~*~
Donald paced around the huge statue at least a dozen times, waiting for the curator. Eventually, he saw an elderly stoutfolk man wearing traditional granite-gray colored lederhosen approaching. The portly old fellow’s round head grew a thick crop of long gray hair, a beard like an angry storm cloud, and incredibly bushy eyebrows meeting in the middle without a break, making it look like he had somehow accidentally glued a dead ferret to his forehead. As he drew nearer, he greeted them. “I understand you want to see me.”
“You’re the curator of the museum here?” Donald asked.
“Yes. And manager of the gift shop, but it’s the museum that gives me the most pleasure. The name is Donfor.”
Donald introduced himself as a student of ancient history from Greatbridge and his companions as his hired guides.
“So what can I do for you? We don’t get many of your type up here, no offense intended.”
“I’m doing research on the Warden for a, uh, a school project,” the prince lied smoothly.
“I’m not real good at judging age, especially of tallfolk, but aren’t you a bit old for school, sonny?”
“It’s an advanced studies class.”
The old man’s skepticism showed. Donald wondered if the cleaning woman mentioned his attempt to wake the Warden.
“In college—at the University of Greatbridge,” the prince added.
The curator’s expression immediately changed. “Ah, yes. Well that explains it. I spent eight years in college myself, and getting naked in front of the Warden probably rates no greater than a six on the ten-point scale of weird college behaviors.” He winked. “Enjoy these times while you can. In my day, in fact, mooning the Big Guy was a common initiation rite for several fraternities—as well as one sorority I knew of.” Donald thought he could see the hint of a smile through the old man’s whiskers as his attention seemed to drift off to some warm isle of memory.
“So,” Donald said, interrupting the man’s recollections. “If it wouldn’t be an imposition, I’d like to ask you a few things about this incredible monument.”
“What? Oh, yes. Of course. I wouldn’t mind at all. Actually, I quite enjoy talking with people about the Warden. I’ve been fascinated by it since I was very young. That is why I’ve made the study of it my life’s work.”
Removing a ring full of keys from a pocket, he unlocked the door of the Warden of Mystic Defiance Museum and Gift Shop, which opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. A little bell attached to the top of the door on a coiled spring-bracket tinkled merrily.
“We’re not really open yet, but come on in and we can talk for a while before the morning tourist rush.”
Donald followed directly behind the elderly stoutfolk man, ducking his head as he passed through the doorway of the gift shop. Once inside, he could stand but with little excess headroom.
“I take it then that this is a popular attraction with your people?” Donald asked, just to make small talk as much as anything else.
“Pretty popular considering it’s so far from anywhere. Years ago, it was a place to hike to and camp out. Now we have vendors and souvenirs and a little town down the road with a couple of inns.”
“Yes, we stayed at one last night.”
“Which one?”
“The Guardian.”
“Good choice. Did you try the sausages they serve for breakfast? They are simply wonderful. The best I’ve ever had.”
“Uh, no. We didn’t have the chance this morning. We kind of skipped breakfast.”
“Skipped breakfast? Don’t you know breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”
Donald again felt thankful Muce did not speak Gotroxian. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“Well, try them tomorrow. You’ll be glad you did.”
“We will.”
The curator began opening the blinds of the windows to let in the morning light. In neat displays on shelves and tabletops, Donald saw snow globes, letter openers, souvenir plates, mugs, postcards, coin purses, miscellaneous toys, and various articles of clothing embroidered with pictures of the Warden of Mystic Defiance. Muce gazed with interest in one glass case holding what a small sign claimed to be ‘Genuine Antiques and Old Master Artifacts.’
“So, what would you like to know?” asked the curator.
Donald really did not know where to begin. He could not just ask him if the Warden was magical or if anyone recently discovered a way to bring it to life. The curator seemed like a nice enough old man, but he was a Gotroxian, and if the Gotroxians planned to use this thing as a weapon, he must be aware of it. He might even be a part of the plan.
As he considered all of this, he remembered he still held the scroll of gondhide vellum in his hand, and he offered it to the curator. “I came across this, and I was hoping you could tell me something about it.”
