The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four) (53 page)

Before Gogindy loomed the Bell of Conroy,
like an iron tomb sheltering the body of a powerful warrior waiting
to be reawakened. The bell stared at him as if it was watching his
every move. Its aura was severe, but grand. Silent, yet speaking
volumes in its quietude. It was if it had been waiting for him this
entire time.

It stood on a powerful iron rung, stiff and
unmoving, even as the tower shifted and swayed. It stood like a
tree, planted in time, growing more and more into its surroundings,
never wavering. The outside of the bell was dark and coated in many
layers of shadows, thousands of dirty lies, and desperate fears
that could not be easily cleaned away. None of its previous shine
of years past could be seen beneath the rust of mankind and the
layers of misery and woe that had encased its silvery metal.

As Gogindy looked at it, awe filled his
heart, and a terror filled his breast. In this bell was woven all
the hopes, dreams, strength, valor, and goodness of those souls who
had fought for freedom, a freedom that had now been taken from the
world.

How long had this bell sat stationary? How
long had its voice been quieted? The bell was huge. Magnificent.
Powerful. It sat atop its throne above the world, like an ancient
monarch waiting for its time to ring in a new time, to break the
sound barrier and smite the world with its voice. Gogindy looked
up, and gasped. It was as if he had climbed the stairs to heaven
itself, where he could sit like a sovereign watching his subjects
below him. Above him the stars glittered brilliantly, their light
reflecting off the bell’s tarnished metal.

Gogindy stepped slowly over to the bell,
feeling smaller and smaller beneath his hugeness. “Guess it’s just
you and me, Bell, oh, and the bug.”

He held up his long, golden bell-ringing rod,
and inspected it. It felt nice in his hands. Not too heavy and not
too light. It felt like it was made for him, like a spoon is made
for a baker, like a crown made for a king, like a pencil for a
writer. He felt that it was meant for his hands. He liked that
feeling. He hadn’t felt that he was meant for much of anything in
his life, and not much of anything was really meant for him.

But the bell ringing stick was meant for him.
It fit in his hands perfectly.

It felt valuable, almost like a weapon---one
that was far more powerful than a simple sword. With it he would
ring in something that had the power to soften hearts, change
minds, strike fear in the wicked, and give hope to those who were
lost. He had been careful not to fiddle with the bell-ringing rod
until now, careful not to lose it.

He grinned. His eyes lit up as he gazed at
the tarnished bell.

“I’m ready, bell. Ready to ring you.” He
moved carefully to the bell and lifted himself up onto its stand so
that his eyes were level with it.

“Oh my!” Gogindy exclaimed, going underneath
the bell. “You’re so big. So extraordinary!” His voice echoed off
the bell so loudly that he had to pull his leafy ears down over his
face. “What a grand voice,” he breathed, barely speaking. Still his
voice echoed mightily.

He stood in awe of the bell, listening as it
resonated the sound of his heart beating, making it seem as the
bell itself was alive. “My, but it sounds as if you are alive!”

Alive, alive, alive!
the echoes of the
bell repeated so loudly that it caused Gogindy’s hair to stand on
end.

He walked around the inside of the bell,
feeling the sound of his own voice resonating over him as if the
bell had used his own silenced voice to speak to him.

A strange sensation tingled through Gogindy’s
body. A feeling of urgency filled him. The bell seemed to speak to
him, showing him things of the past, present and future. Of all the
struggles, hopes, and desires wrought into the bell---the voices of
heroes, the cries of the dying, the clash of swords, and the
powerful hopes of better days, of those who died on the
battlefield. In it he saw the sadness of the world, the woe that
had bound it for so long. The fear in men’s hearts that caused them
to hide their voices, and to let evil take hold. The bell seemed to
cry out to him, struggling against the chains, the rust, the
shadows, the lies, and corruption that held its voice so long in
place, that had kept truth of hope from ever being heard.

Gogindy patted it reverently. “Yet, after all
this you are still alive. Hope is still alive. I shall do my very
best to ring you, sacred and most honorable bell.” He bowed
respectfully to the bell. “I suggest you ready yourself to clear
all the frogs out of your throat. When I ring you, I want you to
sing loud and clear. Yes, clear your throat. Clear all the nasty
mucus away that has been clogging your airways. We don’t want you
to have laryngitis on your grand debut.” He quickly crawled out
from beneath the bell. He stood staring at it for a long time.
Then, drumming his fingers on his side, he marched around the
outside of the bell, with his bell ringing rod in one hand, feeling
a strange nervousness beat inside his chest.

