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  Not feeling necessarily comforted by this remark from her husband—who only months ago spoke in rough, grammatically infantile sentences—she was at least distracted from her trepidation by her curiosity, which now was stronger than the former.

  Interpreting her silence and dumbfounded stare as an invitation to continue, Richie said, “From the time I asked you to start teaching me, it was with the mindset that I am but a slave inside of a prison yard. I thought that perhaps via the knowledge contained in books I would elevate myself above that miserable station in life that my prowess as a boxer failed to do. However, I have lately come to the disturbing realization that this prison is in part my own construction and that without first dismantling it I will be unlikely to ever escape.

  “You have long wanted to work as a librarian. But in my naïve chauvinism, I have insisted that you stay at home long after that was necessary by any practical consideration. If I continue to work full-time in that miserable occupation while needlessly keeping you here at home, I am ignoring the key that unlocks several of the doors to my formidable prison. Do you still desire to work as a librarian?”

  Janie nodded, more dumbfounded than before. “Yes,” she whispered, suspecting there was more Richie had to say.

  “Good. As of today, effective immediately, I quit my job at the lumberyard.”

  “What?!” Janie couldn’t help but scream, although without being sure why.

  “It’s a business calculation essentially, my dear. Based on the savings we currently have—and all the numbers are right here, my love—” (he said, pointing to several sheets of paper covered with what seemed like calculations worthy of a doctoral dissertation at the local business college)—“which while admittedly are not much, even if it took you three weeks to obtain part-time employment at the library, something I highly doubt, our savings would still last easily until a week or two beyond that. Now that I have relieved our household of the onerous expense of liquor, even a part-time librarian position should cover our most basic expenses.

  “I find this to be likely to bring us a positive return of investment in the mid- and long-term. Based on the previous rate of progress I was making, studying a few hours each night in a state of nearly complete exhaustion, I was probably on track to learning the basic skills necessary for an entry-level desk job in, say, ten years.” And upon stating this he raised his eyebrows in a professorial manner.

  “By that time, I will probably seem far less employable due to the unflattering effects age has upon the body and the prejudices that employers so often hold towards less-youthful applicants. Furthermore, I fear a pernicious psychological effect will be at play, which is that the fear of losing my lumberyard job will make me unwilling to take the risk of applying for positions, attending interviews, etc., as these are most likely to take place during normal business hours, something my current occupation will not allow me in the slightest, and furthermore, to arrive at an interview sweating so as to look like a man who has just emerged fully clothed from a river is unlikely to make a favorable impression upon most employers.

  “By my calculations, with you temporarily assuming the role of breadwinner for the home, I will begin to study a minimal fifteen hours per day. You will, of course, continue to guide me in the direction of my studies, bringing me an ever-replenishing supply of materials from your new position at the library, and within two to three months’ time I believe I will be knowledgeable enough to find an entry-level desk job somewhere, which will serve as a basis upon which to build a career, earn more money, and then free you of the burden of working as a librarian, unless of course you were to find said task desirable in its own right.”

  Janie was stunned. For a moment she believed her husband’s soul had been abducted by some ghoulish gaggle of witches and replaced with that of a business investor.

  “There’s just one problem I see with your theory, Mr. Smarty Pants,” Janie said, approaching her husband with a mischievous look in her eye, placing herself firmly on top of his lap in spite of the book he had cradled there and giving him a kiss on the lips; “you’re already qualified. More than qualified for a desk job. You’re going to start looking today while I apply at the local library. As for right now, I think you’ve been thinking and working way too hard and need a little rest and relaxation. Can I borrow the professor for an hour?” she asked playfully.

  Not wanting to spoil the moment with any witticism, especially since he felt nowhere nearly as confident as she did about his current eligibility for a job more complicated than hauling objects around and in fact was starting to doubt himself already, he scooped her up in his arms and accepted her offer.

  Chapter 30

  Irkels woke up early that morning, assembled a ferocious-looking array of weaponry, left the lodge looking like a respectable woodsman, mounted a large black horse, and headed north out of the city. Irkels had a deep fondness for horses, and since he knew this horse was not fit for the savage journey that lay ahead of him, once they got to the place where signs of civilization had long since disappeared, he dismounted his fine stallion, removed a few items he had packed, and gently turned the horse around until it was facing south, gave it a slap on the hindquarters, and bid the animal adieu. It went galloping proudly back towards the City of Sodorf, much relieved to be going in the opposite direction of the smells it had been detecting with increasing potency that signified grave danger.

  Irkels removed the lid from an airtight container with some difficulty, from which immediately emanated a foul odor. It was lion dung. But not from any lion. It was from what the Metinvur spies jokingly called King Protector. He was a regal beast held in gentle captivity by the Varco who esteemed him far too greatly to confine him to a miserable cage. He walked about proudly inside a large, high-walled enclosure replete with natural vegetation. Every day he was served some hapless animal, of which he made short work.

