'WELCOME. PLEASE ENTER'
“There was no writing a minute ago,” Lar said, his squeaky voice even squeakier with fear.
Palustric looked sternly at his friend. “There’s no use being afraid. We’ve got to defend our souls, save—”
“Hush!” Adam warned him. “Pride will be listening. This is the Theatre of Illusion, I’m sure he can hear every word. I don’t want him to have an advantage. He mustn’t know who we met this morning.” He raised his voice, “You would like to know, wouldn’t you?”
There was a moment’s silence, then the walls began to ring with horrible laughter. There was something chilling and malign in the sound, so Lar gripped Palustric’s arm, but the dwarf shook him off angrily as the hideous noise died away in its echo.
“So, I was right,” Adam said in a shocked whisper. “We must be careful with our words.”
Palustric’s face was dark with suppressed rage. He hadn’t appreciated the mocking laughter; indeed, he was quite willing to give his own life to save the dwarves’ beloved Key.
“Come on, Adam,” he growled and strode towards the door with the golden letters.
“No, Palustric!” Lar squeaked. “Not that door! Don’t you see, that’s where he wants us to go.”
Palustric halted. “Which then?” and as he spoke, the letters flitted derisively from one door to another.
“You choose, Palustric,” Adam said quietly because he could see that his friend was almost beside himself with rage.
“This one.” Palustric kicked open the door and was inside so quickly that it forced the other two to dash after him. They crashed into his back because the dwarf had stopped, astonished, in his tracks.
They were inside a cave: a Dwarfish cave such as from the Old Days. The smooth, white floor cupped them like the palm of a hand, whose fingers rose about them in alabaster stalagmites. The cave roof domed over them, and its stalactite fingers seemed ready to come alive to pick one of them up. The three friends looked around in wonder since each stalagmite and stalactite ended in a carving, where a dwarf’s head was worked in the alabaster, its white face always with the same smug smile.
Lanterns spluttered smokily on the walls while the weak light cast from their flames caused bright yellow gemstones and veins of precious ores to glitter and sparkle in the rock. They formed a recurring pattern around the cave wall. When Adam looked carefully, he noticed that they formed letters—a word—which, at different angles and heights, repeatedly spelt the word F-L-A-U-N-T-R-I-C. Armour stood under every lantern, each with fine jewelled weapons. The three friends went over to inspect the workmanship.
“Magnificent,” Palustric’s voice was full of respect.
Adam drew the sword, at once noticing the incised letters along the blade. He read the scrolled writing with difficulty - F-L-A-U-N-T-R-I-C. Adam’s eye passed to the pommel where the same carved face of the stalagmites smiled smugly up at him. Slightly irritated, Adam thrust the sword back in its sheath and went to check the others, which sure enough were all the same. In some places, tapestries and banners draped the walls and, of course, stitched into the design in various colours was the image of the same smug dwarf and the same scrolled name.
Palustric felt the quality of the cloth, and his eyes lit up with admiration at the craftsmanship. He knew that only dwarves, indeed, only dwarves from the Old Days were capable of such perfect creation. He, too, was a dwarf, and at moments like this, he was proud to be so. His chest swelled as he repeatedly muttered, “Magnificent, truly magnificent!”
Adam read the same name for the hundredth time and burst out, “But who is this Flauntric?”
“I!” boomed a voice.
The three friends spun round.
“He wasn't there before!” Lar squeaked.
The flickering flames lit the smug face of a dwarf who made an exaggerated bow; he straightened up, so the friends got a good look at him, shifting their gaze from his face to the nearest sculpted stalagmite. The face and smile were identical.
“Welcome to Flauntric's cave,” the dwarf boomed.
“It-it's magnificent!” Palustric enthused and offered his hand to the stranger, adding, “I'm a dwarf too.”
“So, I see, my friend!”
“But is this all your work?” Palustric waved a hand.
“Of course.”
“But-but…it’s magnificent!”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Only a dwarf could craft such wonders! I wish I were as skilled as you, Flauntric.” Palustric’s eyes shone with a strange new glow.
