The Questory of Root Karbunkulus - Quill (10 page)

“I said get it off me!” It was a good thing
Hilly had no idea how odd she looked with her face stretched like
that. She looked like she had entered warp speed. With a plant
stuck to her head.

“I’m…”

Yank.

“…trying…”

Yank…

“to…”

Super yank.

Nothing. This shrub was not going
anywhere.

“You’re gonna have to pretend it’s your
baby.” Lian advised at last.

“What? Are you insane?”

“It’s the only way. Just tell it you need to
sleep and that it can come back soon.”

“But it can’t!”

“Just say it!”

“I’m not telling a stupid, dumb weed that I’m
its mother, Blick. So, you better…”

The Shrieking Shrub stretched its leaves
contentedly, nuzzling them further in and around Hilly’s head. A
purr began.

“I’m telling you, it won’t leave otherwise.”
Lian haggled.

“Very funny…hardy har har. Spare me the
stupid puns.”

Lian shook his head. “Whatever. Keep it for
all I care, then.” He turned to walk away.

“Hilly!” Hyvis gave her daughter the ‘just do
it’ look.

“Fine! Fine, I’ll do it!” Hilly’s lips were
pursed tighter than the shrub’s grip. She took a deep, very
unamused breath. Her eyes rolled down toward the plant. It seemed
to look back at her. “Oh, hi…uh…little…uh…tyke. Boy, you sure
are…cute. Hey, look, it’s your bedtime but I promise you can come
back. Real soon.”

The plant stopped purring.

“Mummy just needs a…a rest is all. But mummy
still…loves you...”

“And so does grandma.” Added Hyvis.

The plant nodded a reluctant leaf. Lian took
his cue and gingerly attempted to remove it from Hilly’s nose,
which looked like it might come off in the extraction. Eventually
the Shrieking Shrub let go with a sigh.

At the exact same time, the reach of the Dead
Treader’s poison spread further, seizing Hilly’s lips. She was now
stuck stiff like a mannequin. A crab faced mannequin, Root thought
staring down at her.

Master Gub had somehow regained his
composure. “What in the blazes of chaos is going on here?”

A muffled whine came from Hilly and the only
thing left to move, her eyes, darted toward the corner where Krism
still cowered. The mood of the room shifted. Root could feel it, as
if winter had returned for unfinished business. Krism would not
step out from the shadows. It was just like that day at the Black
Market where Root had found him with a broken body and spirit in a
filthy cell. The exact same look on his face.

Hilly’s eyes finally succumbed to the poison.
They froze glaring at Krism. It was total creepy.

“Well!?” Master Gub spun around to face the
crowd. His Bag ‘o Treaders forced the onlookers back in a
frightened crush. Directly in front of him, Milden Ibbbs started
hopping on one foot. His other had just been trampled.

“I don’t know, sir.” Milden limped back
farther from the writhing bag. “When we got here, all we saw was
Hilly laying in bed and…and him.” He pointed at Krism who flinched
and pulled further into the corner, hoping the shadows would
swallow him whole. “Then more people came and then Jorab who
found…those gross things.” Milden pointed at the twisting bag.
Master Gub suddenly became aware of the Dead Treaders again and
jumped. He held them arms length, forcing those closest to back
tighter into the crowd.

Jorab had been administering a sticky, clear
balm over Hilly’s face and now the bottom half of her lip had
‘thawed’. “Those things nearly killed me!” came flying from her
mouth. It had actually come out as “Toes tings eerly pilled be!”
but everyone got the gist of it.

Hyvis turned to the corner of Hilly’s room
with a fierce growl. She had resented the presence of the Tint from
day one and now her loathing was validated. Her top lip curled in
hatred. “Just like I said ‘Where there is depravity, there is a
Tint!’ And I was right!”

A fury unleashed with her words. The gawking,
confused faces of the onlookers now grew angry and frightened.
Hatred sprung forth with a malice Root had only scratched the
surface of in her encounters. Even Hillywur Gub could not function
with fairness. He stared at Krism in disdain and allowed the circle
to form around him.

“You don’t know that he did it for sure!”
Root jumped in front of Krism. Even if it was true, which she was
sure it wasn’t, this was no way to handle it.

