Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

The radiance of the sky infiltrated every crevice of creation before them. Mr Fauldon stood dazedly upon the cliff’s edge overlooking the vast terrain of odd-shaped tulip trees and illuminated rose-flowers. It seemed that the landscape was content with the soil about it—neither striving to compete nor overcome by feeble things. And so his sights turned to the horizon. “What is that way?” he asked of sir Knowington, flinging his arm far to the right and toward an all-too-distant wall that towered above and behind everything else—the coney hills, the viney plains, the crusted cliffs, and even the three-palm elms of enormous-tude.

Sir Knowington’s head jolted back as though it were a preposterous question of near insult. “Of all things to ask, you turn swenward and wonder what lies behind the unseen? How is it that your kind’s curiosity outdoes your sense and does so ever consistently? That, my friend, is the Wiliswall.”

“I never knew of a Wiliswall,” said Mr Fauldon.

“Not a Wiliswall. The Wiliswall. There is only one Wiliswall,” answered sir Knowington. “To confuse that you might as well say you are just a Fauldon—and by doing such, remove any significance of being original. Now, if you don’t mind, shall we proceed swenward?”

“You should respect my asking a little more,” said Mr Fauldon as he arranged his composure within his newfound coat. “After all, I’m not the one whose name is ‘know-a-ton’. And swenward? What on earth is that?”

“This is not Earth, Mr Fauldon,” sir Knowington said, “so there is no ‘on earth’ here. Here, there is no north, south, east, or west.”

“But how then do you have any sense of direction?” Mr Fauldon asked, altogether dumbfounded. “Where is the sun in this place?”

Sir Knowington took a breath in his bewilderment of Mr Fauldon’s lack of understanding. “The ‘sun’ you ask for is that lighthouse.” He pointed to the right before adjusting his spectacles. Sure enough, there stood, beside a large mountain of preposterous proportions, a lighthouse unlike any he had seen before. Its supports, like clockwork, wound their way up to the light. It was at that moment Mr Fauldon remembered the beldam’s reference to rotations as time.

“So… like a clock?” he inquired of sir Knowington.

The man shrugged to the simplicity of Mr Fauldon’s assumption. “A little more, I would have to say. In fact, it ties into our very conversation on how we’re wasting time asking such demeanor questions.”

“So which way is that lighthouse?”

“That would be swenward.”

“So we are headed to the lighthouse.”

“No, you just asked which way the lighthouse was. We are headed to where you shall receive further instruction upon your task.”

“And where is that?”

Sir Knowington brushed aside the embarrassment of the childlike questions (after all, Mr Fauldon’s name was far from resembling ‘knowing-a-ton’). “That would be there,” he implied, physically pointing his hand for the sake of not confusing Mr Fauldon more. And to his hand Mr Fauldon looked, following it down across the oakriss valley and collection of trees and jagged-jutting mountain ledges. It was a canyon of winding forests and plateaus and just beyond them (before the crest that led into gloominess craters) lay a settlement of sorts.

“You see that there?” sir Knowington asked, “That is known as the city of Mauhg, also the place of dwelling of Sir Grevious, to whom you seek the furtherance of your task.”

And just at that moment there came a man up the hill toward them. His clothes were loose garments of green and brown linen and resembled much of those who traveled without rest. “Hello there!” he cried out, a thin-bodied voice that was fitting to his clean-shaven face. He continued so: “I was but sitting down yonder and heard the mentioning of the city of Mauhg. I wonder if I might perhaps accompany you. For I have been in need of crossing the river Floweth for several turns now and would appreciate the assistance of ones with know-how.”

“And so shall you learn—the both of you,” said sir Knowington, “for there is a bridge now further swen of it to which we shall journey.”

The traveler was overjoyed and turned with anxiety toward Mr Fauldon, “Ah! And you must be the new Karier! Bless my ankles, I surely thought I would never accompany such a privilegee. I am Nomad—at your service. Well, at least I like to be called Nomad. My actual name is Nomadicus in full and Nom by calling. I am not from these parts, rather the far lands of Distontay. It has been my dream to settle down and raise up a town.”

“Quite the endeavor you have,” sir Knowington added, not in the least bit caring. “Shall we be on our way now? There is some footing to be done yet before reaching Costle Bridge.”

“Right! Then off we go!” Nomad charged (only in a matter which allowed sir Knowington to lead, for he knew not the way).

And so they strode down the hills swen of Chestleton and toward the Hygh Pass cliffs. Mr Fauldon could not keep count of how diverse his surroundings were in the least. The stone palms wove themselves about every slope of dune grass; lilies of fruit sprouted the edges of their winding path and they ducked beneath clovers the size of small trees. Petrastone wood was more than abundant about them in those hills as they neared the outskirts of Chestlewoods and to the sound of the river Floweth.

