Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task
Chapter 3: Scene II, Part I

It was rather shortly thereafter (having passed all sorts of exotic plants and shrubbery and trees) that they came to stand atop a ledge which was overlooking Chestlewood Forest. And of all the bizarre things Mr Fauldon had seen, it was to his relief to finally see some ‘ordinary’ looking trees (though one would not necessarily say a tinted orange oak of yellowish-green leaves was all that normal). Enormous great oaks showed the very outskirts—boasting of their strength in age and beauty. And as they moved deeper in, the rays of light glistening off the thick moss, the trees seemed to grow younger and less compact. Soon enough, the forest had opened somewhat up to a pasture of sorts (bright and majestic trees of different kinds now showing). In the middle of it all—and still a little ways off—lay tiny structures of a small town.

“And what might this place be?” asked Mr Fauldon.

“This, Mr Fauldon, is Chestlewood—a small little town we Calnor are very fond of.” Sir Knowington spoke this with much confidence, straightening his shoulders and putting on his best act. “Shall we?” he said for the fifth time.

“Why do you keep saying that?” Mr Fauldon burst uncontrollably. “You say it as if I knew where we were going, but I have not the slightest clue! I don’t even know anything!”

The last statement gave sir Knowington a queer face (as though he’d never thought of the awkward position Mr Fauldon presently was in). And so he disregarded it, saying, “Oh, don’t cause such fright to yourself. You must have only lost your recollection momentarily. Now, let us keep on, this is not the place yet.”

“Then why are we even here? And where is this CHESTLETON anyway?” Mr Fauldon asked.

“Beyond Chestlewood, of course,” replied he reluctantly. “Why do you ask so many questions?” Sir Knowington chuckled to himself and let it go—putting aside his next line for another time. “Let us proceed,” he simply said.

Upon a closer look at the small town, Mr Fauldon could define clearly the many buildings protruding from the ground in all-which-ways (a sight by which even the ‘Leaning Tower’ would be considered standing straight). All the structures were made of wood—most two floors high with an attic topping them off along the chimneys. Their windows and frames were often over-bulked as if pride were found in the thicker wood. Small scattered stone paths made up where most walked. It felt as though, when passing between buildings, they would fall on oneself at any moment, and yet they looked to have surpassed greatly the effects of time and wear.

“Quite the place you got, but no one’s here,” Mr Fauldon said, scoping the deserted-ness in all directions.

“Of course not!” sir Knowington replied, “They’re all at Chestleton—”

“Why, good evening!” came a shrill voice which sent a quiver down Mr Fauldon’s spine—and sir Knowington didn’t like it either (but more from the side that no one was ‘supposed’ to be there).

“And what would you be doing here, madam Shrewg?” he more so inquired rather demandingly.

“Oh, just making sure I wasn’t missing out on anything,” said the old beldam.

“Anything worth missing definitely isn’t here I assure you, ma’am,” sir Knowington replied harshly.

“So who’s the fellow?” she asked.

“Not now, please,” said he before Mr Fauldon could even raise a lip (nonetheless his tongue). “We have been trying to reach Chestleton ourselves all day it seems, and we both could use without any more delays.”

The beldam took a good, long look at the newcomer—her grey, old, fringed hair showing almost as though clear to the light’s complexion. With a crooked smile she spoke, “He looks as though he could use a rest! Come now, come by my place, and I’ll give you some good ’ole stew!”

“We really have no time to be meddling in other’s affairs, I heed you,” sir Knowington said, giving over the choice to Mr Fauldon (who was utterly lost in his senses).

“Yes, I think I could use something to eat,” said Mr Fauldon, not remembering the last time he’d eaten a decent meal.

“Ah, good, good!” the old lady rejoiced, bounding up the path to the right with surprising youthfulness. Mr Fauldon followed behind—a slight heat to his chest (maybe it was his exhaustion or maybe his hunger, he did not know).

Not only did she live in a corner cottage, but they had to pretty much back-track all the way to the front of the town to get there. The widowed old woman spoke proudly of her shrubs and heterogeneous plants (in particular the ruby bush—not to be mistaken for the ruby thorn weed).

“This is it!” she announced, bouncing (as if it were) through her old, creaky shack door.

“Careful, my friend,” said sir Knowington, “This is prime time to make acquaintance—you for sure don’t want her on your ‘non-friendly’ side.”

“Come in! Come in!” beckoned the beldam, removing a large stew from the smoldering fireplace.

“You were expecting us?” Mr Fauldon asked astoundedly.

“Of course not! Who would want to visit poor old me?” she replied (besides, she would probably have eaten the whole thing herself had they not shown up).

