by Enoch Enns
Mr Fauldon was astounded at the Shrooblin’s conclusion simply from an act of stew. Surely the odd creature bore more wisdom than most perceived. Then again, Mr Fauldon knew nothing of the Shrooblin other than what he had experienced. At first deceit, but now a more trusting guide.
And so his test of approval to the Shrooblin succeeded and they gathered themselves up to proceed to the Vine of Crossing—or so Earold called it, as it was the only means of crossing the Wiliswall and was also only known by Earold himself.
Thus they were led again by the Shrooblin as he wove through the many roots of those trees that did border the towering wall, though none came to its height in comparison. It seemed as though everything sought to reach the light despite the cold echoed from the ancient structure. Who knew how old the forest that spanned it was or who and when the great divide had been constructed.
Which led to even more questions for Mr Faulon as he fought the many shrubs and weeds to keep up with Earold’s familiarity and ease (for to Mr Fauldon, it was as far from a walk-in-the-park as could be). Meanwhile, sir Knowington elegantly moved through the terrain unaffected in his composure and pace. They drew even closer to the crevice between of the massive wall and the lonely earth. An eerie silence befell the surroundings as they happened up a single root that penetrated its binds to the ground and rose steeply and upward until the leaves of those great trees hid its scale.
“Alas, young-Karier-sir-you,” said Earold, “we have reached the Vine of Crossing.”
“Vine? Is this not a root?” asked Mr Fauldon.
“Well… yes… it is, in actuality, a root. But I like vines better—they remind me how I get into my hut. Besides, I’m the one who made it so, so I get to name it.”
“You made it so?”
Even sir Knowington seemed in the slightest admiring the claim. “So you have been up to something during your years as caretaker,” he said to the Shrooblin, as though bringing up a joke of old.
“Oooooh whatever,” Earold said in return. “If you want to get across, you have to become a Nutrient.”
“Nutrient?” Mr Fauldon exclaimed. “By what on earth do you mean?”
“This is not Earth…” sir Knowington mumbled, as though he already knew what Earold meant as well.
“Nutrient,” Earold answered him, “is what the roots of carry. Just as you are the Karier of the Task, so is that Root of Crossing—for your sake—the Carrier of the Nutrient.” The Shrooblin snickered at his own play on words.
But Mr Fauldon still felt utterly confused.
Earold continued: “In essence, the only things to go through the roots are nutrients, and since only this root goes over the wall, one must become a Nutrient in order to cross over with it.”
“So you are saying I have to be devoured by this root in order to get to the other side? How in the world is that to happen?!”
The Shrooblin laughed yet once more. “So much question! You might do good to clear your mind of worry, good young-Karier-sir-you, and seek clarity. After all, there is reason I made you drink that stew…”
“What?! You made me drink that stew to make me into a Nutrient?! Wonderful…” Mr Fauldon trailed off. “But then why not have sir ‘know-it-all’ drink that stew? He better be crossing this wall with me.”
Sir Knowington gazed up the endless scale of the Wiliswall. “Why, I am not like you,” he simply said to Mr Fauldon. “I will go by other means.”
“But I thought you said there was no means of crossing and yet here we stand at the ‘only’ means of crossing and now you tell me you have ‘other’ means of crossing? I must say, this is altogether inconsistent. Which is it then?”
“For you,” Earold replied, “this is the only means of crossing. My stew has already prepared you for it, so there’s no arguing. I may not know the extent of the business you have upon the other side, nor do I care. But if the ‘know-it-all’ Knowington needs you across, then that is enough for me.”
And in a surprising shove, the Shrooblin tackled Mr Fauldon against the root—his coat and body quickly being absorbed as he hit against it. He had no time to react as the root overtook him and soon his vision disappeared beneath its surface. Odd was the feeling that came over him as he but watched the ground and roots and trees turn to tiny little ants and become shrouded by a dark mist as the majestic root bent over the top and crawled its way back down.
The next thing he came to realize was his body rolling atop dried out leaves and a moistless ground. Trees like roots overturned spotted the view before him as a single path followed the root a little ways further. Sure enough, sir Knowington had somehow already made it and ahead of Mr Fauldon, awaiting him to come full to his senses.
And as his senses came, he was finally able to take in what resided opposite of the Wiliswall and the Land of Bayohn.
SCENE XI:
”Let us keep moving,” said sir Knowington to him as he stumbled toward the guide, still nauseated in the process of being unnutriented. “I do not wish to invade here anymore than necessary. We are aliens to this forbidden and accursed land.”
“I’m at wit’s end, sir Know-it-all,” said Mr Fauldon to him, “please make effort to speak to me less riddle and more explanation, for I am already weary and in awe so confounding.”
The guide looked to him as though a teacher to a bewildered student, finally concluding the only way to progress was to thoroughly explain. Though he was not in favor of it, he found it better to do so in the given circumstances.
After all, he had told Mr Fauldon he would explain eventually.
And it was he that had chosen the downtrodden tramp from the start—for he knew the man more than capable of greater things.
