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Chapter 10. The Charcoal, the Journal and the Newt
by Saveaux
He stood at the lip of the moat before the castle, spreading to either side of his vision and upward, a sense of foreboding radiating from the very brickwork. Behind, the sun was beginning its final descent.
The newt gulped and, realizing he could not complete the action due to a parched throat, quaffed half of the water contained within one of his canteens. He had taken to wearing a large belt with six of the containers strapped to it after an incident in which he had nearly dried out while venturing across several miles of arid land. The newt finished by dousing his face with more of the canteen's contents, replacing it in its spot on the belt once he was through. He wondered if he should call out to inform the gatehouse staff of his arrival, suddenly despairing at the thought. Bad enough he had a difficult time speaking a sentence, now he would have to shout?
His fears were allayed, however, upon hearing the sound of the drawbridge's descending. Where an impassible crevice had been before him moments ago were now large slabs of steel-strong wood. As he gingerly crossed towards the threshold, the newt felt his mind wander back to the event which he thought would hold little importance.
It was not as if he had viewed the occurrence as having no significance whatsoever. Rather, the newt simply believed that nothing substantial would come of it. The vole had approached the lake several days previous, touting a large haversack. The newt had paid the newcomer little attention until from the sack he produced a journal and charcoal stick. The moment he spied these items, Saveaux refuted his earlier decision to leave the beast altogether alone and instead steal closer as soon as he was not looking; Paper was a rare commodity, as precious as coin would be to a beast of more material taste.
At times when his urge to express his thoughts could not be satiated simply by tracing words through the air, Saveaux would take to scraping them in the sand with a thin stick. Yet these works were fickle and were no sooner crafted than undone by a midnight's rain, or trodden upon by travelers or the newt himself, or even swallowed up when the river feeding the lake caused it to swell. Saveaux's initial scheme was to take a page or several from the journal when the vole was fast asleep or otherwise indisposed, but he felt unsettled with his plan.
Thievery, though it may in some cases be in one's best interest, is the work of naught but scoundrels, rapscallions and miscreants. A learned individual such as myself is none of these. Scavenger though I may be, I refuse to prey upon this poor soul in his travels; there may be an importance to the paper of which I am ignorant and thus each sheet he may require for his survival.
Silenced though his urge to indulge in theft was, the newt found it nigh impossible to quiet the compulsion to more closely survey his guest. Saveaux was traveling alone, having arrived at this safe haven without even a book for company. The newt would have taken one of the fragile volumes among his collection when he set out from his home lake, but he found the weight of even one to be too much of a burden on top of a supply sack.
Thinking of his books reminded him of his home and reminiscing about the old lake made him pause along his slow creep towards the vole.
The lake; where he was born, where he, before his encounter with his Blessed Friend the Hedgehog, had thought he would die. It was because of his Friend's passing that he felt the need to further study the world in which he lived. For, if his Friend and Teacher had come from the world outside, along with the treasure trove of volumes the shipwreck had brought with it, then it surely was a wondrous place meriting further examination.
Why did he ever follow that urge to explore?
The moon's light forced him out of his revere; the illumination on this night was so great, darkness would do little to conceal him. Outside of cover, he could easily be spotted. Thus, in a panic brought on by that sudden realization, the newt dove behind the nearest tree.
Saveaux drew himself into a crouch from his prone position, then extended upward to stand tall, pushing against the tree as if he would merge with the bark. Arms tightly at his sides, he cautiously glanced out from under his cover. The small percussive sound of a skinny amphibian making impact with a pile of leaves had not shaken the vole from his slumber. The newt's head swam with relief as he let go the breath he had been holding back, least his exhalations lead the vole to his position.
After three heartbeat's span, Saveaux slid around the tree, separating his back from the trunk only once he cast eyes upon another hiding spot. From the next tree, he did the same. The newt repeated the process, his minute footfalls sounding as beads in a gourd, until he was but ten paces away from the vole and the precious paper.
Away, he swatted at the thought, I'll not thieve. My intent is purely to observe…
Now mere inches away, he could hear the muted breathing of the vole in sleep. Saveaux's wide eyes remained focused on the creature for eons. Should he announce his presence?
He thought not. Dangerous enough was it to wake a stranger from dream, the newt's inability to explain himself, combined with his alien appearance – though not entirely insecure with his looks, Saveaux knew he appeared strange to those beasts blessed with more fur than he – would only further the danger. Instead, he continued to stare at the beast, burning the vole's face into his mind.
Something of the wandering rogue about him. Not the villainous type, yet his visage suggests one well versed in many trades and travels, yet master of none. Mayhap his name is Jack?
