The Questory of Root Karbunkulus - Quill

by Kamilla Reid

  “Is that so?” the tall boy threatened Dwyn.

  “Yeah, baby” Dwyn smiled and leaned in.

  Root braced herself. The air positively crackled. This was it. All it would take was one swing of a fist and the floodgates would burst.

  ….5…4…3…2…

  “I would think these things would be handled with the innocence preserved for all until proven otherwise.”

  A wave of heads snapped to Jorab’s attention, like hyenas revived of the true King of the Jungle. Root breathed. ’Bout time.

  In perfect timing, Mordge arrived with, of all things, bubble wrap. She stopped to assess the room, spied Hilly and went to her bedside.

  Though everyone was dying to know what she was going to do with that bubble wrap, there would be no such public demonstration that night. And, unfortunately it would be the one thing that Hilly Punyun would not gossip about in the morning.

  Instead Hilly Punyun met her day refreshed and with a wider grin than anyone thought possible. For she knew something. She knew what happened to the silent boy with the scar on his forehead.

  11

  KANGAROO COURT

  Even Jorab and Mordge hadn’t been able to staunch the bloodied outcry. Leading the way was Hyvis Punyun, her anger scrawled across poster boards and spewing out of loud speakers:

  Picklepug Picklepug take a hint

  DréAmm doesn’t want a tint!

  No one believed Krism, of course. Especially in light of his previous interaction with Hilly. Even Root had asked him perhaps a few too many times to repeat exactly what had happened, how he’d gotten into Hilly’s Room, why he hadn’t helped. It was the same answers each time: Krism had sensed the danger and gone to investigate. He did not know it was Hilly Punyun’s room. He was too scared to touch the Dead Treaders and was going to get help but Hilly screamed first and then people came right away. When asked how he had sensed the danger, Krism said it was the same way he felt when the Murk Lord was present.

  To this Hyvis had screeched, “See! Once a Tint, always a Tint! He felt the call of evil and was going to act on it!”

  Nothing would change her mind. Nor the minds of most. Any other possible explanation was balked at before it could even begin. The boy was guilty for just breathing.

  And to make matters worse, the Quest Sendoff had been postponed for deliberations. Anyone who had been neutral was now angry and blaming Krism for that, too.

  It had been a long debate, held in Council Chambers. And though Root felt that Jorab believed Krism, she also guessed by the look on his face that things were not going well.

  It was Hyvis’ smug glee that cemented Root’s premonition. She had barged out of the hearing, flushed with hatred and vindication, pasting it on for the media. Flanking her as she rang out Krism’s guilty verdict was the Guardian, looking every bit the ringmaster; and Grotius Vulcherk of whom it was well known had no affection for Tints.

  “Master Vulcherk, you must be pleased by the outcome,” came a reporter’s voice in the front.

  “Less Tints, lower prices…always a good thing, sir.”

  Root cringed over the stupid, suck up laughs.

  She watched Picklepug sidle up with his own artful banter, a star in his element. He primped like a pro, tossing about the sordid details. Meat to dogs. Root had tried to make her way through the media but was flopped about in a net of legs and elbows. She could barely see the three of them, but she knew they were burning up hot air as fast and furious as the spit off their lips. She pushed on and managed to scope them from a small opening of bodies. There was no doubt about it, Picklepug was proud, strutting in the decision to “Lock the Tint up away from the innocent!”

  He never had any intention of acting on those many meetings with Root. It was a big game to him all along. Root swallowed hard in the revelation. Heat rose in her cheeks. She wanted, more than anything to dig her nails into his stupid, ugly face and squeeze.

  “So, what is to happen now?” a tall woman called out.

  “Well…” Picklepug said with such flare that an orchestral sweep, a neon backdrop, a kick line of feathered girls and a spotlight would have been expected.

  But something stopped him. Root’s eyes had met his, landing with a shock so desperate and hurt he went winded. He spluttered and coughed and tried to smile at the media. It was Hyvis who stepped in.

