"We did work him hard," he said quietly. "Let him sleep."
Orlon resumed his reading.
Tarl walked over and sat at the desk. Whistling softly, he looked over the half written page centered on it and nodded in approval. He plucked the quill from the mound of wax around the candle’s base, popped open the ink well next to it. After another look over the page, he dipped the quill and began writing, the tip of his tongue slipping out the corner of his mouth.
In the turn of a page Orlon felt what he wanted most returning, the words beginning to dance on the page. His eyelids bobbed momentarily before drifting shut. His head settled chin on chest and the book slipped from limp fingers to lay open in his lap.
"I hope I finish this before the Buyer comes next season," Tarl said, placing the completed page on the tall, haphazardly stacked pages on the desktop corner opposite the candle.
Again Orlon snapped bolt upright, but this time his eyes were mere slits under knit brow when they turned on his best friend. He watched him procure a fresh page from the desk drawer and continue writing. It took a deep breath to calm his anger at this second interruption to his sleep. He looked at the book and flipped it closed as a lost cause in his quest. His attention was drawn to the stack of pages he watched Tarl struggle to create over the last six months.
"Do you really think anything will come of that?" he said.
"Sure," Tarl said, looking up. "Books are popular these days."
A thin smile creased Orlon’s face as he remembered the dusty shelf of books on the wagon.
"I mean," Tarl continued, "you’re reading one, aren’t you?"
"True," Orlon said and after considering his book, filled with strategy, intrigue, action and adventure, added: "But what do you know other than farming?"
"I’m using a great thing," he tapped his temple, "called imagination. That’s what they use to write fiction, you know. And books are fiction, right?"
The question set Orlon to pondering the Buyer’s assurances the book was a factual account of historical events. There was no denying his doubts about that. But there were also his vague memories of his grandfather’s tales… With a big yawn he brushed aside such pondering. It was late, he was tired and all he wanted to do was sleep—and under present circumstances there was only one way to achieve that. He slid out from under book and quilt, stretched and smoothed his nightshirt.
"I’m going to bed," he said.
A knock sounded on the front door.
They looked at each other, then the door.
A louder knock.
"Who could that be?" Orlon said.
An even louder knock.
"It’s probably for me," Tarl said, standing.
A much louder knock.
"It must be," Orlon said. "I certainly don’t know anyone who would call at this late hour."
An incredibly loud knock.
Tarl grabbed the knob, turned it and was thrown to the floor as the door burst open and a cloaked form stormed in. Orlon was pushed back on the divan as the form passed, coming to rest at the fireplace, a long fingered hand on the mantel. The door slammed shut.
Both Midgets gave the intruder a double-take, but only Orlon’s surprised expression turned to wonderment. Obviously a man, he stood six feet tall, his cloak a faded brown and separate hood a brilliant red. In his other hand was a staff his height and a foot, the sap of a pine’s youth dripping from it. Orlon recognized him being one of three mysterious men known as Parsons, who were identical in every way but the staff each carried, from his book. No one knew where they were from, just that they mysteriously appeared whenever needed. And he wondered if the book was true.
Further, he wondered why a Parson would come to his house.
"The snail slinks along the spine of a man paralyzed in fear! Why did you take so long to answer?" the man blurted, a curious twitching in his limbs.
Orlon and Tarl jumped at the outburst, looked at each other and back at the intruder. Orlon opened his mouth to reply…
"Is your want that of winters long past and those of futures that may be, to freeze?" The man spun around in a wild flailing of arms and legs to end in a wide-legged stance, his staff pointing back at the fireplace, where the struggling flame had given in and died. "We need warmth."
He spun back to the fireplace, producing something from a long, baggy sleeve and casting it onto the charred log. It erupted into a brilliant, warm flame.
"Is there something," Orlon said, "we can do for you?"
With a flailing of arms and legs, he turned and knelt before him, throwing back his hood. His face was thin, handsome in a peculiar way, framed in short beard and mustache and medium length brown hair, a circular bald spot on the crown. His eyes were deep brown, nose thin, the mouth made for talking—a lot. His expression was one of urgency.
"The burning orb and that which glows without flame pass the horizons and each other! The hound wanders in search of food, companionship, shelter! Long have I traveled in search of the One," he said, his wild arm and leg movements miraculously not affecting his stance. "A wave’s journey ends at shore! I need the One to end mine." He placed a hand on Orlon’s shoulder. "I have found the One."
"Are you sure you have the right house?" Orlon said.
"The needle points always to the magnetic pole! The salmon struggles to reach its spawning ground! I, Ty, the Parson, have journeyed long and hard to reach this house." The hand on Orlon’s shoulder shook him. "I have been drawn to the One, the only."
"Only what?" Orlon said.
"Only one to have a nut drop by," Tarl quietly commented.
Ty the Parson cast a glare on Tarl that made him flinch. "Night invades day! Evil invades our world as we speak. Evil in the name of Tibtarnitallimardarian," he said and returned his eyes to Orlon. "The scar faced one rules the underworld of crime! The turtle concealed in its chalky shell! In his mountainous lair he plots, schemes, spreads his tentacles of darkness across the land. He waits for the right moment to spring his trap, to envelop all that is good in his web of evil. The musclebound’s obsession with weights! Every day he grows stronger. If not stopped he will become invincible."
Orlon blinked.
"The eagle strikes its prey just inches beneath the water! The worm burrows ever onward! I, Ty, the Parson, have journeyed to the One in order to stop the evil quickly. The journey’s end, its beginning. A torch to the dark! The One with the ability is found. You, Orlon, the Pure, purest of the pure, are the One, the only, who can save the world."
"Me?" Orlon said. "Save the world? How?"
"The Pike," he came to his feet in a flail of limbs, ending in a wide-legged stance, his staff pointing at Orlon. "The Holy Pike is your only chance. The spoiled child’s toy! The talons of the hawk claw the whimpering rabbit! Only you, Orlon, the Pure, can wield the Pike. Only you can use it to slay the evil." He stormed to the door. "Butter to bread! Evil spreads across the land. The loose bowelled’s journey to outhouse! We must waste no time to begin our quest.
"The likeness of fraternal twins! Time to the tested! Twofold our quest will be, to locate the Holy Pike and vanquish the evil, and time will be short to accomplish both. The morrow, early, we must begin if we are to finish before it is too late. Pups to mother wolf’s bosoms! I, Ty, the Parson, and the Party will be here, eager to eat up the distances we must traverse." His staff jerked in emphasis before Orlon’s eyes. "Be ready, Orlon, the Pure. The morrow, early, I say. Be ready.
"The runner in the blocks! The quest begins tomorrow, early. Be ready." He threw open the door and bound into the night, his final warning still echoing.
The door slowly closed.
Orlon and Tarl looked at the door, but again it was Orlon’s astonished expression that turned to wonderment. The coming of this man—Ty the Parson—was a marvel to behold, and something that raised the hairs at his nape. This Ty the Parson put the thought in his mind the Buyer was not giving him just a sales pitch. It also meant his Grandfather’s tales were not just tales…. And that meant the likelihood of what he was saying tonight being true…