Lingeria

by Daniel Kozuh

  O where and O where does your high… point laddie dwell;

  O where and O where does your Highpoint laddie dwell;

  He dwells in merry Lingeria where the bluebells sweetly smell,

  And all in my heart I love my laddie well.

  O where, tell me where, is your Highpoint laddie gone;

  O where, tell me where, is your Highpoint laddie gone;

  He’s gone with streaming banners,

  Where noble deeds are done,

  And my sad heart will tremble til he comes safely home.

  O where and O where does your Highpoint laddie dwell;

  O where and O where does your Highpoint laddie dwell;

  He dwells in merry Lingeria where the bluebells sweetly smell,

  And all in my heart I love my laddie well.

  Norman sang with a quiet melancholy, just how his grandfather would as he slid into restless sleep. He gave a last, sad strum and looked out to his audience. He was met with a confused silence. Finally, a congested sniff broke the quiet as the largest man in the room wiped a tear from his eye. The man gave a sad smile and then slapped his calloused hands together and soon the whole bar was applauding the author. Norman smiles back at them; they didn’t have to know he stole the song, and it was probably in the public domain anyway.

  Norman was now remembering the Scottish Songbook vinyl his grandfather would play ad nauseum; drunkenly screaming at Norman to flip the record as soon as a side ended, over and over again.

  The Whittle beer was hitting Norman; his inhibitions lowering and ego rising. He put his hands up to silence the harried crowd. A wave of quiet ebbed through the room. Norman put his head down and strummed frantically:

  A long time ago, way back in history,

  When all there was to drink was nothin’ but cups of tea.

  Along came a man by the name of Charlie Mops,

  And he invented a wonderful drink and he made it out of hops.

  Norman climbed from the floor, to a bench, to the table. He walked the oak aisle, baptized in spilt beer, everyone crowding around for front row real estate.

  He must have been an admiral a sultan or a king,

  And to his praises we shall always sing.

  Look what he has done for us he's filled us up with cheer!

  Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who invented,

  Beer, beer, beer, tiddly beer, beer, beer.

  The room exploded at the mention of their favorite beverage. The Author made the room swell so much people swore they could see cracks form in the brick wall. Norman stood up and walked around the room, singing directly to individual, anonymous, Whittles. The chorus came back around again …

  Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who invented …

  “Come on, sing it if you know it,” Norman heralded!

  “Beer, beer, beer,” the room proclaimed!

  “Just the men!”

  “Tiddly beer, beer, beer,” rumbled the floorboards!

  “Ladies, let me hear ya’!”

  “Beer, beer, beer,” rattled the glasses!

  “Everybody!”

  “Tiddly beer, beer, beer!”

  The room repeated that battle cry until Norman’s face turned red as a Whittle-grown tomato, and a thick vein stuck out in his neck. The Whittles found ways to squeeze their folk dancing into the beat, locking arms, flipping skirts, and slapping soles.

  Norman went right into a Lingerian parody of America The Beautiful that included clumsy shoutouts like, “Piras Mountain majesties,” and, “Triston on the plains,” in a painfully bad Ray Charles impression. But, when he sang the words, “Lingeria, Lingeria, God shed his grace on thee,” the room exploded hear their literal God shed his grace on them.

  Roe even picked up a random pint glass and toasted with Knunn, a neighbor he religiously abhorred. Just the mere repetition of their land’s name stirred up patriotic sentiment among every Highpoint-ian within earshot. And Norman was only getting warmed up.

  He lost them a bit during You Can Call Me Al, which was understandable, but brought them back again with militarist rendition of Seven Nation Army. He quit halfway through The Kinks’ This Time Tomorrow after realizing he didn’t know most of the words, cranked it up a notch with The Immigrant Song, and then set the mood with We’ve Only Just Begun. He encored with another round of Bluebells of Lingeria, by request and, with that, the party was just about over.

