SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter V

Journey to the Flipside

E
ver since passing the outer ponds, even Gariff, who had fallen behind after our brief tiff, seemed upbeat again as we made our way through the outskirts of town.

The sweet and pungent aroma of peat-fires was already strong by the time we caught sight of the first of the watergrass homes on the main road in. As evening gave way to twilight, a pale orange sky backlit the thatched dwellings and out came the glowflies. Fiery sparks sailed across a sea of mire rushes.

“Not long now,” I proclaimed, needlessly.

The announcement was answered with a huff and a grunt, and I wondered if the lively pace taken up was less about high spirits and more about filling bellies. Perhaps the hint of home-cooked pippish stew blending into the night air had put them over the edge. Through open doors and windows, I overheard the merry high-pitched chatter of pipsqueaks at many a dinner table.

In the distance, a red reed door swung open violently. Two young Pips dashed out of the hut, the smaller one yelling fiendishly at a slightly larger, laughing version of himself. Their yard was little more than trampled reeds and a scraggly birch tree with a dangling swing rope; their cone-topped hut little more than yard materials standing erect – woven grass and mud over a stick frame, splashed with shutters dyed in bright red, blue and yellow. Apart from the openings, the little hut looked as though it had grown out of the small mound it sat upon. The modest dwelling was inviting, if not elaborate.

Off to either side of the road, watergrass homes sprung up haphazardly over the mudflats, occupying nearly every hummock big enough for three Pips to stand on. A convenient web of muddy trails connected each and every conceivable shortcut from one worthy location to another: hut to hut, hut to tree, tree to tree, everywhere to boulders, everywhere to main paths, and back again every different way. Stepping-stones dotted some of the main paths – a courtesy to out-of-towners who by-and-large don’t fancy wet feet or mud on their boots. The neighborhood was mostly home to the more traditional Pip families who followed the old ways, and secondarily to young couples just starting out who could not afford a premium lot in town.

We hiked on past wild rice farms, stands of smoke weed, the salamander ranges, the glowfish farms and a row of covered longboat docks.

Crossing the intersection to Everdeep Pond – a rather affluent neighborhood – and then passing Ling’s Boulder brought us to Wetwood. The Wetwood trail meandered west through a series of respectable neighborhoods before winding back north to the Everdeep cut-off. Further along and in the opposite direction was the high road to Drytown. We turned off the main thoroughfare at that junction and climbed the hill. Even before catching sight of the inn, the delectable smells of spit-roasted turtle and waterfowl filled the air, and as we approached the hilltop, twin trails of grey smoke from the inn’s kitchen and hearth came into view, streaking across the faded sky.

At long last, by measure of our tired legs and empty stomachs, we crested the last hill. The Flipside was a fair sight to behold, a beacon of civilization in the backcountry. Fine aromas circulated in the air. It was a fair listen as well, with lively music and merriment spilling out onto the streets. I was already thinking ahead to the sweet drink, news, good food, and good company that awaited us. Surely, Paplov expected me home at a reasonable hour, but I only planned to stay out a short while.

Chapter VI

Interlude - Natural born story tellers

T
he wind is picking up and the treetops are whipping. The air grows soggy in the grove. Before the page I scribe begins to dampen as well, here is what to expect of the various folk lounging about the Flipside Inn – big and small, respectable and not, genuine and scheming. I’ll start with Pips.

All you really need to know about Pips is that they pay acute attention to detail and have the sharpest of memories. This lumbering form of mine, for better or for worse, has retained that mental acuity, so you can consider everything I tell you as near record to the actual events. Keen memory, in part, is what makes us natural born storytellers – we actually Remember what happens, unlike some others (who will remain nameless). We do not
know
everything though, or necessarily make all the right
connections
that could be made, so the pristine pictures in our minds are not always as complete as they could be. Fortunately, we have a Creative streak too, unlike some others (who will also remain nameless). Don’t let that worry you though – I will not feed you made-up fill-in-the-blanks fantasy. And I absolutely refuse to sour your tongue with speculative dribble.

I just realized I wrote “us” and “we” throughout my description. Habit, I suppose, and I still count myself among Pips, at times. But I was never quite as carefree as most, and there are times when I feel as far away as one could from such a soft-fleshed creature, fragile and naive in the world.

