Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

“Humph!” came the grunt of an emerging creature.

“Good to see you again,” sir Knowington spoke as the Shrooblin stepped forward. “It’s been too long… Earold.”

Mr Fauldon fought the urge to laugh to the name (after all, who names their kid “ear-hold”). Then it clicked for him: “Hold on, you mean to tell me this is the sibling of Aerold? The one who ’forced’ her into servitude?”

“Why, yes, I am kin to Aerold, the Devious Shrooblin Deceiver. She indeed has quite the grudge against me!” Earold seemed to laugh at the discomfort between he and his sister. “But do not worry, I only sped up what was inevitable. But I must ask: what brings you so near to the Wiliswall? The Shadow Bean Hills begin far swen from here and there is no reason to cross this far. Unless…” It was then the Shrooblin (whom Mr Fauldon was far more fond of than the grouch who’d deceived him) realized the intent of sir Knowington.

“No,” Earold simply stated as though he and the bright suited man had held a whole conversation in the two seconds that had passed. “He is not ready,” he went on to say.

“I would not be here otherwise,” sir Knowington reassured. “It seems the rift herald has slipped from this realm.”

Mr Fauldon suddenly made the connection. The rift herald. It rang a bell to him. That verse! “It has long since brought the rifts of herald near, Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear.” The words had rolled off his lips without him even knowing he spoke them aloud.

“Humph!” the Shrooblin disgruntled, “well fine, but he must first prove himself to me. Come.”

Thus they followed Earold as the Shrooblin twist and wound his way about the thickening overgrowth of the Wiliswall. They soon came to be enveloped by large trees as boastful as the giant red sequoia, only having roots like web coming in and out of the ground and winding about other trees and roots. Only Earold knew the roots to follow as he lead them deeper in and along the wall until, finally, they came to the oddest of arches where two roots crossed. The arch rose a distance of a good fifteen feet, just shy of seven Shrooblins stacked upon each other. Vines wrapped and overhang the corners of each joint and a small column of smoke seeped from the cracks in the wood where a dwelling had been carved out.

Where Shrooblin lead them in.

For standing beneath the crossing and with a grin of utmost admiration did Earold tug upon one of the vines. Mr Fauldon barely had the time to catch his stance as a once hidden platform rose from under their feet and lifted them to the hole etched in the bottom of the dwelling. Climbing in, Mr Fauldon found himself crouched low amidst the many furnishing and collections Earold had obtained. Sir Knowington but resided himself in the near corner as the Shrooblin prepared the most peculiar of stew.

In short spurts did the host continue adding spices and herbs to the petrified pot (yes, for Shrooblin were not known for their metal work, rather an adaptation using petrified wood in its place). Mr Fauldon also noticed that the fire indeed was no fire he’d seen before. Its glow was of a deep ember blue and hissed instead of crackled. The warmth coming from it seemed to skip the skin and go straight to one’s innards, which made him feel the slightest bit hot if not for the sweat beginning to cool him and the Korgath skin hard at work.

“What causes the fire to do so?” he asked in wonder and awe as the Shrooblin yet made adaptations to the stew.

“Young-Karier-sir-you, that is beside the point,” the odd Shrooblin answered him, obviously his attention more focused upon the mixing rather than conversing. And with a flicker of both hands and a dab of conclusive spice, the combobulation was complete. The small space that was home to Earold filled with an odorless aroma.

Truly, all sense of smell, apart from the sweat of the Calnorian and Mr Fauldon, was absent. Bringing forth a deep spoon, the mischievous Shrooblin let loose the most whimsical grin as he held it out before Mr Fauldon. “Drink it,” he said hastily, his entirety consumed with what Mr Fauldon would think of it.

Mr Fauldon was altogether confused how doing so would prove anything. Even sir Knowington seemed weary to the request of the Shrooblin (for who knew of the spices flung into that stew—not to mention that seemed to be all it was made of). Mr Fauldon gulped to the voidless odor, a certain nausea sweeping about his head as he gazed into the stewiness. Though but a spoon full, it almost seemed as a bottomless bowl from which there would never be an end.

He was about to ask if it were required to drink all of it, but etiquette answered for him. If only a gesture of kindness, it is best one to finish the serving handed to him—no matter how bitter. Except in this case, he imagined it could just as easily kill him.

The sweat creased his brow.

Mr Fauldon reached out and took the spoon—Earold not blinking even once during this whole time. The Shrooblin anxiously and eagerly observed Mr Fauldon’s every expression as the stew, as a small train-game to a child’s mouth, steadily made its way to his lips.

A sort of steam arose from the collaborative substances and penetrated Mr Fauldon’s nose—a feeling of grotesque swelling up inside of him. Forcing down his jaw, the tip of the spoon touched gently to the upper lip.

It felt cold.

Steadily he arched his hand until slowly did the rich texture reach his tongue and swell down his throat before he could think to choke.

It was of mild warmth—until the additives brushed against his buds something fierce of heat and spice.

Overwhelmed by the flavor and completely exposed to it, Mr Fauldon was unresponsive as his mouth but drew in all that was left in the spoon (for his hand had arched back even more and the contents poured so swiftly). Eyes lit aflame and throat practically eradicated, he finally gasped for anything other than the stew.

Earold broke into a ravished cackling and even the chuckling of sir Knowington from behind.

Mr Fauldon finally swallowed the last remnants his mouth contained and miraculously the taste disappeared, leaving him with the expression as though a two-day hangover had just hit (only this soon cleared up with a little smacking and shaking of his head to the daring endeavor).

