Clifford gathered his things, hoisted the guitar and strapped it to his back, and then shouldered the bundle, complete with Schrodinger inside. As they started once again walking toward Historia, Schrodinger scurried down the bundle-stick and landed on Clifford’s shoulder, near his ear.
“What now?” Clifford asked, a trifle annoyed.
“I just want you to think about something that just happened.”
“What? The old guy... er, woman... crone... thing? The fireplace? The sandstorm?”
Schrodinger gave an exasperated sigh (I’m telling you, a mouse sighing, funniest thing on the planet), “You asked the person how they knew your name before they had said it.”
Clifford paused, then kept walking, “What about it?”
Schrodinger tapped on his shoulder with a rapidly moving paw, and for a moment Clifford couldn’t tell if the mouse was annoyed or it was scratching, “Clifford, how could he or she have known your name? And how could you know that they knew your name?”
Clifford Jenkins, probably a little less sensible now than most men of 40 years, tapped a finger on the bundle-stick, “I’m more concerned with you, my friend. Why was that person so afraid?”
Schrodinger started back up the bundle-stick and toward his makeshift home, “Stop under the tree over this next sand dune. We’ll talk in the shade.”
Clifford shook his head and began the climb up the fairly imposing sand dune. As he crested it, he saw the tree Schrodinger was referring to, a monstrous Evergreen, the sand around it littered with pine cones and needles.
He sat his belongings down and made his way to the river. He gathered some water in a canteen he’d brought along. Looking slightly up river (or is it down river... river’s aren’t supposed to run uphill, how the crap is one supposed to know where to go?) Clifford saw a bird drinking water. Clifford’s first thought was a brief thanks to whatever god or gods had seen fit to put a bird in his path.
It took a moment for him to catch the bird, which he realized was a turkey. (Let me say here that if you’ve never seen a 40-year-old man wrestle a turkey to the death, well, it’s on par funny with a sighing mouse.) It took him the better part of two hours to de-feather and clean the bird, before using the dried pine-needles to start a fire. He took the feathers and entrails (I know, ick!) and tossed them in the river, where they flowed downhill while the water continued flowing uphill. He thought this odd for only a second until his hunger got the better of his curiosity. He cooked the turkey and, using the block of cheese and the dried meat jerky he’d brought, prepared himself a small feast.
“What?” Schrodinger said, scampering from the bundle, “You’re not going to share?”
Clifford cocked his head to the side, more puzzled than ever, “If I know anything, I know that mice don’t eat meat.”
“And I can talk, something else mice can’t do. What does that tell you about me?”
Clifford nodded and slid some of the cooked meat over to his mousy friend, “So let’s talk?”
Schrodinger swallowed a bite of the turkey meat and rested back on his haunches, “Look around you, Clifford Jenkins. You are from the town of Nostalgia, which is in a mountainous area, trees like this, right? So how is it that a desert valley is less than a day’s walk away from you? How is a pine tree in the desert? How does a river run uphill?”
Clifford had stopped eating when Schrodinger started talking, “I don’t know. I mean, I’m trying to figure out what the gall-dang crap I’m doing out here. One night I’m sitting in Timey’s bar, playing guitar like usual, the next morning I’ve decided that I have to reach Historia come Hell or high water. I packed a bunch of crap that’ll run out in about two days.”
Schrodinger laughed (again, hilarious), “Have you not also noticed that this is still the same day as when you entered the King’s Valley? We’ve traveled probably eighty miles, three days walking, carrying the amount you’re carrying, and yet it’s only taken us a day and a half. We entered the King’s Valley only three hours ago, as the Sun reckons.”
Clifford looked up for the first time since entering the Valley and saw rain clouds overhead, “It feels like we’ve been here for days.”
Schrodinger quickly swallowed another bite of turkey meat, “Historia is in chaos. The parts of the city are rebelling against themselves. The Vikings keep pushing Guevara’s guerillas even farther back, the Inquisition has actually reached the Smithsonian, and the Vatican has been turned into a giant gift shop. Father Time is ill, he’ll probably die soon.”
Clifford finally broke from his thoughtful reverie (he didn’t know who the Vikings or the Guevara’s gorilla’s were, nor did he have any idea about an Inquisition, a Smith’s On Yan, or the Vat-a-Can, but he did know what a gift shop was) and grabbed another bite of the turkey before Schrodinger ate it all, “And that has what to do with me?”
Schrodinger popped another bit of cheese into his mouth, and after seconds of chewing, spoke around the bits still in his mouth, “Clifford, I have no idea. But if I had my guess, I’d say you’re not the only one making a journey to Historia for no apparent reason.”
Clifford leaned back against the tree and instantly regretted it, the sap momentarily gluing him to the trunk, “So let’s get back to you. What are you?”
Schrodinger had already started withdrawing to the bundle, “Me? I’m a mouse. Just a mouse. Oh, and I can talk. Big whoop. Let’s go. We’ll be out of the King’s Valley soon. Don’t be surprised if time goes all wibbly-wobbly on you.”
Clifford took the pseudo-warning in stride and began cleaning up his temporary campsite. The rainclouds finally broke into a torrential downpour that made walking along the sandy valley floor even harder. Clifford stopped at a rocky outcropping and rummaged through his old travel bag for a moment. He pulled out a hat with the letters NY on it, something his granpappy had given him years ago. Another talisman.
He trudged on through the mud. After hours of walking, he finally saw the high rock wall that made up the west end of the King’s Valley.
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