Carrying The Sword of Nuthin and The Bowl of Petrified Oat Porridge, not to mention his wife Amialda’s pottery, Tubberwood B. Clanc advanced patiently through the dark forest. The path had ceased to glow once it saw the correct traveler was within its bounds.

Once again Tubberwood concentrated on thinking about everything else but the journey he was strolling along. A cold one in Blimeydilly’s. More cold ones and a warm ale on top of it all. Perhaps a bold Heckenfrieder to burn the filth off the bowels. No, it was not a good idea to think of those. He returned back to the tax returns and bosom of Telluranda Haupt. Such was the force of calculating imagination that he missed a couple of unicorns hoofing along him for some time, a megspider looming and stalking above him along the trees and taken away by a giant spyderhawk, and an army of undead which in lack of presence of fear could just watch the little pig farmer saunter past.

Only an earthquake woke him up. Tubberwood stopped and felt the ground shake for five seconds. He lifted his gaze from the path and saw a group of human warriors ride slowly to the opposite direction. They seemed weary and not very well. Even their horses were wobbling a bit. They halted in front of Tubberwood. The Sword of Nuthin remained calm in his back. The warrior leader stared at Tubberwood at first, like wondering about the little traveler:

‘Ahoy, how come you’re bound this way from The Fountain of Frozen Frackies? Hast thou really been there? Pray tell us is it the magical place to forget the rest of the world.’

A couple of warriors threw up. They had a sickly green color on their faces. Tubberwood replied:

‘I’m only on my way to The Fountain of Frozen Frackies. You seem to be returning from there. Are you lost?’

‘You are brave to blame us on being fools, but we are too sick to punish. Be gone, little one and thank your luck,’ said the warrior leader and shortly vomited aside before resuming the slow travel.

‘What lies ahead, such that even great warriors be sickly?’ muttered Tubberwood but resumed his own journey ahead.

This time he concentrated to keep an eye on the surroundings. Something odd must have been afoot. At last the forest changed into meadows and a narrow river with an arch bridge. He was about to cross it when he heard grunting.

‘Who goes there? Who wants to cross the Ditch of Medlein to reach The Fountain of Frozen Frackies?’

Before Tubberwood had time to reply, an ugly, much taller troll stepped from under the bridge. Tubberwood cleared his throat:

‘I’m Tubberwood B. Clanc, son of Barewood B. Clanc and I have extremely important business with the fountain.’

‘Jollygog! Nobody has business there, except the Gods of the mountains,’ the troll burped out a sentence instead of talking.

Tubberwood started to remember something. It had something to do with the nauseous and lost warriors. However, the troll seemed not willing to negotiate more but started a series of odd sounds:

‘Yark. Yark. Yark. Yark,’ and so forth and Tubberwood realized he was loading his weapon.

The Sword of Nuthin heated up and suddenly was in Tubberwood’s hold in front of him. The shot was ready and exploded out from troll’s huge mouth:

‘Muuuuurp!’ echoed through the meadows and forests and the ground shook. Tubberwood realized what had shaken the riders and taken their memory.

It was a sickly greenish stream, seemingly containing fishbones and other residuals of everything eaten lately. Instead of spreading around it seemed to be sucked into the Tubberwood’s sword, which gradually turned sickly green and seemed to bend. It looked very ill for a mighty sword. But it stood up and the belch ended. The troll stood stunned:

‘Thou be a demon from Heckstalls! What are you?’ he exclaimed to the small pig farmer and turned his back, bending over while dropping his pants. The birds stopped their singing and frogs paused their croaking. Only the flies seemed interested. A small whistle started to sound around.

Now the whole area was under a total threat of decimation. Suddenly Tubberwood remembered and realized and shouted:

‘Chungimaelstrom!’

‘Huh?’ the troll straightened up and turned to stare at Tubberwood, lifting his pants back up. The sword returned to Tubberwood’s back and he smirked:

‘Yes! You are the cousin of Theork Gumul!’

‘Yes I am. How do you know the guard of the Southern Bridge?’

‘We are old brothers-in-pints. Now, would you please let us through?’

‘State your business first. It’s the rule, must have something for the report.’

Tubberwood took his backpack and The Sword of Nuthin fell to ground. It was still weak from repelling the burp. The Bowl of Petrified Oat Porridge was shown to the troll who was stunned:

‘That thing should be in the fountain! No wonder my superiors have been a bit off their wits. Good. Good. Thou shall pass. Be quick and beware the nymphs.’

Having said this the troll bowed and withdrew back under the bridge. Some muttering could be heard as Tubberwood picked up the sword and crossed the narrow river. During the next hour he wondered about the warning. Was there still something to delay his entering of the town market and finally Blimeydilly’s? At the end of the hour Tubberwood started to see a bright light from between the huge trees. At last. He entered an opening in the forest and stared at a huge statue of a thinly veiled nymph. All the aesthetics were lost in this audience since it lead only into a thought of Friday’s print of Evening Scroll, page five. Tubberwood shook his head and grabbed the bowl, approaching the waterfalls sloshing into the big bowl shaped base with nice patterns seen through the clear water. There were items in the bottom of the base: medallions, pendants, gold bars and scepters. Except that getting closer they turned to be ancient peels of bananas and other fruits and petrified loaves of bread.

‘Huh?’ said Tubberwood and noticed a sign next to the fountain.

It was white with a black figure of an apparent god dropping a banana peel into a bin. Tubberwood realized he was at a divine compost. What was produced out of the biodegradable stuff in there went beyond the small pig farmer. Tubberwood shrugged and dropped The Bowl of Petrified Oat Porridge into The Fountain of Frozen Frackies. A hissing sound could be heard and some burbling could be observed and the bowl itself was gone, there was only the petrified porridge in the bottom of the fountain. There was a huge sigh across the air and ground shook. Apparently the issue had now been taken care of. Proud of his good deed Tubberwood turned and left the opening.

He had wandered back some fifteen minutes and he was smiling, the bosom of Telluranda Haupt was again occupying his mind. It was so lively he could touch it. He withdrew his finger quickly back. The bosom was real and it was blue, hovering in the air. Tubberwood lifted slowly his gaze and there were the most beautiful features of a young woman staring back at him. The eyes were totally white as milk, though not malevolent. The long lush hair floated around her head and a most decorated pendant was hanging between the pair Tubberwood was staring. Turning his head he saw a whole troop of floating beauties and he thought of the special print of Friday’s Evening Scroll, page five. Only thin veils covered these creatures.

To Part 3