“...The hallucinogenic properties of the dung of the galatronk mardore beast...”

“Let me stop you right there,” the old man said.

Jansen, who had been reading from the tattered, leather-bound, and slightly mildewy, book, flipped ahead and read to himself. “It’s all rather interesting,” he said, tapping his finger on his swollen lower lip.

As the old man looked closer at his grandson. He found that there were quite a few abrasions, bruises and swollenses about Jansen’s face. “What happened to you?”

“When?”

“Your face!”

“Oh,” Jansen laughed, somberly. He lifted the book up off his lap as if to put it on display. “It was because of this.”

“You dropped the book on your face?”

Jansen scowled. “No, you fool. The book. I was beaten for swiping it.”

The old man adjusted himself in his seat. “I thought you picked it up from at the library.”

Jansen shook his head. “This is a rare, book, this.” He put the tome back on the pedestal, and rose from his seat. “I wasn’t the only one today searching for it. There was also a packet of errata which I have yet to explore.”

“For a book about mardore beast dung?” The old man folded his arms at his chest, and made his clever face fall into one which marked the topic with incredulity.

“Well,” Jansen said, returning from the larder. “It is illegal, after all, yeah?”

“Understandable, it is,” the old man said. “Still to have two parties searching for it on the shelf at the same moment...”

Jansen sat back down, handing a small mug to his grandfather. “Remember to let the leaves do their work before taking a drink.”

The old man shakily took the mug by the handle and nodded his head.

“I suspect they followed me.”

The old man choked. “Here?”

“No…? At least...”

“At least?”

“I’m certain they were following me on my quest for the book. Attune, however, took them out rather soundly.”

After the currently librarian was killed, Attune was the keeper of the library. An overgrown tree-trunk of a woman, both mentally and physically, who was more bodyguard than bibliophile. She appreciated the books, though some said more for their smell than for their message.

“How many?”

“Three.”

“How did…?”

“Her normal response to interlopers: typical hammer-fist to the top of the head.”

“Alive?” The old man began to nag at his spindly beard. Jansen was never certain what triggered this response. Excitement? Frustration? Nerves? Sometimes it seemed all three at once.

“Yes. She stuck them in a back room.”

“So, simply a matter of time then.” The old man stood up, and due to the quietness of the room, save for the crackle of the fire, one could hear his bones almost creak in defiance of the action. Once on his feet, he grabbed at the book though the weight of the volume seemed almost too much for him. “Help me with this.”

“What are you planning?”

“Why to burn it, of course.”

Jansen, wide-eyed, pulled the book from the old man’s grasp. “You are still on about that?”

“Yes,” he said, still wobbly from being tugged at. “It has to be destroyed. It can’t fall into someone’s possession.”

“Don’t be daft, old man. This is knowledge. You can just destroy knowledge. Also, Attune would murder us both.”

The old man laughed. “She has the brain of a simple organism, give her another book in its place and she’ll be satisfied.”

“You give Attune too little credit, grandfather. She knows the value of this book and her nose gave it special attention. True, she’s illiterate, but she can identify a book by its smell as easily as you or I by the title on its spine. Also, this is a book of science, a truer alchemy. Probably the last of its kind. Its contents are invaluable and go well beyond that of your fears of artistic fudgery.”

The old man opened his mouth, and found at the moment he didn’t have a leg to stand on. Quite literally, in fact. In a failing effort to balance himself, he toppled to the ground, spilling his hot tea and burning his person.

Jansen, attempting to suppress a giggle, helped the old man up. “That’s what you get for your impudence,” he told him.

“Mark this day,” the old man said, his face red with frustration, “this will be...”

There came a slow knock at the door and the two of them froze in place.

“I know you well,” Jansen said in a whisper. “You’re not well liked in this town, and you own your own property and taxes are paid.”

The old man tapped his spindly finger on the book and mouthed the words, “Toss it in the fire.”

Jansen placed a finger to his lips and tiptoed toward the door. He placed his ear to the wood, and after hearing no sound swung open the latch to the Judas hole. He waited a moment, and was glad he did so because a moment later a thin blade emerged where his eye socket would have been.

“Into the cellar,” he roared, but found that his grandfather was standing by the fire, transfixed on the smoldering object trying to conquer the flames.

