The Questory of Root Karbunkulus - Quill (30 page)

“Stay down, boy!” he said and made sure no
inch of his Hover was seen from any angle. Root knew that it was to
make sure no one would steal him.

The yard grew, strangled and patchy around a
tall dilapidated building. The front door was off its hinge. Root
watched Kor swing it open and take to the filthy, torn carpet of
the stairs. How could she follow him? Wait a minute; his head
appeared through the grime of a portal window on the next floor.
Then the next and the next. When he reached the seventh floor he
turned right. Stogie took Root around the side. There, a light
turned on through an apartment window smeared black with grime. It
was partially open, but not enough for anyone to notice the
Hovermutt and its passengers that were now edging up beside it.
Root kept CPR quiet. Up close she saw that the window had no screen
and moths were gathering and flies were scurrying across the
pane.

“I don’t give a rat’s arse!” Root heard a
voice. It was throaty and worn down by a hard life. There was
cruelty in it. Root leaned in for a peek just in time to see a
bottle flying right for her.

She ducked.

The glass shattered against the wall beside
the window.

“Don’t you walk away from yer father, Kor
Bludgitt!” called out a woman’s voice, scratchy and smoky and with
the same wicked grudge against life.

“Didn’t I tell you not t’come home ‘til you
had something t’bring with you, boy?”

“I just thought ‘cause I was in the area…”
Kor hardly sounded real to Root. His voice was so thin. So
frail.

The throaty man-voice began to laugh. Soon
the other one joined in. It was ugly, mocking laughter. Terrible
laughter.

“What? You thought we’d wanna see yer ugly
mug?”

Kor did not reply.

“Now you get yer bloody butt back t’that race
and don’t come back ‘til y’got somethin’ t’show for it!”

Again no answer. But Root heard a door
slam.

“And don’t slam that door or I’ll whup your
arse worse than the last time! Y’hear me! I can still do that
y’know?” The man turned his anger toward the woman. “Damn son a
yours!”

“Don’t blame me fer ‘im. Ain’t my fault he’s
a screw up. Just like his lazy, deadbeat dad, he is!”

Another smashed bottle.

Back on the main floor the door swung right
off its last hinge.

Root tucked up tight into a shaft of darkness
as Kor stomped out of the building. He launched his Hover into the
air. But not before exacting a fist-sized boulder at his parent’s
window. It missed Root’s head by inches. When the window opened and
a man’s head threw itself out cursing, she thought she was dead in
the water. But he saw nothing. Or maybe he’d had too much of what
was in those bottles to notice.

Thoughts spun through Root’s head as she
followed Kor. If those were his parents, then where was he getting
all his money from? Money for top of the line supplies, for buying
off teams, for Gut Oil?

Kor brought his Hovermutt down in front of a
lively establishment with a sign overhead that said
Pooly’s
Drinkhouse

Questions were still bumpering around, lost
and confused as Root landed inconspicuously down the road. What
about 999 Lampfire Lane? If Kor didn’t live there, then who did?
And why would Kor go there in the first place? There was a
coincidence here that could not be ignored. Yet the connection
within it eluded Root. And, most surprising of all, amongst these
thoughts came an actual pang of sympathy for Kor. She would never
in a million years have thought there’d be someone out there on par
with the Aunts. But the cackling laughter that rang from his
parent’s dingy window tonight was riddled with familiarity.

“Well, well, well…”

Root swung around. Kor was looking at her
with cold, clear hatred. His eyes were red. Had he been crying?

“If it isn’t Gew Gaw.”

“Kor.” Root tried her best nonchalance.
“What’re you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m winning
this race.”

Root nodded and turned to walk away, grateful
that he hadn’t suspected her of following him.

“Don’t you walk away from me! I’ll kick your
arse!”

Kor gripped her wrist and dug his nails in.
She could see his need for this, the drive to get back at
something, anything. With his parent’s cruelty still so freshly
bruised in his skin, Kor wanted to hurt someone else now.

“Leave ‘er alone, Kor y’big stupid jerk!”

Dwyn! And Lian! As relief poured over her,
Root ripped her arm away.

Another voice called “Root!” and there,
coming out of Pooly’s Drinkhouse, round faced and smiling was
Milden Ibbbs.