  “If I had my druthers we’d be rid of that infection this very minute but as it stands the Tint will be escorted off the premises by two days’ mid.”

  Root’s breath flew from her. The media lurched, foaming at the mouth. Picklepug looked away and found himself once more in the comfortable din of the affair. It was only when the hysteria turned its attention suddenly to an opening door that Root was able to see the full extent of the damage.

  Krism.

  So broken. So angry. Root’s eyes hurt to look at him.

  He was hunched over, frail as a last breath. In wrist cuffs. Wrist cuffs!

  Mordge and Jorab were on each side of him, lending strength. Imaginates broke loose, bouncing a strobe of lights all over every inch of his existence.

  He did not flinch. He did not look up. All these months of watching him grow and picking up little bits of himself, all the simple things like standing up tall and looking into eyes and speaking and eventually smiling. Gone. Sucked away in the flashing bulbs.

  Root felt sick.

  She ran toward Krism but was forced back by two men. Guards. “You are not allowed to approach the prisoner.”

  Prisoner? The word struck Root so hard she thought she would fall.

  “I will not accept that term, sir. Nor will a second tribunal, I warrant.” Jorab countered. The guard shifted and stepped back. Jorab turned and faced the media. “There will be no comments whatsoever regarding the child. He has been traumatized enough!” His voice tore into the ears around him and even Hyvis Punyun put a cork in her big trap. It was a brief corking, however, shortly followed by a humph and a signal for the media to follow her out into the great hall.

  As there would be nothing from the defense’s camp, the wolves fell in behind her and Picklepug, who was already posing for pictures.

  Root was looking around Krism’s room, now stripped of everything. The beginnings of his nest, Spring clippings, tokens of recent months, bits ‘n pieces of the boy he was leaning into, had been stuffed into a canvas bag and the weary boy that was Root’s friend was now sitting silently on the end of his bed. Wilma, his camouflaging chameleon who had grown quite a bit over the weeks could not fit in the bag anymore but rather carried it on her back.

  The only consolation, though meagre in its tender, was that Jorab had arranged a youth-house in which Krism could stay. It was apparently not too far from the hotel but still, Root felt that her friend was being tossed out to sea. She looked at Krism who had never once strayed from his story. By tomorrow afternoon he would be gone. Root put on a face of hope, despite the lump taking over her throat. “So, Lian got his dad to allow you out for a little while tonight for a going-away party because…because well, no matter what happens, Krism you are …important. And not just to me either.”

  The word ‘important’ cracked in Root’s voice and in that fault line between grief and hope, Krism heard all he needed to hear. He allowed Root to lay her hand over his and wrap her warm fingers like a mitten. But as to the strange and sweet feeling making its way into his heart…that he would not allow. Never again. He’d rather die than feel anything but bitterness again. His breath was pinched tight.

  Tonight he was nothing but a cold, angry Tint.

  When he watched his friend finally slip through the door with a strained smile, promising to return for him later, the rage spilled. Only the chameleon at his side would know.

  Despite crucial preparations for A-2’s immediate send off, the plans for Krism’s going-away party were underway. Lian had managed an appeal using his father’s name that allowed for Krism’s short, albeit monitored probation. Yes, his father wou
ld surely kill him if he found out. But how can you say no to Root when she looks at you like that?

  Dwyn held court onsite, ushering in several guests including Tamik, whose arrival, despite impossible parade deadlines impressed everyone. She had come loaded to the hilt -Party Central- with streamers and balloons and sparklers and blowers and hats, all leftover from floats and costumes. Milden came with a glass of milk. Um…okay.

  The party was to be in Root’s room. Nice and private, with no disapproving glares and comments. Not to mention clobbering.

  While Root went to get Krism, Milden helped Dwyn and Lian finish hanging streamers. Tamik had also brought a homemade cake and was setting it on display. It was hideous. But she insisted the outside in no way resembled the tasty goodness of the inside. And besides, considering the time constraint, they should be lucky to have a cake at all.

