Chapter IX
They woke at the break of the day, having asked the sun to send a wakeup call, on the edge of the edge of the enchanted forest, the one opposite to the side they had entered in, con cinco cabesas glaring at their own. The five heads staring at them seemed human, but they were attached to the body of a timberwolf, though it was one that was clearly a biped. By this point Arthur and Bari had become used to random amalgamations of human and fauna, of fauna and flora, and various other incarnations involving disparate beings being fused together. Indeed, as we discussed, they already met the cowz! and the talking antlers, and then the way out of the forest had been full of them. Far too much activity for one day of walking. They had survived, as we can see, but on the way they encountered one creature that had the head of a rabbit on a tree, which only had a brief conversation with them before allowing them to continue on. There was another that was just the opposite, who had the head of a tree on a rabbit’s body, and was a nuisance in that it was blocking there path, sleeping. Once around that they had peace for a while, but then came their two biggest challenges of the day, the ones which truly exhausted them but let them know that they were indeed embarking on an adventure.
First was the mantiwhore. Care to know what that is? A delightful creature it is, and closely related to the manticores of ancient Persia. They had the body of a lion and the head of a human, like the manticore, but with an additional promiscuous nature that came from having one parent being a manticore and the other being a slag. To encounter one often meant disaster, for to lose its riddle competition was to be forced into coitus, and subsequently devoured. To win, they needed to answer two out of the three riddles presented to them in a correct, yet timely fashion.
This was the first:
I am the beginning of the end, and the end of time and space. I am essential to creation, and I surround every place. What am I?
At this, there was much scratching of heads. Not too well versed in riddles were our protagonists, and this they failed to answer.
“The letter E!”, shrieked the mantiwhore. “Clearly, the letter e begins the word end, and ends the words time and space, as well as being a cornerstone of the word creation, and begins and ends the phrase every place.” At this the mantiwhore advanced closer, before issuing its second riddle.
What always runs but never walks, often murmurs, never talks, has a bed but never sleeps, has a mouth but never eats?
“hmm”, said Arthur, making the thinking onomatopoeia so common to his people.
“I know!”, exclaimed Arthur. It’s a river!
“aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarghhhhh!” screamed the mantiwhore. And revoked the advance it had made after they missed the first riddle, thus putting our heroes back where they were in the beginning. Now it all came down to this last riddle. What question would they put before them? Would it be an easier one? How vast was her knowledge? Oh, how they hoped she knew nothing so devilishly tricky that they could not discern the answer. Or, consequently, that she would not use Bilbo’s old riddle, for they had no idea at all what was in her pocket, and at this point, had no intention or desire to ever find out.
What’s black and white and red all over?
So, turns out she asked in order of decreasing difficulty, and dissipated upon Arthur and Bari in unison shouting “a newspaper”. As she screamed and her atoms scattered with the wind, the path became once more open for our protagonists to tread, relieved that she had asked such a simplistic, widely known riddle, probably thinking nobody else had heard it. In fact, those were the only three riddles she knew, having come across them as an infant, before she had decided to become what she once was. And so the path was clear, and the walk pleasant, and the exit to the forest visible, just as the sun was setting.
And then came the rhymaera, with the body of a lion and a tail which ended in snake’s head, and atop this was the head of a goat, which uttered forth ingenious rhymes, which had not yet been topped by any that had met it, and fearful were our protagonists when it stopped them from exiting the forest. Still full of the exhilaration that had come with the defeat of the mantiwhore, they went into the slam poetry competition with confidence, but found that their rhymes were no match for the one who had the word rhyme in its name. There was a loophole though!
“Oh, sir rhymaera”, said Arthur, as the rhymaera was moving to kill them. “Perhaps our rhymes were not so good as yours in your mind, but isn’t rhyming an art, and thusly subjective, free from the bounds of good and bad, with quality only being contained within the bastions of that institution known as opinion.”
The rhymaera, though a proud artist, conceded this truth, for he was also rational, or as rational as mythological beasts come, and he receded back into the forest and allowed them to pass. Exhausted, they laid down immediately, though only Arthur was able to sleep. Bari spent the night ruminating on what had happened that day, and in the previous twenty-two years, and what was to come, hopefully. And when they awoke, there was the timberwolf with the five human heads, who wished to exact a toll from them for usage of the road they claimed to own.