  King Protector’s dung inspired fear in the heart of any animal that loved life, and as Irkels walked forward into the savage wilderness, animals might see a man but would smell a savage king.

  Thus, it was without noteworthy incident that Irkels arrived at the scene of utter devastation left behind by the terrible explosion of one of nature’s most prodigious displays of craftsmanship. The smell of King Protector emanated from him like an invisible plague warning away beasts that otherwise would have been irresistibly tempted to probe the taste of this strange guest.

  Irkels had much in common with his avian counterpart, as he had also not known exactly what he expected to find at this scene of desolation. He found little in the way of clues as he walked over the array of solid and pulverized rocks. He did, however, take interest in the occasional fragments he found from books and put these pieces into one of his many pockets.

  Lacking the luxury of ascending and descending the mountain of rubble with relative ease when compared to Chip, he might easily have missed the small shadow on the cliff wall that Chip had opportunely noticed after having scoured the entire area many times. However, as opportunely as Chip had noticed the shadow, Irkels had noticed Chip, and for reasons that defied logic he instinctively hid from this small, harmless bird.

  It was fortuitous that he did so, as this bird would have found his presence suspicious and paid him great interest.

  Irkels watched the bird scour and re-scour the area with an interest that seemed quite peculiar. Having already been in the mindset of hunting for talking birds that were until recently the slaves of the grand wizard Tristan, he perhaps was more attuned to the possibility that the pholungs were not the only birds who had entered into Tristan’s service.

  He received ample reward for both his instincts and reasoning when he noticed the small bird disappear into a small hole in the side of the cliff that he might easily have missed himself. He waited several minutes to make sure the bird was quite gone and then began moving stealthily towards the mysterious aperture.

  Chapter 31

  Sometime after Janie left
the crash came. As it hit him like a lightning bolt directed with sadistic precision towards the very heart of the pain center in his brain, he found himself looking back on the moment when his wrist snapped nearly in half over Oscar’s frustratingly strong pate, hoping to find in the memory some consolation—perhaps remembering how much worse the pain had been then and how light his current suffering truly was.

  This vain effort only served to cruelly inform him that the pain he was experiencing now was so great that he would have sold his very soul to exchange it for the agony of his wrist injury.

  He writhed in bed, moaning like a little boy afflicted with some strange illness against which his body’s immune system had little in the way of an effective response. He noticed Eddie looking at him through the doorway.

  “Dad—everything okay?”

  “I’ve made a mistake, son.” More squirming and groaning.

  Eddie turned and walked away without saying anything else, but in his mind Righty imagined his son’s thought: And here I thought you quit drinking.

  Just when he thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, he suddenly felt sleep coming upon him—that sweet angel who had been robbed of her visit the night before and who was now coming to visit and overcome the pain he felt.

  Like a man in a stormy sea taking the extended hand of a man onboard a sturdy ship, Righty grasped Sleep’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled onto her merciful ship and sail away from the pain.

  “Hon?”

  It was Janie.

  Shame. It hit him between the eyes like the flat end of an ax. She’s going to think I’ve been drinking again. How long have I been out?!

  Janie was alarmed. And, yes, she was a little disgusted. When she had come home thrilled to tell Richie that she had been hired on the spot and that life right now seemed to be a luxury vacation and that she loved him more than anything—yet worried she might find him a bit too engrossed in some book that he would not be distracted from easily—she felt crushed when she saw him passed out in bed at 7 p.m. and had assumed immediately that he was drunker than a skunk.

  She had approached him cautiously, the way one might if confronted in one’s own house with what appears to be a dead rattlesnake but that might suddenly rouse from its still state to deliver a nasty bite. To her fathomless relief the putrid smell of alcohol had not crept into her nostrils like the vile stench of a rotting carcass as she neared her dozing husband.

  Then, her fear of him being drunk turned to fear that he had perhaps overworked himself so severely he had suffered a stroke. But she relaxed as she heard his deep, peaceful breathing.

  But when she heard him say “I’m sorry, Janie,” she once again grew alarmed.

  “Sorry for what, dear?” she asked. “You stayed up all night studying.”

  And then it hit her. He had mentioned taking some kind of herb yesterday.

  Before she could resume her analysis, he demonstrated he had anticipated her thoughts by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small box.

  “I don’t know what it is, Janie. Tom at the lumberyard gave it to me yesterday. It made an entire pot of black coffee feel like a sleepy tea by comparison. It hurt something awful when the effects suddenly wore off. Maybe I shouldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Just take it easy, hon,” she said. “I’ll take it to the local botanist and have her tell me what it is and whether you shouldn’t take it anymore. Maybe you just took too much, or maybe you’re only supposed to take it in the morning.”

