Dark Tales From Dandelion

1

Fiona and the others ran as they donned the phase masks she had grabbed from the armory before leaving the Manor House. Carter wore one deva-tar-ta mask, Fiona the other, and Quint the decrepit old beggar, which Fiona thought would be easily managed by one whose bones were as old as Quint’s. Pip didn’t need a mask as most sesnickie looked alike. As soon as Fiona had put on the deva-tar-ta mask, it spread itself slowly like melted candle wax down and around her entire body. Her skin became the turquoise color of the deva-tar-ta, her hair pulled itself into the mask. Her ears became holes on the sides of her head, her fingers grew webbing in between them, her eyes had two sets of lids now, one set to shut completely and the other to provide a transparent barrier between her eyes and the water that the deva-tar-ta lived in a little over half of the time. The phase mask did all of this while she and the others were fully clothed, for which Fiona was grateful. She thought the turquoise skin color went well with her green pants and cloak. Fiona’s legs felt more powerful as though she could run faster and jump farther, and indeed she could as she had tried both while running across the plain towards the mouth of the Endynas Valley. Quint, however, seemed to be struggling with his new physique somewhat and he ended up jumping up onto Pip’s back and riding the sesnickie the rest of the way to the valley. Carter followed along by Fiona, babbling away but still somehow doing what was asked of him.

They were running at a good speed; Pip was quite a bit faster than humans without carrying any weight on their back, but the decrepit old man couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds, so Pip was keeping pace with the deva-tar-tas that were Carter and Fiona.

They ran downhill toward the valley. The surrounding landscape, aside from the river of grass they ran on, had a patchy design for miles around. There were trees here and there, rocks jutting up out of the earth like giants had played a game of throw-stones with the valley as a target. As they came within two miles of the valley head, she was humbled by the size of these monoliths that guarded the path. The two mountains standing at the entrance had to be at least four miles high and the range behind them seemed to grow taller as it went on. Fiona realized she had stopped in her awe and began running again.

As they walked through the entrance of the valley, there was a soft bell that rang from an indiscernible source and Fiona felt a warm, calming sensation come over her. It was a little disarming, though welcome.

“What was that?” She asked, looking to Quint.

“A Veil of the Tower of Tones. There are seven total, and that’s probably the kindest one. The Woman in White makes herself known. This is the Veil of fear. It is a welcome to those that mean well; A friendly greeting to guests.” Quint said cordially, obviously feeling the effects of the Veil as well.

“Seven? Do they all make you … feel things?”

“Exactly the problem my dear Fiona.There is one—the sixth Veil—which is designed to make people feel so good, that many get stuck walking through it over and over again,” Quint said.

2

Fiona hadn’t realized because she had been so focused on the euphoria she was experiencing, but the valley around them was bustling with activity and people for as far as she could see. There was a large metal arch directly above them that read “THE ENDYNAS VALLEY” written in wiry, metal letters in the margins. There were little shops built against the mountainsides with wood and brick; some built into the mountain walls with doors that led into the mountain itself. One such door opened as they walked past and a short man with curly hair bounced past them, saying:

“Have you seen a tall, grey, Voiddamn of a wizard? He keeps leaving right when things become difficult and showing up right when they are at their worst! Talk about an abusive relationship!”

“No thrummers we know of, friend. We’s country folk,” said Quint, and the short man bounced off down the valley.

Fiona gave Quint a knowing smile. He shot her a look, then said under his breath:

“Maybe you’d rather have no eccentric wizard at all,” and then proceeded to tell her where she could stick her preconceived notions of wizards and that he wasn’t actually a wizard anyway and that he’d rather be fucking a demon than having this discussion, like the story of Roman of Gilean who ate the lysergy fruit and fucked the demon to get some answers; That’s how he had found his fellowship, and maybe Quint needed to follow suit to find some new Voiddamned friends. The effects of the Veil, for Quint at least, had worn off.

