Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

by Enoch Enns

  The man had already taken his first step, and it was without the support Mr Fauldon had previously given him—his words reverberated in Mr Fauldon’s mind.

  “Go,” he said once more, a slight breeze catching his arms as they stretched outward. Truly a seasoned warrior in his past days. Truly a man once with great honor.

  Truly a man in search of redemption.

  “I will keep them here,” he said to Mr Fauldon. “Though I have lost sight, my will shall see it to a close. This is my end that yours might begin. Do not look back, my friend, for both our sakes.”

  Speechless, Mr Fauldon made for the next crossing. He wished so much to stand with the ravaged thief but knew better to respect the man’s request.

  The man’s dying wish and the once-ravaged thief’s redeeming end.

  For a man should not be known by his wrongs or what he has not done; rather, more honoring is it to look into a man and see that which he could be and to nurture him into becoming that. If he has strayed, to lead him back to his path; if he has stumbled, to grant him the staff that he might support himself; if he is hopeless, to share with him the encouragement to find hope.

  Hence, Mr Fauldon broke into a run as the flames overtook. He knew not what occurred, for he honored the thief’s request (knowing it would also make it far more difficult if the man were to know Mr Fauldon was watching his closing act). Thus, as the single tear escaped his eye, so did it reflect the red flare rushing up from behind him. Mr Fauldon was in full sprint (at least, considering he was on a bridge which limits one’s ability to sprint). Amidst the black puffs of smoke engulfing the island behind, a single embermud emerged in one great leap—its flame in pursuit from behind and itself from above. Mr Fauldon had nowhere else to go but forward, less he be scorched or crushed.

  “Mr Fauldon,” came the voice—his deliverance. As the blaze drew closer, Mr Fauldon gave all he could to reach sir Knowington’s outstretched and unwavering hand.

  The moment their grasps met, the two shattered into a million hexicubes and were warped to the ledge above—out of the embermud’s sight and the fireball’s grave. But of course sir Knowington retained his full composure whilst Mr Fauldon crashed into the ground, head spinning and vision ablur.

  SCENE VIII, Part I:

  Dizzy, tired, and in remorse, Mr Fauldon lifted his gaze to the guide, who just so happened to peer back down and over the ridge to where the heaps of smoke rose. Fighting the urge to express his bruised innards, Mr Fauldon came to his feet. The two stood before each other in an awkward silence (more so on Mr Fauldon’s side, seeing as sir Knowington knew no embarrassment, for little did he do wrong). “How is it you appear after a man has given his life for me? Could you not have spared him the sacrifice?” Mr Fauldon pleaded to the man in bright suit.

  Try as he may, Mr Fauldon simply could not muster up enough guilt with which to blame the man. After all, the once-ravaged thief had willingly chosen his path, though the weight of it seemed to rest upon Mr Fauldon’s shoulders.

  “I, too, crossed him on that path,” said sir Knowington, “and he refused my help. Instead, the man did as he saw fit to redeem himself. You can choose to lament it or give him the respect for it. Either way, I see it a strong end—one that no man should be tormented over. Though it would be in vain if we but stood here for the rest of time as the Lighthouse fades.”

  “The Lighthouse fades?” inquired Mr Fauldon, his task returning to the forefront of his mind.

  “Yes,” sir Knowington answered him, “the old stone withers, and soon the Overlap will become more relevant.”

  “What do you mean by this Overlap?” Mr Fauldon inquired further.

  “Let us be on our way first. Besides, you still have the gift of Inquiry given to you, have you not? It is best we keep moving.”

  He had forgotten that card again, though it was far more convenient to simply ask sir Knownington than to use it, or at least so he reasoned. With how many questions he had, you’d think it would never leave his hand. But he had noticed the past few uses had left him with the faintest of nausea.

  Pulling it out nonetheless he asked as to the meaning of the Overlap. The card trembled and delayed as though worn out from the heat of the abyss, which Mr Fauldon had now crossed twofold. Finally, to him it replied the words he had heard before: “The longer the stone without dwell shall be the more unstable all that is held is becoming.”

