Chapter 11 - The Fortitude Pool

  Arlo and Emery stood together at the outskirts of the village, craning their necks up at the enormous cliff. They hadn’t yet returned to her home to get cleaned up. She’d remembered that today was a special day.

  Arlo kept fingering the heavy key in his pocket. What was it for? He’d asked Oracle, but the computer had merely reiterated that he’d found his first object. And when he’d demanded to know how many objects there were, the answer had been equally unhelpful—a vague hint about various objects to be found throughout the realm.

  Annoying though it was to be drip-fed information, it definitely reminded him of a video game—a simple adventure where he would wander about, look for clues, and grab opportunities to advance his standing. He now had a key. It had to open a door, and inside he’d find . . . what? Something important, for sure. Perhaps the fabled Crimson Cloak?

  “There,” Emery said, pointing.

  Arlo shielded his eyes against the sunlight. It took a moment to spot what she was referring to. “Oh my God. That’s nuts.”

  A distant figure clung to the cliff wall. Some lunatic was scaling the sheer rocky face. He didn’t seem to have any ropes or anchor points. Maybe the people in the village lacked fancy rock-climbing equipment. They certainly had balls of steel, though.

  “She’s been planning this for weeks,” Emery said.

  “Wait, that’s a woman?” Arlo squinted but couldn’t tell the difference from this distance.

  “Mullen is twenty-three. She’s put in a lot of practice and has plenty of enthusiasm and grit.”

  And balls of steel.

  Probably forty or fifty people stood under her chosen route, occasionally cheering her on. They sounded doubtful, though. She might have started strong, but she’d barely made it a fifth of the way and seemed to be struggling.

  “How could she ever think she could climb to Midway?” he gasped. “The cliff is . . . what, three hundred feet? It looks so smooth!”

  “We try from time to time,” Emery said softly. “Yes, the cliff is smooth, so the climber has to use a pick hammer. It requires patience as well as fortitude.”

  “But new climbers can make use of the work done by previous climbers,” Arlo mused.

  Emery frowned. “No. All traces of previous climbers are erased behind them as they climb. It’s a one-way journey.”

  Arlo’s mouth dropped open. That was freaky. On the other hand, it made a kind of sense—otherwise it would be increasingly easier for the next climber, and Midway would soon be overrun by newcomers.

  “The balance shoots help,” Emery went on. “Nobody has reached the top, but a few have made it past halfway.”

  Arlo shivered. “And what happens when they fail?”

  Emery shrugged. “They fall. Or jump. One year, a man slept up there for days. He’d dropped his pick hammer so was unable to continue climbing—and unable to come back down. He hooked himself onto the wall and died there.”

  Arlo had no words except to ask, “Why? What happens if they reach the top?”

  “Midway has long said they’d allow any worthy person to join them. Climbing the cliff would certainly qualify as worthy.” Emery abruptly reached for his hand. “I wanted to show you something else. Come with me.”

  She practically dragged him along the streets, weaving in and out of people who went about their daily business. What the residents did all day long was a mystery. Background characters, Arlo thought. It all looks normal on the surface, if you don’t dig too deep.

  They arrived at what appeared to be a small temple, like a bandstand but far more ornate, with a column at each corner and a decorated roof. It was probably fifteen feet square, and instead of a raised platform, a simple pool took up the space. The water was perfectly still.

  “The Fortitude Pool,” Emery announced as they stood by its edge. It had no raised sides; the pool was dug into the ground, accessible by way of narrow steps. Flagstones surrounded it. “This is where people come to test their endurance. Mullen came here last week. She passed the test. That’s why she felt able to make the climb today.”

  Arlo leaned over the pool. “So . . .”

  “You step in and move to the middle. Then you wait. If you can last an hour, then you’re up to whatever task awaits you. For some, it’s a reminder that Midway’s high demand is achievable. With Mullen, it was the climb. For you . . .”

  She glanced at him, and he understood her meaning. “You think I should step in and see if I’m up to the task of making it to Pinnacle and restoring the realm.” When she didn’t answer, he nodded. “Fine, I’ll give it a whirl. How cold can it be?”

  He discarded his shoes and approached the edge. Cautiously, he plunged a bare foot into the water and came down on the first step. There he paused, watching as a strange bubbling enveloped his ankle. It didn’t hurt, merely tickled. It frothed unnaturally for a good twenty seconds before calming down . . . and then he did a double take.

  Pulling his foot out, he gawked at the clean fabric at the bottom of his pant leg, not to mention his pristine bare skin. “The dirt dissolved!”

  Emery smirked. “It will cleanse you.”

  A couple of men wandered by on Arlo’s left, peering over at him. To his right, a woman and a small child paused. Coming around the corner ahead, a group of old ladies chatted idly as they hobbled along. Their conversation died when they saw Arlo poised on the edge of the pool.