Gogindy paused before the great bell and
shook his head at the filth and grime on its surface.

“Tut, tut. Dirty, dirty. So very dirty. This
is a shame. Truly it is.” He grabbed a wad of his whiskers, spat on
them, then he rubbed a spot on the side of the bell. He rubbed and
rubbed until his fingers grew sore and his whiskers grew black from
tarnish. Gradually a small, shining, silver circle shone at him,
gleaming like silver.

“There,” Gogindy breathed. “That is where I
will ring you.” He inspected his features in the small circle he
had polished, as if it were a mirror.

Proud of his efforts, he smoothed out his
whiskers and realigned his belt. “Can’t have a shoddy-looking bell
ringer, can we?” he asked, patting the little beetle on his
shoulder. He straightened himself to his full height and twirled
his bell ringing stick like a baton.

“Okay. This is it. You and me bell. I’m going
to ring you. And ring you I shall!” He brought the bell ringing
stick back, then crying out with all the fire he had inside him, he
whacked the bell.

Thwack!

Gogindy closed his eyes and prepared for a
great and thunderous ring. But only silence greeted him.

He scratched his forehead and gazed at the
bell, truly puzzled. “Did I miss something?” Is there a string, a
rope, perhaps, that I’m supposed to pull instead? A pulley? A gong?
He looked at the size of his bell-ringing stick, then to the huge
bell. He laughed. “Ha! Maybe they gave me the wrong stick. It is
rather small. Too small for such a enormous bell. How am I honestly
going to ring this bell with this…this bitty drumstick? Somebody
obviously was misinformed. I don’t think they got the memo about
how hugely, how largely, jumbo-lolly large sizely it actually is.
Honestly. Who in their right mind could ring something so big, so
grand with…this toothpick?”

He sighed and chewed on his lower lip. His
eyes slowly lit up. “But I am a bell ringer, and a bell ringer can
ring any kind of bell. Right? Right. That’s why they chose me,
right?” A firm, and determined light filled Gogindy’s eyes. “YES.
Of curse that’s right.” He tightened his muscles, and whacked the
bell with the rod again.

Still nothing. Zero sound.

“Common!” he cried smacking the rod against
the bell once more. “Don’t you know that hope is dying! And you not
ringing is making me lose hope!” He whacked it over and over. “You
need to wake up!”

Whack.

“You need to break away the rust!”

Whack.

“You need to ring!”

Whack!

“Come-on.”

Whack.

“I’m a bell ringer.”

Whack.

“You are suppose to obey me.”

Whack, whack, whack!

“Ring, I say. Ring!”

Whack, whack, whack, whomp!

Exhausted, he backed away from the bell,
panting. Tears came to his eyes. He sniffed. “Please,” he cried,
stroking the bell tenderly. “Won’t you ring for ole’ Gogindy? Stars
are beginning to fall. And I don’t know what that means. But it
can’t mean anything good. I know I’m small and unimportant. I know
I’m silly, and forgetful. Sometimes I laugh when I should be
serious. Sometimes I chase butterflies when I could be doing
something terribly important. Sometimes I get myself and the people
I care about the most into the worse kind of trouble. Yes, I know
I’m probably not going to amount to much. I’m probably not even
going to get into heaven. I’ll probably just be a hobo sitting
outside those pearly gates, begging some kind soul to throw me a
piece of cracker. But that’s okay. I know that I’m not worthy of
much. I’m not strong and brave like my friends. I know that I’m a
coward. But someone told me that I was a bell ringer, despite all
that. And if I am a bell ringer, and if I was meant to ring you,
and you were meant to be rung, then please, ring. Not for me. But
for all those sad, frightened, scared people you showed me. Ring
for everyone who still believes in truth. If not for them or for
me, then ring for poor Andrew who is probably struggling right now
to keep the world from falling into oblivion. Ring for him. Ring
for those dead and dying, ring for Rhapsody, Lancedon. Ring for
Sterling, ring for Ivory, for Talic, and those who have already
crossed to the other side. Ring for Freddie. Ring for all my
friends. Ring loud and long. Ring out the dark, and clear your long
rusted voice. Let the world hear the voice of hope that brought you
into existence. Sound your voice, and resurrect a world whose hope
is now dying. Tell the world of all the blood, sweat, pain, tears,
and hope that you stand for. Tell them that they can cast out this
darkness. Let hope live once again. Help them find the power inside
themselves that they didn’t know they had. Bring those you call to
fight, to die, and live for the very cause that brings all good men
together in defense of the truths they hold dear. I don’t know if
I’ll ever amount to much, but I do know that I am the bell ringer
of Conroy. And you, my iron friend, have a voice. I have heard it
whispering to me. So if you have a voice, do not hide it.”

