Alex Reynard
The Library
Alex Reynard's Online Books
CHAPTER EIGHT
Toby faded into awareness with his eyes still closed. He was on a boat. A little rowboat bobbing gently across a lake. He faintly acknowledged that he was curled up in a tight ball with his fur all fluffed up. The morning was a chiller.
He wasn't awake yet, but his thoughts were aware enough to know this wasn't home. He was still in the dreamplace. And that turned his thoughts towards Piffle. His sleeping eyes saw her standing in another boat, paws folded neatly over her skirt, looking back at him as she drifted away. Her boat had no oars. Its untethered line trailed ripples through the water.
Her expression was one of calm acceptance. And that made Toby's heart hurt so much worse.
If he could have even imagined her being angry at him for abandoning her, that would have been better. At least then he could get all defensive and make excuses. Which would be cowardly of course, but at least it would allow him to preserve a bit of fake dignity. Instead, he was forced to face the fact that he had left someone who deserved it the least in a hellhole beyond his imagining. He wasn't just a coward. He was the world's grand champion of cowards.
And as if to reinforce it, he let out a small "YAAAAH!!" when he opened his eyes and realized where he was. Only instinct kept him from falling off onto the dirt road. This was NOT a boat!
George Charles Atkinson did not take offense. "You're awake, sire. Good, good. We're very near Phlogiston now. I thought it best to slow down, since I'd foreseen you might be frightened of me upon waking and I wanted to minimize the chance you might be startled out of the saddle."
Toby's sleepy ears caught about half of that."Th-thank you..." He took a moment to shove his fear down. Yes, he was on a luminous zombie pony from somewhere beyond Hades. That was all explained last night. And like Piffle (small twinge of pain), George had shown himself to be nothing but kind and gentle despite his appearance.
There was a note of boyish joy in George's voice. "I'd thought perhaps I would be rusty, what with being out of practice for so long. Not so! I daresay I was in top form last night! Outrunning sound itself! I hadn't been able to do that for a quite a while, even before my internment. Perhaps the sheer zeal of freedom gave wind to my hooves?"
Toby mumbled a gummy-mouthed sound of congratulations. Then he looked past the necrotic tissue he'd spent the night snuggling against to take a gander at the landscape.
It was like a different planet entirely this time. The sandy ground was literally grey. Maybe ash. Huge dappled stalagmites littered the area with scrubby little bushes in between. A dull, ugly desert that seemed to eat and digest color itself.
Beyond this moon-like plain, he could see more forests and hills in the far distance. So at least he didn't get the impression that if he got lost here he'd crawl for days before dying of thirst. He certainly didn't have to worry about baking to death; the sky was still as overcast as ever. It nearly matched the color of the soil.
Toby thought he saw rats, or lizards, scurrying around. But after he'd wiped the sleep dirt away, he could see they were actually items of clothing. Sweaters running on their sleeves. Underwear pushing itself along, earthworm-like. He saw a sock get too close to a baseball cap and be devoured. No one had to tell him that these garment-gremlins were definitely to be avoided.
Looking up over George's spectral ears, he could see a little ghost town up ahead. Though not the old west type. Instead, the dwellings looked like little square pastries. Mass-produced ranch-style tract housing in white, pink, and brown. A chunk of suburbia out in the wasteland.
Toby had a sudden horrible realization, remembering a history show he'd once watched. "Um... do you know what radioactivity is and if we're in any danger of it out here?"
George looked back over his shoulder. "Sire, it is without pride I can say that I am familiar with virtually all ways in which souls can suffer. And you are perceptive if you've guessed that Phlogiston is someone's dream of a model village used for atomic bomb testing. Although Phlogiston is not its original name: I recall it as Epitaxis. Many times I chased its villagers off into the wastes in the night..." he trailed off wistfully, then remembered his disapproval of such activities. "And while it may have been contaminated with radiation at one point, that is no longer the reason why it remains abandoned, according to what I've heard."
"Then why is it?"
"Something called the Tinder Fingers, sire. Not an entity I'm familiar with, but it sounds quite ornery. I have gathered that the fearless furson we seek lives here in defiance of it."
Toby didn't have to know what the heck a Tinder Fingers was to want to avoid it. His stomach rumbled. He hoped there was some way to accomplish breakfast here in Phlogiston.
"If you're hungry, you are more than welcome to take a chunk of my backfat to nibble on," George offered.
Toby fought back nausea. "No! No thanks! Oh no no thanks! Nope!" He shook his head and tried to stop imagining the taste and texture. He was suddenly quite eager to stop sitting on the stuff. Although that gave him a thought. "Can you grow this flesh all over your body?"
"I could, certainly."
"Then why don't you?"
George snorted. "Why do you ask? I think I am far handsomer as bones."
"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to insult you. I just thought, um... that you'd be warmer, that's all."
A whinny-chuckle. "My marrow is incandescence elemental. I am quite sufficiently warm at all times, sire."
"Okay," Toby said.
"My apologies if I was short-tempered with you just now, sire. Your curiosity is perfectly normal. It's just that... since I cannot take pride in my past deeds, all that's left to me is pride in my appearance."
