Bumblestook: Book 1, The Accidental Wizard (12 page)

“You can come too,” Farley invited, thinking, maybe she felt left out.

But his mother had declined, telling him to go on without her. Farley was beginning to notice that his parents never spoke with the big rock, though they passed by it nearly every day, nor with any of the smaller rocks and pebbles that lay in their paths. In fact, he suddenly realized, they never spoke to
any
of his rock friends. As he mulled this over, his mental discomfort translated into an upset stomach and he began to feel a bit queasy.

The big grey rock sensed minute fluctuations in the electromagnetic field that surrounded the Human called Farley Bumblestook. It processed this information slowly, methodically checking it against previously stored data regarding Human reactions. It came to the conclusion that his friend was in a state of distress.

Determining that the young Human required conversation, it began the process which enabled it to speak. Having no mouth or vocal chords, it first tapped into the source of heat available to all rock beings via the Core. It then made a conscious effort to focus the energy in one small area on its surface, causing the particles therein to become malleable; allowing it to move them, one against the other, to produce sound. Having had eons of practice, it could speak quite distinctly in the language of Ancient Earth, as well as several Human languages, to those who knew how to listen.

Farley, hearing the low, grinding noise produced by the rock as it warmed up to speak, waited with unusual patience for a seven year old Human.

“
Confusion—cause
?” Big Grey spoke slowly, with a minimum of words as was its way.

“It’s my mom,” Farley answered. He turned over to lay on his stomach, allowing the warmth of the rock to seep into his skin. “She’s really nice, so how come she never talks to you or the Garden Rocks or the Little Ones? How come she only talks to my people friends?”

“
Mom—hear only—Humanspeak. Deaf—to Earthspeak
.”

Farley gasped. “Seriously? What about Dad?”

“
Same
.”

“Oh.” Farley frowned and fell silent, thinking.

He thought back on the many times he had talked to his mother about his rock friends; recalling her funny little smile and sad eyes. He remembered his father, chuckling and patting him on the head, with a wink and a nod and a glib “Whatever-ya-say, sport!”

“Izzit cuz they’re grown-ups? Maybe just kids hear you.”

“
Only Farley—hear—Earthspeak. Only Farley—know—Earthbound
.”

“But Fiona talks to you all the time! You know Fiona!”

Big Grey was silent for a moment, as it sorted through the data it had gathered on Human children. Finally, it came to a conclusion and spoke.

“
Fiona—not hear—Earthspeak. Fiona—play.
”

Farley sat up, stunned. An odd feeling washed over him, something he couldn’t put a name to. Tears sprang to his eyes and his lower lip trembled.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why only me?”

“
Some Humans—different. Hear Earthspeak—know Earthbound
,” Big Grey replied. “
Long
time—pass. No Human—hear Earthspeak. Farley come. Farley different. Farley—friend.
”

The little boy sniffed and smiled through his tears. “I guess it’s not so bad,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “At least, I have a lotta friends! But, I think I shouldn’t talk to you anymore when Mom and Dad are around. I don’t wanna make them worry.”

There was a prolonged silence and Farley could feel the surface beneath him grow increasingly warmer as the rock processed this information.

“
Understood. Our—secret
.” Big Grey finally said.

“Will you tell the guys?” Farley asked. Several minutes went by, during which the rock relayed the news, via well-established underground channels, to the other rocks in the Bumblestook’s yard.

“
Done
.” Big Grey reported back.

The news spread, from Farley’s yard to the boundaries of his world; up and down the block, to the school grounds and the neighborhood park. That day, all of the Earthbound inhabitants therein became members of an exclusive club, sworn to secrecy as the Earthbound Friends of Farley Bumblestook.

****************************

The next day, Farley and Fiona sat in the sandbox at the neighborhood park, while their mothers sat nearby, on a park bench. Farley repeatedly scooped up handfuls of sand, solemnly observing the falling grains as they flowed through his fingers like water.

Fiona eyed him curiously. Despite what her teacher thought, they couldn’t actually read each others’ minds, but they always knew how the other
felt
. Fiona knew that something was greatly troubling her (usually happy-go-lucky) friend. Her concern mounted, as she watched him stare entranced at the grains of sand as they were carried away by the wind.

“Fiona, d’ya know what these little grains of sand think about our sandcastles?”

“No-o-o. Do you?” Fiona asked, eying him curiously.

“They like it when we play with ‘em and make ‘em into things.”

“They do?”

“Yeah! And they like to fly away on the wind, too. They can’t move on their own, you know. They need
us
to help them.”

“I didn’t know,” Fiona told him seriously. “How do
you
know that’s what they like?”

Farley took a deep breath and looked anxiously into his friend’s eyes. “Cuz they told me. I’m not just making it up. I can talk to
all
the rocks—big ones, little ones, even these tiny ones! You believe me, dontcha?” he blurted out.

Fiona didn’t laugh, or even act surprised. She could tell her friend wasn’t joking. Besides, she herself was no stranger to things out-of-the-ordinary. She paused to seriously consider what he had said. Of
course
she was aware that Farley talked to rocks; you couldn’t be around Farley as much as she and
not
notice! But up until now, she had thought it was just a game he liked to play. Lots of kids their age liked to play pretend. Fiona wasn’t one of them, but she played along because it made her friend happy. Now, she realized it was more than just a silly game.

“You believe me, dontcha Fiona? You don’t think I’m making it up, or-or that I’m crazy or weird or anything like that, do ya?” Farley asked anxiously.

Fiona gave him a look, remarkably reminiscent of her mother, with one perfectly arched brow raised in disdain.

