The Questory of Root Karbunkulus - Quill

by Kamilla Reid

  “Isn’t it a bit late for that? I mean, aren’t the festivities tomorrow?”

  The girl eyeballed Lian. “Thus the words ‘last minute.’”

  Lian got all dithered. Twice she’d upped him now. Twice! “Well, like I said, I don’t think I have anything that would…”

  “Woah!” the girl had found target. She dodged past Lian toward something he was sure was off limits. “Those are awesome! Where’djya get ‘em?”

  Lian dropped his annoyance and felt a slight nudge in the direction of pride. He saw that the girl was facing his Trunkaptre, a look of complete awe on her face. He sidled over, thrilled to launch into a detailed explanation.

  “That’s my…”

  “I have never seen such cute pajamas!” The girl gushed.

  Lian’s entire ego deflated under his breath.

  Then….a most alarming sound. A sound that utterly confounded Lian as it pitched into the realms of surreal. It was the unmistakable din of…egads!… girl bonding!

  “Oh, you like them?” Root’s eyes were buoyant.

  “Yeah! They’re awesome! Is that Oinkitty shedding?”

  “Yes!” Root and Estrella both cried at once.

  And then it began. The racing squeals and giggles and chatter of full-blown Girl Talk. Lian and Dwyn stepped back in horror as their friend’s PJ’s bounced between stripes and polka dots, to the beat of a body language altogether foreign. Seriously, how many times did they have to hug? It was just…wrong.

  In the end, the PJ’s became both, the top being stripes. This finality led to a group-hug the likes of which made the boys tilt their heads like confused dogs.

  And then Root retrieved The Hat. The controversial hat that had created quite a rift between her and the boys, who couldn’t stop laughing at it. She placed it on her head. Tamik looked it over carefully. But in the end her nose wrinkled and her head shook like a true pro. Root nodded bravely and tossed the hat as if it were a banana peel. The boys were stunned. She’d never reacted like that to them. In fact she’d lambasted a few not very nice words their way if they remembered correctly.

  Well, Lian had had it. He gathered up a big gulp of Guy Air and marched toward the Gaggle, a quick pat of encouragement coming from his Guy Friend. With chest heaved Lian began.

  It was the box that stopped him mid-march, cuffing the doorframe impatiently. It had many more rooms to collect from. Indeed, they’d only gotten to three so far. Hupcha, hupcha!

  “Yeah, yeah!” Tamik looked sharply at her four-sided accomplice. “So, I guess you don’t have anything that might be cool on a float, then?” She turned back to Lian.

  “There is nothing that…”

  “Oh, I’m sure there’s something you can give her, dear.” Estrella piped in. “In all this …stuff, there’s got to be…How ‘bout this?” She held up something spiky and bright orange.

  “Fine.” Lian sighed. It had been an experiment gone wrong anyhow.

  His mother threw it in the box and began a heads-down hunt through Lian’s room. The box followed her as she held up various things of wild design.

  Lian fell in line with his mother. “No. Nope. Uh uh. Fine. Not on your life. Oh, alright.”

  An ear-piercing roar froze everyone in their tracks. Everyone except Lian who went to a corner of his room to turn off a recording device of some kind. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’m studying various calls of forest animals. That was a Spotted Glutch.”

  “No, it wasn’t. That was a Wayfaring Keyop.”

  Lian was stunned. He stared at the girl, anxious to yank her ponytail right out of its stupid spout. “No,” he said patronizingly “it’s not. It’s a Spotted Glutch from the…”

  “ I know where a Glutch comes from but that was not a Glutch. It was a Wayfaring Keyop, which I might add can only be found…”

  “I know where a Keyop can be found! And it’s not on that recording!”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Fine! I’ll bet you a zillion spades!”

  “You can’t bet zillions!”

  “It’s a Zombany!” said Dwyn, reading from the recording’s cover with its collage of animal pictures and the words Native Beasts and Fowl. “…of the lower east tip of the Skinly peninsula.”

  Lian and Tamik blinked. And humphed. Then Tamik playfully thunked him on the shoulder and laughed. “Can I have that when you’re done with it?”

