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Photo credit: Sam Droege
Sounding like rocks grinding together, the hovering embers spoke. “Madam Duggla.”
The messenger lit a lantern.
A wasp. Duggla let out a grunt. Why should I worry about a wasp? But his boldness made her cautious. “I know who I am. Who are you?”
“A friend who is sorely disappointed by the Marauders’ failure to take the Kingdom of Bog for their General.”
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Madam Duggla didn’t mind being led into the unknown. She didn’t mind sitting in the dark with the walls entombing her. She wasn’t even bothered by arrogant pests that forced their way through life by threatening creatures less cruel than themselves.
But when the unknown threat in the tomb-like hole smoldered in the dark, it caused her some alarm.
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Photo credit: Alolkoy
Smugly enjoying the stupidity of her former jailer, Duggla the Crone waited beneath the red toadstool. Time passed, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and still she waited. But now she muttered, too.
“Why should I sit here like a lackey? Nobody has the right to treat me this way. I should just leave.” But curiosity held her in place until a velvety voice called her name.
“Madam Duggla! Thanks for waiting. I apologize and I beg your pardon, but I was unavoidably detained.”
She pursed her lips and squinted at the red-tinged pointy end of his curvy tail. “Things come up,” she allowed. “Who are you?”
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Madam Duggla yelled up the stairs, “What does a body have to do to get an extra blanket around here?” A late afternoon rain chilled her jail cell, aggravating her rheumatism and making her crankier than ever.
The lone guard descended the steps for the fifth time in an hour, not bothering to hide his own aggravation from the lone prisoner.
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“Hey, what about King Arnie of Bog and his Knights of Service? They don’t write… they don’t call…”You, trying to remember what they were doing 50 episodes ago.
When we last saw the fine fighting forces of Bog, King Arnie was honoring Lady Connie, her family, and their neighbors for helping to win the final battle against the Marauders. Well, final for now. Together, Bog and Fen had repelled the enemy without conquering them, and no one was foolish enough to think the war was over.
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“Thank you,” Elliot’s pride battled with the enormity of what he’d just heard, and wisely surrendered to humility. “I will do my best — faithfully — to deserve this Name.”
First Combat Master Vladimir the Just bowed his head to Elliot the Faithful. “May your Name inspire all who meet you to trust that you will serve them well.”
The celebration of a new Naming was a raucous, thirsty affair. Elliot was certain every creature in attendance must have congratulated him in person — some many times — with a toast for success and a shot of aged nectar.
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Photo credit: Marc Steurbaut
Without a wave or a formal good-bye, the Granters hopped from their mushrooms and retreated to a dim green corner, excited hissing whispers trailing behind them. Placing a hand on Elliot’s shell, Master Vladimir urged him toward a passageway in the opposite direction.
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Photo credit: Igor Siwanowicz
Someone in the dining hall closed the door behind them. Elliot wore the dark on his back like a hooded coat, pushing himself to keep his face within the sphere of lantern light. The further they descended, the closer the walls seemed to lean in until the deepest chamber beneath the Tower of Honor opened around them with the moist aroma of fungus gently touched by fresh air.
Mushroom lights sprouted from cracks in walls that gleamed like black glass, and poked their heads up randomly from loamy patches in the floor. Non-glowing fungi, taller and woodier, stood like posts and platforms scattered over harder ground. Two of those held the room’s only other occupants. Four eyes glistened in the newly golden glow.
“This is Elliot,” the First Combat Master announced. “These are the Granters — they grant many requests, but tonight they will decide if you are a worthy recipient.”
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Photo credit: Irish UE
All eyes followed them as First Combat Master Vladimir the Just escorted Elliot the length of the dining hall to a square door recessed into the wall facing the High Priestess’ table. Only half the height of any other door in the Tower, its lock fought valiantly against the key Master Vlad inserted, in a vain attempt to keep the secret it guarded.
Its heavy planks dragged open on hinges rusty from neglect and disuse, the door’s screeching protest pierced all ears and overpowered all pained gasps as the Master revealed a dark opening at the top of a stairway to blackness.
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Photo credit: Carlos del Pico
In the second deepest chamber beneath the Tower of Honor, an expansive room carved out of porous white stone, the residents gathered to confer, converse, and dine. Organic lighting spread cheer with its impression of sunny windows.
As the High Priestess entered, everyone — hundreds, Elliot estimated — stood. Acknowledging them with a nod, she led him to a laden table on the raised dais at one end of the hall, then turned to the waiting diners.
Space, Time, and Raspberries 
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