Will Be Told

By Phineas G. Tuffle

Truth Like A Fairytale and its sequel, Will Be Told, are studies in an older writing form known as “fabulism”. Possibly the most famous writer in that style is Ambrose Bierce, an American Civil War veteran and newspaper reporter for the Hearst publishing empire. Most of his fictional stuff was very dark, and reflected some ghastly experiences he had as a soldier. Fabulism is not quite science fiction and not quite fantasy. As far as I can tell, it is a lot of outrageous statements strung together with little or no attempt to justify them. My favorite one from Bierce’s writing goes something like, “I slung my electric rifle over my back and walked downward into the valley for three months”. Modern examples of fabulism might be a flying squirrel and an upright-walking moose who defend the free world from their hometown in Minnesota, or a Stone Age blue collar worker who lives with his wife in a rock house, has a dinosaur for a dog and a sabretooth house cat, and powers his car with his enormous feet. So, yes, the fabulist writing style amounts to word cartoons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phineas G. Tuffle
• Release date: Jul 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463231661

Book preview

Will Be Told

Or

Wilder’s End

a novel by

Phineas G. Tuffle

© Copyright 2018 by Phineas G. Tuffle

Published by John Bartlett

The author reserves all rights to himself.

Cover Illustration The Abbess Arrives At Bismuth

by Laura McKenzie Atkins

Table of Contents

About the Author

Author’s Foreword

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Finale

About the Author

Phineas Gereint Tuffle was born March 21st 1911, in Fowler, Indiana. He graduated cum laud from Fowler High School, and won a scholarship to study Liberal Arts at Butler University in Indianapolis. He majored in journalism, and upon graduation secured a position as a cub reporter for the Chicago Sun. In 1943, he was first nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for his essay entitled Sunrise At Kasserine Pass. He won the Dilman Prize for the same essay. In 1944, he was picked up by Midwestern Monthly Magazine to cover the Normandy Landings. Tuffle was to cross paths many times in 1944/45 with friend and fellow Hoosier, Ernie Pyle. The two of them collaborated on several documentaries for Newsreel and Pathe News from the front lines in western Europe. After World War II, Tuffle covered most conflicts involving American military personnel for a number of international publications. Among them were Look, Time and The Economist. During the post Viet Nam years, Tuffle was to enjoy counter culture notoriety after covering Blue Oyster Cult's Summer Tour of 1976 for Rolling Stone Magazine. Until after his death on April 4th 2000, he was known primarily as a war correspondent, as well as a writer of short stories and Christian essays. In his house on the Ormeau Road in Belfast, Northern Ireland, his grandson, Simon Tuffle, found a chest containing the manuscripts of nineteen novels that Phineas expressly desired to have published after his death. Truth, Like A Fairy Tale..., and its sequel, ... Will Be Told, were among them.

Author’s Foreword

As always, any resemblance between characters in this story and persons living or dead is most unfortunate. Except on this occasion, there is one real person and that is General Abner Doubleday, who fought in the American Civil War. General Doubleday was wounded at Gettysburg and did not receive a combat command after that. This was, no doubt, largely political. It has been said that he claimed to have invented baseball on a date and time when he was, by his own account, on duty as a student at West Point. The game had supposedly taken place many miles from there. It has been said that he could not have been in two places at the same time. Sergeant Major Dale Conklin and the former slave, Edward Ned Mc Tierny are obviously fictional, though each is an amalgam of historic characters.

Every Blessing to you.

Phineas G. Tuffle

I

"Let the Chase be upon them!"

Sir Rejjinard from Second the Book of Heroes 12:41

Wilder stood by the The River near the G Street Bridge. Mouth agape, he was looking up.

Presently, Darken came and stood beside him. He too was looking up, slack jawed. He was first to speak.

Dude! I'm sorry! was all Wilder's partner could manage.

Yeah! Thanks! This time there was no sarcasm in Wilder's tone.

It must be twelve hundred kingsfeet tall!, Wilder said after a while longer.

Hence the flashing lights on the top!, Darken chuckled slightly.

Yeah! Thanks, partner! This time the tone was Wilder's best in dripping sarcasm

Darken responded, "Ya know, bro. I was just thinking that when I tell my mother about this she's gonna tell me to come home! But, Guppy! You are home! I'm sad for you!"

You said it, brother! Darken knew from his tone that his partner kop and brother in the same faith was almost in tears. I can't stay here!

