Only a dim light could be seen shining through the thick winter fog. It was hardly noticeable, but it was bright enough for Tara to find her way. The greyness surrounding the city somehow made everything strangely quiet. It also made the world feel like a lonely place, as if she were the only person on the surface of the planet.

...But that certainly wasn't the case, as Tara had learned immensely earlier that day in school. She rubbed her cheek. It was still sore, but at least the cold had managed to numb the pain a little. The bruise was now changing from pink to a shade of purple. Her small tears felt like ice against the sides of her nose. The eerie silence was lonely indeed, but it managed to give her some comfort because—at least, for now—she could cry without anyone noticing.

Green metal slowly faded into view, the small light over the bus stop guiding her steps. Then, the bench underneath the covering appeared, at last giving her a moment of peace. She wobbled her small, pudgy frame along in a hurry, her winter coat making it somewhat difficult to strut, and plopped down upon the seat. She released a sigh of relief and rested the back of her head against the wall behind her. Soon, the bus would arrive, and she could get herself away from this horrible world, at least, for the rest of the day...

Tara's woven cap cushioned her head as she reflected on recent events for the first time that day. Why on earth did I do it? she thought to herself. She knew regret should be what she felt for doing something so foolish, but she was only confused instead. She simply seemed incapable of mustering the feeling that she had made a mistake. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped peppermint candy. As she pulled on the plastic ends to untwist them, she started to remember the piece she had offered to someone else that morning. The candies were nothing special in particular, but they always seemed to bring her comfort... so, she figured maybe it would make him feel better, too. But, that was the sort of thinking that started this whole mess in the first place.

Before she could think anymore about it, Tara was interrupted by the sound of rumbling and hissing as pressure was suddenly being released. The bus had arrived. She tried covering her cheek the best she could by pulling up her scarf and wrapping it tighter around her face. The door seemed higher off the ground than usual as it slid open sloppily. She climbed up the steps, and as the fog around her suddenly faded away, she approached the coin receptor. Staring nervously at the driver, she realized that she had forgotten to have her fare to board ready before entering. She fumbled and rifled through her pockets, searching for the loose change her mother had given her. It would have probably been a much easier thing to do if she was not so worried about the driver becoming impatient with her not being prepared. The driver didn't even look her way, but after what happened earlier, Tara didn't want to risk making anyone else angry. She finally managed to gather enough money to drop into the slot. It was a little more than what she needed (and the bus was not equipped to distribute change), but she didn't care—she just wanted to get to a seat and stay out of everyone's way.

Turning to face the back of the bus, Tara had no choice but to notice the other passengers scattered across the seats with their eyes staring forward, as if watching her every move. They're probably upset because I made them wait so long, she thought. I should've had that darn change ready! She slithered down the aisle, trying to avoid eye contact with the other riders, until she finally found an empty row of seats. She didn't want to sit next to anybody because she feared there wouldn't be enough room for them both, and she certainly didn't want to inconvenience anyone by asking them to move over a chair.

Tara unzipped her coat and unwrapped her scarf, placing it against the window for warmth and leaning up against it. She closed her eyes and whimpered softly for a moment. Finally having a moment to rest, she sat quietly, almost dozing off—perhaps she even managing to for a second. Her focus blurred between blinks of her eyes, which were growing slower and heavier each time. Objects were no longer identifiable, and colors were beginning to mix together into brown and grey blotches. After one long blink, an unfamiliar bubble of green appeared. The shades and hues made her feel like she was nestled in a quiet and peaceful forest, but before she could fall to sleep, she realized that she had not seen the green before and lifted her head.

Slightly dazed, Tara's vision began to strengthen. The colors and shapes separated again... and that's when she saw what it was. In the empty seat next to her laid a small, green journal. The cover was worn with pen marks and scribbles in various places, and the pages were unaligned with the corners folded and poking out. This journal certainly wasn't new and had been used quite frequently. But whose was it? Tara popped her head over the back of her seat and peeked around the bus, searching for anyone who might be looking for their missing book. Nothing. The other passengers were still sitting quietly in their spots, looking forward and minding their own business. One man happened to notice Tara looking at him, but as soon as their eyes met, she quickly whipped back around and hunched out of sight. She looked back down at the seat next to her. The journal still sat silently.

Looking to one side, then the other, Tara checked once more to find the journal's owner. Still nothing. She then hesitantly glided her hand over the book's front cover. She knew it wasn't polite to poke around in someone else's property, but she thought that maybe she could figure out who it belonged to from the information inside. Her fingers still beneath mittens, she stroked the edge of the cover and slid her hand around the spine. Now gripping the book in her hand, she glanced upward one last time. Finally, she grabbed it quickly and held it over lap. She opened the book and flipped the pages with her thumb. The journal was positively filled with entries! When the pages finished flapping, Tara could see there was something written on the inside of the front cover. Sure enough, there was the information. It read:

“Property of Solomon Treat

2228 West 7^th Street

Please Return if Found...”

She now knew of the owner and had what she needed to return the book to its rightful place. Just before shutting the cover back over the pages, she caught a glimpse of what followed the information on the inside cover. She didn't mean to read further, but her mind could not undo what she had seen:

“...But First, Please Have a Look Around.”

Tara slammed the journal closed and looked forward, wide-eyed. She was not a snoop by nature, but she couldn't help but wonder about the phrase she had just read. Did it mean something she did not understand, or was the book somehow encouraging her to continue? Her eyes shifted around for a moment before they took over her entire head and forced her to peer back downward at the book on her lap. Then, her eyes took control of her hand, making it slide under the cover and slowly lift it just high enough for them to take another peek. Tara tried to fight it, but her eyes had managed to read more, this time on the first page to the right. Before she could gain control of herself, it was too late. She had already read the first line of the page:

“If you have found this, please don't fret—you were meant to. And you were meant to read it. I want you to.”

How is this possible? Tara wondered, now finding herself gazing out the window. It was then that she realized her stop was approaching. With a soft squeal, she scrambled to reach the rope and pull it down.

Ding!

Back into the fog and across the neighborhood streets, Tara made her way home to her small apartment. It wasn't the fanciest place to live, but the two-bedroom flat was comfortable and warm. She unlocked the front door with the journal now tightly clasped beneath her arm. After stepping inside and dropping her coat and bag beside the entrance, she rushed straight to her room. She reached into a bowl on the dresser as she walked in and pulled out one of the peppermints she loved so much. Flopping straight onto her bed, Tara removed her scarf and laid it next to her as she held open the journal once again. Popping the candy into mouth, she continued to read across the page of the mysterious green book.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the next sentence read. “I am Solomon Treat, and I am a writer...”

2: Chapter 2: The Checker and the Vagrant

“ … Though I have been a writer my entire life, I haven't acted like a writer until just a few years ago. It took some time, hard work, and a lot of learning.

...Along with the help of a very strange man.

And, regardless of the things you may like to do, I think that you and I are very much alike. In this, I mean that we have both felt pain for what we have done, and we have wondered if what we did was the right thing to do. And, if it was, was it even worth doing?

Like you, all this weirdness began on a bus—well, just before the bus ride for me, actually. It was a beautiful spring morning. I lived in the northwest side of town at the time, along the bay that leads to the sea, where business is mostly fishing and importing. It rains there often, but on that particular day, it was rather dry, and the sun was shining through the openings in the clouds.

I had arrived an hour early to my usual bus stop for work. The buses were scheduled to arrive approximately every half hour, but they were often unreliable and showed up just before you could reach it or after you had long given up and started walking. Of course, then it would pass you by as you were between two bus stops, causing you to miss the ride completely. No, arriving an hour early made it so even after missing one bus, you could at least catch the next one and reach your destination in time. So, that is precisely what I did everyday I worked.

I had my work shirt slung over my shoulder because I refused to wear it. I wore my own shirts until arriving at my job, where I had no choice but to put on over them the navy blue, “dress-appropriate” polo. I thought it made me so courageous, so bold at the time. I can honestly admit now that no one ever noticed my statement. No one noticed me in general. That's how things were most days, not that I minded it. Though, sometimes I wouldn't have minded a little acknowledgment either. Truth be told, I think it's that way for most people.

The unusual sunlight hit the nearest range of mountains surrounding that part of the city. I could see details in the rock that I normally couldn't in its typical purple and blue hue. And I could see the tops that were so often wrapped in clouds. It made the mountains seem shorter or further away. I started to smirk, enjoying the feeling that the world was just a little bigger that day.

As it turns out, it was bigger. Much larger than I could imagine.

“Whatcha' lookin' at, friend?” I heard a deep, gruff voice ask. The sudden noise caused me to flinch. I gasped as I stumbled away from a man, who was asking the question, waving my arms as if they were long propellers. He was an older gentleman, dressed in heavy clothing beneath a coat too large for him. His clothes were tattered and had holes in various places that weren't already patched up. He had a bushy salt and pepper beard that covered a majority of his face. I couldn't make out the length of his hair, which was tucked under his long, blue bean cap. His cheeks were round and rosy, which made his scraggy grin seem somewhat friendly. His blue eyes were gentle, yet his eyebrows were wild and spread upward like fire. He had a tan bag over his back, fastened by a single remaining shoulder strap.

“You scared me half to death!” I sighed after getting a good look at the man.

“Oh-ho! I am sorry 'bout that,” he replied. “Just tryin' to make conversation is all... The silence was startin' to make me a li'l uneasy.”

Recovering from uneasiness myself, I rested my hands on my knees and raised an eyebrow. “...How long have you been there?”

“Oh, not long. Don't stay long in places anymore these days.”

I didn't say anything. I was already regretting speaking to the stranger in the first place. Besides, what could I possibly have said other than “Oh” or “I see?” He did not seem to pick up on my silent signal.

“Where you headed off to?” he asked. Trying my hardest to avoid eye contact, I mumbled my answer. “What was that?” he asked, his voice practically blaring in my ear.

“I said, 'I'm going to work,'” I answered coldly.

“Ah, work. You must not like your job then.” How on earth could he draw that conclusion from what I said? He was right, but how could anyone be so presumptuous?

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“Nobody calls it 'work' if they enjoy what they do.” Again, I could not think of a single thing to say, only this time because the truth of his statement stung a little.

I tried to shift the conversation from myself, asking him, “What about you?”

“I'm headed east,” he answered proudly. “Probably'll ride this route all the way to the end. Then, I'm thinkin' about hoofin' it to the next town. Who knows, maybe I'll even leave the country!”

I snickered at the old man's plans before I could stop myself. I knew it was rude, but he was acting rather ridiculous. Nobody really leaves this town, especially on a whim. I looked around, trying to think of how to recover from my impoliteness when I noticed the bus approaching.

“Well, here's my ride,” I blurted to the man as I graciously accepted the bus's rescue. “Good talking with you.”

“You as well,” the stranger murmured as he dug through his coat pockets. “Oh... oh dear...”

I had one foot in the door when I suddenly lost myself to the urge of turning around and seeing what the problem was. The man started shoving his hands into different pockets, his pants, his shirt, even his bag.

“I seem to have lost my fare...” he quietly announced to himself as he continued searching.

I rolled my eyes, then shook my head. “How do you expect to travel the world if you can't even keep track of change?” I scoffed.

The man didn't answer and patted his coat. I was not even sure he was paying attention to me. I looked into the bus, which was no doubt waiting for me to get on, then back at the stranger. I grew antsy as I pushed my hands into my pant pockets. I didn't know this man! This was his problem, and he was probably crazy! He could have escaped from a mental hospital or lost his home to illegal gambling. So, why then did I feel an unexplainable guilt for wanting to leave him behind? I'm sure he would find money soon, then he could be on his way. Perhaps it would be better if he didn't get on a bus at all. Could he even manage traveling alone? Either way, it would mean that he was safe and I would no longer have to deal with him. He would be gone as quickly as he entered my life.

Then, I felt the loose change against my fingers. I had exactly the right amount for a ride to work and a ride back. Of course, I could always spend some money at the store and get more change. Oh goodness, I was betraying my own reasoning! What was I to do? I had no idea, so I resorted to what I always do when I cannot make up my mind. I took a deep breath inward, and before a thought could enter my head, I acted on instinct.

“I have enough for both of us,” I proclaimed with my eyes squinted shut.

“Hm? You what?” the stranger grunted as I popped one eye open. I could not believe my decision.

Sighing, I reiterated myself: “Come on, I can pay your fare.”

As if surprised by my generous offer, the man slowly shuffled into the bus. His grin grew larger and larger as he passed me by and let out a very quiet “Oh... thank you.” I guided him up the steps and approached the coin receptor behind him. I had no choice—I couldn't change my mind now. I reached into my pocket and grabbed all the change I had. I imagined each coin scolding me as it fell into the slot.

“What's wrong with you?” Clank!

“You didn't have to do that!” Clank!

“You were home-free!” Clank!

The remaining change went through, spouting valid points as to why I had been a fool... and yet, I somehow felt a small amount of relief in my stomach. Oh well, it hardly mattered now. What was done was done, and I could finally go about my business. I gave a weak wave to the driver to thank her for her patience and hurried my way to a vacant seat. Finding a seat far in the back of the bus, I sat down, immediately resting my head in my hands, and sighed.

“I tell you, that was awfully nice what ya did for me!” bellowed a familiar and annoying voice. I groaned into my hands. I suppose no good deed goes unpunished, and I had no one to blame but myself. “I can't thank ya enough.”

Stretching my face as I lowered my hands to my chin, I surrendered to the stranger's need for conversation. I inhaled through my nose before huffing a reply: “Ohh... but you have.”

I suddenly felt my hand being grabbed as the man shook it fiercely. With excitement, he replied, “Well, I wanna' thank ya at least once more! You know, not many people woulda' done that for me, so I really appreciate your help. What'd you say you did for work again?”

“I didn't,” I snarled as I ripped my hand from his grip, “and I work the register at Clodd's.”

“Ah, a market checker! Tell you what, Mr. Checker... how's about I repay you for your kindness?” The old man reached for his coat's inside pocket.

“How can you do that? You couldn't even pay to ride the bus.”

“That may be so, but I do have these.”

He held out his hand and opened his fist, revealing a cluster of small brass coins resting on his palm. I had never seen the strange currency, all cut into octagons. On the face of the money was the bust of a bazaar and unfamiliar man facing right with a smile on his face. Even stranger, the man's eyes seemed to be peering at me.

“What are those?” I asked in a dismissing manner.

“They're called 'beckons,'” the man answered. “I have 18 of 'em left... and I want you to have them.”

“I can't use these anywhere!”

“Not anywhere—they're only good in one place...” the stranger replied. His voice had shifted to a more serious tone, one of wonderment. He then looked up at the ceiling as he began to recall—rather, recite what he could remember:

“On the western edge of town,

Between streets Nick and Knaq,

Lies an empty, tar-filled lot

Void of brick or track

And in the lot, a lonely meter

Stands off-center some

Drop a beckon in its slot,

And he will surely come.”

The man looked back down to meet my flabbergasted face. I stared at him with my lip snarling and mouth agape.

“...What?” I finally grunted, sounding like a confused Neanderthal.

“But you can only do it at night,” the stranger continued, not noticing my condescending reaction, “after the sun goes down. He doesn't like comin' during the day, you see. Afraid he might draw in some folks that aren't ready for that kind-a stuff. That or scare 'em off.”

“Who? And what do you mean 'that kind of stuff?'”

The man leaned in uncomfortably close. I could smell his musk (which actually wasn't as unpleasant as I had expected). He held out the coins in his hand right below my chin. “This city is built on many curious things. There are very old mysteries around every corner, if you know where to look! But, the greatest mystery of 'em all, I'd wager, would have to be that of the great Mr. Nemlir.”

“Who is Mr. Nemlir?”

“Who is he, indeed!” the man exclaimed as he suddenly backed away and waved his hand in front of his face, looking back to the cieling.

“His name seems all anybody knows...

Not where he's from, nor where he goes

Realm and time he may obey or not,

Nemlir, one the universe forgot.”

I watched the stranger intently fixated on his own stories and claims. I knew it—this man was definitely crazy.

“He's the one who answers the meter,” the old man continued, quickly leaning back into my personal space, our noses almost touching.

“Why would I—and without rhyming,” I added, noticing the stranger beginning to look at the ceiling again, “want to meet this Mr. Nemlir? What does he do exactly?”

“Why, he has within him the power to grant you anything ya need! When he is finished his work in ya, you will never have to call yourself a checker again.” He then grabbed my hand and emptied the coins onto it before wrapping my fingers into a fist. “And he only accepts these as payment. One beckon per visit. One visit per day. Those are the rules.”

I looked down at the coins and sneered as I shook my head. “This is all nonsense,” I chuckled. Still, I had to admit, regardless of how true my statement might have been, any idea of freedom from my miserable job was intriguing.

“Think what ya wish,” the man replied, “but should ya decide to use the beckons, I warn ya: use 'em wisely. Once they're gone, they're gone, and you can only get 'em from someone who offers them to ya... and no place else.”

I took some time to cook up a good crack to make at the old stranger, but when I looked up, I noticed that I was now a stop past the one I meant to take my leave. “Great!” I grumbled as I reached for the rope. “Now, I'm going to be late.”

Ding!

The bus came to a halt, and I hurried my way to the door, carelessly stuffing the coins into my pocket. “Good luck to you and... well, what you're doing,” I told the old man as I scrambled to put on my work shirt. As I rushed out the door, I could hear him shouting out his last words to me:

“Remember, Solomon... Nick and Knaq, on the west side of town! Only at night!”

Without even looking his way one last time, I waved a dismissive farewell and hopped off the bus. As my feet hit the sidewalk pavement, I could already feel normalcy returning to my day, and to my life. At first, it felt wonderful to be so comfortable again... but as I made my way back down the street, I started to feel a subtle hint of melancholy. It wasn't until I had tromped all the way to the outer edge of the Clodd's Grocery Market parking lot that a realization suddenly struck me.

“I never told him my name was Solomon...” I whispered. My eyes growing wide, I awkwardly turned in the direction I came from, but the bus had already been long gone.

3: Chapter 3: What if...

