Chapter 25: Chapter Eighteen – A Lesson Applied

Tippleglee puffed upon his pipe, and it gave off a sweet aroma. As the fragrance mixed with the foul reek of the swamp, a memory flooded into Curesoon’s mind.

“The smell of your pipe reminds me of my childhood tutor.” Curesoon commented thoughtfully.

Tippleglee only groaned, leaned back against the tree behind him, and closed his eyes.

The bard ignored the little man’s wordless protest. “He was a wizard by the name of Runereader. He came to my father’s castle when I was almost seven years old, and after he made a display of his power in our great hall, I begged my father to let me be trained as a wizard.”

“I thought you were a bard?” Tippleglee grumbled without opening his eyes.

“Yes, but that came years later.” Curesoon replied and then went back to his story. “I begged and begged, and when Runereader offered to teach me for nothing more than room and board, my father gladly agreed thinking he had made a fine bargain. In truth, I believe the half-starved old wizard just hoped for a place at my father’s bountiful table.

“At any rate, that’s how I began my training to be a wizard, and many were the hours in which I sat studying Runereader’s dusty old book while he dozed with his smoking pipe clinched between his stained teeth.

“When I turned the yellowed pages of his book, it gave off the same foul-smelling stench as this vile swamp. But only just now, did I realize the similarity of their odors as I smelled the aroma of your pipe mixing with the reek of this place. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if he didn’t accidentally drop that fool book somewhere in this bog while on his way to my father’s castle.”

Curesoon paused, chuckled to himself, and then continued his reminiscing. “I can still remember almost every detail of that dusty old tome. It was bound in black leather with five circular sigils pressed, painted, and gilded upon its cover. And I can still hear old Runereader explaining what each of those silly symbols meant in that slow methodical way he had of speaking.”

The bard changed his voice to mimic the aged wizard. “‘At the top, you will notice a sigil of a black raven upon a field of blue – it represents the element of wind. Upon the right, there is a sigil of a black Dragon upon a field of red – this represents the element of fire. Upon the left, there is a sigil of a black kraken upon a field of purple – this represents the element of water. At the bottom, you see a sigil of a black boar – it represents the element of earth. And lastly, in the middle, there is a sigil of a white tree with black roots upon a divided field of black and white – this represents the element of ether.”

“No wonder you didn’t become a wizard!” Tippleglee growled sleepily with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Even now, I’d choose to spend all my time annoying others with my voice rather than listening to someone else ramble on and on forever.”

Of course, the little man was aiming his words at more than one target.

Curesoon raised one eyebrow while a smirk grew upon his lips forming a slightly annoyed expression, but other than his face, he made no reply. Instead, he went on with what he was saying.

“Runereader’s book was full of all sorts of things, but every word was written in the secret tongue of magic, and for that reason, I had to learn that strange backwards language. Oh, how he used to lecture about the art of speaking and understanding the secret language of wizards!”

Again, the bard made his voice sound old and frail.

“The runic tongue is a fluid language which is ever evolving. Therefore, you must have a firm grasp upon its complex grammatical rules. First of all, there are certain parts of each word that never change. These unmoving affixes are the signposts, if you will, that help one navigate the intended meaning of the speaker. Always look for the constancy; those will help you see the direction of the speech.”

With a thoughtful look, Curesoon paused for a long moment, and then he began to echo some of the words he had just spoken.

“Signposts… Help one navigate… Look for the constancy… Those will help you see the direction.”

As he repeated these words, he absentmindedly glanced over at a tiny black stream that lay nearby. However, as soon as his gaze lingered upon the water, his blue eyes grew large with realization.

“Look!” The bard almost shouted. “Here is a stream”

“And there is a tree!” Tippleglee growled irritably. “There’s no need to yell about it!”

“No! I mean to say, what if we follow it?” Curesoon continued undeterred.

The black stream was more like a long stagnant pool, and it was slightly more than ankle-deep. The only ripples that disturbed it were made by whatever vile thing lurked beneath its glass-like surface. However, it was a steady source of bearing for them to follow, for they need only pick from two directions instead of every way.

“Should it not, sooner or later, lead us out of this vile wood?” the bard said and then added with a shrug, “Besides, we can’t get any more lost than we already are.”

Tippleglee tapped out his pipe and put it away in his bag. “Anything would be better than sitting here listening to you prattle on!”

Curesoon sighed with a note of discouragement, and when the grumpy old man heard it, he knew his comment had been too harsh. With a stiff nod, Tippleglee added gruffly, “Well, it’s as good a plan as any.”