Darken looked at Wilder. Then back at the twelve hundred kingsfoot statue of Wilder standing on the opposite bank on a huge lot in The Other City. It was clearly put there by the Catfish People. They must have entered into some kind of secret negotiation with The Other City. At odd intervals, a few bars of very loud and extremely odd music came from the huge head, then an obviously fabricated human sounding voice said, I AM OFFICER WILDER McURPHY! ALL THE AWFUL PEOPLE SEE MY GREATNESS!

Darken gave another brief, dry chuckle. Bro! I so understand!

They each turned and walked toward their respective carmobiles as the statue blared its message one more time.

At which point, Wilder winced, then turned back to Darken and said, Did you really see him?

Darken smiled in the enigmatic way he frequently did which told his partner that he would never know all of the story behind the question and said simply, Yes.

***

One year earlier:

Wilder bent over and picked the card from the dead man's hand.

So, Face knows how to make nombies, he said in a somewhat despairing voice.

Let me see! Darken held his hand out.

Wilder handed him the card.

Darken read aloud. 'Have gun, carmobile and shovel. Will travel. Callum O'Shoelace Esquire'. Darken moaned, That guy gets everywhere."

Smugly, Wilder said, No, turn it over.

Darken turned the card over. He stared at it for a few moments, then said, So, I guess Face knows how to make nombies.

Written on the back by hand was, They're shrinking heads!

The Earth reader will need to appreciate that shrinking heads is what nombies do for entertainment. A nombie is what results when the venom from a dart fish (probuscis profundis) is given to a human in sufficient quantity to destroy the part of the brain which allows the individual to think for himself/herself. If given no specific task (and go to sleep is a specific task), they will begin to hunt normal humans for the purpose of removing and shrinking their heads. It has been postulated that in the dim, distant past some overseer asked what to do with the nombies when they were done with some project, and the reply from some evil person was, They can hunt heads for all I care, and this is in the collective racial memory of all nombies. Otherwise, claim the manthropologists, it makes no sense.

Later, it would turn out that the card was written and given to the victim by Garvey McByard.

In the meantime, Darken looked at Wilder, eyes wide, and said, Do you remember what happened just before Freebie and Towbar were killed?

Eyes equally wide, Wilder said, Let's get out of here!

They had been in the antechamber of some underground labyrinth. They got out just in time to hear a muffled explosion, sounding like a cough, come from deep below, followed by a basso rumbling sound. Darken picked Wilder up and ran perhaps fifty kingsfeet before the ground where they had been standing gave way and a hole about three to four hundred kingsfeet deep opened up.

Darken put Wilder down and the two of them stood holding each other for a brief moment as they looked at the hole and each realized how narrowly they had escaped death once again.

Together, they walked over and looked over the edge.

Well, anything that was down there is dead now. Darken observed.

Let's hope so! quipped Wilder.

After a few moments more, Wilder said, Was that Deju Nu or what?

Darken smiled. I hear ya! He had stopped taking his partner to task for the Piccard phrases a long time ago.

***

Mister Smyler had a tendency to gravitate toward games of chance. He played very skillfully at cards and other such games where large amounts of money often changed hands. Yet Mister Smyler did not gamble, because he never won a denny. Furthermore, Mister Smyler had long maintained that, even if the other players in these games thought they were gambling they were not, because he had already decided to make a gift of how much he had in his pocket at the time. Like to the boys he saw lounging in an alley just off F Street by The River.

Mister Smyler checked his wallet and found a fifty bollar note.

The KING gives and the KING takes away, said Mister Smyler.

He turned the rented carmobile around and went back to a bank he had seen further up on the corner of Ninth Street. And there it was, the F Street Bank. Fifty bollars worth of dimays and Mister Smyler appeared in the alley among four boys ranging in age from nine to twelve. He stayed there with them and taught them how to pitch dimays instead of dennies until they had won all his fifty bollars worth of dimays.

Later, the boys would laugh at the old man's accent and imitate him as he walked away saying he would be back to teach them how to pitch quatters (or dem kwatters as Mister Smyler called them). They went to O'Fatso's, and had two sammiches each. Then they had enough left over to pool their remaining cash and buy a limited edition Enormous Man comic book. This, they said was qool!

What Mister Smyler got from that exchange was a wealth of information.

There was a house of magroonish looking creatures within sight of where they were. In fact, they were being watched by them at that very moment.

They had come to this part of The City because they were operating on the theory that him call-ed by some, 'Colonel Badde' had used a nearby warehouse to store and mix the chemicals used in the B Street Bridge Bombing.

