Bumblestook: Book 1, The Accidental Wizard (15 page)

Suddenly, the people at the head of the group stopped short, as the path ended on a large open ledge in front of a sheer wall of vine-covered rock. It rose, insurmountable, before them. Nog was nowhere to be found. Confusion increased, as more of the villagers began staggering onto the ledge, huddling together as tightly as possible to avoid falling over the edge. The leaders gave the order to halt, which was passed back along the line of travelers.

The people on the ledge looked up in alarm, as the clinging vines began to jerk and twitch with strange, rustling sounds. They gasped, as the viny curtain parted to reveal an opening, large enough to admit the passage of a single man or beast.

Nog’s father stepped forward, volunteering to go through first, showing faith in the spirit he believed was once his son. He soon returned, reporting the existence of a narrow passageway that opened up into a large cavern. The Council gave the order and the villagers filed single file through the opening and into the cavern beyond.

Thus the Folk of the Wood took refuge inside the mountain, setting up residence in the large cavern and a series of smaller connecting caves. With a little exploration, they found several passageways leading to hidden exits; giving them access to streams of fresh mountain water stocked with fish and bushes laden with delicious, mountain berries. From their safe mountainside vantage point, they were able to track the passage of the marauding tribes through the land, by the dark heavy smoke arising from their fires.

During this time, Nog disappeared. Unbeknownst to the others, he arranged to meet secretly with his mother. After several months had passed, his mother approached the High Council, claiming the strange God of the Mountains had once again appeared in a dream. He told her the danger had passed, and the Folk of the Wood should return to their home. This information was met with relief, for though the mountain caves had provided a safe haven, the people missed their forest home.

The villagers gathered up their belongings and emerged back onto the ledge. They proceeded along the original path, which the God had apparently re-created. As they passed along its length, they heard thumping and scraping sounds; signaling the closing of the path behind them. When they reached the foot of the mountain, Nog reappeared to lead them, silently as before, back to their village. Then, he faded back into the forest.

Upon their return to the village, they found their huts burnt to the ground, but this had been expected and they had taken everything else of value with them. They set up tents and bent themselves to the task of rebuilding. Their newly completed village looked much as before, with one exception. Prominently placed in the center of the village stood a brand new shrine, erected to honor the God of the Mountain.

Nog’s mother was often seen worshipping at the shrine, always in the earliest hours, when the village was shrouded in morning mist. Sometimes she found a small rock, carved roughly into the shape of a dragon, sitting in the offering bowl. Then, she would pocket the small token and quietly slip away into the forest.

Nog was never seen in the village again.

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

Rufus Thatcher, having come to the end of his tale, eyed me with some belligerence as if challenging me to deny its truth. I, however, am an old hand at this sort of game and am not easily drawn into an argument; particularly with men whom, having had overmuch to drink and little else to do, might prefer a rousing brawl!

Instead, I leaned forward and, with all sincerity, put the following question to him;

“And what of the descendants of Nog? Did they inherit his extraordinary abilities as well?”

He, leaned close, his face not a foot from my own, one startlingly clear, blue eye staring out from behind a fall of scraggly hair. Then, he grinned a long, slow grin, like that of a wolf
and he winked like an owl.

“Let’s just say,” he drawled, in a voice aimed low for my ears alone, “that there’s some of us Thatchers what still prefer the forest to the town.”

With that, he stood abruptly. Shoving back his chair with a loud scrape, he shouldered his way rudely past his friends, striding out the door and into the pouring rain. I did not see him again for the remainder of my stay. Thus, am I left, forever to ponder the meaning of his last words.

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

Bartholeumous closed the book with a snap, causing little Fancifoot to leap to his feet with an indignant squeak. The Wizard leaned forward; elbows on the table, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in thought.

Then, “Fancifoot!” he shouted (causing that wee creature to jump again). “Kick-start that computer.”

“RE-
BOOT
!” Fancifoot shouted, stomping one little foot angrily before scampering to carry out the command.

“Send forth an electronic mailing to all of my esteemed colleagues on the Human Identification, Protection and Education Committee. Subject; the Earthbound. Any and all information regarding these beings required immediately! Utmost urgency! Highest Priority! And, Fancifoot” he added, chuckling to himself, “tell them to leave no
stone
unturned!”

One by one, they came from all points of the compass, to a town called Agua Dulce (Spanish for Sweetwater) in the high desert of Southern California. They met in a 745-acre park called Vasquez Rocks, named after a bandit, who once used the maze of rocks and caves as a hideout in the 1800s.