Farley sighed in relief. Of
course
Fiona believed him. If he hadn’t been so worried, he would’ve known. It was impossible for them to hide their true feelings from each other.

“But it’s a secret! You can’t tell
anybody
—especially our moms and dads. Promise you won’t tell,” Farley insisted.

Fiona tossed her head impatiently. “Of
course
I won’t tell.
They
wouldn’t understand.” She leaned towards him, fair hair falling forward like a shimmering veil, eyes shining with interest. “Now, tell me
everything,”
she said, her voice low and intense.

So, he told her about the Earthbound; about how they had spoken to him as a baby and taught him Earthspeak, the language of Ancient Earth. He told her about his parents; about the way his mother tried to hide how worried she was and how his father thought it was just a childish game. And finally, he told her about his pact with the Earthbound, to speak only when they were alone. Fiona listened, eyes sparkling as he spun his tale.

Others listened as well. Farley’s little dog, Yap, lay tethered nearby, his muzzle resting on the edge of the sandbox, his triangular ears pivoting like miniature satellite dishes, as he strove to pick up the children’s conversation. Tom, the cat, lay stretched out on a tree branch, overhanging the play area. His long, dangling tail swished back and forth and his whiskers twitched as he listened in.

Unbeknownst to all, gazillions of grains of sand were busy recording, translating and transmitting the beginnings of the story that would, in time, become the legend of Bumblestook.

It was a sprawling room, consisting of a central hub from which many hallways branched off, like the arms of an angular octopus; leading (in true labyrinthine fashion) to numerous dead ends and blind alleys. Its farthest reaches melted into shadows so deeply dark, as to appear solid. The walls, of varying heights and widths, meandered about in outright defiance of blueprints, with an apparent abhorrence of angles that were right. The ceiling arched, dipped, dropped and curved in a spastic effort to join them.

Every inch of wall space, clear up to the ceiling, was covered by shelves crafted of every imaginable material and style (as well as some best left in the imagination). Here, symmetry was not a factor, nor was there any attempt made to be level. Crammed with a librarian’s nightmare, of archaic texts rubbing tattered elbows with slick paperback novels, the shelves were also home to a collection of oddities; fossilized remains of unearthly creatures; elaborate seashells of unknown origin; fantastic horns, branched and curled in intricate and unfamiliar patterns.

The center of the room was the obvious focal point. The nexus of a hypnotic design of multi-colored, mosaic floor tiles; it was as open and uncluttered, as the rest of the room was crowded and close. In contrast with the shadowy recesses and dark corners, it was warmly lit by a cluster of globes (like giant, glowing, yellow grapes) hanging from the ceiling by no apparent means of suspension.

There were but two pieces of furniture in room. Directly over the center, of the intricate whorls of tile, sat an old, wooden table crafted of Golden Tiger Oak. Its sides were carved, its legs elaborately turned, its surface worn and scarred. Drawn up close by its side, sat a high-backed wooden chair, fashioned of hard Black Walnut; its generous seat and headrest upholstered in faded, moss-green velvet; its curved side arms worn smooth by decades of loyal service.

Upon the table sat two objects; a roughhewn, clear crystal approximately the size of a teapot and a laptop computer, the screen of which displayed a woodland forest. A cable, sprouting from the back of the laptop, led to the side of the crystal; connecting the two seemingly unrelated objects. The crystal glowed with a soft white light, while the laptop purred with electronic content.

Another peculiar feature of the room was that it had no apparent means of entrance or exit. Not a single window or door interrupted the erratic flow of the walls, as they lurched about its perimeter.

Suddenly, a stream of multicolored lights shot out from under the table. One-by-one, in lightning quick succession, a single string of floor tiles began to glow. The trail of lights streaked from the center of the room, rounded a protruding corner and raced into one of the shadowy recesses. It came to a halt in front of a wall of bookshelves, constructed of dinosaur bones. The lights began to pulsate, as the shelves and their contents rippled and wavered, like a reflection on windblown water.

In one moment he wasn’t there, and in the next he was. Bartholeumous appeared, superimposed over the rippling image of shelves. As the Wizard stepped forward, onto the path of light, he materialized fully, as the bookshelf behind him re-solidified. He followed the glowing tiles exactly, weaving about as they curved and coiled, ignoring the more direct path across the floor. Finally, arriving at the table and chair, he reached out to touch them simultaneously, allowing his fingertips to brush identical carvings in each. The tiles ceased to glow.

Bartholeumous sat in the chair, his body settling into its plush velvet seat; his arms resting comfortably on its arms; the back of his head leaning into the groove, worn into its cushioned headrest by long and constant use. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax, soothed by the hum of the laptop and the familiarity of his surroundings. Some moments passed.

A sudden chirping sound from the computer jerked the Wizard from his reverie. A cheery, robotic voice announced, “You’ve got a report!”

Bartholeumous’ eyes snapped open and he leaned forward eagerly to examine the crystal. Within its rough facets a scene played out, occasionally flickering as with poor reception. Farley and Fiona sat in a sandbox. Farley’s shoulders were hunched with tension and Fiona’s gaze was intent. Their heads drew closer together as if conspiring—but about what? Bartholeumous’ eyes narrowed.

“I would be willing to wager those two are
not
discussing the finer points of building sandcastles,” he muttered, his face glowing eerily in the combined light from the crystal and the computer screen. He reached into a pocket, hidden in the folds of his robe, bringing forth a small, black and white spotted, mouse-like creature. Its oversized ears flicked back and forth and the tip of its overlong tail curled and uncurled, as the sorcerer released it onto the keyboard.