The Adventures of Oswald Trumpet - Chapter One

As promised, since part one is complete, here is chapter one of the book I'm working on. It's not Tex, it's not even sci-fi or noir, but I'm still hoping it's enjoyed. If people are interested, once I'm done with act two, I'll post the second chapter.

Chapter One
The Coming of the Surge
and Other Stories

The philosopher Davin Phylius had once stated that there was no such thing as a village idiot. He had claimed that the concept of it was ridiculous, the the idea of it was a fallacy against modern convention. His argument to support this claim turned out to be fairly simple. He theorized that there were just far too many stupid people running about any given town to single any one of them out to be the go-to moron for all things idiot. This revelation, amongst others, was published in his pamphlet, "An Idiot and an Egg Equals Armageddon." Shortly after the publication of this pamphlet a Marty Thomspon, the village idiot of North Wickville, removed his hat, threw away his village idiot lapel pin, and then went indoors to begin a new career writing best selling mystery thrillers.

Benny Arnold wasn't the dumbest guy in the town of Mort, but that didn't mean he was a complete idiot. He was a scrawny guy with a toothy grin and wide brown eyes concealed behind a pair of thick spectacles. He lived just east of the market square in a house that rattled whenever a horse and carriage passed by. Over the past two years he had held and lost over a dozen jobs, haven been employed as a waiter, a bellhop, a mailman, a mailman's assistant, a doorman and a delivery boy, amongst others. He was currently unemployed, spending his days searching for a new job and stretching his remaining dalerons.

A side note: the daleron was the most basic form of currency throughout the upper kingdoms. It was still unclear if the elves, hidden away in their city to the west, would consider trading for dalerons. In regards to saving money, Benny crossed a major hurdle when he realized that physically stretching the daleron note did not actually increase its value.

Unemployment had been rough for Benny, up until the night his life changed completely. It all happened when he realized his milk was rotten. He had forgotten to purchase a new block of ice for his icebox, and his milk was the first to go. He had two chops of steak that were steadily growing old; their days of rich, chewy freshness were numbered. He laid down onto his bed and slowly began to wish that he had remembered to go to MocRommey's Groceries earlier that day. He had written several notes to himself to act as reminders, and had scattered them throughout his home. He'd even mailed a letter to himself two days prior, got the letter in the mail, and then had forgotten it on the kitchen table. He had to think of a viable solution, and he had to do it fast.

His solution came in the form of time travel. He realized that if he could somehow go back in time, he'd be able to purchase the block of ice and load it into his icebox before this food rotted. The only trick was the actual time travel. He didn't know a single alchemist, and he had heard of nothing in alchemy that turned back time. That was when he had an epiphany. He grabbed his pocket watch from the nightstand and stared at the face. He listened closely to the ticking and the tocking. He twisted a knob to the right, and turned the minute hand back five minutes.

He didn't notice anything different at first. In fact, everything seemed to be exactly the same, at least until he took a closer look. The air smelled differently and the night seemed younger. Even the stars seemed to twinkle a little out of place. There was a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. He lifted the glass from the nightstand; he could have sworn that there were five minutes worth of condensation missing from the outside of the glass. He had created a device to travel through time.

Overnight, he had become something more. He had become an inventor.

The following day Benny realized something very troubling. He wasn't entirely sure what inventors did. The entire concept of being an inventor was new to him; he wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to walk, how he was supposed to talk. He did remember hearing about newspapers, pamphlets and other published materials. Perhaps if he published his work, he would get the recognition, praise, worship, money and beautiful women that he deserved?

After preparing and disposing of a hearty breakfast upon the realization that his milk was still spoiled, he packed up his pocket watch into his coat pocket and set out to find Oswald Trumpet.

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There were three major papers that circulated the town of Mort. The most influential of the three was produced in the capital city of Tellas, called "The Weekly Gazette." It had the seal of the government on every roll, and it held the backing of the royal family. "The Weekly Gazette" was most notable for its endorsement of all government projects, along with its extensive coverage that followed the death of King Alexander Mort.

Then there was "The Citizens Rapport." It was started seventy five years ago, while under the reign of King Robert Mort. King Robert was a dictator who endorsed the use of military action for all civil regulatory services. "The Citizens Rapport" began as a pamphlet to the militia forces that wrote about how they wanted to rebel against him. Eventually Robert died of a heart attack, the new king had become lenient, and no rebellion was necessary. "The Citizens Rapport" lived on, however, always following and tracking the rich and famous, and taking pictures of them shopping for groceries.

