Season I | Episode II | Chapter I

335 days until Affliction Day

Thirty days. A month. Thirty. Days. They’ve been stuck here. For. Thirty. Days.

Tarrick isn’t bothered much, at least. He has books to read. But Grandma isn’t that easy to entertain. Every day is spent pacing around the Lennox, baking, cooking, cleaning, exercising, playing cards, listening to the radio, doing everything she can to make the endless time go by quicker. Tarrick’s great adventure as a Chronicler hasn’t started as great as they’d all hoped. As soon as they’d reached the Great Cliff, a few hours by boat down the river from High Tobain, they’d been stopped at the Border. Which meant the last canal blocking their path until they’d fall to their deaths, down the waterfall and straight off the cliff. You’d think that’d be a good thing. To stop there. Fom what Tarrick had learned during his geography classes, the world had once been whole and then it had cracked in thin pieces vertically. Around here, the Great Cliffs weren’t seen as the last step before death. They were seen as the first step towards the other side. The river fell into a waterfall, but above it had been built a bridge to let boats and travellers get to the other side.

Not today, though. Not for a long, long time. The canal workers have gone on vacation. They won’t open the water bridge to let them pass for the foreseeable future.

Thirty days ago, they were stuck.

They’re still stuck.

And Grandma is getting bored.

Tarrick flips his page over. He’s already read King Cathur and the Felines of the Round Table twice, but that doesn’t mean he can’t read it again. But then Grandma sighs. And again. And again.

“Yes?” he asks, clapping his book shut.

“You’re always reading. Don’t you ever do something else?”

“I cook and I bake and I do all the things you do. I like to play cards, too. Do you want to play?”

She pouts. Meaning grace him, she looks miserable. “No, not particularly.”

“Then what do you think we should do?”

She looks around. For a while. For a really long while. From her seat in an armchair, Grandma eyes each book, each inch of table, each knick-knack she’s collected over the years. For when Grandma moved in the Lennox - that is, thirty days ago now - she’d moved in with a box full of knick-knacks she bought on multiple trips during her time as Chronicler. She’d spent the first week telling Tarrick and Prothea all about each individual object’s purpose and the stories behind them. But then she’d run out of stories about monster teeth and tiny forks embedded with sapphires and there they were, stuck in the Lennox for the time being. Grandma sighs. Once again. She gazes at the two of them. Almost mournfully. Prothea’s sleeping in a corner. He’s reading. He had been reading before putting his book aside. Thing is, Tarrick can see it in her eyes, there isn’t anything she wants to do. Not here. Not in here, at least. How are they going to survive travelling around the world for who knows how long… when they’re bored before they’ve even left High Tobain’s land?

Tarrick sniffs the air. There’s something strange at foot.

The ceiling looks hazy. Is that… smoke?

“Hey… what’s that smell?”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Tarrick nearly jumps out of his skin when the alarm rings. Prothea does, though. Jump out of her skin. She’s on her feet so fast, she’s basically a blur. A long screech echoes in Tarrick’s ears. And the alarm blares. Grandma grabs her cane and runs to the kitchen area. She grabs a towel and waves it around like a flag. Tarrick lets out a sigh of relief when the alarm finally shuts off. Yep, still up there, that’s definitely smoke. It’s thick and makes his throat itchy and his eyes water. Smoke leaks through a crack in the oven.

“Meaning be with me,” swears Grandma. The oven beeps shut. “I forgot my pie!”

“All right, enough!” orders a grumpy Prothea, sitting on the arm of Tarrick’s armchair. “You and you, get out of here! I need sleep!”

“You sleep all the time,” counters Tarrick.

Prothea closes her eyes and raises her chin. “Maybe so. But not for a lack of reason! I haven’t slept at all in days, let me tell you! Nights, to be precise! Your grandmother has been keeping me awake for too many hours to count with her snoring. And now this! I need to sleep. So please. Get out!”

“Well,” argues Tarrick, “this is my boat and I will do as I please.”

“And,” adds Grandma, “this was my boat before yours, dare I say!”

Prothea scratches at Tarrick’s face. He jumps away and shields himself with his paws. Prothea flutters over to a shelf. She turns her head and stares Grandma dead in the eye. With a flick of her paw, Prothea launches a poor porcelain polefox down onto the ground. It shatters into a thousand pieces. Grandma gasps.

“Scratchy, no! How dare you?”

“Get out of here or I’ll do that with all those porcelain treasures of yours. Get. Out!”

