The Overending

by Rick Johnson

  Noticing that the First Voice had dropped to the floor and was now crawling toward him, forehead to the floor, Fropperdaft stopped his work and turned toward him. “What do you yet have to say?” he demanded.

  “They have rended the entire fortress completely unuseable!” the First Voice cried. “It is not longer possible to enter or leave the fortress. It is now as good as a tomb.”

  Sparks flew in such a cloud that, for a moment, it was difficult for the First Voice to see his sovereign. “Who is saying this?” the High One repeated, his voice rising.

  Still on his knees, forehead to the floor, the First Voice begged, “Please, Your Peerless Berzerker, with myself prostrated before you, I swear I would not tell you these things except that it threatens…”

  “THREATENS?” Fropperdaft shouted, flying into a rage. “TILK DURAOW IS USELESS! THE GRANITE HULKS ARE SHUT DOWN! THE SUPPLY OF STONE FOR Maev Astuté CUT OFF! OF COURSE THAT THREATENS THE BUILDING PROJECT!”

  “Your Most Enormous Muchness,” the First Voice quavered, flattening his entire body to the floor, “I lower myself as low as I can, to show you I know my station before you. Despite my lowliness before you, I must tell you that more is threatened than the building project.”

  “What more is threatened?” Fropperdaft asked, gaining control of his rage. “What more could be threatened?”

  “There are whisperings about the Overending, Your Mighty Immensity,” the First Voice stammered.

  Fropperdaft made no response. He was silent for so long that the First Voice tilted his head slightly to see if the High One was still in the room. The Throne Room had never been so quiet when the High One was agitated. That he was supremely agitated was obvious. He was staring into the embers in the forge, his face so close to them that the First Voice could smell Fropperdaft’s fur singeing.

  When the First Voice was nearly wild with anxiety about what he should do, the High One spoke. “Who dares to speak of the Overending?” he asked in a calm voice.

  This was the terror-filled moment the First Voice had been dreading. Everything said previously was merely the preparation for this moment. “I heard of it from a prisoner being interrogated,” the First Voice replied, wishing he could melt away into the floor.

  “What prisoner?” Fropperdaft asked, knowing now that this was the message the First Voice had truly come to convey.

  His heart nearly bursting with panic, the shuddering, quaking First Voice was reduced to a pitiful madbeast blubbering at the feet of the High One. “The prisoner is your own brother, Most Eminent Swellhead.”

  “Colonel Snart?” the High One cried, astounded.

  “Yes, Your Exalted Height of Power,” the First Voice sputtered. “He was one of the slaves freed by the rebels at Tilk Duraow. In fact, he brought news of Tilk Duraow’s loss to the first Skull Buzzard outpost he could reach. That is now we learned of it.”

  “We got no word of this disaster from any other source?” Fropperdaft asked. “None of the Buzzards up there escaped?”

  “No, Sire, no one escaped—or could have escaped,” the First Voice said. “The fortress was completely sealed by the rebels. Only the slaves got out. As soon as he was able, Colonel Snart arrived here, asking for an audience with you. I was informed, and since you had condemned him to the Granite Hulks, I had him clapped in irons until you decided what to do with him.”

  “And what does this have to do with talk of the Overending?” Fropperdaft asked.

  “When I ordered him taken to the dungeon,” the First Voice replied, “he screamed and screamed that he must see you. ‘They say the Overending has begun! Fropperdaft must know! Tell him I acknowledge my errors and swear my loyalty to him!’”

  “So, Colonel Snart, who could never do any wrong, now admits his errors,” Fropperdaft mused. “There must be something very important in his mind, for him to do that. He did not admit errors before—why now?”

  “I think you should see him immediately,” the First Voice ventured quietly, completely exhausted from the burden of carrying the message.

  “Get up off the floor, and bring him to me then,” the High One declared. “I’m impatient to see what this wretch of a brother could possibly have to say of interest to me.”