The third, and least popular, was "The Local Inquirer." This paper covered the local activities and news that happened throughout the town of Mort. Some choose not to read this paper entirely, and would rather gather their information from local spinsters. Admitting, the spinsters information tended to be far less accurate, but it was cheaper and juicier. Oswald Trumpet worked for the third paper as a photographer, with his goblin friend Wesley at the support.

It took two to operate a single photograph shutter contraption. One person would direct the viewfinder of the device and then expose the film in the back of the camera. The second person would ignite a torch within a box, for lighting purposes. Oswald held the viewfinder, and Wesley ignited the torch. It was tricky to get it right, but Oswald and Wesley were getting fairly good at it.

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When Benny was discovering that his milk was spoiled for a second time, Oswald Trumpet was just waking up. The world was embraced in fog and his head felt as if it had been split in two. He remembered most of what he had done the previous night. He and Wesley had gone out to "The Best of the West," a local strip club that only hired women of Elfish descent. He had thought that he only had a single mug of ale, but he might have actually had four or five mugs, along with a few glasses of whiskey and three shots of vodka. And then maybe he might have had some more to drink later on.

Oswald was a tall and thin man with wavy blonde hair over sharp blue eyes. Waking up at the moment didn't seem like the best idea at the time, but the splitting hole in the back of his head would've stopped all efforts at sleep. He pulled his blanket off and noticed his clothes seemed missing. He didn't entirely remember taking his clothes off. There was just something missing.

He looked over to his left. There was a woman lying on the bed beside him. She was also naked, but sometime through the night she must have pulled the majority of the blanket over herself. Her skin had a blue tone throughout, and her ears angled back through her short black hair. She must have been one of the dancers, but he wasn't sure what her name was. Ethren'al? Thiamal? Lillianus?

The splitting headache struck another chord and he decided figuring out her name could wait until later. For now a bath would probably make him feel better, or at the very least cleaner. He grabbed his clothes, stepped out of his room and walked to the bathroom.

There were four rooms inside the house. The front door led into the kitchen, and a small hallway connected the other three rooms: the bathroom, Oswald's bedroom and Wesley's bedroom.

The bathroom was fairly small and cramped, barely capable of fitting the essentials. There was a tub in the corner and a sink by the door. The tub and the sink both drew water from a tin can, a large metal barrel positioned underneath the sink. The tin can held roughly sixty gallons of water and sat on a dolly. Oswald twisted open the cap from the can and looked inside. The barrel was dry.

There were quite a few places a person could go in the town of Mort to attain fresh water. He usually went to the fountain in the center square or the pump behind MocRommey's. Today he settled to go with the pump. It was closer, and there was usually a shorter line.

It only took him five minutes to get to the pump, and another five minutes to get home, but he was sweltering when he came back. The late Juniper sun still hung high in the third season, and the days were hot. By the time he got back, he needed the bath for the sweat alone. He hooked up the tin can, filled up the tub, and let himself soak.

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While Benny was buttoning up his tunic, just as Oswald had laid back into his tub, a man and a woman in white robes were knocking on the front door of a house three blocks down the road and across the street to an adjacent home. The man was older, with balding hair and a dirty beard. The woman had curly brown hair and would have been rather pretty if it wasn't for the lack of facial expression. In fact, she seemed onl capable of tilting her head back and forth, which she did continuously.

After waiting for a few moments a short man in slippers and cloth trousers answered the door. His hair was unkempt, and he seemed to always squint whichever way he looked. His name was Vernon Quinn.

The man in white spoke first. "Greetings. I am Jonahs."

The woman in white spoke second. "Hail. I am Mildred. We are here today to tell you about the coming of the Surge!"

Vernon glanced at the both of them. The man seemed older, which meant he must be wise, and therefore must know what he was talking about. The woman seemed pretty, which might mean fornication if he listened to her. He leaned against the door frame and said, "Go on."

Jonahs explained, "The Surge occurs every four hundred and seventy three years, two months, five days, three hours and twice minutes. With every occurrence of the Surge, the amount of minutes separating each Surge increases cumulatively."

