“He addressed me incorrectly, I’m afraid,” replied the corpse.
“That was fairly polite…even by Crosco’s standards!” Icrick stated. “What did he do wrong?”
“I cannot tell ya!” sighed Nòmad. “Ya have to guess…and I can’t give ye any clues, unfortunately.”
He seemed very put out by his own curse, poor chap.
Next up was Stell and, getting down on one knee, he beseeched, “Please, Nòmad, our noble friend, we urgently need to get into the Barren City. Can you show us how?”
They all smiled at one another, confident that this would work.
And yet, in a billow of blue smoke, Stell transmuted into a warthog, with bananas for tusks. He then scampered about, snorting and oinking in complete disarray.
“Ugh! Stell!” Icrick cringed. “What did you do to my friend, you…you?!”
“It’s not my fault, I told ya!” Nòmad protested, glancing about nervously. “If ye hadn’t woken me up then this would never have happened, would it?”
On the contrary, having been pondering all that time, Wren shushed everyone and said, “Hang on a second! How was it you introduced yourself again? You said, ‘upon reflection, my name is Nòmad,’ didn’t you?”
When the gypsy didn’t respond, she knew she was on to something.
She took her dagger and carved Nòmad’s name into the earth, in lowercase lettering, while inverting each character and capitalizing the D. She then helped herself to one of his shiny amulets and held it down to the word. It revealed ‘Damòn.’
She approached the gypsy, all smug with herself, and said, “Damòn, you little gypsy trickster, enough of the riddles! Now show us the safest way to get into the city or I’ll snap off something important and throw it into the deepest trench I can find.”
Immediately, Crosco and Stell transformed back to normal, and the cage, too, liberated them. It took the better part of ten minutes before Stell’s nose finally changed back from being a snotty snout.
“As ya wish, my lady! As ya wish. I’ll stick to my word. I won’t try and cheat ya. Not me,” said Damòn, bowing so low that his spine cracked, leaving stuck him in a terribly awkward position, and he sulked, “Aaah, this is embarrassin’…”
“Here, let me,” said William, straightening the corpse upright.
With a shrill snap of his corroded bones, the gypsy groaned, “Oh, that’s the ticket! Now, where were we? Oh yes, the Fortune Stone!”
“How does this work? Do we run the risk of us getting burnt to cinders, or altered into a rabble of hairless chimps perhaps?” The Head asked derisively.
“No, that curse is behind us now,” said Damòn, more relieved than any of them. “You need only follow the stages of this device now. So, without any further delay, one of ye…pick a colour.”
“BLUE!” Icrick blared, then shrugging it off to the sight of everyone staring at him.
With that, the Fortune Stone started opening and closing, both lengthways and breadthways; together with that abrasive clatter of basalt and grit.
Tallying up the letters in Icrick’s chosen colour, the device opened and closed the same amount of times.
The gypsy was also counting on his fingers, “B. L. U. E.”
Suddenly the Fortune Stone stopped to reveal numerals, I through IV.
“Now…choose a number,” the carcass instructed.
On the verge of picking one herself, Wren was cut off when Khrum cried, “SIX!”
“There is no six,” William told him.
“FOUR!” the leprechaun shouted instead.
Suddenly the device started switching around again; back and forth, in and out.
Khrum was getting fierce enjoyment out of watching this machine in action. He had an excited grin on his face and his tongue was wagging like a puppy. Finally it slowed after the fourth shuffle. The Fortune Stone displayed four symbols: a square, a triangle, a swirl and an arrow. William and Wren were about to pick one at the same time, but the boy smiled and let her choose instead.
Giving him a curious little smile, she glanced down, and said, “Can I choose the swirl, please?”
A sudden gush of black steam jetted out from the heart of the stone contraption, and the panel with the swirl unfolded to reveal their fortune.
In letters of brilliant white light, it read, “It was what first lured your attention, dear child, which will lead you safely over those Barren walls. Godspeed.”
They mulled over it for a moment, but they had no idea what it meant. Then Wren twigged it.
“The windmill!” she exclaimed. “Somehow the windmill will lead us into the city!”
“The windmill, of course!” said Icrick, with a click and a clap.
