SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (SPARX Series I Book 2)
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However, over time I began to see that the fans actually gave him away ever so subtly, in small wavers or ripples, and seemed to vibrate or curl up slightly, at times, in response to stress or excitement, or upon making certain intellectual points.
I did not question the things that I did not understand as much as I should have – a poor performance on my part, given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity presented to me, to have any and all questions answered. This creature seemed to know nearly everything about everything. He spoke of the First Men on Fortune Bay – now Abandon Bay, the native Abindohns, the Elderkin, and the plight of Harrow. He spoke of the coming of new plants, animals, and peoples, and of Outlanders, the Treaty of Nature, and the decline of mechanization.
He said friends of his lived on the shores of the Dim Sea. When I asked if I could meet them, he said: “HUUM haa, you will in good time.”
Many hours passed before the conversation began to wane. I could only absorb so much information at once. It seemed I had told him everything I knew and heard all that I could take. Drowsily, I lay down between the rocks and just listened for a time as his voice rolled on. I rested my eyes and soaked my barely conscious soul in the leviathan’s poetry of knowledge.
There was a long silence at one point, that or I dozed off. When I opened my eyes again, the leviathan was still at my side, as close as he could be while in water deep enough to support his bulk.
He spoke to begin the end of our meeting. “HUUM haa. I will help you, but I must ask a small favor in return.”
I tensed. “What would you have me do?” I said.
“When one comes to you in my name, you must help him or her.”
“Just one?” I said.
“Any one,” he replied. “But only ever one at a time.”
The offer seemed agreeable, under the circumstances. Quite open ended, really. How much help I needed to provide was not specified, and time lines were only implicit. The White Whale may have known many things, but he was not so well versed in diplomacy, conditions, or the finer points of contractual arrangements. He really did need to speak with Paplov.
“Agreed,” I said.
“HUUM… now you are one of the smaller ones, aren’t you? HAA… Pip you called yourself? You seem to have a good memory. That will serve me – I mean you – very well indeed. HUUM… you must listen carefully to every detail. I will tell you the precise way to follow. HAA… follow my words and they will lead you to what you seek.”
My colossal friend detailed exactly where I should go and exactly what I should do when I arrived there. When he finished, I was pleased, and I believe he was pleased as well, somehow, and we parted on those terms. Well, almost. He swam out to sea.
The White Whale luminesced as he propelled himself through open water, glowing from deep within and along his spiny ridges. He was not alone. Just beyond the breaking water, five long, slender figures appeared from the depths on all sides. I blinked slowly in the face of what I beheld. They were female, and human-sized.
Bog queens? Really?
One of the figures that trailed behind the beast shot back a blank, lifeless stare. I recognized the look. Undoubtedly, she was one of their ilk – bog queen or something related. But where the hags were disheveled and crude, she was fresh looking and elegant, with long golden hair flowing through the water behind her. Her lean body undulated with the energetic grace of a porpoise.
With heavy eyes, I watched the sea creatures glide out of sight. Every so often, I observed the leviathan expelling a great cloud of vapor from his blowhole. With a content stomach and a mind full of wonder, I wrapped myself in my cloak and slept a deep and dreamful sleep.
When I awoke again, many hours had passed. How many exactly, I could not know. I should have asked the White Whale what day it was, assuming days were counted in such dark places. Strangely, the green stars had disappeared. The water was placid again; the air, still. The persistent drone of rushing water filled the emptiness.
I reached for my faithful SPARX stone and pulled it out of its sheath. The sea reposed under the broken glow of its gentle light. Was it all just a dream? The events of the day seemed too impossible to be true. I had polite conversation with a creature out of legend. It could not have been a dream though – I recalled the stories he told me and I recalled the plan. A Pip remembers many things perfectly, but recalls dreams as poorly as Men and Stouts and Outlanders alike. Dreams are not memories; they are a sorting out of the day’s happenings.
The plan of the leviathan included essentials such as where to find food, where to find Kabor (more like how to find him) and, of course, how to get out. That last part was vague though, as it relied on someone else finding me, in his name. But I trusted that it would all work out, somehow. I trusted the White Whale. I called him friend.
I gathered more catfish that I had somehow missed, and recovered my short spear that I had left near the outflow tunnel. I said my goodbyes to the Dim Sea, and set forth on the path laid out for me. And as I passed through the tunnel’s misty veil, I realized that I had not thought to ask for the leviathan’s actual name. I shrugged my shoulders and leapt from stone to stone alongside the rapids, all the way through to the other side.
I will know the name, when I hear it, I reassured myself.
Chapter IV
Interlude - The trapper’s cabin
On the edge of Deepweald, the storm builds and the rain pours down in sheets. Troops gather on the east line of Harrow. Already, the lightning strikes. I must hurry or lose my opportunity. My limbs are whipping through pages like you wouldn’t believe. Terrifying giants, I am told, are near ready to march. They are Men bred of the wild fiends that thrive and multiply in the Western Tor. I can hear their drums beating in the distance, loud enough to drown the very thunder rumbling in. Amot is certain they will lead a foray outside the city walls. Such beasts are not permitted within the city proper, and yet they are permitted to serve the Iron Tower with their lives. Outnumbered many times over, the Queen’s Guardsmen have only their unproven strikers to defend them in a confrontation. If the giants reach the forest and break the Elderkin lines, all could be lost.