Jansen rushed over, dragged the book free to the floor with a fork. He then grabbed his grandfather by the arm and pulled him towards the back door. “You are a single-minded child,” he told him.

“This is what they want. We should not let them have it!”

The knocking became more insistent, to the point where it sounded more like a body being thrown at the wood rather than a simple hand.

“I don’t think the cellar is a good idea,” the old man said.

“Why?”

“I – don’t remember...”

Jansen found hidden hatch handle to the cellar door and pulled with some effort until the heavy bit of flooring gave. The smells that emerged were musty but sweet, like fermented fruit.

“IN!” Jansen demanded.

The old man obliged, though slowly as his whithered body was not well suited for quick escapes. Once his grandfather had descended, Jansen, book in hand, slid down the rungs and slammed the portal shut. This, moments before the front door was smashed inward.

In the cellar, Jansen found the cellar’s musty smell almost overpowering. The light was wane, patchy allowed by small barred window to the south. Somewhere in the larger than normal space water dripped slowly. There was a clank of chain, followed by a soft, beastly grunt.

“Grandfather?”

“Yes.”

“What else is in this room with us?”

There came a brief explosive blat, as if from a muted trumpet, and a horrible compost smell filled the room.

“Is not a man in my dotage not allowed to keep pets?”

Jansen held his nose, and his speech was impeded by this fact for the rest of their conversations in the cellar. “You wouldn’t perchance have an actual galatronk mardore beast in here with us, would you? Perchance the last of it’s kind?”

The old man giggled. “Even better!” He struck a match revealing a hideous demoniac face. The face was attached to a fluid black body which, possible due to the shadows cast by the small flame, seemed to have a transient form. “This is a barnidar narfinder beast. The natural known enemy to the galatronk mardore.”

“And you were just going to go adventuring with this beast and exterminate the mardore from the world?”

The old man seemed to fidget. “In my youth, perhaps. Such an undertaking now seems beyond my current capabilities, but you...”

“I DON’T...” Jansen lowered his voice, suddenly very away of the heavy footfalls above his head. “I don’t happen to share this obsession. Twenty years you’ve been at this. You must let this go.”

“But the fate of future of artwork is in our hands. It’s our destiny. Surely you see that.”

“I couldn’t give a fig about this. It’s just a trend, and trends will come and go.”

As he had feared, after once witnessing a demonstration in that cave two decades previously, the symbolic nature of artist endeavors had begun to change. Thanks to the psychotropic nature of the galatronk mardore’s dung, a symbiotic connection could be had with a man’s brain and another living thing. At first it was man and worm, simple creatures be controlled, making them burrow into stone the visions in ones head. Thus creating very lifelike artwork.

“Not to mention that benefits that could come from this. Just think, farmers could control Oxen with their minds from the sidelines while doing other chores.”

The old man snorted. “What a monstrous thought. Man controlling beast. An abomination!”

Jansen snorted back. “You’ve never had any vision. Never looked to the future.”

In the darkness the barnidar narfinder snorted and shook impatiently at her chains.

“The beast,” the old man said, walking to another part of the room, “is eager to fulfill her destiny.”

He opened a door, once hidden in the darkness, and a sharp light pierced Jansen’s eyes. The young man quickly covered them with his arm.

The light revealed a long tunnel, most likely used by the grim smugglers of the early days, which led from basements to alleys or sometimes even farther. At the same time, a light confronted them from above.

“Quickly,” the old man said. “Help me free the beast.”

Jansen shook his head. There was no good option. Release the beast and his grandfather will kill off the mardore. Fail to release the beast, and the assassins above will kill them both. He placed his hands in his pockets, and found something wrapped there that he had forgotten about. “The errata,” he exclaimed.

The old man gave his grandson a puzzled look.

“Key?”

“Oh, yes,” the old man, and fished the small brass object from his own pocket. He tossed it to Jensen who quickly freed the narfinder.

“Ho ho,” came a voice from above. It was the smaller of the three, a slender young woman with a sword. “I knew we’d catch up with you in time. Hand over the book.”

Jansen nervously fidgeted with the small pouch. “What are your intentions with the book,” he said.

The woman jumped the rest of the way to the ground, and spun quickly to meet his gaze. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but we have a collector who is willing to pay handsomely for that very volume.”