The guide made effort to clear his throat while stepping over the many small roots and cracks that spread over their path. The trees here bore only few leaves and those they did were enlargigated and dried up. They also would stick to one’s clothing if given the chance. Though for sir Knowington, he was too elusive, and Mr Fauldon wore the coat of Korgath skin, which resisted them effortlessly. The path they clung to was narrow and wound through the spread of shallow trees. It seemed as though no sun ever rejuvenated them as they sought their warmth from deep within the ground. Against the red gloom of sky, the trees looked as silhouettes of web interwoven and spanning to the next.
And out of the trees, grew the most rugged of rocks as though a fear had once petrified the wood long ago. Such feats seemed to be where Earold had gotten his pot, only having smoothed its edges and hollowed its base. Yet, the occasional green sprout would be seen thriving from the ridges between the rock, roots, and trees. It even happened that Mr Fauldon saw a leaf that had fallen midst their path and, through its center, had a greenery sprouted.
“What came of this place?” Mr Fauldon trailed from behind.
Sir Knowington kept onward leading as the path deviated from the great root they had crossed over with. “A great fear once swept this realm, and to this day it seeks to seep back in whatever essence it may. This dark—this seemingly haunting plague—still lays waste as poison to everything this side of the Wiliswall.”
“Yet I see sprouts,” said Mr Fauldon.
“Yes, a sure sign that even the darkest can be cleansed. But few desire the sacrifice that takes. What you see here is a result of the first fault line of an Overlap long ago.”
“You keep mentioning the Overlap,” Mr Fauldon said, “and back on the outskirts of the Shadow Bean Hills I found myself quoting those words. What does it mean that ‘It has long since brought the rifts of herald near, Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear’?”
“Well, Mr Fauldon, as you said, I brought you here from another place, just as Grevious was once brought. These ‘places’ are other realms. Let me explain it as such: imagine a single portrait from which many look upon in splendor. It has different colors, traits, and scenes throughout, yet still is known to be one image as a whole. You are looking at this picture from the front as thou
gh standing in a gallery. Now, imagine yourself stepping closer, noticing that the portrait is actually a puzzle of many pieces fitted together to look as one when, indeed, they are but pieces. Now, say you stepped slightly to the side of it. It is then you realize that none of the pieces are actually joined, only positioned to look so when viewed from the front. The picture once ‘whole’ becomes instantly complex and layered as the pieces spread forward and back so that none touch, but all would otherwise fit perfectly.
“Each of those pieces of the puzzle, of that grand portrait, is a realm so to speak. Where you came from, where Grevious came from, and where you both are—all are different pieces. They are meant to be kept apart, never touching, yet forming one picture. It is when parts from one piece cross into another that there is a brief tip as the two pieces experience a brief attraction. It is during this period that a brief imbalance occurs. If the alien part does not return in time, the tilt of the two pieces begins to draw nearer—leading to what you have been hearing as the Overlap.
“Keep in mind that only between pieces that would otherwise join can one cross two realms. So in actuality, the realms that are in play are all just one small spectrum of the greater picture. But Grevious has refused to return, and acts of old are only amplifying the matter, which is why there is more prominence that the Overlap will occur, and in this realm.”
Mr Fauldon could hardly remember to breathe amidst the magnitude of thought. “Wait, wait, wait… how in the realm are you able to travel between these realms then?”
“I am not ‘traveling’,” said sir Knowington. “I am but crossing into an adjacent realm. I crossed into yours because of the requirements for the stone:
Thus, a Karier is brought to bring it to its place,
Out of place and to its place, a balance replaced in its wake.
But caution to the one who carries
For a mind in ponderance oft overlooks its pains.
Should such mind finally awake, to distant places will it take…”
The ‘man-that-knew-much’ looked up to the veins of grey that stretched the sky in contrast to the gloom of red brought forth from the lighthouse against them (for the veins too were poisoned, causing the light to turn a reddish tint).
Mr Fauldon opened his mouth so as to speak but was hushed at the sight of something just around the bend. A figure long since seen.
“Well greetings to you,” came a voice not of sir Knowington’s.
“Serve Per Card?” Mr Fauldon inquired to his surprise, for there sat the gambler at his table as though such a place was no hindrance to his business. “How, when, what, why—”
“Ha! Nothing has changed at all, I see!” the man chuckled. “My good partner, have you not wasted your inquiries yet? Poor sir Knowington, I’m surprised you still have ears! Not to mention a mouth for answering so many questions!”
Sir Knowington gave no smile upon his face (for he but glared at the gambler, undesiring of the man’s appearance and ‘business’ with Mr Fauldon). “You have no reason to be here,” he said to the dealer of cards.
“Why, nor do you, I might add,” Per Card replied. “This place is not the best fit for a Karier, even without the stone. Though I know why you’re here and I will not keep you. However, I just wanted to check on my valued customer!”
The man of large proportions beamed toward Mr Fauldon, both his hands propped upon the white cloth that spanned his folding table. “So,” continued he, “might I deal you more business, my greatest acquaintance?”
“I still have the others you gave me,” said Mr Fauldon.
