The Other of One: Book Two

by Brian G. Burke

  Nuzzling up into his arm while falling deep into another slumber, he then mumbled, “Just another half-hour, so I can squeeze in a few decent dreams. Preferably involvin’ a bottle o’ fine malt ‘n’ some boobies. Or malt boobies.”

  “Oh, get up, lazybones!” said Icrick, pinching the leprechaun on the arm. “We’ve slept late enough as it is! Can’t be doing this every day.”

  With that painful beckoning, Khrum bounded to attention with a lively spark.

  Scrubbing his arm to dull the pain of the pinch he barked, “Ouch! Quit your pinchin’; with your wheezin’ hay-bale of a face! That hurt! Your fingers are all big n’ bony, in comparison ta my wee arms.”

  “Well, unless you want to get another swift clip,” Icrick retorted, “you’d best stop being so cheeky and get yourself ready to set out. We’re not back in Percy’s now, you know. We have important matters to tend to, and you know that well enough.”

  “Agh, fair enough,” Khrum exclaimed, climbing up off the ground. “Don’t go gettin’ your wiry knickers in a twisht! ‘Tis bad enough I have ta face the day after a gammy night’s sleep without listenin’ ta you goin’ on ‘n’ on as well, like some geriatric aul’ bat!”

  Harbouring a humour cast from early morning tetchiness, William intruded, put out his hand and uttered only one word, “Please…?” and that quickly brought their dispute to a finish.

  The longing to be back in Percy’s cosy oak-house was something felt by all, let alone the degree of contempt they had for having to endure the cold and treacherous road again. But all they could do was make do with what little they had and bear it as best as they knew how. Needless to mention that, while those scuffles were heating up, it was surprising to see that The Head was not in the middle of it, moaning and bickering as one might expect he would. He looked rather entertained if anything, as he lay there quietly observing their petty tiff with a smug grin on his face. For it’s common knowledge that the only antidote some folk need for sullen spirits is a sliver of juicy strife, and The Head seemed just the sort to partake. You know what they say, ‘Misery loves company.’

  Shamefaced, with his fingers twiddling, Icrick said, “Oh, I do apologise, William. Ever so sorry!”

  “Yeah, sorry, lad,” added Khrum, nudging the Grogoch like it was all his doing.

  With a placid smile, William replied, “It’s grand. Just not first thing.”

  Nodding their heads and with a shake of hands, Icrick and Khrum remedied their differences and began readying themselves for the morning ahead.

  William was taking in the view and found it to be a very promising day, despite the heavy rain clouds approaching from the east. But they were leagues away, and would probably have swept well southwards by the time they’d reached them. Otherwise it was a very inviting sunny morn, just before midday.

  They were higher up than he would have otherwise imagined. The morning sunlight delivered deep impressions onto the mountainside which emphasised their altitude by a momentous amount. Whether the others were aware of it or not, he was unsure. He was rather amused by this notable feat, because he didn’t feel any strain whatsoever of an arduous climb the previous eve. Come to think of it, he didn’t even know they were travelling upward through the dusk at all, because the hike was fairly discreet throughout.

  The break at Percy’s house must’ve had a lot to do with his renewed energy, not discounting his conditioning from the jungle. Had you only seen the steepness of the drop into the southern hummocks below, you could not but be impressed by the ease of William’s effort. Satisfied as he was, it wouldn’t be long before the sun had disappeared behind the mountain, leaving them in bitter coldness to continue their trail. A test altogether unavoidable.

  The damselflies also proved a nuisance on that mountainside. The nearby creek was their home, and they were hovering all over the place. One of them even landed on William’s nose, making him shake like a drenched hound. A ghastly insect, with lots of eyes and an ochre, arrow-shaped streak down along its spine, and steely hooks on its forelegs for impaling its prey. As if purposely trying to rile the lad up for swatting it away, it buzzed into his ears and hair.

  “Aw, get off! Shoo! You manky little…” growled he, flailing it off.

  Away it shooed, but it wouldn’t stay gone long before returning with some friends, and they all clouded around his head like it was made of honey. Eventually, William left them to it, until, soon enough, they got bored and buzzed off of their own accord, which didn’t make the lad any less grumpy.

