The Questory of Root Karbunkulus - Quill (6 page)

Holding a chair he leaned down, his rickety
old knees gasping in the effort, and scanned under the table again.
Nothing.

Hmmm. He could have sworn…

His long bony fingers drummed and then the
Tempometre caught his eye. He had polished it to the lustre of a
baby sun. A Sunling, he fancied and picked it up for the eleventh
time that day. The slim brick of platinum fit with perfection in
his palm and his thumb delighted in the smooth glide across its
face. With nothing of circuitry or knobbery or other such bells and
whistles, the Tempometre fell squarely within Ernest Skubblenob’s
well-preserved opinion that less is more.

But the Tempometre was not what Ernest
Skubblenob had been looking for. As he remembered this, he set it
down and returned to his original search. Perhaps the luggage?

He rose from his worn out wooden chair and
aimed for an even more worn out suitcase. It lay like a big bruised
sandwich on his bed, only a few paces away. Ernest Skubblenob’s old
body took to these paces with great care. Great, cautious, leaden,
slower than molasses care. The kind of care that would have been
painful to watch.

When at last he arrived he bent over his
suitcase and found it locked. A bit of confusion set in between his
ears. Where was the key? Ernest Skubblenob began to pat himself
down. He dug deep into his pants pockets and pulled out the liners.
Nothing.

Tsk, tsk. Now two things were lost.

Ernest Skubblenob shuffled and patted and
rummaged around for a good length of an hour until he entirely
forgot what he was shuffling and patting and rummaging around for.
He sat down. And spied his Tempometre on the table. It found its
way into his palm once more. This time Ernest Skubblenob brought
along a tune. He didn’t know the name of the tune, only the melody,
a cheery hum that strengthened and weakened with the rhythm of his
aged breathing.

He decided that he should probably pack the
Tempometre for the journey. But where was his suitcase? He looked
in the fridge. Hmmmm...There was no suitcase but a lovely pudding
smiled up at him. His shaky hands cupped it and pulled it out; this
too accompanied with a hum. The bowl was set on the table and now
all he needed was a…Where was a spoon?

The melody paused. The cogs of his ancient
brain creaked into gear. Perhaps too fast, for they shifted the old
man far past tasty pudding into more practical lobes, like getting
dressed. Yes, a grand idea. The pudding was abandoned while the
efforts of finding his suit were soon put to another breathy hum.
He eventually found his closet, right where he had last left it and
opened the door. The suit hung on a hanger. It was the only thing
in this closet and it looked grateful to be visited.

The black jacket covered Ernest Skubblenob
like a tarp over a Skullk. The width sagged past his shoulders and
his hands drowned in the long sleeves. He looked for his mirror and
found it quite by accident, having thought he suddenly had a guest.
A twin no less! He laughed at the silly mistake and posed for
inspection. Here he discovered the slackened red bow tie. Can’t
have that. He tangled it to further humming, the odd lyric
venturing out and about.

Twist and tie, tie and twist,

flick of the...flick of the…flick of the
wrist.

Once completed the reflection was admired.
Ernest Skubblenob’s long pointed nose rounded out at the tip with a
blush of pink. He rubbed his hand over his bald forehead and across
a ring of white hair. A couple burps of white fluff occupied his
eyebrows and further down he realized he was missing his… where the
heck did he put them?

He didn’t find his glasses until he stepped
on them. Now they rested on the end of his nose magnifying the
brown eyes to cartoon point. The new crack in the glass was hardly
noticeable. Ernest Skubblenob smiled.

And noticed….Dag nabbit! Where were his…

He was still looking for his teeth when a
knock arrived at his door. When there was no answer, the caller
rapped again. And then three more times. Finally, the handle
turned.

“Ernest?” Jorab peeked his head in and upon
spying his friend spoke louder. “Ernest?”

Ernest Skubblenob turned mid-hum and spotted
the familiar braided beard and warm eyes of his dear friend. His
teeth fell from memory.

“Jorab!” he shuffled forward with extended
hands. A lengthy embrace was soon followed by Jorab’s swift
portering skills. Within moments, he had the bowtie amended, the
checklist checked and the suitcase opened, paving the way for any
last minute items.