  The words upon its surface smudged against the breeze the came up from the Rys’ Springs. “Why is it smudged?” Mr Fauldon asked.

  At this point in time, sir Knowington had passed on ahead and stood next to the familiar Porhtree. Mr Fauldon had nearly forgotten about such a mechanism. He couldn’t decide whether he dreaded or looked forward to using it again, only that it still boggled his mind.

  “Most cards, Mr Fauldon, expire. With how many questions you have, I would add that I am surprised yours still hasn’t.”

  “Expire? What do you mean?”

  The man smiled, motioning the all-inquiring Mr Fauldon toward the Porhtree. “We really should be moving. The longer you keep that Violstone, the harder things will get for the people here. It is best for everyone that you fulfill your task.”

  “As Beelstow said also,” Mr Faulon thought to add, “and he too made clear the importance of my task.”

  “Good, then off you go. Only this time, be sure you kick to the left when the light turns pink. Do not forget to kick to the left.”

  He was through before he could think to stop and ask, with naught but the thought of kicking to the left in light of pink. Piercing that membrane once more, Mr Fauldon was overwhelmed yet again by the bizarre-atude of things indescribable. The feeling at first sweet then bitter, just like candy that is ever so rich but, after a while, makes one sick if consumed too quickly.

  The colors and hues swirled about, above, around, and through—touching and bending, crossing and joining, turning and twisting. From blue to orange to gray to green.

  To the flicker of pink.

  Pink!

  Mr Fauldon struggled to make sense of the state he was in. Neither able to move nor able to think clearly, he found he couldn’t control his feet. In fact, he couldn’t see his feet at all—nor any of himself for that matter. It was all abstract, and he was one with everything about him. If he were to reach to the left, the rainbows would sway that way; if he were to reach to the right, the same would occur.

  But how was one to move their feet if they did not have any?

  And so he quickly thought of imagining himself drawing his own foot. With great effort and speed did he see his foot unravel from its cloak.

  His right foot.

  But what of his left?!

  “Oh, come now!” he urged himself, never before imagining he could sketch a foot so quickly. Swiftly did it uncover—first the thigh, then knee and shin, and lastly a mechanical boot about his foot.

  “Now kick!” he shouted, a stout kick to his left at the last utterance of pink utterance.

  His course veered to the right, and a new wave of feeling swarmed his senses entirely. It was as though being trapped inside the stomach of a whale only to finally burst through.

  And burst through he did as Mr Fauldon’s vision came to his descent upon fertile soil. His face slid across the mossy terrain while mud filled the crevices. He spat and spit and brushed his mouth with a sleeve so as to remove the distasteful taste.

  He’d thought he had seen it all.

  He’d thought very little else could still surprise him.

  He’d thought wrong.

  Trees laden with the lushest of grasses caressed the scene (yes, for they were grass trees—their bark of red fescue grass, and where leaves ordinarily would be, there was instead sprouts of monkey grass). Mr Fauldon stood in what seemed to be the only meadow amidst the forest so vast. He could see the orange setting against the blue veins in the star-lit sky (though they were not stars, for everyone knows that they were actually glowing starfish that ha
d bloomed outside the watery-veins through which the turtle-whales swam).

  About the trees, both loosely and tightly, were vines entangling the whole forest together. There appeared a small, hunched mushroom goblin, looking to be at least two centuries old. Sir Knowington cleared his throat so as to approach the creature casually.

  “Ah, Aerold,” he said to the lady mushroom goblin, “what good news it is to see you here.”

  The Shrooblin (as they were called), groaned at the sight of them. Her speech was drawn out and cracked, her many bracelets always scathing the ground. “For all that is moss in these woods, why come now?”

  “You know why we are here,” sir Knowington answered her, his stance alert and unfaltering. “We need your guidance to the Foothills of Variley.”

  “Psch,” the Shrooblin choked back as though not obligated to do anything. “All he is to me is a coat of Korgath skin. You’re his guide, why not lead him yourself?”

  Mr Fauldon hadn’t seen sir Knowington look so sternly before as the man simply answered: “Lead us, Aerold.”

