Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

And journey they did all about the curves and turns of the winding Hygh Pass, tracing back over the path Nomad had uncovered during his strange un-presence. The traveler went on and on about the odd peculiars he had discovered almost as though discovering them again for the first time (his head in constant paring with his encyclopedias, as usual). Be it the rectangular Otis rocks, the bizarre flares of vines that behaved as limbs of an octopus, or the queer eeriness of a gargling croaker (the likes of which were shared by gloating throated frogs).

“And look at this!” he would say, pointing to an overturned plant with scales of dust. Or “look at that!” while pointing to a daisy whose pedals were outstretched on threads of hair. If one trait were prominently noted amidst all the bizarritude Mr Fauldon had beheld in that pass, it would be the prosperity and near boastfulness of a depravity of hydration—for they both, despite Nomad’s enthusiasm, grew wearier each step.

But blessed was the damp soil and laden grass to which they now clang. Mr Fauldon found his acquaintance sprawled about the ground in praise of the moistness. “Why is it you lick the grass?” Mr Fauldon asked, a little taken aback by the strange behavior.

The traveler looked up at him, realizing how weird it might have looked to Mr Fauldon. “Why,” he answered, “it is the dew! Here, try some.” At that, the traveler reached into his linen clothes and withdrew a small cloth with which he proceeded to brush across the surface of the ground. Mr Fauldon gazed in wonder as he saw the damp cloth now struggling to retain any more dampness. It was then that Nomad handed it to him. “It’s dew soil,” said Nomad with a smirk.

Mr Fauldon took it and clamped his fists that the liquid might trickle down his hands and between his wrinkled lips and dry tongue. It tasted like sugarwater with a dash of honey in it (something quite overwhelming when one is just starving the second before).

“How is this possible?” Mr Fauldon asked.

“Why, you are looking at the downspout of Waterryse Mountain,” said Nomad. “It is in the heart of Waterryse Mountain that the thistle bees have their cone haven, and as their aroma is caught adrift by the rising waters, the scent and taste befalls the mountain’s slopes, descending even to where we are now.”

“I am altogether still oblivious to the order by which this place functions. Waterryse? Thistle bees again? Where is this Waterryse Mountain?” asked Mr Fauldon.

“It is just swen of us,” Nomad answered him, pointing to their right and up. Sure enough, in the distance and behind some purple trees, Mr Fauldon made out the mountain (though it was faint from the misty haze of the ascending waterfalls).

“I would much like to visit there,” said Mr Fauldon.

“All in time, my friend,” Nomad replied, “but first you must wait here for sir Knowington, for we have reached the threshold of Mauhg and the dwelling of sir Grevious.”

Mr Fauldon turned back to see (as though he’d been blind to it at first) the rising cliff and the ominous protruding tower. “We are here already? I thought it would be at least one day’s travel,” said Mr Fauldon.

“Ah, but you were with the great traveler!” Nomad laughed. “Alas, it has been an honor to accompany you. Truly, I am grateful to have met the Karier of the Task! I bid you well as I continue to Mauhg.”

“Farewell,” Mr Fauldon bid in return. He’d almost grown fond of the obnoxious traveler and his plethora of books. For a nomad he was quite the informed—something not to be taken for granted considering how un-informative this sir ‘Know-a-ton’ cared to be.

Which begged the question once more: Where was sir Knowington? Mr Fauldon took out the card of Inquiry once more and held it in his arms. Seeing no one about him, the temptation was great. He wanted dearly to ask what sir Knowington’s true name was. It was in moments as such that one felt almost a wave of excitement to do what one was asked not to in secretude. And so the guilty grin stretched across his face as he began to convince himself of it more—only to be interrupted by the exposure of the protruding tower above him. He seemed closer now to it than he was before, even though he hadn’t moved. Likewise, he hadn’t noticed before the ladder scaling the ledge to its trapdoor.

And just like that, the card was back in his pocket as he climbed the ladder.

With a creak did the latch lift to an interior unexpected. The floors were somehow stone-laden and about the old furniture were bags of thin, web-ridden cloths. Only the bookcases were left untouched by the cloth-like material, and upon each shelf were no more than two or three books (all of which seemed to have been petrified, but who reads anyway?).

“So… you come at last,” came a voice mysterious. “I was beginning to wonder if you ever would. After all, I am still just as able.”