This type of thing was Khrum’s pet peeve, so he muttered, “The windmill. Could it not’ve jusht said…’the windmill’? I mean, where’s the sense in these riddles like? I jusht don’t see the logic in it. Daft carry-on altogether.”
“Oh, it exercises the mind! Quit complaining!” Icrick told him. “Nothing needs a reason to be, Khrum, other than what it is. Impractical or otherwise.”
“Lookin’ at yourself, I’m inclined to agree…” muttered the leprechaun.
“So, the windmill is our course then?” William asked, making sure.
Sinking back onto his settle inside the pyramid, Damòn replied, “The windmill! Aye! That’s your answer, so that’s your course, lad. And so, if you’re all done with me here, I think I might just go back to my snoozin’…if that’s all right with ye?”
“You need not the assistance of putting yourself back together I take it?” asked the Elf, who was more than happy to oblige.
“No, no, it’ll give me something to do until my eyelids get heavy again, wherever they are!” replied the carcass. “However, I wouldn’t say no to some of that incantation ya were on about earlier. The one that’ll grant me some good old peace and quiet in the future? Now, that sounds like a real treat.”
“I am an Elf of my word, Damòn my friend,” said Stell, “so it shall be done! Slumber well, and it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“You too, dear travellers,” the gypsy said solemnly. “Sorry about those curses. Oh, and my sincerest apologies to all for my rude introduction…particularly to jolly little Khrum there.”
“Ara, it’s rain off a duck’s back, or mead through the plumbin’; however ya want ta look at it, boyo. No harm done,” replied the leprechaun, who now had a newfound respect for gypsy folk. “Have to hand it ta ya though, there’s bite behind that bark o’ yours! Scared me a bit! Folk would do well ta watch out for you, so they would.”
“Glad to know I have it in me, at least!” laughed the carcass. “Never know when ya’d need it around this side of the country! I’ll say no more. So long.”
And so the pyramid sealed up again, wall after wall, closing in on one last wave from Damòn the gypsy cadaver. Waving a final farewell in return, they stood by as the massive lith sank deep into the soil, till it was but a squat pyramidal stone once again.
Stell gathered four dead branches and planted them upright in the earth, one to each corner of the pyramid. From his supplies, he produced more of that twine and some Fála leaves. Threading them through the twine, he tied it off to each branch.
Everything was ready. They all knelt around the crypt while Stell chanted some soft utterings. The leaves glowed and fluttered. Then, with a dazzling flash, they all opened their eyes to find the pyramid gone.
“Where’s the—” Khrum paused, blinking about.
“It’s fine. The crypt is still here,” the Elf smiled. “It’s simply invisible! A nifty little trick, eh?”
Astonished by such effortless magic, they couldn’t help feeling around for it to see for themselves. Wouldn’t you know, there it was, completely invisible and out of harm’s way. This incantation was named the Bàn Draìocht, and it proved tremendously beneficial in all sorts of situations.
Upon the falling of the night’s brilliant mo
onlight, the land gleamed silver. Disturbing gluggings rose from afar, which may have otherwise been a shrieking bat or perhaps a snarling bear. But in this terrible portion of the world, they could be sure that this was from something much more baleful, and they had no desires to find out what.
William watched the wilds, and proposed, “Maybe we should head for the windmill now? At least then we’ll have some shelter for the night, even if we don’t get into the city straight away.”
“I second that!” said the leprechaun. “Oh, ‘n’ there might even be some grub in there, too.”
“Good point, Khrum. I think we could all do with some food in our bellies,” said Stell. “Save for three pears and two apples, we have nothing else in our supply. And they are for emergencies only!”
Fingers crossed for such scrumptious possibilities, they all made haste.
That county didn’t prove so dreadful at all after a time. The full moon radiated brightly, whilst those sinister burbles were now ringing from the outermost whereabouts of that unfeeling bog. Indeed, once they overcame the insipid look of the fenland, it turned out to be fairly serene and mild. That is, until they happened upon that prodigious outer wall, and what was once assumed an average windmill.
