Bumblestook: Book 1, The Accidental Wizard (14 page)

After much cajoling and jostling, the man’s friends succeeded in convincing him to have a seat at my table. They proceeded to talk to me all at once, a most inefficient method of imparting information. They claimed that this man, Rufus Thatcher, was a descendant of ancient Bards; the Order of the Druids, responsible for preserving, retelling and performing the songs, poems, and stories of their people. Thatcher seemed a poor representative of that ancient profession, being rough in manner, grooming and dress. However, as the time of the Druid Priests was long past and their bloodlines thinned with that of conquering tribes, it could hardly be expected that their remote descendants would have very much in common with them.

I ordered him another of what he was having and a round for his friends as well, the better to
set him at his ease. He peered at me with one sharp, blue eye, from beneath a shaggy thatch of straw-colored hair. He seemed to be judging my intent, but perhaps he was merely weighing the price of a drink. Suddenly, he gave an assenting grunt and knocked back the brew with a quick flip of his hair. He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and favored me with a grateful belch. Then, leaning forward, patched elbows on the table, he fixed me with an intent gaze.

I dipped my pen in the inkwell and sat waiting for the story to unfold. If he were truly descended of those mythical storytellers of old, I expected he would tell his story well. It would have been committed to memory and handed down generation to generation, exactly as first told. With the passage of time, understanding may be lost, but the words themselves
would be remembered. Thus, this unlikely fellow (with wits and tongue well loosed by drink) would spin the yarn which, once begun, should flow forth freely as if to tell itself.

“The tale I am about to tell was told to me by my grandmother, who was told by her grandfather and so on back as far as can be remembered. Anif any here have cause to disbelieve, let it not be on
my
head, being as how I but tell it as truly as it was told to me,” he said, opening with a typical storyteller’s disclaimer.

Satisfied by my nod and the drunken encouragement of his comrades, Rufus Thatcher leaned back in his chair and proceeded to the telling of the tale. Speaking with a surprisingly rich, melodic tone, he began with a traditional bardic opener, meant to bemuse and confuse the audience, thus drawing them in.

“Time was then, as time is now, as time will always be, tis but a path to travel on—albeit for some more easily,” he said, with a wink and a nod and a look all around, to assure that his audience was truly hooked. Convinced by their slack jaws and glazed-over eyes, he dove into the tale, taking us spellbound down the path of time.

“Before the coming of kings and queens, the Folk of the Wood lived according to their own ways; ways that were rich in the lore of the forest and steeped in the mysteries of Earth. To some of the Folk, fell the task of divining the thoughts and demands of the spirits and gods. To some, fell the task of the making of rules and the judging of the deeds of men. To some, fell the task of committing to memory the songs, poems and stories of the Folk.

To a man and woman of the Order of Bards, was born a child; a boy whose destiny was to follow in the footsteps of his parents. The mother, holding him in her arms, circled the sacred a waterhole thrice and gave him the name of Nog. But, when she dipped him into the water, he held his breath till his face turned blue and would not allow even the smallest drop of the precious water to enter his body, through mouth or nose.

The Diviners saw this as an ill omen, that one of their own should reject the life-giving water. This, along with certain other signs (and a sudden shift in the winds) convinced them that something evil was coming their way; a force that would cause great changes in the lives of the Folk of the Wood. One thought it best to leave the boy in the forest, to appease the gods.

But Nog’s mother spoke up, claiming that the baby’s actions had forewarned them. She cautioned that if he were to come to harm, the gods might be angered and lash out at them for destroying their messenger. The High Council decided to allow the child to live. The parents were instructed to start his training as a bard, from the earliest age possible. The Council also determined to watch him closely for any further messages from the gods, or signs of ill omen.

Alas, poor Nog! He squirmed under their ever-watchful eyes. He did not wish to become a bard, desiring instead to become one of the Shaggy Men, the hunters whose tasks took them daily, deep into the Wood. For it seemed to young Nog, that when he went into the forest, his mind and ears were filled with a strange soft sound, like music from another world. He decided
that it must be a Wood Spirit calling out to him. He was convinced that if he could only sit very still and listen to the sound for a good long spell, he would come to understand and communicate with it.