  Feeling a little too scrutinized for his liking, and certain the entire village would be here any moment, he splashed down into the pool, glad it wasn’t icy cold. The steps descended all the way to the center, at which point he was neck deep. He turned and faced Emery, trying to relax.

  The first thing he noticed was that the water cleansed his dirt-coated hands and feet. He dipped his head under and ran his hands through his hair, counted to ten, and popped back up again. All foreign material—soil, bits of grass, small twigs that had caught in his hair—dissolved and vanished, leaving squeaky clean skin and spotless clothes. After that, the sizzling bubbles petered out, and he stared in surprise at the crystal-clear water.

  This wasn’t half as bad as he’d expected.

  “Okay,” he said to Emery, “so I just, what, stand here like this? For an hour?”

  “About an hour, yes. It varies. You’ll know when you come through the other side.”

  With those cryptic words, she went to sit on a nearby bench. Arlo realized then that the place seemed to have been designed for spectators to come along and make themselves comfortable. The bearded stranger gave him a nod and sat on another bench, clearly interested in the outcome.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Weirdo,” Arlo muttered under his breath.

  He bent his knees a little and let his arms float to his sides. The temperature was almost perfect, neither cold nor hot. And that puzzled him. If the water was so damn nice, where exactly was the challenge?

  Boredom, he thought.

  He had quite a few onlookers now. Some sat, some stood, but each wore a curious expression. Would the outsider pass muster? Did they even know he was an outsider? Had Emery told anyone? Had word spread throughout Olde Village? He had a feeling they knew. A simple whisper to her neighbor could spread like wildfire in a place like this if outsiders were as important as Emery indicated.

  Arlo felt for his heavy key. He pulled it from his pocket and brought it out of the water to peer at. It now gleamed gold, not a single blemish on its thick shank. Definitely a door key, he mused, judging by its size.

  Then the pain started.

  It crept into his feet. At first, Arlo assumed he had a cramp. He put the key away and squirmed, trying to work his muscles. But the sharp twinges turned into dull aches that spread up his ankles and into his knees, then to his thighs. It worried him, and he stood up straight, fearing the water might be . . . contaminated? What would cause such discomfort?

  “Emery,” he called, “something’s happening.”

  She nodded. “It’s testing your fortitude. You won’t be permanently harmed. The point is to see how long you can last. If you can’t stand it anymore, just walk out.”

  His nerves settled a little. Okay, so it was some kind of fake pain. A simulation, not real. It could be a chemical making his brain think there was pain.

  I can deal with this. Bring it on.

  The ache spread up his chest and to his shoulders, then down to his fingers. All of it seemed manageable until it had seeped into every nook and cranny of his body, and then the pain intensified until he began to gasp. He developed a terrible migraine to go along with the cramps. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, fighting to stand upright.

  The agony threatened to overcome him. What would happen if he blacked out? He refrained from eliciting pitiful mewls and became aware of his strangled cries instead. This prompted a few more people to sit down and watch his imaginary plight.

  “No-o-o-o-o,” he groaned when it felt like his rib cage was being slowly crushed between a couple of buses. At the same time, he swore a pair of giant hands reached down into the water, grasped one leg, and twisted until his femur cracked. It didn’t actually crack, but he guessed it felt exactly like this.

  Then, all at once, the pain subsided.

  “Holy crap,” he cried, sagging with relief. “Oh my God, that was awful. But I made it!” Wearily, he grinned at Emery and gave a thumbs up.

  She smiled back, but nobody clapped or even reacted. They all watched stoically—the bearded man, Emery and another young woman, a couple of old ladies, and a small crowd of others gathered in his periphery.

  He started itching.

  As with the pain, it crept into his feet and spread throughout his body until he was scratching feverishly, unable to satisfy a single itch. He kept looking, expecting to see blotchy red hives or the welts of mosquitoes, or maybe a billion biting ants swarming all over his body. He saw nothing, but he couldn’t help moaning and groaning at this fresh kind of hell.

  Now he understood. Completely fake sensations, sure, but oh-so-realistic. Did he have the fortitude to stick it out? Yeah, he did. He doubled down on his scratching, knowing the imaginary rash would end shortly.

  But when it did, something worse started—the feeling of his flesh melting in a fire. He could almost smell the blistering pus-filled nastiness. It not only burned on the surface but deep down as well, and it melted and stuck to his nerve endings and muscles and skeleton—and whenever he moved an inch, he screamed in anguish. His voice echoed off the underside of the stone ceiling, and he begged the structure to crack and topple down on him to end his misery.

  After fire came frost, and he welcomed it—until his fingers and toes froze so hard that they blackened and broke off, and his internal organs turned into blocks of ice. His eyes stuck open, his jaw locked, and his tongue hardened and bulged until it cracked in two . . .

