Be sure to comment! Chapter 7 of TOSD

Transcript:

I soon awoke, and as I did, the sun arose, and as it rose, it ran through the treetops and onto me. I looked down; Amana and Slim were not to be found, and as I raised my head in distress, her silver flowers blessed my view.

Amana had changed once more. Her hair was long, blonde, and curly. It was frayed and swayed back and forth and laid as a circle framing her face, like a sunflower in bloom. Her icy blue eyes then looked to mine, and I noticed the light freckles that descended across the bridge of her little red nose. She smiled fully and said,

"It's still me!" she then jogged over to me. I waved and then noticed that Slim was not at her side. She arrived after the notion, and as she did, she stood, shining in the rays cast from the sun. "I'm going to carry you to the cart. It's back on the road." She knelt and lifted me, carried me to the road, and unloaded me into the cart. I spilled like a bag of bones across its edges. She then got behind it and began to push me once more.

"You're wondering about Slim, aren't yah?" I looked up and nodded, "Well, I did wake up before you. So, I went ahead and took him to Bartholomew for help." I looked at her blankly, "Do not worry.

You'll meet him soon enough; we'll have to stop by his hut before I approach Britain with you." She pointed at my feet, and I shrugged; she sighed and shook her head.

As I was pushed on, she began to steer us onto a side path. The overgrowth was fuller along the narrow road. Vines hung from the lower limbs and brushed against us as she made our way deeper into the wilderness. As the walk continued, the path grew narrower until there was no longer a path to tread. And it was upon the end of the way that lush grass grew. And upon the grass, a cabin and the home sat firmly underneath a low-hanging canopy of trees. Their leafy branches spread outwards and enveloped the wooden box from all sides, like two gentle green hands cradling the place from either end.

Amana left the cart in front of the wooden door of the cabin. She walked over to the door and began banging her fist onto it. A good minute or two passed before the door opened. Behind the door was an older man. Innocuous enough at first glance, but as I continued to look at him, he raised his eyes to mine. Silence filled the air for a moment. And at that moment of silence, I peered past his facade. I did not look at that older man but through him. I saw him as he would be in times beyond our moment and back before.

Among our first moments, he was an older man cloaked in faded green robes. In moments to be, he would be Nature. And in moments far before then, he was not a thing, but a concept, an iota. He was Growth; to put it broadly, the prototype to time. He was an artifact from a period timeless and without death.

"So, this is who you were telling me about?" The old man asked Amana.

"Yeah. How's Slim doing?" Amana questioned.

"Fine, but he will need some time to recover from my antitoxin. Nasty stuff that venom. The affected is set still as a stone; however, the recipient is also entirely conscious through their motionlessness. The effect is like sleep paralysis if you know what that is."

"I'm not a moron, Bartholomew."

 "Some people don't know," Bartholomew shrugged, "Set him down on my table." Amana picked me up and took me over to the dinner table. It was not ordinary but a repurposed stump from a large tree. The stump showed smooth from use and had thousands of rings inside. The table was set fully and seemed to have been made for a guest; it was for Slim?

The older man then snapped his fingers, and branches crawled through his windows as he did. They wrapped around the food, dishes, and cutlery, carrying it all out in a careful fashion. After the branches cleaned things up, Amana gently laid me down on the table.

"I know he looks like roadkill, but I figured he would strike a chord with the king as an oddity. Do you think you can patch him up?" Amana asked.

"Sure, I can. The question is: should I?" replied the old man.

"What? Why wouldn't you?"

"Do you see his eyes?"

"I do."

"Well, I've read about his kind before, and I don't trust them."

"And why not?"

"There are those who gaze from afar, Ms. Delan. That thing that I now have lying on my table is nothing more than a spyglass. He exists to see, and it is upon his sight that he can be spied through. The peering gaze turns the page I hold deep fear for, you, see?"

 "I'm sorry…." Amana trailed.

"It is quite alright, Miss Delan. It is too late to stop the gaze, so I'll mend his limbs as I promised."

"Thank you, Bartholomew."

"Of course. Be sure to head to Balkim's. I heard he's finished your spear, and I doubt you'll want to see this."