He told his instructors of his discovery, but was soundly cuffed about the ears for his trouble and told to attend to his lessons. The Diviners were highly offended that this slip of a boy should dare to think that he could communicate with a spirit! Everyone knew that gods and spirits never spoke to anyone directly! Their desires were communicated through signs and visions, which only the most highly trained Druids could interpret.

And so, Nog was prevented from following his heart and forced onto a path not of his own choosing. But the voice of the woods preyed on his mind and haunted him, so that he could think of little else. He was unable to concentrate on his studies, failing to learn even the simplest of memory exercises. Every chance he got, he slipped away to explore the Wood. He followed the Shaggy Men, learning from them how to tread like a forest cat and hide like a wood grouse. He learned to go to earth like a fox and to hide his tracks as only a clever hunter can. He found a cave, far from the homes of the People of the Wood, and stored things there, against the time he knew was coming.

Finally, Nog’s instructors despaired of teaching him anything and appeared before the High Council to report their failure. The Diviner, who had advised to leave Nog to die in the forest as a baby, stepped forward. He declared the boy’s unwillingness to learn proved that he was unworthy of the Folk of the Wood and that his claim to speak directly with a spirit, had angered the Gods.

Nog’s mother overheard the man’s words and feared for the life of her son. Quickly she slipped away, to make him a bundle of clothing, tools and food. Then, she took him by the hand
and stole away into the forest. Nog thanked her, but begged her to return to her people. He assured her that he had prepared for this day and that the forest would provide everything he needed. She pleaded with him to let her to come, but he would not allow it. With the swiftness of a deer he was gone, disappearing into the woods without a trace. She returned to her home, in great distress and reported him taken by wolves.

Nog had chosen his retreat well. A small opening, hidden behind bushes, led to a large underground cavern, fed by a freshwater stream. Next to the stream, was a large grey boulder, roughly shaped like a dragon. He liked to sit in the curve of the tail, his back against the side of the beast, listening to the mysterious sound that only he could hear.

And so, at last Nog began training for his true calling. He left the cave only to hunt for food and to stretch his legs by racing the deer of the forest. The rest of the time, he spent leaning against the Dragon Rock, listening and learning what he believed to be the language of a Wood Spirit.

All of his life he had listened to the most learned men of the People, talk about the gods. He had learned that they were invisible to the Human eye, manifesting themselves in vision dreams as huge towering creatures, tall as the sky. They were said to appear as a mix of animal and man. The God of the Air had the shape of a man, the head of a hawk and was covered in feathers. The God of the Sea was covered in scales, breathed through gills and had webbed fingers and toes. The God of all Forests walked like a man, but from his head sprouted huge, twisting antlers and a thick, grey, fog issued forth from his nostrils.

Spirits were said to dwell in trees, animals and streams. Sometimes they took the form of extraordinarily beautiful men and women. They were visible, but elusive and unable to maintain their disguise for long. They were thought to have once been ordinary Human beings,
put under enchantment by the Gods as punishment or, just as often, on a whim.

After many months of patient study Nog had learned enough to ask simple questions.

“I am called Nog. What are you called?” he asked, then settled in to await the answer.

He had learned the spirit’s concept of time was very different from his own. It could be hours or even days before he had an answer to his question. When the answer finally came, it completely changed his view of the world.

“This being—Nog call Dragon Rock.”

Startled, Nog jumped to his feet, staring at the big rock. He had spent countless hours leaning against and sitting on it. It had become as familiar as the straw pallet he slept on. He thought of it as a piece of furniture; a rather hard, but not uncomfortable chair. He was shocked to discover that this rough object was, in fact, a thinking being!

“Are you a God?” he asked, once he had recovered.

This answer was a very long time in coming. Nog sensed that the being was consulting someone or something in an effort to understand the question.

Finally, “Not—a god,” it replied.