  “Yes, Your Most Magnifcent Toploft, your wish will be instantly obeyed,” the First Voice cried, backing quickly toward the door.

  “When you bring him,” the High One said, “I want a Captain of the Guard, sword drawn, standing at his side. If I feel so much as a hint that he is using me ill, or wasting my time, I will order him struck down on the spot. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, your Mighty Pomp and Swagger,” the First Voice answered.

  “In that case, you may take off his chains,” Fropperdaft said. “I won’t have him think that he frightens me. Let him stand before me as a common subject of the High One and speak his piece. I will be working at my forge. Let’s see if he can draw my attention away from my iron. I doubt it.”

  The First Voice hastily found the Captain of the Guard and went with him to the dungeon. Finding Colonel Snart, he ordered him unbound and brought before the High One. When the prisoner heard these orders, a slight smile crossed his face. The smile faded, however, when he heard the First Voice say, “One false word from you, Colonel Snart, and the High One’s order is to cut you down instantly.”

  Saying nothing more, the First Voice led the way up a long, winding stair out of the dungeon. Crossing to another wing of Maev Astuté, where the Throne Room was located, and he traversed a magnificent corridor. Colonel Snart followed, attended by the guard.

  When the First Voice left the Throne Room, Fropperdaft hurried into his library, a large room just beyond the forge. Knowing precisely what he was looking for, he moved a ladder to one of the floor-to-ceiling shelves and climbed about halfway to the top. Carefully removing a dusty, ancient tome, he quickly opened it on his study desk.

  Referring to the index, he turned the yellowed pages, stopping when his eyes fixed on the section he was seeking. Reading quickly, he gained the information he wanted. Leaving the volume on the table, he returned to the Throne Room to await his visitor.

  When the First Voice announced that, “The prisoner is outside, awaiting your pleasure, your Highest One,” Fropperdaft was hammering at the forge.

  “Let him come,” the High One replied, continuing his work.

  The door was thrown open and Colonel Snart was brought in. Fropperdaft had intended to treat the visit with his brother with disdain and show him no brotherly concern. His incompetence in allowing one of the realm’s most valuable caravans to blunder into destruction and, even worse, having the Tilk Duraow runner at the head of the caravan escape, was beyond forgiveness. Whatever family connection there once had been, the High One had repudiated it, and was resolved to see his brother punished like any other incompetent subject.

  Fropperdaft, however, was not prepared for the sight of his brother. The once robust and lively Colonel Snart, was now a pale, emaciated shadow of his former self. Limping and feeble, his back now seemed permanently curved, his shoulders hunched. The hardened cruelty of the High One, for once, was pierced. This audience with his own brother was the first time he had actually seen a beast fresh from breaking rock at the Granite Hulks. Had he not been hammering and working the bellows, the gasp escaping from him would have been audible.

  “So this is what my bold brother has become,” Fropperdaft said. “I see that your incompetence has robbed you of your strength. I hope you have gained in understanding.”

  “Yes, Lord Reckoner,” the prisoner replied, kneeling and bowing his head. “I have paid dearly for my errors. But, I have learned that I was wrong, even when I thought I was right. I repent of my previous understanding. I now know that I will always be wrong, when you say that I am wrong.”

  “An increase in understanding, well worth your loss in weight,” Fropperdaft said. “Now, why did you come?”

  “As you have heard,” Colonel Snart
replied, “Tilk Duraow has fallen and the slaves released. As one of those slaves, I also went free. I stayed with the group of escaping slaves only until I could slip away and come here. What I heard from them was terribly upsetting. I had to come here and tell you.”

  Knowing well that was coming, Fropperdaft worked the bellows and hammered iron. “The Overending Bodement purports to be a prophecy of Maev Astuté’s destruction. This is what you have come to tell me, I believe,” he said.

  “Yes, that is what I have heard,” the prisoner replied. “The slaves were all hue and cry about it. They say that a ferocious red wind blew through the canyon—the first time that’s ever occurred. They claim that’s an omen that your rule is going to fall and Maev Astuté be destroyed.”