  Whittles slept where they sat, or reclined on the floor, if there was room. Norman was drunk, but it was a different kind of inebriation – one that he hadn’t felt in a long time. This wasn’t an intoxication to numb his pain or dull his feelings but, rather, to open himself up; to let love, life, and community into his soul. He sat back in his chair with a wobbly smile scribbled across his face.

  Roe, who had stuck to drinking , was ready to go home. He slung his god and creator awkwardly over his sturdy shoulders.

  Out on the silent street, Norman leaned close to his new friend. “I’m going to be a good god.” He slurred hot, beer-reeking breath right into Roe’s face. “Not one-a those mean gods. I juss gonna let people do wha’ they wanna do and not interrupt. Jus’ be nice to one another, tha’s all I ask. Is that too much to ask? I don’t think that’s too much to ask. I don’t wan’ people worship-pip-pin’ on me and all that. A thank you, every once in a while, won’t be so bad, though.”

  Roe continued on towards home, humming a new tune he had just learned.

  “…And my sad heart will tremble til he comes safely home.”

  FIVE

  Gargan walked until his feet bled. He walked beyond Gathude, through The Forest of Kath. He crossed Frann road, through the Valley of Salidor, until he found the sea and the opening of the littoral cave on the coast line. The cave was never named, because the creatures that dwelled within had no language. While he may have just traveled hundreds of miles, the journey had just begun.

  - Tales of Lingeria: The Basilisk Unfurls, Chapter 1

  Norman awoke before the sun – which was his custom – his legs anxious to stretch. Miraculously, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t hungover. He did, however, feel the unease of parallel-dimension jet lag. Lingeria seemed to be about six hours and a ten-thousand years off from Eastern Standard Time.

  Roe’s floor was Norman’s bed, as no furniture in the house could accommodate his six-foot frame. At some point in the night, Janey left the couch and spooned her master. He lifted the arm that was draped over her and her head flopped back, as if to say, “I wasn’t done with that.” Presumably, Roe had covered both dog and drunk in a thick quilt before excusing himself to bed.

  Norman stretched, placing his palms on Roe’s ceiling. He shuffled into the kitchen and ladled several palmfuls of fresh lake water into his mouth, and a few more to bathe his face and neck.

  He tip-toed quietly around the house, as there were no walls to mask a noise. Roe was fast asleep, with his head cradled by his two new fluffy pillows, a blissful smile across his face.

  In the kitchen, Norman bent to look through the stove and still saw his cold, cavernous home across the way. He was about to crawl through, when he realized that there was nothing on the other side that he actually needed or wanted.

  His legs buzzed with disquiet, wishing to be worked and pushed, as was their custom every morning. Norman bent low, feeling his hamstrings stretch with an indignant relief. He followed that by gripping his foot behind him and felt his quads pull and release their tension. Finally, he performed a few silent lunges across Roe’s living room but could really only do two in either direction before hitting a wall. He wound up in the kitchen, in front of the window. He saw the sun, just grazing the peak of Mt. Piras. This was a perfect morning for a run.

  ****

  Outside Roe’s house, Norman was able to stretch with more freedom. He used a squat, split-rail fence for balance, until he felt ready to attack the sloping foothills of Highpoint.

  He kicked off, heading south, hoping to find a g
entle path around the lake. He followed the beaten road that swerved through Roe’s community. Every house stood roughly an acre away from its neighbor. They were small, chalet style homes with gently pitched roofs and smoking chimneys protruding from the center of the structure, each lot marked by a short stone wall.

  Most of the Whittles in this area were farmers; tending to their simple acre of land, growing just enough to feed their family with enough left over to trade in town for other provisions. A few were already out that morning, digging, tending, and pruning. Norman could see the ravages of The Black Cloud had still not healed – crops looked sick, withered, and fruitless and barns were devoid of any livestock.

  A couple of Whittles watched Norman’s approach, with curiosity. Word of his arrival had already spread through the town and further, but it was his current presence they questioned.

