Ever so glad to hear that they were well beyond that awful-sounding region of Moon-Dogs and outlandish folk, young William’s mind was at ease once more.
Across the mountainside they strode, in the glory of that fine day. It proved extremely difficult to negotiate that highland trail because it sloped at such a hazardous angle. But they found themselves adapting to it, digging in their heels and finding handholds where they could.
Staff out, William clambered alongside the Grogoch who was telling even more stories of Ewval and his contributions to the ancient world. But none of them could recall his family name, for Ewval had gone by so many titles in the past, such as: Ewval of Gurlàch, or The Iron Bull, or Ewval the Fist. And not in any given title was his true house name incorporated. Not that it was of any great secret, mind you. It just didn’t seem fitting enough for such a praiseworthy hero, so rarely was it spoken by his public.
Khrum also divulged a tale or two, as though trying desperately to get his word in. But what the leprechaun was actually trying to do was to appear so involved in those stories, that William would eventually steer his suspicions away from him and his real intention. (The more that something sits in plain sight, the less suspicious you are of it, after all.) His true intention here was the customary quest of finding some whisky in the enchanted satchel. So when the leprechaun had finished commending Ewval, and it was Icrick’s turn to talk, he would slink down along William’s arm and make for the bag. But William’s senses had been finely attuned since the beginning and, by each guileful effort, he merely plucked the leprechaun out of the satchel and plonked him back onto his shoulder where he belonged. Eventually, Khrum just gave up.
Wren was overhead, flying casually on Jimzin’s back who, might I add, was lingering all the more frequently those days. Never once did he leave Wren’s sight for any longer than a few minutes before he’d swooped back, only to whisk her into the blue yonder upon his beating wings again so as they could follow the band once more. As for the Dullahan, he remained at the rear of the group, with The Head shelling out warnings to Ifcus for his bit of lip earlier on. Ifcus, however, just threw his eyes up with a pertly snort, and paid no attention.
Opening out before them, beneath the brink of noon, was a natural pathway which then levelled out, giving their legs a timely rest. Leading in through a wide, bronzing tunnel of magnificent tupelo trees, cherry blossoms, and under a gilded carpet of fallen leaves, the pathway rustled on well into the afternoon with only the tinted glimmer of sunlight slipping in through the auburn canopy. Sometimes a meekly ray would find its way through, but that soon subsided when the sun finally closed in behind the mountains. That stroll was heavenly regardless, with the fresh aroma of woodland in the air alongside the calming sounds of swaying leaves and a coolness that soothed their worries. Even Jimzin behaved himself along that pathway by keeping to all fours as he traipsed beside his Bondite.
It was so tempting for William to just stop there until the following morning, so as to be guaranteed an encouraging outset then, too; ambling along the divine path with the starlings twittering and the sun flickering in on occasion. But that was just wishful thinking, nothing more, for time could not be squandered so lightly.
Hiking through their desire to halt, they finally reached the wall. It appeared quite dissimilar up close. For one thing, it was draped in moss, and was terribly overgrown with grass, bindweed, and briars. Parts of it were so wild that they could easily have passed it ten times over since their outset and been none the wiser. But beneath all of this they noticed how remarkably it was designed, with each perfectly-shaped rock laid considerately into each perfectly-shaped slot. Of course, it wasn’t perfectly flawless, but it was exceptionally close. It must have taken decades to perfect. Yet the idea of it providing any real defence was up for some honest debate.
William noticed how those were the same Celtic swirls he’d often come to notice on their road. And yet the most remarkable aspect was not that each stone was undisrupted and immaculately chosen to fit the precise place, but that they were set in such a way in that the designs on each rock continued, with a perfect transition, onto the next to make up one grand design. It went on and on like this, into the very horizon.
For some further miles they followed it, marvelling at it, almost combing it for flaws. They believed that nothing could be so perfect…but they could find no flaws. It was truly immaculate, in its own way.
“What an amazing sight!” said Icrick, awestricken.