  He seemed testier than usual that morning, which was fair enough, considering he’d become quite inured to sleeping in a warm bed again. If it were you or I, I’d expect we would’ve been grouchy from day one, back in the Grollo. And yet there was something other than a hankering for a snug pillow that made William irritable. Something that illustrated just how taxing this expedition was becoming for the poor chap.

  Crosco and Ifcus were relaxing on the far side of the sycamore, where shade was bountiful. Icrick was beside them, and had taken the duty of setting out everyone’s breakfast. After finally coaxing himself from his weary mood, Khrum was doing some morning stretches, and Wren was otherwise settled aside the creek, filling her water bladder. The insects didn’t seem to bother her as much as they did William. Then again, her great, curled-up dragon probably had a lot to do with it.

  Procuring all the necessary ingredients from William’s satchel, Icrick soon had breakfast prepared. ‘Twas a marvellously delicious picnic, spread out on a red and white chequered overlay which Percy had given to him as a farewell gift for all his kind work that day in the garden.

  Breakfast consisted of piping hot tea; cocoa; toast with heavy lashings of butter, golden honey and marmalade; strips of salty bacon; grapefruit; sausages; cheeses of all sorts; buttered scones and crumpets; steaming scrambled eggs; fried onions, and a tall flagon of freshly pressed apple juice. After almost dribbling into a seizure when he saw it, William sprung immediately into action. At one stage, he tried pouring his tea with two handfuls of toast and a slice of bacon in his gob. Of course it spilt everywhere and made a right mess of things, but it didn’t stop the others from tucking in and having a fine feast.

  With his head crammed inside a wedge of grapefruit, Khrum sucked out the tangy juices. Wren was plunging her crumpet into her tea and munching it down with little consideration for etiquette. Icrick, appearing as upmarket as he so aspired, was sipping on a mug of hot chocolate with his pinkie held out. Apples had been laid out especially for Ifcus, thus resulting in a gleeful spread for him, and Crosco nibbled away, quite decorously, on a chock of Swiss cheese.

  When they were finished dining, William sat himself against a rock with his hands knotted behind his head and one leg folded over the other, while the others went about their own little morning dealings. Moving out too quickly after a meal was never a good idea and could easily lead to even longer drawbacks later on, he felt. Cramps and such. So there he rested, when the Symphogram came to his attention.

  There it lay, by Icrick’s side, supposedly the most crucial implement in William’s possession, and yet it seemed lifeless enough to almost be ignored. Or even worse, forgotten about. Refusing to let such a misdeed hold true, William secretly vowed, in that same moment, to take a deeper interest in it. And this he did.

  “Icrick, will you pass me the Symphogram for a second? Just want to take a look at it, if that’s okay?” he asked.

  Slinging the strap over his shoulder, Icrick ambled happily over to the boy and replied, “I was wondering when you were going to have a proper look at it. You’ve barely even mentioned it since we left Làn Chùrdal.”

  “I know,” replied William. “I’ve just had other things on my mind, I suppose. I’ll take a look now though.”

  Removing the heavy leather casing, he placed the horn up to his ear in the hope of hearing something; the faint flutter of faerie wings, perhaps, or maybe even a subtle note of practice. But there was nothing. Actually, it d
idn’t seem to be occupied at all; just a plain old hollow gramophone, with a few anomalous features.

  “Hear anything?” asked the Grogoch, already knowing the answer.

  Hiding his regret, William smiled and said, “Nah. Redmun told me that once I understood why I’m doing all o’ this, then I’d hear the music…whatever that means. I never thought to ask. Smart, eh? Don’t suppose you know?”

  Wren was watching him from close by. She saw a sincerity in his eyes which told her, in no uncertain terms, of his needs and hopes. She saw a desire for that gallantry to, someday soon, prevail inside of him. It touched her.

  Giving him a friendly smile, Icrick replied and said, “Only you know the true reasons for your doings, William. Very well, I could speculate by saying that you are here to liberate your friends back home, or maybe even for the wellbeing of us Dwelvin-Mites…but only you know the real reasons behind your cause. Leave it to time. I know it can be a discouraging thought, but time really can remedy many things.”

