The Eleventh Ring (Bartholomew the Adventurer Trilogy Book 1)

by Tom Hoffman

  The marbles forgotten, he returned to his chair and began to read. It was a personal journal written by the naturalist Dr. Mazlow, recounting one of his expeditions and the wide variety of unique trees he had discovered.

  Halfway through the book Bartholomew silently mouthed the word ‘eureka’. He had found his answer on page thirty-three in the carefully drawn sketch of a tree covered with eyes. The caption below the drawing read, ‘The Tree of Eyes is universally disliked by the few rabbits who have met it’. There was also a map detailing the tree’s location. Bartholomew studied the peculiar drawing with growing trepidation. “What am I getting into? A tree covered with eyes? When I think about it, this is quite a disturbing creature.” He put the book down and leaned back in his chair.

  “The mystical Cavern of Silence told me to seek guidance from the Tree of Eyes, and after no small effort I have found it. Why then do I hesitate? This is exactly the marvelous adventure I have been looking for. I could sit safely in this chair forever, but where would that get me? I have chosen to become an adventurer, and what is it that adventurers do? They chase after disturbing creatures like the Tree of Eyes.”

  It took Bartholomew several days to ready everything he would need for his journey to the Tree of Eyes. This would be a far lengthier adventure than his short trip to the Cavern of Silence, and demanded a great deal more preparation. He filled his pack with all the necessities; stout walking boots, a sturdy coat to ward off the cold, extra clothes, dried food, matches, a saw, a sleeping bag, rope, and most importantly, Dr. Mazlow’s Guide to Unusual Trees.

  Parfello stood by the doorway the next morning. “Please be careful and have a safe trip, sir. I am certain you will find what you are looking for.”

  “Thank you, Parfello. I would not be setting out on this adventure without your advice regarding the Cavern of Silence. You have started a chain of events which I feel will have a very happy ending. I have no idea how I know this, but I believe it to be true.”

  Stepping out the front door, Bartholomew was filled with a great exhilaration. He was beginning his first true adventure.

  The journey was long and arduous, the worst leg of it being an unexpected frigid mountain pass absent from Dr. Mazlow’s map. Even with all his gear, Bartholomew nearly froze to death traversing the jagged, icy trail. It was a dreadful experience, and he would avoid the pass in all future travels. The one positive outcome was he now had a thrilling adventure story to tell at dinner parties. It had also given him a deep sense of his own mortality.

  Safely on the other side of the mountain range, Bartholomew surveyed the broad green valley below. The Tree of Eyes was down there somewhere. He opened Dr. Mazlow’s journal and studied the drawing of the Tree of Eyes. Probably no more than a dozen rabbits had ever heard of this tree, and fewer had seen it. He wondered what Dr. Mazlow meant by ‘universally disliked’. He hadn’t used words like ‘despised’, ‘deadly’, ‘poisonous’, ‘ferocious’, ‘bloodthirsty’, or ‘evil’, but simply ‘disliked’. It was a curious choice of words to use in describing a tree. Returning the tattered journal to his pack, he set out for the valley below.

  He stopped twice to make camp, something he quite enjoyed now. He slept soundly, the chirping birds lulling him to sleep at night, and the warm sun waking him at dawn. He was beginning to feel like a real adventurer.

  Chapter 3

  The Tree of Eyes

  The afternoon of his third day in the valley found Bartholomew swatting at clouds of annoying insects as he pushed through the dense foliage, eventually emerging into a broad clearing. In the center of the clearing lay a small lake, and standing on the edge of the lake was a single tree. It was not exceptionally large, but it was covered with eyes.

  Bartholomew froze as if he’d discovered a poisonous viper under his pillow. He was also strangely mesmerized, unable to remove his gaze from the tree. A thousand eyes blinked, moving about in all directions. Bartholomew’s legs were trembling.

  After several minutes his anxiety began to subside. The Tree of Eyes had taken no notice of him. He remembered Dr. Mazlow’s description – the Tree of Eyes was simply ‘universally disliked’. That didn’t sound especially threatening – not like a deadly venomous spider or a ferocious rabid wolf. He cautiously stepped several feet closer to the tree. Could it talk? Was that even possible? How could a tree guide him to a missing Great Gem that he had never owned? He laughed nervously to himself. “Few rabbits have seen what I am seeing at this moment. We shall find out shortly who is the more fortunate.”

