Wonka stood in the highest room in the highest tower that wasn't a smoke stack. The walls were lined with Oompa-Loompa sized consoles on the bottom half, and windows on the top. This room was the factory's air traffic control tower, usually employed on shipment days to receive ingredients and ship out the end product, but today it was geared up to receive a smallish passenger aircraft. The pilot was chattering in badly-constructed Oompa-Loompanese sentences, but his meaning was conveyed. He was landing, and he sent his regards to Mr. Wonka.
As the plane touched the runway, Willy Wonka straightened his tall hat and nodded goodbye to his crustacean-heighted crew. He took the elevator to the ground floor and threw the open the doors to the runway, making a grand exit onto the weather-darkened pavement. Ever since he had fired the last of his human crew members, the pavement and bricks of his factory had faded from its original brilliant white. The rate of deterioration, oddly, matched his increasing intolerance for human contact.
Oompa-Loompas wheeled step units up to the plane, carried fuel hoses and luggage, and busied themselves preparing for their boss's departure. Each of them took the time to pause and bow to Wonka, wishing him a happy journey in their strange language.
Willy climbed the steps to the aircraft's passenger hatch, taking a moment to wave goodbye at the back windows, where his strange gaggle of employees gathered, watching him leave. With a deep breath and an unusual smile, he entered the plane.
"Hello, Mr. Davisson!" he greeted cheerfully.
"Hello, Mr. Wonka." There was a pause. "You remembered my name! Thank you!"
Willy smiled nervously, making his way to the passenger compartment. So far, so good. Now just get me to Mongolia without too much chatter.
"The scullery in the back has all kinds of interesting things this trip," Davisson notified his passenger. "Western stocked a sample of some of the more unusual prepacked food, along with some things they thought you might find more palatable."
"How, uh, thoughtful of them," he replied with a half-smile. No such luck.
"Your crew has cleared us for take off; please be seated and put on your belt. I'll turn off the light when we're aloft." The unseen pilot finished his shouted-from-the-cockpit conversation and concentrated on the take-off as Wonka obediently sat and fastened his safety belt.
The flight was a long, quiet ride. The scenery of the nearly absurd altitude at which they travelled aloft was nothing but clouds and more clouds—as exciting as the unusual view was, even Willy Wonka's child-like wonder waned after many hours. He finished off a few books on Mongolia, and started reading another regarding the chemical structure of taste and how to affect it by using synthetic components. He shortly became disgusted with the ideology behind the book and left it behind the seat. Four more hours of staring out the window, and he was sleeping like a baby. He awoke for barely a few minutes when the craft stopped to refuel in Hawaii, and again in Okinawa.
"Mr. Wonka?" a voice called him, reaching invasively into his dreams. "Mr. Wonka, we're here."
His eyes drifted open sluggishly, and he observed Mr. Davisson standing at a polite distance—in the entrance to the passenger compartment. He seemed a little fearful, but more than that, he seemed—
"There's a guide waiting on the ground for you, but if you like, I can send him away. You look like you could use a few days rest. I'd… I'd be happy to call and arrange a stay at a hotel or something." Davisson bit the inside of his lower lip, fretting over the pale man.
Concerned? "No, but thank you," Willy told him graciously. "I'm quite ready to be moving." He stood up perhaps a little quickly, and took a moment to regain his balance after such a long flight. The flightmust have taken atleast fourteen hours. "What time is it?" he asked, scrunching his eyebrows together and frowning.
"Late evening, local time. The flight took about fifteen hours and twenty minutes."
"Quite a nap, then!" Willy grinned thinly and nodded. Why didn't landing wake me up? Why is he still standing between me and the door?
Mr. Davisson nodded back after a moment, and exited the plane in front of his passenger.
Mongolia was mountains and yellowed grassland. The chosen landing strip was remote on purpose—the chocolatier didn't want anyone, anywhere, anyhow to know that he wasn't guarding his factory. For all the rest of the world knew, he was still in his fortress, making candy.
But Willy loved to travel.
The Mongolian guide in question was hovering near the step unit, picking his nose. Willy wrinkled his nose momentarily, then descended to the pavement and retrieved his small cart of luggage. They walked silently to the tiny shack of an airport, stopped only by a half-asleep agent who boredly checked Willy's passport. The guide had waiting for them two of the strangest looking animals Willy had ever seen—and he had seen a lot of strange animals.
"Llamas," the guide explained.
"These aren't like any llamas I've ever seen," Willy noticed. "They're orange."
The guide ignored his charge's amusement and hefted Willy's pack onto the llama, then offered a hand to help him onto its back.
Unsure, he climbed atop the brilliantly coloured llama and took the reigns.
His guide did the same, and started off. Without any cue from Wonka, the llama lurched forward to follow the first one. "What is it you wish to see, Mr. Wonka?"
He tilted his head back and to the angle, looking around. "I read that there is a strange set of mountains here that are very cold during the winter, but accessible during the summer."
The guide seemed uneasy, but assented. "I will take you to these mountains. My English is very limited, so I am sorry, but we cannot talk very much."
"That's good," Willy replied, thankful that his association with the guide could be limited.
They travelled on the road for a few hours, then switched to dirt paths. The view was amazing—without dense trees or civilization, the rocky grasslands stretched out into forever. Strangely enough, vanished were the few buildings served by the airport. By the time they stopped for the night, the only sources of light were the lantern the guide carried, and the moon and stars. Camp consisted of two low sheepskin tents and some fur blankets. The llamas slept huddled together outside. The night was surprisingly cold, despite the season.
