Arrowroot cleared his throat. “Once upon a time,” he began.
“Call me Ishmael,” said Gimlet.
“Whanne in Aprille,” started Legolam.
“Hear me, oh Muse,” commenced Bromosel.
After some discussion, Frito told the whole story of the Ring, Dildo’s party, the Black Schleppers, the Caucus of Orlon, Doria, and Goodgulf’s untimely passing.
“Woodja, woodja, woo,” said Cellophane sadly when Frito had finished.
Lavalier sighed deeply. “Your journey is long and hard,” she said.
“Yes,” said Cellophane, “you bear a great burden.”
“Your enemies are powerful and merciless,” said Lavalier.
“You have much to fear,” said Cellophane.
“You leave at dawn,” said Lavalier.
After a hearty feast of cherubim and seraphim, Cellophane and Lavalier showed the weary travelers to rooms in a small tree nearby, and as Frito was preparing to enter, Lavalier drew him aside and brought him to a sheltered vale nearby, in the center of which stood a soiled birdbath in which a pair of sparrows were floating upside down.
“Poison,” explained Lavalier, flinging the feathered corpora into the bushes. “It’s the only thing that even slows them down.” Thereupon she spat into the water, and a goldfish leaped into the air and cried, “Give me your sevens.”
At that she leaned over the surface and whispered, “Wilmot Proviso,” and the water began to boil, filling the air with a light odor of beef gumbo. Then it seemed to Frito that the surface became smooth, and there appeared the picture of a man squirting something into his nose.
“Commercials,” said Lavalier irritably.
In a moment the water cleared, and there came scenes of elves and dwarves dancing in the streets, wild revels in Minas Troney, happy debauches in the Sty, a large bronze statue of Sorhed being melted into tie clips, and finally Frito himself sitting on a pile of costume jewelry and smiling broadly.
“This bodes well,” declared Lavalier.
Frito rubbed his eyes and pinched himself. “Then it is not all black?” he asked.
“The bath of Lavalier never lies,” said the Lady sternly, and leading Frito back to the rest of the company, disappeared in a heavy haze of Jungle Rape perfume.
Frito pinched himself one last time, then stumbled into the treehouse and fell into a deep sleep.
The surface of the basin remained black for a while, then flickered and showed the triumphant reception of the S. S. Titanic in New York Harbor, the repayment of the French war debt, and the inaugural ball of Harold Stassen.
In the eastern sky, Velveeta, beloved morning star of the elves and handmaid of the dawn, rose and greeted Noxzema, bringer of the flannel tongue, and clanging on her golden garbage pail, bade him make ready the winged rickshaw of Novocaine, herald of the day. Thence came rosy-eyeballed Ovaltine, she of the fluffy mouth, and lightly kissed the land east of the Seas. In other words, it was morning.
The company rose, and after a hurried breakfast of yaws and goiters, Cellophane and Lavalier and their attendants led them through the wood to the banks of the great river Anacin where three small balsa rafts lay.
“It is the sad hour of parting,” said Lavalier solemnly. “But I have for each of you a small gift to remind you of your stay in Lornadoon in the dark days to come.” So saying, she produced a large chest and drew out a handful of wondrous things.
“For Arrowroot,” she said, “crown jewels,” and handed the surprised king a diamond-shaped pear and a plover’s egg the size of an emerald.
“For Frito, a little magic,” and the boggie found in his hand a marvelous crystal globe filled with floating snowflakes.
She then gave each of the other members of the company something rich and strange: to Gimlet, a subscription to Elf Life, to Legolam, a Mah-Jongg set, to Moxie, a case of Cloverine Brand Salve, to Pepsi, a pair of salad forks, to Bromosel a Schwinn bicycle, and to Spam a can of insect repellent.
The gifts were quickly stowed away in the little boats along with certain other impedimenta needful for a quest, including ropes; tins of Dinty Moore beef stew; a lot of copra; magic cloaks that blended in with any background, either green grass, green trees, green rocks, or green sky; a copy of Jane’s Dragons and Basilisks of the World; a box of dog yummies; and a case of Poland water.
“Farewell,” said Lavalier, as the company crammed themselves into the boats. “A great journey begins with a single step. No man is an island.”
“The early bird gets the worm,” said Cellophane.
The rafts slipped out into the river, and Cellophane and Lavalier boarded a great boat-shaped swan and drifted a short distance beside them, and Lavalier sat in the prow and sang an ancient elvish lament to the heartbreaking timbre of steel drums:
(“Oh, the leaves are falling, the flowers are wilting, and the rivers are all going Republican. O Ramar, Ramar, ride quickly on your golden unicycle and warn the nymphs and drag queens! Ah, who now shall gather lichee nuts and make hoopla under the topiaries? Who will trim my unicorns? See, even now the cows laugh, Alas, alas.” Chorus: “We are the chorus, and we agree. We agree, we agree, we agree.”)
As the tiny boats passed round a bend in the river, Frito looked back in time to see the Lady Lavalier gracefully sticking her finger down her throat in the ancient elvish farewell.
Bromosel looked ahead to where the meandering of the river had brought them face-to-face with the barely risen sun. “The early bird gets hepatitis,” he grunted, and fell asleep.
Such was the enchantment of Lornadoon that although they had spent only a night in that magic band, it seemed like a week, and as they drifted down the river, Frito was filled with a vague fear that time was running out. He remembered Bromosel’s ill-omened dream and noticed for the first time that there was a large blotch of lamb’s blood on the warrior’s forehead, a large chalk X on his back, and a black spot the size of a doubloon on his cheek. A huge and rather menacing vulture was sitting on his left shoulder, picking its teeth and singing an inane song about a grackle.
Not long after midday the river began to become narrow and shallow, and before long the way was completely blocked by an enormous beaver dam from which there emanated the grim slaps of beaver tails and the ominous whine of turbines.
“I had thought the way to the Isles of Langerhans was clear,” said Arrowroot. “Now I see that the servants of Sorhed are at work even here. We can go no farther along the river.” The company paddled to the west bank, and drawing their boats onto the shore, ate a hurried meal of moon and sixpence.
“I fear these brutes may do us ill,” said Bromosel, pointing to the looming concrete mass of the dam.
As he spoke, a bulky figure waddled unsteadily across the stony shore. It was about four feet tall, very dark-complexioned, with a tail like a plank steak, a black beret, and wrap-around dark glasses.
“Your servant,” lisped the strange creature, bowing low.
Arrowroot eyed the brute thoughtfully. “And who might you be?” he said at last, his hand falling to his sword hilt.
“An innocent traveler like yourselves,” said the brown figure, slapping his tail for emphasis. “My horse threw a shoe or my boat sank, I don’t remember which.”