When Grandma protests, Prothea flies across the room, flapping her wings vigorously. Grandma and Tarrick climb half-backwards up the ladder and onto the first deck. Still, Prothea is unrelenting. She shows them the door. Soon enough, Grandma and Tarrick are thrown out of their own boathouse. Tarrick’s boathouse. The boathouse that used to belong to Grandma. The Lennox. Anyway. Tarrick jumps ship and ends up on the riverbank.

“Wonderful,” huffs Grandma. “Simply wonderful!”

In other circumstances, the canal owners might have prompted them to get back on board. But there’s no one to tell them no and there’s also no one waiting after them to cross the Border.

Except…

A boat rides down the river. At full speed. Pushed along by a spell, no doubt. Someone is at the helm. Tarrick frowns. He sticks a finger in his ear. What’s that sound? Some kind of insect buzzing? No. There’s no insect nearby. Tarrick follows the sound. He gasps through the nose. It’s the person on board who makes that sound. A scream. A long, petrified scream.

That’s when it dawns on Tarrick.

That person’s not stopping.

At all.

Tarrick looks at Grandma. Grandma looks at Tarrick. They start to wave.

“Wait! Stop!

“You need to stop!”

“There’s a boat there, stop!”

“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN’T STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!”

An idea springs in Tarrick’s mind. He has to act. Quickly. If he wants to save the Lennox - and their trip around the world - before it’s too late. Tarrick leaps back on board the boathouse. His heart beats furiously in his ears. His blood pumps at his temples. Tarrick skids down the ladder and inside the back store. Prothea perks up. Her fur becomes prickly, needle-like, and her wings flap.

“What. Did I. Tell you?”

“No time for that. I’m trying to avoid a crash, so if you’d please excuse me!”

“What?”

Tarrick looks around. No time to explain. He sprints to the back of the back store. He pulls down on the lever embedded in the wall. Soon, the light filtering through the windows disappears. An eclipse when there’s not supposed to be one. Tarrick grabs the closest thing he can brace himself on. The nearest bookshelf. Tarrick closes his eyes. Prothea is relentless. Her voice bellows in his ear.

“I beg your pardon? What do you think you’re doing? What’s going on? What-?”

Tarrick wraps an arm around Prothea and pulls her close to him. Her claws dig into his side.

“What’s happening? TARRICK!”

There’s the sound of wood grating against metal and the Lennox is propelled forward. Tarrick’s grip on the bookshelf falters. He crashes to the floor. Prothea’s flapping wings barely make any difference. The Lennox crashes. He knows into what. Into the canal wall. Up front. The Lennox’s prow lifts up. Tarrick slides on the floor and into a table. It’s not over. The Lennox falls back into the river. Everything shakes. Books fall from their shelves and a lamp crashes. Then all becomes still. Tarrick closes his eyes and waits. Nothing. Not a sound. It’s over. It’s finally over. Prothea squeezes herself out of his grasp and shakes herself. Slowly, oh so slowly, Tarrick tries to get up. He groans. There’s a pain in his side from where he hit the table. Nothing seems to be broken. Tarrick lifts his shirt and looks. Oof. There’s an ugly pruplish bruise already forming there. Upon his rib. Wonderful. He’s going to feel that in the morning.

Who is he kidding? He’s already feeling it.

At first, there’s only silence. Then a roar cuts in through the ship’s walls and into his ears.

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU??!?”

Grandma.

“What was that?” asks Prothea. “Don’t tell me. That was your grandma. But what was… was that an earthquake? What happened? Tarrick, tell me!”

“Nothing much happened. Someone just crashed their boat into us.”

“What?!”

Tarrick doesn’t answer. He limps up the ladder and onto the top deck. Prothea follows. Docilely. Which is out of character, to say the least. Tarrick figures she doesn’t have another choice if she wants to understand what’s going on. It’s difficult, but he manages to get back on shore. Grandma has already boarded the other boat. It’s a small dinghy, much smaller than the Lennox. To make such a ruckus, that thing must’ve been going even faster than he’d first thought. The dinghy’s prow is destroyed, pushed down into the Lennox’s stern. Tarrick follows the sound of Grandma’s voice onto the dingy. He doesn’t need to ask permission to board. Now’s not the time for pleasantries.

When he reaches them, Grandma is right in the driver’s face. Tarrick blinks. He knows him. That’s one of Rolafina’s neighbours in town. What is Mr. Osxian doing here?

Grandma doesn’t ask him that.

“WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT, LAD?” She yells so loud, Tarrick fears they might hear her way back in High Tobain. “HOW CAN YOU BE SO RECKLESS? YOU COULD’VE KILLED US ALL!”

“I…”

Osxian opens his mouth and closes it, opens and closes. His two paws grip the helm. He’s trembling.

“I’m trying to get away from my dead great-uncle.”