Toby nodded. "I can understand that. And you do look really good for a nightmare. You'd look excellent in a Halloween movie."
George trotted happily and whinnied. "Thank you, Sire! I'm aware I may never be 'beautiful', and that my form will always strike fear, but at least I can be good at what I am."
***
The horse and rider chatted a bit more as they neared their destination. At the edge of town, a poorly-painted aluminum sign announced,
PHLOGISTON
BAWARE OF TINDER FINGRS
And the edge of town was literally the edge of town. There was a perfectly distinct line where the grey ashy plains ended and the astroturf began. Though it was no longer bright green. Nature had mostly reclaimed it. The plastic was cracked, peeled and melted. Real grass grew up from the cracks.
Toby began to get the immediate sense that this Tinder Fingers fellow enjoyed arson. A vast majority of the quaint little duplexes all around him were partially reduced to blackened timber. He wondered why there was anything left standing at all. But as George led him down endless identical streets, he began to perceive that these houses might be self-repairing. White paint and new tile seemed to be slowly swallowing the damaged areas on some of them. Like slow-growing mold. Toby didn't see a single furson out in the streets, but he did see some signs of life. Garbage, quite a lot of it, blew around in the breeze. Someone had graffitied "ZINC" on several properties.
Towards the center of town, the arson seemed to be winning. There were lots more charred, gaping foundations in the ground here. Hardly anything was left standing.
Except for the place Toby was suddenly sure they were heading towards.
Someone had dropped a pirate ship out of the sky.
There was no other way to imagine how it had gotten here. Toby could perfectly picture a portal opening up in the clouds and dropping this massive three-masted frigate right down onto Main Street park. The front of its hull even showed clear damage from the impact.
Even more bizarrely, the ship showed clear signs of habitation. Its sails were shredded and the masts were in disarray, but someone had gone to the trouble of boarding up all the holes in its hull. Someone had created a sloppy-but-serviceable doorway into the starboard side. There were even decorations. Lawn flamingos and assorted garden statues, all strewn around the perimeter in a satire of a well-kept lawn. A plank extended from the bridge with a bound lawn gnome 'walking' it.
One might have thought that a humongous wooden ship would have been swiftly claimed by whatever had set everything else in town to blazing. But instead it was kept safe by the pouring thundercloud above. A single fat, slate-colored cloud hovered above the ship as if it had been nailed in place, sending down a constant torrent of water. Toby got the impression that the cloud had been here as long as the ship, or nearly as long. There was certainly no chance of any wood burning with that much rainwater pelting down on it all the time.
"As you may have already gathered, this is the place," George said. He stopped a few feet away from the ring of rain to let Toby off.
Having never climbed down from a horse before, Toby found it rather difficult. George had to eventually swing his neck around so Toby could use his skull for a step. When the mouse was on solid ground finally, he needed a few moments to deal with the relief. He'd been absolutely certain he was about to fall backwards and crack his skull open like an egg.
He also realized that, despite his unearthly bed, he felt pretty well-rested overall. He remembered the total fatigue that had pummeled the energy out of him last night. Today, he felt fine. Or relatively so.
Toby stared into the curtain of water. He was not looking forward to this. "You, uh, couldn't grow me an umbrella out of your flesh-stuff, could you?" he joked.
"There's an idea! Let's see!" George immediately clenched his nonexistent muscles and made a horrible-sounding groan.
Toby waved his arms. "No! No! Stop! I was just kidding!!" he shouted. "I'm sorry. You don't have to do that. You already ran all night just to take me here. I'm really grateful. You don't have to do anything else for me."
George made a 'suit yourself' snort and withdrew all his flesh. He did a bit of a wiggle at feeling his bare bones again, clearly preferring them that way. "I appreciate your concern, Sire, but please understand that this is not an imposition for me. This is my choice. For the unknown length of time before my defeat, I existed to cause pain and terror. I still feel those urges within myself, as it is hard to deny one's true nature." The spectral horse looked down solemnly at his new master. "I am serving you because I need to. My life is imbalanced. I have spent the majority of it as a cause of suffering. To free myself of guilt, I must become the opposite and thus balance the scale."
Toby was struck silent for a moment, and felt a renewed scrape of pain in his heart over what he'd done to Piffle. He blushed in shame.
But he reminded himself that he and George were a bit different. One was a sick, skinny mouse with no spine or sense of direction in this place. The other was a literal living nightmare with full knowledge of its surroundings and probably loads of arcane powers. It was easy to be noble when you were strong.
Toby repeated to himself his decision to continue with his plan to get home and pass the responsibility for Piffle onto someone more suitable.
He looked down at his feet. "Allright then. So you're saying you want to stick with me?"
"For as long as you need me to," came the unhesitating reply.
"Thank you," Toby muttered. For a moment there, he suddenly wanted very much to yell at George to just go away and find someone else. He was undeserving of the honor of being served. And so much selflessness only highlighted his own weakness. It was more politeness than anything else that made Toby hold his tongue. "So. I'm going to go in there and ask whoever it is if they can help. I don't think you can fit in through that little doorway. Should I, um, tie you up out here somewhere?"