There were blacksmiths aplenty, open food markets, brothels, Inns, panhandlers, street musicians, poets spilling their guts right there in the fucking street for all to see. There was a huge sign carved into the mountainside above one building that said ROXY; this would be the Roxy Milk bar where men and women went in and stayed until they ran out of Worth, then came again every time they got a little bit of Worth back. There were religious fanatics, and there was a short, squat figure in a dark blue cloak with the hood up watching Fiona and her friends from a little crevice in the rock to their right. Fiona felt her more than saw her at first. Then Fiona looked and the woman was gone. Where the woman had been, there were now several white moths flying about as if they had lost sight of the shirt they’d been chewing through and now they were desperately checking the same patches of air to see if their meal would reappear. This tickled something in the back of her head just as seeing the Rakshasas had. Fiona decided it wasn’t worth mentioning and continued down the road with her friends. If she brought up everything that seemed vaguely familiar, that would be her only contribution to conversation. No one wants to hear about how you maybe remembered a vague feeling in the back of your head, Fiona thought.

The road in front of them stretched in the distance as far as Fiona could see. There was a shop to their right and sitting atop the shop was a painted, wooden cutout of The Fisher King smiling and waving his famed arm with the missing hand, his red hair like fire on top of his head.

“What’s that shop that’s using the Fisher King as an advertisement?” Fiona asked anyone who may have been listening. The Fisher King had been one of the first books she had fallen in love with in the library of the common room when she’d come to the Manor House. It was a strange and confusing time and the books comforted her. She’d read all fifteen volumes and would have read more if there had been any, but every story needed an ending she supposed.

“Why-ee, that-er bee whar ya may bee ‘avin a tree err even a four to yer likin’ so it may, miss. Thars men of thee ‘igh an’ thee low, err ladies if ya like,” said a voice to her right. She turned to see a grizzled, grey-bearded man. He smelled like piss and old farts and had the blue-white stain around his lips of a Roxy Milk drinker. Fiona didn’t like to judge such folk, but knew that due to his liberal divulging of information, he’d be asking for, “Worth, miss? Can-ee sparr ineee Worth ferr an‘ ol’ granpa’ o’ three?”

Fiona started to reach for her bag when Quint spoke up. “I doont bee dooin’ none o’ that me sweet dear. We be needin’ arr Worth ferr murr impertint tings dan an ol’ Roxy junkard jonesin’ on arr hard work.” Quint’s accent was so good that Fiona couldn’t help but stare at him and she almost started laughing when Quint gave her a serious look that reminded her of when he’d spoken Seru earlier. She put her hand down to her side.

“Now wait err minute! I no be knoowin’ a no jones, ner do I be a junkard ferr much merr than keepin’ me gran pups in ‘er good graces an’ on a some-att ‘ealthy plate at supperr,” The old beggar screamed, giving a mad eye to Quint. People were starting to stare at Fiona’s group. The old beggar started toward Quint.

“I-ee woon’t bee dooin’ dat if yerr coontin’ on gettin’ back to dem gran pups ferr supper,” Quint said.

The beggar pulled a knife right in the middle of the market, wobbling slightly as he did. Fiona reacted instantly and efficiently. She drew her sword and sliced the man’s little finger off, then flicked the blood off into the air—some landing on the beggar's face—and sheathed her sword. The beggar screamed as blood poured from where his little finger had been.

Fiona looked from the dismembered beggar to her hands, a knottiest coming over her. I—I didn’t I even mean to … she thought. While she gad trained extensively with the sword, she’d never been in an actual fight, and certainly hadn’t severed body parts before, at least in the past five and a half years. She felt like she could be sick.

The beggar picked the finger up off the ground and Fiona stared at him and worked her mouth to try and apologize, but no words came.

Quint tossed a bit of Worth to the beggar. “Don’t pull knives on strangers, friend. And if you spend that bit on a shave and wash, you may get some more sympathetic customers,” Quint said and walked away. Fiona hesitated, staring at the beggar who sobbed over his detached finger. “Come along Fiona, before someone notices and we have to explain ourselves,” Quint called back without turning around.

Fiona gathered herself and ran off to join her friends.

Once some distance was put between their group and the beggar that now had one less finger, she said, “I’m sorry, I—I’m not sure what happened. I just reacted.” Her apology was meant for everyone, but Quint answered.

“Well … he did have a knife, and while I’m sure we could have dealt with him in a … more appropriate way, I don’t think what you did was all that out of hand, no pun intended.”

