Afeallan

"Chapter" Sixteen

Créda spent several days trying to get out of Aemtignes. It appeared to go on forever, much like the canyons, save the occasional brush or skeleton of an unlucky beast. He felt as if he were going in circles, though he knew that was impossible. He came upon a river bank. Across the shallow thin stream he saw green. Eastanwind. He rushed to the water and drank. He looked up and saw smoke rising above the trees. Irrationally—partly due to the journey and partly due to wishful thinking—Créda thought, perhaps, it was Rýnelic and his pipe. “I knew he wouldn’t have gone far” he said to himself as he ran as fast as he could toward the pillar of smoke. As he came closer he realized the plume was much further, and thus much larger, than it had appeared from the bank of the river. He slowed to a stop feeling incredibly foolish. He clinched his fists, flexed his thighs in frustration. Nonetheless he decided it would be worthwhile to investigate. At the very least he may find someone of help. He clung desperately to the possibility that it was Rýnelic and that he had built a fire. He knew this was unlikely. Créda continued walking like a child in the dark. He came upon a house built in the trees. The smoke came from its chimney. There was a rope-ladder dangling from the side. He began to climb and, as he ascended, rattled the tiny bells at the top.

 

“Who’s there?” demanded a high, throaty, pitchy, nasally voice. It was the voice of an old man.

 

“My name is Créda. I’m looking for someone. A lost friend.” His voice faltered at the lie.

 

“Proceed.”

 

“Thank you,” said Créda as he reached the top. A leathery, wrinkled hand assisted him climb over the ledge. Inside, a drink was steeping over the fire.

 

“You’re looking for someone, eh?”

 

“Yessir, I am.”

 

“And who might this person be?”

 

“His name is Rýnelic.”

 

“Rýnelic, eh? Yeah, I believe I’ve seen a Rýnelic or two.”

 

“You have?” Créda was incredulous.

 

“Sure! He came by here yesterday. We had a tea together.”

 

“You’re sure it was him? Where did he go?” Créda still believed.

 

“Sit down. Stay awhile. Don’t get too many visitors, ‘cept you.” He added quickly “an’ that Relic fellow.”

 

Créda sat in exchange for information.

 

The old man pulled the beverage from the fire and poured it into two mugs. Créda looked up and around. There were several layers, he realized, shooting out amongst the trees, climbing higher, like a sprawling vertical labyrinth. The old man brought the drinks, clanking for shaking hands. After sitting for a while, the old man stood up. “So yer lookin’ fer someone, eh?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“You’ve stumbled up into the right place. I’m lookin’ for someone too. An ol’ friend of mine. Built this place with searching in mind. High up from the ground. Good perspectives. Never have to leave n’either, food grows around me, you know? Make my tea wit’ the leaves. Never have to leave my post. Tell you what. Come wit’ me.” The old man took Créda by the wrist and dragged him up and around on rope-stairs to the second level of the tree house. “You’ll be able to see better from this perspective.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“See? You can see all the way out to the tops of those hills, there.” He extended his wrist like a limp, sinewy compass.

 

Créda peered as far as he could, straining his eyes. He could discern nothing, save for the hills and a miniscule wedge of water between them, glistening like dented silver.

 

“Seems like the only folks who com’ ‘round my place are lookin’ for someone. Everyone lookin’ fer somethin’. Fact is, I got someone up in the top room still lookin’ for his bride, or somethin’ to that effect. Can’t be very good at lookin’ though, he ain’t found ‘er yet.” The old man chuckled at his joke. “Why don’t you go meet ‘im. Maybe he’s seen that Rakalack of yours. He’s been up there long enough.”

 

Créda, still hopeful, took the old man’s advice and climbed the layers higher, each time stopping at the request of his host to stop and look out a window. Sideways, upside-down, spiraling in some cases upward on the loose ropes and knots until he reached the top room. It was a dark room with dust like fog. A small room with one small window. It smelled rancid.

 

“Hello, Fandian,” the old man greeted his guest. “You found ‘er yet?” He chuckled.

 

There was no response.

 

“I don’t see anyone, sir.”

 

“Sure you do, your eyes haven’t adjusted jist yet. He’s sittin’ reclined in that chair.”

 

Créda tied to brush the dust out of the air, but that only caused a more vicious veil. “Hello?”

 

“He’s just prob’ly takin’ a nap. He’s been here awhile. Why don’t you jist peer out the window. Should be sunset. Should be pretty.”

 

Créda, as he had always done, obeyed instructions and looked out the window. The old man lit a lantern. Créda turned around. “Sir, there’s no one in the chair.” There was only a pile of clothes, laid out as if in preparation of a new day. Too dirty, too decrepit to be worn. There was a telescope resting on top of a copper colored stain in the pants.

 

“What? You don’t see ‘im sittin’ there? He’s lookin’ right at you, boy. See for yourself.” He handed Créda the lantern.

 

Créda peered. Leaned forward, holding the light parallel to his temple. Crouching forward. He heard what sounded like the distant sound of leaves rustling. It was not the sound of leaves. Constant buzzing. He saw movement. White movement in brown mush. Créda gasped as realization set in. He dropped the lantern.

 

“Careful wit’ that!” the old man exclaimed. “You’ll blaze this ol’ place up!”

 

“H-How long as he been here?” Créda asked trembling.

 

“Fandian? Couple years I figure. Don’t see much of him, tend to forget he’s around. Always up here. Always looking for ‘is love. Ah, what’s ‘er name?”

 

Créda was backing toward the door.

 

“You can stay ‘ere too, if you like. It’d be nice to have the company. Stay as long as you’d like.”

 

Créda feebly raised his hands as the old man approached, grinning. Créda found the ropes and began descending. The old man, like a spider, crawled downward, inverted toward him, holding the lantern in his smile to make better use of his hands. Créda lost his footing in desperation—a lucky misstep—and fell to the ground outside the tree-house, spraining his ankle. The old man reached the threshold of his home. Extended the lantern over the ledge with one free hand. Créda stood and winced. He was still able to stand.

 

“Come back here,” the old man yelled after him as he hobbled away. “We can’t leave our post!”