George suppressed a snicker. "I can assure you, I am fully capable of remaining in place without need of restraint."
Toby winced so hard it hurt. "Sorry! Sorry again! I was thinking of nonev horses in movies. I'm sorry..."
George's skull always looked like it was smiling, but now looked like it was smiling a little bit more. "Apology accepted, sire."
Eager to escape more embarrassment, Toby looked back through the rain at the door. "Um. I'm gonna go now." He looked around for something to use to keep himself dry and spotted a convenient empty pizza box. He scurried over and knocked the crumbs out of it. He held it over his head and faced the ship. "See you in a little while, George. I'll scream if I need help. I hate leaving you out here." ('Mostly because I'll be completely defenseless without you,' he thought but didn't say.) "Won't you be bored?"
A chuckle. "I have seen nothing but dirt for the last few centuries, Sire Toby. You can be certain that there is no place you could leave me, for no length of time, that would leave me feeling bored. Just feeling air on my flanks is exhilarating."
Toby smiled a bit. "Okay, good. See you in a bit." Clutching the pizza box tight, he walked into the waterfall.
***
He'd knocked and the door had swung open at his touch. He'd called out, 'Hello?' but received no answer.
Toby stood on the stoop, feeling the rain soak through his cardboard protection until he couldn't take it anymore. He was already chilly and the rain was freezing his bare feet and fingers.
He ducked into the dark wooden doorway. "Hello? Is anyone home? I don't mean to be trespassing! I just want to ask a favor!"
No answer.
He looked around. The carpenter responsible for this ship's livability had installed a short hallway into the interior. Coats hung on hooks. There was a lightbulb above, but Toby couldn't see a switch.
He padded further into the houseboat. "Hello...?" There were shadows in abundance here. Slivers of daylight snuck through tiny gaps in the ship's hull.
Toby thought at first he'd walked into a shop instead of somebody's residence. The room was crammed to the ceiling with shelves. Junk of every kind crammed into every available cranny. Books, knickknacks, jewelry, toys, DVDs, electronics, tchotchkes and doodads. Like a thrift store that had come unstuck in time. Toby saw things that wouldn't look out of place in his own home, as well as antiques that appeared to predate his great-grandparents.
All of it was glazed with dust. The interior of the ship was surprisingly dry, but far from clean. He cringed all over and wrapped his arms tight around himself, trying not to touch anything. He pulled his pajama collar over his mouth so he wouldn't breathe in anything to make him sneeze. Not only did he not want an allergy attack, but he had the distinct feeling that if he knocked anything off these shelves, the owner of this house would very literally kill him.
A moment later, he was certain. A taped-up sign proclaimed:
Fair Warning To Thieves
None Have Ever Succeeded
And You're Nothing Special
Toby took tiny steps through the labyrinth of shelves, in search of anything living. Thankfully he could see the whole outline of the hull by looking up at the high ceiling. 'This must've been a cargo ship,' he reasoned. 'Still is, kinda.'
He stumbled a few times over empty beverage cans or fallen trinkets, but eventually made his way past the zoo of detritus to an area that looked more like a livingroom. There were plump, dirty couches and a rug so stained there was no guessing its original color. Mounds of food wrappers, trays, containers and soiled utensils. A big television/stereo/video game system, jury-rigged to a jungle of wires that led somewhere outside. And then there was the throne.
An actual freakin' throne. As in, probably looted from some lost kingdom's castle. It was positioned at the bow of the ship so it was the highest point in the room (perfect for looking down and watching the TV). There was a light on above it and an occupant in its seat.
"H-hello?" Toby squeaked.
The occupant was some kind of canine, maybe. Male. Teenager-sized. His jeans were shredded at the knees from heavy use. Toby had no idea why he'd even noticed that little detail first when the most obvious thing about this furson was that they had ridiculously gigantic silver wrenches for arms. The kind with the screw-shaped bit you can turn to move the jaws up and down. The wrenches looked like they were bolted to this furson's shoulders, then they'd been sloppily cut in half and welded back together with a hinge to make an elbow. Though they only turned in-and-out, not back-and-forth.
The owner of these primitive prostheses was splayed out on the throne sideways: head using the armrest as a pillow, brushy tail dangling over the side, feet up on the cushion. They had their face stuck in a muscle car magazine. From the way one paw was bopping up and down, Toby guessed he must have been listening to headphones.
"HELLO?" he tried again, trying to be louder in a way that wouldn't startle this stranger. Toby had no idea how they might react.
"I hear you fine, chief." came a voice from behind the magazine.
"Oh. Um..." Toby wrung his hands together, more aware than ever that he was standing, uninvited, in someone else's home. Knowing the kind of creatures that prowled around Phobiopolis, he had an educated guess that people living here might be a little protective of their personal spaces.
The furson on the throne didn't speak another word. Their paw went right on bobbing like a metronome.
"I..." Toby started. His throat was starting to close up from nerves. He coughed to clear it. "I was t-told that I could find the most fearless furson in Phobiopolis at this address. Is that you?"
The magazine did not so much as rustle. "Nope," said the voice.
Toby was confused.
"That would be her."
Toby suddenly felt sharp metal touching the back of his neck.
*****