They were apparently holed up in the house because their carmobile was broken and they did not know how to fix it.

It's outta gas! offered the youngest one, and got a cuffing from the oldest one.

When Mister Smyler asked the boys why they were wearing plastic badges, one of the ten-year-old-looking boys said, We tol' 'em we're park rangers!

Apparently the little people believed that park rangers were the most trustworthy of humans. They had been paying the boys to run errands for them.

***

The arrow arced superbly. It struck the target directly between the shoulder blades and the beast went down, dead.

I got him, Mister Cryptal! Goodwell roared in triumph.

Goodwell opened his eyes and sighed.

Yes, and then you woke up, old chap! said Goodwell to himself.

Eh! Wot was that, sir? Mister Cryptal stammered as he woke.

Oh, sorry, old friend! said Goodwell, abashed. I didn't mean to wake you!

Time I was up anyways, sir! said Mister Cryptal stretching and yawning. He opened the vehicle door and gulped in the fresh air. It's funny, sir, but I was jus' dreamin' 'bout your first kill!

What an astounding coincidence! said Goodwell straight-faced. So was I. Only it was OUR first kill, dear man!

Now I know yer always tellin' me that, sir! Cryptal stepped out of the vehicle and stretched again. And I do appreciate it an' all, but...!

The bullet ricocheted off a rock, and then Goodwell heard the crack of a sniper's rifle. He noted, smiling, that Mister Cryptal had returned to the vehicle with great alacrity.

Now then, sir! said Mister Cryptal, somewhat breathless, I think that was two shots!

Are you sure it wasn't a ricochet and an echo?, said Goodwell conversationally.

Yessir! Two shots, I think.

But what were they shooting at then? he asked and then immediately said, Oh my word!, as a body fell from the trees to the front and right of the vehicle.

Mister Cryptal drove straight to the body as a third round pinged off the vehicle's hood.

I seen 'im that time, sir! Mister Cryptal pointed straight ahead.

I did too! Please stop!

With a deftness that belied his age, Chaplain Goodwell jumped from the vehicle, as Mister Cryptal applied the brakes, un-holstered his sidearm and fired three shots straight ahead in one easy motion. Then another body fell from a tree some distance away.

The first body turned out to be a Piccard female. She was carrying an electronic tablet. It would turn out that she was a Piccard agent. She had turned aside from her primary mission, because she had seen the opportunity to kill a hated god-man, as the Piccards called the Chaplains.

Neither one of them would miss the portents in the second body's species. It was a grabba-noid; a semi-human looking beast with a huge head for its body size and scaly skin (in this one's case, green and black scales). Grabba-noids understand most human weapons. They would be more worrisome to humans than any other creature if there were more of them. Thankfully, there had always been a mere few.

Innit strange, sir? said Mister Cryptal, looking at the fallen beast.

Looks just like our first kill, doesn't it!, replied Goodwell.

Indeed it does, sir! Innit strange, though?

Do you mean how it was really trying to kill all three of us, and not save your life and mine at all? asked Goodwell.

Um, no sir. More like how often d’you see them things, sir?

Pulling his cloak closer about him, Goodwell said, Welcome to Magna Sodor, old friend!, a somewhat ghastly look upon his face.

***

So, Chaplain Goodwell is to enter the Hall of Legends for being the only human being ever credited with killing two grabba-noids. His story was originally shown on Magna Sodor News and picked up by all the national agencies and several international ones. Two boys that were out to snare some winter trout apparently saw the whole thing.

The Earth reader will need to appreciate that winter trout are not fish at all. There are a good many huge lakes in the provinces of Mini and Magna Sodor that no one knows the depth of. A winter trout, aquatica sillicus, is a four legged amphibian creature that appears to favor these lakes. They are sillicowan based creatures that only come to the surface when it begins to cool. There is a legend that if you pull one out of the water at first light, and it looks like a rainbow in color, then it will give you the location of nearby treasure in exchange for its life. They are also known to be quite tasty. In appearance they somewhat resemble a mandrake root, which is found on Earth.

Grabba-noids are only ever seen about once in a hundred and twenty years. Everyone who has ever encountered such a beast has reported dreaming about it beforehand. When asked by the very cute TV reporter, both Goodwell and his driver, one Mister Cryptal, said they couldn't remember whether they dreamed about it the time before when they killed the first one.

Chaplain Goodwell is a very humble force of nature. He inclined his head and smiled in his very nice way at the young woman and said it was, further back than I care to remember!