  He studied the tree carefully and decided to treat it as he would a stranger on the street. He would be cordial, polite, and sincere. He would be more than respectful, full of kindness and concern. He walked towards the Tree of Eyes, keeping his motions smooth and steady, his manner exuding the utmost confidence. Some of the eyes turned their gaze toward him. His mouth became strangely dry.

  “A very good day to you, Most Wondrous Tree of Eyes,” he said, “I am searching for The Great Gem and I seek your profound guidance in this crucial matter. Your services have come highly recommended to me by way of the Cavern of Silence, a very old and dear friend of mine.” Maybe that had been too much, especially the part about the Cavern of Silence being an old and dear friend. He watched closely as all the eyes turned in his direction.

  He heard a delicate and whispery voice. “I am sorry, my child, I am old and frail, and could not hear your words. It pains me to say there are times when I cannot hear even the sound of my own leaves rustling in the gentle spring breeze.”

  “Good Lord,” thought Bartholomew, “it talks!”

  He repeated the question in a loud and clear voice. “I am searching for The Great Gem and I seek your profound guidance in this crucial matter.”

  “Ahh. All is clear now, where once all was clouded. Great Jam. You are searching for Great Jam. You must gather some of the local raspberries and make your own Great Jam, my child. They are succulent and delicious, especially those which grow by the lake.”

  “GREAT GEM, I AM SEARCHING FOR THE GREAT GEM. I AM NOT SEARCHING FOR GREAT JAM.”

  There was a snickering noise and some of the eyes began to quiver.

  “Did you want some Great Toast to go along with that Great Jam?”

  The eyes began shaking violently with horrendously loud shrieking laughter. The branches lashed about wildly, tears flowing freely from the eyes. After several minutes the laughter died down, ending with a few small snickers and some annoying giggles.

  “Whew, that was a good one. Great Jam.” Some of the eyes began laughing again.

  Bartholomew stood speechless in front of the tree. He now clearly understood Dr. Mazlow’s choice of the words ‘universally disliked’. This would require a little more thought than he had anticipated. The eyes were no longer looking at him. They moved about in a random fashion, focusing on nothing and on everything.

  With his new understanding of the Tree of Eyes, Bartholomew decided to take a different tack altogether. He would disarm the tree with humor, something it obviously enjoyed. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of hearing its maniacal shrieking laughter again. He took a deep breath. “I am in control here, not this ridiculous tree. I will simply imagine I am walking into a pub and have spotted an old friend. An old friend who happens to be covered with leaves and has a thousand eyes. He shuddered again. “I can do it, I am an adventurer, and I completely understand my opponent.” He chuckled to himself, “This will be as easy as eating a slice of Great Toast covered with Great Jam.”

  He approached casually this time, with a pleasant, carefree attitude. “Ahh, lovely day, isn’t it? Ha, that reminds me of a rather amusing story I heard the other day. It seems two oak trees walked into a pub, one of them with a monkey sitting on–”

  “LEAVE NOW OR BE DESTROYED IN A HORRIFIC FLAMING INFERNO OF ETERNAL DOOM!!”

  The very ground Bartholomew stood on shook violently from the sheer volume of the monumentally loud blinding explosion of s
ound. He could hear nothing except a dreadful hollow ringing in his ears. He felt nauseous, terrified, and not sure he could remain standing much longer. He sank to his knees, crawling away from the Tree. Once he was a safe distance away, he collapsed and closed his eyes. He did not move until the ringing had stopped.

  Finally he could hear again. He lay motionless, listening to the voices from the Tree of Eyes.

  “Magnificent, truly magnificent. Unprecedented in Tree of Eyes history.”

  “You are to be congratulated on that astonishing display. You have a rare gift indeed.”

  “Do you really think so? It was just my standard Giant Dragon voice but with far greater volume, slightly lower pitch, and a more strident tone. I admit I have been practicing, but I never thought it was anything special.”

  Other eyes chimed in.

  “It was more than magnificent. It was powerful, thundering, and terrifying!”

  “I think it scared me more than it scared that rabbit!”