"You're probably right." Amana laughed nervously, then looked down at me, "It'll be alright Sunny. He's trustworthy, I promise. He'll have you right as rain in no time" I nodded at her. "Alright, I'm leaving to get my spear. I'll be back as soon as I'm able. See ya later, Sunny!' She left soon after those words, and to her words, I replied with a wave goodbye.

I sat myself up from laying down, and as I sat straight, I sat on the stump's edge; my tattered feet dangled just above the ground. The old man then approached me, and I engaged him in my ethereal gaze once again, and then, he said unto me,

"I see that you see me as I see you. And personally, from what I see, I can tell you've seen the lie." the words creaked from the old man like rusted strings strung by a trembling thumb. My face expressed curiosity, an emotion I had come to loathe; he continued, "The sight we share is true, not riddled with the mortal perspectives cast upon the moment. The trial the lie has posed to you is a challenge born from twisting tongues. One must engage the lie again and trap the trapper to beat such a hex."

The old man summoned a tree stump from outside, pulling it from one position to his desired spot, guiding its motion with a finger he extended. He sat on top of the thing as it arrived. "I will have to fix you up before you trap the trapper." Then, he wrapped his fingers around my dangling left foot, interlacing his digits into a superior grip. A radiant heat came from his palms; it started as a warm embrace and then arose into searing pain. It was a fierce heat, like cauterizing a wound.

To escape the pain, I looked at the inside of the cabin. Flowers wove into and out of the wooden planked walls. Their stems ran into one another as smoothly as a rope uncut. And the scent given off by those sweet plants was intoxicating. So much so that it dulled the pain to a bearable extent.

And as Bartholomew mended the flesh on my foot anew, the plants that hung wilted, and as the leaves and flowers dried, they clung to their wispy stems. The two hands released my left foot, dropping it to dangle as it did. He then did as before and grabbed hold of my right foot. And as he took hold of it as he did the left, my sights were bound to flowers hung, not hanging; my escape from the pain of mending was fading.

"It's a sad sight indeed, isn't it?" Bartholomew asked, nodding his head towards the dying plants. I responded with a nod myself, one of agreement.

The sun had been casting its glow through the window, but as he continued to mend, the light that was given began to thin. And the wind started to howl through the cabin boards, and then darkness began to set in. The wind and light had changed their course, bending around the building now and not through it. And as the light faded, a saddened expression formed across the creases of Bartholomew's brow. The pain from my feet had left, but soon he and I were two among the withered plants hung from the ceiling of his lightless box.

After a quick silent pause, Bartholomew stood from sitting. He ambled into the shadow that blanketed the room. As the druid walked, he pulled some leaves off one of the withered plants. He then took them to a tea kettle, then with a snap, he lit a flame beneath. Soon he was brewing tea in the dank dark, and as the tea brewed, conversation stirred,

"How do the feet feel?" He asked me. I first looked out the window, light scraping around its outer edges. The blackness that surrounded us lingered, just as it did as a wound upon my flesh. I then looked down at my legs; the dim glow from the kettle fire washed them in an orange haze. I could detect definite scarring, like the divots that remain on third-degree burns. The skin at that moment resembled twisted wax, but the pain had lifted, but the memory of the wound would live on as jagged scars. To answer his question, I looked up and nodded.

"So, they are doing better?" he asked more pointedly, and I replied with another nod. "Good."

The tea kettle did not whistle; instead, a purple vapor emitted from the thing. And as the mist rose like smoke, it coalesced and reached all around the room. As it came, the fog took the form of snaking lines, like the trail left by a lit cigarette in the cold, still air. And as the lines reached their way all around the room, wrapping themselves into one another, they descended upon him and me. Laying on our shoulders like feather-weighted scarves. Soon the purple vapor began to lighten, and as it did, the dark recessed, and the light from outside came, spilling through the window, scattering across the floor.

And as the light settled inside, Bartholomew began to pour the tea into two cups. The cups were simple, brown, and smooth, without a handle, but flawless, nonetheless. The tea was transparent. It had a yellow tinge, and purple flakes floated to the top of the brew. I sipped mine slowly, and the stuff coated my tongue as I did. A floral taste dominated the flavor, but what lingered after the bite was a subtle hint of peppermint.