The Questory of Root Karbunkulus - Quill Read online

  “I see.” Jorab was truly curious. “What does it do?” He sat down on his friend’s tiny little sofa and immediately jumped back up. A pair of teeth had attached themselves to his back end. “Yours?” he asked.

  “Oh! Pardon me, Jorab!” Ernest unclamped his teeth and slid them fitfully into his mouth. Much better. He smiled at Jorab who took to his seat again, waiting expectantly for the demonstration.

  Ernest Skubblenob’s spine immediately denied its crook while his beaming eyes and mouth took centre stage. “It’s a Tempometre!”

  “Mmm. Would you mind refreshing my memory?”

  “Not at all!” The inventor turned his back to Jorab and reached for a large wired-up metal object on the only other chair around the table. It was a helmet. Or the closest thing to it. And it was plopped on the old man’s head, destroying any semblance of credibility in its rent. Rather a bulky large metal garbage can head came to mind.

  The black straps were adjusted tightly under the chin and once a balance of the neck was struck, the inventor ahemed. “Hmmm, I wonder where my friend, Jorab is? I wonder where he could be? Jorab! Oh, Jorab!”

  “I’m right here, Ernest, just behind…”

  “I know that!” The inventor snapped. “I’m role playing.”

  “Ah. Er…Do carry on.”

  The inventor huffed a bit and tried to pick up the trail where he had left off. He ended up back at the beginning. “Hmmm, I wonder where my friend, Jorab is? I wonder where he could be? Jorab! Oh, Jorab! Hmm, he seems to be missing. That’s quite all right, Ernest. You don’t have to worry, old boy. Why you ask? Because you have your handy dandy Tempometre. It will come to your aid!”

  With that, Ernest Skubblenob brought the Tempometre to his lips. “Jorab!” He declared and his hand struck a rather melodramatic pose. The garbage can came to life. Hundreds of lights at the ends of pins ignited. A high-pitched hum hit the air. The lights blinked randomly on and off, on and off and a few belches of smoke coughed their way outward.

  Ernest pointed the slim platinum device now purring softly in his hand and walked in the exact opposite direction of Jorab. The Tempometre got right to work getting colder and colder and colder until a slight frost caked over and Ernest had to use his sleeve to hold it. Meanwhile his helmet was shaking his head so much that his words were coming out agitated. Unfortunately his teeth did, too. But the inventor carried on bravely.

  “Gee, it’s g-g-g-getting awfully c-c-c-cold. I guess he’s n-n-n-n-not here!” Skubblenob said with excitement growing in him. He moved toward Jorab, which was a bit unnerving for his lone audience member. But, at once the Tempometre began to warm up. The frost slid off in drips and Skubblenob no longer needed his sleeve.

  “Hmmm, getting warmer! Jorab must be closer!” The inventor whispered and giggled. He pointed the instrument directly at Jorab and walked toward him. Now, the Tempometre became so hot he needed both sleeves to hold it. “Getting hotter! Getting hotter! He must be right…Aaaaaaaeeeeggghhh!” He dropped the scalding Tempometre some distance yet from Jorab. The garbage can fell forward over his face.

  “Well done!” Jorab applauded.

  Ernest Skubblenob adjusted his helmet, took a deep, theatrical bow. And got stuck.

  This was neither the first nor the last time that Jorab would rush to his chiropractic aid. Once the inventor’s posterior was restored Jorab picked up the Tempometre and handed it hot potato to his friend. “The team will be most appreciative, I’m sure.”

  Ernest Skubblenob beamed. His teeth were less impressed and made it known in a chattering commotion beneath the sofa. Jorab pointed his finger and Moved them through the air back to Skubblenob who once again clunked them into his mouth.

  “And what, pray shall be the second Quest artifact, friend?” The inventor was freshly polishing his prize possession. As Jorab whispered the answer he nearly dropped it again. He said nothing but the gawping eyes and stuttering mouth were clearly astounded. Jorab winked and helped him out of his helmet.

  As the suitcase was crammed to seam-busting capacity and last minute things went forgotten in the wild garden of Skubblenob’s wits, Jorab waited patiently, eventually helping himself to a stranded bowl of pudding.