The one thing that Ernest Skubblenob did not
seem to ever forget was his Tempometre. He scooped it up gingerly
and paused to decide its best keepsake locale, the suitcase or his
pocket. He leaned most comfortably in the direction of his pocket,
hating the idea of the distant suitcase. But, if he wasn’t careful
it could fall out of his pocket…

“What’s that you got there, Ernest?” Jorab
asked after the silver object.

The eyes of Ernest Skubblenob lit up like
stars. “This, my friend is what will help my dear charges win this
race.
This
is a Tempometre!”

Ernest Skubblenob was not a bonafide inventor
by industry standards. Not that he hadn’t spent the greater portion
of his life trying. It was just that most of his inventions hadn’t
quite succeeded in their intents. And if one were to be really
frank one would admit that in actuality none had quite succeeded.
But that didn’t stop Ernest Skubblenob, nor had the many complaints
and arrests. He was determined to invent. That’s what he did. After
work and on holidays and often in the wee hours of the morning.

“I see.” Jorab was truly curious. “What does
it do?” He sat down on his friend’s tiny little sofa and
immediately jumped back up. A pair of teeth had attached themselves
to his back end. “Yours?” he asked.

“Oh! Pardon me, Jorab!” Ernest unclamped his
teeth and slid them fitfully into his mouth. Much better. He smiled
at Jorab who took to his seat again, waiting expectantly for the
demonstration.

Ernest Skubblenob’s spine immediately denied
its crook while his beaming eyes and mouth took centre stage. “It’s
a Tempometre!”

“Mmm. Would you mind refreshing my
memory?”

“Not at all!” The inventor turned his back to
Jorab and reached for a large wired-up metal object on the only
other chair around the table. It was a helmet. Or the closest thing
to it. And it was plopped on the old man’s head, destroying any
semblance of credibility in its rent. Rather a bulky large metal
garbage can head came to mind.

The black straps were adjusted tightly under
the chin and once a balance of the neck was struck, the inventor
ahemed. “Hmmm, I wonder where my friend, Jorab is? I wonder where
he could be? Jorab! Oh, Jorab!”

“I’m right here, Ernest, just behind…”

“I know that!” The inventor snapped. “I’m
role playing.”

“Ah. Er…Do carry on.”

The inventor huffed a bit and tried to pick
up the trail where he had left off. He ended up back at the
beginning. “Hmmm, I wonder where my friend, Jorab is? I wonder
where he could be? Jorab! Oh, Jorab! Hmm, he seems to be missing.
That’s quite all right, Ernest. You don’t have to worry, old boy.
Why you ask? Because you have your handy dandy Tempometre. It will
come to your aid!”

With that, Ernest Skubblenob brought the
Tempometre to his lips. “Jorab!” He declared and his hand struck a
rather melodramatic pose. The
garbage can
came to life.
Hundreds of lights at the ends of pins ignited. A high-pitched hum
hit the air. The lights blinked randomly on and off, on and off and
a few belches of smoke coughed their way outward.

Ernest pointed the slim platinum device now
purring softly in his hand and walked in the exact opposite
direction of Jorab. The Tempometre got right to work getting colder
and colder and colder until a slight frost caked over and Ernest
had to use his sleeve to hold it. Meanwhile his helmet was shaking
his head so much that his words were coming out agitated.
Unfortunately his teeth did, too. But the inventor carried on
bravely.

“Gee, it’s g-g-g-getting awfully c-c-c-cold.
I guess he’s n-n-n-n-not here!” Skubblenob said with excitement
growing in him. He moved toward Jorab, which was a bit unnerving
for his lone audience member. But, at once the Tempometre began to
warm up. The frost slid off in drips and Skubblenob no longer
needed his sleeve.

“Hmmm, getting warmer! Jorab must be closer!”
The inventor whispered and giggled. He pointed the instrument
directly at Jorab and walked toward him. Now, the Tempometre became
so hot he needed both sleeves to hold it. “Getting hotter! Getting
hotter! He must be right…Aaaaaaaeeeeggghhh!” He dropped the
scalding Tempometre some distance yet from Jorab. The garbage can
fell forward over his face.

“Well done!” Jorab applauded.

Ernest Skubblenob adjusted his helmet, took a
deep, theatrical bow. And got stuck.