“But … well it’s a bit concerning. I just did it, without thinking,” Fiona said.

“And good for you! Most people don’t act and end up with knives in their bellies. It’s alright Fiona. It’s only a finger. With that bit of Worth he’ll be able to get a bit of Roxy Milk and ease his pain,” Quint said, waving a hand as if he were banishing her shame.

They walked in silence for a time and then Fiona said, “I couldn’t understand a Voiddamn thing he was saying about the Fisher king.”

“It’s a unisex whore house where you can pay more for more sexual partners,” Pip sent to their entire group. Quint chortled. Carter babbled. Fiona kept her thoughts to herself.

“The Fisher is notorious for having multiple partners. Though they were his wives, there is a sort of taboo that goes along with the story of his love life and so he gets a bad rap—face on the top of a brothel and the like,” Quint said, though Fiona seemed to be uninterested in the business now. They’d taken one of her favorite heroes and put his face on top of a brothel. The nerve!

After they’d walked for about twenty Tiks, the crowd thinned out and all the hustle and bustle of business died down to a low hum behind them, the smell of frying food and ale dissipating as well. They passed some country houses, mostly made of brick, with chimneys spitting out smoke, no doubt for cooking supper as the day was reaching that time and it was Summer I so the fires wouldn’t be for warmth. These houses gave Fiona a comforting feeling like maybe this would be where she’d like to end up—like maybe she and Carter … her comfort turned to sadness. Her future was up to chance. Or up to the Woman in White. But really it is up to Carter, and what he does if—no, when we get him healed.

The houses became fewer and they walked down a stretch of the path that narrowed maybe half a mile in width. They walked for a while without seeing any valley dwellers or other travelers, only the trees, stones, and the river of grass underneath their feet.

“How far down is this Inn, Quint?” Fiona asked.

“It’s about four cycles down the road walking without interruption, but the Veils have their way of adding more time. I’d like to save our Worth and only rent dirfweeds after the Inn to take us through the Forever Forest,” Quint replied.

“Do you find it difficult, Quint?” Pip sent.

“I don’t find too many a thing difficult, Pip, but what exactly are you referring to?”

“Being among the most wealthy on Dandelion, yet so completely miserly with that substantial amount of Worth that you have.”

“I don’t find it difficult. I find it to be intelligent.”

“Why can’t you just rent dirfweeds now? Make the trip faster?”

“It’s pointless, Pip. The Veils up until the Forever Forest are so close together that it makes hardly any difference, and the fuckers that rent them out are crooks! Thieves! I have trouble believing the Woman in White approves. They take advantage of the tourists, and—“ A man came running toward them. He was … crying, his mouth pulled back from his teeth, obviously straining from the physical exertion. Fiona understood; there were a lot of hills in this valley, through this river of grass—if not for her training she would be in the same way as he, apart from maybe the tears and obvious terror. This man looked like he had seen Leere Himself. Fiona shivered a little at that thought and shrugged it away. Fairy stories, she reminded herself. The man ran past and away from the party, back the way they had come.

“Most likely he will seek the comfort of the first Veil where the second slighted. He hasn’t confronted something and he’s scared shitless. It doesn’t work that way though—he can’t go back and receive the blessing of the first. The way that one goes lies only fear, madness, and most likely a sudden affinity for Roxy Milk,” Quint said

Fiona stopped in her tracks.

Quint nodded.

“There are many like our pinky-less friend, Fiona. Many more we didn’t see hanging in the corners or in the roxy bar itself and I can guarantee that damn-near ninety percent of them didn’t make it through this second Veil and they are caught now in an insane trap. To them, they are victims to the Woman in White and they curse her name. How could they go on after what she showed them? Even though she only brought to the surface that which was buried—no, it’s not her doing, and the saddest thing is that this realization is their true medicine and that’s what drove them mad in the first place,” Quint said, shaking his head a bit. “Memory is a great re-spawning function. You can recreate yourself and your pain and the one you perceive to have given you that pain over and over again until you’re blue in the face and dead on the side of the valley road, any road for that matter, or in a roxy bar with the blue liquid drooling down your cheek.”