  Lian got all dithered again. His mouth came up blank. He rubbed his shoulder.

  Estrella Fuffleteez held up her son’s Sea Light, returning him to his senses and a look of shock.

  “But it’s just an old flashlight!” His mother reasoned.

  Dwyn edged back. That was no flashlight. It

  was the very thing that had saved their lives from the Beast of Naskaw. He watched Lian grit his teeth and launch into another angry march, this one intent on escorting anything Girl off the premises.

  But, for the second time that day, poor Lian was stopped mid-stomp. This time it was by an ugly loud splat that landed upon his window.

  All heads turned to see a big, juicy, exploded Widow Squash bomb slop steadily down the glass pane.

  That was all it took. The scale tipped back into testosterone territory as Lian and Dwyn tore for the window and sprung it open.

  “Whoever did that, you’re gonna pay!”

  “Show yourself, you coward so I can kick your butt!”

  “It’s Kor,” said a matter of fact voice. They all turned to Tamik.

  “How do you know?” Lian asked suspiciously.

  “He’s got Invisibility.”

  Jaws dropped. Lights went on in brains. Kor. Invisibility. Of course.

  Another Widow Squash bomb splatted, just missing them. But the pungent, sour smell of its insides quickly clogged the room.

  The boys seemed to have forgotten their company, amongst them Lian’s mother for they fell at the window with an intensity of curses that would offend the most liberal of ears.

  And, for the third time that day, poor Lian was stopped. Or perhaps, a more telling description would be squelched…as the guts of a new Widow Squash bomb dripped in gagging clots down his face. This time there were no gender gaps as Root and, to her surprise Tamik, Kor’s own teammate ran to the window and heaved out an even more colourful assortment of xxx-rated language.

  Estrella Fuffleteez shook her head. It’s not like she hadn’t heard it all before. Or done it all before. She looked at the box and winked, returning to the matter of donations. The box happily accepted the odds ‘n ends of things she deemed suitable and soon felt a nice fullness in its belly. When the window and the four teens finally clapped shut, Estrella’s donation work was done and the box was waiting at the door.

  Tamik walked over to it, content in her participation and smiled. Dwyn, Estrella and especially Root smiled back. Lian was still huffing and puffing and dripping.

  “By the way, I like your Trunkaptre but you might want to add a little Glungwart to the tips, keeps ‘em oiled” Tamik boldly suggested to Lian just before she left.

  “My…what? You knew what it was?” Lian said astonished as his eyes landed on the pile of intricate wires on his bed.

  “Well, thanks for the stuff. See you guys at the gala tonight! That is if there is one…!”

  “What!”

  But she was already gone. The same way she’d come. Like a whirlwind.

  6

  SPECIAL GUESTS

  How does one explain to three hundred and fifty guests that there is nothing to be a guest at?

  Master Hillywur Gub was on the verge of total panic. The Quest Gala was hours away, as was his serving staff by now. Most of which had taken their uniforms with them. Certainly he could understand their frustrations. No one likes to work within the confines of a Krux. Anything done is undone and things go missing or never quite turn out as planned in the first place. But surely, if everyone just learned to accept this minor limitation, work around it, then things could run a lot smoother. Yes, the cold
spots moved around but it’s not like the staff couldn’t sense them and compensate. They had legs, didn’t they?

  It was all so maddening. Hillywur Gub had really felt that they’d been making headway, that they’d become proactive with the Krux to the point that it seemed less evident. But this morning all that headway came to a crashing halt. This morning the entire garden court went cold and all the servers lost their hair.

  Master Gub had prudently suggested they just step away and wait for the cold to dissipate. But, oh no. This apparently was the last straw. While the staff did step away, they did not come back. In fact they kept right on stepping… outside, past the castle boundaries toward any job that was “better ‘n this crap!”

  Master Hillywur Gub stood, stiff as his over-starched dungarees, desperate, left on his own with nothing but a breeze to cool his newly bald head.

  So it was pure luck or even fate if you will that The Lord Sclerous Players showed up at his door.

  “Ah, good sir!” the leader had said. “We are the Lord Sclerous Players and we would like to perform our play of Bartimus Flat and other Fanciful Tales for the pleasure of you and your guests!”