This was preposterous. The path through the forest was clearly public property, and thus had already been paid for with their tax money. These highwaymen had no legal right to charge them for usage of the road, but were so annoying that they were tempted to give in and pay. Then Arthur, spotting a copse of basketball hoops growing a few, I say a few, because I don’t know the exact distance, but I estimate it to be about four hundred feet away. Seeing these, and remembering his recent training montage, Arthur decided he could kill two of the proverbial birds with one proverbial stone, and not feel a shred of guilt in his conscience because it was all proverbial. If he challenged them to a basketball game, where if he won, he got by toll-free, but would pay if he lost, win or lose he would still be able to work on his basketball skills. And if in addition, he didn’t have to pay this falsely excised toll, that was all the better. The wolf, being a rather prideful animal, couldn’t deny any sort of challenge, though he had not touched a basketball in years. The one condition agreed on before the game was that Bari couldn’t be the game ball, as he would most likely have a bias, and so they picked a ball growing from a nearby tree.
And so the game started. They were playing to eleven, with each basket counting for one point, or two, if the shot was taken from behind a line that naturally occurred on the ground. Honestly, it wasn’t really much worth talking about. Arthur won quite easily, despite his usual lack of basketball prowess. It just so happened that out of every sentient being on the planet, this wolf was the least sports. In addition, sports is now an adjective. I hope so anyway. Seeing how bad the wolf was, Arthur wisely didn’t let this go to his head, and refused to count this as a major victory, and regarding it as merely a chance to practice a bit.
More eventful than the game itself was the wolf’s dishonourable actions after the game. According to the rules of the sport, Arthur had clearly won, by a margin of eleven to nothing. In doing so he had clearly held his part of the proverbial bargain. The wolf’s actions were just to the contrary. Despite Arthur’s outright victory, he still insisted that they pay the toll, and no matter what competitions were won, a toll needed to be paid for passage on this road. Though a pacifist, Arthur was very tempted to slay this wolf, though in the end he restrained himself, and the restraint paid off, for an escape route was offered that would not play on his conscience. So, relief came in the form of a rabbit, which was bounding down the path out of the forest that Arthur and Bari were treading. This distracted the wolf, albeit momentarily, giving them a chance to escape, and so as the wolf attempted to excise his toll on this newcomer, he forgot our protagonists and left them free to run.
And run they did! Far away from the tax-wolf-man, they bounded o’er stone paths and fields of salad, until they collapsed from exhaustion and took their lunch from a salad bush, which unfortunately reminded Arthur of what would happen to him if he couldn’t make that free t
hrow.
What was most worrying to them right now was knowing that they had an ocean to cross. And not just any ocean. No, this was the Fatlantic. It was FAT. Getting to that ocean wasn’t so much a problem. Mostly they just woke up with the sun and walked all day, going to bed shortly after the sun set and a nice meal of whatever they could forage or occasionally pick up from a grocery store, often living off of the free samples available in certain stores. Their biggest travail came when they reached the large stretch of land known as the Paper Plains. I’m sure you’ve guessed the nature of this place. Indeed, they must tread carefully here, for the slightest misstep could send them plummeting down through the paper until they hit solid ground, and how far down that was nobody knew. Below them could have just been empty space, leading down to the center of the Earth. Should they survive that fall, it’d surely be quite difficult to once more ascend, especially with the lack of stairs, escalators, elevators, or any sort of climbing implements. So every step was required to be delicate, and this meant extremely slow going. And how would they sleep? What if they lay down in a spot where the paper was thinner? These were the problems giving rise to conflagration in their minds and discussions on the very first day traversing the plains.
An idea struck Bari as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. In this idea he found a clue as to the solution of this problem, and also one that could potentially get them to where they needed to at a much higher speed. It involved a play on words, invoking thoughts that perhaps these plains existed only to slow down the dullards who crossed it, but to enable those with keen minds to accelerate their travels.
“Arthur, remember what the sign at the beginning of this stretch told us it was called?”