Nomad was perfect company to Mr Fauldon and just as admiring of the plethora of life and terrain—only he seemed to know of it all, or at least the traveler claimed (though Mr Fauldon could have sworn he saw the man always glancing at encyclopedias stashed all about his person). The man was full of energy and admiration—something sir Knowington seemed to lack altogether. Yet the guide led them on and at good pace despite the many inquiries Mr Fauldon wished to make and Nomad’s seemingly prompt reading.

“Look! There!” Nomad had quickly proclaimed. Mr Fauldon froze in step and sight, for just a little ahead and on up the slope poised a faerydeer (but that did not stop Nomad from swishing through his papers to find its description). “It’s a faerydeer!” he exclaimed. “They are said to appear when the bonedilies are near bloom and are renowned for the pollen they sweat.”

Nomad’s expression seemed confused, as was Mr Fauldon’s. Such a weird trait to be known for one’s sweat. But Nomad kept reading: “Their sweat is essential to nature’s pollination and integration of kinds, allowing species of plant to travel vast expanses and find home next to the bonedilies for protection.”

“Bonedilies?” Mr Fauldon inquired. “What are bonedilies?”

It was then he caught sir Knowington’s gaze just off to the left of their path. Sure enough, there resided a bonedily as it stretched itself to the veins above. It was naught but ten feet tall and bore membranes of boney substance (resembling that of a venus fly trap in composure, also taking notice to the travelers passing by it—that being sir Knowington, Nomad, and Mr Fauldon). In a sudden jolt did the bonedily sweep toward them. Mr Fauldon had but enough time to spread himself upon the ground as it chased Nomad to the opposing ledge. It was then that the faerydeer leapt in. Mr Fauldon could not put into words the magnificence he saw as the faerydeer swayed the bonedily away from Nomad and soon had it postured back to the sky above. The pollen brushed against the stem of the bonedily until, in soothing submission, it became still again.

“Well, then,” sir Knowington remarked, “have we had enough excitement to continue moving?”

Nomad, still slightly shaken, was back upon his feet, seemingly fueled by the adrenaline. “Yes!” he agreed, “That truly was exhilarating! My second encounter with a bonedily now successful!”

“Second?” Mr Fauldon asked, brushing off his shoulders and knees. “Then what of the first?”

“Oh, no need to go in depth there,” said Nomad, “Only that I am now in good company.”

“And also in sight of Costle Bridge,” sir Knowington added.

Much to Mr Fauldon’s relief, there resided just on down the last slope a glimmer of the waters of river Floweth. The humming sound now came to him in full as though a breeze were swirling above their way. He was reminded of the warmth and comfort of his coat which bore no stain from his recent visitation with the ground. Any bits of dirt or moist seemed to roll right off it, though his shoes spoke otherwise.

“Who would have thought I was so close to it this whole time!” Nomad announced, not in the least ashamed as they proceeded down the slope and to the river bank.

The bridge was flat and stretched boldly over the rush of current. It was only that he now stood next to its swarming roar that Mr Fauldon realized the river was actually, indeed, one continuous swarm of thistle bees. He knew them to be thistle bees for Nomad had yet again dove into the wonders of his encyclopedia (which Mr Fauldon was becoming more and more grateful for—after all, it wasn’t like sir Knowington cared to answer all his questions). Then he remembered the card. Pulling it from beneath his coat, Mr Fauldon held out the card. “What of these thistle bees?” he asked, “Why do they flow in stream?”

The card began to gleam and shake as the hum of the thistle bees began to ripple words upon its surface, and he read: “From where they flow the most fruitful grow, and to where they speed, a border between greens.”

“A border between greens?” Nomad reiterated.

“Yes,” sir Knowington said, “Much as the saying ‘the grass is greener on the other side’, so does the river Floweth keep all that is within the greener side. But let us instead cross this bridge, shall we?”

Mr Fauldon would never have guessed the bridge to be made of honey cone. Not the sort of honey cone that seeped of only honey, rather one that teemed with thistle bees joining in the rush. They were not so small up close as they emerged from their cones to join their brothers (in fact, Mr Fauldon could have swarmed he saw one as large as a soup bowl!).

Upon reaching the other side, sir Knowington turned to Nomad saying, “It is here I must ask a favor of you.”

“Aw, yes! Anything to the all-knowing Knowington who has helped me in my travel across the river Floweth.”

“There is business I must tend to for the moment,” said sir Knowington. “If you would, lead my friend here to the threshold of the Protruding Tower and there I shall meet you.”

