Another day left to roam,
A maiden’s kiss and a cup of wine,
No finer bliss shall we find.
With each step and many more swigs of mead his mood improved, for soon he too would be home—or so he very much needed to believe.
The Old Man’s Cottage
Later that afternoon, long after the wine skin had run dry, Andaris no longer hummed. The mead had left him with chapped lips and a parched mouth, and still there was only forest, dense and oppressive, stretching in every direction. He picked up a gnarled stick he found lying in the grass beside the trail. It felt good in his hands, solid and comforting, so he stripped off the bark and hacked smooth the knots where the branches had been. If the macradon comes back I’ll…. I’ll what? he thought. Clout it on the head with my mighty staff? He laughed hollowly at this, and prayed that he would not have to spend even one more night alone in the forest.
The hours passed without incident as he walked, his hope dwindling along with the light. The afternoon had been warm and humid, alive with mosquitoes and biting flies, but now, as dusk reached its dark fingers through the trees, a chill wind began to blow, promising change.
Andaris was searching for a place to camp when, with great relief and no small measure of confusion, he came upon the cottage. It shouldn’t have been there, sitting in the middle of the animal trail as it was, path ending at its door like a tongue of dirt stretching from a rectangular mouth. And yet it was there, as solid and real as the trees around it.
He walked around to the back to see if the trail continued on the other side. It did not, so he just stood there, hands on hips, staring. He certainly hadn’t passed anything like this on his way into the forest.
The cottage was cobbled together with smooth round stones beneath a thatched roof. Two square windows sat above twin flower boxes, tulips arranged neatly amid an even assortment of baby’s breath and begonias. Try as he might, Andaris was unable to peer through the windows to the cottage’s interior. He could see the general shape of furniture, but the glass was too wavy to make out much else. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, watering his mouth with the robust aroma of cooking meat. Who would live out here? he wondered.
He was tired, thirsty, and in desperate need of directions, so at length Andaris walked to the front door and knocked. When no answer came, he knocked again. Perhaps they’ve stepped out, he thought. I could try the door. If it’s not locked, I could open it a crack and peek inside. He reached for the knob—but it turned before he touched it...and the door slowly creaked open.
Warm air washed past him, and out stepped a bent old man who, from the bottoms of his green loafers to the tips of his wild gray hair, was no more than five feet tall. Seam upon seam crisscrossed his leathery face, like a road map gone awry. He wore a bright yellow vest over a tan shirt, its tail tucked neatly into a pair of brown corduroy trousers.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” the old man demanded, concern shining behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
Andaris realized he must look a bit worse for the wear. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but I’m lost and…could use some help.”
At first the old man regarded him dubiously, eyeing him up and down, but after a moment his expression softened, becoming kind and inquisitive, almost grandfatherly. “Well, by all means,” he said, opening the door wider and moving out of the way, “come in and warm yourself by the fire.”
Andaris nodded gratefully to him, took a step forward, and then hesitated, peering into the cottage with sudden doubt.
“Come on,” urged the old man. “It’s getting cold out here, and my bones are beginning to complain.”
Andaris studied his face, searching it for the slightest hint of deception. Finding none, he nodded again, smiled, and walked inside.
The old man shut the door behind him, gesturing for Andaris to sit in one of two high-backed chairs beside the hearth. “Would you care for some stew?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Andaris answered, seeing the stew bubbling and spurting above the fire, “though what I really need is some water.”
“Oh my, where is my head? I can see that you do.” The old man walked to the table and picked up a clay jug. “I get this from the spring behind my house,” he explained, handing it to Andaris. “I think you’ll find it to your liking. It has restorative properties.”
Andaris pulled the cork and took a long drink, finding the water both cool and refreshing. “Thank you,” he said, smiling as he handed it back to him, “I don’t think I could have gone much longer.”
The old man beamed with satisfaction. “My pleasure, my boy. Now, how about that stew?”
Andaris felt a pang of hunger as he watched him ladle a generous helping of meat and onions into a wooden bowl. It wasn’t potato stew, but looked delicious all the same.
