away any reaction to the sure power of the stew.

  Slamming down the empty bowl, he released a pleasurable exhaust as though satisfied to the utmost. It was then he answered: “Well, you see, there were several things that occurred just then. For one, you took the spoon from my hand instead of sipping just a little. That was to say you are willing to take full responsibility for your choices. Second was you neither asked how much you needed to drink. That goes to show that you are willing to see a task all the way through. Thirdly is the matter that you gulped the whole serving down! Ha! That is at least half a bowl! I take that as a commitment to fulfill and to satisfy. You knew to finish the whole plate—which shows me you are willing to put yourself on the line. All in all, I’d say that says a lot about a man. I will thus take you across the wall.”