His eyes close to the stone as he followed those whirling designs, William replied, “You can say that again.”
“Why?” Icrick asked, with a perplexed eye.
“Why what?” asked William.
“Why must I say it again?”
“Oh! It’s just a figure o’ speech,” the lad said, chuckling. “Never mind.”
“Pfff! Foreigners!” muttered the Grogoch, as if to tease, and the boy chortled.
Alongside the wall they strolled, when all of a sudden, William heard the faint playing of music, just up ahead. The others heard it too, so they ducked behind the wall just in case and cautiously approached with rounded eyes. But because Jimzin was plodding along recklessly by Wren’s side, it made him an immediate risk, for both his racket and his size would’ve effortlessly drawn unwanted attention. But the music was by no means any reason for them to fret. Neither was Girtìlboun, until they really tested his patience.
Something had to be done about Jimzin…fast, so William disputed, “Wren, do something about your dragon! He’s going to give us away!”
“Don’t tell me what I already know!” she answered impatiently.
Even she knew, that if trouble did kick off, who’s to say Jimzin wouldn’t just fly away in search of food or something, leaving them in the lurch? They were better off hidden. But this also gave her an idea.
Gazing back west, with a face of astonishment, she whispered, “That’s far too fat and juicy to be a goat!”
Jimzin responded instantly. He swished ‘round, with his mighty tail sailing into the wind, and set out in search of his illusory meal.
“Jolly good thinking,” whispered The Head.
“I have my moments,” she said, and winked.
The further they scouted, the louder the music got. It sounded like a lute, and was playing a charming little jingle; a carefree midsummer’s melody, as it were. Peeking over the wall, William spotted a slight rivulet dabbling down through the rocks on the steep mountain face. Eastward it flowed, until it widened moderately into a flowing stream, after which it met with a small, verdant island. Around the island it diverged like a moat, before finally merging again on the other side and carrying on about its business. Upon this island was a tree. Not a massive tree, but it was relatively full and shady. It was a yew tree of some variety but, upon its branches, fruit was growing. Lots of fruit, of all different types. Limes, cherries, oranges, lemons, peaches, plums, apples, and pears, all on the one tree. More beautiful yet was how those branches danced with a wealth of colourful petals, some of which floated gently away upon the mild westerly breeze. The leaves were of a bluish tint; pretty but unusual. With his eyes unfolding like telescopes, Ifcus was onto the fruit like a shot, but Crosco held him steady, lest any real danger was nearby.
Beneath the tree there was a man whose features were obscured by the shade. He seemed relaxed and content with himself. Against the trunk he lay, with his arms wrapped lazily behind his head and his legs crossed before him. To his left was a bow, unstrung on one end, acting as a fishing pole. He had it planted firmly in the earth whilst its float bobbed in the current of the mountain stream, and shallow waters tend to be dandy little spots for hooking some kelpie or perhaps a few carp, if one were so inclined, as this man clearly was. He simply rested there, without a bother, listening to his lute (which was playing itself, wouldn’t you know), watching the world go by.
Turning to the others, William asked, “What do ye think? He doesn’t seem like much of a t
hreat. Maybe we should ask him about our course.”
This idea flushed the Grogoch’s face red with embarrassment.
“No offence, Icrick, really,” whispered William. “It’s nothing against you. You haven’t led us astray so far, I realise that. But it really wouldn’t hurt to find all the help we can get, either. What do you think?”
“It never hurts to get more help…I suppose,” Icrick moped, with his cheeks having turned a full shade of cherry-red. “But I can assure you, the direction I am showing you is proper!”
Icrick didn’t wish to seem offended, but he didn’t wish his guidance to be questioned, either.
Fully aware, William said, “I know it’s the proper way, Icrick. We do trust you! But who’s to say things haven’t changed for the worse since you were last here? Maybe this man will have some advice on how to tackle this course o’ yours. No harm in finding out.”
Before Icrick could breathe a syllable in response, there erupted an ebullient voice, which stated, “Crimpleton is the name! Stell Crimpleton!”