“Everyone has unresolved issues, Quint. How are we supposed to get through this Veil?” Fiona asked almost diplomatically. Unresolved issues like exhaustion at one’s marital obligations. Like being completely repulsed by one’s husband because of the things he did before he became slave to a mental parasite, Fiona thought. He already was slave to a mental parasite, it just wasn’t so literal. She tried to keep the fear from touching her voice, to keep it in. Putnam had taught her more than just Ken-Phae; he had shown her how to hide every feeling, down to the most remote twitches of the mouth.

“Yes, but we know the trick. You have to accept that you have unresolved issues, my dear. That man, and the one we saw at the entrance to the valley have a layered problem. They have their fear and then they have their complete and utter disbelief and non-acceptance of that fear, so when it jumps out they barely recognize it, it’s become so grotesque and monstrous, it can only drive them mad because that’s how deluded they’ve become. They can’t look at it and say ‘there’s my fear’—they walk around with puffed-out chests saying ‘I fear nothing!’ And they are so unafraid that they end up drooling blue liquid all over themselves, pissing their pants, begging anything they own.”

“I’m not so sure I’ve accepted any of it, Quint,” Fiona almost whispered.

“That, in itself, is a form of acceptance. That’s what it takes.”

They walked for a time in silence after that. Fiona’s mind began wandering. What would happen to Carter when they went through the next Veil? He had seemed unaffected by the first Veil, just babbling and twitching and looking this way and that like always. Will the next Veil show him to me? Is that what I fear most? Confronting him?

“Pip I’m climbing up. These old bones are for the Strings,” Quint said. “Slow down! I can’t get up there. Ahh weren’t bee joompin’ up terr ya thar sesnickie!”

Pip sniffed and Fiona laughed despite her grim speculations. The sesnickie lowered themself and Quint climbed on their back. The road widened and sloped down, ending in a lake bordered by the mountains to either side. In the middle of the lake sat a tiny island covered in black trees. Shadow Trees? Fiona thought. There was no way around the water but through it. Quint tried to whistle but his old beggar lips just blew spit. Fiona giggled at this.

“Hey Fiona, how many holes does a straw have?”

“Fuck you,” she replied. They stood for a moment in silence, looking at the lake.“It looks like a man standing out there on the island—tall—almost as tall as some of the trees. Are those … shadow trees?”

Pip sent an image of the tall people called the Drakes.

“I don’t think I’ve seen any other people that could grow so tall as that,” Quint said.

The Drake was completely still.

“Watch, and wait,” sent the sesnickie, addressing all of them. Suddenly, the Drake pulled up a long silver something from his hip, pointed it at the trees, and—BANGBANGBANG. Three shots. Something about those gunshots … she felt like she’d heard them before. It tickled in the back of her mind, and then it was gone. Damnit, I’m so tired of all these holes in my memory. It was more like one big hole that held everything before she’d come to the shadow wood outside the Manor House. No use trying to jump into that hole now. Better to let sleeping lilies lie and push on to the next thing.

Fiona dropped her bag, threw off her cloak, and began running toward the water before the others could stop her. She used her strong deva tar-ta legs to jump as far as she could—which was a considerable distance compared to what she was used to—and plunged into the water. It was cold on her skin, but felt … right. This body was meant to swim. Saying thanks to the powers at play, she began swimming in the direction of the island. Breathing through the mouth was replaced by an inhalation of water through gills. She could see well underneath the surface of the lake, the second set of lids providing a perfect barrier between her and the water. These eyes were also superior to her human eyes in that they saw much farther; she could see creatures hiding in the weeds that swayed far below at the bottom. Fiona swam on, ignoring the creatures underneath her; if they had a problem with her, they could talk to the sharp side of her steel. She moved very well and very fast and soon was at the island’s sloping base. She let her body be carried up by the water and when she reached the surface, reflexively gasped for air though she did not need it.

She swam the rest of the way to the shallow part of the water surrounding the island, then began running toward the Drake. With her deva tar-ta eyes, she could see that the Drake had a belt similar to hers, but two gun straps instead of one, and running all around the belt were several groups of what looked like wax casings holding bullets inside of them. The white wax casings were strung together in a loop of seven and there were seven of these loops hanging on the belt.