“Ay, but you aren’t,” the dwarf smiled even more smugly. “There’s only one Flauntric. I’m unique, you see. Now if you like…” the creature studied Palustric’s eager face, “I might consider taking you on as my apprentice—”
Palustric's heart beat furiously, and his eyes widened. Gladly, he was about to accept this offer when Lar stepped forward.
The pixy stared up into Flauntric’s smug, bearded face: “The lowest chimneys make the most smoke, is it not so, dwarf?” he said as fiercely as his squeaky pixy voice would allow.
Flauntric looked as if he’d been slapped hard across the face and faded away before their eyes, along with all his cave and trappings. They found themselves once more in a simple, empty room of the theatre.
Adam, delighted, squeezed his friend’s bony shoulder, and they both looked at Palustric. The dwarf’s eyes had lost their fanatical glow; indeed, he seemed to be waking from a deep sleep.
“Where are we, what’s happened?”
“You were about to be taken by Pride, Palustric,” Adam said gently. “Luckily, Lar saw through him.”
“His real name isn’t Flauntric at all,” Lar said. “That was Ostentation, Master, one of the vices of Pride.”
Adam laughed and patted Palustric on the back. “You wanted to be ostentatious, too, Palustric! Better watch out in future!”
Palustric looked confused and scowled. He wasn’t sure whether Adam was serious or not. He felt as if he’d been sleepwalking and, what’s more, he was oversensitive to criticism.
“In any case,” Adam added, “Emily isn’t guilty of ostentation because she isn’t in this room. And we’ve survived the first test. Just six to go, but we’re going to have to keep our wits about us, and above all, we have to use reason, just like our friend who can’t be named said. Let’s go!” and he led them back into the red and gold, half-moon entrance hall to try another door.
Palustric was the first to notice. “Look,” he counted the doors aloud: “one-two-three-four-five-six! There are only six doors now, we’ve got rid of one of them!”
24
“And we’ll get rid of all the others, too,” Lar said half under his breath, but in a very determined, if squeaky, tone.
“Yes, well, we’ll have to be on our guard,” Adam warned. “See how easy it is for Pride to take hold of one of us.”
They looked doubtfully from one door to another. Once more, the gold letters flashed:
WELCOME. PLEASE ENTER
on one of the doors.
“Not that one then,” Palustric growled.
“Yes, that one!” Adam said. “Pride is bluffing.”
They opened the door and slipped inside, at once finding themselves deep in a beechwood. Orange and russet leaves that crackled under their feet littered the ground. As Adam spoke, a startled jay flew off calling skaaak, skaaak in alarm between the trunks which reached up tall towards the almost completely hidden sky. “Strange, you wouldn’t expect to find Pride in a place like this,” Adam said. They walked over a carpet of crackling leaves, which with the occasional snapping twig, were the only sounds to break the woodland silence. Lar stiffened.
“A horse, Master,” he said, head cocked with a pointed ear turned to where Adam was staring at the empty wood.
“Are you sure, Lar?” Palustric asked.
“Dwarves are hard of hearing, Master!”
Palustric snorted.
“I
can't hear anything, either, Lar,” Adam strained his ears. They moved on, trying to be light-footed (difficult for Palustric). As usual, Adam’s eyes served him better than his ears as glimpsed the rider through the trees in the distance.
Before long, the horseman reined in just ahead of them. He was a human figure with a lordly air, finely dressed in a quilted jacket, richly worked with gold thread. A broad leather strap bound his left wrist, protecting it from the talons of a hooded hawk perched there. With his other hand, the rider flicked his blue cloak away from the sword which hung at his side. He tossed back his blond hair, his black eyes boring into them down his straight nose.
The travellers searched in vain for any kindness there, finding only harshness and unfriendliness.
His white stallion stamped the ground restlessly with a hoof as its rider snapped: “How dare you cross my land, villeins?”
The three friends stared at him in shocked silence.
“Idiots! Have you lost your tongues? Or are you so stupid you can’t string two words together?” he sneered.
His rudeness was too much for Adam, who stood up straight and put his hand to his sword-hilt. “Not at all!” he said boldly. “We aren’t villeins or idiots, and we’re not simple either. But one thing we are, which you aren't, is good-mannered!”