“ I am more than certain by now you are under the impression that I may not exactly be the most pleasant man you will meet. While I can say I was not always an entirely nice person, I would have never considered myself a bad one. I am sharing with you my honest thoughts and feelings, after all—the very things that many people keep locked away to prevent making such impressions on others. Let's also not forget that there is always a larger picture, and there are two sides to every story, before passing any strong judgments.

To be perfectly blunt, the company I dealt with at work required a lot of mental, and even physical readiness. You must be ready for very long hours that feel like they drag on and on. You must be capable of handling some of the most ludicrous characters and circumstances, and you must be ready to take care of those situations yourself, without any assistance from co-workers or supervisors. You must be ready for anything... because at Clodd's Grocery Market, anything that can go wrong, most certainly will. All of this requires a good portion of preparation; however, fate, as it would seem, saw it fit to conduct a preemptive attack, using the old stranger at the bus stop as its weapon of choice. With this interruption, I was unable to enjoy the calm before the storm, so to speak. I had lost control of the order in my day before I had even started my work shift.

The first customer of that particular day bought a stick of chewing gum, and only a stick of gum. When charging him the minuscule amount, he handed me a one-hundred dollar bill. I cannot explain it, but this exact moment greatly favors the beginning of the workday. I opened the drawer to my register to notice only four vulnerable twenty-dollar bills amongst the fresh money put there by management. Sighing, I pulled out the twenties, along with the remainder of his ninety-something change, and surrendered it to him.

A line had already formed at my register, and the next customer immediately began asking for a discount on her produce. I would retort her, but I already knew it was a battle I would lose, for management would get involved and remind me that Clodd's company policy is to match the prices of any competitors... even though the customers' price claims were often untrue (it was not management's responsibility to know otherwise, but the checkers'). This process can be grueling and slows the process down quite a bit, causing customers in line to become rather impatient and say nasty things.

Once completed with the competitive prices, and the customer had paid and gone, the one directly after overpaid his tab with his credit card in order to receive one hundred dollars in cash. Of course, when I reached for the one-hundred dollar bill I had just received two transactions prior, he complained that he wanted his change in twenties. “It's so hard to break a hundred, and this beats having to go to the bank,” he chuckled. Easy for him to say—he wasn't wiped clean of all his larger bills. When this happens, a checker must signal his or her supervisor with a flashing light at the top of his or her register area to bring more of the desired money in exchange for an equal amount in the largest bills the checker has in the drawer. That is how things would work in a perfectly functioning system, however. In my case, as I poked my head over the other registers, I realized that the supervisor had completely vanished. Slowly (and cautiously) turning back towards the customer, I told him that it would only be a moment. Five very long minutes passed before the supervisor stumbled back to her designated area and noticed the flashing. At last, she came to my register asking what I needed. Grumbling, the customer was finally handed his five twenties and made his leave.

After him, the next customer only spoke in a language that I could not understand, let alone recognize its nation of origin... This is how it was frequently. It may not seem like much, but this was approximately 20 minutes of my day. Multiply that several times over, and you have a full workday, then times five or six is a week's worth, and so on. While this job promises the meeting of any type of person imaginable, a majority of them seemed quite unpleasant, some downright distasteful.

I learned quickly at Clodd's that humanity in general was a very angry race indeed. Or sad. Or perhaps a little of both. And, I understood that times were difficult then. One woman had with her five children and had to use four different cards, plus cash to meet the total on the register. Another tried to leave with unpaid groceries in his cart, hidden beneath bags he brought in with him. And a family had to cancel purchasing the child's favorite snack in order to pay within the limit of their governmental assistance. Being the entity behind the screen that allowed or denied these people weighed heavy on my shoulders. In a way, I felt I was binding their freedom by turning them away. I would watch them leave, wondering how they were going to eat that night... and there was nothing I could do. It was as if my job were to do nothing about it.

I, myself, had felt the sting of those troubled times. You see, roughly four years before that day, I was sitting in a comfortable office chair, assisting in producing very important contracts for a successful company. I wasn't happy working there either, to be honest. It was stressful, demanding, and I gained a lot of weight doing mostly sitting work. But it was what many would consider a very good job. In one very swift moment, I was called into the conference room with the company owner on the speaker phone. He thanked me for my years of service, then reassured me that my performance had no effect on the company's decision to let me go. And that was that. I looked tirelessly for another job, and suffered an entire year without work. As I searched, I began to lose more and more of the money I had saved up. I lost my house and had to move back home with my parents. I lost my car and my only mean of transportation. I became so desperate, I began applying at neighborhood stores and other places well below my experience and pay-grade, some more than once. That was when Clodd's Grocery Market gave me a call, and I accepted the job as a checker without hesitation.

Three years later, there I was—a humbled man without any small glimpse of a happy future. I did manage to get back on my feet enough to pay off some debt and move into a small apartment of my own. The difference in physical labor alone depleted much of the weight I gained over the years, reducing it down to my current pudgy belly. “At least you have a job,” I'd be reminded many times over while handing out change.

But was that really it?

Was that all there was ever going to be? Pay the bills and life is complete? Deal with it, then die? Or was there something more, something we were all missing? Was there a way to find it? What if there was? What if... I thought as I rested my hand into my pocket, suddenly feeling the straight edge of metal against my finger. I straightened up and gasped as I remembered the coins. “No! No, of course not,” I reminded myself. That old man was out of his mind.

After nine miserable hours, I sneaked away from my register before anyone could notice and jetted down the aisles to the back, so I could clock out for the day. I quickly grabbed my punch card and slid it into the machine.

Beeeeeep!

“Error: punch card not recognized. Please try again,” read the small, grey screen. Baffled, I retrieved the card and put it through again.

Beeeeeep!

I retried thirteen more times. I had now been clocked in five minutes over the end of my shift, and I only had five minutes left before management was notified. Several other employees, who were also trying to use the machine, would grab the card from me and explain their theory as to why I hadn't been punching out properly: “Sometimes, you have to put it through backwards.” “Did you try swiping it through slowly?” “Oh, you just have to punch it more quickly!” They would all try using my card themselves, but once they realized they too didn't know the solution, they handed it back to me, shrugged, and used their own card to arrive or leave. Finally, as it appears the eighteenth time was the charm, the machine read my card, allowing me to finish for the day.

Finally reaching home, I went through my pockets to pull out my keys, name tag, lint, and anything else I had managed to collect throughout the day and place them on the counter. Again, I was reminded of the old man's coins as I unintentionally pulled one out. It rested on display in my hand for a moment before I held it up over my head, against the light to investigate it some. I definitely did not know of any place that used this specific type of currency; though, I am in no way a historian or master in cultural studies. I still found the coin somewhat fascinating. The man on the face of the coin was bald at the top of his head, with the remainder of his long, curly hair stretching down his neck and resting on his shoulder blades. His nose was rather long and hooked. He seemed like a well-groomed man overall, like most portraits do on money, yet there was a sense of wildness to his posture and expression. His eyes were shifty, and his smile was mischievous. He did most certainly appear to be a man of great importance (again, as most people do on money). Finally, on the back of the coin, there was a picture of a bridge with some sort of tall and lanky man resting beneath it, who was far too small and dark to distinguish. What differed this coin from other currencies was that it had nothing written on it anywhere. No words, no numbers, nothing. Just images. When at last I finished examining, I dropped the coin, along with its siblings, into a clear plastic cup on my kitchen counter by the front door... where they remained for days before I gave them any further thought.

Sometime later, I slid my card through the punch machine to clock in. Alerting me of the same error it had been for a while now, I groaned and performed a small dance of fury, stamping in place, before I rested my head against the box and whispered, “Oh, come on now!” Sliding the card through without even bothering to look, I heard the machine register and punch it. Just then, I also heard a swiveling door squeak open quickly. It was the door to the employee break room, which was currently to the left of my head.

“Hey, Sol,” I heard a jarring voice say. “Can you come in here for a sec?” My eyes widened. I didn't have to lift my head from the punching clock and look to know that the assistant manager of the store was standing in the doorway, and he never called anyone into his office for reasons that are good. Sure enough, there he stood, a good six-and-a-half feet tall, wearing his usual button-up striped shirt and rapidly chewing gum with a mouth that always seemed to have some kind of a smirk. Above his thick brow, his short hair was slicked back and was receded a bit. His eyes were piercing, and glowed like brown fire. He held the door open for me as he pointed to the back with his thumb, which seemed to be attached to an endless arm. I followed through the lounge area, trudging behind him as a few employees sat at the tables eating their meals and using their phones, to the small open doorway to his tiny office. The room only had enough space for a table with several run-down, old computers and two chairs sitting next to each other, one for the manager (who was absent at the time, thank goodness!) and the other for the assistant manager. Sitting in his own chair, he turned towards me and rested his hands behind his head, leaving me to stand exposed in the doorway.

“You wanna explain to me why you stayed ten minutes overtime last week?” he asked casually. Caught off guard completely, I scrambled through my memory to find my defense against the claim.

“Wha—I did?”
“We were going through the files, and we pulled up that you clocked out from work ten minutes after reportedly leaving your register to retire for the day. Why is that?” He rested his index finger over the crease in his lips with his thumb on the temple of his risen brow.

It finally hit me. “Oh... oh, oh! You mean a week ago! That was the day I couldn't get my card to punch out!” Then, everything from that day started rushing back into my mind. “I still can't get that thing to work for me. Didn't you see me just a minute ago? I couldn't even clock in!”

He thought about my excuse for a moment, then turned and started fidgeting with one of the computers. “Ah, yes,” he said as the monitor came back on. “That would explain why you are five minutes late today.”

A moment of silence passed. He turned back to me for a response... but my thoughts were elsewhere. Suddenly, the cup on my kitchen counter seemed enticing. They were just money from a strange old man, true, but they were beginning to feel like something more—a symbol of the foreign, or the unknown, perhaps. Mystery. Something different.

“Sol?” the assistant manager grunted as he cleared his throat.

“Yes,” I answered, finally snapping out of it, “yes, that is why it says that I-I am late.”

“Well, we'll have maintenance take a look at it. I'll clock you in from the computer, but if you are having trouble checking in at the appropriate time, then you need to start arriving a few minutes earlier than scheduled to make sure that doesn't make you late.”

“No problem, Cliff,” I simply replied as I started back out of the office. But inside, I was screaming. I wanted to challenge him for accusing me of stealing time from work, from arriving late when I hadn't had a scratch on my attendance prior. I wanted to reprimand him for sweeping the problem under the rug by having “maintenance look at it,” meaning he would either contact the department when he remembered and that maintenance would outsource the problem to the company that manufactures the machines, a process that would take weeks to finish. “I'll get to work now. Thank you.”

Oh, how I wished the old man's coins were what he said! I would have loved nothing more than the chance to leave that horrible place behind me and restore my life to its former stature. What if...

When I returned home that night, I immediately turned to the cup on the counter and reached in to pull out one of the coins that had occupied my head the entire day. I took a good look at the smiling man on it and reminded myself of the feel of the coin's faces and sides. From that day on, I carried one with me everywhere, to bring forth that feeling of the unknown, whether the old stranger was telling the truth or not. Either way, it meant there was something, something that wasn't here. When I would get frustrated or feel I was being treated shamefully, I would reach into my pocket and stroke the coin. I'd imagine battling monsters, or speaking with fairies. Or, I'd be on an adventure far underground... or perhaps at sea! It didn't by any means fix my problems, but it helped calm me down and occupied my thoughts with things other than what was right in front of me.

It worked for weeks, until one day, when the feeling gradually started to lose its edge. Anger took longer to subdue, and negative thoughts once again haunted me. The real world pried its way back into my thoughts and re-conquered my mind, banishing the comfort I had felt only moments before. It became like a screaming child, who would not quit until I gave it my full attention.

As instructed to a checker, I turned off my light ten minutes early to clean my register before clocking out. A handful of customers, however, did not see it fit to take a detour to another checker. No, they had chosen me, and my register was where they were checking out. The first customer clumsily slammed their groceries onto the belt. With a forceful huff, I turned the switch on to bring the items near me and scan the bar-codes. I did the same for the next several people and finally arrived at my last and final customer. She had her cart filled to the top with groceries, and I silently and politely scanned every one of them. When it came time to pay, she growled at the grand total and complained that it was too expensive. While searching through her snake-skin wallet, she commanded me to dig through her bagged items and remove certain ones of her choosing. After the last voided item, she finally agreed to pay... handing me two one-hundred dollar bills. There was just something about that particular bill that burned me up. Biting my lip, I rang her up and gave her the change, and she left. When I turned to get one last good look around my work area, I remembered the large pile of discarded items I had just acquired. I furiously and hastily moved the items to their rightful place for returns and stormed straight to the back of the store to check out.

Beeeeeep!

A good amount of time passed before I hopped off the bus and walked to my front door, but the rage still remained. I unlocked the door, slipped into my apartment, and slammed the door shut again, all in one swift motion. Pacing around the small living room, I ran my hands through my hair messily, then squealed with anger too pure for words to do justice. I plopped onto the couch and sat there, stewing in hateful thoughts. Recounting things that were a waste of time or useless in my life, I remembered the coin I had taken with me to work. Flustered, I scrambled to reach into my pocket and pulled it out. I snarled at it as I held it in front of me. The man on the face was still looking at me, grinning. I scoffed as I chucked the coin at the others on the counter. The cup swiveled for a moment before falling onto its side and rolling as it spilled all of the money onto the floor.

“Oh, perfect!” I sarcastically chuckled to myself. Not knowing where else to put my raving hands, I slapped my knees, then rose from the couch and hovered over the scattered mess I had created. I knelt down and began to collect the coins, returning them to their cup one by one: smiling man, smiling man, man under the bride, smiling man, shepherd's crook... Wait, that wasn't right... I pulled the last coin back out and looked at its back once more. My eyes did not deceive me—on the tail-side was the illustration of a curved wooden staff used by shepherds or farmers. Why was this one different? Were there any others...?

I spilled the coins back onto the carpet and started to flip them all onto their faces, so I could examine the backs. Sure enough, each coin had its own unique tail: the tall man under the bridge, the shepherd's crook, a leaf, a crescent moon, a wolf, a submarine, a vault, a piece of candy, a fancy mirror, a feather-quill pen, a palace, a full moon, a spear, an eyeball, a helmet, a sword, a dragon, and an almost identical portrait of the smiling man on the face side of the coin, only frowning. Did I really carry on all this time without noticing each coin was different than its companions? What on earth could the images represent? Did this mean that the coins were each different values? Not according to the old man at the bus stop, now months back and probably hundreds of miles away. He said they all did the same thing, had the same purpose: calling that Mister Something-or-other. So, they were all worth the same amount I would think.

Needless to say, I now tended to the coins much more seriously. They were the primary source of my thoughts for quite some time. I wrote down what each back seemed to have imprinted upon it, and I sketched little doodles of the coins on abandoned receipts and unused register tape. I tried finding the place of origin for the mysterious money, but so far, I was unable to uncover any information. I would have to consult with an expert for that sort of answer. What incredible things that foolish man carelessly left to me!

“Nothing...” I heard numismatists and jewelry-coin experts alike tell me, to my surprise. “We have not been able to find anything about the money you showed us. But we do know someone who might...” Baffled, I would take the coins back and hope the next visit was not just a repeat of the last... A month passed, and no further discoveries were made. Where did these coins come from?

Out of everyone in the entire city, the old man from the bus stop knew the most about them... or at least, seemed to. “If only I could find him one last time,” I thought to myself, my arms folded as I stood at my register and stared out the large windows across the front end of the store. “I could just ask him where he really got them!”

“Excuse me!” a customer hissed. I gathered from his short temper that he was probably trying to get my attention for some time now. I greeted him as checkers normally do and began to ring him up... but he still didn't have my attention. Was there no answer to this riddle? No story behind them? No place for the coins to call home? At this point, there was only one...

“What if...” I quietly asked myself, as I had a few times before... only this time, I took in a deep breath and allowed myself to finish the forbidden thought. “...the old man was telling the truth?”

“What?” The customer of course had no idea of what I was referring to. “Are you calling me old?” I finished the transaction and released him as I faced upward and looked back out the window, now with a gleam of determination in my eye. I had made up my mind: I was going to find the meter and pay it. What harm could it do to try? I had the next day off, so I was dead set on visiting the site after work, that very night.

“Can you come into work tomorrow, Sol?” asked Cliff, the assistant manager, bombarding me out of nowhere. I looked into his eyes as he chewed his gum and stared me down.

A week later, on the eve of my next day off, I rushed home from work and immediately started searching for the streets the old man had mentioned. “What were they again? Knick and something? Knack! Knack, Knack, Knack... Ah! Here it is: Knaq Street! Now let's see...” I traced Knaq upward through the western side of the city map... but there was no sign of any street by the name of Knick. Moving my finger back downward, I still never found anything. Was the old man making a fool of me all along?

I had to find out.

I grabbed the coins and put them into a small pouch I picked up at work and tied that around my belt loop. I then put on my coat, grabbed my bus fare and a bottle of water, and headed straight out the door. I navigated my way through bus routes until reaching Knaq, then I decided I would remain on the street's bus until I had been from one end to the other, searching for its partner. I watched every street sign that passed by as the bus headed northbound. An hour passed before the bus began to loop around and head south, and I had not yet found what I was looking for.

I began to lose hope after two more hours passed, and the bus stopped at a station before starting the route over completely. Still no sign of the street. After he answered that he had not heard of a “Knick Street,” I told the bus driver I would remain on the route until I could get off at a street that would lead me back towards home. My head against the window, I peered out the dark window at the night as I wallowed in my defeat. It was within ten minutes that something caught my eye differently: a street sign we had passed before... Nikolai Boulevard.

“That's it!” I shouted as I jumped from my seat and tugged on the rope.

Startled, the bus driver halted the bus at the next stop. Thanking him, I bolted out of the bus and ran back towards the cross-streets we had passed. I could smell the salt in the air as I reached the crosswalk. The bay was very nearby, and the buildings in this particular spot were old and used mostly for pawn shops and bail bonds... except for one area across from me, on the southwest corner of the street. It was completely empty!