The old man unrolled the sheet. “Hey, these are pretty rare! Especially those done on vellum. It looks like this one has been through a sausage grinder, though. I’m afraid it’s not worth much in this condition.” He handed it back.
“Yes, but what is it?”
“It’s the Spell of Revivification from the Veridical Tales by Rolf the Obstreperous,” he replied in a manner suggesting he thought any student of ancient history should know this.
“The what from the what by whom?”
“You don’t know of Rolf the Obstreperous?”
“I’m not sure I can even say it.”
“He was a fabler from the time of King Toeker the Frugal about twenty-five hundred years ago. His stories normally began with someone questioning some common belief of the time but always ended up with the hero accepting conventional wisdom. They were a big hit for generations. They satisfied the parental desire to have children try to think for themselves but not too much. They’re out of print now, of course. Here, follow me. We’ll go into the museum and I’ll show you.”
The old man waddled into another part of the building with Donald trailing behind. The walls displayed quotations from various legends surrounding the Warden and one very large mural comparing the height of the giant black statue with other things, from the Central Citadel in Kartok to a stoutfolk child. The Warden towered over them all. Glass cases lined the walls, and other displays dotted the room, probably according to some not readily apparent plan.
In one tall display-case near the center of the room, the curator pointed out a page very much like the one the Prince of Westgrove held in his hand but without the stitching and much less faded.
“This is our best copy of the Spell of Revivification. We’re lucky to have it. It was donated only last year by a collector in Kartok. It’s the last part of the Second Enlightening Quest of the Veridical Tales. We have a complete set dating from the time of King Sproot the Lesser. They’re over fifteen-hundred years old. Those are kept in a sealed vault in the back, of course, but a more recent version is on display over there.” He pointed to one of the cases against a wall.
The prince glanced at a case containing a set of large books bound in blue leather. “You said they were no longer in print. Why is that?”
“Like I said, they always ended by supporting conventional wisdom. Well, conventional wisdom tends to change over the years, and the Tales gradually passed into being considered quaint and then archaic and eventually irrelevant. In some circles, they’re seen as virtually blasphemous.
“The final nail in the coffin for the Veridical Tales was the Great Philosophical Paradigm Revolution of Gotrox, what the common people call the Gotroxian Religious Enlightenment. As I’m sure you know, that was a direct consequence of the teachings of Bud the Wiser—”
“Bud the Wiser?” Donald interrupted mainly to give his brain time to catch up.
“Son of Ed the Wise. You know, for an advanced history student, your knowledge seems to have a number of important gaps.”
“I guess we just haven’t gotten to those chapters yet.”
“Right,” the old man said
skeptically, his impression of Westgrovian institutes of higher education no doubt in rapid decline.
“Well, you see, Bud the Wiser was the one who taught that it was impossible to know the nature of any of the gods. The gods, assuming there are gods, had to be so different from anything people had any direct experience of, they would be completely incomprehensible to us. To assume anyone could know the nature or intentions of a god would be the greatest act of hubris and would actually prevent people from forming a good understanding of those things they could, well, understand, like what makes weather and babies and things like that. Having a mistaken impression of divinity, he said, would lead people to mistaken beliefs about other things.
“It all gets rather philosophically deep and complicated from there, but that’s the root of it. Over time, his teachings spread. A couple of generations after his death, his followers used his insights as the beginnings of the belief system we now call the Holy Order. The guiding principle of the Holy Order is to approach a partial understanding of the Creator by learning everything possible about the Creation. But I’m sure you know that, at least.”
Donald did not but hesitated to admit it.
“The Holy Order,” the curator continued, “gradually displaced previous religious beliefs that were very similar to those still held in Westgrove and included a whole pantheon of unlikely supernatural creatures—no offense intended. Since the Veridical Tales tended to support the old beliefs, they lost relevancy. The last copies were printed about eight hundred years ago and were sold in this very shop.”
“I see. But I heard the Warden was created by the gods as a warrior to fight in a battle between them,” the prince said, beginning to fear the old man now considered him foolish. Still, he must ask for the sake of his father’s kingdom.