“Ha!” the rider's black eyes flashed. “I shall take great pleasure in having your tongue torn from your peasant’s mouth before I watch you hang! Worm! Nobody insults Lord Hubris and lives!”
“And nobody speaks to Lord Adam in that way…”
“Ha!” The rider's lip curled, he laughed scornfully. “Now, I see I am wasting my time with a half-wit.” He took his hand from his sword and gathered his reins. “On your way, poor crazed vermin!”
“Come on, Adam.” Palustric anxiously took his friend’s arm, but Adam shook him off angrily.
“Leave it be, Master!” Lar squeaked urgently. “We should go!”
“No!” Adam drew his sword, his eyes flashed. “Lord Adam is going to teach Lord Hubris a lesson—”
“Ha! Lord Adam,” the other sneered, “but what a fine lord, dressed in rags and on foot!”
“I have a horse.”
“Oh, ay?”
“Blitz!” Adam called as Lar and Palustric gaped in astonishment, which was nothing compared to their amazement when the black stallion galloped into the clearing and halted in a swirl of leaves. Adam climbed lightly into his saddle and turned Blitz to face Lord Hubris, who was commanding Palustric to hold his hawk.
Lar looked dismayed as Lord Hubris drew his sword. He realised he would have to intervene quickly; otherwise, his master’s soul would be lost. The little pixy bravely threw himself between the two horses and, pointing at Lord Hubris, at the top of his squeaky voice, yelled, “The less noble the heart, the higher the head, is it not so, my lord?”
Lord Hubris’s eyes closed, and a frown creased his noble brow; the last they saw of his horse and he was his curled, mocking mouth trying to make a reply before it, too, faded away.
Adam was sitting on the floor of a bare room, looking stunned. Of course, Blitz wasn’t there any longer because, in reality, he’d never been with them: just another part of the illusion.
“W-what happened?” Adam asked, looking around in confusion.
“You were haughtier than Lord Hubris himself, Adam,” Palustric told his friend.
“Who?”
“Master, Pride sent Haughtiness to you. It’s his most terrible vice, ay, haughtiness almost took your soul. I’m afraid I was a little slow to recognise him.”
Adam scratched his head. “Well, I don’t remember any of that, in any case,” he said proudly. “I don’t think I’m—” He stopped himself. “Oh dear,” he smiled ruefully, “now I see!” He smiled sheepishly.
Palustric slapped his friend on the back. “I like you like this, Adam. I didn’t recognise you in the woods! Come on, let’s risk another door!”
25
They moved through the hall without even stopping to notice that there were only five doors, but rushed straight in through another, into a very small room where a dwarf was painting at an easel. He put his brush down as they came in and wiped his hands. His thick black beard and bushy eyebrows, his hair which stuck out in all directions, all made him look crazy.
“Good day! Good day! What brings you to Bragtric's Studio? Of course, I know!” He smiled slyly. “After all, my reputation is worldwide. I'll bet you've travelled a long way to see me, am I right? Yes, of course, I am! This portrait is my latest masterpiece. What a portrait! Come a little closer, look! Admire the superfine technique. Magnificent, don’t you think? Nobody in the universe can match my command of colour and perfection of line. Wouldn’t you almost think he was breathing? He’s so lifelike, isn’t he? Naturally, it all depends on preparation, even if a talent like mine is inborn.” Bragtric took a deep breath and moved to a stool behind the easel, where he sat down and began again: “You see, only a truly-deep knowledge of art, I mean, a total understanding—an absolute mastery of method—allows one to become the greatest living artist in the world. Unfortunately, many artists are so scarce in preparation. I, for example, know the name of every colour that exists. There are 7,542 colours in the world. One hundred fifty-eight are hues of red: there are scarlet, burgundy, vermilion, poppy, cochineal…” his voice droned on and on, as Lar and Adam politely followed the artist’s lesson in red.
Palustric, meanwhile, moved stealthily to the easel, where picking up a brush, he added a perfectly detailed teardrop to the portrait’s eye. Then he made his way silently back to Lar’s side.