“My name is Shamilla,” the old man offered as he handed him the bowl, his liver-spotted hand shaking slightly.
“Good to meet you,” Andaris said. “Mine’s Andaris. And again, thank you.”
Shamilla sat in the chair across from him, staring at him intently as he watched him eat, his eyes brimming with curiosity.
The cottage had only three rooms—a bedroom, a kitchen, and a living room. Some would describe it as cramped, but to Andaris it was cozy. In the middle of the living room was a plain square table with four chairs. To the left of the front door was a large oak desk, back flush against the wall, two of its six drawers pulled halfway out…as though Shamilla had been searching for something. There were three shelves above the desk, atop which an untidy assortment of papers and books were strewn. An ornate rack of pipes was situated on the center of the bottom shelf, rising from the sea of literacy like a trophy. An ivory ship-shaped pipe was, assuming the char marks on its rim could be believed, the obvious favorite.
In front of the desk, a narrow, threadbare rug hugged the planked floor. Sprawled out upon this rug was a not-quite-fully-grown dog of questionable lineage. Its fur was short and a drab shade of red. It watched Andaris with half-lidded eyes, its mouth seeming to smile.
“Hey, boy,” Andaris said in a friendly tone. “I didn’t notice you there.”
The dog whined and stretched to its full length, rolling over like it wanted to be petted.
Andaris immediately saw his mistake. “Oh, I’m sorry. I suppose I should have said girl.”
She barked once, as if in confirmation.
“She’s uncommonly smart,” Shamilla told him, eyeing the dog with a mixture of admiration and puzzlement. “I swear, she understands most of what I say.”
She barked again.
“What’s her name?” Andaris asked.
Shamilla looked embarrassed. “Um, I’m afraid I haven’t named her yet. I just call her, Dog.”
Andaris tried not to laugh. “Just ‘Dog,’ huh?”
“Well,” Shamilla explained, “I only found her a few weeks ago. I just haven’t come up with a good name yet.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” said Andaris. “I doubt she knows the difference anyway.”
Looking incensed, Dog whined pathetically and buried her head in her paws.
“As I said,” Shamilla pointed out, “she is quite intelligent.”
“Hmm. Certainly seems so, doesn’t it? Well, if she’s so smart…then maybe you should let her decide.”
Shamilla’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “How do you mean?”
“I mean,” Andaris explained, “just keep saying different names until you get a favorable reaction.”
Shamilla nodded. “I like the way you think, my boy. Let’s give it a try.”
They took turns; offering up various inspired suggestions such as Paws, Floppyears, and Furrytoes. But she rejected them all, making them dig progressively deeper.
“How about Licksalot,” Shamilla teased.
Dog tilted her head to the side and released a soulful whine.
“See, there’s no pleasing her.”
Andar
is’ brow creased, lips pursing as if to ward off an unwanted kiss. Then his face lit with sudden inspiration and he smiled. “I’ve got it!” he declared.
Dog looked at him hopefully.
Shamilla leaned in close. “Yes, speak up.”
“What about Jade? I mean, considering the color of her eyes. They really are beautiful.”
Dog jumped to her feet and padded over to him, surprising him by licking him full on the face.
“Well,” Andaris laughed, “I guess it’s decided.”
“I don’t know,” Shamilla said, doing his best to sound sincere. “I think I still prefer Licksalot.”
Jade looked at Shamilla as though offended.
Andaris couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “It really is remarkable,” he said, “how expressive she is.”
Jade’s eyes snapped back to Andaris, sharp and attentive, shining with un-canine-like awareness. She understands, he thought, becoming a trifle unnerved.
Shamilla shook his head. “Spooky if you ask me. I’d prefer it if she’d just act like a normal dog, as is proper.”
Jade walked to the rug and lay down, resting her chin on one of her paws, peering up at them moodily.
Shamilla pulled the brass poker from its holder beside the hearth and began to prod the fire.