He whacked the bell again.

Still no sound came forth.

“Fine!” Gogindy shouted, now fully enraged.
“If you will not ring then---sing, SING, Sing!” He held the stick
suspended in air a few inches away from the bell, with trembling
hands. He closed his eyes, concentrating all his efforts, and every
ounce of thought on the task at hand.

“Concentrate,” he told himself. “To ring a
bell, one must be still. Still, so that the sound will ring true.
One must be still on the inside as well as the outside. So still
that a butterfly may want to land on you. One must have hope inside
of him.” Gogindy’s hands started to sweat. His heart beat faster.
He raised the stick high. “Sing!” he commanded. “SING!”

Without warning, a burning prick jabbed
Gogindy’s underarm. “OUCH!” Gogindy yelped, dropping his bell
ringing rod. “My arm. It burns. Oh it itches.” He ran his fingers
through his fur and came out with his beetle friend.

“Wicked, wicked creature!” Gogindy growled.
“You bit me! I should have eaten you when I had the chance.” He
threw the bug down and picked up the bell-ringing stick, holding it
above the bug. “I’m sorry my friend. But no bug ever bites Gogindy
and lives to tell about it.” He brought the stick down onto the bug
with a loud smack.

“There!” Gogindy gleamed. “Dead at last.” He
lifted up the stick and peered down at the bug. Sure enough the bug
looked to be very smashed. Gogindy felt a stab of remorse. “I…I am
sorry,” he sniffed. “I had to do it. Really. It was for the best.”
Just as he said those words, the smashed beetle started
twitching.

“Oh, dear,” Gogindy breathed. “You’re still
alive. How cruel of me. I don’t like to see bugs suffer.” He
brought the stick down on the bug, harder this time. When he lifted
the stick up, the bug twitched, and then turned itself upside
right, completely unharmed.

“My, but you are one tough bug! Gogindy
cried. “I can’t believe it. You’re still alive. How curious, and
rather disturbing.”

The bug’s eyes began to glow red. It crept
towards Gogindy, clicking its wings together in loud, clip claps,
hissing like a steaming pot of tea.

“Oh…” Gogindy howled. “You’re a mean bug. I
don’t like you.” He brought his stick down on the bug several more
times, but each time it appeared unharmed, growing bigger and
bigger each time he whacked it. “Die, you devil bug,” Gogindy
shouted, becoming more alarmed. “Die!”

The bug seeming to tire of Gogindy’s constant
thrashing. It shed a thick skin and crawled out from its dead
shell, now much bigger than Gogindy. Its eyes gleamed like
sputtering candles. It shook a black fist at Gogindy and reared up
on its hind legs, pointing its long, jagged razor-like barbs at
Gogindy, snip, snipping at him. Both of its antennas curled around
its slimy head like horns on a mountain goat. Its wings folded
nicely at its back as if it was carrying a boat on its back. It
opened its mouth and hissed, showing off thousands of uneven, black
teeth.

“Oh, my! Please don’t hurt me!”

The bug looked at Gogindy with simmering
eyes, moving in strange insect-like movements, clipping its ugly
hands together, snip, snip, snip.

“You have snippers, shearers, shavers,
cutters, scissors, skissors!” Gogindy howled, jumping away from the
creature. “You shan’t snip my whiskers. No. You shan’t. My whiskers
give me strength. Without them, I am hopeless. Worthless. A mouse.
Ah, but you must already know that. Are you the IT? Oh, but of
course you are. You tricked me. You horrible monster. And I brought
you up with me. I carried IT.”

The bug’s loud snipping and buzzing grew
louder. “Yes, I am the IT,” it hissed. Clip, clip, clip.

“Please, leave me alone,” Gogindy howled.
“You are ever so much bigger than I am now.”