  When he thought she wasn’t looking Lian, who had been pretty good at Baking in the Scholary propped the cake up with a Rising spell. But Tamik had noticed. He realized this when he turned and saw her staring right at him. With a big, huge mushy smile. Why was she smiling at him like that? What, did she think he was doing her a favour…that he wanted to impress her or something? As if. He only did it ‘cause the cake looked like it might crumble to pieces any second. It wasn’t to try and please her if that’s what she was getting at.

  Lian felt his ears going red again. He looked away. His heart was totally out of control in its stupid fluttering again. Man that chick irritated him.

  Everyone was on standby with “The Jolly Good Fellow” locked in short-term memory when Root’s doorhand announced her arrival. Upon Dwyn’s cue, they launched into the rowdy, off-pitch yet heartfelt melody.

  But the look on Root’s face was not jolly. It was stricken. The song drained in her friends’ throats. All except Milden who had really gotten into it and had to be ribbed quiet.

  “He’s gone.” Root said so faintly they could hardly hear her. “They took him away early. ‘Before he could ‘cause anymore problems.’”

  12

  TO MAKE MATTERS WORSE

  On the day of the race, there was much distraction and for the time being Root’s thoughts of Krism clung only peripherally. There was nothing she could do anyway. The good news…well sort of good news…was that Krism had apparently escaped his guards. Using Wilma most likely. Root was happy about that but now there was the worry of where he’d ended up.

  Jorab had not been informed of Krism’s altered deportation date until it was too late and, for now all he could do was file a complaint. However, Root knew from the flare in his eyes that this scandal was filed in more than just the paisley office of Slim Pulpit. It had been filed in Jorab’s conscience and some time, somewhere Studaben Picklepug would pay for such wrongdoing.

  Tamik had taken up a conch shell similar to the slobbering unit Loathsbin had used when he tried to auction Root into slavery those many months ago. But, unlike Loathsbin’s this conch shell did not drool. But it did make her loud. Man, was she loud. Her bellows were heard across many floors in the hotel and well beyond the front courtyard where people now gathered in cheery bouquets for the Second Magisterial Treasure Quest of DréAmm Sendoff.

  Way more people than the first one, Root thought. Possibly twice as many. She spied some familiar faces, those that had participated in the first Quest, plus many more that she did not recognize. It seemed word of the Quests was spreading.

  The thought gave Root stomach flips. All these people, hundreds of them were here to see her and only seventeen other kids race for a real live HaloEm Quill. One of only five in all of DréAmm. For a brief moment Root entertained the regret of losing theirs but reminded herself of the folly in that.

  She scratched the furry neck of Stogie, a note of admiration in her eyes as she glanced over her teammates, proudly wearing the red Valador cloaks. Lian was closing up the travel pack. It was new, an upgrade of his that had had to endure the rigours of Quest Committee approval. Of course it was accepted and even orders were placed. How could one not? It was quite a miraculous thing, that new and improved travel pack. Water and fire proof, it even Skunked attackers with an odour that rivalled the worst of Dwyn’s well-known flatulence.

  The travel pack responded to voice command and heck, it even included a built in Talker, though with limited reception. This new and improved version was also much bigger and with a million kazillion more pockets, most of which could not even be seen as Lian had managed to place them in twin dimensions for a lighter weight.

  Twin dimensions? Root didn’t even ask, which kind of disappointed Lian.

  Until Tamik mentioned her curiosity.

  Then he beamed in his report.

  Until she made a suggestion.

  Then he scowled.

  Until he actually applied her suggestion and saw that, indeed it did work better.

  Then he was blown away.

  What was with this girl? She was….He stopped himself. No. No inter-relations, the guide clearly said. Right. Absolutely. Not that he’d want to anyhow. Cause he didn’t. As if.