Uncomfortable with the way Jade was looking at him; Andaris shifted in his seat and averted his eyes. “Um, I’ve enjoyed the hospitality,” he said, “but I’m kind of anxious to get back home. My parents are probably worried.”
Shamilla frowned. “I’m sorry, Andaris. It’s been so long since I’ve had visitors that...what I mean to say is, I’ve so enjoyed your company that…I all but forgot about your problem.”
“That’s all right,” Andaris assured him, dismissing his concern with a wave of his hand. “I’ve enjoyed your company, too. I’m just ready to find out where I am.”
Shamilla smiled and pushed up his spectacles. “That’s kind of you, and of course you are. Now, you say you are lost?”
Andaris nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I left Fairhaven a few days ago and headed into Fingar Forest….” He felt somewhat ashamed as he began to unwind the tale, listening to the predicament he’d gotten himself into, listening to himself try and make what he’d done sound reasonable. It seemed more real somehow…now that he was saying it aloud. Thoughts roaming loose in one’s head are much easier to justify. Once corralled and made to stand in line for all to see, the ones that are thin and wobbly become easy to spot.
As he neared the tale’s end, Andaris noticed a heightening tension in the old man. Assuming it was something he’d said, he paused, eyes filling with uncertainty. Shamilla merely gestured for him to continue. Andaris did as instructed, trying to keep his voice as pleasant as possible. Regardless of his efforts, by the time he finished, his host was sitting far forward, wringing his hands together.
“This presents somewhat of a problem, my boy. You see…I’ve lived in this area my entire life, which is to say I am quite familiar with it and…I’m afraid I haven’t heard of any of the places you just mentioned.” Shamilla stood and walked to his desk, spry despite his age. When he returned, he was holding two leather scrolls and the ship-shaped pipe. Using the stem of the pipe, he pointed to the chair at the opposite end of the table from him. “Come here,” he said, unrolling one of the bundles flat. “Let me show you.”
Andaris stood, walked to the table, and had a seat, his expression guarded.
“This is a map of the entire area,” Shamilla told him, “everything from the Blue Mist Mountains to the Barren Sea, and nowhere upon it will you find any of the places you just described.”
Andaris’ mind spun as he stared at all the unfamiliar lines and symbols burned into the leather.
Shamilla pushed it aside and unrolled the other one. “You are apparently farther from home than you realize. This is a map of the world. Does anything on this one ring a bell?”
Andaris saw one large continent surrounded on all sides by ocean. He had seen a map of the world before, a map brittle with age preserved beneath a thick pane of glass, but the few hand-scrawled names on its surface had been faded and nearly impossible to read. One thing was certain though: There had been several continents divided by vast bodies of water--not just one. “Only one continent,” he whispered.
“How many were you expecting?” Shamilla asked.
“I don’t understand,” Andaris said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Shamilla’s eyes filled with pity. “I must confess, I don’t understand either, but if you are willing, I know of someone who might. His name is Lindolin Fendale, a very wise man and an old friend of mine. He lives on the outskirts of Stonegarden, a large town about a day north of here.”
Andaris stared at the map in numb silence, reading all the strange names. Rogar, Sokerra, Mindere, Nelvin, the Great Waste. It was all wrong, and yet…something scratched at the back of his mind. Had he heard the names somewhere before, or at least variations of them, perhaps in the Shallae? He sat with his head in his hands, searching for an explanation.
Shamilla leaned back in his chair and lit the ship-shaped pipe. “You know, Andaris,” he said between puffs, “I’m overdue for a visit anyway. Tomorrow we will call on Lindolin and see if we can’t find you some answers.”
The air filled with the gently sweet smell of vanilla tobacco, reminding Andaris of home. “I’m grateful,” he replied, “and I know it’s difficult to believe, but I’m really not crazy.”
Shamilla pointed to him with the stem of his pipe and stood up. “I wouldn’t help you if I thought you were.”
Andaris closed his eyes, massaging his temples with his fingers.
Shamilla tucked his pipe into the front pocket of his vest, walked to where Andaris was sitting, and patted him on the shoulder. “Well, my boy, how about some sleep? There’s a Minderian bedroll in the corner over there. I can vouch for its comfort.”
