Timothy Jones - Tibtarnitallimardarian

He landed on the floor with a resounding thump, yet he lay still, hoping the pain was nothing more than a new bad dream. But he knew otherwise. He allowed himself to wake up and opened an eye. A narrow beam of sunlight cut across the room from a crack in the window shutters. Looking at it told him it was morning, early morning, the crack of dawn! And the continued pounding was not in his head. Someone was pounding on the front door.

At first he wondered who it could be, and when the obvious answer popped into his mind it brought him to a sitting position. Could Ty the Parson have really returned? His expression was a mixture of disbelief and worry. The very idea of the Parson’s returning was absurd, if not for his book, his Grandfather’s tales, his own doubts… With a sigh, he knew there was only one way to find out, and he could not do that sitting here. He must answer the door, and by the ever increasing pounding he needed to do that quickly, before his house fell in.

Knowing there was no time to get dressed brought him to his feet and straight through his bedroom door at a fair clip. And he ran right into Tarl, who was hurrying out of his room, to land in a heap. They untangled themselves, coming to a sitting position side by side, and looked at each other. Both wore surprised expressions on their faces, but the continued pounding drew their attention back to matters at hand.

"Who do you think that could be?" Orlon said.

Tarl shrugged. "It must be for you," he said with a half smile. "I certainly don’t know anyone who would call at this early hour."

Orlon rolled his eyes, got up and headed down the hall.

"You don’t think it’s that nut from last night, do you?" Tar said, getting up to follow.

"I don’t know," Orlon said, though deep down he felt—feared he knew exactly who it was.

The mysterious pounding awoke the other resident of the house, and though nearer the front door, it took time to awaken him, too. On a mat by the back door in the kitchen slept Orlon’s servant, Jujay, and the reason for his slow response was obvious. Jujay was old . Once a sturdy six feet tall, he was now a hunched five feet nine inches, his muscular physique withered with his advancing years, leaving him a wrinkled bag of bones. Age had likewise affected his hearing.

Hence it took time, the eventual shaking before it dawned on him what was happening. When it did sink in, a deep crease formed between his bushy gray eyebrows where normally resided a thin wrinkle. A scowl added more creases to the wrinkled remains of what an epoch ago was a handsome face. He was reminded of a similar disturbance to his sleep last night—one he successfully fended off until it stopped—but this sound was louder, more demanding, telling him it was time to start the day.

He opened a tired gray eye to see the simple kitchen, focused on the rattling spoon in the bowl on the table. He had left it there after eating a snack last night, planning to be up early to clean it up before anyone else awakened. Well, he was up early now, but knew it would have to wait. His first duty as servant to the household was to answer the door.

Yet he paused, his attention turned to the doorway between kitchen and front room. There was no way to know how long the pounding had been going on, which made him wonder why no one had answered it like he presumed someone did last night. Further, he briefly wondered which of the two did. The answer was obvious! Orlon must have answered it over the objections of Tarl who thought such menial tasks should only be done by servants.

Just the thought of that man, Orlon’s best friend or not, put a scowl on his face, sent a crimson flush over his pallid skin. In his long life of servitude he had had a hard master or two, but not one treated him the way Tarl did. Not one showed such disrespect for his profession the way he did.

It had been irritating, mildly humorous when Tarl was a visiting child, playing with his friend some days. But he never thought one day the adult would become a resident, a spoiler of his dream. Dwarf Road had stuck in his mind all those years ago when he and his master marched with a troop of Elifendale mercenaries along it. The community looked so peaceful, its people so friendly…. A place he felt would be wonderful to spend his declining years in, in service to a farm family. And so he did when his years of service to warriors was up, finding a home with Orlon’s family.

Later, he asked leave of the family to serve the son, Orlon being such a kind, decent man…

The ever increasing intensity of the pounding snapped him from his reverie, reminded him of his duty. He really needed to answer that before it disturbed Orlon. With creaks and pops and groans and moans he got to his feet to repeat the serenade in a stretch. He crossed the kitchen with slow but determined shuffling feet. When he reached the door his eyes were drawn from the vibrating front door to the hall door just as Orlon and Tarl came through it, first looking at the door, then him.

"We’ve got it," Tarl waved him off with a flippant air of dismissal, "now."

Jujay gave him a halfhearted smile and turned back into the kitchen, but what he heard next gave him pause, widened his tired eyes.

"Hey, I got it last time," Tarl answered his best friend’s question before he could ask it.

Tarl actually answered the door last night? With a wonder if miracles would ever cease, Jujay disappeared into the kitchen, a gnarled hand scratching a disbelieving ear.

Meanwhile, Orlon approached the door slowly, his eyes on the knob and foremost in his mind what happened to Tarl last night. Well, there was going to be no knocking him down. He stopped a foot from it—and went into action! He grabbed the knob, turned it and leaped clear. The vibrating door swung open to reveal Ty the Parson standing on the front porch, a fist drawn back, ready to dart forward with resounding force.

Both Midgets' jaws sagged in disbelief at seeing him, and for Orlon there was a knot in his stomach as well. That the Parson returned, as he had said he would, meant all Orlon had doubted, the book and his grandfather’s tales, and had dreaded, the quest, were in fact true. And the implications of it all for him sent a chill along his spine.

"The waiting man’s hair grows white with age! Why in the name of planets that revolve around burning orbs as they do their own axes do you take so long to answer?" Ty the Parson said in a flail of arms and legs.

Orlon opened his mouth to answer…

"Rivers flow quickly to meet salt brothers! The mother screams long and loud before spewing a child! Time rushes over the distant horizon never to be regained. Our quest, delayed, must spring forth. Mature rapidly."

"So you really want us to go with you?" Orlon said quietly.

A wild spin brought him to a wide-legged stance, his staff’s sappy end just inches from the Midget’s face. "The aged one’s memory of recent events! The boy’s finger in the dike’s leak! Has what I told you last night been lost? You, Orlon, the Pure, purest of the pure, must stop the evil that threatens to flood, to consume the land," he said. "The dog reacts to thrown stick! You and I, Ty, the Parson, and the Party must first journey to retrieve the Holy Pike that you may succeed in your task.

"The sizzling fuse grows ever shorter! Hungry chicks clamor for mother bird’s offering of wiggly worms! Time slips away, and with its passing the evil grows ever nearer its goal. There is no time to waste, Orlon, the Pure. I, Ty, the Parson, and the Party await you, one and all eager to eat up the distances we must traverse."

With a flailing of limbs, he stepped in and drew the door shut, his final word heard just before its click: "Hurry."

Orlon and Tarl looked from the door to each other.