“Yes, the Paper Plains, I believe.”
“Correct. Do you know of any other paper plains.”
“What, like plain paper, paper that hasn’t been written…OH!”
“Yes”
“I see what you’re talking about. Arts and Crafts!”
To this work they set about like madmen, becoming a whirlwind of production, fearful lest the paper below them give way before they finished this project. And what would you know, before long, they had before them an airplane, fashioned from paper, like the ones they would construct in elementary school and throw around behind the teacher’s back, only of a much greater magnitude, for this had to carry one human being and one basketball.
“This is wonderful, but how do we get it off the ground?” asked Arthur.
“I’m not really sure. We always threw paper planes, but if one of us was even strong enough to throw this contraption, the other would inevitably be left behind, and that would negate the whole purpose of our quest.”
“Is there anyone around who could throw us?”
“I see no one closer than the horizon in any direction.”
“Well, I suppose we could ask the one thing we can’t see” said Arthur.
“Well, we can’t see anyone. Are you proposing that we ask anyone? Or do you suggest asking Anyone? For he is a fickle character, I have heard, and quite unreliable.”
“No” said Arthur. “Let’s ask the wind!”
And with the utmost efficiency a mast was amassed, replete with a paper sail attached to it, and attached to the top of this plane, and then they made their plea to the wind, who responded approvingly to their ingenuity, and provided a favourable gust. Off they flew! Supported only by paper, and guided by the wind, they rose up to cruising altitude, at which they cruised. Below, the plains were long gone, replaced by deserts and much more miniscule desserts, and eventually forest, and finally, coastline.
Our protagonists were roughly halfway across the Fatlantic when disaster struck. The wind that had been supported them all this way reached its limit. It held no sway in this region, and could propel them no further. An engine they had not, and without the wind, they slowly cruised down, and crash landed in the water. Having no idea as to how much further they had left, but knowing that no human had ever swam this large a portion of the Fatlantic, they began to despair. Wouldn’t you? This ocean was, unarguably, FAT. For the longest time it had been known simply as the Atlantic. And then it became a glutton. Eating the creatures that resided within its confines, eating the boats that dared to sail upon its surface, and even engorging itself on the winds and clouds which came so low as to be within reach of its waves. Soon enough it was clear that this was no longer the beloved Atlantic everyone had known. This was indeed the Fatlantic. And right in the middle of the fat our protagonists were stranded, swimming ever eastward, but having no real hope of hitting land. At the very least, they hoped to run across a friendly dolphin or some sort of gregarious seafaring creature, and with that hitch a ride. But for now, Bari’s thoughts turned to the sky above him, for the moon shined brightly on this night, and he began to entertain funny thoughts regarding it. What if, he thought, when he had tried to kill himself, because he had been so conflicted in that crucial moment, he had split into several metaphorical pieces, and part of him had flown back out into space? And what if he had met some fantastic creatures, ones whose existence was improbable to the point of being considered impossible? But what if their home was attacked, and they were driven forth, and somehow ended up in the moon, though still stuck in another dimension? And so what if part of him was currently residing on the moon? These were the sorts of thoughts, which he regarded as outlandish, but nonetheless entertained.
At the same time, the other Bari, the one in space, was once more looking at the Earth from the moon, remembering that incident at Lake Spatula in which he had leapt off a cliff and into the giant squid’s mouth, but the mouth had been a wormhole. For here the space-rhyme continuum was warped, and rhymed in a very abstract manner, but possessed little reason, and so he landed not on the tongue of the squid, but on the ground, in the distant past.
However, before I recount that adventure, I must first get a new pen. This is much better. That last pen was running out of ink. Now, I found myself in quite the conundrum the other night. I was watching a rather corny horror television program called Tales from the Crypt, and one of the episodes was called Four Sided Triangle. Upon further research, I discovered that a science-fiction movie was released in 1953 with that very same title. So now I’m stuck thinking about how I should deal with these matters. My first option would be to carry on as if I was oblivious to the fact that what I thought was an original idea is not actually so. The second option would be to alter the triangles into other shapes with mismatched quantities of sides and degree of angles. The third choice would be to transform these creatures into something completely different. Being that I have to leave for work in a couple minutes, I will debate this matter at that place, and hopefully return in about twelve hours with an answer.