I have met Mister Cryptal a couple of times. He strikes me as a modest soul who only ever talks much to Chaplain Goodwell. The first time I met him he merely nodded and smiled. The second time, he said, Now then, Officer McUrphy! as he smiled and nodded once again. He said to the reporter, not unpleasantly, I can't remember, miss, an' it weren't my kill!

Poor Darken, he's really worried about Ringa. Like me, Darken has probably lost track of the number of times he promised himself that he personally would kill him called by some, Colonel Badde. He keeps marveling to think how much more distracted he would have been if his parents had not shown up when they did. I'm a little worried about him now.

My partner and I are back in The City for now. We're following up on a serious haul of evidence that Darken's dad uncovered by talking to some kids that were supposed to be Streetcar's and Babes' snoots. It seems very likely that, by using a dockside and stairway by The River, near the F Street Bridge that only shows up on the oldest City maps, Face's operatives were able to mix and transport the explosives that destroyed the B Street Bridge. He even found two pallets of dish soap, which is one of the active ingredients in Colonel Badde's Explosive Compund, as it's coming to be called. The stuff can be mixed as either a solid or a liquid.

It's been three weeks since Bebberly Rammskorker's funeral, and that is all the further we seem to be in catching this mad man. We are so many steps behind him that there's no point in even counting. The problem is, Face or Badde (or whomever) is prepared to sacrifice all of his operatives rather than let us get a step closer to him. So this may be as close as we ever get.

I've been told the place Darken and I were nearly killed in is called a Temple of Simplicity. There were only four of them in the world. The original one is near Cadiz in Spang. The other three are here in the New World. Or, rather, were here in the new world. Two of them are gone. One was lost back before white men came to live in large numbers upon the New Continent. It was on the Magnificent Plain in Mandaniana. It succumbed to a flood, and became the largest sink hole on the New Continent. The Army Corpus of Engineers had no chance with that one. But they think they can put the one up there by Pondshark back together. They say it was designed to collapse inwardly upon itself. Anyway, for now there are only two.

From what I hear, Higgenlooper and O'Dandy are still up north. This is where the fourth of the Temples of Simplicity is supposedly built. Apparently, like the Knights of Simplicity that built them, they are anything but simple. Even after the one in Mandaniana collapsed, people assumed that all they were looking at was a wooden shack when they saw a Temple of Simplicity. It turns out that was only a guardhouse. Until the Corpus of Engineers finally examined the site at Mandaniana about sixty years ago, historians had always assumed that this particular shack had suffered the additional misfortune of having been built atop a developing sink hole. I am told that you can still see the remains of the guardshack at the bottom of the huge hole. The National Government has kept the location of the fourth temple a secret up to now, in order to discourage treasure seekers. There are enough deaths by misadventure in Magna Sodor as it is. That primitive stadt doesn't need a few thousand more adventurers in search of goodness knows what.

The Knights of Simplicity were founded by none other than King Pedorro the Terrible. As he grew older, Pedorro also grew worried about his son, Prince Phellepe (Fell-ep-ay). His bodyguard, Sir Lorenzi, told Senor Esteban after Pedorro's death that the king was very worried that he would die before Phellepe Industrious di Harcia (ninth of that name since the birth of the Spanglasi people) was crowned king. He was positively frightened, according to Lorenzi, of the prince falling into the hands of arch politicians or (worse yet) bankers. Perhaps he envisioned his son doing a paper route like he had to in order to get postage and supplies for writing his penfriends, two eccentric Northron princes. But, at the end of his life, he told Lorenzi that his greatest regret was that he did not make his son get a paper route. The upshot of that was, Pedorro grew worried for what would happen to the kingdom after he died and the throne passed to his son. He was particularly worried, it seems, that his son in turn was becoming fascinated with the Discus Anterrum Society.

By the way, I've read a lot of DAS material now. I understand the attraction. Rather than how things really are, it is comforting to think that the fate of the whole planet is actually in the hands of some cosmic dude named Ronson and his equally big and cosmic dog, Phostar. Once you can really see (in your mind's eye) the world being tossed like a giant phizbee from Ronson to Phostar, nothing actually has to make any sense after that. Very liberating.

Strange, though, that the DAS actually thought of the Grandaddies as irrational. I say thought because, since the elimination of Propellor, Lousippi, the Discus Anterrum Society has effectively ceased to exist. All the people who held that far flung and contentious group together simply are no more, along with the town of Propellor.