This was neither the first nor the last time
that Jorab would rush to his chiropractic aid. Once the inventor’s
posterior was restored Jorab picked up the Tempometre and handed it
hot potato to his friend. “The team will be most appreciative, I’m
sure.”

Ernest Skubblenob beamed. His teeth were less
impressed and made it known in a chattering commotion beneath the
sofa. Jorab pointed his finger and Moved them through the air back
to Skubblenob who once again clunked them into his mouth.

“And what, pray shall be the second Quest
artifact, friend?” The inventor was freshly polishing his prize
possession. As Jorab whispered the answer he nearly dropped it
again. He said nothing but the gawping eyes and stuttering mouth
were clearly astounded. Jorab winked and helped him out of his
helmet.

As the suitcase was crammed to seam-busting
capacity and last minute things went forgotten in the wild garden
of Skubblenob’s wits, Jorab waited patiently, eventually helping
himself to a stranded bowl of pudding.

At length, the old inventor was saddled up
with a grin and facing his companion. “Ready.” He said, suitcase in
hand.

“You’re sure?” Jorab replied concerned.

“’Course I’m sure!”

“Absolutely…positively…”

“I’m more ready than I was for my own
wedding, Jorab and even then I forgot my pants!” Skubblenob
winked.

“Right then.” Jorab smiled and stood up, his
head almost touching the ceiling. He clutched his friend’s suitcase
and together they headed for the door.

At the threshold Ernest Skubblenob paused. He
was ready indeed. And grateful that at least someone, Jorab still
believed in him.

He stepped forward, wearing an over sized
suit jacket, a strangled red bow tie…

…and striped boxer shorts.

Root spied her reflection again, still unable
to recognize the creature that gazed back. A Mirror Lake blue
blouse sprinkled like powder over her frame, now delicate and
feminine, far from the tomboy routine of weeks past. Silken sleeves
trailed in lovely waterfalls from Root’s shoulders, which were
brought up and back with fresh esteem. A swingy, layered skirt of
blue and silver rippled in the slightest movement, sweeping her
knees with pleasure. She just could not believe the shimmer. Any
way she turned, there it was. She twirled and it spiralled like the
blossom of a Bluebell in the wind.

A new barrette of pink topaz held fringes of
hair from her face. It was impossibly beautiful. Stupid pretty.
Root had nearly died when it fell from Estrella’s page. And now,
cast in her hair like a star in a tinsel-ed pink web, she just had
to stop the entire world and catch her breath.

Root’s shoes crisscrossed over her feet like
streams of fallen meteors, immediately begging for the gloss and
celestial polish of toes and fingers.

Another glance in the mirror. Another swoon
of surprise and enchantment. Root could not remember ever feeling
so…pretty.

“You’re gonna be late.” gruffed Horologe.

“Oh blah blah.” She turned to her Klok and
scratched his tiny pig snout as he shifted position on her night
table. “You like my new outfit?” She spun in a sparkling pinwheel
for the zillionth time. Horologe lifted one eyelid and shrugged.
Root humphed and sashayed for the door.

She didn’t take the railing this time, even
as Dwyn slid along beside her. A lady didn’t take the railing. And
tonight Root was doing her very best Lady.

They met Lian at the garden court foyer where
there seemed to be a hold up of sorts. Apparently Master Gub and
his staff were not quite ready to receive them. Root swished and
sighed and exaggerated her posture in an attempt to be noticed. Her
friends however were blinded by the uproar in their stomachs. Or
perhaps they were always so oblivious. Either way, they weren’t
even cognizant of the fact that Root had washed her hair let alone
fussed over it for hours and hours and hours. And her outfit didn’t
even garner a blink.

No matter. Root was certainly noticed seconds
later when Milden entered the lobby.

“Oh my god!” he gasped way, way too loud from
way, way too far away.

The entire room seemed to snap to his pink,
cherub-ed face, awash in ardour. His green bowtie positively pulsed
with rapture as did his matching suspenders, breeches and
pearl-white shirt. “You…Root…you look so beautiful!”

Of course the entire room then snapped to the
sight of Root’s red-faced cheeks drowning in embarrassment.

“Uh…thanks.” squeaked from her throat.

“My pleasure.” Milden smiled and doted from
afar.

Thankfully he was not able to squeeze through
the crowd toward her, but still Root needed to somehow deflect his
gawk. It felt like a bloody heat lamp.