In a collected, yet equally appalled manner, Wren analysed it and scowled. “That is….disgusting…”
What they thought was a simple windmill, was, in actuality, a windmill-like structure, whose walls were seething with slippery snakes; all but for those creaking, laddered sails.
The eastern moon grimaced beyond the approaching cloud, and the windmill stood forebodingly before it, suppurating with anacondas, black snakes, pythons, garter snakes, rattlesnakes, boa constrictors, cobras, grass snakes, adders, black-mouthed mambas, and vipers. Whatever breed of snake your mind could conjure, you can rest assured that they were lurking in there someplace. Whether or not there was an old windmill lurking below this slithering exterior was difficult to say. The hissing made their backs crawl; being accompanied by the chance threat of venomous rattles.
“I thought this place looked peculiar through my Distometer! How incredibly grotesque,” shuddered the Grogoch.
“What’s this in aid of I wonder?” asked Stell, gripping his spear lest something turned sour.
But there was no fear of these reptiles attacking, unless provoked. They were just worming around, as if in their own little world; flickering their tongues and hissing about.
“I don’t think evil really needs a reason ‘round these parts, Stell,” Wren replied, with a nose-crimpling sulk. “In the west we have things of beauty and elegance, like Ewval’s Bastion, for instance. Whereas, here, they have this sort of thing…and the devil knows what else!”
Standing in the doorway, peeking in, Khrum said, “Um…well, if ya don’t like the look o’ the outside, then you’re probably goin’ ta hate what’s in here!”
Warily approaching the snake-wreathed entry, they peeped in to find a decrepit and murky old chamber that was again swarming, wall to wall, ceiling to floor, with chirping and clacking insects.
It was revolting beyond all imaginings. Flies, cockroaches, centipedes, spiders, grubs and millipedes. There were crane flies, moths, caterpillars, earwigs, wood lice, Goliath beetles, mantises, scorpions, walking insects, Hercules beetles and many more. All staggering over one another in such disgusting piles. Larva-infested cocoons were bunched into corners around that ever-decaying room, while old webbing filled all else.
Covering her nose with her lapel, Wren cringed. “These are no Armoured Spincers, but they are just as manky!”
“Usen’t ya live here yourself, Icrick, at one time?” Khrum joked, poking the Grogoch.
Clapping sarcastically as the leprechaun bowed, Icrick groaned, “Oh, such an uproarious fellow you are, Khrum! So, so funny! My sides…are…splitting! You little bed-bug!”
Admitting that the leprechaun had a point, however, he said, “But you’re right about the food. Look at all these mouth-watering delights, would you.”
With bloated cheeks, Wren put her fingers to her lips, and said disgustedly, “You have to be joking?! Icrick, those are insects! You’re not considering eating them I hope.”
“And why not?” chuckled the Grogoch, picking a centipede up in his fingers. “They’re packed full of goodness, are insects!”
Dangling it over his mouth, he slurped it up like a string of live spaghetti.
“I think I’m going to be sick!” said Wren, her eyes watering.
Icrick waddled further into that grotesque windmill, in search of even more wriggly treats; the ground crunching beneath his calloused feet.
Crosco, who was also a tint of ailing white, retched and mumbled to his bigger half, “Ready yourself! I should be able to hold it down for now, but I’m not making any promises! You may yet have to get me up there, quick-smart.”
Stell went to follow Icrick inside, when he stopped, and with a degree of self-disgust, he admitted, “Insects are known to be very nutritious.”
That was all Crosco needed to hear, so he turned The Head away, held his breath, and clenched his eyes. The vomit was on the move.
“Blurgh, oh, Lord help us! Ugh, the very notion! Insects of all things! Blurgh!” he groaned.
Stell sifted through the worming mass of creepy-crawlies at his feet, until he found a big, black, shiny beetle for himself. Not daring to watch, yet too intrigued to miss it, Ifcus’ head was half turned with one eye poking back at the Elf who, in turn, was staring distastefully at the wiggling little insect in his fingers. That alone made the steed feel sick to the stomach. So just like his master, he turned away in an endeavour to spare himself a good gawking.
Wren tried pleading, “Ew, Stell! Don’t actually…” but she was too late.