Mildred explained, "We are of the Keepers of the Surge. We seek out those so they may follow our path, and perhaps together, through years of dedication of service, we might be able to take those twice minutes and expand them to thrice minutes, and quite possibly delay the Surge from ever striking upon the Northern Kingdoms ever again."

He took out his pocket watch and glanced at the time. Vernon had a schedule to keep, and he wasn't quite ready to commit years of his life to a goal for the sake of rolling around the sack with Mildred. Vernon was looking a bit impatient, so Mildred took it as a queue to untie the top two strings of her robe. Vernon gawked for a moment and then asked, "What is the Surge?"

Jonahs explained, "The Surge occurs every four hundred and seventy three years, two months, five days, three hours and twice minutes. With every occurrence of the Surge, the amount of minutes separating each Surge increases cumulatively."

Mildred explained, "We are of the Keepers of the Surge. We seek out those so they may follow our path, and perhaps together, through years of dedication of service, we might be able to take those twice minutes and expand them to thrice minutes. It will take years of service, dedication, sacrifice, humility and hazing to achieve our goals, but not to worry. All efforts are rewarded."

Vernon realized he wasn't going to be very busy for the next few days, and he did like rewards. But there were still doubts. "I'm still not entirely convinced."

To that Mildred stepped into the house and sent Jonahs on his merry way to attempt to convert the people in the next house. Jonahs once asked Mildred how she managed to convert so many single, middle-aged men to their cause. She told him it was through deep conversation, and Jonahs believed her. Jonahs was not very bright.

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When Benny was just stepping out of his house, while Oswald was soaking in the bath, and while Mildred was having a deep conversation with Vernon's genitals, a goblin named Wesley was waking up on the floor next to his bed. He had fallen off the bed sometime during the night, and was just far too drunk and tired to get back onto it. His tongue hung out of his open mouth and a small puddle of drool soaked into the carpet. But, his head was clear for the most part, and his vision wasn't blurry. He just had to pee.

He stood up, wiped the spittle from the side of his mouth and took a look around. Wesley was more related to the Goblins that formed their home on the grasslands to the east, rather than the Goblins that chose to dwell in mountains or caves. He was barely over three feet tall, had long pointy ears and sharp teeth. On most days he enjoyed a glass of Merlot, but he didn't pass up a free beer.

There was a woman lying on his bed as well, pudgy at the hips and the cheeks. He didn't know her name, but he was positive he never asked. She had tossed his clothes into a corner sometime the past night; he just had to figure out which corner. After a thorough search he found and tossed on his tunic and shorts. He ran out the house in search of an available outhouse.

The closest one was locked, and its occupant would only shout at him then let him in. Wesley gave up on the outhouse and decided to relieve himself on the neighbors rose bed instead.

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While Benny was walking down the road, while Oswald was lying in the tub, while Mildred was rinsing and spitting into a sink and at the same time that Wesley was watering the neighbors garden, a young woman slowly stirred awake in Oswald's bed. When she opened her eyes, everything seemed to be a blur. All she saw was a mixture of hazel and green, and in the distance she could faintly here the voice of Marin. Unfortunately, as it did every day, the world cleared itself around her, and she realized she wasn't at home. She didn't have a home anymore.

She was alone on the bed. She remembered being with someone the past night, but her memory was dusty and torn. She had over five hundred years of memories, and sometimes they had a tendency to mingle and merge. She remembered her father reading to her, her mother glancing worried over her shoulder. She remembered the forest, her and Marin running between the trees, her feet bare and tramping along the grass. She remembered all of it happening at the same time. The forest was in her kitchen, her mother was glancing over her shoulder as her father read, and Marin was there.

She shook it off and rubbed her forehead. He old memories didn't make sense, but at the very least she could try to remember her new memories. She looked for her purse, and was thankful she remembered to bring it along with her. She opened it up and took out a roll of paper, a quill and a stopper of ink. She laid out the paper onto the nightstand and she wrote to remember.

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While Oswald was stepping into the kitchen, ready for breakfast, while Wesley was busy setting plates upon the table, at the same time that an elf snuck from Oswald's bedroom across to the bathroom and just as Mildred and Jonahs began discussing the joys of selfless civil obedience, Benny spotted a woman leaving the safety of her home. As it turned out, all Molly Lark had planned to do was to take a step outside, snatch up the latest edition of the Citizens Rapport, and then hole herself inside while she read the gossip column feverishly. To the misfortune of her plans, it only took Benny a few seconds to realize she was pretty, she was blonde and she had breasts. Since she met his requirements of what he expected in an attractive woman, he decided he had to introduce himself.