Time is wasting. We must get back to the story before the storm front rolls in.
As you must have gathered, the White Whale was none other than the White Whale from the tale of the First King’s flight from Fortune Bay, while pursued by the brutal Jhinyari. And as you may recall, according to Kabor’s account of the legend, the White Whale made a deal with the desperate Men to save them, an arrangement that no one ever spoke of. Let me tell you, the leviathan is not as poor a dealmaker as I initially made him out to be. You shall see before the end. But before I divulge any more details, there are a few more items of interest that must be brought to light.
So, in order to provide you with a full appreciation of the intricacies of the powers at work, what was at stake, and what is at stake, I must now turn your attention to the events that transpired on the surface during the time that I wandered through the lightless limbo of Everdark. As before, they are reconstructed from pristine Pip memories of all that happened as it happened, and so are as complete as they possibly can be.
*
It rained the morning Bobbin showed up at the inn. The night before, Mr. Numbit had bragged to the crowd gathered there in vigil that Bobbin would find his way back. The bystanders, freeloaders and genuinely concerned alike, drowning their shared sorrows in spirits and ale, responded with little more than a few cautious words and a sympathetic hush. The very next morning, to the town’s surprise and delight, Mr. Numbit showed them all.
“I told you so,” he said with a grin to just about everyone that came by that day. “Free barkwood ale, on the house! Tonight we celebrate!”
Some celebrated, others still mourned; one confirmed dead, two remained lost.
Holly returned to the Flipside that morning as well, not to work her shift, but to gather news from the inn’s breakfast patrons. She had free reign to come a
nd go as she pleased, ever since showing up there a young girl with no place to stay and nothing but the clothes on her back, looking for work. “I need a job. Any job, anywhere that is not Proudfoot,” she had said. Mr. and Mrs. Numbit have soft hearts and so took her in, no questions asked. Holly overheard Mrs. Numbit pressing her husband to find out what was wrong. The woman wanted to help just a little too much. “Sometimes,” said Mr. Numbit in response, “it is better not to ever know the answers, or have to tell them.” Holly was grateful for that. Although eternally indebted to the Numbits, she lived under her own rules: never theirs… never anyone’s but her own.
Holly hung her dripping wet cloak on one of many pegs in the foyer. The typical morning crowd had gathered in the great room. She looked in and there he was, just like that, sitting at the table in front of the hearth, stuffing his face with cheese and bread. Holly ran over and embraced Bobbin immediately. She smoothed his thick, curly hair with her practiced fingers. She squished his rolls and gave them a scolding shake.
“You stupid fool. You could’ve been killed!”
Bobbin continued to chew on his bread as he hugged her, smiling bits of cheese.
“How did you get here?”
“I swam,” was the muffled response.
“For three days? Nobody swims for three days.” Holly crouched beside the young Pip, looking directly into his lively brown eyes.
“I got lost,
Holly turned her head away for a moment to avoid the worst of the bad air. She could smell the beer. She turned back to face him. “Do the searchers know? We looked for you. After you dove in you… you never came back up.”
“I didn’t need too… It took a while to shake that dirty old hag though. When I finally did, I tried coming back. It was dark… I got lost.”
“Three days?”
“Three days. One underwater.”
“You’re lying.”
“
“Who knows you’re here?” said Holly.
He took another sip from the tankard. “News travels fast. Any sign of Nud, or Kabor?”
“No. Jory was horribly…”
Bobbin looked down at the table and shook his head. “I know. I heard it all.” He faced Holly and swallowed the lump in his throat. “What do we do now?”
Holly felt the water building behind her eyes. The rain outside shifted from heavy to a steady patter. One hand on the table, she pushed herself up from her crouch, reached into her pocket and pulled out a pendant on a corroded chain. “Oh,” she said, surprised when she looked at it.
Bobbin wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Where did you get that?”
“I found it on the trail. I think one of the bog queens lost it.”
Bobbin’s eyes lit up when the stone on Holly’s pendant flickered just barely, almost hidden. He coughed when a piece of ham caught in his throat.
“Ahem,” he began. Even blearier-eyed than Holly and slapping his chest, Bobbin cleared his throat. “So there are more!”
“At least one,” replied Holly.
The light radiated green instead of red and was faint compared to Nud’s, but otherwise the two stones shared the same pattern of light bringing.
“That’s a lot different from the bit of quartz I was teasing the bog queen with,” said Bobbin.
“That hag was as dumb as a post,” said Holly.
A familiar voice interjected. “She’s efficient.” It was Fyorn, leaning against the entrance to the great room. A small puddle had formed at his boots. “She only knows what she needs to know. If a hag has too much on her mind, she starts to get confused.”
Holly lit up. “What are you doing here?” she said.
“I was just about to head for the trail when I heard about Bobbin,” said Fyorn. Even the woodsman’s eyes seemed to smile as he looked to the young Pip. “I came to see if it was true.” Fyorn strode over and messed up the Pip’s hair as though he were a toddler. “Bobbin, glad to see you’re safe.”