Anyway, King Pedorro wanted to protect the Spanglasi people from foreign encroachments, like the DAS. So he established the Knights of Simplicity. To me, it was a deeply theological moment when Pedorro Simplicity di Harcia gave this newly formed body of marshals and arbiters his baptismal name. But many academic historians seem to pass over that.

***

Since losing so many of his staff at once, Doctor Hazelbaum, Chief Medical Officer of The Hospital in The City, had taken to doing more rounds. He had become the bane of many an intern. The Native medical staff all called him Face Like an Old Drow.

The Earth Reader will need to know that a drow is a large royal blue and black bird of prey on Anterra. The bird is known to have the most fixing stare in the natural world. It makes a very shrill and distinct Caw-Caw! sound as it swoops in triumph upon its hapless victims. The newest Native interns had even started improvising dances that mimicked the doctor’s walk, and the way he stood straight while on the ward, watching everything. Their cousins, the Doo-Woppers had even begun experimenting with a few runs as they called them, when they impersonated him to music.

The best one so far sounded like:

Pick it up, son!

Woppa Woppa

Write it down, girl!

Do-doo Woppa

Do keep up, kids!

Wopp-Woppa-do

But it wasn't good enough yet to do it in the cafeteria and hope it went viral on the micronet. That was just about the highest compliment they could think of for their boss.

Alan Rupee could not help laughing to himself, even though it hurt when he did in more places than he would have thought possible before he was shot eleven times by Colonel Badde himself. Like most people not involved in the Merican Army's private war on Colonel Badde, Alan did not know that the people hunting this mass killer down had already decided he was not really a Merican Piccard called Colonel Badde, but was instead a former Merican Native captain named Face. Right now, Alan did not care one whit about that, either. The truth was, Alan Rupee was recovering very well for a man who did not want to live. He did not want to live, but that did not stop him from having a mission. This unconscionable madman that had killed she who was probably the love of his life needed to die as far as Alan was concerned. He did not think he could shoot Badde himself, but he surely wanted to be there when it happened. So he took the physio, he ate the food, he slept, he waited. He also spent a lot of time trying to work out what was going on with his Great Uncle Ronjeed. To Alan, a young doctor and man of science, it was embarrassing to have someone like his uncle turning into a holy man before his very eyes (and the whole nation's).

But there lay Uncle Ronjeed – known as Mister Ronjeed to everyone else, with his Amazing Savior's Day Emporium in a side room of his corner shop. Here was the thing about that which really bothered Alan. For as many people who claim to have purchased a prayer carving from Mister Ronjeed's shop, there should be lines out the door and stretching back four city blocks thirty-two hours a day, eleven days a week for at least four months before Savior's Day. But there only ever seemed to be three or four people in the shop at one time. And throughout the whole season his great uncle would mostly just man the cash register in his prayer shop, and tell everyone who came there what a great choice they had made even if it was the cheapest carving he sold, which usually went for three or four Savior Dennies (SD). Everyone loved his great uncle. That really bothered Alan. But what bothered him more these days was how his great uncle, still completely hairless, lay on the hospital bed beside him. He was in Propellor when it was disintegrated by Badde. No one else survived. Uncle Ronjeed should not have survived either. So, his eccentric great uncle was now a true holy man, having saved himself from what is being called a maelstrom of destruction. It has to be said that Alan was the only one who thought of his great uncle as having saved himself. Everyone else gratefully thought of him as having been spared.

And just this morning Doctor Hazelbaum himself had hit him with an explosive shell.

Your Great Uncle Ronjeed only talks to you, he had said quite matter-of-factly.

Alan thought he looked tired.

How do you know he talks to me?

Hazelbaum shrugged. Well, he does, doesn't he?

Pointing in the direction of his great uncle's bed, Hazelbaum continued.

As he is laying there right now, his brain gives us no indication that he is aware of us. He did not even give us any cerebral response when his wife came and talked to him for two days straight through. Yet, we installed a security camera over his bed, and we know he talks to you.

Alan sighed, and then winced. Even sighing was painful. But why did he think that what Hazelbaum was about to tell him would end up making him hurt even worse than he already did?

I am actually quite badly injured myself, did you know?

Hazelbaum smiled in that annoyingly farseeing way of his.

Well, young doctor, that's really the beauty of my plan. You see, you have nothing else to do but talk to him. I need you to bring him back. He paused briefly. The military and the police want him back, as well. There are prayer vigils going on all over for Mister Ronjeed. He can't die. Not now.

Alan surprised Hazelbaum by smiling in a painful way.

Well, okay, that scares me.

Thank you, son! said Hazelbaum, and moved away.

