Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 6: All the World's a Wood

Matilda

Circling down and down that cursed tower, a band of undead rotters on our trail, I felt less and less like 'Tilda the Tavern Girl. And ever more the sly assassin Noctilucatilda. Feared and revered member of the fulsome Friends of Friar February. Excellent!

Helped to have a better-than-butter bow upon my back. For sure touched by a bonafide blessed saint. Ooh, gave me an amorous tingle just to hold.

I never had overmuch to do with Artemisia. Patroness of the Hunt, you know. The shy thing has a stick up her butt, always chastising a girl for overmuch charity with her chastity. Still, every Silenian knows Artemisia is a lady's best friend in the woods.

And this tower is the woods. Full of pretty things in the open, and hungry things in the shadows. Ah, Bridget's girlish britches, Cedric says the world's a library. Let's call the world a wood and have done. That's Silenian philosophy, that is.

After the chamber of thirteen doors, we wound down and round. Passing hallways the map warned us to leave alone, At last we came to a large hall, bright with fresh-lit candles. A pretty fountain made a welcoming splash and plash into a basin.

"Nice of them to light the room, see to drinks," said Bodkin. Dear boy was being ironic, if you wondered.

"Is the fountain poisoned?" asked Jewel. "I'm parched. We've not much water left."

"What says the map?"

Mister Barnaby answered with his knowledge of the very same mad map, not bothering to produce said sacred text."

"There are three exits. The ones left and right of us have death heads, so we don't take those. The archway on the far end has a sun sign. We go there."

"What about the fountain?"

Barnaby scratched a chin in sign of deep miller thoughts.

"It shows this fountain with a sun sign and a death's head together. What does that come to?"

That magic kitty of his did not wait to debate. He leapt to the font rim, put head low, began to lap. All very well for him. But what served a mystic feline for drink might not do for a sensible Silenian; nor those near-as-good-as-Silenian.

I approached the fountain. Sniffed. Reached a fingertip, tested tapping to tongue.

"By the authority of my pretty nose I declare this safe drink. Has a wine touch, I shall add."

Jewel produced her horn cup, dipped, sipped with a slurp. Then laughed aloud. Saintly Silvanus nip my mother's nethers, who'd ever heard the sweet dour little witch laugh?

"Ha," she declared. "It's good. I feel less tired. Stronger. And my knee where I fell on the stairs isn't hurting anymore."

"A healing font," declared Cedric. "Let us rest here."

Our growling scowling bard argued against rest. "Capitano may have already passed the outer guardians. In which case we've a horde of undead behind us."

"Perhaps he'll assume we went upwards," considered Cedric.

"Else he'll split his troops," suggested Bodkin. "Then we'll only be facing a mere half an undead horde."

"Up or down, he has no map," our Barnaby pointed out. "He'll have to try different doors, different paths."

"Oh, and that will cost him," agreed Bodkin.

"Fine," said the Bard. "Fine. We rest. But not overlong."

So we sat, snacked, drinking the font's wonderful offering. It felt wonderful; like I'd had a bath and a good night's sleep. A happy mood took the party. The growly bard and the frowny witch started singing racy ditties with rhymes like 'miller' and 'fill her', 'cleric and derrick'.