“Are you an enchanted spirit?” Nog asked next.

“Not—enchanted spirit,” it replied.

“What are you, then?” Nog asked.

“A—not-Human—being,” the rock explained.

For many months thereafter, Nog and the Dragon Rock spoke together, exchanging information. The Dragon Rock taught Nog that the center of the world was a huge, ball of molten rock with a heart of heavy metal; a Supreme Being called the Core. He learned that the rocks on the surface of the Earth were in constant contact with the rocks below. Information flowed through all, to and from the Core. He was surprised to learn that the information rarely had anything to do with the surface life, including the Human population. It was humbling for Nog to realize, to these awesome beings, the Folk of the Wood were of little interest. He listened in awe, to tales of volcanic eruptions giving birth to islands and quakes powerful enough to reshape the largest landmasses of the Earth.

One day, the Dragon Rock spoke to Nog, of a new group of Humans, observed by Rock Beings some distance away. Whenever the new group met with older groups, a huge fire raged throughout the land.

Nog realized they were marauders; people who set out to plunder and conquer the lands of others. He had to find a way to warn the Folk of the Wood, but knew the Council would never listen to him. With the help of the local Rock Beings, he came up with a clever plan.

Under cover of night, and with the stealth of a fox, he stole by the men who guarded the village. Creeping into his mother’s hut, he covered her mouth gently with one hand and shook her awake with the other. Her eyes opened wide with fear, then filled with joy as she recognized her son. Quickly, he told her of the danger to the village and his plan to warn them. Then, he left as swiftly as he had come.

The next morning, Nog’s mother awoke with shrieks that brought the villagers running. She told them of a nightmarish vision, in which she had been visited by a new and fearsome god. She described the being as made of solid rock; a walking mountain, with pools of hot lava for eyes, scraggly mosses and lichens for hair and beard. She told the frightened gathering the god warned of a great marauding horde headed their way; that their only hope was to flee into the mountains, where the god himself would hide them until the menace passed.

As expected, the members of the High Council were skeptical, bidding people return to their huts while they consulted their spirit guides and looked for signs to verify the truth of the vision.

Just then, a great rumbling shook the air, followed by a trembling of the earth that knocked everyone to the ground. The people looked up to see small boulders rolling out of the forest and into their village, while smaller rocks and pebbles danced in the dust.

When the earthquake passed, The High Council quickly convened, huddling in a group apart from the others and muttering amongst themselves. They came to a decision and swiftly dispersed, barking out orders to one and all to pack up their valuables and prepare to depart. The people did as they were told, gathering in the center of the village, laden with bundles and holding the tethers of their precious livestock.

Once again, the High Council huddled together. When they broke apart, the eldest approached Nog’s mother.

“Did the God mention where we are to go?” he asked with obvious embarrassment.

“He said he would send a spirit guide—a wolf that will take the form of a person, to show us the way,” she replied. “It will be someone familiar to us.”

At that moment, a figure appeared at the edge of the wood. It was a young man, dressed in a tunic and leggings of deerskin, with the hide of a wolf around his shoulders. The villagers gasped as they recognized Nog. The young man gestured mysteriously and backed away into the forest, whereupon the eldest member of the High Council ordered the people to follow.

For several hours they followed Nog. He stayed just out of reach of the group, ignoring all
questions about their destination, as well as pleas to stop and rest. They traveled far into the forest; down into deep, heavily wooded valleys and up their sloping sides. Eventually, they found themselves moving slowly up the side of a mountain, following a narrow path, hidden between huge boulders. The hunters and trackers were quick to notice the boulders showed signs of recent upheaval. Dark moist soil and bits of torn moss clung to the rocks, as if some giant hand had rolled them aside. The path itself was of raw earth, newly exposed. In some places, earthworms and other dirt-dwellers still wriggled and scurried to find refuge. The guards, bringing up the rear, heard strange scraping and bumping sounds behind them. When two of them cautiously backtracked to investigate, they found the boulders behind them had rolled together, blocking the path.