Over the course of the past week, I suffered a terrible bout of writer’s block, but in an effort to end it I’m forcing myself to write, and madly hoping that what comes out is of some worth. I’ve also been pretty indecisive, and unable to come to a conclusion as to what to do regarding my conundrum regarding the Four Sided Triangles. So, in a desperate attempt to kick-start my creativity and simultaneously buy time for this decision, for it is a decision that will change the course of history for an entire race, I will tell you the oft-vaunted and now legendary tale of what transpired when Baritone Juicebox jumped from the cliff down towards Lake Spatula:
It began like this:
W
En un arbol, un gato lee un libro.
Baritone bent his knees and lowered his torso in the process, and pushed upwards, causing his body to fly upwards, and then downwards as soon as gravity caught sight of what he was doing.
“Hey you!” yelled gravity. “What are you trying to get away with. Is it flying? Perhaps space travel?”
These accusations really got to Bari. His intentions were innocent for once. He was acting in accordance with the law laid down by the court in his mind, as well as the laws of physics, which
all too often I cause him to defy.
Out of spite, gravity grabbed him with all his might, and hurled him downwards.
Milenkoooooo!
The squid’s jaws enclosed about him, and as he looked around, he found that his surroundings were not mouth-like at all, but much more akin to a forest. In the future, he would be very fortunate, and only enter benevolent, or at the very least, indifferent, enchanted forests. But now, he was at the very furthest end of that spectrum, where the trees were ill-tempered, and he found them leering at him as soon as he came to his senses, and neither him nor his senses were very pleased in this moment. Once the time for leering had passed, and that was no longer a valid activity, they began to throw their fruits and seeds and other miscellaneous items that they had found within the confines of their branches at him.
What was he to do?
What would you do?
No dew was there to be found!
Were this a choose your own ending novel, I might ask your advice, but at the moment that is a project I have not yet undertaken, and so the burden of this decision lies with me.
He fled. He was no match for the trees, and even if he was, he had no idea or conception of where it was that he was. In fact, he knew not any form of when, where, why, or how he was. He only knew what he was, and that was a juicebox, and that was still up for debate, and also useless to him at the moment.
But this wasn’t:
The Earth, before the idea of a heliocentric solar system was accepted, was flat. Thusly, to make it round, it was rolled up, and because of this, the inside was empty. Well, mostly empty. Had it been completely hollow, he might have just simply fallen to the bottom, most likely killing himself in the process. He did that enough though. Another suicide attempt was unnecessary, even if it was an unintentional one, so fortunately, over the course of the last few hundreds of years, refuse from the outer world, such as rocks, plants, and a whole myriad of objects consisting of solid matter, had fallen through the surface and filled it in so that it had become habitable.
It was important for Bari to know this, because as he ran he saw a cave. He ducked down into the entrance and crawled around on his knees for a short distance, about ten feet, and around this time the cave opened up a bit. Conveniently, there was also a staircase right in front of him, which he took, for he was clearly meant to take it, but not take it with him. Just to walk down it. The aforementioned walk was a pretty long one. It took about seven minutes, which isn’t really a long time for one to be walking, unless they’re inherently lazy, but one covers quite a bit of distance whilst walking for seven minutes vertically.
Oftentimes, it is said that at the moment of death one’s life flashes before their eyes, and they witness all that has passed in the span of their life in sequential order. Now, Bari was not about to die, nor was his life flashing before his eyes, but there before him, upon a vast plain, bespotted by a meafurrlous gallimaufry of flora, was his life. It did not flash at all, but all the events which had and would in the future make up the events of his life were coexisting like long lost brothers that are pieces of the same jigsaw puzzle. There it was that he saw himself being born, and off to the right a bit was his first encounter with a sandwich. And just beyond it, he saw himself seeing a string orchestra for the first time, and himself fighting it off as the orchestra tried to attach itself to him. And within a massive cornucopia he saw a cornucopia (as an adjective) of other events, including that the gallivanting of his which constitutes the vast bulk of this book. Indeed, it was inside that cornucopia that he saw himself tie himself to a rocket and launch off into space. Many of these events he recognized as memories, but many of the ones he didn’t recognize he hoped were merely illusions, for he wished that he was not capable of much of the madness, the unyardulent foolishness which he saw unfolding before him. He turned away for a minute to watch himself getting a hit in a little league baseball game, and then getting hit in a little league baseball game, and then his first day of kindergarten. Upon turning his attention back to the cornucopia, he noticed that the event with the rocket was unfolding again. Oh, how he loathed to see that.