  Master Gub gawked at the speaker and then at the rest of the troupe. He’d actually heard of the Lord Sclerous Players but had no idea they were Skullks. Not that there was anything wrong with Skullks. So they were skeletons, so what? They had a right to live like anyone else. Only Hillywur Gub was always curious about how they ate. As he thought this, his eyes strolled to the speakers belly but a bright red tunic with a yellow sash covered it. This of course furthered his curiosity over the necessity of Skullk attire at all. Clearly they had no….erm… bits to keep private.

  The Skullk shifted. He hated curiosity. Why did he have to explain himself all the time? He was a Skullk, that’s all. He’d chosen to abandon his skin and flesh for the airier, freer life of simple bones. Why was that such a novelty to people still? It’s not like there haven’t been Skullks around. Indeed, they’ve been here even longer than Nodmins, at least in this particular area. And yet, here again, the despised eyeballing from an ignorant stranger.

  “You like our costumes?” he said at last, anxious to keep the hand that could potentially feed them tonight.

  This brought Hillywur Gub back to attention and his list of more important things to do than becoming a theatrical producer. He had the door halfway slammed when a leg stopped him. Or rather a femur.

  “We are most assuredly the finest actors this side of DréAmm.”

  “I’m sure you are.” With Gub’s next attempt at rejection, an entire meta-carpal intervened.

  “Are you certain, sir? We are those that live to perform, certain of our destiny in this. It would serve us well, if we could serve you.”

  Serve?

  Hillywur Gub got an idea. He stared into the cavernous sockets of the troupe and smiled.

  Not every one of the Lord Sclerous Players liked the idea of interactive dinner theatre, especially the added duties of setting up and serving a garden court full of guests. But as the director had reminded, they would at least have a full house for which to perform, not to mention free room and board for the night.

  “But what if someone asks me something. What are my lines?” asked one nervous Skullk in a Medician costume. The director told her to simply say “I am not at liberty to answer” and with that she set off to the process of memorization.

  It had not been so easy to convince the lead player, who had determined that his character, the Silken Oxback, Bartimus Flat would not resort to such denigration. “Alas” he cried out melodramatically, taking his theatrical speech into his own daily life and thereby losing much in the way of friendship. “The Silken Oxback twas king of the forest! He hath not endure-ed such a fate as serving maiden. T’would be an abomination.”

  “He would if it was the only means to feed himself,” said the director through clenched teeth.

  “Neigh! He shall rather choose death.”

  “So be it,” said the director. “But I’ll have my costume back first.”

  It wasn’t even a great costume, fairly cheap and the fur in no way resembled the lustrous strands of a real Silken Oxback. But needless to say the fake Silken Oxback shut up and set plates.

  Hillywur Gub watched the tables and chairs and arrangements of his garden court slowly assemble into place. It was starting to look presentable again. All except the giant Fire Blossom Tree, of which he would attend to himself, ensuring the honour of its special guests.

  Ernest Skubblenob squinted over the gold and green invitation, still enjoying his name beside the words ‘Special Guest’. Secondly, enjoying the word ‘Gala’ and best of all ‘Feast’. His stomach rumbled as he lovingly put the invitation back down.

  He had been looking for something.

  He dug deep into his pants pockets and pulled out the liners. Nothing.

  Holding a chair he leaned down, his rickety old knees gasping in the effort, and scanned under the table again. Nothing.

  Hmmm. He could have sworn…

  His long bony fingers drummed and then the Tempometre caught his eye. He had polished it to the lustre of a baby sun. A Sunling, he fancied and picked it up for the eleventh time that day. The slim brick of platinum fit with perfection in his palm and his thumb delighted in the smooth glide across its face. With nothing of circuitry or knobbery or other such bells and whistles, the Tempometre fell squarely within Ernest Skubblenob’s well-preserved opinion that less is more.

  But the Tempometre was not what Ernest Skubblenob had been looking for. As he remembered this, he set it down and returned to his original search. Perhaps the luggage?

