Land of Whiplash

In the Forest of Solemn, Adrus emptied the ruined water in his canteen, relishing in the way the parasitic liquid glistened as it pooled downwards. When all of it had drained, the young man sighed in relief at finally being able to drink again. The River of Aborigine ran between the lime green – almost yellow –foliage and cut along the grass as though a tear.

Pathos, his bay horse, eagerly ate his share of the herbs and weeds in the soil. He had a flat eye, gold and desolate and forever seeking his master. No dog could match his loyalty.

Except, to Adrus, there was a god loyaler than his horse, in that way he was a blaspheming fool that perhaps deserved what he got when he stepped into the crystal water, only to be pulled under as a magnet would fall off a fridge.

Somewhere between whirl and turquoise, blue and mush, cold and bitter, death and life, he slouched in an old chair. There was an underground place, not exactly the Tunnel of Disappearance, and a long stickman was there, with a hat that turned into a blindfold on his head.

“Now what have we got here?” He drawled, but his words weren’t words because they were sinew, and Adrus couldn’t absorb what he said. He could hear and understand the stickman speak, but his brain couldn’t recognize the meaning in the words. It was very frustrating. Maybe he had an eel stuck in his ear from during the trip down.

“So you think you have it lemoned for you? Surely Pathos will get you to town, but what’s to be found? What does he get in return?”

Adrus could finally reply to “lemoned”, but unknown, inexplicable force made him do it: he equaled to a puppet. “What does ‘lemoned’ mean?”

“Now see, that’s the problem! That’s not right at all! Certainly not at all!”

And then Adrus found himself climbing up a grass blade, and like polished silver he retrieved his flesh sleeve, and there was Pathos with his desolate eye and his fallen call.