  “And you believe this?” Fropperdaft asked.

  “In no way, Your Mightiest Gasconade,” his brother replied, “I come in humble brokenness to warn you that this rumor is spreading like the wind. I heard it whispered all the way along as I came here. Even though it is not real, if every beast says it and hears it, you may hear it yourself soon, which I hope you can avoid. That is why I am here. I can tell you who is spreading this story. I can name names. There are many within your Council.”

  “In my Council!” Fropperdaft cried, looking at First Voice.

  “In your Council,” Colonel Snart repeated. “My sole comfort in being freed from my labors at the Granite Hulks on behalf of the Maev Astuté project is that I may help you in this.”

  “The authenticity of the Overending Bodement rests on very dubious evidence,” the High One said. “It was first mentioned some seven hundred years ago and carried forward for most of the time since then under the name ‘A Prescient Mule’s Testimony.’ According to legend, and I emphasize the word legend, the only way the ‘Prescient Testimony’ ever became known at all was that some unknown beast heard the Mule recount his vision. He wrote it down, and, then promptly died. Only one written account of the Mule’s vision was ever printed. The High One of those times stopped publication when he learned it was being printed. No one ever tried to print another copy. The only surviving copy of the Mule’s Testimony is in my library. So, whatever talking these beasts are doing, is pure talk and nothing more. Am I to believe that my rule, and the future of Maev Astuté, is threatened by a prophecy that no beast can show to exist anywhere except in the blathering of idiots?”

  “As with most things,” Colonel Snart replied, “our greatest mistakes begin in talk that feeds on talk and grows on talk, in the absence of facts. I only offer the suggestion that such talk is occurring and can still be stopped.”

  “Cover your eyes, you beasts of the Overending,” Fropperdaft said, reciting the Overending Bodement. “The red wind roars in the canyon and eats the stone that chains you. Before that wind comes again, Maev Astuté will fall. It is done. It is finished. There is no undoing the Overending. Woe to those who build Maev Astuté and who rule from there. That place will be utterly destroyed before the red wind in the canyon blows again.”

  Giving a mighty blast on the bellows, sparks scattered from the forge. “Now, my dear, Colonel Snart, what do we learn from this so-called prophecy?” Not waiting for an answer, Fropperdaft continued, “What we learn is, exactly, nothing. The most we learn is that if there is a red wind in some canyon, somewhere, Maev Astuté will fall sometime before some other red wind blows in some canyon, somewhere. Now I ask you, what kind of a prophecy is that, that I should worry myself?”

  “It is not the prophecy, true or false,” the prisoner replied. “It is the whispering and gossiping and hoping, by some beasts, that it might be true. That is your danger. In the countryside, one can easily hear that some of your Ministers, seeing your many recent defeats and troubles with rebels, are promoting the idea that the time of the Overending has come.”

  The High One pounded his iron and blew sparks for some time, considering what his brother had said. At last he stopped and turned to face Colonel Snart. “Get up off your knees,” he said. “I will never forgive you your idiot incompetence, but I believe you have paid for your errors, and I’m encouraged by your ability to correct your understanding. I will never acknowledge you as my brother, but I release you from your bonds. You have made a worthy effort to correct your mind and to offer me help.”

  “Thank you, my Sovereign,” Colonel Snart said. “I will do all I can to serve this greatest project of all.”

  “Yes,” Fropperdaft replied, “the noblest building project must continue. It cannot be slowed by untrustworthy Ministers and subjects. I do not believe the Overending Bodement, but I do care about unworthy Ministers. I thank you for the offer to name names. I will consider what to do and call you back to me tomorrow.”

  Motioning to the First Voice, Fropperdaft contined, “Provide Colonel Snart with proper lodging and see that he receives food from my kitchen. Give directions that I am not to be interrupted.” With a slight nod to his brother, Fropperdaft dismissed his visitors.