Kor allowed the interruption and broke his
glare. “You’re lucky,” he whispered.

Milden, as was his wonderfully innocuous way,
found something to ease the tension. “Hey, whatchya got there? A
baby cow?”

Root, grateful for the diversion walked over
to CPR, still atop Stogie. “We’re not sure. We found her in the
Swamps of Koik.”

“The Swamps of Koik? Y’mean like, in the
amber?”

“Yeah.”

“Woah. How’d you…?”

“Long story…” Root helped CPR down “but she
kinda just followed us and now she’s…”

“Ugly as you, Gew Gaw!”

Everyone ignored Kor, which made him even
angrier.

CPR, thrilled to be back on her own feet and
with all her friends no less, bounced about, lick to lick in
greetings. She leapt up onto Lian. On two feet she was quite a bit
higher and definitely heavier. Lian lost his balance and toppled
back.

The travel pack fell with him. Before anyone
could say anything its contents were spewed out and rolling along
the street.

“No! Not again!” Lian yelled.

CPR was already on the ground exploring, her
nose ransacking a broken jar of something, then stepping on and
smashing something else. Lian looked like he would die any second
now. And take that animal with him. “My Alagarts! My Rubbing Weed!
Stop it, CPR! Get out of there!”

Now Kor was the one who was laughing as Root,
Dwyn and Milden tried to stop CPR. CPR who thought they’d begun a
game of tag and who tore away the second they got too close,
trampling over more of their precious supplies.

“My Pansy Path!” Lian shrieked.

CPR deked Lian one way then ran at top speed
the other.

Right into Kor, who flew groundward.

Now, the tables were turned.

Incoming laughter. Bombs of it, all aimed at
Kor. It was too much. He had had enough cruel laughter for one
night. He ran at CPR, fists swinging. Milden and Lian caught him
and held him back. Dwyn was able to sack CPR by her long, clumsy
legs and pull her away. Root ran to her side and glared at Kor.
“She’s just a baby.”

“It’s a stupid, ugly waste of space that
should be strung up and left to die!” Kor’s eyes were livid, wild.
He broke free and ran down the street. Dwyn gently slapped his
Hovermutt to go after him.

But it wasn’t over. This Lian made sure of as
he scowled over the remains of the travel pack.

They tried as best as they could to, once
again salvage their supplies. Milden helped and soon the street was
clear again. In the time this took, Lian’s resent had not mellowed.
But it was soon discarded when Root told them that she’d’ve been
dead if not for CPR.

“Why?” What happened to you, Root? First we
see Stogie and CPR are gone, then some big commotion at Vulcherk’s.
Then you’re nowhere to be found. We’ve been looking for you all
day. Man, you had us totally freaked out.” Dwyn said.

It was such a long, crazy and confusing
story. “Food first.” Root gestured to the Drinkhouse.

Agreed.

“You comin’, Milden?”

“Me ‘n the team were just in there.” In
perfect timing, Milden’s two teammates, Tompy and Jake came out.
“You guys here for awhile?” Milden asked the Valadors. “Maybe we
can meet up tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that’d be cool.”

They decided on a time and place and were

about to leave when Dwyn just had to ask
Milden. “You haven’t…y’know…have you?”

“Not yet.” Milden smiled. “But I heard

Punyun did.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about that one.”
Root

added as she reached the door of the
Drinkhouse. She took a last nervous look around, half expecting a
Squawnch to jump out from a bush and grab her.

Or the Curator.

Or Vulcherk.

Or a couple of underwater Kakos Termites.

Or Kakos himself.

It had not been a good day.

The Drinkhouse was owned and operated by one
Poolipity Shrugs, whom everyone called Pooly for short and who had
settled in Divit after the war.

As a young woman, Pooly had lived in the town
of Bansper, a picturesque, fresh-aired haven for the outdoor
enthusiast, which she was in every way. Wheelers, trekking boots,
swooshing boards and the like could always be found on the Shrugs
property, if not on the persons themselves, of which there were
six. Two older sisters, one younger brother, and their well-known
parents, Ilda and Bintwal.