  “I suppose it can. Thanks, Icrick, you’re a wise creature,” said William, handing back the Symphogram. “I’ll just have to be patient. And thanks for looking after this for me. I’d be lost without you.”

  The Grogoch’s eyes lit up, as if a pining for such words had finally been rewarded, and he said, “Oh, w-w-why thank you, William.”

  In cocking his chin proudly into the air, he then added, “Well, I’ll be sure to keep up the good work then…shan’t I!”

  “Don’t work too hard,” the lad said with a smile. “I don’t want you running yourself into the ground, either.”

  “Not to worry, William. I am Grogoch! And we are built to withstand and outlast!” said Icrick, with his fist pressed honourably to his heart.

  With that, he waddled to a nearby boulder, where he placed the Symphogram carefully onto the grass to give it a proud polishing. Crossing his arms with a gratified smile for such noble and caring companionship, William took to admiring the natural world from that mountainous belvedere again.

  A deep ocean of treetops fanned out south of their course. It was no longer a mystery to him as to why they were taking that highland path, for that forest was far too inscrutable and precarious to challenge. He was grateful that they’d decided to travel over it instead. Maps or not, Icrick was clearly holding true to his position as guide. As far as the Kalmyn Alps the green canopy wandered southward, after which it vanished to the touch of skyline. An amazing view. Then, with a strange sense of wonder, William thought he saw a great land formation piercing through those passing rain clouds in the distance, like a magnificent summit that was otherwise obscured from the floors of Lythiann by lofty terrain and harsh conditions. But that cloud was too dense, and quickly ingested that mysterious formation before William could get a proper chance to study it. Thinking it irrelevant, he put it out of his mind.

  Something else caught William’s eye, on the far eastern slopes of their course. At first he thought it was a road, lurking at intervals from beneath the spread of trees. But the more he tried to understand it, the more obvious it became to him. It was a wall. A very long, stone wall.

  Unsure if he was seeing things or not, he asked, “Icrick, do you see a wall over there, or am I going cracked altogether?”

  “Why, yes,” replied the Grogoch. “I spotted it first thing this morning. It’s what we call Ewval’s Bastion. It’s been here for many, many years…as far as I know. In fact, it runs nearly the entire course of Lythiann, in one way or another, and not in any particular fashion, either. Yes, miles and miles it goes on for, especially ‘round these parts. Sections of it can be spotted almost anywhere you stand, high or low ground…it doesn’t matter. However, I can’t be sure if it strays into the east at all. Actually, no, I don’t think it goes eastward at all.”

  Be that as it may, it did indeed travel far, because when William stood up he could see it travelling back for countless miles in the very direction they’d come from. It then dwindled into the craggy south, where it could be seen no more. Humph! They must’ve passed it during the night without knowing, he thought.

  The Grogoch proceeded with his tale of Ewval’s Bastion, and William sat against the rock with folded arms and listened attentively.

  “You see, the person who built it was once a great general in the Battle of the Seasons. Ewval was his name. Ewval…oh, what was it? Ewval something? Grimblesbee, or something like that. Ara, it’ll come to me later. Anyway, he was also a trusted friend of Mysun’s. They grew up together, you understand, but I think Ewval was a bit older. Mysun then granted Ewval leadership of the militia before he left for Pherenstead, don’t you know. And Ewval upheld his side of the bargain as best he could. He was an amazing person, really. Full of courage and feeling. Oh, it’s a shame I didn’t know him all that well, I am really very sorry to say. He was an Elf, actually. One of the founding members of the Elves Confederation; a league of noble knights who lived in clans across the wild. At any rate, his age had gotten the better of him, which was very unfortunate, and slowly he fell deeper and deeper into an abyss of insanity.

  “When we fled for Lythiann all that time ago, we somehow lost Ewval…amongst others. Some people said that he strayed off alone, oblivious to his own actions. Search parties were deployed, yet times grew too perilous for them to continue their hunt. Alas, they never found him…and we never heard from him again. The only tidings ever brought back to us were from the burrowers: rabbits, worms, and moles alike. They told us that Ewval had finally stumbled upon Lythiann, and that he had been constructing his final defence here. A stone wall, no more than three feet high, which ran on for thousands upon thousands of leagues into the very wilds of the world. Never-ending!”