  After seeing the new and improved travel pack, Tamik asked Lian to make one for her so she could organize her committee duties. He agreed only on the condition that it not be used for Kor’s Kings. The funny thing about Tamik was that this was a given. She had no love for her teammates, Kor and Flink and everyone knew it. It wasn’t that she betrayed them; she just simply couldn’t bring herself to cooperating with them was all. And this suited her just fine. Tamik didn’t harbour dreams of Quest champion, like most. She was here for the ride, which was pretty cool so far.

  She put the conch to her mouth. “Number 568! You’re too soon. Get back behind the trampoline!” She watched a man on a float back up and edge his way to the proper destination where sixteen dancing Figgoobbers popped like corn on a trampoline. “Alright people! In ten…nine…eight...” The last three numbers were done with the silent count of her fingers. “Go!”

  Root had found her teammates and, along with the rest of the crowd enjoyed “The most awesomest parade ever!” as they later told Tamik. They could hardly believe she had pulled something like that off. The floats were dazzling (though posters of Picklepug’s triple chins were way too big). The acrobats were amazing, in particular, at least to Dwyn the bikini clad Water Nymphs. The marching band was incredible in its pyramid formation. And on and on. It was truly a wonder, one that would linger for years in happy memory.

  As the last dancer took his bow, the audience erupted in a roar of cheers. And when Tamik came out, even this was outdone. She took a humble bow, gestured to the cast and crew and walked off the stage. Not to join her team but to stand beside her friend, Root Karbunkulus. It made Root feel, well very cool indeed.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen!”

  Amazing how fast one’s joy can deflate. Picklepug’s voice had always brought about a flinch but now it made Root’s blood boil. She turned her eyes to him, hoping he would feel her rage, that it would burn him to the ground somehow.

  “Thank you! Thank you! Wow! What a crowd! I can’t tell you how excited I am to be here, officially launching the Second Magisterial Treasure Quest of DréAmm…yes, thank you… where these six teams are off to find the powerful HaloEm Quills of which only five exist! Indeed! Thank you…wow, what supporters we have in the crowd today…well, this is bound to be another adventurous journey for each of our young teams…”

  As Picklepug launched once more into committee introductions, and sponsors and courage and perseverance and whatever else was on his bogus agenda, Root suddenly saw it. How could anyone miss it? It towered over the crowd like a floating, twinkling mini planet. And it was orbiting right for the Valadors.

  Ernest Skubblenob.

  In long, red shorts, socks with clips and a winter parka. His helmet tottered on his head in a junk heaped block and from his shrivelled lips was heard ‘warmer… warmer… getting warmer.”

  Could there possibly be anything more embarrassing
?

  Oh yes.

  Ernest Skubblenob, like everyone else, had a Hovermutt. But, unlike everyone else, or at least those participating in this race, Ernest Skubblenob’s Hovermutt was older than a corpse. It was a gaunt, ribbed attempt to live one last day. It wheezed and gasped and peed in the middle of the courtyard. As it brought the absent-minded inventor closer, Root saw that it had one tooth. Sort of. The rest were missing in action...centuries of action. And its eyes were, well, frankly they were not working. They seemed as surprised as the rest of their body every time they led head on into a wall or tree or, in other instances, the women’s washroom.

  When Ernest Skubblenob finally took his place beside the Valadors, it was to the laughter and mockery of onlookers and groaning horror of his charges. Root wanted to die immediately and even sooner if possible. Dwyn rolled his eyes and threw his arms up and shook his head, with no qualms whatsoever for Skubblenob’s feelings. Lian simply scowled with bright red ear nubs.

  Skubblenob’s Hovermutt drew up to Lian and licked him. It was a friendly enough gesture aside from the fact that every single person in proximity nearly passed out from the stinking, stinking, stinking, stinking stink of its breath. Lian ran screaming for a nearby fountain.

  Picklepug’s speech finally ended. But Root hadn’t even noticed. All that existed in her being was the ghastly idea that there would be no Jorab on this trip, that they were trapped with a deluded old man who would annoy them to the brink of murder. Skubblenob smiled and pet his beloved Hovermutt along its bony, patchwork back. “This,” he crinkled a smile, “is Chesterly!”