I sprinted when it was my time to cross and reached the empty lot. Completely surrounding it was an old fence with a sign that read, “No trespassing.” If the old man was right, I figured, then I certainly wouldn't have been a trespasser. So, I pulled up on the weak chain-link at the bottom and managed to slide beneath. I caught a good glimpse of the area after I brushed myself off and stood back to my feet. The lot was enormous! Enough to occupy dozens of large trucks in several rows each. No other properties touched or directly surrounded it, either. It only met the two streets, and the other sides were surrounded by unused land that led off beyond what I could see. The ground of the area was entirely covered in an old, worn, and black asphalt. There were cracks and uneven risings everywhere. Standing against the dark night sky was a small glimmer. Silver. As I squinted to get a better look, I started to make out its shape: a thin metal pole with some sort of box sitting on top.

I ran across the lot until I reached the object. It was an old parking meter, and it was apparently operational. Who would pay to park on a private lot? I looked around the area and realized that this was the only meter in the entire premises. I couldn't believe it—it was just as he said! Catching my breath from all the running, I reached into the pouch at my side, and wrapped my fingers around one of the coins. I held it out in front of me as I ground my teeth nervously. Should I do it? Was it worth losing one of these to find out? I took one last look over my shoulders to see if anyone else was watching as I made up my mind. I then gulped and shoved the coin into the meter's slot.

Clank! Cuh-thunk-a-tank!

I stood completely still, my eyes wide open, waiting for something to happen. Anything to change. But, after a minute passed, the only change was me now feeling great disappointment. I smacked the side of the meter with the palm of my hand, trying to see if maybe the coin was jammed. Nothing, except now my hand hurt. I then shook the pole violently, hoping to achieve something, if only to get the money back.

“AUGH!” I shouted at the night. At losing one of my coins. At everything and everyone. At hope. I shook my sunken head and turned back around, towards the fence and the streets behind it. It was on my eighteenth step from the meter that I heard a puny horn buzz.

Heeeeep-heep!

Suddenly, a light burst onto me like a giant spot. I stopped in my tracks, too frightened and confused to look behind me. My breaths quickly grew short and loud. I swallowed as I regained enough courage to shift my eyes over to the side, then eventually my neck. I peeked over my own shoulder, and to my utter shock, there behind me sat an old motorbike. The bright headlight made it difficult to examine, forcing me to shield my eyes with my hand, but I could tell the bike was shabby, used often but not cleaned, and it had at its side a small cab attached. Seated on the bike was a rather tall man, and next to him another man significantly smaller than him, sitting in the sidecar. After a brief moment, the light shut off, finally allowing me to take a better look.

“Hello,” the taller man said with a strange, giddy grin.

4: Chapter 4: Mr. Nemlir and Company

“ I was unable to speak at that moment, mainly because so many thoughts were flooding my head that I could not remember how to control my mouth. It couldn't be him. It couldn't! ...Could it? Which of these men was the one I had heard about? And where did they even come from? I lifted one hand before realizing that was not what I used to speak with. I then lowered it back down and simply kept observing.

The taller man was wearing a brown leather cap, fashioned similarly to those worn by old-timely aviators and engineers. Accompanying his hat was a pair of thick, dark goggles that covered each eye with an individual lens, both popping out a ways from his face. He had a slim figure that was overlain with a heavy, tan rain coat that reached all the way to his ankles and was checkered with thin brown lines all over. The coat's rather large collar was popped outward, and he wore a very long green scarf wrapped around his neck that stretched to the ground, both in front and back. Beneath the coat appeared to be a nice white suit that was gathering smudges and stains from his apparently messy lifestyle. His shoes were dressy, though they were scratched. Over his hands were thick, fingerless gloves—no doubt to protect his hands from the harshness of his travels. His skin was so pale, it was practically luminescent in the night. His orange, thick, curly hair grew from his cap like wild weeds and spread out over the back of his coat. His nose was large, and his chin pointed into a small, tangled beard beneath his wide mouth. And that smile... The portrait on the faces of the coins was unmistakably the man sitting right in front of me. It had to be him!

The other man was not someone I expected nor was informed about whatsoever. He was very short and stout, no taller than my belly when standing up. He too was wearing goggles over his face, though his were translucent and covered both eyes and the ridge of his pudgy nose with one wide lens. He had a thin pencil mustache, and his large teeth protruded from his mouth. His hair was thick and jet black, and he had it brushed back away from his face and behind his pointed ears. His thick, navy blue coat was short, only reaching his waist, and had a woolly collar. It was buttoned up, only allowing me to see his green handkerchief underneath it and around his neck. His pants were khaki, and he wore brown steel-toed boots.

The taller man lifted his goggles and rested them over his cap. His eyes were as black as coals, but the irises were green like a tree in spring. I had never seen anything like it! Still smiling, he stood to his feet over the bike seat, and began to speak:

“Do forgive our startling you—” was all he could get out before being interrupted by the man in the sidecar.

“Master,” he blurted as he reached towards the tall man's face, “your goggles, they are crooked.”

“Not now, Rogi...” the man murmured as he pushed his passenger's hand away.

“But you mustn't greet our new friend looking so sloppy!”

“Would you cut that out? Get your hands away—stop that!”

The two grumbled back and forth, slapping each other's hands and fighting amongst themselves. I tried to get their attention, but my subtle actions of standing up on my toes and holding up my index finger proved useless. The taller man finally sneered something to his friend as he stumbled away from the bike and straightened himself up (and his goggles, too). He then faced my direction, his dark eyes peering at me, and the smile I already knew too well had returned. He held out his welcoming arms as he walked towards me.

“How are you this evening?” the man asked as he towered over me, holding out his hand.

Without carelessly accepting the greeting, I looked at the long fingers in front of me, then back up to the man's face with an eyebrow raised. “Are you him? Mister...” The name had completely slipped my mind. It had been so long since I heard it that I could not recover the memory. Oh, what a terrible time to forget something so crucial!

“They call me Mr. Nemlir,” the man graciously answered, unoffended by my forgetfulness, and to my relief. “And, yes, I do believe that I am him.”

Nemlir! Of course! My mouth dropped open sheepishly as I finally reached out for his hand, which was still waiting patiently, and shook it like a limp fish. “It's a pleasure, Mr. Nemlir!”

“The pleasure is all mine. Pretty clever pretending to forget my name, so I would pronounce it first. People can never seem to say it right.”

“Oh, erm... yes,” I replied, covering up my embarrassment by pretending to support his assumption. “Well, I don't understand why it's so difficult to say... but I wanted to be sure.”

“Very good, Mr. Treat,” Nemlir said as he turned away and headed back to his bike.

“Wait, how did you know—”

“Shall we get going then?” He patted the seat and rested his other hand upon the handlebar.

“'Going?' We're going somewhere?”

“But of course, Mr. Treat! We can't achieve anything just sitting here, now can we?”

My eyes widened. “It's true, then...” I said weakly as I started to shuffle my feet towards the two men. “You can give me anything that I desire?”

“Need,” Nemlir answered, “otherwise, you are correct, that is what I do... Didn't you hear the songs?”

“I don't know if you could call it them 'songs,'” I chuckled, remembering the stranger reciting them to me the best he could. “It was more of a botched poem when an old traveler told it to me on the bus.”

“Ah! Winfred!” Nemlir exclaimed. “Now there is a good man. Oh, the adventures we had! I suppose this means he has gotten all he can from me—how wonderful for him! But, you're right, he was never much of a singer.” He laughed to himself as he reminisced. Suddenly popping out of his memories, he looked over to the man beside him and gasped. “Oh! How rude of me. Mr. Treat, this here is Rogi, my personal assistant. He works hard to help any way he can to ensure that I have time to do all the fun stuff!”

“Except you wouldn't let me drive the bike...” the small man grunted softly as he slouched in his seat with his arms folded.

“I said, so I could do the fun stuff,” Nemlir argued. He furled his eyebrows and pointed to the bike like an impatient teacher lecturing a student. “Fun stuff.”

“It's nice to meet you, Rogi,” I chimed in, trying to pry the two men away from another fit. Sighing as if overwhelmed by my attention towards him, Rogi cupped my hand between both of his. “And you! It is always nice to see a new face,” he said with a warm smile.

“Well, then,” Nemlir uttered suddenly, “now that introductions are in order, shall we get a move on? I'd hate to waste your entire first day gabbing.”

“Oh,” I replied, turning back towards him. “I suppose you're right...” These men were actually planning to go through with taking me on some sort of escapade. I honestly did not expect them to do anything beyond stalling all night with conversation. What were they up to? What could they offer me that would provide what I “needed?” Could they actually do it? No, there must have been some sort of trick to all of this. Like knowing my name before I had met them... That was a surprise. Perhaps the old man, Winfred as Nemlir called him, contacted them and told them all about whom he had given the coins to. Yes, that was probably how Nemlir knew of me... But then, how did Winfred know my name on the bus that day? Maybe I was wearing my name-tag and didn't notice? That could be... but that would only explain how he knew my first name; my last name wasn't written on it. Of course, we live in a wondrous time, where anyone can learn about a person with the right amount of research. But who on earth would go through so much trouble over someone as insignificant or unimpressionable as me? Regardless of the possible motives, I decided to call their bluffs and go along with it as long as possible. “But wait,” I added. “Shouldn't you know what I need before we go?”

“Of course!” Nemlir shouted, swiftly slapping his palm across his forehead. “How silly of me!” He lifted his long leg over the seat of the bike and stood over it as he looked back to me. “What is it that you need, Mr. Treat?”

I rested my chin in my hand as I pondered about my supposed needs. Many things could have helped me greatly at the time: more money, a better job, happiness. I probably could have made up any answer I wanted as well. To this day, I am still not completely sure why, but I decided to go with a simple, yet honest request. Perhaps it was because I did not know these men, and I honestly expected this to be our only meeting. Thus, telling the truth wouldn't make a difference, nor would their impression of me. I remembered my job, and how I always complied out of fear of getting into any sort of trouble. The broken time punch machine, the incapability to refuse extra work days, never defending myself before difficult customers. I finally knew my answer:

“I need to be more brave.”

The air suddenly felt thick, and the world around us seemed to fall silent as I saw Nemlir look straight into my eyes with an intense stare. “Now, that is an interesting need,” he replied with a deeply intrigued smirk. “An interesting need indeed...” The energy suddenly broke and all returned to normal as Nemlir turned to his assistant, saying, “Rogi, why don't you offer your seat to our new friend? I don't think we will be needing your services for today.”

Rogi hopped up from the sidecar and waddled his way towards me. He removed his goggles and handed them to me, revealing his beady yet striking blue eyes.

“D-don't you want to bring him with us?” I asked nervously, now intimidated by the thought of traveling with Nemlir alone. There was something about the way he looked—it wasn't evil, yet it was more than mischievous. It was menacing.

“Oh, don't worry about me!” Rogi interrupted with a sense of excitement. “I haven't had a day off in ages! You two have yourselves a grand old time.”

Nemlir tossed some money at Rogi, telling him, “Go buy yourself a cheeseburger or something. We'll be back by sunset tomorrow.”

Rogi caught the loose change and cooed at it in his hand. “Ooooh, I do love cheeseburgers!” he chanted as he skipped off towards the other end of the lot.

“And don't forget your disguise!” Nemlir shouted. He looked to me and jokingly mumbled, “Not many people used to pointy-eared halflings...” He then sat upon his seat and thrust the throttle of the old bike, causing it to let out a good roar as it started up. “Now then...” he bellowed, “I'd like to finally get started, if that's alright with you.”

5: Chapter 5: A Song for Hogglebern

~ DAY 1 ~

“ It felt as though I was trying Nemlir's patience, for I stood in place for a moment, not moving or saying anything. The engine of the bike sputtered as I tried to make up my mind once and for all. Was this really an invitation I wanted to accept? What would someone like Nemlir do if I refused? I sensed trouble... but my curiosity was so strong! I wanted to see exactly what he would do to meet my need. And there were far grimmer things that could happen than getting into any sort of turmoil, ending in great pain, or worse—I could have to return to work in a few days. What did I really have to lose? Would the world really notice that I was gone for a time? Sighing, I abandoned all reason, ignored my gut, and headed for the sidecar.

“Alright...” I said as I climbed into the seat of the cab, “let's go.” I leaned forward, trying to stunt the jittery feeling I had in my stomach.

“Very good, Mr. Treat,” Nemlir replied as he kicked up the stand and revved the throttle, sending us forward at a slow pace. He turned the bike around and started to speed up a bit as he headed straight for the back gate of the lot.

“The fence!” I gasped as I tensed up, bracing myself of the impending collision ahead.

“You might want to put your goggles on!” he shouted back at me, his eyes glued forward as he sped up more.

I started to feel the wind against my face and scrambled for the goggles Rogi had given me, which were still in my hand. Obeying Nemlir was all I could think to do. I could have attempted to jump out, but the bike was now moving fast enough that hitting the asphalt would probably cause more harm than ramming into the gate head-on. The goggles bounced about in my hands as I looked down, desperately trying to regain control. Finally, my hand was able to grab the strap and stretch it. I clumsily pulled it over my head, moving the lens over my eyes. I released the strap, causing it to snap against the back of my head and my face. I let out a small yelp from the pain. For a second, I didn't want to open my eyes, but not knowing when the moment of impact would occur frightened me even more. Slowly loosening the grip of my squint, my vision returned... only to notice there was no longer a fence in front of me!

Shocked and bewildered, I started to whip my head around, searching for the gate. Our path was no longer being blocked. In fact, were no longer in the empty lot! I looked behind us and saw the fence fading away into the night as we continued to press forward. Peering down, I saw we were riding along a thin road that wound from the lot and around the city. I hadn't noticed this small street earlier. It seemed paved a very long time ago, before the use of automobiles even. Still uncertain how the past moments were possible, I leaned back against the seat and sank, sighing as I relaxed myself.

“How...?” was all I managed to whisper.

We traveled between the bay, which was but a field of grass and brushes away, and the outer edge of the city. I could see the backs of buildings and complexes that I had never taken the time to discover before. The city seemed so quiet and peaceful from this side. The only light guiding our path was the headlight from the bike.

“We're nearly halfway there,” Nemlir said after a long while of silence, still looking forward.

“Where is it that we're going exactly?”

“To get your bravery.” As little sense as that made to me, his answer was completely casual, as if I should naturally understand what he meant. I thought about it some, but I could not make out how it was possible to acquire “bravery” like it was some sort of object. Perhaps it was a play on words—maybe he had a stash of money he called Bravery. The coin I had used to summon Nemlir was called a “beckon,” after all...

The road wound around the city for a while more before it led back into town, between some old, seemingly abandoned buildings I did not recognize. I observed in awe at the old wooden structures, enforced by bricks and covered in scattered strands and clumps of straw and hay. The road had become stones lain in patterns beneath us, leading further in. We glided around a large fountain that was placed in the center of the path, which was without any water at the moment. How old is this place? I wondered. Was this some sort of pioneer village that helped found the city?

As we continued, the old buildings became more and more scarce, and thick trees started to take their place around us. We sputtered on some more before reaching a clearing. The road, more now like a sandy trail, led to a small creek. Standing just a few yards over the water was a curved, stone bridge. It was humble but beautiful, crafted skillfully, though it was starting to crumble in some places from age. We were far enough away from modern civilization that the moon shined around the entire area, bathing it in a blue hue; however, the space beneath the bridge was far too darkened by shadows to see through. It was like something straight out of a painting. Just beyond the bridge, on the other side, I could see an old, lonely house, much like the ones in the village we had passed through just minutes ago. How had I never heard of such a place in my own city!

Just a small distance away from the foot of the bridge, the bike came to a sudden stop. Nemlir kicked the stand down and rested the bike as I looked around the area in curiosity. Why had we stopped here?

“Your need,” Nemlir said, “is just through there.”

He stayed in place as he blankly stared at me, silently and passively asking me to venture on ahead of him. Everything had fallen eerily silent after the bike had been shut off. I removed my goggles as I looked to the stone passage ahead. A small breeze whistled through the grass around us, orchestrating a tune of mystery as I hobbled out of the sidecar and took a few steps forward. My prize was just on the other side. Could this thing of great value be in the house over the bridge, this bravery he spoke of?

My shoe clopped against the stone as I took my very first step onto the bridge. I rested my hand on the wall beside me and felt its worn, jagged edge against my palm. It was rough, but it almost seemed brittle, as if I could snap off the tip, dispersing it into dust. The laying of the stones in the bridge's design were quite charming. Every few feet, there were metal sticks poking up from the wall. It was most likely where lanterns were hung to light the path, but they had snapped off and disappeared long ago. The bridge seemed longer once standing on top of it, but it seemed sturdy enough. The creek flowing underneath was small, leaving thin strips of land on both sides of the water that also went under the bridge. I slowly pressed on, stepping little by little to reach the other end.

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop. Growwwwrrrr...

I grabbed the stone beside me as tightly as I could, hearing a rumble that sounded like two large boulders being ground against each other. Fearful that the old bridge may be collapsing, I leaned against the side with my hip and waited out the sound. The growling eventually stopped, and nothing had broken off or fallen apart, as far as I could tell. What was that? I then heard rocks rolling against the ground, followed by their splashing. The sounds were coming from beneath the bridge.

I whirled around towards Nemlir to see if he could tell what was happening, only to discover that he was no longer sitting on the bike. Suddenly feeling abandoned, I started looking around, desperately trying to find my guide. It was shortly after that I noticed him standing on the other end of the bridge, quietly and cautiously signaling for me to cross.

“How on earth did you—”

He interrupted me by putting his finger against his lips, warning me to keep silent. One moment, he was behind me—the next, he was ahead. The creek was thin, but it was far too wide and deep for someone to cross so quickly and stealthily. It truly baffled me how this man was capable of the things he had done thus far! I was determined to figure out how he accomplished such astonishing tricks, but my thoughts were quickly redirected to the sound of more rumbling coming from below... this time, accompanied with words.

“WHO DARES CROSS MY BRIDGE THIS HOUR?” a raspy voice boomed.

I cringed, and my lips furled as the question froze me in my tracks. My knees began to wobble uncontrollably. The sounds were terrifying enough, leaving me guessing whether or not I was in any sort of danger, but the voice not only confirmed such worries, it hinted at intentionally causing it. The sounds of grinding stones continued as I shook in place:

“WHOSE INTRUSION TURNS MY NIGHT SOUR?”