“Sonny, it would take me years to tell you all the stories that have been told about the Warden. The Big Guy is so incredibly impressive he invites leaps of imagination.”
“But it is magical, isn’t it? I mean, you don’t even know what it’s made of.”
“I don’t know what my old grandmother’s meat loaf was made out of either, but that doesn’t mean it was magical.”
Donald reflected for a moment. Either the curator intentionally wanted to mislead him, or he honestly did not believe the Warden possessed any magical properties. He suspected the latter. He asked anyway. “Are there any other stories like the one from the, uh, Tales of Rudolf…”
“The Second Enlightening Quest of the Veridical Tales by Rolf the Obstreperous.”
“Yes. Thank you. Are there any other stories that say the Warden can be brought to life?”
“Yes. Several, in fact.”
“Are any of them true?”
“True in what way?”
“I mean, is there really some way to get the Warden to, you know, move?” The prince sensed the old curator’s doubt of his scholarship if not his sanity. The facial hair hid a lot of expression, but the eyes beneath those furry brows said enough.
“You do know it’s made out of stone, don’t you?”
“I thought no one knew for sure.”
“You must mean the brochure. It’s written that way to maintain the mystery. It’s good for business. There are a lot of things we don’t know about the Warden and exactly what kind of stone it is made from is one of them. Many think it is a manufactured stone rather than a natural one, and no one today knows how to make such a thing, but it is the expert opinion of everyone who has scientifically studied it that it is some form of stone.”
“But if you don’t know,” the prince began.
“Listen, sonny. You can’t take a bunch of unknowns and put them together to create a known. Not knowing what type of stone it is doesn’t mean you know it is magical. That’s pretty fuzzy thinking for a college boy.”
Donald smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I suppose it is. It is a fascinating artifact though. Has anyone from, well, anywhere come by recently to learn more about it?” He wanted to find out if the Gotroxian military or the priesthood had made any inquiries just in case there might be some truth behind what he heard, although he now felt sure of what answer the old stoutfolk proprietor would give him. He also still found himself reluctant to abandon the fantasy of becoming a hero by saving the kingdom, and the realization of this bothered him, for some reason.
“No, you’re the first to be so curious about it in a long time.”
The last statement left Donald stumped. He imagined various different scenarios from complete success to total failure, but he never envisioned anything like this. A brilliant idea struck him. At least he considered it brilliant. Here is the foremost authority on the Warden in the world. If there is any truth at all to any of the rumors, the answer to one question might give him a hint.
“What do you think it is?” he asked.
The old stoutfolk man did not take long to consider his response. “I can tell you for certain, relatively certain that is, that it is an artifact of the Old Masters. Other than that, my opinions are only speculation, informed speculation, mind you, but speculation nonetheless.
“Because the Old Masters left so very little evidence of their existence, I, as well as a few other scholars, have concluded they were not native to this continent. They may have had a small settlement or maybe even a few of them, but no remains or ruins have ever been found. One very telling piece of evidence they did leave behind, though, was a hand. A hand that was most likely from a life sized statue but one unlike any that any known civilization has ever made. This statue wasn’t made out of stone or clay or glass or anything like that. Not entirely anyway. You see, this hand had a type of fabric covering that looked exactly like skin, and underneath that, it had bones, boy, or something much like bones. And do you know what those bones were made from?”
“No,” the prince answered because he did not have a clue.
“As best we can tell, they were the very same type of stone the Warden is made out of. Whatever it is, we know the Old Masters used it. Of course, on the Warden, you can see it because that’s all he is. But the fabric covering of the statue that hand once belonged to must have made it so lifelike you would swear it was a real person.”
“But I thought the Old Masters were a myth.”
“Boy, you’re all sorts of backwards on what things are real and what things are just stories. Besides, there’s nothing that says a myth can’t have some truth in it. Someone was here because they left things like the Warden and that hand behind. We don’t know what they called themselves but we call them the Old Masters. A few very old stories mention master traders, but they were obviously master craftsmen as well, and possibly masters at a great many other things, too.”
“So what do you think they made the Warden for?”