Saveaux giggled aloud at his own joke, the sound like dull claws dragging across hardwood in short bursts. The mirth froze in his throat when the vole stirred. Transfixed, the newt found he could not move his legs, even as the beast's eyes began to open a fraction. The eyes abruptly closed. Saveaux involuntarily slid the back of his forearm across his forehead in relief, although newts were incapable of sweating.
Certain that he had encountered enough peril for one night, the newt turned to leave, stopping upon noticing what was spread out before the vole: a journal filled from page to page with hastily scribbled words. It was nearly finished, as evidenced by the penultimate page, halfway covered with text, being the one currently on display. Saveaux again felt an irrepressible tickle in his gut, egging him on to examine the volume. He cast a quick glance at the sleeping vole, then shrugged.
'Twill be no harm in perusing this beast's writing; I do not know him, nor he I, and because we more likely than not shall never cross paths again, 'twill be no great consequence should I violate his privacy.
Saveaux himself could not deny that his reasoning was flawed. The sanctity of a diary was as the sanctitiy of one's mind; an outsider had no right to view what was contained within. Perhaps his deprivation of reading material had been his downfall, he would later reason. How he should have sacrificed some of his supplies to carry the weight of a book – it would have saved him from so much tragedy thereafter.
The newt bent down, retrieved the volume, and sat crossed legged against the side of the tree opposite the vole. He closed the book, flipping it over to return to the beginning. As his little fingers peeled back the cover, his heart welled with anticipation. From the moment the first word upon the first page graced his eyes, Saveaux began drinking up the journal in large draughts. The echo of page scraping upon page became more frequent as his excitement sped his reading. And yet, once the initial thrill of reading when he had been deprived the privilege for so long wore off, the newt found his joy giving way to horror. As he neared the center of the volume, his face twisted in disgust.
Unholy ghasts, this beast's writing is atrocious!
He closed the book, staring at it as if staring at a sworn enemy.
The grammar 'tis flawed as a moth-supped sheet, and the vocabulary 'tis base pedestrian at best. Fie!
Saveaux sat, arms crossed over the book, gripping as if to choke the volume, then suddenly released. Sorrow began to flow over him. He leaned out from his cover to cast a glance at the still slumbering vole.
Piteous creature, forgive me. Being privileged with naught but artfully constructed tomes previous has made me blind to the tribulations of a novice writer.
Saveaux reached across to the vole's pack, withdrawing a charcoal stick. He brandished it upward heroically.
I shall aid you!
The book was flipped back to the beginning. No sooner had it been reopened than the sounds of charcoal meeting paper accompanied the shorter gasps of page turns. The charcoal was his sword, the journal a dragon. Every other page, he vanquished an unneeded comma with a slash of the stick, rescued run-on sentences in distress with his powers of the literary, and repaired broken vocabulary with his artful diction. Saveaux edited the volume two times over before the sun began to draw over the horizon. So entrenched in his work he was that he did not realize the passage of time.
The newt was at the end of his third pass when the blank page and a half caught his eye like a fish hook. The white lengths of paper at the finish of the otherwise filled volume suddenly appeared foreign, as though another, shorter book had met with the one held within his hands. The finish of the last two passes had evoked a similar emotion, yet this time it was more intense, urgent. Those pages should be filled.
Oh conundrum! But I have sworn not to thieve any of this creature's parchment, no matter how miniscule!
The charcoal brushed against the blank paper until it formed a single letter. Saveaux's thoughts of protest dissipated as he was overcome with the desire, no, the necessity to write. In a trance, the charcoal stick crossed the lengths of the half page, the back, the last page and when those were not enough to contain the story, proceeded onto the inside back hardcover for the climax. His hand neared the end of his fiction and finished in his signature so that others may know who penned the tale. Saveaux felt a paw upon his shoulder.
Quicker than the beat of a gnat's wing, the newt's head twisted about to behold the perplexed expression plastered upon the vole's features. Saveaux was paralyzed.
"What are…?"
Where a moment ago sat a newt with a thick volume upon his lap now lay just the volume, small smatterings of footsteps resonating back through the wood, then a splash, then silence.
It had been early fall then. For weeks, the newt prepared for a retaliation, expecting the vole would return to murder or otherwise maim him for his act. Months later, Saveaux's worries had switched from being hunted by a vengeful vole to fortifying his dwelling against the cold. His old residence had held a covered trench where he had been able to take shelter in the winter months; the newt reasoned he should start by emulating that. That morning, he had set about excavating a good sized hole nearby his current mud and stick hut with the aid of a shovel he had constructed from fallen wood, rock and tree fibers fashioned into a twine. Saveaux was halfway done with the task when he heard footsteps.