  Leaving the Throne Room, the First Voice said softly to Colonel Snart, “Very nice, Colonel, very nice. We have him where we want him, now.”

  Epilogue

  “There is but little more than can be told now,” Helga said tiredly, sitting around a large table littered with the remains of a tremendous feast. Home and Bad Bone, the only beasts remaining around the table who had not gone on to bed, smiled at their Wood Cow friend.

  Casting a glance across what had been pots of Not-Forgotten Soup, platters of Turtle Belly Cutlets, plates of Fried Rice Cakes, and bowls of Didn’t-Do Cream Frost, Helga patted her stomach. “I really need to sleep off all this food,” Helga laughed. “My heavens, Home, I don’t know how you did it, putting on a feast for more than two-thousand beasts, but it was memorable.”

  “One thing you learn, running an anti-slaving camp for so many years,” Home replied with a grin, “is you’ve got to have a good supply chain.”

  “It’s quite a story,” Bad Bone remarked. “I can’t tell you how much I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I first saw you, Christer, Klemés, and that long troop of refugees from Tilk Duraow paddling in across the Great Hot Lake. It was like a dream. I swear I thought I was seeing things!”

  “Aye,” Home added, “more than two-thousand beasts coming ashore in my humble little camp was far too much for my poor old brain to believe. Yet, when we hugged, and when I saw the happy tears of all those poor, desperate beasts you rescued, I knew it was real. It was magnificent.”

  “I’m still waiting to hear how you actually got the slaves out of the fortress and down to here,” Bad Bone said, “but, I see you’re exhausted and there’s plenty of time tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Home agreed, “and the other beasts will want to hear more as well.”

  “And the telling will take all of us,” Helga smiled. “I didn’t see it all, and some of what I did see, I don’t understand. And there’s things I want to know, that I’ll never find out without listening to Bem—now there’s a part of the story you’ll not want to miss!” She paused, a look of tired worry passing across her face. “And, I fear it will also take all of us to figure out what happened to TrimWagg and his Pogwaggers. I heard they never returned from…”

  “No one knows,” Bad Bone replied quietly. “The last anyone knows, TrimWagg sent word to your parents that he was going to Hadst for a meeting with some Miner Bears. He hoped to return soon, but there was no further word from him.”

  “That’s the way it is with stories,” Helga said. “The last word you get is the first word you get of what’s to come.”

  End of Volume II

  To Be Continued.

  From The Author

  As an author, I’m drawn to eccentric, unexpected characters: those who surprise because they hear a distant galaxy, see a different music, create their own fragrance rather than get hooked on a soundtrack; the child who has her own ideas about how the emperor is dressed; the lunatics and rebels who tell stories on the boundaries. I seek to write un
usual stories that take readers to worlds they never imagined—a whole new ride.

  One of the attractions of writing fantasy is that it forces us to experiment with “beyond the box” thinking. Imagination is often the only tool we have in breaking through the barriers or chains that limit our possibilities. Running on imagination, our minds and hearts are no longer bound by such “obvious” constraints as common sense, the speed of light, or prejudices of mind.

  A natural relative of fantasy is the sense of humor, and need to play, that are part of human nature. Like fantasy, humor is a matter of skewing how we look, and re-look, at things we normally take for granted. In my writing, I use fantasy and humorous absurdity to poke holes in the expectations cultures create to keep things in their place.

  Fantasy, including the idea that cows might think, talk, and are proper heroines—perhaps encourages us to wonder about other creatures, people, and dimensions of thought that “common sense” keeps us from hearing and seeing. Possibly, we may even discover that there are cows within ourselves waiting to speak and be heroic. Our capacity to hear things that are, in our “common sense” world, unheard and unheard of, is one of the degrees of freedom we can preserve for ourselves and offer to others. And, for children—kids of all ages—these degrees of freedom are precious and worth nurturing. That is why I write.