Travel was quiet. Once in awhile, the guide would pause to point out an interesting geographical landmark, a village of nomadic shepherds, or an animal particular to the Mongolian countryside. Other than that, few words passed between them. Willy was content. The guide was only slightly puzzled by his charge's tendency to stop and taste random things—plants, berries, and sometimes the odd root. The Mongolian was amazed that the chocolatier passed over the poisonous varieties by instinct.
On the third day, they arrived at the mountains requested. The mountains ended in the clouds; almost half of them were covered in snow and ice. Willy's sharp eyes picked out strangely coloured shapes meandering about.
"These are the mountains where the coloured breed of llamas came from. There are strange animals on this mountain, not all of them docile."
"Can we go up?" he asked, thoroughly curious.
The guide snorted. "You can, if you want, but I will wait here. These mountains are dangerous. The animals on this mountain are dangerous."
Willy was already checking the machete at his side and the knives strapped to his boots. "How many days supplies do we have individually?"
"Four days left, sir," the guide answered.
"Oh good. Wait for me here."
The guide paled. "You… you will go up the mountain? By yourself?"
"Yes," he answered confidently.
The guide snorted and muttered something in Mongolian.
Willy rolled his eyes. "If I'm not back by tomorrow, go wherever you want. The money is waiting for you in the form of a wired check back at the airport."
"Yes sir, Mr. Wonka," the Mongolian wheeled his llama around to find a decent camp site. "Whatever you say. Ai, wait. Do not take the llama much into the snow. It only has its winter coat."
"Right then," he said, more to the llama than to the guide. "Let's hit the road."
Two days later, Willy Wonka was hopelessly lost. He'd reached the snowy portion of the mountain a few hours into the ride, and let his llama make its way back to the guide. On foot, he'd managed to wander deep into the icy portion of the mountains. Usually, his sense of direction was enough to take him back home; thus, he didn't worry too much about where he was going. Usually, he would make good enough time on the return trip that he could carry just enough supplies; thus, he only took about a day's worth of food and water with him. This trip was anything but usual.
On his return trip, he spotted a tuft of orange fur on a sharp rock. The trail of orange fur, he reasoned, ought to lead him back down the mountain on the same path his llama took. After a full day of following this trail, he still could not see the grasslands or anything but mountain and rocky ravine. He knew the guide would be gone by now. The snow on the mountain would be enough in the way of water, but food would be a problem on the way home. He naturally ate very little, so he could stretch what he had.
Nearing sunset on the second day, Willy was wandering in the ice again, attempting to retrace his steps. He walked with his head to the ground, looking for any evidence of where he had been; all he saw were animal tracks. Some of them looked less like hooves and more like claws. This made him a little nervous; he kept his machete at hand.
A tuft of pink fur waved at him from a gnarled shrub growing from under a ledge. In the dim light of the sunset, Willy had nearly missed it. He stopped for a moment, curiosity overcoming his concern, and he loosed it from its perch. He ran the fur between his fingers, marvelling. Soft. So soft. Nothing is ever—his mind wandered, encouraged by his exhaustion.
His father was never a man given to comfort. Everything in the house was wood or stone or metal. Utilitarian, he had called it. It had purpose. Everything had to have a purpose, an order, a reason. Willy later wagered the death of his mother had caused this reaction, but as he could not remember his mother, he didn't know if she had been keen on fluffy things. He only remembered a photograph of her in a pink angora sweater, and vaguely he remembered the feel of the sweater against his tiny infant hands. Soft. So soft. The memory was so distant, it was like a dream. He couldn't remember anything else associated with the meaning soft; later in life, he sought out corduroys and velvets and fuzzy fabrics with which to fill his personal wardrobe, but he avoided angora almost subconsciously. The fur he held between his thumb and forefinger now was as soft as his memory of his mother. He gazed at it absently.
Suddenly, a purpose took him. He had to find the animal that created that fur. He had to find it, and maybe capture one to live in the factory. Something in his insides was gnawing at him, screaming at him to find the owner of that fur.
Before he could move, three hundred pounds of claws and fangs landed on him with the force of a mac truck. He went down, surprised, and flailed wildly in his own defense. The attacker, a huge grey-and-deep blue cat-like animal, snarled savagely and struck at him with talons like razors. Pinned and unable to move efficiently, he took a blow from his right shoulder to mid-chest. Hollaring something hellish, he heaved his free arm and the machete up to cut across the animal's face and neck. It yelped and retreated a few steps, dripping blood but seething in anger. Willy ditched his pack and rolled to his side and pushed himself to his feet, holding his left arm to his chest to gauge the damage—a bleeder, but nothing he couldn't bandage.
The cat-thing ran forward again, fangs flashing, and reared up to swat at its prey with both front paws. It missed the first time as Willy scrambled back, swinging in return, but was rewarded the second time as Willy's attempted dodge ended up as a trip.
Willy hit the ground hard, grunting in pain and smacking his head hard against a rock.
The creature moved eagerly towards its dazed target, the smell of blood pulling at its nostrils. It licked its blue-furred lips and growled, placing a paw on both of Willy's shoulders and lowering its jaws for the kill.
Willy's head swam. His vision was nothing but swimming shadows and dimmer darkness, but he dully felt a weight on his shoulders and smelled rank breath on his face. Ignoring the pain in his chest, he stabbed upward with the machete, sinking it into the creature's neck.
It didn't flail or anything; it just ceased moving and sank onto the supine figure beneath it.
Ow… hurts… I can't… He lost consciousness.