The man’s eyes widened. “Say what? Have you not used them at all?!”
“On the contrary…” sir Knowington added (for many a time had he reminded Mr Fauldon of the Card of Inquiry).
“Indeed, I used them often, though now they seem less responsive and make me rather nauseated to put forth the effort.”
“Let me see, let me see!” the dealer demanded as Mr Fauldon drew out of the cards.
Serve Per Card’s eyes swelled. Ignoring the blank card (the one that had saved his life many a time), he reached out and gently took the Card of Inquiry, seemingly astounded at its state.
Even sir Knowington seemed aware of something that had been caught in the air of the moment.
“This… this…” echoed the dealer’s words as he cradled the card closer to his spectacles. In an instant did both he and his table warp into thin absence, taking the card with him.
Mr Fauldon, in utmost confusion, turned to sir Knowington. “Whatever happened there?” he asked, still holding the blank card.
“Well, Mr Fauldon,” sir Knowington said, “most cards are used up the first time—not to mention you used it several, and even to its utmost when we were at Rys’ Springs. Yet, the card still remains.”
“And why is that? What does that mean?” Mr Fauldon inquired.
“It means either that card is special as is its doorway, or that you are special as its wielder.”
“Whatever on earth does that mean?” asked Mr Fauldon.
The bright suited man rubbed his eyes once more (for there Mr Fauldon had mentioned ‘earth’ yet again, which seemed to irk the man).
Continuing on their way, sir Knowington followed the narrow path between the crooked trees as though he’d once lived in the place. That, or the man truly and indeed knew far more than he let on. It was almost as though knowledge of something were never new to him, though the interpretation of it could be.
However confusing it was, he did finally speak again, saying, “Hensers, my young and inquiring Karier, are what those cards are called. There are many different kinds that serve many different purposes. From simple things such as answering questions to more mystical feats like calling upon fire—these ‘cards’ enact as doorways to chambers unseen.”
“You mean to tell me that there is now a realm for everything? How in the world has an Overlap ever not been happening then?” Mr Fauldon asked.
“Ha, so anxious to conclude that you always end up with more questions, for your knowledge is so small in comparison to the vastness about you. Understand me when I say chambers and not realms. Indeed, there are some Hensers that are forbidden and others that even do pull from realms we neither understand nor should interact with. But the matter of issue is that with each use of a single card, one exhausts it. To use the card is to briefly open the door to that chamber it represents. Anytime that door is open, massive amounts of strain are put upon it, often consuming it in an instant—if not by the second use. Hensers are not meant to last. They are meant as but brief taps into a given chamber to serve a single purpose. You, however, kept using that card.”
Mr Fauldon slowed down a moment as if to not trip upon the mingle of old roots crossing his path. “But you kept telling me to use it,” he said to the Calnorian.
Sir Knowington only gave the smallest of pause in his step, as though more were going through his mind than his mouth as he spoke: “Yes, because I wanted to see just how far it would go. I noticed it at first kept slipping your mind, then would bring forth nausea. But it still held.” The guide came to a stop nearside a large, uprooted tree, reaching out his hand so as to observe its texture.
“So what does that mean, then? Mr Fauldon asked.
“It means as I told you. You have an innate sense of handling the cards without wasting them. It is almost as though you yourself strengthen those doors and could also better bring the realms.”
He knew not what to think, only that the bright suited figure relaxed his poise and looked toward him. “We’re here,” he spoke to Mr Fauldon, leading him then about the uprooted tree until they came to stand in a clearing unlike the terrain they had been crossing.
For here there were far more vines than roots and the overgrowth seemed still alive with hints of green deep inside them. The trees that did surround the central hill were far taller than those he’d seen before, and they wound themselves upward and over—not so much to create a
ceiling, but over each other as though once a terrible twister had manipulated their form.
And, eyes wandering on up the slope, Mr Fauldon came to see an ancient artifact atop it. It rested alone, as though its walls had been torn away, and only its jagged pillars remained. For there, before them, was a great gate, empty of door and structure.
Not but a hollow entry with no reason.
SCENE XII:
“We have come as you said,” spoke sir Knowington, though not to Mr Fauldon. For there appeared a figure before them, posing atop one of the pillars that stood.
It was the knight.
Mr Fauldon hadn’t noticed him when first admiring the great structure, so it seemed to him that the man had just appeared in the blink of an eye (which wasn’t entirely unbelievable considering he had slain the Croak King with hardly any effort). It wasn’t till then that Mr Fauldon really had time to admire the knight’s physique, for before, the knight moved too swiftly for him to be attentive of detail. He was no giant, nor a man of ‘iron strength’, though about his knightly form did armor cling. Not the thickest of armor, mind you, for that would be cumbersome; rather, this armor was of a metal not found in the realm from whence Mr Fauldon was from, nor from the one he was in. Silver it was (like most metals), only his was stained with a particular reminiscence of old (like those statues one finds in castles of ruined history—frozen, as if to say, in a time long since passed). The joints showed a chainmail cloth beneath, bearing the resemblance of an impenetrable undergarment.