  He rose from his worn out wooden chair and aimed for an even more worn out suitcase. It lay like a big bruised sandwich on his bed, only a few paces away. Ernest Skubblenob’s old body took to these paces with great care. Great, cautious, leaden, slower than molasses care. The kind of care that would have been painful to watch.

  When at last he arrived he bent over his suitcase and found it locked. A bit of confusion set in between his ears. Where was the key? Ernest Skubblenob began to pat himself down. He dug deep into his pants pockets and pulled out the liners. Nothing.

  Tsk, tsk. Now two things were lost.

  Ernest Skubblenob shuffled and patted and rummaged around for a good length of an hour until he entirely forgot what he was shuffling and patting and rummaging around for. He sat down. And spied his Tempometre on the table. It found its way into his palm once more. This time Ernest Skubblenob brought along a tune. He didn’t know the name of the tune, only the melody, a cheery hum that strengthened and weakened with the rhythm of his aged breathing.

  He decided that he should probably pack the Tempometre for the journey. But where was his suitcase? He looked in the fridge. Hmmmm...There was no suitcase but a lovely pudding smiled up at him. His shaky hands cupped it and pulled it out; this too accompanied with a hum. The bowl was set on the table and now all he needed was a…Where was a spoon?

  The melody paused. The cogs of his ancient brain creaked into gear. Perhaps too fast, for they shifted the old man far past tasty pudding into more practical lobes, like getting dressed. Yes, a grand idea. The pudding was abandoned while the efforts of finding his suit were soon put to another breathy hum. He eventually found his closet, right where he had last left it and opened the door. The suit hung on a hanger. It was the only thing in this closet and it looked grateful to be visited.

  The black jacket covered Ernest Skubblenob like a tarp over a Skullk. The width sagged past his shoulders and his hands drowned in the long sleeves. He looked for his mirror and found it quite by accident, having thought he suddenly had a guest. A twin no less! He laughed at the silly mistake and posed for inspection. Here he discovered the slackened red bow tie. Can’t have that. He tangled it to further humming, the odd lyric venturing out and about.

  Twist and tie, tie and twist,

  flick of the...flick of the…flick of the wrist.<
br />
  Once completed the reflection was admired. Ernest Skubblenob’s long pointed nose rounded out at the tip with a blush of pink. He rubbed his hand over his bald forehead and across a ring of white hair. A couple burps of white fluff occupied his eyebrows and further down he realized he was missing his… where the heck did he put them?

  He didn’t find his glasses until he stepped on them. Now they rested on the end of his nose magnifying the brown eyes to cartoon point. The new crack in the glass was hardly noticeable. Ernest Skubblenob smiled.

  And noticed….Dag nabbit! Where were his…

  He was still looking for his teeth when a knock arrived at his door. When there was no answer, the caller rapped again. And then three more times. Finally, the handle turned.

  “Ernest?” Jorab peeked his head in and upon spying his friend spoke louder. “Ernest?”

  Ernest Skubblenob turned mid-hum and spotted the familiar braided beard and warm eyes of his dear friend. His teeth fell from memory.

  “Jorab!” he shuffled forward with extended hands. A lengthy embrace was soon followed by Jorab’s swift portering skills. Within moments, he had the bowtie amended, the checklist checked and the suitcase opened, paving the way for any last minute items.

  The one thing that Ernest Skubblenob did not seem to ever forget was his Tempometre. He scooped it up gingerly and paused to decide its best keepsake locale, the suitcase or his pocket. He leaned most comfortably in the direction of his pocket, hating the idea of the distant suitcase. But, if he wasn’t careful it could fall out of his pocket…

  “What’s that you got there, Ernest?” Jorab asked after the silver object.

  The eyes of Ernest Skubblenob lit up like stars. “This, my friend is what will help my dear charges win this race. This is a Tempometre!”

  Ernest Skubblenob was not a bonafide inventor by industry standards. Not that he hadn’t spent the greater portion of his life trying. It was just that most of his inventions hadn’t quite succeeded in their intents. And if one were to be really frank one would admit that in actuality none had quite succeeded. But that didn’t stop Ernest Skubblenob, nor had the many complaints and arrests. He was determined to invent. That’s what he did. After work and on holidays and often in the wee hours of the morning.