Nemlir held his face with his hands as he nervously watched. I waited for him to signal what to do next, but he remained huddled by the wall at the edge of the path. When upon first meeting him, he seemed so collected, so in control. Now, he seemed unsure, leaving this moment up to me. Was this not part of his grand scheme? Or... perhaps it was... Could this all somehow be by his design? Was he just putting on an act? Why would he do this? Did he want me frightened? Of course! His promise of reward was just on the other side of this bridge—and there was no way he could grant what I needed, regardless of what it may have been—so, the only way to convince me of his so-called greatness would be to scare me off before I could reach the other side and prove him a fraud...

I suddenly gained control of my legs and straightened myself up as I smirked at Nemlir. “Ah-ha,” I jeered as I arrogantly pointed in his direction. “I see what you're up to.”

“What are you doing?” he whispered, his eyes widening with surprise.

“You didn't think I would make it this far, did you? Well, I'm about to expose you, O 'Great Mr. Nemlir!' What are you, some sort of traveling magician? Were you looking to meddle with an unsuspecting nitwit while practicing your little tricks? I've heard magicians will spend days, sometimes months, setting up their routines in order to strengthen the mystery and belief of their 'magic.' It's a lot like writing a story. But, unfortunately for you, Mr. Nemlir, I am a writer, and I've recognized the patterns and have caught onto your schemes!”

“YOU CHALLENGE ME, SIR, BY STEPPING ON MY STONES...” the deep voice grumbled, ignoring my ranting.

I waltzed over to the wall beside me and casually leaned against it. “It's alright, Rogi,” I shouted over the edge. “You can stop trying to scare me with that voice now! Or perhaps it's old Winfred, eh?” I speculated as I looked back towards Nemlir. Turning back to look over the wall, I added, “Either way, it's over. Stop making noises and come out!”

My attitude was completely flipped when I saw a large, stone-like hand come from over the side and grab hold of the wall. I fell to my rear and scuffled to the opposite wall behind me, realizing that the hand was approximately the size of my head. It gripped hard against the stone as it pulled an enormous mass over the top of the wall. The heap of grey muscle then hopped down onto the path we now shared, shaking the ground beneath me. Unfolding, the creature revealed its full size and shape, which was even larger than it appeared.

Standing before me was a nine-foot monstrosity. It had some human resemblances, though much of its body was not of the same proportions. Its forearms were as thick as boulders and rested on the ground, beside its masculine yet short legs. The hands were wrapped in bandages at the palms that led upward and loosely hung from the wrists. Its biceps were much thinner than the rest of the arms, leading to its gravely thin shoulders, chest, then ribs. Though it appeared under-fed, it had somewhat of a pot belly that hung over the cloth carelessly tied around its waste. Atop its bony shoulders was a grotesque and large head. Its lower jaw popped out past its nose, and jagged, crooked teeth stuck out over its upper lip. Its hooked nose was shadowed by its enormous brow, and underneath were two milky eyes that glared with fury. It had long and wiry black hair that fell freely over its head and small, pointed ears, of which its left ear was pierced and hung a bone-like ornament.

“...I'LL CHEW YOUR FLESH AND PICK MY TEETH WITH YOUR BONES!” it growled as it leaned down towards me until I could feel its warm, musky breath against my face, and the strength of its voice ringing in my skull. My eyes forced themselves shut as I turned my head away from its mouth.

“That's... a very good trick...” I whimpered. I, of course, no longer believed what I was saying, but my stubbornness could find its way through even the most humbling of times.

“Eh?” the creature grunted, confused by my statement. It stood back to its feet and placed its foot on the wall as if it were a mere footstool. “The only trick there will be is you escaping your death,” it gloated. “But don't worry, I am not as savage as the other trolls. I will provide you with the chance to impress me...” The monster then sat on the wall and relaxed as it stared at me menacingly, commanding, “Make me a song.”

Surprised by what it said, I opened my eyes and faced it. “I'm sorry, what?” I asked, wondering if I had even heard it right.

The troll groaned with annoyance. Holding out its hand, it pointed its enormous finger at my chest and began to reply:

“A fool chooses to pass Arwel Creek,

In the dead, cold, silent night;

And face a troll to cross its bridge,

Does not that fool deserve a fright?

Try Hogglebern's Bridge and lose your life,

Should you not think up a song;

Instead you'll shriek—your bones will snap,

Beneath these rocks, where ye belong!”

I slowly stood to my feet and twiddled my thumbs nervously. “You want me... to write you a song?”

“THAT IS WHAT I SAID, ISN'T IT?” the troll roared, its voice echoing throughout the clearing. It was becoming impatient.

“Well, that's fortunate,” I heard as I suddenly felt hands resting on my shoulders. Startled, I jumped in place and looked behind me to see Nemlir, who was now standing behind me with a nervous grin on his face. “Mr. Treat here is a writer!”

“Are you, now?” the troll asked, now leaning forward with genuine interest. “Then, your song better be good! It has been a long while since I've had the opportunity to judge a song strictly... being a writer myself.”

“You're a writer?” I asked, astounded by the troll's unexpected claim.

“Is that so hard to believe?” it replied harshly. “You sound just like them! My brethren, the whole lot of them... 'A writer, Hogglebern?' they would laugh.” It swiftly leapt from the wall and held its giant fist just inches from my face. “I ought to end this right now!” it snarled.

“No-no-no!” I gasped, holding out my hands in a desperate plea for the monster to stop. “No, I-I-I w-will do it... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come across so rudely. Please allow me the chance to offer you a song.” I pulled down my shirt, straightening it, as I looked to the ground and cleared my throat.

“How marvelous...” it hissed, returning to the wall. “Let's hear it then, Mr. Treat.”

“One, one moment, if you please,” I replied, holding out my finger as I continued to stare at the floor. “I don't want to embarrass myself in front of another... another writer...” I looked over to Nemlir and glared at him for pushing me into this mess further. He shrugged as he too awaited my song, almost as eagerly as the troll. I scratched the back of my head as I thought about where to start. My index fingers tapped against one another as I mumbled possible lines to myself. Then, I looked up to the sky and placed my hand over my chin, humming nonsense. A portion of time had passed when I looked over and noticed the troll frowning at my indecisiveness.

“Well?” it snorted. “Come on, then!”

“Sorry...” I murmured as I squinted and placed my hands on the back of my head, moaning as I tried forcing the song out. I was going to die. I was going to die because I could not think of something, anything. While true that I was a writer, I had not written poetry or anything but contracts and documents in several years. And my life depended on this creature, who was going to be extra critical of my final product; though, I understood that as a fellow writer. We find great pleasure in analyzing and picking apart one another's work, finding flaws and appreciating the thoughts and planning that went into his or her work. The only thing a writer enjoys more is...

I perked up as a plan popped into my head. I lowered my arms and peered at the troll over my shoulder.

“What about you?” I asked.

“Whu—?” it huffed, raising an eyebrow.

“Your last song was quite impressive—very intimidating! You captured the tone of terror and brutality quite well. Do you have anymore?”

“I... That's not how this works, erm...”

“Oh, I understand completely. Believe me, I do! It's just that... while I think of my song, I thought, why not share some of your own? Perhaps to inspire me a little...”

The troll's demeanor changed as it rubbed the side of its bristly face. “Well... I do have one more...” it answered meekly.

“Wonderful! I'd love to hear it!”

“Oh... Very well...” It turned away from me and looked out into the distance over the bridge as it prepared itself, both excited and very nervous. What followed completely took me by surprise:

“Ever since I could remember,

I held a pen in hand;

And wished to write a handsome lyric,

For all within the land.

 

Poems, songs, limericks flew,

In my desperate search;

Of that perfect melody,

To share with all the earth.

 

But you all wished not for my song,

For wreckage I am meant;

You took my pen away from me,

So beneath a bridge I went.

 

'Our kind is not meant for good!'

You hissed into my ear;

'We are ugly, we belong in caves,

We are darkness, we are fear!'

 

You broke my dreams with force,

And then destroyed my pen!

I clawed the stone around me,

And wept within my den.

 

Perhaps I should embrace this fate,

But surely prove them wrong;

I'll offer bridge-crossers chance,

To live in trade for song.

 

My brethren and all of man,

Will see shadows and fears;

But I will see I have inspired,

Songs my remaining years.”

The troll didn't turn back around. Instead, it lowered its head and wrapped itself in its own arms. A great sorrow started replacing my fright as I began to understand the creature more. I knew the feeling of being forced into a life that you would have never wished upon yourself, nor anyone else. To be unimportant, and to serve a single, humiliating purpose... Then, you were no longer worth paying any attention to. I pitied the troll, yet it had somehow managed to fit its dreams into the nightmare it was living, as twisted and unsatisfying his methods were. Perhaps the troll would have pitied me even more, if it knew how I lived.

“No one's asked to hear my song before...” it said softly, though its voice still boomed.

“Hogglebern...” was all I was able to get out as I cautiously took a step towards the troll. Then, it started coming to me:

“Why no one thought to ask,

To hear your story grieves me;

For the song each spirit has,

Enriches, never leaves me.

 

All deserve a chance to share,

The song they're made to sing;

That's why I shall find you a pen,

And return you to your writing.”

The troll slowly looked down on me, somewhat awe-struck. My song seemed to capture its attention, but I think my promise was what truly made it interested. Stretching out its neck to one side, it squinted at me.

“You... would do that, for me?” it asked suspiciously.

“With utmost certainty!” I answered. I could not understand the dangerous commitment I was making, but something had come over me. I was beginning to feel a rhythm in our conversation that I didn't want to stop... and I could tell Hogglebern was feeling it, too. I continued:

“You have my word—I'll fetch that pen!”

“But not any pen will do;

Most of them are far too small—”

“Then, I'll find one large for you!”

 

“Will it have ink, a special ink,

That'll make the letters flow?”

“It will have the most graceful ink,

More than any man could know!”

 

“And will it be important,

That no one dares to break it?”
“Why, the pen will be so special,

That no one could mistake it!

 

I will search the highest mountains,

And through the lowest caverns;

To find the greatest pen of all,

It belongs at Hogglebern's!

 

Then all will gather 'round,

To hear their favorite creator;

The song-writer from beneath the bridge,

There will be no one greater!”

We had both grown quite tired from skipping and dancing around the bridge, taking turns as we shared in our song.

Hogglebern let out a deep laughter from his belly. “HA HAAAAH!” it roared. “That was WONDERFUL!”

Panting as I leaned forward, resting my hands on my knees, I let out a small chuckle, then finally replied, “I... I thought you might like it...”

“Please, feel free to cross my bridge! I haven't found pleasure in a song like that for many years... That is, unless you'd like to stay and cook up another, of course.”

“Oh, I'd love to,” I answered, realizing I was home-free, “but I really must be going. I still have a full day ahead of me.”

“Yes, of course...”

“I did have a tremendous time, though.” Strange as it may seem, seeing as how my life was at stake just minutes ago, I found it quite true. I felt like an old part of me, one I thought I had lost a very long time ago, was once again stirring inside me, if only for that moment. Was that a feeling worth this terrifying encounter? I honestly didn't know... but it did feel good.

“As did I,” Hogglebern replied with an oddly tender tone. “Thank you, Mr. Treat... And, should you find the pen you described, you and your friend may cross this bridge as often as you like.”

As I made my way toward the end of the bridge, I looked back at the troll. “I will return as soon as I've found it,” I promised. “In the meantime, why don't you start thinking of ideas on what to write about until I get back?”

“Oh, very good, Mr. Treat! I shall do just that. Ah! And would you look at that—nearly sunrise already! How time does fly when good things are at work.”

Sunrise? I looked upward, noticing a light blue blanket starting to cover the dark. I whirled around and faced the house on the other side of the bridge to see the sky growing brighter by the minute. How could it be morning already? I had only left home at seven in the evening or so, and I found the empty lot just after nine. By now, it should have been no later than eleven.

Hogglebern waved as he wished me farewell and quickly returned beneath the bridge, disappearing into the darkness. All had become silent, almost just as it was before I stepped on the stone pathway, with the exception of small murmurs coming from the shadows of the bridge, the kind you hear when someone is thinking aloud.

It was a good feeling, making someone that joyous for a brief time. And the pay-off was not so bad either—I was now able to cross with whom Hogglebern called my “friend.” Whether or not Nemlir was a friend, I still had yet to determine... Where is Nemlir, anyway? I thought, now realizing that I had not seen him since the song began.

“Brilliant,” I heard a familiar voice gasp. I gazed around and found him standing at the end of the bridge, his hands cupped as if he were about to applaud me. “That was bloody brilliant—getting the troll to open up, so its favor would be easier to sway. And fetching it a pen? You are quite handy at learning others' desires, I must say! That was the perfect thing to bargain with, even if you just said it to save your skin.”

He was right in saying that provoking Hogglebern to share his song was a scheme to buy me more time and make the troll more vulnerable... but the strange thing was, by the end of our encounter, I was really quite sincere. I didn't know how any of it would be possible, or if I would ever get around to it—finding such a special, magnificent pen—but I gather that I made the promise partially because I couldn't bear to see someone suffer the same fate I currently faced. There was nothing I could do for myself, but I would do whatever I could to prevent it for anyone else. Of all the people in the world, I related best with a troll under a bridge, a creature I did not believe existed an hour ago. For the first time in a long while, I felt a comradery, and along with that, a responsibility to help.

“I meant it,” I replied quietly, almost in a whisper. Nemlir quickly turned to face me with a look of concern on his face. It slipped out of my mouth before I could hold it back. I was usually much better at keeping my thoughts to myself! Hoping to divert the possible consequences for speaking so directly, I added, “Well, then... should we check the house now?”

“The house?” Nemlir asked, appearing puzzled as he looked behind him. He then faced me again with a doting smile. “I'm sorry, Mr. Treat, we simply don't have time. Besides, I think you've gotten all you can for today. It's already mid-day, and we need to race the sun back into town.”

My mind was dominated by absolute confusion. How could we be retiring for the day when we were so close to finding what we came all this way for? Winfred, even Nemlir himself, stated that I would get what I needed, so why were we giving up now? Would Nemlir really go back on his word, especially now that I could see he was part of a world where unbelievable things were possible? It could be that he was capable of many wonderful things, but something as abstract as bravery was not something he could deliver... maybe he was more used to meeting materialistic needs. I wanted to ask him all of these things, but I was stunned by the fact that the sun was now directly above us, in the middle of the sky. How on earth was it past noon? The sun had just risen a moment ago! Was this Nemlir's doing? Could someone really be capable of such a thing? If so, then how difficult could it be to slow the day down so there would be enough time to finish our adventure? Or just hand me what I needed, then and there?

“Come quickly, Mr. Treat!” Nemlir shouted, breaking me free from my thoughts. Again, he had escaped my sight and had crossed the bridge and returned to his motor-bike. “Don't worry, the troll won't bother you. They can't survive in sunlight, lest they be turned to stone.”

I reluctantly hurried back over the bridge and headed to the bike, giving into the urgency of Nemlir's request to leave. I hopped into the sidecar as he sat on the seat and gave the engine a good rev. We rushed off back the way we came in a flurry. I looked behind me as the bridge, and the house holding my prize, grew smaller and smaller until disappearing behind the woods surrounding us once again. We passed back through the village and onto the winding road by the bay. Normally, I would be stewing in my own anger and disappointment, but so many strange things were happening that day, I couldn't help but observe it all, though those harsh feelings were still there. We were indeed racing the sun as it soared across the sky just behind us, then headed towards the ocean.

I watched it head behind the horizon. By the time I looked back down to the road, the entire atmosphere had turned purple... and we were no longer on the road. While watching the sunset, I had once again missed how we passed through the fence of the empty lot! We had returned. Swerving the bike as it halted, Nemlir kicked out the stand, causing the bike to swivel before it settled right beside the meter.

“Well, it's about time!” someone sighed impatiently. Standing just a short distance away was Rogi, leaning on one foot with his hands at his waist, wearing an unfamiliar hat upon his head.

“I told you I would be back by sunset,” Nemlir replied, rolling his eyes.

I looked back to check on the sun. It had returned to normal, appearing as though it was frozen in place.

“And how did it go?” Rogi asked me.

Slowly turning away from the view, I reflected on everything that had happened. Still dazed from my deep thoughts, I answered, “I... am not sure...”

“Oh, Master,” he sneered at Nemlir. “Always the need to be mysterious...”

“What is that on your head?” Nemlir asked, seeming somewhat aggravated.

“Do you like it? It's a golf-cap,” Rogi replied. “I bought it at this quaint, little store today.”

“How could you afford a hat with the money I gave you?”

“You're not the only one who works in mysterious ways.” Rogi pulled down on the bill of his blue hat with pride at that remark.

“I don't like it,” Nemlir bluntly replied, oblivious to Rogi's clever sting.

Rogi ruffled in his coat like an angry dove. “Well, it's better than that dead turtle you call a hat!”

Perhaps it would have been better if Rogi helped me find my bravery. He certainly had plenty to go around...

Worried of being caught in the middle of yet another argument, I awkwardly hopped out of the sidecar and cleared a path for Rogi to stamp towards the bike.

“We'll talk about this later,” Nemlir said through his teeth.

“Indeed we shall! And I can tell you now, Master, that this hat will not be coming off my head...” Rogi climbed into the cab as he finished his bold statement, then took a deep breath and looked at me with a sudden, calm friendliness. “It was very nice to meet you. I do hope we see you again soon.”

So, that was really it—they were just going to leave without Nemlir fulfilling his promise, the one thing I was assured of. I looked back to the west, watching the sun heading further and further below the ocean. The sky was growing very dark, but the yellow ball was wrapped in wild oranges and reds like a fire, which perfectly described what I felt in my belly: a whirling blaze of resentment. I had never felt so disappointed. I was bewildered by everything that had happened that day. I met two strange men with fascinating abilities (and personalities to go with them). I had discovered an old part of town that was quite beautiful. I fended for my life against an angry troll. And for the first time in years, I wrote something with meaning. All of this, all of what I had seen and accomplished, was for naught. A treasure hunt without a prize. I had even followed the supposed rules to call on Nemlir: one beckon, one day, only at night; and this was how I was to be repaid? The sun at last vanished, taking the hot colors with it, but the fire in me would not be snuffed so easily. Not this time. I turned away from the sea with my shoulders dropped and my finger raised with a demand for fair treatment.