Bragtric was just finishing reds: “…magenta, that's 157 and CRIMSON makes 158!” He stood up. “Now, if you look closely at the portrait, how many reds can you see?” He crossed over. “Go on! Guess! I'll bet you'll come up with a ridiculous number. Only a real artist, a true master of his craft, would be able to discern reality from art. There are so many subtleties in it – that’s why it’s called art, you see, it’s artful!”
He glanced at the portrait and brushed away the teardrop from the subject’s eye. But of course, he smeared the wet paint over its nose. His jaw dropped while the three friends burst out laughing.
Bragtric’s face turned red with anger. “Steady on, Bragtric,” Adam chuckled. “You’ll create the 159th shade of red like that!”
Tears of mirth ran down Palustric’s cheeks while Lar stepped forward: “The man who is full of himself is empty of all else, is it not so, foolish dwarf?”
Bragtric was just crossing the boundary between red with rage and purple with fury when he disappeared and the friends found themselves laughing in an empty room.
“Ah!” sighed Adam, “Emily wasn’t victim of that vice, either.”
“None of us got caught by it,” Palustric said triumphantly, “but which vice was it? Boastfulness?”
“Ay,” Lar nodded, “it was Conceit.”
“But how did you manage to paint such a perfect teardrop, Palustric? I didn’t know you were an artist!” Adam said.
Palustric puffed up his chest and was about to say something, but then he stopped and looked ashamed, his chest lowered noticeably. “Oh dear,” he said, “I was about to say something worthy of Bragtric! I’ll bet Pride would have snaffled my soul if I’d said it! I’m not such a good artist, Adam, you know!”
The three friends laughed together, and then Adam added thoughtfully, “I’m not sure I would recognise these vices without you, Lar. Keep your head clear; otherwise, we’ll become enslaved by one of them.”
26
“Let’s take the first one,” Adam said wearily. “In any case, we can’t hope to find Emily until we’ve got rid of another three.”
As they opened the door, a bell tinkled since they were inside a hat shop. The walls were lined with shelves piled with hats of every colour, shape and style. Lar’s slightly squinting, yellow eyes shone at the sight of so much leather and felt headwear.
A small figure
emerged from a back room and stood smiling behind a low counter. He was a shaggy, brown-skinned person, dressed all in brown, too. Adam noticed with surprise that the little wrinkled person’s hands had no fingers, as this was the first time that he had been close to a brownie.
“Hello,” the brownie said in a very friendly voice. “Allow me to show you some hats. They’re all of the finest quality, I assure you.”
Those peculiar hands nimbly took a hat from a shelf and put it on.
“There, how do I look?” he asked, eyeing them expectantly. Since none of them answered, he picked up a mirror with a handle from the counter and studied himself, turning his head this way and that, adjusting the leather hat over his pointed ears, patting it better into place. “Mm! Perhaps it’s not quite me – is that it?” His brown, slatted eyes moved anxiously from face to face. “I know!” He snatched off the hat and exchanged it for another flatter type. “There, how about this? What’s it like in profile?” He turned his head.
“It quite suits you,” Lar said uncertainly.
“I’m sure they all suit me well,” the brownie said touchily. “Look, this one is rather comely!” The little brownie pulled a wide-brimmed, floppy hat over his head, adjusting it carefully. Adam smiled as the little shopkeeper pulled his pointed ears through the holes in the brim at either side, specially created for the purpose. The brownie looked apprehensively at the boy. “Why are you smiling, doesn’t it flatter me?” He rushed over to a full-length mirror and studied himself from various angles. “Oh, dear!” For the next five minutes, he kept changing hats and posing.
Adam and Palustric were so absorbed by the brownie’s performance that they hadn’t noticed Lar trying on several hats behind them. When the brownie looked in the pixy’s direction and said: “Oh, ay, that one suits you, or my name isn’t Fopp!” Adam and Palustric realised from Lar’s sparkling eyes and strange posturing that he was steadily being drawn by Pride. Pixies wear hats all the time. Come to think of it, Adam had never seen Lar without his little brown skullcap.
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