  At length, the old inventor was saddled up with a grin and facing his companion. “Ready.” He said, suitcase in hand.

  “You’re sure?” Jorab replied concerned.

  “’Course I’m sure!”

  “Absolutely…positively…”

  “I’m more ready than I was for my own wedding, Jorab and even then I forgot my pants!” Skubblenob winked.

  “Right then.” Jorab smiled and stood up, his head almost touching the ceiling. He clutched his friend’s suitcase and together they headed for the door.

  At the threshold Ernest Skubblenob paused. He was ready indeed. And grateful that at least someone, Jorab still believed in him.

  He stepped forward, wearing an over sized suit jacket, a strangled red bow tie…

  …and striped boxer shorts.

  7

  THE MAVEN OF MYSTIC BEINGS

  Root spied her reflection again, still unable to recognize the creature that gazed back. A Mirror Lake blue blouse sprinkled like powder over her frame, now delicate and feminine, far from the tomboy routine of weeks past. Silken sleeves trailed in lovely waterfalls from Root’s shoulders, which were brought up and back with fresh esteem. A swingy, layered skirt of blue and silver rippled in the slightest movement, sweeping her knees with pleasure. She just could not believe the shimmer. Any way she turned, there it was. She twirled and it spiralled like the blossom of a Bluebell in the wind.

  A new barrette of pink topaz held fringes of hair from her face. It was impossibly beautiful. Stupid pretty. Root had nearly died when it fell from Estrella’s page. And now, cast in her hair like a star in a tinsel-ed pink web, she just had to stop the entire world and catch her breath.

  Root’s shoes crisscrossed over her feet like streams of fallen meteors, immediately begging for the gloss and celestial polish of toes and fingers.

  Another glance in the mirror. Another swoon of surprise and enchantment. Root could not remember ever feeling so…pretty.

  “You’re gonna be late.” gruffed Horologe.

  “Oh blah blah.” She turned to her Klok and scratched his tiny pig snout as he shifted position on her night table. “You like my new outfit?” She spun in a sparkling pinwheel for the zillionth time. Horologe lifted one eyelid and shrugged. Root humphed and sashayed for the door.

  She didn’t take the railing this time, even as Dwyn slid along beside her. A lady didn’t take the railing. And tonight Root was doing her very best Lady.

  They met Lian at the garden court foyer where there seemed to be a hold up of sorts. Apparently Master Gub and his staff were not quite ready to receive them. Root swished and sighed and exaggerated her posture in an attempt to be noticed. Her friends however were blinded by the uproar in their stomachs. Or perhaps they were always so oblivious. Either way, they weren’t even cognizant of the fact that Root had washed her hair let alone fussed over it for hours and hours and hours. And her outfit didn’t even garner a blink.

  No matter. Root was certainly noticed seconds later when Milden entered the lobby.

  “Oh my god!” he gasped way, way too loud from way, way too far away.

  The entire room seemed to snap to his pink, cherub-ed face, awash in ardour. His green bowtie positively pulsed with rapture as did his matching suspenders, breeches and pearl-white shirt. “You…Root…you look so beautiful!”

  Of course the entire room then snapped to the sight of Root’s red-faced cheeks drowning in embarrassment.

  “Uh…thanks.” squeaked from her throat.

  “My pleasure.” Milden smiled and doted from afar.

  Thankfully he was not able to squeeze through the crowd toward her, but still Root needed to somehow deflect his gawk. It felt like a bloody heat lamp.

  Krism sprung to her mind. She peered around for
her friend but came up empty.

  “Have you seen Krism?” she asked Lian.

  She was answered not by Lian, but by the excruciatingly coifed tag team of Pinks who seemed to be waiting their whole life for this opportunity.

  “Oh, didn’t you hear? Your Tint friend won’t be coming to the Gala” gushed Sharmay.

  “The Guardian confiscated his ticket after discovering he’d been uttering threats, inciting lecherous behaviour and interacting with known Tint offenders.” Added Pidge.

  “Hilly’s mother presented the evidence this afternoon.” Both girls ended with delight.

  Hilly simply smiled like a demon at Root and walked away.