Stell, who was trying his damnedest not to overthink it, just bit down on the big brute with a sodden crunch. A cold, greenish goo strung its way from his trembling lips to the other half of that ever-kicking beetle as he pulled it out. There was no getting away from it. It tasted utterly rancid. Like a century-old pimple filled with bile and old cheese.
“Hold your horses there, Stell!” said Icrick, who was returning with two handfuls of fetid treats. “Don’t eat those ones! They taste absolutely vile!”
Spitting out that mouthful of horrendousness, the Elf wiped a tear from his eye and, steadying himself on the Grogoch’s shoulder, he asked kindly, “Well, might you point me to a tastier one then, Icrick old boy?”
“My pleasure! Follow me!” said Icrick, happy as ever.
Stell acknowledged them with a pale and pitiful look before following the Grogoch into the more shadowed areas of that unusual windmill in search of more pimply bites.
William shuddered at the idea of being so terribly hungry that he might have to do the very same. As luck would have it, he’d lost his appetite. So had Wren.
They sidled inside. Khrum was perched on William’s shoulder, for fear of being trampled by a herd of angry grasshoppers. Crosco thought it best to wait outside until someone found a passage into the city. He asked them to just give him a ‘holler’. Besides, poor Ifcus needed the fresh air after hearing the squelch from Stell’s beetle. He was out circling the grass, with his neck stretched out and his bottom lip drooping with a length of spit. Poor chap looked like he was going to keel over.
The windmill had some open rooms inside, like any commonplace home, save for the piles of dismantled cogs and iron posts that were thrown about. Everything was warped and lopsided; completely run-down and filthy. Archways were set unevenly, and the walls, tilted and dipped. Other doors were too thin and twisted to walk through…unless, of course, you were an insect or a snake. Then, by the dim outer shafts of the prying night sky, William could just about discern strange writings upon the walls, of all shapes and sizes, all over the place.
Borrowing Icrick’s flint—before the Grogoch went off about his dining—William loped outside to fabricate a quick torch from wild grass. Only then could he grasp
what those jottings said.
With Wren following closely over his shoulder, William shone the torch from message to message, all the while, reading quietly.
“Curse these priests to eternity!”
“Monks out!”
“Not death. Torment!”
“Our wrath is upon the faithful!”
“Where is your saviour now?!”
“Immortal damnation!”
“Ministry of the insects!”
“Maggot’s den!”
“Ruler’s warning—Run while you can!”
Cruel writings; as though this windmill had once been ransacked, whereas the proprietors themselves—who were evidently men of the cloth—had been tortured. Worst of all, these inscriptions had faded to a rusty brown through the ages. Blood tends to do that after being drawn and neglected.
Slapping his forehead, Khrum suddenly exclaimed, “Windmills! Why didn’t I think o’ this before?”
“Think o’ what? What are you on about?” William started.
“This must’ve been an old clerical sanctorum after Lythiann had been attacked.”
William let him elaborate.
“Ya see,” Khrum continued, “before he rose ta power, the good Druids had originally housed-up in little chapels across the land. But when Drevol shtarted runnin’ everybody out, the religious ones were driven ta desert their chapels. Instead, they began dwellin’ in the since abandoned windmills. In secret! Soon these windmills became recognised ta our kind as safe houses for escapees. But they soon became recognised by Drevol, too! Thinkin’ that the dark one may have some sort o’ mercy, some respect, upon the servants o’ God, the good clergy held fast, helpin’ the helpless whenever they could. But, evidently, Drevol didn’t grant them that pity! He…cursed them, by the looks of it. Shcandalous when ya think about it! Damnin’ Druids, of all people! Samaritans!”
Recalling her aunt from an age ago, Wren replied emptily, “What did the world really expect, Khrum? For him to overlook those who are ethical? The very ones who most challenged all that he stood for? I’m sorry, but such beliefs are fantasy. Childish faerietales. And gone are the days of sunshine and daisies. For more blood courses these lands now than rivers; than lakes. It is the age of darkness. Have you actually forgotten why these enemies of ours are so easily remembered? It certainly isn’t for their leniency.”
The Other of One: Book Two Page 23