“Now, wait just a minute!” I grunted. “You still owe me—”

I realized that I was now pointing at nobody, for the two men and the bike had all completely disappeared. There I stood, alone in the empty lot with only the parking meter to accompany me, just as it was when I had first arrived the night before. ”

6: Chapter 6: Solomon's Prize

Tara gently closed the journal and rolled onto her back as she looked up to the ceiling, amazed by the story that was unfolding before her. Whether the tales were true or not didn't matter to her one bit—it was real enough for her. She was fascinated by the mind that was trying to tell her something. He had written this book for her, after all... Hadn't he?

It couldn't be possible, she thought. This book must've taken Solomon a very long time to write, and what happened to me was only today! He probably left it for anyone to find on the bus... But, it wasn't there when I first got on, or when I sat down. So, in a way, he had to have picked me.

She wanted to meet the writer and bombard him with questions, and the journal told her exactly where she could find him. It also encouraged her to read the book through before doing so, however. Imagining the embarrassment she'd feel if Solomon had asked her how she liked it, or what her favorite part was, when she had only begun reading, she decided it would be for the best to get through more before searching the writer out.

With more time, Tara would have indefinitely thought it over much further, but she was distracted by the sound of the front door being unlocked. In a frantic scurry, she slid the journal beneath her pillow. She figured her mother would more than likely disapprove of her reading a strange, personal diary that a stranger had left on the bus. She then grabbed the scarf beside her and quickly wrapped it around her neck and face, until it covered the lower portion of her cheeks.

Rushing to the entrance of the hallway leading to the bedrooms, Tara leaned against the wall to greet her mother, and to avoid any suspicion.

“Hi, Mum,” she almost squealed.

Resting her bag on the hanger by the door, Tara's mother looked at the strange sight in the hallway. “Hello, honey,” she replied sweetly as she started sorting through the mess her daughter had left on the floor. “Tara, you really need to put your things away more neatly when you come home.”

“Sorry, Mum. I was in a hurry—” Tara winced, realizing that any more information might expose her secrets.

Her mother had caught the suspicious tone in Tara's voice. “In a hurry for what?” she asked.

Tara's eyes moved rapidly as she thought for a moment. “To do my homework,” she answered. “I wanted to get it out of the way, so I could play.”

“Play? Outside? But it's so foggy today...”

“My games, I mean. I've been thinking about it all day.”

Tara's mother squinted as she puzzled over her daughter's odd behavior... and appearance. “Why are you wearing your scarf inside?”

“Oh... I-I was still cold when I got home...”

Tara's mother giggled as she walked to the hallway and reached for the thermostat. “Oh-ho! Well, just turn on the heater, silly. I'm going to start on dinner. Why don't you get back to your homework? You can play your games after, until it's ready.”

With a sigh of relief, Tara simply nodded at her mother and headed back towards her room. A short moment later, she realized that it wasn't possible to do any homework without her bag, so she nervously shuffled over to the door and grabbed it before returning to her room and slowly shutting the door behind her. Her mother watched with her eyebrow raised, then shook her head playfully and headed for the kitchen.

“Dinner's ready,” Tara's mother announced as she knocked on Tara's door.

Some time had passed, and what she was cooking filled the flat with a delicious smell. With the journal she had found and the wondrous food ahead, Tara was beginning to think that perhaps this day was not as bad as it originally seemed.

She emerged from the hallway to find the table set for her and her mother, including a pot of steaming noodles and another filled with a sweet-smelling, red sauce in the center. Her mother was already at her seat, serving her plate with the pasta, as well as some salad she had prepared. Tara knew her mother was often busy and pre-occupied with work, and that something like pasta was a simple dish to make, but it was one of her favorite meals—she didn't mind the dish in the slightest. And any time with her mother was always time well spent. Tara sat in her chair and gazed once more at the food before her.

“Help yourself to the spaghetti,” her mother said as she handed Tara silver tongs for the noodles. “I also made some salad and garlic br... Tara?” She had finally taken a moment to look upward and notice Tara, her scarf hanging awkwardly over her face. “Why are you still wearing your scarf, honey?”

Tara's demeanor expressed her guilt clearly as she scooped out the noodles and dropped them onto her plate, avoiding eye contact at all costs. Knowing that her excuse would not work as well (if at all) the second time, she could think of no other options and answered, “I was still cold...”

“Tara... what has gotten into you?”

Tara couldn't find the words to say. She was not the type to make excuses.

“Take it off, please,” her mother demanded.

Tara had no choice but to obey. She slowly removed the scarf from her neck and set it on the chair next to her. Her mother furled her eyebrows at the sight of her daughter's shirt collar popped upward, still blocking her face as she hunched down.

“Lower the collar,” she added.

Fearing that she was now starting to anger her mother, Tara looked down in shame as she slowly reached up. She folded her collar down, at last revealing the bruise on her cheek.

“Oh my goodness!” her mother gasped as she dropped her fork onto her plate. “Tara, are you alright?”

“I'm fine, I just fell—”

“Where did you fall? How far was the drop? What did you hit?” Tara knew full well that her mother would panic when seeing her face. Her mother had already begun hounding her with questions, trying to find out every detail as she rushed over to her side of the table. “Let me look. Are you sure that's all that happened? Was there anyone else there?”

“There were some other girls there, but...” Tara answered, unaware that she had said too much until it was too late.

“But what?” her mother asked sternly. “Tara, did they do this to you?”

“It's alright, Mum, it's nothing—” Tara's eyes began to water, remembering the events of that day. Her mother's eyes, however, had grown wide with scorn.

“No, it's not alright!” she replied. “Did they hurt you? Who are they? Who?”

“Mum, please don't worry!” Tara pleaded.

“I can't not worry, Tara! Somebody hurt you.” Her mother paced around the room with her hand over her mouth. “I am taking you to school first thing tomorrow, and we are going to have a talk with your principal about this—”

“No, Mum, please—”

“And we are going to straighten this out to make sure those girls pay for this!” Tara's mother knelt down and leaned towards Tara, stroking her hair. “I need to know who they were.”

Tears started to flow down Tara's cheeks. She didn't want to bother her mother with this, and she certainly didn't want to face the other girls again. But what's done was done, and it would be far too terrible to watch her mother suffer more from being left in the dark.

“Their names are Kelsey, Rook, and Leigh...” she whimpered in humiliation.

Tara's mother moaned with sorrow as she wiped her daughter's tears and tried to comfort her. “Why did they hurt you, honey?” she asked softly.

“They didn't mean to—at least, not the way it happened. They were pushing me around, and I accidentally fell down the steps in front of school... They got scared, and ran away after that.”

Now reaching into the freezer, Tara's mother pulled out a cold ice-pack, then returned to Tara and placed it against her cheek. “Oh, sweetheart,” she sighed. “I'm so sorry that this happened... Why don't you finish your dinner, and we'll talk more about this tomorrow?”

“Please don't tell the principal,” Tara asked. She was terrified of what might happen if she had the girls disciplined, how they might retaliate against her.

“I'm sorry, honey, but I have to,” her mother replied. “Those girls need to learn a lesson. Now, finish up your dinner and take a nice bath before it's time for bed. You can sit with me on the couch and watch TV for a while before then, if you like.”

The next day sounded dreadful, but the present night was starting to seem comforting. Tara took her mother up on the offers and did just as she said. She did feel more relaxed than before, but when she finally went to bed, she could not fall asleep. She tossed and churned, anxious about what was to come. What was she going to do? Who could help her in this time of confusion and conflict? Perhaps Solomon would have something to say, she thought. She then rolled to her stomach and reached underneath her pillow to retrieve the journal. She turned on a small lamp at her nightstand and shined it over the book as she flipped to the page where she had left off.

“There was nothing I could think to say,” she read. Tara plopped her head on the open pages in hopelessness; though, since she had already started reading, she decided she may as well continue...

“ I spent days trying to decide whether or not I should call on Nemlir again, and what choice words I would have for him if I did, but the perfect words never seemed to come to mind. Did I dare even speak such words to someone like him, whatever he was? I would have never even considered such a blunt option before we met... Perhaps I should just call on him for another need, or the same one again, I thought, but this time, make him give me his word that he will fulfill it.

I certainly did want to see him again. He showed me a world beyond my own, one of fantasy and adventure! And he seemed to be the only one who could get me there... Or maybe that wasn't so anymore. I remembered the road from the empty lot and how it led to the bridge and Hogglebern. If I followed it, who knows where else it could lead? My hopes were dashed some night later, though, as I re-visited the lot to find that there was no road in sight. The fence was simply surrounded by weeds and grass. It was like the path had only shown itself for the occasion, then vanished, never to be used again! The meter was nearby, but I wasn't yet ready to meet the man who had the answers.

Life trudged on over those days, and I returned to work with the same feelings of daily defeat and humiliation.

“How are you doing today?” I asked a customer, who slammed a large bag of dog food against the conveyor belt.

“I have a case of water in the cart,” they answered coldly... if that was an answer, or a response even. “Come over here and scan it. I don't want to have to lift it.”

“No problem,” I said as calmly as I could, per usual. As I grabbed the small scanner gun from its holster and walked over to the cart, I mumbled, “'I'm doing well, Solomon, how are you?'”

“I'm sorry, what?” the customer asked as I scanned the bar-code on the plastic covering over the water bottles.. My eyes widened. Had I said that out loud?

“Oh...” I replied as I tried to recover. “I said, 'Thank you for making the bar-code so easy to get to.'” Of course, it was not easy to reach at all. In fact, the customer had the bar-code pressed up against the grates of the cart, making it impossible to scan the item without pulling it forward.

“Ah. Well, you're welcome.” He bought it. And he was smiling, as if he had actually accomplished a good deed. He was going along with it, trying to falsify his thoughtfulness!

“Next time, cover the case with a blanket—it'll make things even easier,” I uttered to the register monitor in front of me as I returned to my post. Quickly realizing that my thoughts had once again escaped into the audible world, I whipped up my head and curled my lips inward as I stared at the customer. Fortunately, he had not heard any of it. I must have been too quiet and just far away enough for him to completely miss my remarks.

I worked hard to conceal my private insults and comebacks, but I found that every few hours, they would slip again, just as I was feeling comfortable and in control: “I can't tell you what's wrong with your declined card because I am not a clairvoyant, nor your bank.” “I'll gladly void the fried chicken—you are clearly not someone who needs it.” “Ah, so you can read! I was worried when you ignored my 'Lane Closed' sign.” The same thing happened in the days to follow...

What had gone wrong inside of me? These were the same awful, aggravating, and terrifying people I had dealt with consistently. The feelings towards them had not changed in the slightest, yet something was different. In spite of the possible consequences I faced, I felt the need to vocalize my angst somehow, whether or not anyone could hear it. It was a habit I had never struggled with before!

Cliff, the assistant manager, had even approached me that week to ask me to stay an extra two hours on one of my work shifts. And, while I would normally buckle under the pressure and agree without hesitation, I found myself considering my own personal schedule aloud before answering him. I still gave into his request, but I clearly expressed that it was not at the top of my list of priorities. He was somewhat of a brooding and intimidating character, but compared to a nine-foot troll, Cliff was nothing more than a man slightly taller than myself.

It had now been months since the promise was made to repair the machine for clocking in. I slid my card through the slot.

Beeeeeep!

On this day, however, rather than trying over and over, I simply insulted the machine and put my punch card away. A co-worker looked at me, puzzled.

“Aren't you going to clock in?” she asked with somewhat of a condescending tone.

“Not if they won't fix it,” I answered. “I will report my times to management later.”

“They'll want to know why you stopped using the machine.”

I looked to my co-worker for a moment, contemplating the meeting where I would have to explain causing the managers to sort though my schedules. It was not at all a comforting feeling, and I even felt a sting of worry. I then furled my eyebrows and answered, “Then, I'll remind them that it's broken.”

The employee shook her head, affirming the suffering ahead, and slid her card through the machine, then facetiously sighed, “You're certainly braver than I...”

I suddenly straightened up as I was hit with a revelation. “What do you mean?” I asked as I stared her down intensely—and awkwardly, no doubt.

“I mean... I would just keep trying to clock in...” she answered, leaning her head back. “Or try to fix the problem myself... Or something...” And with that, she checked in and hurried away.

Braver... I thought to myself. Is it really true? She was only teasing... but could that be what is happening to me? I never acted this way, not until...

“Your need is just through there,” I remembered Nemlir telling me about Hogglebern's Bridge. “Through,” not “across!”

“'...I think you've gotten all you can for today...'” I recited from the moment just before the end of our adventure. Everything was suddenly coming together. “That sneaky instigator!”

Though I felt a bit duped, excitement filled me as I finally began to understand. I spent the remainder of the week with my mind fixated on the empty lot I would now undoubtedly pay another visit. Finally, with my next day off from work around the corner, I returned home to grab the beckons, along with the pouch they were nestled in, and headed straight back out the door.

7: Chapter 7: "BINMEK!"

~ DAY 2 ~

“  Clank! Cuh-thunk-a-tank!

I waited by the meter, looking all around to catch Nemlir's arrival. This time, I was going to see how he did it. At first, I was left there alone, watching the night follow the sun's commands over the sky; then, out on the distant city streets, I could hear a faint whinny.

Clop-clop-clop-clop!

Small sounds like skipping stones grew louder, until they cracked like thunder. From around the corner, on Knaq Street, I could see two horses bolting across the road (which was somehow completely vacant at the moment), heading straight for the lot. They were both large and powerful, one having a beautiful, pure brown coat, while the other was as black as night. On their bare backs were a pair of riders, each sitting between what appeared to be appendages sprouting from the horses' massive shoulders. Wings?

There was hardly any time to meditate on the appearances of the wondrous beasts, for within seconds, they had spread their wings and lifted themselves clear over the fence! Like lightning, they were just before me in a flash. Barely managing to halt from the high speeds, the brown horse reared as it kicked the air, nearly crushing my face.

“Easy now, Tarçın!” its rider exclaimed as he pulled back on its main. The horse finally rested back on all fours and began to relax. After feeling movement returning to my body, I was able to straighten up and see clearly that it was Nemlir sitting on the brown creature's back, patting its long neck. “Easy... That-a-girl... It would be shame if we crushed our guest already.” He then sat back up and readjusted himself as he looked down on me with a smile. “How fares the bravery, Mr. Treat?”

I couldn't help smirking at the mischievous tone in his voice, then answered, “Well... I've officially begun insulting customers at work.”

The moon shone brightly amongst through drizzly clouds, as it was nearly full that evening. Beneath the silver light, the two horses gleamed as they trotted in place. I looked over to the black horse and recognized Rogi as its rider, happily yet barely managing to stay atop. He warmly greeted me by tipping the golf-cap he was still wearing. In fact, nothing about either of them seemed to have changed since we last met.

“Very good,” Nemlir chuckled. “Now, tell me: what is it that you need today?”

This time, there was no need to spend much thought on the subject. It was tempting to ask for something that would benefit myself, as I did the night before, but I had a promise to keep. “I need to find a pen for Hogglebern... or rather, where to find the very pen I promised, if such a thing exists,” I answered.

“Oh, I have no doubts that it does,” Nemlir replied with a sudden burst of energy, “and I know just the person who could tell us where to find it! Hop aboard, Mr. Treat—we have a lengthy ride ahead of us.”

“Please,” I scoffed jokingly. “If this is going to become a regular thing, there's really no need for 'mister,' or any formalities. Just call me Solomon.”

“Oh. Very well, Solomon... And you may call me Nemlir, if you like. I would tell you my first name, but I don't have one. Or a last name, now that I think of it... I am just 'Nemlir.'”

Nemlir held out his hand, inviting me to join his assistant on the black horse. I nervously made my way over to Rogi and reached out to him. I pulled on his arm as I clumsily laid over the horse's back, before swinging my leg over and finally sitting upward. Its wings were tucked in on each side. They were shorter than I would have expected, but they were still quite large in comparison to the average man. Each wing had a multitude of feathers that looked durable and soft. I could now fully appreciate the creature's beauty as I gazed upon the powerful muscles across its back.

“What are these?” I asked in astonishment.

“They are tulpars,” Nemlir answered gleefully. “I'm sure you've heard of their more popular relative, the Pegasus. Though, unlike their cousins, tulpars don't use their wings for flight, but for sheer speed and incredible leaps.”

“This one here is Gece,” Rogi interjected with pride as he pointed to the black gelding beneath us. “And the wild one there with Master is called Tarçın.”

“Pegasus? You mean, as in Greek mythology?” I asked Nemlir, reverting back to his explanation.

“They are mostly found in Greece, yes... if you can manage to find one at all,” he answered. “They're a very rare breed and are near impossible to tame! Quite a sight if you manage to find one, though. Its raw beauty and unmatched gracefulness, the way it soars through the skies... simply breathtaking! Tulpars are rare, too, of course, but they are easier to acquire and far more reasonable to deal with. Often spotted in Turkish territory these days. Ohhh, but what I wouldn't give for a Pegasus...”

Nemlir drifted off for a moment, imagining his bliss while owning a Pegasus of his own. It took him some time before noticing both Rogi and I staring at him silently, awaiting his return to cognizance and the journey ahead. He looked to me, then to his assistant, and shook himself off.

“Right...” he mumbled as he looked down at his tulpar and brushed her shoulder. “Shall we be off, then? You may want to hold onto Rogi tightly...” he added with caution. He then pulled back onto Tarçın's mane and let out a bellowing “BINMEK!”

Without hesitation, the brown horse whinnied and kicked its front legs into the air as its wings unfolded. Landing back onto its hooves, the tulpar blasted forward, already halfway across the empty lot.

“Hang on!” Rogi squealed with excitement. I frantically grabbed his coat until I could hook my arms around his chest. He then shouted the same word: “BINMEK!” Before I knew it, we were shooting over the tar like a gust of wind, trailing just behind Nemlir.