  He lost track of time. After the frost, he was eaten alive by rodents. Then it felt like he slid out of control down a mountainside, scraping his bare skin all the way down until he had nothing left but a mess of raw flesh. Oh, and being folded into a tiny space was fun; every bone in his body cracked and splintered until he was tightly crammed into a trunk no bigger than an airline carry-on.

  Or so his mind imagined.

  Abruptly, thankfully, it ended. He was left gasping and shuddering, tears streaming as he waited in abject terror for the next agonizing onslaught.

  But it never came.

  His breathing slowed, and he shakily wiped his face. Around him, nearly two dozen people watched with wide eyes and delighted smiles. Those seated leaned forward with anticipation. Emery was on her knees, her hands clasped together, eyes wet, but with an expression of relief and pride.

  “Is . . . is it over?” Arlo gasped.

  Emery climbed to her feet and stepped closer, opening her arms wide. “It’s over. Come on out!”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. He emerged from the water to a hearty round of applause, hugged Emery tight, then happily shook hands with smiling strangers before they dispersed.

  His screen lit up.

  Congratulations. You have shown you can endure great pain and suffering. This level of fortitude will come in useful throughout your quests.

  “Uh . . . thanks?” he murmured. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

  He waved his screen away.

  Once everyone but Emery had gone, he stood dripping on the cobblestones. “I think that pool dissolved my filling,” he mumbled as he probed inside his mouth.

  “Your what?”

  Arlo shook his head. “Never mind. How long was I in there? It has to be nearly lunchtime. I’m starving. Can we eat?”

  “Yes, it’s actually past lunchtime.”

  There it was again—the short daylight hours throwing him off. They’d left the house shortly after dawn, and now it was well into the afternoon? But a quick scan of the sky told him it was true; the sun rode high, already on its way to the opposite horizon where it would sink below the mountains in record time. Seven hours of daylight. How did anyone get anything done?

  But as he thought about that, he realized the short days made sense for a computer game. People rarely did anything of consequence in the evenings anyway. In his modern world, Arlo would sit around watching TV. In a medieval setting, they went to pubs, or sat in candlelight telling stories, or simply went to bed. Why focus on that boring stuff in a game?

  Just accept it, he told himself as they weaved through the crowded streets.

  It amused him how clean he was compared to Emery. But he was wet and cold, too. At least his shoes were dry—though filthy. He should have worn them in the pool as well.

  They stopped by the market, where a ruddy-faced man sweated over a stove in an outdoor cookshop. It was located in a smoky lean-to and smelled surprisingly good. Emery paid with a couple of roughly circular copper coins. She handed Arlo his meal, and he drooled over it as they found a place to sit under a small tree on the outskirts of the village. The cliff loomed over the rooftops, and they had a clear view of Mullen climbing the wall to Midway.

  The food was good—a thick slab of bread with some kind of pot roast poured over it. After eating the meat and onions, Emery threw the bread down on the ground.

  “That’s wasteful,” Arlo said, halfway through eating his own slab. “It’s a bit chewy, but damn, the flavor!”

  Emery shook her head. “Trenchers are for yakkles.”

  She’d used two unfamiliar words there. Both were explained pretty quickly when a four-legged hound came trotting up. It wolfed the gravy-soaked bread—what she’d called the trencher—in three hasty swallows.

  Arlo stared at the animal. It wasn’t too dissimilar from a golden retriever, only with longer hair, shorter legs, and oddly prominent whiskers. It looked scruffy, perhaps a mix.

  “And that’s what you call a yakkle? Do they all look like this?”

  “No, they vary. Why?”

  “Just curious.” Besieged by the yakkle’s pitiful, sorrowful gaze, Arlo sighed and threw down the rest of his trencher. It was gone two seconds later. The yakkle trotted off, wagging both of its tails.

  Arlo did a double take.

  “This place is nuts,” he muttered as he turned his attention skyward. The fearless young woman named Mullen continued to climb, though slowly. She still had an impossibly long way to go. “Okay, look, I’m on a bit of a roll now. I’ve shown that I’m up to the task of this quest, and I have a key. How can I find out where to use it? It unlocks some treasure, but I don’t know where. What kind of door does this fit? It looks regal. There can’t be many places in this village fit for a key like this.”

  He held it up. Its golden surface gleamed in the sunlight.

  Emery turned a raised eyebrow on him. “Are you saying we’re substandard? Inferior?”

  “What? No, I—” Arlo pursed his lips. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I just meant—”

  She smiled and stood up. “Let’s go and talk to my Uncle Reglan. He’s an excellent knife thrower.”

  Bemused, Arlo said nothing but got up to follow. How would being an excellent knife thrower help?