Andaris stood and knuckled his back, towering over his host by a good foot. “I don’t think,” he said with a yawn, “its comfort will matter much tonight.”
“We’ll both feel better in the morning,” Shamilla promised.
Andaris woke to the sound of Shamilla humming merrily from the kitchen, smiling as the room filled with the delightful aroma of cooking bacon.
“Good, you’re up,” said the old man. “Just in time, too. Have a seat at the table and I’ll fix you a plate. There’s plenty, so don’t be bashful.” This turned out to be quite an understatement. Besides bacon, there were scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, smoked sausages, and golden brown biscuits with sweet butter and strawberry jam.
After breakfast, Shamilla seated himself in one of the chairs beside the hearth, unfastened the bottom button of his vest, lit his pipe, and began to contentedly puff away. “Some storm clouds moved in during the night,” he told Andaris. “I’m afraid we may have to delay our trip to Stonegarden until tomorrow.”
Andaris walked to one of the windows. He’d been so preoccupied by the food that he’d failed to notice how dim of a morning it was. He looked out the wavy glass at the dark clouds and lightly falling rain, shaking his head at the distant rumble of thunder. “I suppose it can’t be helped,” he said with a sigh, turning back around. “I regret the delay, but I’d hate to get caught in another storm.” He patted his full stomach and managed a smile. “Besides, a little more rest might do me some good.”
The two spent the remainder of the day tucked nice and snug inside the cottage, playing cards and talking as it rained…and rained…and rained. For lunch, Shamilla served ham sandwiches with apple slices and cheese curds, followed by fresh vegetables from the greenhouse—crisp lettuce, tart radishes, and some of the sweetest carrots that Andaris had ever tasted.
There appeared to be no end to Shamilla’s hospitality, or for that matter to his food stores. Quite literally, Andaris wanted for nothing. When he was hungry, and sometimes even when he wasn’t, he ate. When he was thirsty, he drank, having
his choice between fresh water, goat’s milk, linberry juice, and port wine.
Indeed, Andaris was having such an enjoyable stay that for a while he was able to forget his troubles. Shamilla was an easy fellow to talk to—good tempered and knowledgeable on a variety of subjects. Andaris learned, for instance, that he could distinguish a male red-backed sparrow from a female simply by the length and thickness of its plumage.
While Shamilla prepared dinner, Andaris and Jade wrestled on the ground, playing tug of war with a piece of leather that looked suspiciously like one of Shamilla’s old belts. Ever since Andaris had given her a name, she had seemed eager to please him, eager for his attention and approval. Fortunately for Jade, Andaris liked dogs.
After a delicious dinner of chopped round steak smothered in mushroom gravy, Andaris stretched out on the floor, propped his head against Jade’s stomach, and closed his eyes, listening happily as Shamilla recounted the adventures of his youth. Soothed by the steady cadence of Shamilla’s voice, head rising and falling to the steady cadence of Jade’s breathing, Andaris drifted off to sleep.
New Friends
Andaris was slumbering more soundly than he had in weeks when he became aware of Jade licking his face and whining. “What?” he asked with a groan, reluctant to come fully conscious. “All right, all right, I’m awake.” Even in the half-light of dawn, he could see that she was upset, that something had really frightened her.
Still whining, she scampered to the chair in which Shamilla had apparently spent the night, and began clawing at one of its legs. Andaris shivered beneath the warm blankets, heart filling with dread. Something was very wrong here. The air seemed almost too thick to breathe, stifling and heavy with foreboding. He wanted to pull the blankets over his head and squeeze shut his eyes until the feeling passed, but Jade’s whining would not let him. It became more and more insistent, so full of sorrow, until finally Andaris could stand it no longer.
When he sat up, Jade went quiet, walked over to him, licked his hand, whimpered, and walked back to the chair. Andaris got to his feet and slowly followed, feeling a strong sense of detachment, body numb, mind lost in fog.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 4