  “What is he doing?” asked Farmer Whet to his wife, who was kneeling in an irrigation ditch with a trowel.

  She looked up and watched, as Norman jogged past them, giving them a nod and a winded “Morning.”

  “Running, it seems,” she said, after Norman was out of earshot.

  Farmer Whet peered down the road from where Norman came. “From what?”

  “Is there danger coming? Should we run, too?” asked Mrs. Whet.

  “I suppose we should,” replied her husband. The couple dropped their implements of agriculture and casually trotted away.

  Norman filled his lungs with bucolic mountain air. With each step, he felt more renewed and alive. The steady rhythm of his feet on the dirty road sent him into a meditative trance, his mind empty of depression about the past and anxiety about the future. According to his smart-watch, it was around mile five that he realized that he had a three-day hike ahead of him, not to mention the five-mile return to Roe’s house.

  He entered Roe’s garden a half hour later; sweaty, sore, and dreading the rest of the day to come. He placed his hands on his knees and sucked in as much oxygen as his lungs could manage, aching for a shower. After regaining his composure, he opened the front door to find a desperate Jane slipping past him to do her morning business.

  As he watched Janey investigate her new environment, the pristine, motionless water of Lake Blell called to him and it wasn’t long before he was in his underwear, walking cautiously over the rocks of the lake bed.

  Norman let the ice-cold runoff envelop him, as he gingerly tilted his body into the water. He waded in until the water was up to his neck, and then he paddled about gently, fanning his arms out in front of him, letting the lake wash his workout away.

  Calamity, ever the brave hound, refused to enter the water, but she merrily lapped it up from the rocky beach. She barked at Norman and chased him up and down the shoreline as he swam.

  A dagger of alarm pierced Norman when he felt a fish swim past his leg. He frantically tried to remember if he had written any monsters into this lake. Lingeria waterways did have their share of mythical creatures: Mermaids, Capricorns, Prolucks (giant water snakes), Megalodons, murderous hippos that Norman called “Garguns”, and a Cthulhu-type creature that lived in the Bh’ani Cove (Norman had hinted about its existence but never got around to actually incorporating it into the books). While he couldn’t remember actually populating Lake Blell with anything dangerous, the uncertainty was cause enough for him to get out of the water and let the morning sun air dry him. It was while he had his eyes closed and face pointed to the sky that he smelled breakfast.

  ****

  Roe was busy in the kitchen when Norman entered. He was in the middle of transferring thick ham steaks and scrambled eggs on to roughly-hewn plates. “This is the last decent meal we will have for a few days,” Roe explained. “Make sure to eat your fill.” Roe even warmed a slice of ham for Janey, who swiped it from his hand and swallowed it whole.

  After they had eaten, Roe jumped excitedly into the day’s itinerary. “So, there is no main thoroughfare to Frann Road from here. We can take the Falcon Trail, which is easier, but will send us further east than we would like. The other option is to take the Centaur Track, which is along a ridge in the foothills of the mountains, but there are Centaurs – as the name suggests – who can get brutish if you catch them on the wrong day.” It took a bit, but Roe noticed that Norman wasn’t giving him any opinions.

  “Look,” Norman sighed, “I really think I should go at this one alone. I really am grateful for your hospitality, but it all sounds far too dangerous.” All Norman could see when he looked at Roe’s face was how he had heartlessly killed the poor guy with his words. He wasn’t about to do it again for real. The look Roe gave him now, however, was as pained as if he actually were being stabbed.

  Roe’s mouth yanked into a frown, “But … No, you came in through my oven. It’s destined that we are to travel together.”

  “Aren’t you sick of accompanying people on their adventures?” Norman tried. “Don’t you want to go out and have your own adventures?”

  “I rather felt like this was my adventure.”

  Oh, Goddammit. Norman rolled his eyes and relented. “Hey, I was just making sure you really wanted to go, that’s all! Didn’t want you to feel forced into this.”