Mr Fauldon heard the screeching of steps from a figure in an off-green suit that had seen too much dust. The man’s hefty boots crest the wood and even the stone (which sounded just like wood even though indeed it was not—or at least didn’t look like it). The man caught glimpse of Mr Fauldon’s bewilderment and made comment: “You should see the master room upon the floor above. From there, I can look straight down, even to the outside of this place. Yet, nothing sees up.”

“That is beside the point—” came sir Knowington’s voice from behind a wooden beam on the far side of the room. Both the host and Mr Fauldon were caught off-guard as to how he got there (not that it mattered for they expected no less from the man).

“Why, if it isn’t my old acquaintance. Who would fancy seeing you ensuring the Karier keep his task?” spoke the figure to whom Mr Fauldon had watched descend the stairs.

“You know all too well why it must be him, Mr Grevious,” answered sir Knowington. “You would do well to inform him the best you can—even if only for lord Keyno’s sake.”

Grevious’ face grew a slight taint to sir Knowington’s words, but he shrugged it off quick enough and refocused himself upon Mr Fauldon. “Ah, yes,” he said, “after all, it is all about the new Karier of the Task. What is your name, sir ‘chosen-one’?”

“Mr Fauldon.”

“And did you knowingly accept this ‘task’ as its sole new karier?”

“Yes, I did,” Mr Fauldon answered him (even though he himself was confused as to why he’d agreed to such a task that he knew nothing about). “What, might I ask, exactly is this task? What am I carrying?”

“Ha!” Grevious laughed, reaching out to grab a glass from the table (his hand seeming to ignore the physics that there was a cloth-like material covering the cup and simply picked it up). “Such naivety these days! Then again, I was once the same….”

“Enough mourning,” sir Knowington added in. “Tell him why he is here.”

Grevious walked over to one of the book shelves, grabbing the nearest petrified book (yes, actually petrified. A book, made of paper, made of wood, becoming petrified). Holding it over the glass, he began shaking it until the ink of its words trickled out and into the glass. He looked to sir Knowington as though scoffing at his methods, then turned to Mr Fauldon and handed him the glass. “Why should I tell what the book had contained best…”

And as the words slid down Mr Fauldon’s throat, his mind began to swirl as a voice filled him from within. He felt like tumbling to the ground but instead looked wildly at the spinning objects about him. The table, the chairs, the cloth, the utensils—all the objects of the room were lifted into the gentle whirlwind that was in his mind. To its current did the scene unfold and a voice spoke out to him:

“A Violstone so blue, so filled with red in fainted hue;

A stone which’s veins of essence grow a smoldering sense of fortitude.

It has long since brought the rifts of herald near,

Balancing the cask of lives so distantly clear.

Placed in the Lighthouse, the stone foretells of that which is to remain,

Though the weight of its task adds to it strain—

Such strain that causes a need for it to rise up again.

Thus, a Karier is brought to bring it to its place,

Out of place and to its place, a balance replaced in its wake.

But caution to the one who carries

For a mind in ponderance oft overlooks its pains.

Should such mind finally awake, to distant places will it take,

And the longer the stone without dwell shall be

The more unstable all that is held is becoming.”

Before him (that being Mr Fauldon—or, rather, his mind), unfeld the most peculiar of scenes. A spooned figure fell upon the table’s surface, engulfed by white streams until naught but a sugar cube rested before it. Wielding the cube, the spoon progressed the many chairs that came its way until a fork stood in its path. The two fought over the cube till finally the spoon overcame. Dreary and worn, the spoon approached the last chair and, climbing it, was able to place the cube within the small tea cup. And as it did, the vision erupted to the intruding figure of Grevious as he broke the silk of illusion within Mr Fauldon’s mind.

It took a moment for Mr Fauldon to realize it was over now and that indeed Mr Grevious had stepped nearer to him (all while sir Knowington watched closely).

“You see,” Grevious smirked, “that cube is the Violstone and you are that spoon. It is you who must carry it all the way up to the Lighthouse.”

“So all I must do is bring a stone to the Lighthouse? I was brought all the way into this place of disbelief believing my only purpose is to carry a rock?”

Grevious chuckled, “Yes, you could say that. I would do it for you, but it seems I am not as liked as before.”

“What do you mean? You were once the Karier?”

“Where is the stone?” sir Knowington bud in (clearly not much in favor of hearing sir Grevious’ story, whatever it be).