In response, Curesoon looked surprised, but before he could say anything about it, Tippleglee turned toward the stream.

With a confused chuckle, Curesoon followed.

“We’ll need to go upstream to find the farm of Guileless.” The bard explained as he came. “He’s watching over my pony.”

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At the stream, the older man stopped and considered the stagnant water.

“But which way’s upstream?” Tippleglee grumbled.

Curesoon frowned. “I suppose we shall have to gamble.” He then added with a slight grin. “I know, I’ll let you choose.”

“Oh no you don’t!” the little man growled. “I shan’t pick so you can blame me later!”

The bard rolled his eyes. “Very well! I’ll choose and bear the blame.” He thought for a moment and then commented, “It’s always best to go the right way.”

Tippleglee shrugged. “With what little we have to go on, that makes more sense than none.”

So, the two men turned right and followed the small stream. After many miles and uncounted hours, they suddenly came to a lonely shaft of sunlight that had managed to pierce the thick canopy of Miremurk’s tangled branches.

Curesoon stood for a long moment in the shaft and soaked up the sun’s rays. It was hot upon his face, but he missed the light so much that he ignored its heat. After a minute or so, he felt his spirit lift some, and then he heard again the call of his duty. Reluctantly, he turned from the light and as he did so, Miremurk seemed all the darker to the bard's eyes, but his heart felt brightened.

Tippleglee, however, had been so long in the shadows of the bog that he stepped near but did not enter the shaft of light. He felt almost as though he had never seen such a wonder before. Cautiously, he only stuck in his thin nimble fingers like one who was handling a thing that might be too hot to touch. Then, enjoying the sunshine, he boldly thrust in his whole bony hand.

Tippleglee was much older, and so the heat of the sun was not harsh to him as it was to Curesoon. Moreover, the warmth of the light made the little old man smile brightly, but he quickly hid it for fear that Curesoon might see. After shooting a glance toward the bard to make sure he had not, Tippleglee turned and quickened his pace to catch up again with the taller man.

Slowly the day drew on, and the dim light of the wood began to fade completely. Curesoon was feeling quite uneasy about camping in the bog, so when Tippleglee suddenly stopped and began to unpack his bag, Curesoon started to argue.

“Wouldn’t it be better to walk on in the dark?” the bard asked trying to lend reason to his desire to continue. “After all, we have only a year and a day to finish our quest and return again.”

“We shall soon be stumbling over every broken tree and every slimy stone. Better that we rest and start anew on the morrow than to trip and break our fool necks. All the time in the world won’t help us then.” Tippleglee replied with no hint that the matter was open for debate.

Curesoon glanced about the broken forest. Its eerie silence seemed to be closing in upon him again.

“I don’t think I can sleep in this place.”

“Surely, you’re not afraid!” the little man growled with a slightly surprised tone as he unrolled his sleeping sack.

Tippleglee took out his tinderbox from inside the roll. After opening the small cedar container, he then glanced up at the fretful bard.

“You’ve met the most frightful thing in this wood, and she’s what sent you on this silly quest to prove yourself right.” He shook his head and went back to making camp.

Curesoon stood gazing with momentary disbelief as the little man built a small campfire. To his astonishment, he found that the other’s words actually made sense.

“What else is there to fear?” he asked himself.

After a couple more seconds of inner struggle, the bard took off his pack and made ready to sleep as well.

After settling back in a seated position upon his bed, Tippleglee took out a round wooden flask and drank many large gulps. Afterward, he said nothing but just stared into the fire, for the long day had wearied him terribly. Even before a half-hour had passed, he began to nod off.

Curesoon watched smiling as the old man caught himself from time to time just barely keeping from toppling over.

They were both very hungry, but they were also far too tired to bother with cooking. It was just then that Curesoon remembered the package in which the farmer’s wife had wrapped the small cake.

Taking out the bundle, he was glad to find that it had not been soiled or soaked by his stay in the Trollop’s cave or his stroll through Miremurk.

He tore the cake in two and offered half to Tippleglee who eagerly took it and grunted his appreciation. Then they both took bites of their pieces and drowsily grinned at its pleasant taste.

When they had finished eating, they each laid back upon their bedrolls. After removing his wooden-framed spectacles, Tippleglee immediately fell fast asleep snoring loudly.

However, this did not trouble Curesoon, for he was far too exhausted to notice. Thus, after tilting his colorful hat down over his eyes, he also quickly drifted off into the land of dreams.

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