  There were wild bursts of raucous laughter.

  “It scared me so badly I almost jumped off the tree myself!”

  Loud snorting and guffawing.

  “Did you see that rabbit? Good heavens, I think he may have... you know... eeew.”

  Shrieks of laughter followed.

  Bartholomew had heard enough. He had never felt anger such as this. His eyes narrowed to two small slits. He rose up and brushed the leaves and grass off his fur. He would not be made a fool of again. This is a tree, nothing more. Well, besides all the eyes and the fact that it could talk. He stepped over to his pack, opened it and removed a large saw he used for firewood. His eyes were ice, his heart carved from solid stone. He was Bartholomew the Adventurer, and this battle of wits would end here and now. He walked slowly and deliberately towards the tree. “Oh my, I have run dreadfully low on firewood. Whatever shall I do?”

  The voices from the Tree of Eyes stopped. The only sound was the crunching of dry leaves under Bartholomew’s feet. “You will pay for your boorish and insolent behavior. You will tell me where to find the Great Gem or suffer the most dire of consequences.” Bartholomew raised the saw so all the eyes could clearly see it.

  “Is that my sweet little honey bunny? Is that my dearest little Bartholomew?”

  Bartholomew stopped. His paws went limp. The saw dropped to the ground.

  “Mom?”

  “Oh, my Barthy Bunny, how I’ve missed you. Whatever are you doing in this big scary woods all alone? Don’t you worry, mommy is here now to take care of you. Did you bring your warm coat and mittens?”

  Bartholomew was stunned beyond reason. His mother had died years ago. His thoughts were jumbled and confused. Was this really her, somehow speaking through the Tree of Eyes? How could it know her voice? It had to be her. Didn’t it?

  “I... I... I’m looking for something called the Great Gem. I’m supposed to find it. The Cavern of Silence said I should.”

  “Oh, my sweet little bunny, mommy will help you find your shiny new Great Gem. Mommy is a grown up and she knows just what little bunnies should do. They should look in the Swamp of Lost Things. That’s where all the lost things in the whole world go, and that’s where you’ll find your big sparkly special jewel. That old swamp is all wet and soggy though, so don’t forget to pack a big pair of bouncy galoshes to keep those two little wiggly feet of yours dry.”

  A long branch from the Tree of Eyes reached out, gently resting on Bartholomew’s shoulder, its leaves softly caressing his ears. Bartholomew was filled with a comfort and warmth he had not felt since he was a bunny. He wanted his mom to hold him. He was so tired. He wanted her to hold him in her arms and softly sing to him while he slept.

  “Oh, dearest little snuggle bunny, it’s not time for sleepy-land yet. We have a long way to walk tonight. The Cavern of Silence will be so happy when you find the special Great Gem that belongs only to you and nobody else. Come along, little bunny, mommy will show you the way to the Swamp of Lost Things.”

  Chapter 4

  The Swamp of Lost Things

  Bartholomew lay in the warm summer sand. He could hear the laughter of young bunnies as they frolicked about, serenaded by the low rhythmic roaring of the breaking surf. He was drifting, drifting, his paws gently massaging the warm... muck. Muck?

  His eyes opened. He found himself lying in the thick, oozing mud at the edge of the foul smelling Swamp of Lost Things. He tried to remember how he had gotten there, but had only a hazy memory of walking for hours through a dark, bleak forest, his mother’s voice guiding his every turn.

  What sort of creature could call up the voice of his departed mother? In his heart he knew he had not been speaking with his mother, that the Tree of Eyes had been tricking him somehow. He hoped he would never set eyes on this creature again. “Eyes...ughh.” He shuddered.

  Opening his pack, he removed a small pencil and Dr. Mazlow’s tattered journal. He read the caption beneath the sketch again. ‘The Tree of Eyes is universally disliked by the few rabbits who have met it.’ In small letters he added, ‘Especially Bartholomew the Adventurer’.

  The putrid smells of the swamp pulled him back to the moment. He rose and stood at its edge, without the slightest idea of where he should go. After some thought, he decided he would use logic to determine his next move, something he imagined a rugged adventurer might do.