  “Well, I’d doubt it is never-ending, Icrick,” said Wren, who’d just joined them after grooming her dragon, and beside her were Khrum and the Dullahan.

  “Bah, you know how these stories go!” grouched Icrick, embarrassed to be deemed as one of those embellishers of truths. “They sometimes tend to exaggerate. It goes on for a long time then! How’s that? It was undoubtedly a creation of madness, they said, as it had no set direction, while its purpose was rather impractical. It wouldn’t have even stood a chance of stopping so much as a wild bull, never mind a legion of trained soldiers. No, the wall simply wound its way throughout the lands in random ways and on peculiar routes.

  “After that, we heard no more. So, from the Grollo we branded the wall Ewval’s Bastion to commemorate him…in a nice, important-sounding way. Mysun would have appreciated it, we thought, because folk used to say that he saw something in Ewval. Something special. Something other than his clear talents for leadership. However, none of us ever found out what it was. A mystery, to say the least. Oh, what was his name again?”

  “Madman’s Abomination, if you ask me,” mumbled The Head, gawking down at the wall.

  Shamefully Ifcus snorted at his heinous comment, for it was common knowledge that Ewval was a patriot; a true hero, whose legend deserved the uttermost respect and no less.

  “That’s not very nice, Head!” scowled the leprechaun.

  “Oh, well pardon me then, squirty!” Crosco replied smarmily.

  Fascinated by Icrick’s story, William stowed it in amongst the compilation of other extraordinary facts he’d come to learn along his journey across that wondrous world.

  “That’s a good tale,” he said, dwelling upon the Bastion. “It’s, um, different. I was going to suggest we use it as a landmark, in case we get lost or something.”

  Spluttering into laughter, Crosco said, “Following that thing on our course would bring us right into the middle of nowhere! Are you mad? We’d be better off using the Grogoch’s nose for navigation! Who knows where that wall would lead us. Probably right into the midst of the badlands near Lycanthraìn! Straight into the claws of some wretched Moon-Dog, no doubt! But it would be much better if we had some maps to travel by. Would it not…William?”

  Turning puce, the boy grumbled, “
It was just an idea. Anyways, it’s not my fault I lost those maps, you know! How was I supposed to know mountains sprout up like flippin’ turnips ‘round here?”

  Intruding on their fracas with an intellectual tone, Icrick said, “Ahem! Well, as it so happens, the present course of the wall is actually on our very road…if my memory serves me correctly. And I should very much like to see what Ewval was up to in his final days. It’d be good culture and grand tellings for the folk back home. What do you reckon, William?”

  “Well, that’s settled then! If it’s on our way…sure, we might as well,” said our William, with an overstated grin to the bitter Head.

  “Sounds grand ta me, anyways,” said Khrum, rubbing his hands keenly. “My legs are gettin’ a bit shtiff from sittin’ ‘round here all mornin’ anyways. Let’s make tracks!”

  Overruling that very statement, he scampered up onto William’s shoulder, where he found a cosy little settle for himself, and they all set course by way of Ewval’s Bastion; but not before William had a chance to whisper an urging concern into the leprechaun’s ear.

  “Lycanthraìn? Moon-Dogs?” he asked, with a face like a turkey who’d just heard winter’s first grindstone.

  “Thought that’d faze ya all right, boyo!” Khrum grinned. “But the badlands are bloody miles away to the northwest…jusht before the coast. No fear of us windin’ up there. Unless, o’ course, we’re staggerin’ arseways after a night out or somethin’. Incidentally, I wouldn’t take ta callin’ them Moon-Dogs that often either, if I were you. Ya’d never know when one might be lishtenin’; considerin’ how they dishguise themselves ‘n’ all. They find the term…erm…offensive. An’ far from your normal everyday mutt are those beashties. Ta be deemed so servile vexes them rightly. An’ that’s the lasht thing ya want ta do ta them Lycanthraín folk, is make them cross. Not in a month o’ Sundays…Tuesdays, Wednesdays, or any other days that end in ‘Y-S’ for that matter! But, as I said, they’re bloody miles off.”