  Root threw herself at Hilly. She did not take kindly to her friends holding her back and thought she’d go insane as the distance between her and Hilly widened.

  But then, when she heard the ripping sound…

  Woah. If looks could kill…

  The boys let go and stood back.

  Right along the shoulder. A flash of ivory skin between torn pieces of Mirror Lake Blue. Root looked at her damaged blouse, then at her friends. Tears spread like lakes into her eyes.

  The boys panicked, total deer in headlights, their comfort zone speeding away, leaving skid marks.

  “It’s okay,” tried Lian. “It’s just a little rip.”

  “Yeah, I mean, you still look…great. Your hair looks real nice, Root.” Dwyn was already sweating.

  “You can wear my sweater over…”

  They watched in horror as the tears spilled, helplessly fumbling with the seam, pinching it together as if that would somehow fix it.

  “Here.” Tamik Chillenly stepped in.

  Intervention, thank god!

  The boys were bustled to the sidelines, grateful to stand back and witness a most complicated and awe inspiring move of defense. When Tamik was done, she removed her spool of thread and put it in her purse. Root’s blouse looked as good as new.

  “Even better.” Added Tamik. “That’s Witch Hair and it’ll never break.”

  Root captured her new friend in an embrace that would leave thankfulness all over her for days. Dwyn high-fived the girl-wonder, cementing a true and permanent welcome into their fold. “Awesome save, man!”

  Lian gaped at Tamik. He said nothing. He couldn’t. His heart had shifted. And he didn’t like it one bit.

  The stained glass doors to the garden flew open and there, like so many times before was the affable, if somewhat sweaty face of Master Hillywur Gub. He was breathing heavy and couldn’t properly announce his greetings. But no matter, the mob was already heaving past him.

  All except Root.

  “No.” said Dwyn. “You can see Krism later.”

  “But, he’s gonna be so upset. That is such crap! It was a stupid little kiss...and it’s not like Hilly doesn’t already go around doing that all over the place as we all know. Let go, Dwyn, he needs me to… ”

  “We need you!” He held her back. “Don’t make me rip your arm next.” He smiled.

  Root sighed and stopped resisting. Fine. He was right. She needed to be here for the Quest gala, for her team. She could see Krism after.

  With only six teams competing for A-2, Root had expected a rather smaller affair. But as the exploding applause indicated, this was not the case. In fact it seemed there were even more guests than the last Quest briefing. Definitely more drama, she thought as the teams were whisked behind a heavy curtain by a creepy man that looked a lot like a skeleton…that looked a lot like a Silken Oxback.

  “Waiteth here or die like scoundrels!” he said and Root was sure he even bucked before departing.

  Well, he didn’t say anything about not peeking so Root took a gander through a gap in the curtain. Unfortunately the only thing she could see was Studaben Picklepug.

  Gross.

  He stood in the Grand Fire Blossom, lips pasted to a loud speaker, belly hanging out over electric blue striped pants. His square hat angled with dramatic flare.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Please help me welcome…” He paused for effect. “…the competitors of the Second Magisterial Treasure Quest of DréAmm!”

  Music flared up like fireworks as the teams were paraded, indeed flaunted past hundreds of smiling strangers, all standing up, cheering. Who were all these people? Root’s name was called. Lian’s was called. Hilly’s. Milden’s. Team names were proclaimed, even chanted. Hands were shoved out for high fives. Root scanned for familiar faces but not one could be found.

  The team tables were lined up, six across the front of the garden court.

  Fishbowl seating. So much for choosing our own thought Root, and yay, now we can be gawked at like Koi…

  “Who are these people?” Dwyn finally asked for everyone.

  “No idea.” said Lian, shifting awkwardly in his chair while a blur of smiles and winks zeroed in on them.

  “They’re honourable guests.” whispered a voice beside Root. She looked to see Milden’s very bright green bowtie at the table next to her. “My dad told me the Guardian invited them for this special occasion.”

  “Oh. But who are they?”

