V
Some Monsters
For many days the company traveled south, trusting to the eyes of the Ranger, Arrowroot, the keen ears of the boggies, and the wisdom of Goodgulf to lead them. A fortnight after their departure they arrived at a great crossroads and halted to determine the best way to cross the towering Mealey Mountains.
Arrowroot squinted into the distance. “Behold the grim Mount Badass,” he said, pointing to a large milestone a hundred yards down the road.
“Then we must head east,” said Goodgulf, gesturing with his wand to where the sun was setting redly in a mass of seaclouds.
A duck flew over quacking loudly. “Wolves,” cried Pepsi, straining to hear the fading sound.
“It is best that we make camp here tonight,” said Arrowroot, dropping his pack heavily to the ground, where it crushed a hooded cobra. “Tomorrow we must seek the high pass across the mountains.”
A few minutes later the company sat in the middle of the crossroads around a bright fire over which one of Goodgulf’s stage rabbits was merrily roasting. “A proper fire at last, and no mistake,” said Spam, tossing a rattlesnake on the cheery blaze. “I reckon none o’ Master Pepsi’s wolves is likeable to bother us tonight.”
Pepsi snorted. “A wolf would have to be pretty hard up to eat a road apple like you,” he said, flicking a rock at Spam, which missed him by feet and stunned a puma. Circling far overhead, unseen by the company, the leader of a band of black spy-crows peered through a pair of binoculars, cursed in the harsh tongue of his kind, and swore off grapes for the rest of his life.
“Where are we, and where are we going?” asked Frito.
“We are at a great crossroads,” answered the Wizard, and producing a battered sextant from within his robes, he took sightings on the moon, Arrowroot’s cowboy hat, and Gimlet’s upper lip. “Soon we will cross a mountain or a river and pass into another land,” he said.
Arrowroot strode over to Frito. “Do not fear,” he said, sitting on a wolf, “we will guide you safely through.”
The next day dawned clear and bright, as is so often the case when it does not rain, and the spirits of the company were considerably raised. After a frugal breakfast of milk and honey, they set out in single file behind Arrowroot and Goodgulf, with Spam bringing up the rear behind the pack sheep, toward whom he expressed a boggie’s usual fondness for fuzzy animals.
“Oh, for some mint sauce,” he lamented.
The party traveled many leagues[5] along the broad, wellpaved highway that led east to the odorous feet of the Mealey Mountains, and later in the afternoon they came to the first of the low kneehills. There the road quickly disappeared in a mass of rubble and the ruins of an ancient toll booth. Beyond, a short, steep valley as black as coal stretched ominously to the rocky slope of the mountains. Arrowroot signaled for a halt, and the company gathered to look at the forbidding landscape.
“This is an evil place, I fear,” said Arrowroot, slipping on the sticky black paint which covered every inch of the land.
“It is the Black Valley,” said Goodgulf solemnly.
“Are we in Fordor already?” asked Frito hopefully.
“Do not mention that black land in this black land,” said the Wizard darkly. “No, it is not Fordor, but it seems that it has been touched by the Enemy of all Right-Thinking Folk.”
As they stood looking over the dreary vale, there came the howl of wolves, the roar of bears, and the cry of vultures.
“It’s quiet,” said Gimlet.
“Too quiet,” said Legolam.
“We cannot stay here,” said Arrowroot.
“No,” agreed Bromosel, looking across the gray surface of the page to the thick half of the book still in the reader’s right hand. “We have a long way to go.”
After trudging down the steep, rock-strewn slope for more than an hour, the party arrived, weary and blackened, at a long ledge that led between a sharp cliff and a pond whose surface was entirely covered with a thick oil slick. As they watched, a great, heavy-winged water bird landed in the foul water with a soft plop and dissolved.
“Let us press on,” said Goodgulf. “The pass cannot be far.”
With that he led the way around a stony ridge which jutted into the pond in front of them and obscured the rest of the mountain slope from view. The ledge grew narrower as it wound around the outcropping, and the company had to inch their way along. As they passed the bend, they saw in front of them the face of the mountain rising unbroken for hundreds of feet above them. Cut into the rocky wall was the entrance to some underground cavern, cunningly hidden by an enormous wooden door with huge wrought-iron hinges and a giant knob. The door was covered with a strange oath gracefully written in the Palmer runes of the dwarves, and so marvelously had it been constructed, that from a hundred feet away the tiny crack between wood and stone was completely invisible.
Arrowroot gasped. “The Black Pit,” he cried.
“Yes,” said Gimlet, “the fabled Nikon-zoom of my ancestor, Fergus Fewmet.”
“Dread Andrea Doria, curse of the living nipple,” said Legolam.
“But where is the pass?” asked Frito.
“The face of the land has changed since I was last abroad in this region,” said Goodgulf quickly, “and we have been led, perhaps by Fate, a bit astray.”
[BoredOfTheRings-scroll.jpg transcription:
Fergus spake these words and he said, This shall be my creed, whereby shall I live my life as it were a shining example of Virtue and Excellence, well worthy to be enshrined in Heaven as a model for all who are wise to follow. My creed shall into three parts, like Gaul, be divided. Firstly, I shall constrain myself to Mind My Own Business. Secondly, I shall endeavour at all times and in all places to Keep My Nose Clean by the most expedient possible means. Thirdly, and finally, I shall always exercise the utmost care to Keep My Hands To Myself. ]
“It would be wiser to seek again the pass, I judge,” said Arrowroot. “It cannot be far.”
“Three hundred kilometers give or take a shilling,” said Goodgulf, a little sheepishly, and as he spoke, the narrow ledge which led back to the valley slid into the dark pond with a low grunt.
“That settles that,” said Bromosel testily. “Yoo-hoo,” he cried, “come and eat us,” and from far away a deep voice echoed, “Me beastie, me do that thing.”
“It is a grim fate indeed that would lead us here,” said Arrowroot, “or a gonzo Wizard.”
Goodgulf remained unperturbed. “We must find the spell that opens this door, and soon. Already it grows dark.” With that he lifted his wand and cried:
The door remained in place, and Frito glanced nervously at the mass of oily bubbles that had begun to rise in the pond.
“If only I’d listened to my Uncle Poo-poo and gone into dentistry,” whined Pepsi.
“If I’d stayed home, I’d be big in encyclopedias by now,” sniffled Moxie.
“And if I had ten pounds o’ ciment and a couple o’ sacks, you’d a’ both gone for a stroll on that pond an hour ago,” said Spam.
Goodgulf sat dejectedly before the obstinate portal, mumbling spells.
“Pismo,” he intoned, striking the door with his wand. “Bitumen. Lazlo. Clayton-Bulwer.” Save for a hollow thud, the door made no sign of opening.