  Roe immediately perked up and hopped off his stool. “Jesus Christ, I’ll go get my bag!”

  Norman was left alone in the kitchen, a sinking feeling in his gut.

  ****

  Norman and Roe stood atop the tallest hill in Highpoint, which wasn’t particularly high at all. Behind them: the safety of town and tavern; before them: uncertainty. Roe held the straps of his backpack. It was stuffed full of food, clothing, a sleeping mat … and, of course, one of his new pillows. Norman had the strap of his Pig’s Eye ComiCon bag slung across his chest and Janey’s leash looped around his right hand, Janey was loyal but, if she caught the right scent, she’d abandon him as if he was chopped liver. As if he were something worse than that, actually, because Janey loved chopped liver.

  Norman looked at Roe. “So, Scarecrow …” He turned to Janey. “Toto. Are we off to see the wizard?” The reference went over the heads of both creatures. Norman laughed to himself and took a step forward.

  “Wait!” Roe shouted. “I almost forgot.”

  Roe bent down and scooped up a palmful of dirt.

  “Always take a pocket of soil from your setting-off place, to ensure your safe return.” Roe stuffed the gravel into his pocket and looked at Norman. “Well?”

  Norman said, “I am not putting dirt in my pocket.”

  “It is bad luck not to,” Roe pleaded.

  “Superstitions only have power if you believe in them,” Norman said, firmly.

  Roe crossed his arms.

  “Ugh,” Norman groaned, “Fine.” He leaned over and took a pinch of dirt between his fingers and put it in his pants. “Can we go now?”

  Roe smiled and walked.

  ****

  Norman felt the aching echo of his morning run on the slope of the first hill. Even though his gait was almost twice that of Roe’s, he had a hard time keeping up. He huffed and wheezed his way along the countryside, as the bevels grew higher and steeper.

  They finally crossed the trail that would lead them to the main road of Lingeria – a mildly trampled path that cut its way through the high grass. While Roe continued, Norman had to take a moment to appreciate the scenery. Invisible ribbons of wind cut their way through the prairie grass, bending it slightly until it caught the sun and turned momentarily white. A single giant wild oak tree sprouted up in the center of it all, thick and strong, splaying its branches so that the leaves could talk in the wind. Decades ago, an anomalous seed had found it way, miles from any forest, to the middle of this field. It was the kind of tree that begged to be climbed up, read under, and napped against. This was the first moment in all of that weirdness that Norman marveled at the fact that he had created this world; invented this beauty – it hurt his heart to know that a broken man contained such beautiful awesomeness within.

>   Roe had stopped when he realized that Norman was no longer with him. He waited as the author caught up. They didn’t talk much, on this first leg of the trip, both secretly knowing they didn’t really have a plan for if, and when, this wizard did not welcome a two-man coup with open arms.

  It was towards dusk, after the sun had bowed completely over the travelers, that Norman glanced at his smartwatch out of habit. The fitness tracker told him that he had walked thirty-thousand steps already that day. The screen gave him a digital thumbs up!

  Roe froze and put his hand on Norman’s thigh to stop him too. Norman saw a look of disconcertment on the little man’s face.

  “What? What is it?” Norman whispered.

  Roe looked to his companion. “Do you feel that?”

  “Feel what? No.”

  Roe knelt to the ground and placed his palm in the dirt.

  “Hoof beats.”

  They had, without ceremony, entered Centaur country, many miles back. Roe had only realized it by an abnormally large pile of scat spotted to the side of a trail. Norman had rather expected a “centaur crossing” sign, with the silhouette of a human-horse hybrid below it.

  “I didn’t expect them to spot us this early,” Roe said, unsure what move to make.

  “But you expected them to spot us? I thought you said we should be fine unless they are in a bad mood!”

  “They are always in a bad mood and don’t like trespassers,” Roe explained.

  “So now what do we do?” Norman pleaded, in panic.

  “We could run, but I can’t tell which direction they are coming from.”