  “The Cavern of Silence told me to seek guidance from the Tree of Eyes, which I did. In its own very disturbing way, the tree did give me the guidance I asked for. It said, “Little bunnies should look in the Swamp of Lost Things.” Did it send me here to avoid being converted into a stack of firewood? I don’t think so. It could have easily choked me into oblivion with its branches after it began using my mother’s voice. It didn’t hurt me, instead it filled me with a sense of comfort, warmth and safety. For better or worse, I will follow its advice and enter the Swamp of Lost Things.”

  Bartholomew stepped tentatively into the thick oozing muck of the swamp. He sank down to his ankle, then pulled his foot out with an unappealing glurp noise and took another step forward. He did it again. And again. He kept doing that for almost half a day.

  Everything about the swamp was dreadful; the heat, the humidity, the putrid bubbling gas belching up from beneath the water, the buzzing insects, and the horrid slippery things that often bumped up against his legs. He really did not want to know what they were.

  The only good thing about the swamp was the little islands dotting the landscape. Each was a miniature oasis with room for a campfire, and flat ground where he could sleep in comfort if he covered his face to keep the mosquitos away. A few of the islands had small fruit trees which he used to supplement his food supply.

  The islands were a blessing, but they didn’t tell him where to go. The Tree of Eyes had said, ‘Little bunnies should look in the Swamp of Lost Things’. But where exactly should little bunnies look? His only option was to move deeper into the swamp.

  On the morning of the fourth day he woke and saw a narrow plume of smoke rising from a far-off island. This could be good news or bad news, depending on who or what was sitting by the fire. It was a risk, but it would help immensely if he could talk to someone who was familiar with the area. He ate his breakfast, packed his gear, and headed towards the distant island.

  Several hours later he had a much clearer view of the island. It appeared to be covered with green grass, but he could now see there was no campfire. What he had taken for smoke was really steam rising up from the island’s perimeter. Perhaps it was a natural hot spring? He had read about them – water was heated to great temperatures deep beneath the ground, then rose to the surface, releasing clouds of steam. The closer he got to the island the hotter the water became. Finally it was almost unbearable, and with three great leaps he landed on the island.

  He had been mistaken on two counts. There was no fire and there was no green grass. The island was covered with hundreds of thousands of spherical green stones, each about the size
of a small marble. He picked one up and examined it. It was quite beautiful. It was not a uniform color, but composed of many different shades of green plus some lovely blue and pink highlights. It had an oily, iridescent look to it, and as he rolled it around in his paw the colors swirled and changed their hue. He had never seen anything like it before. He picked up a dozen or so of the green stones and put them in his pack. It could be a rare gemstone, perhaps something of value. He would have them examined by an expert when he returned home. He noted in Dr. Mazlow’s journal the precise location of the island, naming it Greenstone Island.

  As he made his way deeper into the swamp, Bartholomew found his pace gradually slowing. His determination and strength were fading more rapidly than he would have expected, and he didn’t know why. His food supply was running low, and slogging through the putrid quagmire was exhausting, but there was some other force at work here. He pushed on through the swamp for what seemed like an eternity. Even time seemed to be slowing down, and the days grew to be endless.

  The scorching heat of the sun mercilessly beat down on him as he trudged onward. His eyes burned from the blazing sun’s glare and brought on another of his ferocious pounding headaches. He could see nothing but the vile stagnant swamp in every direction. The incessant buzzing flies and mosquitos grew bolder as his strength diminished. It felt as though his very life force was being drained out of him by the swamp.

  “Why did I even come here? What is the purpose of all this? Some cruel cosmic invention so the universe can witness my suffering? The Cavern of Silence, Tree of Eyes – are they even real, or are they some perverse distortion of something I once read? Am I only lying in a sick bed having a fevered hallucination?”

  He gathered his strength, trying to focus his jumbled thoughts. If he turned around now he would not survive the journey back to the edge of the swamp. And if he went forward? He had no idea, no idea at all. His mind slipped. He felt hollow inside, as though his body was a brittle paper shell. There was nothing left of him. He was losing himself to the swamp. Bartholomew the Adventurer fell to his knees and began to weep. Tears rolled down his long furry nose and splashed into the dark swamp water. Deep sobs poured out of him. “I am lost forever. I am lost in the Swamp of Lost Things.”