They looked up with such shuddering fright that they nearly creaked their necks. Standing there upon the wall, with his hands on his sides and his pelts blowing regally in the wind, was the mysterious stranger. He was an Elf. They knew this by his tawny hair, ruffled and wild, and his customary leather circlet. His most unmistakable features were his long ears which poked right back under his hair to a fine point; his lime-green eyes dotted with steely-white pupils, and his pallid skin. He also looked relatively young…as far as Elves go.
He possessed all the bearings of somebody fierce, as that of a warrior; only his face was somewhat innocuous with that grand smile of his. A short spear of superior craft rested on his back, opposite a full quiver, which could only have been for the splendid bow which, like a staff, he was now holding in his left hand. Elves are graceful in the arts of the spear, it being their trademark weapon, next to projectile arms such as crossbows, slingshots, or bows. Even the most uninitiated can brandish them better than most.
His attire was otherwise of earthly pigments—browns, greens, and greys—partially protected under the shelter of ample leathered armour about his chest, shoulders, and limbs. In places, plates of raw steel were sutured, mostly between the leather sections, to add more protection, while still not costing the bearer too much speed. One would need to be quick out there on Lythiann, after all. They could but presume this stranger to be no novice to battle, by the looks of him.
Because he was an Elf, with ears as keen as a fawn, Stell had obviously heard William and Icrick whispering, so he came over to investigate.
Acting fast, William jumped up and blurted out, “William Muldoon!”
Nevertheless, it was plain to see that the Elf was simply welcoming them, and not the least confrontational. So William thought it best to oblige and be courteous.
Standing aside, he thus introduced, in a civil manner, “And this is Icrick, Khrum, Wren, Ifcus and Crosco. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Bowing low with a hearty laugh, the Elf replied delightfully, “Sir nothing! As I said, Stell Crimpleton, at your service. Call me Stell.”
He then hopped along the wall, moving very freely and randomly. One moment he’d be standing behind them, whereas the next he’d be leaning against the Bastion. Next he was waving at them from beyond the stream, before standing by the wall again thereafter. I can’t say much for William, but the others were hardly surprised. He was an Elf, after all, who were renowned for being very happy, nimble fellows.
Springing back onto the wall, Stell spun the bow skilfully around in his hand and over his shoulder before asking, “So, my dear strange friends, how may I be of service this splendid day?”
Then, as of a tractable volcano longing to erupt, Icrick suddenly blurted out, “CRIMPLETON!” and the others gaped at him in shock.
Arching back with a tremendous roar of laughter, Stell said, “Yes, my good man?”
“Oh, I do apologize!” said Icrick, feeling rather embarrassed. “But ‘Crimpleton,’ that’s your name…is it not?”
“Indeed it is, my fleecy Phynnodderee. And you would be Icrick, yes?” smiled the Elf.
“Icrick Tum at your service, my dear Elf,” said the Grogoch, presenting a bow. “Forgive me, but it’s only now I recognised you. How foolish of me! You were master Ewval’s kin, were you not?”
“Indeed I am, master Grogoch, and there is no ‘were’ about it. He is my father!” said Stell.
“You mean…he is still alive?” asked Icrick, stunned.
“Of course!” said Stell, walking along the wall like a tightrope. “He is right here.”
Glancing around, they could not see any signs of life other than themselves.
“Right here!” said Stell, poking the wall with the tip of his bow.
“You mean…” Icrick halted, pointing doubtfully at the Bastion, like he was having him on.
“Yes! Ever since he departed from this world, his spirit has lived on. Took residence in his wall. I believe it has been branded Ewval’s Bastion by the burrowers, and a grand title it is, too. Very majestic! Very appropriate! This wall meant so much to him before he passed, don’t you know. So God only saw it fit to leave his spirit with his work.”
“Well, can he s-speak?” asked Icrick, who was flabbergasted by the notion.