Molly looked up at the approaching figure and smiled gently. Benny grinned back. He reached out a hand to help her up and said, "My name is Benny, and I'm an inventor."

She accepted his hand and stood up, flustered in the cheeks. "Why, I've never had the pleasure of meeting a genuine inventor before."

It was then that Benny tried to remember the man that had come down from the Eastern city of Melan. His bow was cool, his technique was impeccable. Benny tried to imitate it to the best of his abilities, and manged it well enough to impress Molly.

"Oh my, what a gentleman! May I ask you a question?"

Benny said, "Sure, go ahead."

"Have I heard of any of your inventions?"

He scratched his head. "Well, I haven't really produced anything into the public market."

Molly was disappointed, but she felt everyone deserved a second chance. "Well, have you ever had any pamphlets published? Did the Citizens Rapport ever do a story about you in the gossip column?"

To that he just shook his head glumly.

"Then what good are you!?" Molly retreated back inside and slammed the door behind her. Benny simply shrugged, and thought that might have gone a lot better if only he had published something.

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Oswald liked bacon. Or at the very least he was fairly sure that at some point in his childhood there was a time when he ate bacon and was happy. The trouble was that ever since Wesley started cooking breakfast he just wasn't sure whether he was eating actual bacon or some sort of bacon substitute. Maybe he would figure it out today. He ate at his breakfast, ready to solve the mystery.

That's when Wesley burst out, "You know what makes me angry, Ozzie?"

He thought about it. "Green apples."

"Well, that's true, but you know what else makes me angry?"

"Carpenters."

Another voice said, "Shy children."

Oswald looked over to see a fairly pretty, but highly unfamiliar woman sitting next to him. She had a cream complexion and flickering of blue throughout, like freckles. He took a guess that someone down her ancestry there were elves, even if her parents weren't.

He pointed at her and asked Wesley, "Who's she?"

It took him a second, and then Wesley piped, "Mallory. Or was it Ellenthrial? Either way I picked her up at the Best."

"It's Mallory," she clarified. "Ellenthrial is my stage name."

Oswald turned to her and said, "Groovy, so how long have you been working there?"

Before she could say anything, Wesley cut in. "I thought we were talking about what makes me angry!"

He shrugged. "We answered that. Green apples and shy children."

Wesley said, "You don't seem to understand. I ask you what makes me angry, and then you say that you don't know, but you're dam curious what it is. So let's try it again, alright?" He cleared his throat. "You know what makes me angry, Ozzie?"

"I don't know, Wes, what does make you angry?"

"Marty Thompson. That guy pissed me off."

"Who's he?" Mallory asked.

"He's a writer and he wrote the book, 'A is for Atrophy.'"

Oswald remarked, "Since when did you start reading books?"

"Since I joined the Ravenous Readers Book Club! So anyway, they send me this book and I'm thinking, it might be good. It's got murder, romance and mystery. It could be intriguing, but it isn't. The entire story is about some prude chick who gets invited to a magical school so that she could become a detective that can do magic. She's got a hotshot name, Ella Ephran, a penchant for solving mysteries and the incredible ability to remain ignorant to innuendo.

"The thing is, over half of the book is spent following her misadventures throughout her fantasy vocational education. Making friends, making enemies, doing homework. Then, finally, some big shot drops dead after a spell disintegrates his muscles to applesauce. His wife cries up a storm, and it's only a matter of time before Ella is on the case. Except nothing changes! She goes back to school and all her and her friends do is talk about homework, and where the next clue might be. Then suddenly it's revealed that the wife was the killer, the very same person that hired them to find the killer in the first place!

"Well, fork a duck! Who would have thought that all this time this little Minnie the Mope that spent every waking hour moaning about her husband was actually some schizzo shape shifter freshly escaped out of magicko jail, the horrible jail for people who use magic! And get this, it all happened while the real wife was out of town in some sort of mystical city of sin and vice called Cajun Land. But the worst part is apparently this Marty guy isn't done yet! He wants to do the whole alphabet, and cut up each month of school for a letter! We won't be hearing the end of Ella Ephran for another twenty five books! That makes me angry! Doesn't that make you angry?"