Nomad’s body bowed in agreeance as the guide in bright suit vanished in a purple dust. “Truly a guide to be zealous for,” Nomad remarked, turning back to Mr Fauldon. “I am honored to assist you to Mauhg, sir Karier of the Task.”

“This task,” Mr Fauldon asked, “what exactly is it? I agreed to it but only because I felt convicted to when in all actuality I know nothing about it.”

The traveler smiled as they continued down the path, answering Mr Fauldon over his shoulder, “I noticed the card you drew at the bridge. Perhaps you’d do better asking it than me.”

And so Mr Fauldon had to yet again resort to the card he neither approved of nor necessarily condemned anymore. “What is the task I carry?” he asked of it.

The words whispered across the smooth surface. “Journey to sir Grevious, from whom you shall receive further instruction,” he read. “But that does not answer my question…”

“Exactly,” Nomad answered him. “That is why you must seek out this sir Grevious first. Maybe then you will learn more of that which you swore oath to.”

Mr Fauldon was beginning to regret agreeing to such a task. Especially now that he was beginning to realize he knew nothing of it. And where was this ‘sir Knowington’ now? Where did he have to go that was so important? Hadn’t the great Keyno himself told the guide to remain with him? Not that he needed a guide for the sake of security, though he was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed again by his surroundings. Perhaps he felt uneasy because sir Knowington had been the only consistent figure thus far. But now he had Nomad.

And Nomad had gained quite the distance before him by now. “Wait, Nomad!” Mr Fauldon shouted. But the cliffs of Hygh Pass rose steep and bent harsh and soon he lost sight of the traveler. “Traveler!” he yelled again, now feeling as a child in a room all too enclosed and dark. About him towered hollow roots of cliffs long unswept. Like web did rock climb the walls. Upon closer look, Mr Fauldon could notice the tiny insects climbing out of the path’s belly and on upward (much like rhino beetles, only without wings or hard shells). He suddenly felt guilty of stepping upon them with his every move, and so he stopped, only to notice more and more of them—his gaze following one in particular that moved against the flow of the rest. This one also seemed to grow in size until it was a proud three foot to Mr Fauldon’s petrified form and not but five feet from where he stood.

“You… seem… loooosssst,” the insect croaked, its look unwavering. “Tell me, booooooy… why don’t you find a plaaaaace heeeere…. wiiiith ussss….”

“Who… what are you?” Mr Fauldon asked, his eyes now getting heavy to keep open and his focus becoming ablur.

The insect replied: “I… am Rhaeeeee… I always am seeeeeking the company of the lossssst.”

He could no longer move. Not that he wanted to, either. He felt as though content with just standing there even though his body grew weary of it. He did nothing to the inching insect as its lungs rattled their luring tunes—only now the insect’s attention was upon something else.

“What’s thisssss?” it asked, drawn to the small card that illuminated from beneath Mr Fauldon’s coat—all while he was still unaware. The insect drew closer to the emerging card (as though a magic trick) that came to levitate between the insect and Mr Fauldon. Slowly did the Henser rise until it had also caught the attention of Mr Fauldon’s numb eyes. The two gazed wondrously into the radiance of mystitude.

“What isssss this?!” the insect demanded, somehow caught in the same trance it had lured Mr Fauldon into. “Where did you get thissssss!” it hissed out at him, its lens starting to dry out. A whiff of dust began spurring about Mr Fauldon, his very fibers beginning to shake, as the insect realized its prey was escaping its clutches.

“Noooooo! I will not let you!” the insect roared as it tore its gaze from the illumination and lashed its limbs at its prey—but Mr Fauldon was not there, instead appearing upon the ledge above the insect, dazed himself as to how he got there. “What isssss this?!” the insect croaked, but before it could lunge again, it was met with a sudden-appearing force. The force was that of a staff.

The staff of Nomad.

“No, say I!” Nomad cried as the insect was beat to the ground. “This man, you shall leave be!”

Mr Fauldon rushed to his senses, seeing Nomad clobber the insect to the dirt. Relief swept over him as did exhaustion, and he tumbled back down the ledge. Nomad came to him and braced him—the insect already vanished into hundreds of rhino beetles continuing up the slopes.

“Are you alright?” Nomad asked of Mr Fauldon.

“Yes, whatever did just occur, it seems I am alright,” Mr Fauldon answered. “To where did you go? I lost sight of you amidst the twists and turns of these paths. Had it not been for your impeccable timing and this card, I may have just failed the great king.” Mr Fauldon looked back upon the blank card that had just saved him and then to Nomad.

“Come,” said Nomad, “let us get on from this place before the next turn.”