“Oh, heavens, not at all. But he is here…I can feel it! When I do something to make him happy, I can sense it. When I do something to upset him, I can feel that, too. The insight to relative empathy, you see.”
On that note, Khrum was churning to speak.
“Well, are ya not wreckin’ his nut right now by walkin’ all over him like that?” he put in rather rudely, but that question was on all of their minds.
“I haven’t heard him complain yet, my leprechaun friend.” Stell smiled, having already decided to get off the wall regardless. “Yes, it was my father’s final work on Lythiann so I guard it dearly. If a stone should ever get misplaced or removed—breaking the continuity of the pattern—then it severs my father’s very spirit from its bind, forcing him to stray the lands again in despair. However, never yet has it been threatened. But I still defend it in spite of that…just in case. It is valuable to me indeed! Very precious.”
As he imparted these details, he was smiling proudly at the stones and was brushing away bits of loose moss here and there.
“How did you learn of all this? If he can’t speak to you?” Wren asked.
“Stories of my forefathers. Prophecies mostly,” answered the Elf. “We keep many archives of the past, present, and sometimes the future. It’s our heritage to do so.”
“And you guard the whole wall?! But how do you ever find the time?” she asked. “I hear it goes on for leagues.”
“Oh, I traipse merrily along, day by day. I eventually get from one end to the next, as time plods on. As I said, the midlands have been so quiet of late so there is hardly much worry. Dark beings take no notice of the Bastion. Why would they? Like you, to them it is merely a wall…nothing more. Every once in a while I happen by this particular spot and settle by the fruit tree for a few days. I find it tranquil. Lucky you caught me today, as it happens. One more hour and I would’ve been on my way north.”
“He’s a bit dippy and all!” muttered The Head, but Icrick jogged him to hush.
“He was…Oh, I mean, is a great person, your father.” the Grogoch put in. “A great hero!”
“I am proud to have a father like him.” Stell nodded and, folding his arms, he then rested against the wall, and asked, “Now, I must inquire. You are probably the first beings I have seen around these parts in many a year. What is your cause? Thrill-seekers? Crusaders? Or merely hikers out for a pleasant stroll, perhaps?”
He laughed at this.
Taking his turn to talk, William stepped up, and said, “We are headed far east. And…um…seeing as we haven’t left the west in the last few years, we aren’t really sure what we’ll find on our course. You see, s
o far, we’ve run into some trouble here and there. And, to be honest, we want to avoid as much trouble as we can…especially in these parts. Don’t suppose you have any advice about our road…things for us to watch out for and that? If it were any normal day, I wouldn’t have bothered you, only Icrick here is our guide, and we recently got into a spot o’ bother where I lost all his maps. They were handy for finding alternate routes and things, but now Icrick is forced to guide us the only sure way he knows how…and who knows what sorts o’ trouble will be waiting for us on that eastern road.”
“I understand,” said the Elf, with his delightful air quietly lapsing into a duller shade at the prompting of such grave discussion. “And I take it, by the direction in which you are currently headed, that you will travel through Drùschland, and then on to your destination?”
“That’s what I was thinking…yes.” Icrick smiled, glad to find a mind to whom he could relate.
“Sorry, my good fellow. I do not doubt your talents. However, you really do not want to go that way nowadays,” Stell advised. “That county is no longer as accommodating as it once was, for much evil lurks in Drùschland. The Goblin Kingdom stands there now, and their nests reach further than the mind could ever ponder. Goidoy himself, the wickedest and most enchanted of all Goblins, also belongs in that realm.”
They trembled at this name, with Wren being the one to say, “The Goblin guardian himself? So he still walks amongst us then? He has not yet been slain?”
“Not yet…unfortunately,” Stell replied, more troubled by this than any of them. “Not yet has a heart of enough nobility risen to face that challenge. Some have tried…but all have failed. Not to mention how difficult he is to track, supposedly. We can but wait and hope that, someday soon, one will rise to strike him down and rid the south of this villain. For with Goidoy dead and gone, the ring…”
The Other of One: Book Two Page 8