With a single flap of their wings, the tulpars lifted us over the fence and onto the streets. Blitzing through the center of the road, we passed by traffic as if it were standing still. Worried that our presence might give people a horrible fright, I looked behind me and to my sides to realize that no one even seemed to notice us there. Could we have been moving that quickly, or were people too distracted by their routines to witness the two blurs passing them by? Either way, we pressed on, and no one objected.

As time went on, the tulpars galloped faster, flapping their wings for more speed, until they were like two whirlwinds barreling through the city. It was within half an hour that we had reached the northern edge of town. I peered around to try and figure out our next stop, but we continued on as the city fell behind us. We shot down the highway and over several grassy hills for about an hour.

“This way!” Nemlir shouted to Rogi as he pulled on Tarçın, leading us off the road and through a tall meadow.

After another fifteen minutes or so, we reached the top of a rather tall hill, where Nemlir had made a sudden stop. Panicked, Rogi pulled on Gece's mane and let out a shaky “Woah-ho!” Gece kicked his rear hooves into the ground and tried to stop, causing him to swing sideways. Finishing off the hasty halt, he reared as he regained his balance; then, he at last rested back down and trotted next to his brown companion. Wide-eyed and completely speechless, I continued to clutch Rogi's coat between my fingers as I finally caught my breath.

“Next time, tell us when you are going to stop!” Rogi snapped at Nemlir, who was ignoring him completely (as it seemed he usually did when being scolded). He was preoccupied with staring forward in delight.

“We're here,” he sighed as he guided his tulpar down the hill, this time slowly and much more casually.

Below us, in a valley surrounded by tall hills, sat a small shack, similar to the houses I had seen in the village on our last adventure, only far older and ruddier. We followed Nemlir down the hill as I saw a large forest on the north end of the valley leading into the mountains, a distance from the open field by the house. The field was surrounded by an old, wooden fence, keeping in a flock of numerous sheep, all clustered and sleeping soundly in their pen within the property. Next to the house was an unkempt barn, mostly made of stone with its roof and windows covered in hay and a large, sliding door of wood in the front.

“Ahhh, of course!” Rogi cheered as he guided us after his master.

“What? What is it?” I asked, feeling left out.

By the time we reached the bottom of the hill, Nemlir had gone on towards the shack. He had already hopped off the brown mare and made his way to the door as we dismounted Grece. Rogi and I left our tulpar next to Nemlir's, and we slowly crept towards the old house ourselves. Rogi rested against the wall by the door to await whatever happened next. Curious, I tried to take a peek through the round window cut into the crooked door, but just as I started to get a good view into the house, the door starting to swing open. Startled, I jumped out of the way just in time, and Nemlir returned outside.

“He's asleep,” he said with a small hint of disappointment in his voice.

“Who is?” I asked, trying once again to gather the information I was missing.

“He is becoming rather old, Master...” Rogi answered Nemlir. “Men need more rest as they age, even wizards.”

“Wizards?” I gasped.

“Quite right,” Nemlir replied. “Perhaps we should turn in for the night and try again in the morning. Come on,” he called out, inviting us to follow him as he headed towards the much larger building next door, “I'm sure Finwhistle won't mind us using the barn for tonight.”

Without any alternative options coming to mind, Rogi and I stumbled behind Nemlir as we made our way to the sliding door. I was becoming frustrated with the day so far: first, I found I had to wait until the next morning to get what I needed, and now we were going to stay in a shabby barn for lodging. I wanted to ask Nemlir if he could simply speed up the day as he did at the bridge, but I was still unsure of how it worked, or that he was even responsible for it.

We passed by the sheep pen as I slank closely behind Rogi. The flock looked like a giant ball of white wool with several heads popping out the ends. They all had pairs of strange horns that curled into small spirals, each one sprouting above their ears, and their legs were long and skinny. Instead of the cloven hooves I expected to see, these sheep had toes and claws, somewhat resembling a turkey's. From what I could gather, their tails were also much longer than what I had usually seen on sheep, and there sat a small ball of wool at the tips of each one. They slept peacefully together, and though they were a peculiar breed, they were rather adorable.

“Finwhistle,” I whispered to Rogi, “is that who lives here? Did you say he is a wizard?”

“A Master of Science, Magic, and the Arts, yes,” he answered softly, though he seemed unsure as to why we were both so quiet. “And a great shepherd, too. He is known to some as the Woolswizard, and to others as Keeper of the Flock. What he can do with sheep's wool is quite remarkable!”

Just then, we were interrupted by the heavy clank of the barn door being unlocked and slid open.

“Ah, now this will do just fine,” Nemlir said cheerfully as he stood in the center of the open doorway.

Rogi and I made our way next to him, and I peered into the barn to see large piles of straw scattered all over the floors and walls—it was everywhere. It was too dark to see everything clearly, but I did notice strange mechanisms built from wood and metal throughout the structure. What they did, I was without a clue. Buckets and tools were also chaotically tossed about, some turned upside down and stacked atop each other. Knives and other tools were hung across the walls, and from the ceiling as well.

“Not the most luxurious of accommodations,” Nemlir joked as he watched me step inside and observe the piles of hay around me, “but it will at least keep us out of the rain 'till morning, and we can use the straw to make our bedding. You'd be surprised how comfortable a thick cluster of hay can be once you spread it out.”

I did not want to admit it, but Nemlir was right: once we had spread out our own areas to sleep on and covered the straw with our coats and scarves, the beds were comfortable... Even so, I still had trouble sleeping that night. I would doze off for a few minutes at a time, but the feelings of being away from home, in an unknown place with unknown characters, and not knowing what will happen next reminded me not to get too complacent, stirring my worry all over again.

One time I awoke, I saw Nemlir standing alone in the loft of the barn, gazing out the window. Rogi was on his back, still in his bedding, snoring. I crept to the ladder and climbed it, then inched my way to the opening where Nemlir stood.

“Can't sleep?” he asked, causing my head to suddenly sink into my shoulders. He continued to face forward as he waited for my answer.

I looked past his side and out the window to see if I could figure out what in the valley caught his attention so strongly. I noticed that he wasn't looking on the field at all, but up at the night sky and the stars that now filled it behind the thin blankets of clouds. It then occurred to me that there was more to this Nemlir than merely granting people's wishes. He had thoughts of his own, deep thoughts. Thoughts that weren't focused on the minuscule things that humanity so often preoccupied itself with... I realized that perhaps his question was not really a concern with how well I slept, but was an invitation to share my own thoughts openly.

“Why haven't you made the night pass quickly?” I finally asked. “Like you did the last time?”

Nemlir turned his head to glance at me over his shoulder. He had a gleam of intrigue in his eye. He then turned himself around at last. “You haven't what you need yet,” he answered, his tone sounding much more enticed by the conversation, as if he had just been acquainted with someone whose understanding was closer to his own level. “Until then, I often find it more... interesting to see how time plays itself out.” He faced the window again and added, “Besides... it's a beautiful night... Don't you think?”

I took a few steps forward to get a better look out the window. It really was delightful how the clouds swirled and caressed the stars as wild drops of rain fell against the glass before me. And the moon would pop out every now and again to shine its light on the land below us.

“Do you always watch the stars?” I asked, my gaze still fixated on the sky.

Nemlir quietly answered, “Reminds me of home.” After a brief moment of peaceful silence, he looked to me and asked, “How does it feel to have some bravery in your belly?”

“Ha,” I chuckled at Nemlir's question, and at myself. “It appears I could use some more... I'm venting my frustrations more openly, yet I am still just as scared of people as I've always been.”

“Ah, but that's exactly how bravery works, Solomon! Fear gives courage its purpose—it simply cannot exist without terror. But that is not what measures courage: it is how you choose to face it. True, in turn, bravery may cause such fears to fade over time... but even if it doesn't, even if the dread remains, doing what needs done is what truly matters.”

My mouth agape, I tried to think of something to say in return, whether it be a rebuttal, a confirmation, or an honest response; however, no words that came to mind did him any justice. Nemlir fully revealed a detailed concept that was previously impossible for me to understand, yet managed to simplify it into terms a child could follow.

“If you feel you really do need more bravery, it is always a beckon and a day away,” he added. Without any further intentions of looking away from the sky, he turned his head one last time, saying, “You should try and get some sleep. Tomorrow, Finwhistle shall help us find that pen!”

I felt that any further discussions would begin to impose on Nemlir's time. I simply wished him goodnight and left him alone as I headed back to the ladder and climbed down to the hay below. Returning to my bedding, I made myself comfortable and draped my coat over my shoulders as I curled up for warmth.

Looking up once more, I peeked over the collar of my jacket towards the loft. Nemlir had completely disappeared, leaving behind the rays of moonlight that shone through the window. As curious as I was to discover where he might have gone, my weariness had finally won me over, and I slept a few hours for the first time that night.

. . .

Tok!

“YOWCH!” I cried as I grabbed my face, flailing my elbows. I had felt the blunt end of something wooden suddenly thrust against my forehead.

“Wakey, wakey, trespasser!” I heard an unfamiliar voice banter.

I groaned as I rubbed my head and popped one eye open to see who attacked me. Standing over me was a slender, old man with a long and tangled white beard. His eyebrows were wild, and his nose was bulbous over his mustache, which, strangely contrasting his beard, was trimmed and rather well-groomed. He had in his hands a long, wooden crook, almost completely wrapped in a tattered, purple cloth, except for the outermost end of the hook, which showed that the staff was beautifully crafted as it swirled outward at the tip. Carved and painted throughout the hook were what appeared to be mysterious eyes, all in formation, creating a path that traced the hook's shape; and from its end hung a small, gold bell that did not ring.

As he held out his crook to strike again, I rushed to my feet with my hand in front of me in hopes of shielding the blow. “Hey, now! What are you doing?!” I shouted in a panic.

Stirred by the sudden noises, Rogi had awoken and was now also standing, rushing forward from a short distance away. Desperate for help, I quickly looked around the barn for Nemlir, but he was nowhere to be found. He had probably never even come back from the night before. It was like the bridge all over again...

“Takin' a quick snooze before ya steal from an old man, ain't ya, trespasser?” the man with the staff growled. He was covered from head to toe in mismatched clothing, all baggy and too large for his thin frame, held together by ropes and belts around his waist. Strange bags and pouches hung from his clothing, each seeming to be reserved for specific items. Lain over his shoulders was a large, thick shawl that clasped at the neck, made up of wool patches sewn and stitched together like a quilt, each patch decorated with completely different patterns and images. Across the entire edge of the shawl were beautiful, red tassels, fastened in knots. His shoes were long and pointed, and were held in place by multiple bands around his feet and ankles. Upon his head sat a hat that's brim was as wide as his shoulders and was carelessly folded in at the top with a rope sash tied around the skull. Though his appearance sported many a variety of colors, he, for the most part, managed to keep within the tone of autumn: browns, oranges, reds, yellows, and so on.

“No, no,” Rogi quickly exclaimed, “we are here to see you!”

Squinting, I quietly mumbled, “...Finwhistle?”

“Aye, that be me,” he replied harshly, “and those be my sheep you're tryin' to steal!” He again raised his staff towards me, this time with the hook in my direction. “Or perhaps ya wanted to steal some o' me equipment, eh?”

“Easy now, friend...” a calm voice said as it glided in from behind. The old man whipped around, his crook at the ready, to find Nemlir with his hand gently pressed against it. “No need to fret. It is only us.”

Finwhistle slowly lowered his staff as he gazed at Nemlir with surprise. “Mr. Neem-lur...”

Nemlir shot me a brief look that quickly reminded me of his mentioning mispronunciations of his name.

The old man then turned towards Rogi, who had swiftly removed his cap during the commotion. “And Rogi!” Finwhistle cheered. “Forgive me, I didn't recognize ya with that hat on!”

“It's a horrid hat, I know,” Nemlir chimed in, causing Rogi to frown as the old man gave him a friendly handshake.

“I see yer still wearin' the wool I gave ya all those years ago,” Finwhistle gasped as he looked down at Rogi's clothes.

“Haven't worn another coat since!” Rogi replied thankfully as he opened his coat to show off the padding inside. “Nothing's kept me warmer.”

Nemlir made his way over to me, now that Finwhistle had returned his staff to the ground. Resting his hand on my shoulder, he said, “And this here is our friend, Solomon Treat.”

“Ahhh,” Finwhistle sighed as he shook my hand in the same welcoming way he did Rogi's, “Mr. Neem-lur's newest client, no doubt! I do apologize 'bout givin' ya a good knock on yer noodle earlier—I thought you were after me rare Clawfoots.”

“Your sheep?” I replied, trying to confirm that he was in fact referring to the he looked after. “Not to worry, I can understand. They are rather... erm, unusual.”

“Aye, but they certainly didn't used to be, long ago,” Finwhistle said as he guided us out of the barn and into the sunlit field, now filled with scattered sheep grazing and bathing in the morning warmth. Pointing his crook towards his prized flock, he continued: “But this flock is now the last of its kind, the Cragcliff Clawfoot, and is thus the only source left fer makin' Stoneblack Yarn.”

“Stoneblack Yarn?” I asked as we all approached the front door of Finwhistle's house.

“Finest thread in all the world!” Finwhistle bellowed with pride as he pushed the door open. “Please, come on in! I doubt yer all here fer tea.” The old man giggled as he gestured us to follow him inside.

The interior of the small shack resembled the barn quite closely: there were tables all around filled with mysterious items, tools, and trinkets—only rather than with hay, the house was covered with books and other strange parchment. Across the entire western wall were large bookcases that housed as much literature as they could possibly hold. On the side opposite to the shelves, wedged in a small crevasse, was a messy yet seemingly comfortable bed, round and sitting upon a large, circular, wooden frame and covered in unmade blankets and sheets. Next to it was a humble, wooden nightstand, leaning against the wall. There was a small hallway that led off somewhere (probably a latrine), but I could not see where it went. Previously lit candles were spread out across the entire home, some hanging from the ceiling by hand-made contraptions and glass jars.

“Tell me,” Finwhistle grunted as he shoved books off of a large armchair, which sat against the wall perpendicular to the shelves, and plopped down upon its cushion, “what brings ya all the way out to see ol' Finwhistle, eh?”

He held out his hand to invite us into his conversation. At first, none of us knew where to sit, but I settled for a nearby stool, while Rogi nervously took a seat on the old man's bed, and Nemlir remained standing.

“My friend,” Nemlir finally spoke up, “we are in search of a pen. Not just any pen, as I'm sure you have already surmised, but one of a very particular kind.”

“A pen, ya say?” Finwhistle questioned with interest. He stroked his long beard as he leaned forward and eyed his books. “As in fer writin'?”

“Yes, and I would wager that this type of item, moreover one with special properties, is something that is not often requested.”

“No...”

“I figured that if anyone could help us locate such a thing... it would be you, Finwhistle.”

Finwhistle leaned back against his chair as he hummed and traced the bandages over his staff with his thumb. Scratching his eyebrow, he at last answered, “Well, I truly can say that I am flattered ya came to me fer help... but I'm afraid I don't know much about this matter. Ya mighta' been better off seekin' out Song-Pan, the Western Wizard.”

My face sank as I slouched in my seat. That was it? How was I to find the pen now? And how could this have been planned so poorly? Depending on someone wholeheartedly while unsure if he or she can even help was so foolish! And yet... wasn't that exactly what I was doing with Nemlir? I looked to Nemlir, who peered at me from the corner of his eye but did his best not to acknowledge my concern.

“I'd look through me books for ya, but yer timin' coulda' been better, to tell the truth,” Finwhistle continued. “Tonight's a full moon, and I have to prepare a Day Barrier around me field before sundown. You know that takes work, and these ol' legs ain't as fast as they used to be.”

I waited for Nemlir to make a suggestion, or perhaps even offer to slow down the day so that Finwhistle would have time to fulfill both tasks, but then I considered the fact that the old wizard might grow weak and tired from all the strain. Still, I figured there was something Nemlir could do... but he said nothing.

I closed my eyes and held my breath. “...What if we helped you?” I asked as I exhaled.

“Hm?” Finwhistle hummed as he faced me for the first time in a few minutes. Suddenly, all eyes in the room were on me.

“What if we helped you build your Day Barrier?” I reiterated.

“Well, I dunno' if I'd still have time to do that and—”

“What if we divided up the work?”

“Well, erm...”

“Yes, yes!” Nemlir gleamed. “Elves know a thing or two about sorcery—Rogi could help you build the barrier. And I'm certain Solomon could be of use, too! In the meantime, I could look through these books for any information on the pen.”

“Hmm... I suppose that could work...” Finwhistle murmured to himself, again stroking his beard. He then grabbed his staff firmly and jumped to his feet. “Very well. Let's hop to it, then!”

8: Chapter 8: The Troublesome Treasure

~ DAY 2 (Cont'd) ~

“ The wizard led Rogi and I back out to the porch of his home as Nemlir immediately rubbed his hands together and stepped over piles of books to get started on one of the shelves against the wall.

“Alrighty, gentlemen,” Finwhistle said as he peered out into the field ahead, “we need to keep the sun from settin' on these li'l cloud-puffs.”

“What happens at night,” I asked, “when there's a full moon?”

Finwhistle turned to me with a grim look in his eyes. He leaned in heavily towards me, his staff holding his feet in place, and silently muttered, “The Wolf comes...” Suddenly springing back to his normal stature, he held out his crook and continued as he pointed towards the trees at the foot of the mountain: “The filthy, trouble-makin' fiend emerges from the woods to the north over there, just beyond me field, and he has his eyes set on my flock fer a feast, he does. But, the sun makes him weak, ya see—holds him at bay—and Day Barriers give me home a small bubble of daylight that can last the night (if I can manage to make one strong enough). Though, that sort of work takes a lotta' time and energy on my part.”

Yet another creature that thrived in the night and recoiled from the sun; though, unlike Hogglebern, this Wolf seemed able to at least survive during the day, and it liked to spread trouble outside of its own territory. It was a beast I was not at all eager to meet. A wave of worry slowly rushed over me, and, to be humbly honest, I was relieved to know that we were planning on returning to the lot before sunset. Rogi, too, looked greatly concerned by the wizard's claims as he stood unusually silent beside me. It was as if he knew a little something more than I did about the situation, and knowing made things worse...

