A BOOK OF SCROLLS: THE COMPASS BAG

When MeLaydwin finished crafting his device, he turned to making a bag in which to keep it hidden. Cloth from an old, yet to be discarded, robe, was cut and sewed together to meet the dimensions of the knobbed-disc. Then, carving at both ends of a peg from the portion of a pine branch he attached it as part of the strap latch, then embryoid a four-armed star atop the bag’s flap.

He allowed a half smile to appear, pleased with his completed work. Removing the device from its new pouch, MeLaydwin spun the gemmed snake-knob; pleased again by how well the brass and gold disc turned in opposite directions, whether to the left or right. The planetary gears within proved the key ingredients in lining up the lettered characters as planned. Replacing the device back into its pouch MeLaydwin found he was talking aloud to himself, “I shall name you – Kienton, that is what I shall call you: a Compass of Words, for you shall indeed aid me in naming the untitled spirits of the Neither realm.”

“AND why in the world would anyone so desire to contact such beings in the first place, MeLaydwin?”

Startled by the voice he whirled about to see, “Lubin! I was unaware anyone was lurking about to hear an old man muttering to himself.” He tried ignoring the question with, “What can I do for the newly appointed Elder of the Great Hall of Mithar?”

“Nicely done, old man; by the way we are the same age. For one, answer an old friend’s inquiry of why you wish to call nameless things from out of the void?”

“Everything deserves to be called something do you not think?” MeLaydwin said picking up a wood planner, knowing that not every former scribe would know what such a tool was for.

“MeLaydwin, you and I both know that is not what is going on here so out with it. We used to be close, my old friend. Come, let us not dismiss such binding ties.”

Gesturing for his boyhood friend to be seated the recluse took one as well, “I only hope one who has become a newly accepted Elder, eyes and ears of Mithar’s Lord High Priest does not turn his friend in just to climb the ladder to higher roofs.”

“Lubin’s eyes squinted, “Screwed as ever, nice to see things do not change. Never, my brother before either of us entered The Order.”

MeLaydwin’s own eyes were fixed on the pitcher as he began pouring drinks for them both. Then eye to eye, “Let us hope such youthful bonds last into our old age as well.”

Lubin sensed a story was forming by the expression on his friend’s face, accepting the wine in silence and a smile of thanks. MeLaydwin began, after a sip, “After the death of my wife I was heartbroken, and now the loss of my boy, my only child and heir am I utterly devastated beyond repair.” He sounded old indeed even as his near-whispered words trailed after the unseen place of his distant gaze.

Calling him back from dark thoughts his friend asked, “My deepest sorrows, again, for your loss. Yet, I perceive, there is something brewing, elsewhere. I am here as I always have been, and that love is unchanged.”

The reclusive inventor’s face softened, and his thoughts returned to the present conversation, “If I could only call upon the unnamed influences from the void, I hope word may be delivered to those newly departed, even briefly to know they are profoundly missed, and their voices heard again.”

Lubin’s fear was realized with the widening of his eyes, “Necromancy is strictly forbidden throughout all the lands of this Middle Earth! I must –”

“You must ‘what’? Report me to the Head of the Order, my old friend? Such were my fears as well.” MeLaydwin then looked at the contents of his half-empty chalice, “To think, I freely divulged a hint of my grief, what more would my lips have shared had the full effects of wine’s influence been allowed I wonder.” Then standing to his feet he added, “Of course, Necromancy is forbidden, and its ill-fated, failed powers known worldwide. I only – it matters not. Forgive the wanderings of grief, spoken by one who is no longer a husband or father.” MeLaydwin hoped his dismissive remarks were enough to disarm the newly appointed Elder’s brewing schemes away from whatever he felt he had discovered. Being disfellowshipped and shunned by everyone was more than the inventor could yet handle.

Lubin asked, pointing at the white, handmade pouch on the table between them, “How does it work anyhow?”

“Just a toy really, a silly exercise in gear construction within the shell. It was but an artistic distraction.”

Lubin saw the growing distrust on the face of the man before him, “I’m sure that is what the hard effort was all about.” Draining his own chalice, Elder Lubin stood to leave, “I am afraid duties will require less time spent in enjoying tales from boyhood.”

MeLaydwin hoped the topic was indeed over, “Or allow for new business to creep in.” With that he watched Lubin close the door behind him that had been left open.

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