“I’d never do that” he thought. That thought was one that passed before his mind quite often while he was down here. The following thought passed through his mind just once before he received an answer:
“Whatever could this place be”, he said aloud, in a tone which indicated that he clearly expected to be answered, despite not seeing anyone that wasn’t too busy acting out their own small parts in the farce which was his life around at all.
The expected answer did come though, in the form of a moustache that floated down behind him, at about face level. Right, in fact, at the level where a moustache would be if he was sporting one.
“Yourself”, said the moustache.
“Excuse me?” was Bari’s reply, as he turned around to face the moustache, and having no anticipation of the corny, quasi-psychedelic moment that was about to occur.
“You are within your consciousness, which remembers all that has passed and all that might yet pass”
“So then, much of this foolishness that I see here is only potential?”
“Well, all the foolishness that hasn’t happened yet might be averted still. Look at all these events. See how many of the characters enacting them have question marks somewhere upon their countenances? Well, that denotes that whether or not that event will happen is still up in the air. And if you look up in the air, you can see a scale leaning either towards a Y or an N, which shows the current probability of a future event, depending on current circumstances.”
Looking around, and now above him, Bari could tell that all of this was true. He was slightly comforted, but not completely so, being possessed of the nagging feeling that most of what he saw would end up happening. And the moustache carried on:
“You see, you see only a miniscule part of these vast lands, and it would take you an eternity to wander through them all and see all that might be, and you don’t quite have an eternity. I could tell you how long you do have, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
That last sentence was uttered much to Bari’s chagrin, and incited in him a bit of paranoia, which the moustache noticed.
“Oh, disregard that last part. I was just kidding. I have no idea what’s going to happen to you. I’m just a tour guide here. But, as I was saying, depending on a variety of variables, and exponents, and upon nature, upon certain fixed constants, and upon the pie filled with bees that is known as karma, and many others to boot, everything with a question mark here is bound to change in some way. You, however, are about to be late for dinner, and your parents are making Finnish pancakes.”
“Alas, I’d forgotten! At least this adventure was to some avail, for these vignettes of the past inspired in me the bittersweet nostalgia that is so pleasant to think about and romanticize and ensure that it is perfect when compared to the doldrums of the present, so long as I block out the negative components of that past. And as for the future! Well, what entertainment that is! What a panthilateur of moscacatoon! I have received for the price of a mad chase through an evil fortress more entertainment than is contained within all the films I will ever see, disregarding those which star John Cusack, for those are as dear to my heart as my own memories. Well, how then, kind moustache, shall I return home?”
“I shall guide you” replied the moustache, who, had Bari paid more attention to the scenes which were all around him, would have recognized as the very moustache he would wear in about eight years, “for one day I shall rest my laurels upon your face, and all who gaze upon your visage will see us as one.”
With that, the moustache led him to a hot air balloon, and as the basket rose, the scenery about him slowly transmutated into the world he knew, until at last the balloon turned upside down, and the dirigible dumped him through the roof of his house, with no damage to said roof, and onto the floor of his bedroom.
“What the hell was that???
? screamed his father from downstairs!
Thinking quickly, for he did not want to tell his father the truth of what had just happened, for fear that his father would think him on drugs and subsequently disown him or send him to rehab, and he uttered the first fabrication of the story that came to his mind.
“I was just, uh, you see, um, just trying to learn how to juggle, when the delicious aroma of your Finnish pancakes broke my concentration, and one of the bowling pins I was juggling fell to the floor”
Now, his father was certainly flattered by the compliment to his cooking, but with the aforementioned lie being uttered, he lost all memory of what had happened since he had leapt from the cliff, and was left only with a certain disdain for giant squid.