“My best guess is that it was a monument to their having been here. If their home was very far away and it had been a major undertaking to get here, they’d want to leave a marker. That’s what I think the Warden is. A sign that says, ‘we were here.’ When you get right down to it, that’s what most monuments are for, anyway.
“But I can’t sit around here and continue to give you history lessons. I have a shop to open. Go back to that college you come from and take a few more classes. No offense, sonny. I’ve enjoyed talking with you, but you have a lot left to learn.”
An odd mix of emotions plagued Donald as he left the museum, and they left him befuddled—and disappointed. He found it difficult to come to grips with this because he did not like what it told him about himself. He looked forward to being the hero, the savior of Westgrove and destroyer of the cruel invader. This would not happen now. No cruel invader existed, just a very large stone monument commemorating something long forgotten and a bunch of short hairy people with no special interest in it or, it seemed, his father’s kingdom.
This should have made him happy, and, in a way, it did. There would be no invasion, no war, no death or destruction. However, there also would be no need for a hero. With th
is realization came a hint of relief because in rare moments of rational self-assessment he retained an underlying uncertainty about his ability to carry out the task he had assigned himself. This remained overshadowed by regret for an opportunity lost, though. He recognized this as self-pity, and he considered it unbecoming of a prince, but no matter how hard he tried to banish it, it remained. This added embarrassment to the emotional cocktail, embarrassment for being so wrong and for succumbing to feelings unbecoming a man of his station.
Muce intruded on the prince’s emotional wallowing by saying, “Hang on a minute. I want to get a souvenir for my mom and maybe a birthday present for my cousin Amy, if I can afford it.”
“Oh, sure,” Donald replied, distractedly.
A few minutes later, the young blonde fighter emerged with a wrapped package in his hand and a smile on his face. “Thanks,” he said. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
On the way back to the inn, Muce kept trying to chat about their experience, but Donald did not feel up to idle talk and Kwestor remained characteristically unresponsive. Eventually the notso ceased his attempts, and they continued in silence.
They returned to the inn about an hour before the bulk of the lunch crowd. Donald collapsed into a chair at a table in the common dining room, and Muce and Kwestor joined him. A young stoutfolk serving girl, dressed in a flannel shirt and bib overalls, came to the table to take their order.
“What can I get for you,” she asked politely in barely accented Westgrovian.
Donald had noticed before that Gotroxians spoke his native language far more often than Westgrovians spoke theirs. He made no judgments from this, only the observation.
“Do you have any of the sausages from breakfast left?” asked Muce.
She smiled knowingly. “No. We ran out. There will be more tomorrow. They’re a pretty big hit. The owner’s wife makes them from an old family recipe, and before you ask, it’s a secret.”
“I suggest you have her make a double batch tomorrow,” advised Kwestor.
The serving girl began to laugh in the friendly but uncommitted way waitresses do to make customers feel appreciated and more generous when it comes time to leave a tip.
“I’m serious.”
Over lunch, Donald talked about everything that happened since he left Greatbridge about six weeks before, ostensibly to his companions but in large part for his own benefit. He found it impossible to reconcile what he just learned about the Warden with what the Reverend Tripgood had told him or with the message from his father, which the attractive runner had delivered to General Attemill in Barter’s Forge. They did not mesh as though each came from a different part of a separate story.
Now and then, Muce or Kwestor would nod and mumble agreement to one of the prince’s rhetorical questions.
During a lull in the very one-sided conversation, Muce asked, “Where are we going next, Your Highness?”
Donald stared at the innocent blue eyes of the young man for at least a minute. “You know, I don’t know. Do you have any suggestions?”
“We could go to Dolphin Point. It’s a really nice city, and I could introduce you to my mom. She’d be tickled to meet you. And I could show you around, and you could visit the Lucky Lady and play some of the games, if you want. I’m sure you’d have a great time.”
Kwestor conveyed no preference. “It doesn’t matter.”
“We may as well sleep on it,” the prince said. He cupped his head in his hands, tired of thinking. “There doesn’t seem to be a rush anymore, and I think it would do us all some good to try to take a break for the rest of the day.”