  The Shrooblin shuddered to the command but yielded to the reputable Calnorian’s request. Outstretching both her hands, she wove the trees side to side until a path formed between them (almost as though the vines that bound them were under her control).

  And where no path once was, they now proceeded on one and through the great forest that was known as Darsel Woods.

  “If I may ask… what are you?” Mr Fauldon dared to intrude as they weaved through the trees of grass.

  “Hmph… not one of the clueless likes of you for sure,” she was answered.

  “She is a Shrooblin,” sir Knowington remarked for the grouch. “They look over nature and grant passages to those in need. Their sole purpose is to prevent one from destroying the other simply for the sake of passing. That being said, it usually takes them a century or two to win the favor of any given place. Aerold looks after the Darsel Woods, being responsible for leading the many travelers that seek to reach the other side. It just so happens she despises company… or any interaction for that matter.”

  “Then why take up the job?” Mr Fauldon asked.

  This time the grouchy Shrooblin cut back in: “Because I had no choice. A rival sibling swore upon our lineage as though it was some game, and I was sworn into it as a result and completely against my will. I’ve hated this job ever since.”

  “Well there definitely doesn’t seem to be a lack of that,” Mr Fauldon mumbled, amazed at the grudge Aerold seemed to hold against her sibling (and who wouldn’t if they had to live as long as Shrooblins live?). “So who is this sibling that swore you into such a labor?”

  The grouch rolled her old, withered-and-wrinkled eyes, ignoring the kindness of response.

  It was then they came upon the outskirts of the forest and to the foothills of Variley Hills.

  “There, as you asked,” said the grouch to sir Knowington.

  “Not quite,” he replied, “for Threshold is his destination. Lead him at least to the outer rim of these hills that he may reach Threshold safely.”

  Aerold grumbled, “Why not just take him yourself? You know I have better things to do.”

  “You know fully why,” sir Knowington replied, his words ending any further debate.

  Though Mr Fauldon was still unknowing as to why, he agreed with the Shrooblin: “Why can’t you? Must the ‘guide’ leave yet again?”

  “You have done well to keep on track, good sir,” sir Knowington said to him, a smile almost caressing his face. “I believe you are soon to bloom, and my nudging every step will only delay that. I know what you are capable of, but you have yet to accept that you know such things as well.” The bright suited man turned his attention back to the old grouch. “Besides, Aerold here will be more than willing to assist the Karier to Threshold, the town belonging to the Lighthouse and its upkeep. Across these hills and just a little further swen and we shall meet again.”

  “But why must you keep disappearing?” Mr Fauldon asked of the man.

  Sir Knowington gazed back at him (like a philosopher would to a novice of his trade, for Mr Fauldon knew little outside that which he saw). “Soon,” he told Mr Fauldon, “you will know. There is plenty more going on here than meets the eye, and yours are but opening. Far better to tell you when you would understand than confuse you with what you once knew. But shall we all get moving? Surely, we would have already met up again if not for all this chatter.”

  SCENE VIII, Part II:

  Mr Fauldon wasn’t too fond of the Shrooblin that led him. Not that he was trying to be judgmental of the obvious age and grudge, but Aerold’s attitude was beginning to drag him down as well. Every time he would have another question, the grouchy old lady shroom would pretend one of her bracelets got tangled or had fallen to the ground. However, that did not stop his admiration of the hills through which they roamed. For who isn’t captivated by hills of mushrooms themselves and stones resembling spores? The hills seemed alive in some sense or another (for they were indeed actually various species of mushroom, from crimini to portabella to the occasional boletus satanas—all large enough to walk on, that is).

  Mr Fauldon learned quickly to watch Aerold’s every move, for though she despised his company, she knew exactly where to step so as to avoid the puffs of dust and spores. Having experienced a few already, Mr Fauldon couldn’t risk any more of the nausea that followed. He struggled to keep pace, his coat being the only reason he had not inhaled too much already.

  And where he trudged along, he could not get over the ominous thud that pursued each step. It was as though every other step was a thud (the same feeling one gets when hiking and one boot happens to become the world’s greatest mud magnet). So he looked down to his feet and stood amazed.