Echoing his actions of the night he had decided to observe the vole, the newt dove behind the cover of a tree. The moment he had feared was come. Surely Saveaux's actions had enraged the vole and he no doubt had amassed an assault force to pillage his dwelling and execute the amphibian. The steps grew closer. That would be the advance guard, there to scout out the area before the full brunt of the force attacked. The newt's grip around the shovel grew tight. If he was to die, he would not go quietly.
Saveaux exploded out from his cover, shovel held high above his head. Into the breach, he had meant to shout, but instead meaningless sounds spilled from his throat as water from a brook. Emerged in battle high, the newt continued to run, coming within swinging distance of the intruder when he stopped. There was but one beast, a normal sized squirrel, standing in the midst of the clearing.
For a moment his mind gave way to panic; it was not the vole, but surely the squirrel was still the advance guard of a larger force. Something in the beast's face, though, told Saveaux that he was of a different entity. Unlike a hoardsbeast, the squirrel's features contained not a drop of rage, nor malice, nor any other emotion suggesting a warrior out for the kill. Nor any other emotion at all. The squirrel's visage was blank as slate.
"Saveaux?"
The newt jumped upon hearing his name. He was connected to the vole! How he now regretted signing his name at the end of that cursed story!
A small parcel dropped from the squirrel's paws. He was then motionless.
Saveaux debated fleeing for a moment. But that tickle in his stomach began again. There were no pitchforks, daggers, or swords, no warriors, archers or soldiers; his fears had been but paranoia. Were they real, he reasoned, the enemy would be upon him now. Instead, there was just this stranger, who appeared quite unarmed.
The newt dropped on all fours – for he was quicker then – and slithered warily over to the parcel where he snatched the object, retreating back a few feet. He made sure the squirrel was not going to move, then rolled open the page.
"Dearest Saveaux, I have read your story and I must say I am deeply impressed; what an intriguing tale! The skill with which you craft your ballad is akin to naught, as is your use of sublime diction. Truly, you are an author one of a kind. Sincerely, Prof. Fallis, Slave to the Pen"
Which is why, my dear friend, I am extending an invitation to my humble dwelling. I realize that you may be taken aback at having been invited to a beast's abode of whom you do not know, yet I pray you will hear me out. I am an author who delights in naught more than furthering my craft. As such, for the past few seasons I have sealed myself away in seclusion in order that I may focus on nothing aside from that goal. Extreme though it may be, such are the steps one must take for art.
Two seasons past, I hired a beast with whom you may be familiar to roam the world and collect data on any interesting beasts he came across. The purpose, you ask? I needed inspiration for my masterwork and who better to base characters of my epic upon than actual individuals. As you may have already gathered, this beast who I hired came across your home and happened upon you. And I am most gracious he did, for now I believe I have finally found an equal with whose aid I may be able to complete my finest work.
What I propose is a meeting of the minds; I would like you to follow my servant who has given you this message to my dwelling. There, you shall meet me along with nine other individuals upon whom I plan to base the principle characters of my story. With our combined talents, and, in addition, nine interesting personalities upon which we may build, we shall surely craft the finest legend that has ever been written.
I understand that this idea may not appeal to you. After all, we have never met and asking you to venture so far away from your own home simply to write a meager book is unreasonable. Therefore, I shall understand if you refuse. But I pray, think about the possibilities and at least come for a night so that we may discuss it.
Saveaux was taken aback. Surely his meager tale had not been that finely crafted? Yet here was an invitation by a prestigious author within his own hands, all because he had dared to fill a mere three and a half pages full of story. True, he had not heard of this Professor Fallis, but the letter appeared eloquently enough put that he was sure the author was at least skilled to a point. That aside, the opportunity to craft his own tale was something he felt he would regret passing up.
Finished, Saveaux looked up at the squirrel.
"Y..yeees!" he rasped.
The squirrel lead him as far as a tavern called Wood's End. Upon arriving, the newt's companion paid the fee of a night's stay, gave him directions to the castle and went ahead, saying that he must leave Saveaux behind and continue onward least he be late in preparation for the party. How the newt hated being alone.
Saveaux pulled the raged cloak the squirrel had given him about his frame for warmth. The entryway appeared as a gaping maw. He swallowed.
Now that he noticed how ominous the castle appeared, he suddenly questioned the validity of the letter. Even now, this could all be a trap by the vole.
Nonsense! That was already dispelled as paranoid rambling when no act of violence came from it. The letter is what it claims to be, nothing more. Mayhap my ever fanaticizing mind seeks to add more meaning to this occurrence, but it is merely the compulsion to craft a tale.
Saveaux nodded to himself, keeping a determined face even as the drawbridge drew up behind him, the gates closed after like teeth and the door to the main hall opened to reveal a servant.
"Welcome. We hope you will enjoy your stay."