“Not as glad as I am,” said Bobbin, just before quickly stuffing in the last of the cheese. A sizable chunk of ham dangled on the end of the fork, held in his other hand.
Fyorn made a passing glance at the morsel, but seemed to have other concerns on his mind. “I just spoke with Nud’s papa,” he said. “He isn’t doing very well and he can’t leave home. I fear the boy’s disappearance is worsening his health out of pure worry.”
“Who’s taking care of Paplov?” said Bobbin.
“For one, he’s about as good a healer as you’ll find in these parts. And he has friends that can help. I asked a neighbor to keep a close eye on him too. I’ll drop by when I can.” Fyorn extended his palm to Holly: “May I?” He motioned to the necklace.
“I’ll bring some food over,” said Bobbin, eyeing the stone as well. Fyorn gave him a nod in appreciation.
Holly tilted her head and gazed at Bobbin. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said, and messed up his hair again.
“Why do people keep doing that?” he complained.
The Flipside girl handed the woodsman her find. Fyorn held the pendant by the chain and examined it closely. There was no denying its likeness to Nud’s bog stone, but a skilled jeweler had cut it and cast it in a metallic blue setting, worn and smoothed over time. The setting resembled a large coin, except with a hole in the middle to fit the stone and a wave motif impressed along its edge. Fyorn cupped Holly’s stone in his hand, and as he ran his thumb over the design, his nostrils flared, his lips pursed, and he shook his head. His broad hand tightened its grip on the stone’s setting to the point Holly feared he might crush it.
“What is it?” she said.
He did not respond.
Bobbin, whose eyes were on his plate, missed the display entirely. “We have to get back out there and find them,” he said, oblivious to the woodsman’s sudden rage.
“They’re not in the bog,” said Fyorn. “We looked everywhere twice.”
Bobbin shrugged in a show of mild disagreement, then promptly stuck out his belly and rubbed it.
“If they’re not in the bog, then where?” said Holly. “Do you think they’re still alive?”
Fyorn paused. “Of course,” he said.
Holly could see in his eyes that the answer he gave was not fully genuine. The woodsman dangled the newfound stone in front of her eyes.
“Do you see the warrior in the waves?” he said.
She took the pendant, examined the setting briefly and gave him a quick nod.
“The frothing wave is the sigil of Harrow,” he continued, “dating back to the days of old Akeda.” He paused. “Those hags answer to the Iron Tower.” Fyorn casually made his way to the picture window, took a deep breath and exhaled as he peered out onto the veranda. Heavy water drops fell from the leaky eaves in front of the window.
“We won’t find any more answers here,” he said.
Holly shifted her stance, bracing herself with one arm on a chair. “Are you going to search Harrow?” she said.
Fyorn returned to the table and sat down with Bobbin. He sunk back into his chair, legs sprawled and arms folded, tired eyes fixated on the tabletop. He appeared drawn and thin, having kept on with the grueling search at the expense of his own nourishment. The woodsman shifted his gaze to Bobbin – who was in the midst of a slurp – and then to Holly’s expecting eyes. When she sat down beside him, the woodsman patted the two Pips on the back and then rested his arms on their shoulders.
“No,” he replied, looking to one and then the other. He pulled the two towards him, almost in a huddle. Holly could smell the outdoors on him. The outdoors mixed with old leather, newly crushed grass and something wet. It wasn’t a bad smell; it was natural.
“No, you are, Holly,” he said. “You and Bobbin and Gariff.”
“Wha—” Bobbin looked up, his plate licked clean. He wiped his face with his forearm.
“I’ll start packing the food,” he said, excited. In the blink of an eye, Bobbin was up and en route to the kitchen.
“Wait,” said Holly. Bobbin ignored her raised hand and continued on his way.
“Let him go,” said Fyorn.
Holly looked to the woodsman. “Why us?”
“I can’t be seen anywhere near Dim Lake. Don’t ask – it’s a long story. No ranger can, not without starting a war. They’d sniff me out and call me spy, and with good reason. And Harrow is not kind to spies. You and your friends, however, are all quite innocently looking for lost friends and family. None of you are a cause for concern to Harrow.”
Fyorn stroked his chin and looked up. His hazel eyes met her gaze. He was unkempt. His hair was windswept, his skin well tanned for so early in the season, and he hadn’t shaved in days. “I won’t tell the search party, but I’ll keep tabs on them,” he said. “They might yet turn up something useful. I’ll contact the mayor to send diplomats, but we can’t hang our hats on Webfoot’s expediency or Harrow’s cooperation. We should leave by mid-morning the day after tomorrow – that should give Bobbin a chance to get plenty of rest and for me to make the necessary arrangements.”
“So we’re going to Harrow?” said Holly.
“We have to,” said Fyorn. “The food’s already on order. Besides, I know the perfect place to make camp. I’ll send word for help to meet us there.”
*
They were right to go to Harrow. But the reasons were all wrong.
Hurlorns are now forming a line in front of the Elderkin. They will be the first to clash against the giants. The forest is expanding towards the lake. I should be with them…