Historia, Part XII

The farm of Pepperidge was now a day’s walk behind them, the King’s Valley even farther. After retrieving his belongings from Henry’s porch Clifford had started once more along the westward path to Historia. Schrodinger had scarcely shut up about Clifford’s ‘gift,’ which at this point was causing Clifford a rather significant headache.

About two hours after leaving Henry’s farm, Clifford had found an old road, which made the walking that much easier. When night had fallen he’d camped out just off the road, under the low branches of a willow tree. Upon awakening Schrodinger began ranting once more about Clifford’s ‘gift.’

“Okay,” Clifford suddenly cried, “Now, I get it. I have a gift. Big deal. How much farther is it to Historia?”

Schrodinger had started back out the stick to the bundle, “Not too far. We just have to go through the City of Lithe.”

Clifford paused for a moment, “The City of Lithe?”

The mouse was suddenly back on his shoulder, “Yeah, have you heard of it?”

Clifford was walking again, “No, I don’t think so. But I’m scared of it for some reason.”

Schrodinger went back to his bundle. It was a matter of two hours walking before Clifford saw the city of Lithe.

It was a mountain, or at least part of it was. The city started low in a valley and worked it’s way up the mountain. Some of the buildings leaned at awkward angles, some seemed to have been built upside-down. Others looked like large trees that had been hollowed out and then splattered haphazardly with windows.

Smoke rose from chimneys all throughout the city, even though, as Clifford thought, it was rather warm for early winter. That is, if it was still winter, the Constellation Hendrix was in the sky the night before, so it was the winter months. Were the Historians up to something new?

Up ahead on the road Clifford could see a wooden sign, slightly dry-rotted, but still very legible. He maintained a rather leisurely pace to approach the sign, his own misgivings about going through Lithe growing stronger.

The sign read, in large, gothic print: LITHE, City of Hell
It had a skull a crossbones painted beneath it. On the ground was either a rock shaped like a skull or an actual skull.

“Schrodinger, is there any way around this town?”

The mouse spoke up, “You remember that feeling you had about the farm of Pepperidge? How that there was no way to avoid it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what this is. If you want to go to Historia, you have to pass through Lithe.”

The old road wound down the hillside toward the valley, and as Clifford could now see, toward the walls of the city of Lithe. The closer he got, the more the sense of dread began to weigh him down.

The leaves on the trees around him changed color as they walked toward the city. The gold-and-orange display that had dominated the hills around the farm of Pepperidge were replaced by dark browns and, in some cases, black leaves. The ground was harder, as well. Far to the north, though not so far as to not be heard, roared a waterfall. Clifford hazarded the guess that it was the uphill river from the King’s Valley. All things seemed to lead to Historia.

Schrodinger sat on his shoulder the whole time as the approached the city. The road narrowed as it pointed the way to the main gate of the city, a tall, barred gate with two sentries posted outside the wall and another six inside.

Clifford walked cautiously toward the wall, fearing the city (for some still unknown reason) and doing all he could to muster the courage to pass through the gate and not turn back and run away. He suddenly feared that his voice would crack when he answered the guards, and that just wouldn’t look right for a formerly sensible 40 year old man.

“Halt!” yelled the first guard, “Who are you?”

“Tell them your name,” Schrodinger said.

“Cliff... Clifford Jenkins, of Nostalgia.”

The guard looked to his fellow sentry, then back at Clifford, “And why, O Clifford Jenkins of Nostalgia, are you coming to the great City of Lithe?”

Clifford fought past the sudden urge to vomit, “I am seeking Historia.”

The guard flicked his hand high into the air and the massive steel gate began to swing open, “You may pass, Clifford Jenkins of Nostalgia, but beware! Few ever reach Historia from this point.”

Clifford maintained his poise as he walked through the gate. He even managed to turn the corner around a large building and begin walking away from the guards before he had to find an alleyway and purge his stomach.

He looked up and realized the industry of the city. What he’d thought were chimneys with fires going were actually smokestacks over factories. He walked on, looking around, and looking to the inhabitants like a tourist.

As he walked through a secondary city wall he found himself in what he could only figure to be a market. There were stalls throughout, each one selling various wares. Guns (which Clifford already had one, and no one had asked him where or how he got it, and frankly, he’d almost forgotten how he’d gotten it), knives, foods, drinks, women, men, all was for sale in the great market of the great city of Lithe.

In the middle of it all was a man wearing a small sign around his neck, crying out in a loud voice, “Repent! The end is nigh! Gods be praised, repent, ye sinners and ye saints alike!”

Clifford walked past the man and stopped at a stall selling knives. His Swedish Navy knife was getting dull and he needed a sharpening stone. He pointed to a medium sized stone, “How much?”

“Forty-five, no less. But I’ll haggle if you must.” The old woman working the stall said. She reminded Clifford of the ancient thing that had confronted him at Carnacabidos.

Clifford picked up a smaller stone, “And this one?”

“Forty-five, no less. But I’ll haggle if you must.”

Clifford leaned forward, “You realize that’s the same price right? How much is everything on the table?”

“Forty-five, no less. But I’ll haggle if you must.”

Clifford moved on, and it took him a moment to realize that he still had the small sharpening stone in his hand. He turned to give it back and the stall was gone. He was fast growing weary of this land. But thankfully his sense of dread over the city of Lithe was diminished by the ambience of the market.

“Flood!” Someone shouted, “The river’s overfilled. Get to a high place, quick!”

Clifford went to move, but he was knocked back and forth by scurrying patrons. He reached for the central pole, which looked rather well founded, and began to climb. He could now hear the rushing water, but he couldn’t remember which direction the waterfall was in.

It was at the moment that a wall of water crested the nearest building, slightly behind him and to the right, and slammed hared into Clifford, pressing him against the pole. He clutched tightly, riding out the torrent. Then it was over. The flood had lasted a mere moment. It was devastating to the market. Stalls were overturned, patrons were digging themselves out from under rubble and flotsam.

“Well, that as something, wasn’t it, Schrodinger?”

No answer.

“Schrodinger?”