“Oh, hush now,” sir Knowington spoke, sitting himself calmly at one of the three stools. (Interestingly enough was it that she had but three sit-able stools, three eat-from-able bowls, and three usable spoons at the time. There was, of course, other miscellaneous furniture and artifacts, though all seeming near their death to crippling age.) “You know we can’t stay long less the Lighthouse go around three turns, there is no need to fill us with extravagant tales of self-pity.”

“Why, is that not up to you but to my new guest?” answered she all awhile serving them. “My dear, do you wish to hear a tale of old? I shall tell it to you now if you so choose.”

“By all means,” Mr Fauldon agreed, “I should do well with stories of this foreign land, for it is still but an awakening dream to me.”

Both of them—the beldam and the ever-so-persistent-accompanyist—stared with blank faces at his remark.

“Ah, but surely you shouldst soon wake to this reality,” said sir Knowington, more so to reassure himself of his decision.

“But an ever so strange reality this is to me—nothing like the one of which I thought to have known,” Mr Fauldon said.

“Indeed, reality in of itself is strange—regardless how unfitting such a word be. But you shall come to it all the same in due time. Now please, do eat since you ever so gullibly complied to this unnecessary deviation from our task.”

“Oh, quiet your temper, Wisum!” the old beldam cracked, rapping her spoon across the rim of sir Knowington’s bowl. “Now, where was I? Oh, I recall! It was fourteen hundred eighty six turns ago,” she began (the equivalence, of course, to fourteen hundred eighty six days for us, though one turn not actually being anything like a day.. go figure):

“For there he stood, teeth in glisten,

A heart of purest reason—a mind

Filled with good intent, and a

Sword from which evil he did

Vanquish, its edge of top awaiting

To pry at life; its edge of bottom

To be filled with glutton. And so

He held forth true judgment,

Careful not to be overcome by

His lusting weapon—”

She began stirring the pot of stew; her eyes were wide with the absorption of the tale. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now he could make out faint figures in the vapor that steadily arose. In them, fish (bearing much resemblance to that of sharks, only with a feather-scale-like complexion) were swimming about a single form protruding from the center of the stew. She proceeded with the words of which he did not care to hear, his mind as a whole trying to simply grasp the moving shapes in the stew.

The tale proceeded as so:

“The figure standing amidst the fish looked down

upon another form—which knelt so low so as to have

its head touch its toes. The figure looked

shamefully upon the wretched form, stepping

forth with a heavy foot—his great sword (of some

vegetable of sorts) dragging behind him. Kneeling

down himself, the two were now head to head.

“Sword behind him in one hand, the figure

lifted the weeping form with his other—so as

to remain on his knees instead. The form, once

in tears, was now rejoicing—though in an instant,

all the fish scattered. From behind them, another

form arose, taking up the sword and striking the

first...”

Mr Fauldon was nudged back to his senses, looking dazzledly at his surroundings (much like a child returning from a fairy-land tale). “What was that for?” he inquired disappointedly to sir Knowington (who had been the one responsible for breaking his concentration).

“It is late,” he replied as if it were good enough an excuse.

“But what happened? Who was that assailant? Why did he kill the first?” came Mr Fauldon’s stampede of questions, the interest of a child burning in his eyes.

“Why, did you not hear anything I said?” remarked the beldam, taking up his empty bowl (he hadn’t the slightest recollection of ever finishing it) as well as sir Knowington’s, and placing them into the empty pot of stew.

“You have finished eating and are undoubtedly refreshed now, so we might as well, if you please, continue on our way,” said you-know-who.

“Oh, have patience already!” cried the beldam, turning back to Mr Fauldon with a smile. “The ‘words’ you missed go as such:

“Though wielding he the sword of

Judgment, death he never sought. And,

Looking deep into the eyes of the

One guilty of crime, he forgave—

Taking it upon himself and giving a second

Chance, knowing it a worthy action. But

This act, in the hunger of the sword,

Found discontent within itself, and

The sword called upon its own judge,

Who, being as corrupt and yielding to intent, wielded the

Sword and took the innocent life in

Place of the one forgiven.”

“Oh my, what an act of heroism he did!” Mr Fauldon exclaimed.

“Yes, indeed,” said sir Knowington, glancing toward the beldam and addressing her, “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we best be on our way.”

She smiled at them both with her crooked teeth and wrinkled skin, “And thus you shall! It was a pleasure bearing company!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Mr Fauldon gratified, “the pleasure was mine.”

“Hm, well, for your time I now grant you the rear door,” she said, pointing (with a freckled hand) to a door in the back. “It should make light this delay.”

“Ah, in that case I myself am grateful!” sir Knowington replied, leading Mr Fauldon to the door. “Now, shall we be off?” he asked, and they proceeded through.

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