I'm sure I'll be fine, too! said Alan, mostly to himself.

There his Uncle Ronjeed lay. Serene, hairless, face to the ceiling. Sometimes there was a half smirk upon his face. Otherwise he was expressionless. There were no tubes going in and coming out of him like there were with everyone else on this ward. Medically, no one knew what to do for him. He was reportedly neither raydioactive or contagious.

Alan called Uncle Ronjeed! several times. There was no response.

A couple of hours later, Misses Pooteen came in and sat beside his great uncle, proceeding once more to tell him everything. After roughly three hours of that, she got up to go use the ladies room.

Alan! said his uncle.

Ow! Alan had been dozing. He started when his Uncle Ronjeed called him, and felt pain all over. Yes, Uncle Ronjeed? he finally managed to say.

Truly, can you not see that I am busy, my boy?

***

So, Molly is at the house most times now when I get home, no matter what time that is. She has started bringing her kids around more, too. She makes them all call me Mister McUrphy. She makes Callum call me that, too. I love it!

Ever since I got her that ring it's been this way. I walk through the door and there she is with Binndo and Dapster. I tolerate those two dogs because she loves them so much. She has them do cute tricks so that I will like them more. As smart as they are, they don't get it. That's because they don't think like other dogs. To them, something cute is walking across the floor on their hind legs to bring me my paper and slippers. Molly said they told her that joke was called Caninus Erectus. Then they sang me a song one night in two part dog harmony. See? It's like they're not really house pets, but doctors of dogology!

Just the other day, Molly took me to task for the first time in ages, and it was over those two animals. She said, in a really nice way, that I 'd surprised her with my attitude toward Binndo and Dapster. She then said that most men would appreciate two such smart and friendly dogs, and love their friend for giving them to him. When I tried to plead my history with dogs, she brushed that aside and said Suure! It wasn't these two that chased yoo all over the place! She assured me that they knew what had happened to me, and were very sad about it, my luuve! Well, blow me down (as the good Chaplain would say)! But I have started to appreciate them more since then.

But, enough about me!

Higgenlooper called. He sounded even more friendly than usual. It worries me a little when he does that. He asked me to send him everything I had on the Temples of Simplicity. I sent it to him. Haven't heard from him since.

These temples officially went seven floors straight down into the ground. There is, however, an eighth floor. He didn't say, but my guess is Higgenlooper and O'Dandy are up there at the temple that recently collapsed. I mean, it doesn't really take a detective to work that one out.

***

Well now, Sir! said O'Dandy looking down the massive crater to the bottom. Just off the top of my head, I can say that's one big hole in the ground!

Do ya think, O'Dandy?, said Higgenlooper standing beside him and looking down as well.

Yessir! said O'Dandy as a small piece of the crater's edge collapsed beside where they were standing. Which I think I'd like to look at from further back, sir!

Let's go! Higgenlooper agreed.

Just as they got about fifty kingsfeet away, the place where they had been standing fell in as well.

Well, sir, that hole looks a lot bigger than the one in Mandaniana!

Yes, and getting a little bigger all the time, it seems! Higgenlooper said as part of the rim on the other side collapsed into the great, yawning hole.

They moved further back.

Do you know why that hole looks deeper, O'Dandy?

O'Dandy smirked, which annoyed the major.

Because it is, sir?

Yes! Higgenlooper snapped testily, which made O'Dandy smirk a little wider.

But why is that?

O'Dandy stopped smirking and became serious. He had to admit, that was a very good question.

He finally said, Because the other one didn't collapse all the way like the experts all think!

Very good, O'Dandy! Higgenlooper was now smirking triumphantly.

O'Dandy started to retort, but reached for his canteen instead, watching the major coolly as though aiming at him while he drank.

So what now? O'Dandy said eventually.

Well, I think that one's above my pay grade, Master Sarn't, and yours. I better brief the general as soon as you can find me a secure channel.

Yessir! Having been given an order, O'Dandy moved smartly to obey it.

Yes, that guy is a smart-aleck, thought Higgenlooper to himself. But he's also a fine soldier! This definitely was not the first time he had ever conceded that to himself. He had also conceded that to his brother officers. He sometimes regretted the day he conceded it to O'Dandy himself.

After he spoke to General Face, Higgenlooper called Wilder and asked for everything he had on the Temples of Simplicity.

***

Late one night, in a small town in northern Minnisodor, a man cut through a cemetery to shorten his journey to his home from his local bar of choice. He was fairly drunk on the local grog. Not having