“Come on, we got a few hours with much to do,” Finwhistle blurted through the brief silence. “The first thing is fastening the poles good n' tight. I already planted 'em a long time ago; they just need to be re-positioned properly. Then, we can climb to the tops and refill the beacons with the crushed flowers I've been preparin'. Tell me, Solomon, what do ya know 'bout Ghrianmaidins?”

Staring at him blankly for a moment, I fumbled my words, asking, “Geer-gree...in...made...?”

“I figured as much,” he interrupted with a smirk, sparing me from further embarrassment. “That's why you'll be in charge of bringin' in the flock.”

“I hate to disappoint you further,” I replied modestly, “but I honestly don't know much about shepherding, either—or at all, really.”

“Ah, not to worry!” I suddenly found Finwhistle's fist before me, clutching his crook. “My staff will be all ya need. Just give the bell a ring—most o' the flock'll come to ye.”

Examining the crook, I slowly placed my hands around it and held it out awkwardly. “Most?” I asked nervously. I was not used to being given responsibility, especially in areas I knew little to nothing about. Much of the time, I was spoken to as if I didn't even know how to handle tasks I was well versed in.

“Well, all but one...” Finwhistle answered with a tone of remorse. “Most o' the Clawfoot are like any other sheep: susceptible and not too bright. But there is one amongst the flock, the Black Clawfoot—aye, now she might be a bit of a hassle.”

Now finding myself even more unsure, I asked, “How do I get her to come in?”

“Like ya would anyone: convince her to. But be warned, she has much more a mind to her than her kin. And she's a thick-headed ewe. As the sayin' goes: 'So stubborn is the black sheep that it refuses white wool at birth.'”

“She certainly sounds difficult...” I sighed.

“Aye, she is a chore,” the wizard agreed with a sigh of his own. “I often need find new ways to coax her in each day. But, she is a prize well worth the trouble! The wool of any Craggcliff Clawfoot is thick and sturdy, sure... but only a Black Clawfoot's wool can be used to make Stoneblack Yarn. It's the core fiber of the thread, after all! Ye weave anything with that yarn, and ye can be sure it'll never wear nor even suffer the smallest split. Me flock is very rare indeed, but a black sheep is only born within it once every hundred births. So, as ye can imagine, her safety goes without question. Just make sure she gets to that pen unharmed before sundown—do whatever you must.”

“I'm sure you will do wonderfully, Solomon,” Rogi spoke up, suddenly snapping back into his cheerful and encouraging personality.

Nudging me along towards the field, Finwhistle instructed, “Ye can easily see the beacons 'round me farm, aye? That's where the barrier'll be once it's up and runnin'. Even more plainly, the wooden pen I've built is a safe distance within that perimeter. Ye just go on out there and get the sheep to follow ya back to the pen and close the gate behind ya. Then, oi! All's well!”

Turning around to receive one last word of reassurance, I realized that the old man had already gone back towards Rogi. This wizard really must trust me, I thought to myself. Moreover... he believes in me. I turned back towards the grazing sheep with the staff tightly gripped in my hands and sternly lowered the blunt end to the ground. It is amazing how much more determination one can have when he or she feels reliable.

“Come on, Rogi, we can fetch the ladder from the barn,” I heard Finwhistle bellow as the two approached the old structure.

I made my way into the field, where I could see the sheep spread out from each other, and I could now count each one individually, as opposed to when they were clumped into a single ball the night before. There were 14 grazing to my left, and eight more were standing together by a large cluster of boulders to my right. Two were dead ahead but were further away than the rest of the flock... But where was the fabled black sheep? I decided to gather the others first, hoping to make it easier to find the straggler.

I looked to the bell hanging from the staff's hook as it dangled it at eye-level. I was unsure what Finwhistle wanted me to do with it—it wasn't ringing at all when we had met him in the barn earlier that day, or when he instructed me just moments ago. After a brief shrug, I decided to try something at least and walked towards the group of sheep to my right. Placing the crook into the ground, I lifted my free hand and held my finger next to the bell. After raising an eyebrow, I gave it a small tap.

Nothing.

The bell swayed back and forth a few times, but there was no ringing. It then came to a rest. As it was in most days, I found myself working with faulty equipment that forced me to make due without it. I sighed as I looked out at the flock... But, to my surprise, I saw the sheep suddenly lift their heads as their little ears tweaked. They unanimously looked my way; then, after a short moment, they slowly began to waddle their way towards me!

Crowding around me in a semi-circle, the small cluster came to a halt. They stared at me blankly, waiting for their next instructions. I scratched behind my ear as I looked to the bell curiously. Do the sheep come when they see the bell, regardless of it being broken? Or maybe the bell does work after all and rings in a pitch only they can hear... Either way... what do I do now?

I rubbed the side of my face as I looked around for possible guidance, but Rogi and the wizard were busy at the poles. They were both pulling on ropes that reached all the way to the top of the twenty-something-foot tall posts in order to straighten them back into right angles with the ground below. I could hear Finwhistle yelling something to correct Rogi's posture and methods.

I looked back down in front of me, and the sheep had suddenly closed in. As I stared at them awkwardly, one tilted its head and let out a small bleat. I nervously took a step back to regain some space between me and the animals. As small and harmless as they seemed, their unfamiliar bodies, vulnerable stares, and (most of all) clawed feet made me somewhat uncomfortable. The moment my heel rested on the grass, the eight little sheep each took a step forward. They were mimicking me. Another bleat sounded from the group as we all stood still. Testing out my theory, I took one more step back. Sure enough, the flock did the same. Then, I tried two more steps. Again, they caught up.

My shoulders stiff, I hobbled towards the fence made to keep the flock safe. I finally reached the small gate and turned back around to make sure my followers had come the whole way behind me. And there they were, watching. With minimal movement in my body, I reached down for the latch and flung it upward with my finger. I then slid my hand over the top of the gate and slowly swung it open. They continued to stare me down as I wondered what to do next... The only thing I could come up with was to try more of what I had already done: enter the pen myself and hope they follow. That is precisely what happened. I shuffled my way past the sheep as they began to graze and slipped out of the pen, closing the gate behind me.

Impressed by the simplicity of the chore, all I could do was shrug and let out a small “huh.”

I did the same thing with the two sheep furthest away, then the remaining group. The largest group required a few more rings on the bell to re-capture its attention, but the task was still simple enough. It had taken some hours, but I grouped the entire flock with ease. Only one remained...

I peered around the field, searching for the final and supposedly most troublesome creature in the flock. Finwhistle and Rogi had managed to straighten the poles and were now climbing the ladder at each one. Rogi would reluctantly hold the base of the ladder, while Finwhistle would carry up a large woven basket under his arm, then take the crushed flowers he mentioned and sprinkle them into giant bowls that were attached to the tops of the poles. The wizard then seemed to lean over each bowl with his hands cupped around his lips as if he were chanting something secret to the flowers. Each time he would finish, the bowls would suddenly burst with a golden light and remain glowing as the two men made their way to the next post.

At first, I could not seem to spot the ewe, but there, sitting on the boulders where I gathered the first part of the flock, I saw a long, black mass. I cleared my throat nervously and gripped the crook tightly. Here we go... I thought.

I casually approached the area, so as not to scare the ewe away. I was going to handle this as quickly and cautiously as I could in hopes of sparing Finwhistle the trouble of his assistance. I now crept as I drew near the sheep.

“I see the old man has resorted to sending others to do his work for him...” the black ewe suddenly spoke in a nonchalant manner. Frozen in my tracks, I hunched forward, surprised. She looked very similar to the other members of her flock with the obvious exception of her jet-black wool. It shimmered in the sunlight when she moved, making her look as if she were made of steel, or of soft silk. The other differential was her posture as she sat. Strangely enough, she was resting on her rear like a human being with her leg crossed over the other, and was leaning back on one of her front legs as she waved the other like an arm. “I suppose he's finally run out on ideas of his own.”

I was not at all prepared for this. Finwhistle had warned me that this sheep would be more intelligent than the others, but I was not expecting her to talk! Unsure of what measures to take next, I slowly lifted the bell in front of my face and gave it a tap. The black ewe's ears twitched the same as her siblings' did.

She faced me with a look of disgust, then grunted, “And I see he sent someone who hasn't the slightest clue what they are doing.”

Wringing the staff in my hands, I ran through my thoughts for a moment. Though her snippy remarks unsettled me, I figured reacting with a harsh response would only entice the situation. Thus, to avoid conflict, I cleared my throat and humbly replied, “Ahem, well, yes... As a matter of fact, I am doing this on behalf of Finwhistle—or, the 'old man,' as you seem to know him by... But, I am also doing this on my own accord, in exchange for some valuable information, you see. So... if you wouldn't mind accompanying me back to your pen?” I mumbled as I held out my hand in the direction of the obedient flock.

“I see...” the sheep murmured as she stroked her chin with her claw. She sat there staring at me for a moment, thinking things over before once again reclining herself. “No, I don't think I shall,” she sighed, “not tonight.”

The sheep waved her tail gently to and fro before she looked back and noticed me staring at her, speechless. My face must have made her uncomfortable, for she scrunched up her nose and asked, “What's wrong with you? Didn't you hear me? I said, 'Not tonight.' Now, in case you hadn't noticed, I am enjoying my time alone, so get!”

Frustrated, I ran my fingers through my hair. The wizard was not exaggerating when he warned me of his troublesome treasure. I could not seem to muster something quick to say, let alone a clever argument. This ewe had every bit of confidence and independence I lacked, and she knew it. She was holding it over me. She owned this conversation. I paced back and forth a few steps, becoming more flustered. Finally, I groaned as I marched away, surrendering this round to the ewe.

Though I wished not to bother Finwhistle with the current predicament, advice from an acquaintance was not out of the question—and it just so happened that the wizard had left Rogi alone for a moment. As he clumsily tried his best to lower the ladder on his own, I hurried beside him to assist.

“Gasp! Thank you,” Rogi sighed as we both managed to rest the contraption to the ground. “That wizard is a brilliant mind, but where he concocted the idea that I could do this alone is beyond me!”

“Well, it should be alright now.”

“Yes. Again, thank you for your assistance, Mr. Treat.”

“I told you, you can call me Solomon.”

“Oh, right,” Rogi said as he expressed a subtle look of surprise by my genuine reminder. “Finwhistle went to fetch a tool of some kind. He says we just need to make some final preparations and the Barrier will be complete. How are things going with you? Have you gathered the flock?”

“Almost,” I sighed as I looked towards the boulder in the distance.

“Ah,” Rogi replied with sympathy, “still one to go, eh?”

“Actually...” I turned back to face Rogi. “I was wondering if you had any ideas to bring the black sheep in. She's every bit as stubborn as Finwhistle says, and she doesn't seem to fancy him in the least.”

“Well...” Rogi thought as he dusted off his hands on his coat. “Have you tried telling her why?”

“What do you mean?”

“I've been around for some time now... erm, Solomon. And, I seem to notice that quite a few problems would be solved easily if man had just explained things to one another. Perhaps it works the same way for sheep? Why don't you tell her what you need, why you are gathering the flock in the first place? Maybe she will help you when she understands your situation better.”

There was a simple wisdom in what Rogi shared. I reflected on it for a moment, then decided to practice it.

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt,” I said as I hurried back through the field, waving back at him. “Thank you, Rogi.”

Returning to the rock, I found the sheep still sitting where I had left her, basking in the afternoon sunlight. She didn't notice my presence for a while, but when she peered in my direction, she gnarred and rolled her large, brown eyes.

“I thought I told you to stay away!” she barked.

“I can't—I just can't, alright?” I blurted out as my hands shook in front of me, my fingers curled like hooks. My eyes glared forward as I felt my mouth moving without my mind's consent.

The sheep straightened up and tilted her head with sudden intrigue, trying to make eye contact.

Doing my best not to oblige her, I continued in my shaky demeanor, speaking in one, fluid motion: “I promised Finwhistle I would gather his flock, especially you. And that's exactly what I intend to do. I-I-I need to get that information, for a friend. They are counting on me, and if I don't get them what they need, they will be waiting forever.” I plopped down on the boulder a short distance away from the black ewe, my elbows resting on my knees and the staff lazily hanging in my hand. Whether or not I was making her uncomfortable by invading her self-proclaimed space, I didn't bother to look, or care. I sighed, then added, “I can't go back without it...”

“What do you need?” the sheep asked. “What kind of information?”

“It's to find a pen...” I mumbled in a vulnerable humility.

The ewe looked at me with both interest and confusion.

“Not a sheep's pen,” I softly chuckled. “My friend is a writer, you see, and a gifted one at that. All they want is to inspire and bring joy with songs. But their family wants none of it, so they break my friend's pens and force them to...” I realized that mentioning my aid to a troll might not be the most respected deed in this culture I fell ignorant to. “...erm, to pursue the 'family business.' I need to find a pen, one that won't break, so this friend can write again and never worry.”

The sheep leaned towards me. Finally, I gave in and lifted my head to look her way. Her face seemed somewhat gentler as she gazed at me with an unexpected look of understanding. “Oh...” she cooed with a hint of pity in her voice. “But I already told you... I'm not going.”

All that seemed to spew from my lips were small gasps and grunts. I could not believe the apathy and dis-concern. I grabbed the staff violently and stomped away, flabbergasted. Another victory for the sheep...

I marched towards the shack, mumbling rude insults that were suddenly coming to me. It was time to seek advice from someone who had seemingly mastered the ways of slyness and trickery. As I pressed my hand against the front door of the house, I took a moment to ponder what Nemlir would be up to beyond the entryway. It sounded as though he planned to search through every book that Finwhistle owned until he found what he wanted. For any mere man, that feat would prove taxing, even near impossible! But Nemlir had already proven that he had tricks hidden up his sleeve—tricks that seemed to fool time itself.

What does it look like in there? I wondered as I curled my fingers against the door. I began to imagine how the chaos inside might appear: White blurs and wisps blasted about the house as books were being yanked from the shelves, tossed about, then returned from where they came. Papers were fluttering around and being scattered over one another as they were unfolded on tables before being rolled up again.

It was then I decided that perhaps intruding on whatever Nemlir was doing might not be the best solution. The consequences of barging in and possibly disrupting his flow made me uneasy, frightened even.

Yes... frightened, I heard myself ponder as a new scheme began to form.

My stamping footsteps were changed to a confident strut as I calmly swung the crook in my hand with each step.

“Oi, back for more, are you?” the sheep asked as she again met me with an unpleasant stare.

“I've had a thought,” I replied with my finger raised and a smug grin on my face.

“Well, that's a first so far,” she chortled.

Shrugging off the insult, I stopped at the boulder and continued: “You won't come if I ask, so the solution is simple: I won't ask.” I swallowed for a brief moment as I gathered the courage to point behind me and finish my statement. “I'm telling you, to go to the pen.”

The ewe's eyes grew wide as she glared. Her posture straightened, and her lips curled. I silently waited for a response, my eyes nervously shooting about to peer anywhere but at her. The silence grew heavy as time passed, but it was at last broken by the sounds of cheerful bleating. She was laughing.

“Bahh-hahaha! Oh? Is that so?” she wheezed as she placed her claws on her hips. “And what, exactly, would happen if I didn't?”

I wiped my shirt as I tried my best to appear confident. “Well, I certainly did not want it to come to that,” I answered, “but I suppose I'd have no choice but to use force.”

She did not enjoy the threat one bit. Her face dropped from being amused to feeling challenged within an instant. “Please. As if the old man would allow any harm to come to his most profitable resource,” she replied sternly.

I could feel my free hand clenching into a fist as I stared into her eyes intensely. My teeth ground as I thought of using the crook to strangle her and drag her to the pen. With the way things were unfolding, the Wolf was not the only thing that she would need safety from. But, as she so arrogantly stated, Finwhistle wanted her well taken care of, and him seeing her with bruises or broken bones would likely cause ill-conceived reactions.

Trying to calm myself, I took a deep breath and relieved my sight from the stubborn obstacle before me. Finwhistle had returned to Rogi, who was now beside the pen by the barn, and was using a large, metal rod to carve some sort of symbol into the ground. He then raised both hands and muttered something incomprehensible. From where the wizard was standing, a bright dome appeared and began to grow, until it towered over the house and barn! It grew larger still, expanding towards the poles with the crushed flowers atop. The bowls began glowing brighter and the light was gathered up into the dome as it covered much of the region. The dome began to blend into the daylight around us, but the edges were still somewhat visible. I felt nothing as it covered me and passed. It finally halted just in front of me, between where I stood and the boulder acting as the ewe's throne.

As the dome's visibility completely faded, I realized the Day Barrier was complete. I lifted my head to gaze at the sheep with a mischievous smile.

“Very well,” I said in a nonchalant manner, “stay out there as much as you like, all night even. I'm sure the Wolf will be more than happy to have your company.”

“The Wolf?” she repeated, her ears suddenly twitching as she stretched her neck. She gave it a gentle rub as she looked out into the unknown woods beyond her home. Her ears then popped back into their normal stance as she suddenly stopped rubbing. She slowly turned her head back towards me, now wearing a menacing smile of her own. “Ohhh, very clever, human,” she said in almost a whisper. “Trying to scare me into the pen, eh? I must admit, that was a very good attempt, but I'm afraid it has fallen short.”

“But—” I grunted. “But, the Day Barrier... Don't you want to be safe from the full moon...?”

“Let me tell you something: we sheep are never truly safe. You saw how those poles needed straightening. Do you know how they ended up that way? It was the Wolf, last month. And every month before. Sure, he seems to lose his strength and power when the sun shines (in which the old man can more than handle). And the Barrier does manage to keep him out... But the monster doesn't stop—he attacks and schemes anyway he can from the outside. Somehow, he can control the air around him, creating gusts of wind that he sends through the Barrier to dismantle the poles and lift the spell.”

“But he hasn't,” I tried to argue, though I couldn't help feeling doubt after recalling the poor state of the beacons. Still, I pushed back. “The Day Barrier has served you well so far.”