Grevious paced back about the table with his mind in deep contemplation. The man reached out towards the table so as to straighten the slanted spoon. Mr Fauldon recognized all its contents to be that which had engulfed his vision. Grevious adjusted the small tea cup that it might reflect the distant shimmering ray coming in through the glass panes facing the Lighthouse. Then he scooted in one of the lonely chairs until it accompanied the other about the small dining table.

At last did he draw up the fork which had somehow fallen to a seat and held it in admiration of its silver reflecting, placing it nearside the spoon.

“It resides at Obliviouseh,” he finally answered, “just beyond the Crookstath Crossing.” Looking up, he caught eye of sir Knowington with a smile. “Not that I’ve been following it or anything….”

“That is all for now, sir Grevious,” said sir Knowington. “We will be on our way.”

“The Porhtree is up, by the way,” Grevious added, “if you would like to use it.”

“The Porhtree?” Mr Fauldon inquired, still just as eager to know more about this Grevious and why he seemed to be so disliked.

“That would be much appreciated,” sir Knowington remarked to Grevious’ offer. “This way, my good sir. Shall we continue?”

“But—”

“We will have time to discuss on our way,” sir Knowington interjected, knowing all too well Mr Fauldon’s attentions to ask more questions.

“It is like a tunnel,” Grevious answered for the ‘know-it-all’. “The roots of a Porhtree are deep and vast, and where they sprout, the tree is the same. It is by such trees, when they do decide to sprout at random times, that one can travel between identical Porhtrees, just like the one atop my house.”

“You have a tree on top of your house?” Mr Fauldon asked.

“Why, yes! Who doesn’t?” Grevious laughed (though everyone knows having such a thing is by no means ordinary; in fact, it is rather weird). “Come, I will take you to it.”

Thus, they were led up the creakity steps from which Grevious had first appeared and through a narrow winding hall with tight-knit doors, all labeled for convenience: the Room of Hospitality, the Room of Hostility, the Room of Reflection, and the Room of Retirement. Finally, they came to the end of the hall, at least two more flights above the first, and Mr Fauldon saw with his own eyes the floor that knew no bottom and yet a bottom did it have.

Grevious smirked in pride to Mr Fauldon’s admiration. “You see!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t it something?? You can see all the way down and yet not moments before were you looking at the ceiling!”

“Truly…” Mr Fauldon gasped for words, still caught in wonder.

“Here it is,” Grevious pointed. To his direction was noted a small door upon which was the label: This Way To The Porhtree.

Before he could take in everything, Mr Fauldon found himself standing atop the Protruding Tower and seeing the Porhtree, like a giant spore mushroom, poising a proud ten feet above them. Its veins pulsed a dark blue as though it were alive and breathing and having a heart.

“What now?” Mr Fauldon asked, seeing no door upon the Porhtree.

“Why, this is where you climb in,” Grevious replied.

“Climb in?”

“Yes, you climb in between the veins of its outer membrane.”

Sir Knowington stepped right up to it, though Mr Fauldon was hesitant. “Come now,” sir Knowington urged. And so he cautiously did—inching himself ever slowly toward the odd idea of pushing through a living mushroom’s membrane.

His hand shook and trembled as it stretched out to the sporey membrane. The Porhtree seemed to react to his touch, almost as if aiding him in pushing through. It felt like pushing through a harp’s strings, but only that they stretched about one’s body as though one pressing though a large crowd of moving people (yes, the thin threads of the Porhtree’s exoskeleton were in constant motion, bending and warping as though Mr Fauldon were a part of their terrain).

And so he was entranced, slipping through a funnel of indescribable color and array. Not even color. It was more like flashes and beams of light. He could feel no form and yet his form slid continuously on.

He felt calmed.

He felt relaxed.

He felt as though he could watch the same flickers for the rest of eternity to come.

And he felt out of the world, apart from everything. So the feeling grew—more separation until it bred into anxiety for it to end. From pleasure and ease to tension and disease, he was now more than ready to reach the end.

Thus he emerged ever quickly—his form slipping through the veins once more and stumbling upon solid ground, though vision ablur and mind out of focus. It took Mr Fauldon a moment to gather himself, only to see sir Knowington on ahead of him at the ledge of a grand abyssal canyon.

His sight and sense returning to him, Mr Fauldon edged himself closer to the overlook—a gasp in awe of the granditude ahead of him.