Stouts are very different. Hardworking and staunch, they are builders and planners by their very nature, with a stubborn streak now legendary. The younglings learn every practical matter there is to know about stone, metal, earth and hidden treasures. Adults, it seems, simply use that knowledge day to day, and slowly get better at everything. Stouts think their way through every task with clever resolve, but sometimes I wonder if they remember anything at all from along the way. Men, on the other hand, learn everything about everything and then forget most of it except what gives them power. As such, they rule nearly all of the lands and do as they will with reckless abandonment. Outlanders, at least those who are civilized, are equated to brutish Men by most, while those who are uncivilized are basically wild and wholly uneducated. Some of the more primitive types do not even learn to speak words as we know them – trust them as you would a predatory animal. Elderkin, the last to note, are not likely to be found at the Flipside. Seldom seen beyond Deepweald, they occupy themselves mostly about the ways of natural things, which might seem quite unnatural to the outsider.

Speaking of Elderkin, where is that ranger anyhow? It’s getting dark and I am without light. I am not afraid of fire. Bring on the torches and the lanterns I say! When I find him, he is liable to get a piece of my mind. More is to come about Webfoot and the Flipside as soon as I am set up for the night’s undertaking…

Chapter VII

A walk on the wild side

S
tained in rich hues, the canvas canopy over the inn’s veranda depicted a green and yellow bullfrog lying flat on his back under a table. Eyes closed, he wore a long and content grin upon his face. The frog’s hands rested over a well-rounded, tender white belly. On that majestic paunch was balanced an equally majestic flagon, overflowing with golden suds.

“Built by Stouts, y’know,” bragged Gariff Ram. As he nodded his head vigorously, the Stout’s tattered hat slipped down over his eyes. That was only the beginning. “They dug deep and pumped out ground water fer days before finally hitting something solid under that hill o’muck – and that was just fer the footings.”

The Stout wasn’t far off the mark and I felt compelled to nod back in agreement. Webfoot’s Flipside Inn was one of the more sturdy buildings in town: two full stories tall and not on a lean. Mortared stone quarried out of the Bearded Hills formed the first level, and the second was rough-hewn timber cut straight out of the living heart of Deepweald, back in the days before logging restrictions ended that enterprise. Red clay roofing tiles kept the rain out, and a small stable with a thatched roof stood as a separate building on the south side.

Apparently, Gariff wasn’t done gloating. “That inn…” he went on, pointing with one hand and scratching his scruffy chin with the other. “Now there’s something – unlike yer precious twig fence a ways back… y’know, the one that protects this town from toothless water-rats, wounded geese and fat-bellied pike – now
that
there inn’s something that won’t fall over when you lean against it, when the wind blows, or when there’s a knock at the door.”

Gariff kept talking, but I stopped listening to him and strained my ears to catch the melody being played inside. Kabor’s eyes drifted to the rooftop dormer windows. He took out his spectacles and put them on.

“Kabor!” said Gariff. He crossed his arms. “Stop peeking at the red rooms, did y’even hear what I said?”

I couldn’t help but to look as well. It was easy enough to catch fleeting glimpses of silhouettes casually passing by the second-story windows – the guest rooms.
Nothing yet
, I thought. But the night was still young and shaping up to be one of the wildest ever at the inn. Everyone seemed to be having fun. The Flipside was the hub of activity in an otherwise humdrum town.

“You can’t tell me where to look,” said Kabor.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and look for a table?” said Gariff. He pointed his cousin to the first floor picture window.

We made our way through the crowd on the veranda and peered into the great room beyond. Inside, as far as I could tell, every table was occupied. Near the stage, it was standing room only. Newly arrived seasonal workers reunited with seasonal friends and coworkers over hearty dinners next to a blazing hearth. A five-Pip troupe played fiddle and reeds over the buzz of patron chatter and the tinkling of eating implements. The band sang and clapped, thumped and stomped, all the while bobbing wildly about the staging area. Smoke rings wrought of the local weed billowed up over the heads of the gathered stage crowd, and hung there in a dense cloud. The sweet scent filtered out to the veranda through open windows.

“The Flipside” was a fitting name for the establishment. Loved by out-of-towners and despised by half the town’s permanent residents, the local watering hole did not cater to the typical, upstanding and sensible folk of Webfoot. Rather, it tended to attract the atypical sorts, who more than occasionally consort with suspicious company. Trappers, prospectors, rangers, boggers, runners, builders and all shades of merchant folk could be found at the inn’s tables or sitting at the bar. If a bog queen happened to drag her twisted body out of the murky depths one day and slither in through the front door, few in attendance would so much as raise an eyebrow at her fashionably grim entrance, unless she promptly announced that drinks were on her.

The inn also had a reputation among high appreciators of the culinary arts. The Flipside was known throughout the land for the fine fare served, especially for such an out-of-the-way place, but in fact, because of it. More than a few rare and unique delicacies graced the menu.

Clearly, the great room was too crowded. Even the veranda we stood on was full to capacity.

I felt my stomach gurgle in the aroma-saturated air.

“I’m starved, let’s eat.”

“I’m with you,” said Gariff.