“The old man has been lucky enough for it to withstand each month,” she replied, “but I know luck eventually runs out. Before the Barrier, the old man had dogs to protect us... all of which the Wolf overpowered and ate. One by one, he would replace the mutts with stronger ones, and one by one, they would eventually meet their ends. Then, the old man tried more fearsome creatures, and not even they could last against the beast. His plans succeed for a time, but they are always thwarted. Soon, this plot will fail, too. In the end, it doesn't really matter... so why not live out my life the way I choose?”

I whipped my eyes to the ground, trying my hardest not to surrender and return to the pen in defeat. Feeling hopeless, I softly asked, “Then, what do you want?”

“You probably wouldn't understand this, being a human,” she answered in a presumptuous manner, “but as a sheep, I am only good for less than a handful of purposes. And all such purposes can be fulfilled here, at the old man's farm.” Her tone never changed; she was unmoved as before. Still controlling the entire situation, she added, “Therefore, he sees no need to allow us to leave his residence, to venture out. And, during the night, he confines us even further, locking us within that infernal pen, like prisoners thrown into a pit! (Rather unfortunate for him that I have enough wit to unlock the gate myself and can leave whenever I please...)” she said with a sneer, then finished her statement: “You don't know what it's like to want to see the world, to see beyond the one place you've never left.”

My anger loosened to allow some room for rumination. She was right—I had never known what it was like to dream of abandoning my home, but not for the reasons she had assumed. The truth was, though miserable, I was comfortable and had simply never desired to learn what was outside the four walls of my flat. I was sure I had thought about adventure and exploration in my younger years, before I took on the responsibilities of being an adult, but I honestly could not recall them. No doubt losing the potential for a successful career and future extinguished any hopes of that. I had spent the last several years just focusing on survival. If it were up to me, I would have never even stepped outside, let alone bothered traveling to work or forcing myself to interact with other people. My home was my own sheep's pen, so to speak—my sanctuary. But, the world tends to reject such a way of life, and has always managed to pry me away from my peace and hurl me back into its chaos.

“You are indeed brave to have such desires,” I admitted to the ewe. At first, she seemed taken aback, perhaps even flattered, but she quickly transitioned her demeanor back to one of confidence. “And you certainly are an intelligent creature, as the old man warned. No doubt your flock would be lost without you looking after it. Wouldn't you rather stay and be with them?”

“Bahhh,” she booed as she looked up towards the sky. The sun was now heading for the west, and the field was starting to gain an orange hue. The area within the Day Barrier, however, remained as bright and colorful as it had during the day, making the dome somewhat visible again. The sheep seemed lost within the yellow clouds above. “The flock doesn't think it has need for the likes of me—at least, that is how it comes across—which suits me fine, really. I always find it exhausting, spending my time with a group so mindless and instinctive, anyway. Their lives seem so void—dull and meaningless. Any mere shred of non-conformity makes them uneasy. It's as if being different, having goals and dreams, makes me strange and thus, unwanted. Being surrounded by that feeling on a consistent basis not only makes me feel alone, it is like I simply do not belong... Not that I expect you to comprehend being trapped with a bunch of animals everyday...”

This time, the ewe's presumptuous arrogance exposed some of her ignorance, for I knew all too well what she meant. As I gazed at the now melancholy creature before me, I began to reminisce on my own misery working at Clodd's, and the customers and co-workers that contributed to it on a daily basis. All the slamming and yelling and demanding and scarfing down products before bothering to pay. Pulling myself back from the nightmarish thoughts, I shook my head briefly, and a new thought occurred to me:

“What if I made it so you can leave?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” the sheep asked with an eyebrow raised. “How?”

“Would you come back with me if the old man let you leave the barn?”

“Well... yes, but I don't see how you—”

“The old man told me something, before he sent me to gather the flock. He said bringing you in would be a chore, but he also said to do whatever I must to get you to that pen. Those were his only instructions—no rules or restrictions, other than to bring you back safely. That means I have the freedom to use any method I choose... such as striking up a deal.”

“I'm listening...” the ewe replied as she scratched her cheek slowly, never removing me from her sight.

“You want to see the world outside of this valley. It just so happens there is a large city just south of these fields, bustling with all sorts of life and culture!” The ewe's eyes widened with a sudden burst of excitement as I explained further: “There are parks for taking a stroll, diners with delicious foods from around the Earth, theaters playing the greatest shows. It's as if the whole world was stuffed into one civilization, and it is only hours from where you sit.”

“That sounds marvelous...” she gasped with a twinkle in her eye.

I had her.

“Oh, it is quite something,” I replied. “So, here is what I propose: you agree to join your flock in the pen every night of the full moon, and I will make sure the old man takes you into town the following night. There, he will accompany you wherever you want to go and allow you to do whatever you wish.”

The sheep stroked her chin for a moment, unsure of the exchange's validity. “How do I know the old man will agree, let alone follow through? What if he changes his mind?”

“Then, by all means, feel free to defy him to your heart's content! Oh, and this deal only applies to the full moon and the night after, of course. Any other night, the old man must convince you to return on his own accord. We don't want things becoming too boring for you.”

She grinned at my remark.

“What will it be? Do have an agreement?” I asked bluntly, holding out my hand.

The sheep held out her claw as if she were going to shake my hand, but she quickly retracted it and placed it over her mouth. Her lips moved silently as she looked to the side, clearly calculating and considering everything that had been said. She wasn't sure if I could be trusted, but she also thought me too dense to trap her. Slowly, she reached out again with a sort of reluctance.

“It's a deal,” she said, finally rushing her hand into mine. Her face brightened and became more cheerful as we heard the clap of our covenant being sealed.

She leapt from the boulder and stepped into the Barrier, the orange light on her body washing away. We discussed the negotiation further and worked out minute details before we began to make our way towards the barn, where the wizard and Rogi were now waiting.

“Well, would ya look at that!” Finwhistle gleamed as he watched his prized Black Clawfoot walk herself into the pen and shut the gate behind her. I continued on and made my way to the two men with a subtle yet proud smirk. “Ye actually got 'er in for the night, eh?”

“Tonight, and every full moon to follow,” I answered, handing the staff back to him.

“How on earth did ya manage that, lad?”

“It was simple—once I understood what she wanted, that is. Which reminds me... she has agreed to stay with the flock these nights if you take her to the city the very next evening.”

“What!” he exclaimed as he grabbed his hat and squished it tightly over his head. “The city? I can't take her there!”

“Why not?” I asked, slightly agitated by the wizard's lack of cooperation.

“Well... w-well, for one, it's a dangerous place! I ain't goin' a-take me only black sheep somewhere where she might get hurt, or worse!”

“But, you will be there to guide and protect her. I'm sure you are more than capable of handling that.”

“And what—am I supposed to parade her around like it's nothin'? City folk might not be so keen on seein' a talkin' sheep. Shall I tug her behind me on a rope and pretend to throw me voice?”

“From what she's told me, you know a simple spell that can change her appearance. She can pretend to be a human woman.”

Finwhistle pouted his lips, exposed and betrayed.

“There is a spell for that very thing,” Rogi butted in as Finwhistle glared at him. “I use it myself when visiting uninformed humans.”

The old man looked over his shoulder in agony, peering at the pen holding his sheep. Leaning against the wooden fence was his treasure, waving her claw at him with a pompous smile.

He rubbed the ridge of his nose for a moment, then turned his hanging head towards me, sighing, “I tell ya... I woulda' never made that sort of bargain...” He returned his gaze to the flock. “But me black sheep comin' home when needed most? I don't know—maybe ya didn't do so bad.”

Scrunching up my shoulders, I cracked a sheepish smile and muttered, “'Oi! All's well.'”

Cocking his head, Finwhistle peered at me once more as he somewhat straightened himself on his staff. “Indeed,” he replied, releasing a soft grin in return.

“I've got it! I've got it!” I heard Nemlir calling out from the shack. He was rushing towards us with several pieces of paper clumped together in his hand as he waved them over his head.

“Ah,” Finwhistle chuckled with his hand at his waist, “I take it ya found what you were searchin' for, eh?”

“I most certainly did!” Nemlir answered gleefully as he held out the papers for all of us to see. They were covered by an assortment of messy scribbles, notes, and doodles he had made himself, most likely different bits of information he had gathered from the various collections the wizard owned.

“What are these?” I asked with a twinge of excitement in my voice.

“Why, you are looking at the makings of your invincible pen!” Nemlir gasped.

“We have to make it?” I looked straight into Nemlir's eyes as my head sank and my arms straightened, tensed. “I thought you were sure one already exists...”

“It does exist,” Nemlir said as he shielded the papers a little closer to his chest, “just not in our present time. But, we are about to change that! Thanks to these recent insights, I now know exactly how to make it happen.” He titled the papers downward as he began to point out each of the pen's ingredients.

“Well, lookie there!” Finwhistle interrupted as he took a peek. “Wait right here, I'll be back.” He then quickly stumbled away from the group and barged through the front door of his house.

After staring at the shack for a moment, Nemlir looked back down and continued pointing: “As you might have deduced, the level of abnormality for our desired tool is lofty, meaning the key contributions to its creation derive from some rather strange sources, each scarcely found throughout the world.” Recognizing the downheartedness upon my face, Nemlir assured, “Fortunately for us, Solomon's hometown is nestled in a prime location, thus flourishing with many opportunities! And all of these items can be found within its confines (I already know where most of them are)... We simply need a large tooth from a Tungsten Beetle, a species lurking within the thick stumps of Heart-Oak trees; the finger bone of a moon golem—now, that will prove a feat!; the ink of a Requiem Squid, below us in the depths of the sea; along with a feather from the plume of a Blazing Pheasant, and as it so happens, one slumbers within a nearby mountain. Finally, acting as the instrument's core is a single thread of Stoneblack Yarn, which, of course, is—”

“Right here!” Finwhistle interjected, surprising us all.

He quickly slapped something into Nemlir's free hand as he grinned from ear to ear. Opening his palm to examine what he had received, Nemlir revealed that he was, in fact, holding a strand of jet-black yarn. It shimmered in his hand as he titled it a bit, much like the Black Clawfoot's beautiful coat.

“But, Finwhistle...” Rogi gasped warily.

“Consider it a gift, a 'good luck' to the lot o' ya,” he replied, still holding his friendly smile.

“Thank you so much!” I chimed in as I took a closer look at the thread.

“My pleasure. You'll need all the luck ye can get!”

“This is fantastic!” Nemlir cheered as he dangled the thread between his glaring eyes. “This means we are already one step closer to gathering what we need. Finwhistle was right, however, in that we will soon need pay a visit to Song-Pan, the Smithlord, for his assistance in assembling the pen. But, without this, and the information from the Woolswizard's vast library, we would have never solved this conundrum in the first place. And, for that, I am grateful, Finwhistle. Many thanks.”

The old wizard took a meek bow as he tipped his large-brimmed hat.

“With that, the sun begins to set, and we must take our leave,” Nemlir added with a twitch of his head. He stuffed the yarn into the inside pocket of his long jacket. “Gentlemen?” he proposed with his hand out as he began to back away from the shack.

After thanking the old man one last time, I followed Nemlir towards the hills with Rogi close behind. The sunset appearing on our skin as we exited the dome, I took one last glance at the sheep pen. The black sheep was still leaning against the post, now examining the nails on her claw. I could swear for a moment, though, I caught her taking a quick peek my way...

“So, how should we collect the items tomorrow?” I asked Nemlir as I hurried alongside him, excited to complete Hogglebern's gift. “Would it be easier to collect the tooth first and save the golem for last? By 'golem,' Finwhistle did mean a giant monster made of stone or wood or whatever, right? How will we get a bone from one of those, anyway?”

Nemlir peered at me through the corner of his eye, as if he were calculating my nervous rambling. “Solomon, I don't recommend attempting to retrieve all of your treasures in one day's time.”

“What—why not?” I asked, now standing in place and stiff as a board. I was baffled by this moment, as a man who had admitted to the ability of commanding the time of day—and who could also presumably move from place to place as he wished—was suggesting we take small, slow steps towards our goal. Was there a limit in what he could actually do? Or was something specifically keeping him from doing it?

Then, I remembered what he had told me, in the barn the night before, about preferring to allow time to run its course until the deed was done for the day. So, he could do it—probably! Is he conning me out of my beckons, stretching things out, and thus fulfilling less of my needs?

Nemlir let out a small sigh and said, “The city is a very large place, Solomon—larger than you know. It will take a very long time, and a lot of hard work, to achieve what we've set out to do. Trying to cram it all into a single day would be unimaginable, and extending the day to fit all of these tasks would no doubt exhaust us all to death!”

But, he could stretch out the days even longer, I thought. Long enough for us to take a rest and press on... Couldn't he? Of course, wouldn't that mean that I was conning him from his payment?

Nemlir had returned to following the invisible path he had seemingly made for himself upon the hill.

I stewed for a moment, but just as I raised my head to retort, he added, without turning around, “And splitting up is out of the question. You will need guidance and aid through the trials ahead.”

The adventures in the near future were now racing through my mind as we walked. I began to imagine what sorts of challenges we might encounter, though I figured they could do the real quest no justice. What sort of beetle has teeth? What was a Blazing Pheasant exactly, and does it sleep forever? Where in the ocean was this squid we needed; how would we reach it? Did the wizard say, “Moon golem?” The trail of thoughts led me to pondering how we would return home, and that was when I realized...

“Oh, goodness,” I gasped, “we forgot about the tulpars!” Nemlir and Rogi looked over their shoulders as I whimpered to myself: “Left overnight in the rain... We didn't even tie them down...”

“Not to worry, friend,” Nemlir chuckled softly as he backtracked towards me and rested his hand on my shoulder. He reached into his jacket with the other. “I'm sure they managed just fine on their own—they always do! And, to call them back, one only needs a Turkish turnip. Tulpars simply cannot resist them!”

Removed from his coat and now over his head, Nemlir's hand held a plump, round vegetable, seemingly white-washed and speckled with purple spots. Pushing out his lips, he whistled a soft melody, a beautifully haunting tune, as we waited together atop the hill. All was silent for a moment; then, a soft whinny.

Just as they had at the lot, the tulpars suddenly appeared from out of nowhere and bolted towards us. Within moments, a flash appeared and the turnip had disappeared from Nemlir's hand. To my surprise, Nemlir's face remained unchanged from the sheer speed displayed just a few inches from his face. Tarçın and Gece were now standing near each other, even taller and mightier than I remembered. Gece reached over, trying to take a nibble of the turnip in Tarçın's mouth, but Tarçın coldly refused. Gece didn't give up, however, and managed to grab a hold of the vegetable and rip it in half before snacking on her share.

Rogi gave Gece's black shoulder a few pats, then futilely tried to mount her. Nemlir shook his head and sighed at the sight, then assisted his friend onto the mare's back. After hearing Rogi grumble something that sounded like he had the situation taken care of, I could not help but release a small smirk. I felt I was beginning to accept the company of these two strange travelers, perhaps even (against my better judgment) starting to enjoy it.

“There you are, Solomon,” Rogi said as he pulled on my arm to help me atop the tulpar.

Nemlir hopped onto the white gelding and looked to us over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised and a challenging grin on his face. “Shall we see who reaches the lot first?”

I became uneasy. I hadn't even become used to the tulpars' speed when they first took us to these fields; testing their full strength would be too much! I stuttered as I tried to disagree.

“BINMEK!” Nemlir shouted.

He wasn't going to wait for an answer. Regardless of how I replied, the race was on, and he was already a blur within the dust and flying blades of grass. I suddenly felt a jolt of urgency in my veins. I wanted to catch up. At first, I felt the need to run alongside Nemlir to explain my disapproval of the race, but I soon realized how silly that ordeal would be... But, for some reason, I still wanted to catch up.

“Would you like to do the honors, Solomon?” Rogi asked, jittery like a child.

I looked on, in the direction which Nemlir was long gone by now. Still, I found myself lowering my head... and smiling? Why am I smiling? Oh—enough thinking for once!

“BINMEK!”

The world brushed past my face as we soared faster than I could imagine! I regret this! was the only thought I could manage. I regret this, I regret this, I regret this! Yet, somewhere hidden in all that fear, I sensed a small rush of enthrallment.

As the fields fell away into the darkness behind us, I heard a strange hum in the distance. I looked over my shoulder in hopes to hear it better, maybe even see what could be causing it. Nothing now... But what was that eerie sound? A whistle perhaps, or a howl...

I did not have much time to wonder as a gust of wind against my face reminded me of the challenge at hand. I whipped my head back around and held on tightly as the city grew larger and larger by the second. I was afraid the cars and pedestrians would be flung off the streets and sidewalks as we blasted our way back to the fence.

The rising moon shone like a spotlight onto Nemlir, who had already arrived in the lot and was leaning against his tulpar next to the meter. As the dust settled, I realized that we, too, had come to a stop. I stumbled off of Gece while Rogi remained seated, and we rejoined Nemlir. The three of us looked to one another for a moment. I rested my hands on my knees. Then, there was laughter and gasping for air.

Straightening himself out as he combed back his hair with his fingers, Nemlir peered up at the sky and said, “Well... I should think Finwhistle's Clawfoots—”

“Or is it 'Clawfeet?'” Rogi asked.

Nemlir giggled some more before continuing: “Either way, they are safe tonight, thanks to you, Solomon. Well done!”

“Indeed!” Rogi cheered.

“Well, it'd be for naught without the Day Barrier,” I pointed out, “and that is thanks to your help, Rogi.”

“Well, I...” Rogi stammered as he blushed. I was beginning to wonder if he was at all used to receiving praise. I suppose the life of an assistant to someone as animated and well-known as Nemlir would be a humbling one.

“Here's to tomorrow!” Nemlir said as he shook my hand, then made his way back onto his tulpar.

“I suppose we should just go in order, then,” I suggested to him, “the order on your notes, I mean.”

“It's settled,” Nemlir replied with the same gentle smile he had at the close of our first adventure. “That tooth will be as good as ours! Until then,” he said as he quickly nodded his head and gave a small salute.

“Have a wonderful evening!” Rogi added as the tulpars began to trot backwards.

Both bellowed “BINMEK!” and just like that, the tulpars were gone... and so was the sun, once again leaving me to the silent, empty lot.