Oswald felt his pulse. "Not really, although it helps that I didn't read the book."

"But I did!"

A new voice then said, "You didn't have to." Oswald looked over to see his mystery companion sitting next to Wesley. She was dressed in a pair of his shorts and a shirt, which was very over sized. He still wasn't sure of her name. Was it Caserith? Alerath? Wenlynn?

Wesley pointed at her and asked Oswald, "Who is she? You pick her up at the Best?"

Before Oswald could guess she said, I'm Fya, and you didn't have to read the entire book. You could have just stopped when you realized it was stupid."

"Well, if I stopped I wouldn't have found out how it ended." Before Fya could say anything more there was a sharp knocking against the front door, and everyone turned to look.

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For a moment Oswald thought that whoever had decided to rap against this door had gone away. He was about to return his attention to his breakfast when suddenly there was another knock. He turned to Wesley and asked, "Isn't it your turn to answer the door?"

A third knocking, more aggressive.

Wesley shook his head. "it can't be. I answered the door the last time." A fourth knocking. Oswald looked over and deliberated. Finally, struck by impatience, Fya stood up from the tabled and walked over to the door. She budged the door open, just enough for her to see through. If the rest were too lazy to get up and open the door, they didn't need to see what was behind it.

From the table Oswald could tell that she was talking to someone, though he couldn't actually hear the conversation. He did manage to pick up a few words here and there, along with an insurmountable number of years? Months? Days? Thrice minutes? He was trying to make sense of the pieces when suddenly he felt someone tugging at his shirt sleeve.

It was Mallory. She asked, "Where did you find her?"

He tried to remember, but everything in between his third whiskey and this morning was a complete blank. "I'm not sure. She's an elf, so I think I must have picked her up at the Best."

She shook her head. "Fya doesn't work at the Best, we don't have any elves straight out of the forest there. She doesn't have a single mark of imperfection on her! She has none of the signs that her grandparents or even her parents could be human!"

Wesley tapped his fork against the table and said, with conviction, "She seems rightly strange to me. And like I always say, you've got to stay away from the ladies that seem rightly strange."

To that Oswald remarked, "But don't you also say that a room without any rightly strange ladies is an empty room, indeed?"

"He said that last night!" said Mallory.

Wesley was feeling a bit defensive. "Look, just because you harbor an Elf that endorses quitting doesn't mean you can denounce a person for having multiple viewpoints on a single subject that just so happen to contradict each other. And, if I need to add more viewpoints on the same subject that only add on to the amount of contradiction, then so be it."

Oswald was about think up a witty retort when Fya turned towards them and shouted, "Hey, guys! You happen to know an inventor named Benny?"

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When Fya answered the door, Mildred couldn't hold back the look of disappointment, and Mildred was certain Fya noticed it.

"Who are you?" Fya asked.

"Greetings. I am Jonahs."

"Hail. I am Mildred. We are here today to tell you about the coming of the Surge!"

Confused, Fya asked, "The what?"

Jonahs explained, "The Surge, of course. The Surge occurs every four hundred and seventy three years, two months, five days, three hours and twice minutes. With every occurrence of the Surge, the amount of minutes separating each Surge increases cumulatively."

Mildred explained, "We are of the Keepers of the Surge. We seek out those so they may follow our path, and perhaps together, through years of dedication of service, we might be able to take those twice minutes and expand them to thrice minutes, and quite possibly delay the Surge from ever striking upon the Northern Kingdoms ever again."

"I'm sorry, I still don't really understand what the surge is."

Jonahs explained, "The Surge occurs every four hundred and seventy three years, two months-"

"Now you don't understand," Fya interrupts. "You've already told me when it seems to occur, even if you forget to see the importance of some sort of reference date. I want to know what it is. Can you tell me?"

Jonahs looked awkwardly at Mildred, and then resolutely turned back to Fya. "The Surge is that which occurs every four hundred-"

"Okay, stop. You apparently don't have much of a clue as to what you're preaching. Right now, all you're doing is fear mongering with your prophetic teachings that some sort of deity, disaster or dormant shadow will cover us all in some sore of certain, uncertain time. Can you really tell me what the surge is? And are you with this crew?"

Mildred and Jonahs looked off to their right to see a scrawny man with glasses standing next to them, thumbing a pocket watch in his palm. He said, "I might be. Are they inventors?"