“There you have it!” exclaimed the Shrooblin, as though all his life goals had been achieved in that single act. “I will get you across that wall. If not to the death of you, at least I know his character!”

“Know my character?” Mr Fauldon choked yet again. “How could you know it from that?”

Earold smiled as he began stirring the pot once more, pulling up a bowl for himself. Two scoops did he place in it, setting the spoon down and guzzling what he’d served to himself—not one flicker amidst his devour to give away any reaction to the sure power of the stew.

Slamming down the empty bowl, he released a pleasurable exhaust as though satisfied to the utmost. It was then he answered: “Well, you see, there were several things that occurred just then. For one, you took the spoon from my hand instead of sipping just a little. That was to say you are willing to take full responsibility for your choices. Second was you neither asked how much you needed to drink. That goes to show that you are willing to see a task all the way through. Thirdly is the matter that you gulped the whole serving down! Ha! That is at least half a bowl! I take that as a commitment to fulfill and to satisfy. You knew to finish the whole plate—which shows me you are willing to put yourself on the line. All in all, I’d say that says a lot about a man. I will thus take you across the wall.”

Mr Fauldon was astounded at the Shrooblin’s conclusion simply from an act of stew. Surely the odd creature bore more wisdom than most perceived. Then again, Mr Fauldon knew nothing of the Shrooblin other than what he had experienced. At first deceit, but now a more trusting guide.

And so his test of approval to the Shrooblin succeeded and they gathered themselves up to proceed to the Vine of Crossing—or so Earold called it, as it was the only means of crossing the Wiliswall and was also only known by Earold himself.

Thus they were led again by the Shrooblin as he wove through the many roots of those trees that did border the towering wall, though none came to its height in comparison. It seemed as though everything sought to reach the light despite the cold echoed from the ancient structure. Who knew how old the forest that spanned it was or who and when the great divide had been constructed.

Which led to even more questions for Mr Faulon as he fought the many shrubs and weeds to keep up with Earold’s familiarity and ease (for to Mr Fauldon, it was as far from a walk-in-the-park as could be). Meanwhile, sir Knowington elegantly moved through the terrain unaffected in his composure and pace. They drew even closer to the crevice between of the massive wall and the lonely earth. An eerie silence befell the surroundings as they happened up a single root that penetrated its binds to the ground and rose steeply and upward until the leaves of those great trees hid its scale.

“Alas, young-Karier-sir-you,” said Earold, “we have reached the Vine of Crossing.”

“Vine? Is this not a root?” asked Mr Fauldon.

“Well… yes… it is, in actuality, a root. But I like vines better—they remind me how I get into my hut. Besides, I’m the one who made it so, so I get to name it.”

“You made it so?”

Even sir Knowington seemed in the slightest admiring the claim. “So you have been up to something during your years as caretaker,” he said to the Shrooblin, as though bringing up a joke of old.

“Oooooh whatever,” Earold said in return. “If you want to get across, you have to become a Nutrient.”

“Nutrient?” Mr Fauldon exclaimed. “By what on earth do you mean?”

“This is not Earth…” sir Knowington mumbled, as though he already knew what Earold meant as well.

“Nutrient,” Earold answered him, “is what the roots of carry. Just as you are the Karier of the Task, so is that Root of Crossing—for your sake—the Carrier of the Nutrient.” The Shrooblin snickered at his own play on words.

But Mr Fauldon still felt utterly confused.

Earold continued: “In essence, the only things to go through the roots are nutrients, and since only this root goes over the wall, one must become a Nutrient in order to cross over with it.”

“So you are saying I have to be devoured by this root in order to get to the other side? How in the world is that to happen?!”

The Shrooblin laughed yet once more. “So much question! You might do good to clear your mind of worry, good young-Karier-sir-you, and seek clarity. After all, there is reason I made you drink that stew…”

“What?! You made me drink that stew to make me into a Nutrient?! Wonderful…” Mr Fauldon trailed off. “But then why not have sir ‘know-it-all’ drink that stew? He better be crossing this wall with me.”

Sir Knowington gazed up the endless scale of the Wiliswall. “Why, I am not like you,” he simply said to Mr Fauldon. “I will go by other means.”

“But I thought you said there was no means of crossing and yet here we stand at the ‘only’ means of crossing and now you tell me you have ‘other’ means of crossing? I must say, this is altogether inconsistent. Which is it then?”

“For you,” Earold replied, “this is the only means of crossing. My stew has already prepared you for it, so there’s no arguing. I may not know the extent of the business you have upon the other side, nor do I care. But if the ‘know-it-all’ Knowington needs you across, then that is enough for me.”

And in a surprising shove, the Shrooblin tackled Mr Fauldon against the root—his coat and body quickly being absorbed as he hit against it. He had no time to react as the root overtook him and soon his vision disappeared beneath its surface. Odd was the feeling that came over him as he but watched the ground and roots and trees turn to tiny little ants and become shrouded by a dark mist as the majestic root bent over the top and crawled its way back down.

The next thing he came to realize was his body rolling atop dried out leaves and a moistless ground. Trees like roots overturned spotted the view before him as a single path followed the root a little ways further. Sure enough, sir Knowington had somehow already made it and ahead of Mr Fauldon, awaiting him to come full to his senses.

And as his senses came, he was finally able to take in what resided opposite of the Wiliswall and the Land of Bayohn.