  “Mostly high enders, y’know money trees and butt kissers.” Milden snickered at his own words. “So my dad says…”

  Studaben Picklepug cued the music to stop. His eyes were ravaging the room. He was seriously licking his chops. “And now before we begin, let me take this time to thank our honoured guests for sharing this very special evening with us all. I’m sure each and every team is grateful for your support. Isn’t that right, kids?”

  Conflicted applause emerged from the team tables, most of it stemming from Hilly and Kor. Yet, it was enough to satisfy the burgeoning purses that were doting upon them.

  “And let us not forget one of our greatest supporters, the illustrious Master Grotius Vulcherk…”

  Grotius Vulcherk stood from his position in the Fire Blossom. A gangrene ghost. His cold detestation of Root still fresh in her mind. She lost her appetite.

  “…whose generous donation brought you this spectacular evening!” Studaben Picklepug’s tongue looked like it might actually hang to the side and pant like a dog’s.

  And yet, as Root looked around, she couldn’t disagree with him. The garden was as glorious as ever. A glittering, golden feast befitting fairies and kings and goddesses. With only one exception: What was with the serving staff?

  “Skullks.” Lian explained with his usual encyclopaedic flare, which included the appropriate mix of historical references. He seemed to admire Skullks and by all accounts Root could find nothing to debate other than how to address them. Mister Skullk? Missus? How could you tell?

  “Excuse me, Miss?” She had finally ventured.

  Wrong.

  “I am no Miss!” the Skullk lambasted her. “I am Bartimus Flat, Silken Oxback of the Regal Seven! And thou shalt hath the head of ye cut from its body for suchlike slander!”

  Root’s admiration became rather less at that point.

  Another Skullk, this one thankfully more polite, arrived with piping bowls of Springtide Stew. At once the thick spicy smell brought Root’s appetite back full force. Soon she and all were gobbling and gorging in gluttonous delight.

  When the last mouthful of his neighbour’s Maple Cherry tart was stolen into his mouth, Studaben Picklepug stood, loosened his pants waist and moved toward the podium. He loved, loved, loved the silence this brought about the room and milked it to its last expended drop. He didn’t have to ahem as he arrived, he just chose to, for effect. “Ahem”

  Root’s eyes met Picklepug with open disdain and she hoped he could see her. She had never respected him in the first place and now, with Krism’s bogus exclusion, she had joined the ranks of those that despised him.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, good people of DréAmm. I am Studaben Picklepug.” He paused. Root took up the stupid applause cue like the best of them: reluctantly. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You are too kind. Ahem! I am honoured to be
here again for the Second Magisterial Treasure Quest of DréAmm.

  “The first, as you well know brought with it hundreds of tales of fantastic adventure and from these rose the six that would earn their places here and now. The six teams that had set out last spring and returned with one each of the mystical, powerful Miists of Kalliope, the likes of which has not been seen for generations.

  “And so now, we are here to support and honour these six as they embark on their second great adventure. And to what, pray will that adventure lead?” Again Picklepug paused as the air crackled with intrigue. Root found herself leaning in as if that would somehow tell her sooner. But the Guardian would not be so generous. Instead his lips flapped on about courage and loyalty and perseverance, none of which he exemplified in his own life.

  From this they were introduced to more of the echelons of the Guardian’s society. Mostly fat, old people with suspicious grins. Root spied Lian’s dad, Lord Blick whom she was sure had come to respectfully dislike her. Or maybe it was simple distrust, the same distrust he seemed to be right this minute projecting onto the whole of the room, indeed the whole of life. He was sitting in the Fire Blossom with…

  “Madam Mordgidika Keen!”

  Now here was the ‘fat and suspicious’ exception. Mordge, who was the exact opposite had become like a grandmother to Root, a warm, wise, open friend with whom anything could be trespassed and Root felt a fierce love for her. And by the sounds of the cheering crowd she was not the only one.

  “Jorab!”

  Exception number two. Root looked to the chair beside Mordge. Jorab was not sitting in it as usual. She scanned the rest of the Fire Blossom but he was nowhere to be seen. She swiftly soothed the prickle of worry that leapt up from hiding. Jorab was often called to secret meetings and mysterious events. Most likely he was delayed by such and would be here soon. She wondered if she should attempt Quatra but then thought better of it. He could be in the middle of something really important.