“ Yeah, it could’ve been anyone!” Milden
scrambled awkwardly beside Root.

“But you yourself said he did it!” someone
yelled at Milden.

“No, I didn’t. I said he was here when we got
here. But his room is closest and so that doesn’t mean anything.”
It was a flimsy excuse and Root flushed with embarrassment for she
sensed, like everyone else, that it came out of his…erm…fondness
for Root, not Krism.

Thankfully, Dwyn entered the tightened circle
and gave Root some balance. But the hatred had ripened in Hyvis’s
words. A tall boy took a step toward Krism.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Dwyn
warned him.

Root searched for Lian. Though he was not a
part of the lynch mob, he had chosen to stand back, away from his
friends. She could see him teetering, his eyes wide and confused.
Root held herself in front of Krism and nervously bit her lip.
Where was Jorab? She looked at the bed and found him calmly
watching the unfolding. His eyes were scanning, as if searching for
deeper truths amongst the faces. Why wasn’t he stopping this?

“Is that so?” the tall boy threatened
Dwyn.

“Yeah, baby” Dwyn smiled and leaned in.

Root braced herself. The air positively
crackled. This was it. All it would take was one swing of a fist
and the floodgates would burst.

….5…4…3…2…

“I would think these things would be handled
with the innocence preserved for all until proven otherwise.”

A wave of heads snapped to Jorab’s attention,
like hyenas revived of the true King of the Jungle. Root breathed.
’Bout time.

In perfect timing, Mordge arrived with, of
all things, bubble wrap. She stopped to assess the room, spied
Hilly and went to her bedside.

Though everyone was dying to know what she
was going to do with that bubble wrap, there would be no such
public demonstration that night. And, unfortunately it would be the
one thing that Hilly Punyun would not gossip about in the
morning.

Instead Hilly Punyun met her day refreshed
and with a wider grin than anyone thought possible. For she knew
something. She knew what happened to the silent boy with the scar
on his forehead.

Even Jorab and Mordge hadn’t been able to
staunch the bloodied outcry. Leading the way was Hyvis Punyun, her
anger scrawled across poster boards and spewing out of loud
speakers:

Picklepug Picklepug take a hint

DréAmm doesn’t want a tint!

No one believed Krism, of course. Especially
in light of his previous interaction with Hilly. Even Root had
asked him perhaps a few too many times to repeat exactly what had
happened, how he’d gotten into Hilly’s Room, why he hadn’t helped.
It was the same answers each time: Krism had sensed the danger and
gone to investigate. He did not know it was Hilly Punyun’s room. He
was too scared to touch the Dead Treaders and was going to get help
but Hilly screamed first and then people came right away. When
asked how he had sensed the danger, Krism said it was the same way
he felt when the Murk Lord was present.

To this Hyvis had screeched, “See! Once a
Tint, always a Tint! He felt the call of evil and was going to act
on it!”

Nothing would change her mind. Nor the minds
of most. Any other possible explanation was balked at before it
could even begin. The boy was guilty for just breathing.

And to make matters worse, the Quest Sendoff
had been postponed for deliberations. Anyone who had been neutral
was now angry and blaming Krism for that, too.

It had been a long debate, held in Council
Chambers. And though Root felt that Jorab believed Krism, she also
guessed by the look on his face that things were not going
well.

It was Hyvis’ smug glee that cemented Root’s
premonition. She had barged out of the hearing, flushed with hatred
and vindication, pasting it on for the media. Flanking her as she
rang out Krism’s guilty verdict was the Guardian, looking every bit
the ringmaster; and Grotius Vulcherk of whom it was well known had
no affection for Tints.

“Master Vulcherk, you must be pleased by the
outcome,” came a reporter’s voice in the front.

“Less Tints, lower prices…always a good
thing, sir.”

Root cringed over the stupid, suck up
laughs.

She watched Picklepug sidle up with his own
artful banter, a star in his element. He primped like a pro,
tossing about the sordid details. Meat to dogs. Root had tried to
make her way through the media but was flopped about in a net of
legs and elbows. She could barely see the three of them, but she
knew they were burning up hot air as fast and furious as the spit
off their lips. She pushed on and managed to scope them from a
small opening of bodies. There was no doubt about it, Picklepug was
proud, strutting in the decision to “Lock the Tint up away from the
innocent!”