Just as we were about to go, I caught sight of a serving girl who stepped into the great room from the back hallway, carrying an overfull tray of food and drink.

“Who’s she?” I said.

Kabor scanned the room until he found her.

“Oh her,” he said. “She’s my new girlfriend.”

“How can you even tell from here?” I said, doubtful.

“By the way she sways when she walks,” said Kabor. “And the way she holds her head up high. I have my glasses on, by the way. I met her a few days ago and we really hit it off.”

It was the first I’d ever seen of Holly Hopkins, as I would later know her name to be. Long, flowing auburn hair and slim as a reed, even her eyes smiled at the patrons as she glided through the crowded room. She looked to be around my age…

“Wait a minute… she told me she was my girlfriend!” said Gariff, sounding irked.

Kabor clued him in. “She just said that so you wouldn’t feel like a dork – it’s called pity. Plus she knows it makes me jealous – what a tease.”

“She’s too beautiful for the likes of either of you.” I said.

“Beautiful?…yeah I guess she’s not bad,” said Kabor.

“Not bad? C’mon. Compared to Stout women she’s gorgeous.”

“What’re ya talking ‘bout? Stout girls are pretty,” said Gariff.

“They basically look like Kabor – except
he
has less hair on his face.”

“Bhaa,” Gariff waved his hand dismissively. “You can’t be afraid of a little scruff now…”

They both nodded. Kabor let out a mild chuckle and added, “I don’t know Nud, some of them look down right handsome with braided chin hairs. Keeps their hubs warm on long winter nights.”

Of course, not all Stout women grow beards, but the majority do have some facial hair – mostly just wisps of it. A minority proudly sport full-fledged, braided beards, beaded and dyed in bright colors. In the Hills, the most popular establishment for visitors is the “Friendly Muttonchops,” owned and operated by a proud – and friendly – bearded lady.

“If you two know her then what’s her name?” I said.

Gariff and Kabor spoke over one another in response. “Elena,” said Kabor. “Chariot,” said Gariff.

Kabor looked to Gariff, shaking his head. “Chariot? What kind of name is Chariot? Did you mean to say Charlotte?”

Gariff only shrugged. “Maybe she likes horses.”

The two cousins continued to quibble. As they faced one another, I saw that they shared precisely the same family nose – prominent, protruding and high-bridged. Soon, my attention shifted back to the girl.

I watched as she wove her way through a sorry collection of Pips, Stouts, Men, and even Outlanders, politely smiling and excusing herself as she went. Besides seasonal workers, which formed the majority of the inn’s patrons, a great number of merchants were also in from Fort Abandon that night. The merchants dressed in the fashion of city folks and they all looked like they belonged to the same club, sporting seasonal light coats with shiny pewter buttons and loose fitting trousers tucked into tall black boots. In full view, a table of disheveled Stouts outfitted for ranging blew off steam and drank away their hard-earned pay, garbed in bush leathers and weather-stained cloaks. The serving girl ended up at the Outlander’s table.

Gariff tapped me on the shoulder, with eyes on her patrons. “Those ones look a little rough around the edges, don’t ya think?” he said.

I nodded. I didn’t like the looks of them. Maybe there were still too many stories about the Outland Wars in circulation and too many problems with the border regions to give them a fair shake.

“I recognize that one,” said Kabor, pointing to the far end of the table. A particularly slick looking Outlander sat there. He stood out among them as able to blend his fiendish looks with some air of sophistication and refinement.

“Are you sure?” I said. Even with his glasses on, the Stout’s vision wasn’t that great beyond twenty or thirty feet.

Kabor nodded. “I’ve seen him in the Hills. He deals in…
rare herbs
,” he continued.

We all knew what that meant.

“Cuz’s right,” said Gariff, squinting. “I’ve seen him too.”

The roaring hearth added a fiery glow to the girl’s hair as she served the beast-men barkwood ale (marked by the distinctive, bark-wrapped serving cups used), glowfish bowls (marked by the distinctive way they are served – alive and flipping in a colored glass bowl), and rice or herb side dishes.

The blood of beasts runs through them
, I reminded myself. It was something Uncle Fyorn would say in the midst of wine-soaked retellings of stories from his glory days, long faded. He warred against the Outlands in his youth as a Kith ranger. My uncle and Paplov talked long into the night at times about his adventures far and wide, beyond the bog and the gentle shade of Deepweald; beyond the Trilands, Gan and the long reach of Harrow. Those wars were long over now, but they left their mark.

I happened to catch the Outlander’s dark, beady little eyes sizing up the serving girl’s shapely form while she looked away momentarily to gather finished plates and cups, and balance the serving platter.

I turned to Kabor, “What’s his name?”