The Drake’s face was slightly rounded, his cheeks colored with red spots; it was a handsome face, if a bit boyish. Fiona could tell he was a man and not a boy, even though the fuzz on his face could hardly pass for facial hair. She would have called it peach fuzz, but she didn’t want to insult peaches. He was seven feet tall, maybe eight, wore a long brown leather jacket that hung down past his backside. Under the jacket he wore a loose button-up cotton shirt and wool trousers. Around his neck hung a thin metal chain with a single white. bullet dangling from it. His boots looked to be made of the same boleskin leather as the jacket. A bit of a belly hung over his belt, but nothing too unmanageable by Fiona’s standards. He looked like he was thirty or thirty-five years old, Fiona’s age.

BANG. BANGBANG. BANG. The Drake yelled as he shot into the trees at nothing.

“NO YOU SLIPPERY BITCH YOU CAINT HAVE ME. I’LL BE PULLIN’ THROUGH THIS TRAP. ON TO THE NEXT!” the Drake said as he flicked both guns to the side, opening their chambers and pulling the open chambers up under the loops—then the loops pulled free of the belt, the wax casings slipping into the gun and—were they melting away? He flicked both gun chambers closed again and prepared to fire.

“WAIT!” Fiona cried. She ran toward the Drake who ignored her and—BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! “THERE’S NOTHING FOR IT, DRAKE! IT'S AN ILLUSION!”

“YOU WON'T BE HAVIN’ PRU NEITHER!” Drake said as he fired three more shots, and Fiona ran up to the Drake, unsheathed her sword, cut off the loops of wax-encased bullets around his waist, then attuned the Inner Vibrations. Void, but those loops made those strange feelings of a forgotten memory come back so strong it made her mouth water. The feeling helped her attune the vibrations she wanted because it was light and exciting. She wanted those loops strapped around her own belt. What would it be like to hold the guns? Glorious. Powerful—like something in her life was under her control. Thought the same about the sword when I saw it. She quickly pushed this thought away. She wanted to continue reveling in the infatuation, for one, because she needed to keep her vibrations light, and confused thoughts or feelings could disrupt thrummings of a high vibrational frequency, but also because she did not want to feel those feelings presently.

To assist in the burying of unwanted recollections, she pushed her mind to thoughts of her time with Carter in the lilies—evenings in the dining room with everyone, enjoying each other’s company—practicing the sword with Putnam when time seemed to speed up and stand still all at the same time. She took a deep breath, then thrummed. Drake immediately went slack with the force of it. Fiona was thrumming pure bliss into him and she was sure the Drake needed it considering how insane he looked. Then he spun on her with inhuman speed and grace that she didn’t think possible of such a big and burly man.

“You caint fool me, lady. Not with the thrumms or the bumms or the crumms, but I do thank ya, yes-ah-do. It feels nice—and when I feel nice, I shoot better,” said the Drake who then pointed his guns at Fiona’s head, pulled back the hammers, and cocked his head to one side. “Ya won’t be havin’ Pru, lady. She stays with me.” Fiona caught a glimpse of something move in the shadow trees behind the Drake, something with pink, wrinkly flesh that was about as big as one of Drake’s hands. The thing seemed to be writhing on the ground. Could it possibly be going through its own head trip in this Veil? she wondered. It was a twisted little creature and it opened and closed its mouth as if it were rooting for a teat.

Fiona remembered the screaming man … then the Roxy Milk-mouthed beggar. The huge Drake didn’t know who or what he was actually talking to—he was conversing with his fears and Fiona had put herself into his nightmare. He seemed to be wanting to protect the little pink, shriveled thing writhing on the ground. That was the only conclusion she could come to. Drake spoke: “Thank ya for your kind feelings, lady. Now I’ll be sayin’ my good—” Fiona didn’t let him finish. She jumped to the side and forward once, twice, three times. In total she jumped eleven times to be sure he’d emptied his guns, then she grabbed the pink Pru. The Drake howled and charged. Fiona thrummed into her body to make it lighter and easier to move, then thrummed into the Drake to make him as light as possible, jumped with everything she had at the Drake running at her, and tackled him into the shadow trees with her and Pru. For a moment, all was black. Then Putnam appeared from the nothingness.