  He had a mechanical boot!

  Only upon his left foot, mind you. Now that he thought about it, he remembered sketching it while journeying in the Porhtree. But what good is a one mechanical boot to a man? After all, he had no idea what its purpose was nor what exactly it was meant to do other than simply be a boot.

  “I should ask you,” the old, withered voice of the Shrooblin echoed to his ears, “have you ever heard of the Croak King?”

  “The Croak King?” he asked, still unable to have a good sight of her (after all, she was ‘shroom-like’ amidst hills of shrooms).

  “Yes, yes—the Croak King. It is said he once dwelled in the hill atop where the Lighthouse now resides. Many sought to claim him as prize, but the Croak King overcame all his adversaries yet was forced to flee to a place not far from here.”

  “Then I would think it best we not close that distance. I mean, if we are not to agitate him…” Mr Fauldon remarked, finally catching up to the Shrooblin upon that large hill.

  “Well,” the Shrooblin continued, “it is also said he has been asleep for nearly a half century.”

  “My, my!” Mr Fauldon exclaimed. “How could that possibly be? I do believe nothing could sleep for that long of a time. What kind of person has a stomach that large so as to last half a century? That is rather absurd!”

  He caught Aerold’s large grin as the grouch motioned him further up the hillside. “Why, I do believe that’s his lair just yonder.”

  Mr Fauldon felt the sudden stench pierce his unprepared nostrils (almost as though simmering his nose hair). “That reeks of death!” he choked, both hands pushing his coat firmly above his face. “Surely this smell alone would be enough to keep any adversary away!”

  “Quick,” said Aerold, “our destination is just beyond that ridge. Let us cut through here and be there two turns ahead of time. Besides, who is to say he is even still alive or, in the least, will notice us from such a deep sleep?”

  Mr Fauldon looked blankly at the Shrooblin. “Have you gone mad?” he said. “Or think me a fool? There is no way I would draw any closer to such a potent odor, let alone a rumored Croak King. Who do you take me as?”

  “A Karier in need of time,” Aerold
answered, sliding back down the hill swiftly and between a crevice only to return with weeds outstretched to Mr Fauldon. “Take these and hold them to your face. They will obscure the stench enough for you to not faint.”

  Mr Fauldon took the weeds as some kind of filter and held them close to his nose (which seemed to work well enough, for he was soon following the Shrooblin down the slope and into the small valley surrounded by several hills. The lair was massive and dark, rising a good twenty feet into the thick air—a moss unlike any Mr Fauldon had seen growing about the edges of the cave’s mouth. It was undeniably of the ground and not just another mushroom, for traces of cold stone etched out along its sides and down the back. Just before the pit, insects bore feast the slew of deathly aroma. Mr Fauldon found it hard to focus on where Aerold’s steps had been made, for the mud from the pit seemed to seep into the grooves. In naught but a few seconds gaze at the lair’s grotesque, Mr Fauldon found his footing slip.

  Sure enough, it was his mechanical boot that had given, and his body could not account for the toppled weight. He hit with a flop as his body sprawled about the thick, clay-like muck. As slick as it was, he soon found himself nearly incapable of gaining grip and slipped yet again—only this time his eyes locked on the small object that had somehow slid out of its sash.

  The Violstone.

  Stretching out his hands and legs, he began sprawling toward it. One elbow in front of the other, the bear crawl drew him steadily nearer to the stone.

  But another figure appeared before him, kneeling down and picking it up (for at this point, part of the cloth had unfolded as it was raised to the intruder’s face).

  “Grevious?” Mr Fauldon was in shock.

  The man chuckled deeply as though his life goal had just been accomplished. “Ha!” he announced, “I finally have it yet again!”

  It was then that the folds of cloth fully fell from the stone’s sides, and in the sight of its luminous veins did the ground shake violently. To Mr Fauldon’s dismay, it was not an earthquake, for the waves of odorous sound reverberated from within the lair. The mud slurred, and even Grevious stumbled backward against the edge of a rising hill.