“Dunno,” he said. “But I can find out if you’re looking for—”

“NO!” I said, annoyed at the presumption. Kabor snickered.

The Outlander habitually stroked his well-groomed, chin-strip beard, smiling thinly at the girl’s small words when served his ale. I could not help but think there was something sinister behind his shallow courtesy and cool, collected mannerisms.
He’s one to watch out
for.

The party of Stouts on the adjacent table, on the other hand, were exceedingly unsophisticated, boisterous and fully out of control. Judging by the many flagons on their table, they had their fill and then some. The serving girl pelted one to the floor when he tried to grope her as she passed. She continued on as if nothing had happened. When the Stout stumbled to his feet, his companions jeered him. A shower of suds sprayed out of nostrils and mouths with all the crowing and snorting.

“She doesn’t belong here,” I said.

“She looks like she can handle herself to me,” said Gariff.

“She’s my kind of girl,” said Kabor.

“What? Breathing?” said Gariff. Kabor gave him a shove. Gariff didn’t budge.

Another group entered the great room as we stood there – all Men and Outlanders.

“Come on,” said Kabor. “Let’s steal around back and find Bobbin. It’s busy and you beggars are too ragged to show your faces in there.”

“Who cares? Half of them are drunk as skunks anyway,” said Gariff. “They wouldn’t so much as turn their heads if we walked in wearing grass skirts.” He pointed to the rowdy Stouts. “And look at that crew. They look like they just rolled out of a mud puddle.”

“I’m with Kabor,” I said. Had we made our move a moment sooner, I would have avoided an embarrassment. The serving girl caught me at the tail end of my making eyes at her. I cracked an awkward smile. She looked away.

Kabor saw the whole thing. “Keep it up, dream-boy,” he said to me. “The smoke is getting to your head.”

“Wait… I changed my mind,” I said. “Let’s go inside. It’s boring out back, and besides, we’re not kids anymore.”

The back area was mainly used for overflow seating when even the veranda was full, and by patrons or servers on break seeking private conversation or a quiet smoke. Otherwise, it did not see much activity.

“We’ll never get a table in there,” complained Gariff.

Kabor seemed up to the challenge though. “We’ll see,” he said as he led the way in. Gariff huffed and followed behind. But Kabor stopped abruptly when he got to the door. Gariff and I halted with him. He turned to face us.

“What is it?” said the burly Stout.

“Did you forget something?” I said.

Kabor spoke with earnest. “Did anyone else notice that?”

“What, Cuz?” said Gariff.

“We all just flipped sides,” said Kabor.

Gariff scrinched his face into a confused look. “Huh? What’dya mean?”

“At first, you wanted to go inside. Me and dream-boy here wanted to go out back.”

“So,” said Gariff.

I punched Kabor in the arm for calling me dream-boy again.

“Ouch,” he said, rubbing it. Then he continued. “Now, it’s me and
dream-boy
that want to go inside, and you want to go out back.”

Gariff blinked.

I waited.

Kabor shrugged, eyes wide. By wide, I mean more than three times magnified when you include his specs. “This really
is
the Flipside,” he added with a smirk.

I groaned. “That sounds like something Bobbin would say.”

“Must be something in the air around here,” said Kabor. He put away his specs.

The three of us impaled ourselves on all the smoke, music and chatter of an energetic night on the town. Pale yellow lanterns cast a dim glow in the room. Many eyes fell upon us on entry – Pips, Stouts, Outlanders, and Men alike. One giant of a man with a long, drooping face took an especially long look. He was the only one in the room that sat alone. I nodded a “hello” to him and he returned the courtesy with a half-smile before sinking his eyes back into his giant-sized tankard.

I could barely hear Gariff’s relentless pessimism over the blaring music. “See. No tables anywhere,” he said. “Let’s go out back. The – … anyway.”

“Hold on,” I told him. “Just give it a chance. People come and go all the time.”

As we waited and watched, acrobats bounded into the great room from the back entranceway. All heads turned to watch their antics. Checkered black and white from head to toe and wearing the sort of floppy-horned hoods a jester might cherish, they began to tumble. Some cartwheeled, some flipped and others simply bounced their way to the stage, and then bounded from one musician to the next when they got there. The band played on. The acrobats, unsatisfied that they were not able to disrupt the band, set their sights on the crowd. They flipped onto tables and cartwheeled through the startled onlookers. After a minute or so of spilling beer and knocking around plates as they bounded, a great clang arose out from the stage and the music halted. The acrobats – exclusively Pips – all stopped at once and stared at one another. They nodded their heads and smiled as the crowd clapped and cheered them on. “More!” some shouted, “Show us more!” After a long pause, the musicians started up again, but this time the band instruments rang with dissonance and the words they sang made no sense at all.