All about them was the evidence of the violent earthquake activity, that had shaken this region millions of years ago. Giant rock formations, some nearly 150 feet high, had been thrust forth from the bowels of the Earth, exposed to the elements and sculpted into wonders of natural creation. Some resembled UFOs that had crashed to Earth; laying half buried in the dirt, their saucer-like rims arching into the sky. Some looked like the bare bones of the Earth itself or the bony back-plates of prehistoric dinosaurs. Others swept up into the sky, colliding every which way; tempest-tossed waves forever cast in stone.

In addition to these unique geological wonders, the land was riddled with caves and tunnels. Springs of fresh, clear water, along with a variety of desert grasses, bushes and plants created the perfect environment for the park’s resident wildlife. Coyotes, jackrabbits, gophers, lizards, and snakes; stalked, dashed, scampered and slithered among the rocky outcroppings. The vast expanse of sky, unmarked by telephone poles or electrical wires, provided ample space for red-tail hawks to spread their wings.

The eight dusty travelers, gathered in the shadow of a towering, sandstone behemoth were a decidedly odd group. Although they were outfitted for the rough terrain (in hiking garb and gear) none appeared eager to scale the rocks or embark upon the myriad twisting paths. In fact, though you might not be able to say exactly why, you would know at a glance they were not your average hikers. However, as it was late and the park was soon closing, no one was there to see them. Even the most enthusiastic hikers had called it a day and the dusty, remote parking lot was empty.

Bartholeumous stood in the center of the group, legs apart in a soldier’s stance. He wore a lightweight, short-sleeve, khaki shirt, faded blue jeans and heavy-duty hiking boots. Slung over one shoulder, he carried a long, gnarled, oak staff in a leather quiver. His dark, wavy hair was tamed by a single thick braid, but long tendrils of his beard lifted, twisting freely in the wind. He surveyed the uneven horizon, with eyes narrowed against the glare of the setting sun, as if keeping vigil for someone or something.

All about him, his companions whiled away the time in various ways. One of them, a stick-thin, black-skinned, elderly gent (whose bald, leathery pate gave way to a raggedy halo of wiry, white hair) squatted in the dirt; skinny legs and bony knees protruding at sharp angles from his baggy shorts. From the tip of one skeletal finger, he sent forth streams of hot-yellow, then cold-blue sparks toward small piles of dry brush; alternately smoldering and smothering them.

Another of the group, a plump, golden-skinned woman (stuffed into knee-length, walking shorts and a brightly-colored Hawaiian shirt) sat on a boulder; amusing herself by plucking nearby desert blooms and tucking them into her long, black hair. Once placed among the thick, wavy strands, the flowers sprouted leafy vines, weaving themselves into her tresses. Around her neck, she wore a thick, purple bandanna, rolled and soaked in water to keep her cool.

A trio of women stood together, back to back, shoulders touching in a living triangle. All three were tall, long-limbed and lean-muscled, beneath sun-bronzed skin. All three had blunt-cut, shoulder-length, ash-brown hair, slanted eyes and wide mouths. They appeared to be identical triplets, with the exception of their eyes, which were blue, green and brown in color. Each wore matching drab, olive-green, short-sleeve shirts, cuffed shorts, thick woolen socks and hiking boots. As they stood together, shoulder to shoulder, they hummed a curious melody. One of the three began by humming a set of three notes. Without a discernible pause, a second sister hummed three, followed by the third sister chiming in with her three; at which point the first started over again. Round and round the melody went, ever changing, never ending.

Two men, an Asian with a Fu Manchu mustache and a tall, white-turbaned Indian, stood on opposite sides of a waist-high boulder. Upon its relatively flat surface, they used a piece of charcoal to draw a complicated grid, consisting of lines both curved and straight. The Asian gentleman placed a finger in the center of the grid and pronounced a single word;

“Magisphere!”

The charcoal lines began to bubble and smoke, as they etched their way into the hard surface of the rock. From their multi-pocketed safari vests, each man produced a handful of glass marbles, half pale-pink and half pale-blue. These were placed into the grooves of the game board. Next, the men clapped twice simultaneously; setting all of the marbles in motion at once, rolling along the grooves in every direction. When individual marbles rolled over key places on the board (where three or more lines converged) their colors intensified. When the marbles collided, different things happened, depending on their color. When blue met red, the marble with the deepest color absorbed the color of the weaker one, creating one purple marble and one clear. Marbles of the same color bounced harmlessly off of each other, as did reds and blues of equal color strength. The eyes of the men darted here and there as they followed the paths of their marbles. Their hands hovered over the board, bird-like, fingers a-flutter, as they directed the movements of the colorful spheres.

Suddenly, a small dark cloud appeared in the western sky, growing in size as it raced toward the odd group. Bartholeumous’ companions ceased their activities and, as one, looked up to track its progress. It came to a halt well before it reached them and hung suspended in midair.