  Wanting to dispense with this conversation for the time being, she told him, “Honey?”

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “I got it! I got the job!”

  Brushing aside his shame for having slept all day, he stood up out of bed, lifted her into his arms, and covered her with kisses.

  “I love you so much. You’re my inspiration for living. Don’t ever forget that!”

  “I won’t,” she said, a tear in her eye.

  Chapter 32

  Lord Hutherton and Righty Rick had about as much in common as mud and bedsheets, steel toe work boots and a white wedding dress, and a cravat and a double-edged sword. One had been born into a plush, upper-class home, where the road to success was laid out for him via top-notch private schools, private tutors, and important introductions—so guaranteed a formula for success that he had been practically hand-delivered into his senator position, and it was only there that the silk hands of privilege propping him up finally lost some of their vigor, forcing him to achieve a few things on his own.

  The other was born into a dirt-poor, two-room cabin; son of the town drunk; and who, if he had never discovered he had a right hand as quick as a rattler’s strike and as powerful as a kick from an angry bull, would have never even caught so much as caught a whiff of that tantalizing smell of success that caused him to dream of more in life than a beastly job hauling around lumber for dirt wages.

  Nonetheless, at approximately the same hour of the same day their souls experienced the same torture session produced from the same plant. Where their circumstances once again resumed their divergent paths, as nature perhaps intended, was upon recovery from the drug’s effects . . . .

  As the doors to Selgen’s exclusive Gentlemen of Selegania Club opened, Lord Hutherton’s eyes emerged like the gleaming pair of menacing spheres many a hapless traveler has perhaps seen emanating from the partial cover of a bush alongside a path in the wilderness where the intrepid explorer ought not to have ventured. They darted around searching for something, and they appeared to have accomplished their mission, for their wolflike demeanor relaxed somewhat—perhaps to that of a rabid dog.

  He was fathomlessly pleased to see Ambassador Rochten there flirting with the dancing ladies and whispering sweet nothings into the ear of some dazzling brunette—or perhaps these whispers were of some import, as one had to make certain financial arrangements before coaxing one of these beauties away for more-private conversation—although, had a trifecta of these sumptuous beauties accosted Lord Hutherton at this moment, he would have dismissed them with the same impatience he would a housefly buzzing around his ear.

  Ambassador Rochten noticed Hutherton out of the corner of his eye, and a rapid nodding from his partner in conversation and a furtive glance from her towards Hutherton suggested Rochten had postponed his current matter of business in order to make way for what seemed to be a pressing matter that Hutherton was bringing to him.

  “Ah, Lord Hutherton. I am pleased to find we delight in the same locale. Perhaps you will be so kind as to share a drink with me.”

  “Why, certainly,” Hutherton responded with a tone that suggested that while he would indeed do so he would not waste an extraordinary amount of time before arriving to the business at hand. His tone proved consistent with his intentions, for no sooner had he and Ambassador Rochten sat down upon the opulent leather chairs seated within safe viewing distance of the sights their eyes could continue to feast upon than Hutherton stated flatly, “I need more!”

  “Well, I do admire a man unashamed to come to the point,” Rochten responded calmly, handing over to his guest a small box.

  Hutherton looked at this with pleasure in his eye and with a more subdued tone said, “Ambassador, I will pay you immense sums of money for this . . . I know not what it is—herb of the gods? I appreciate most humbly your largess, but I would consider it even more generous of you if you will allow me to express my thanks,” Hutherton said, reaching into his pocket and producing a massive billfold.

  “Don’t be silly, senator.”

  “Then, will you inform me where I can purchase a large quantity of this material so that I might cease molesting you?”

  “Why certainly,” Rochten stated, pulling a small card from his pocket as if he had it waiting there all night for the arrival of the senator.

  Reading it, the senator remarked, “Thank you . . . I thank you immensely! I will go to this address tomorrow morning.”

  The ambassador looked at t
he senator calmly as if he had provided no greater service than to provide the address to a local store. Sensing there was perhaps something the senator wished to say but feared to do so, he asked, “Is there something else?”

  “Does it always hurt so bad once it wears off? I didn’t think I could ever take that kind of pain again, but I need this; I” (and as he began speaking, he was unaware of the somewhat desperate tone he assumed) “have an important meeting soon with vanguards of industry, and I need that . . . that . . . that—”

  “Focus?”

  “Yes! That focus I had yesterday. Will it always hurt so badly once it wears off?” he repeated, in case the ambassador had been distracted from his question by the assistance he had given him in completing his thought.

  “As I tell virgins—it’ll only hurt the first time! And in each case, the lie is ever so small.” He chuckled at his earthy remark, for which he offered no apology. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, senator, I was engaged in a rather high-stakes financial negotiation of my own at the moment you flattered me with your company; if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me . . . .”