He never had any intention of acting on those
many meetings with Root. It was a big game to him all along. Root
swallowed hard in the revelation. Heat rose in her cheeks. She
wanted, more than anything to dig her nails into his stupid, ugly
face and squeeze.

“So, what is to happen now?” a tall woman
called out.

“Well…” Picklepug said with such flare that
an orchestral sweep, a neon backdrop, a kick line of feathered
girls and a spotlight would have been expected.

But something stopped him. Root’s eyes had
met his, landing with a shock so desperate and hurt he went winded.
He spluttered and coughed and tried to smile at the media. It was
Hyvis who stepped in.

“If I had my druthers we’d be rid of that
infection this very minute but as it stands the Tint will be
escorted off the premises by two days’ mid.”

Root’s breath flew from her. The media
lurched, foaming at the mouth. Picklepug looked away and found
himself once more in the comfortable din of the affair. It was only
when the hysteria turned its attention suddenly to an opening door
that Root was able to see the full extent of the damage.

Krism.

So broken. So angry. Root’s eyes hurt to look
at him.

He was hunched over, frail as a last breath.
In wrist cuffs. Wrist cuffs!

Mordge and Jorab were on each side of him,
lending strength. Imaginates broke loose, bouncing a strobe of
lights all over every inch of his existence.

He did not flinch. He did not look up. All
these months of watching him grow and picking up little bits of
himself, all the simple things like standing up tall and looking
into eyes and speaking and eventually smiling. Gone. Sucked away in
the flashing bulbs.

Root felt sick.

She ran toward Krism but was forced back by
two men. Guards. “You are not allowed to approach the
prisoner.”

Prisoner? The word struck Root so hard she
thought she would fall.

“I will not accept that term, sir. Nor will a
second tribunal, I warrant.” Jorab countered. The guard shifted and
stepped back. Jorab turned and faced the media. “There will be no
comments whatsoever regarding the child. He has been traumatized
enough!” His voice tore into the ears around him and even Hyvis
Punyun put a cork in her big trap. It was a brief corking, however,
shortly followed by a humph and a signal for the media to follow
her out into the great hall.

As there would be nothing from the defense’s
camp, the wolves fell in behind her and Picklepug, who was already
posing for pictures.

Root was looking around Krism’s room, now
stripped of everything. The beginnings of his nest, Spring
clippings, tokens of recent months, bits ‘n pieces of the boy he
was leaning into, had been stuffed into a canvas bag and the weary
boy that was Root’s friend was now sitting silently on the end of
his bed. Wilma, his camouflaging chameleon who had grown quite a
bit over the weeks could not fit in the bag anymore but rather
carried it on her back.

The only consolation, though meagre in its
tender, was that Jorab had arranged a youth-house in which Krism
could stay. It was apparently not too far from the hotel but still,
Root felt that her friend was being tossed out to sea. She looked
at Krism who had never once strayed from his story. By tomorrow
afternoon he would be gone. Root put on a face of hope, despite the
lump taking over her throat. “So, Lian got his dad to allow you out
for a little while tonight for a going-away party because…because
well, no matter what happens, Krism you are …important. And not
just to me either.”

The word ‘important’ cracked in Root’s voice
and in that fault line between grief and hope, Krism heard all he
needed to hear. He allowed Root to lay her hand over his and wrap
her warm fingers like a mitten. But as to the strange and sweet
feeling making its way into his heart…
that
he would not
allow. Never again. He’d rather die than feel anything but
bitterness again. His breath was pinched tight.

Tonight he was nothing but a cold, angry
Tint.

When he watched his friend finally slip
through the door with a strained smile, promising to return for him
later, the rage spilled. Only the chameleon at his side would
know.

Despite crucial preparations for A-2’s
immediate send off, the plans for Krism’s going-away party were
underway. Lian had managed an appeal using his father’s name that
allowed for Krism’s short, albeit monitored probation. Yes, his
father would surely kill him if he found out. But how can you say
no to Root when she looks at you like that?