On a fine day in mid-summer Pooly had risen
before the sun and set out in the footsteps of her sisters, to
accomplish the Triplets, a range of mountains with three distinct
peaks. It would be a grueling, satisfying climb and she would
conquer it with bragging rights. She couldn’t wait for the
open-mouthed approval of her sisters, the nodding smiles of her
parents, her brother’s newly inspired vows.

But when she had returned, her family was
gone. The entire town of Bansper was black and smoking. Everything.
Every building, wall, garden, shed, fence…all burnt, charred,
choking with ashes thick as snow.

Pooly’s whole family had been sound asleep
within the meager walls of the original Drinkhouse. The iron
‘Shrugs Drinkhouse’ sign was all that Pooly found. She remembered
the pride her mother and father had put into hanging it on that
first day they were open for business. It had been a long time
dream of her mother’s.

Of living things, the only thing that had
survived the massacre, at least in Pooly’s world was a Wrinkle Rat,
and this barely. It had lost one eye and all its hair, most of
which only achieved recovery in a few, less burnt places along the
Wrinkle Rat’s back.

What irony.

Pooly had hated the Wrinkle Rat. She’d
despised its great size and the way it had foraged through their
garbage at night. She had tried many times to trap it to no avail
and was close to suspecting her mother was in on its survival. More
than once she’d caught her mother slipping food in the garbage that
was of better quality than should have been. And she could have
sworn the thing had been given a name.

“Raisin!” she’d heard her mother one night on
the Drinkhouse porch.

“What’re you doing?” Pooly had asked.

“What? Nothing! I’m looking for…”

“Raisin?”

“Why…yes, yes I am. I need raisins for
tomorrow’s special.”

“Wrinkle Rats are not pets, mum! They’re
dirty scavengers that…”

“…lived here long before we came and took
over!
And
are eternally grateful to be able to stay. Which
is more than I can say for the likes of you, Poolipity Shrugs who
pretends to live somewhere else most of the time. Embarrassed of
the Drinkhouse, of your family’s trade.”

The Shrug trade had been a sore subject for
Pooly. Being rooted in divination it brought too many sad souls to
the doors of the Drinkhouse. At least that’s how Pooly saw it. And
being the most gifted of the children she saw it indeed. Life’s
bruises and miseries and vices etched in gory detail across the
faces of customers. Which is why, at a very young age she denied
her gifts and vowed to seek a more notable profession. Like her
best friend Hyvis Punyun, who wanted to be a famous…well, a famous
anything, really.

What Pooly didn’t see at that young age was
how her family’s business offered comfort and hope to these many
weary customers.

Though her mother never failed to remind
her…often.

“Well, let me tell you something, missy. We
don’t just serve up drink here. We serve up comfort and family, the
same of which feeds you and clothes you and, believe it or not
loves you. No matter what you look like. Can you say the same for
Hyvis Punyun, your so-called best friend?”

That was the last time Pooly saw her mother
alive. And her father and sisters and brothers.

On that black day, that day of madness she
had found the Wrinkle Rat at the entrance to the Drinkhouse. She
touched its whimpering body and the images swarmed. But this time
she didn’t deny them. She re-opened the valve and took back her
gift, her heritage.

This is what the Shrugs did best. They could
see the entire compilation of a being, not just the masks. They
could see snapshots of lives and know when someone could use the
renewing spring of Wing Ale or a sweet, soothing mug of Sun Cider.
Pooly had, until that very moment buried this talent, deep under
the skin of who she pretended to be. And now, for a despised
rodent, she allowed it for the first time.

She closed her eyes and let the visions
come:

The Wrinkle Rat, born. The Wrinkle Rat
attacked by a couple of boys who threw its baby brothers and
sisters like baseballs into the path of a wooden paddle. The
Wrinkle Rat fleeing. The Wrinkle Rat hiding under a porch. The
Wrinkle Rat smoked out by an angry woman in a brown dress.

The Wrinkle Rat running to an abandoned
home. The Wrinkle Rat finding a slice of peace at last. Having
babies. And watching them grow up and move on. The Wrinkle Rat
losing her mate to builders with a sign that reads “Shrugs
Drinkhouse”

The Wrinkle Rat’s terror. And
loneliness.

And then the very first kindness. From a
woman who feeds her and calls her Raisin.