The Mildew King
A Super Short Story by Ashleigh B. Clark
It was a rather boring day. A small boy with hair that was dirtier
than his tattered clothes tried to dull his boredom by venturing into the
library. There he found a strange
purple-haired woman, who was fussing about rather loudly with the library's
collection of dusty old books. She did not seem to notice the boy at all, as
she ripped book after book off of the shelves with such vigor the boy thought
the whole shelf might fall down upon her. When the boy attempted to ask the
librarian what was going on, he only received a desperate stare. The boy decided
that he better leave to find other ways to entertain him. Although this did
have the potential to be thoroughly entertaining, the possibility of being
pelted by old dusty books outweighed the need for something to do.
As the boy exited quietly, the purple-haired woman pulled one
final book off of the shelf. The creaking of the book shelf not only clearly
defined the boy's worries of books tumbling on top of him, but made him exit
even quicker.
The purple-haired woman had, at last, found what she was looking
for. In the very back of the book shelf,
behind all of the dusty old books, was a hidden compartment. Inside of this
compartment, a rather large book which was dustier than any other book in the
library, sat sparkling despite its dusty appearance. Upon the cover was a very
strange symbol, but the woman seemed to know what it meant as she ran her
fingers over it with delight in her eyes.
The old book was something heard in legends. It held the stories
of the past, legends passed on from generation to generation. These were
legends that were only told through word of mouth, and only through families.
They were forbidden to be learned of by the normal public. The Gods must have
deemed them unworthy, or perhaps they were merely forgotten. The woman sighed
with disbelief; she didn’t understand why such legends have been forgotten by
the loud-mouthed, annoying generation of today. She felt privileged to be one
of few to ever lay eyes on such legendary stories. Not wishing to waste another
moment, the woman began to flip through the old book's pages.
The stories were everything she had imagined. They weren't about
Kings, Queens or Heroes of any kind. These stories were about the unsung heroes
- the ones behind the scenes who have been forgotten; the ones who have been lost
in the winds. It was surprising to her that many citizens walked by these very
heroes on a daily basis and thought nothing of them. They had no idea how much
of an impact they've had in the past. If they only knew the truth!
There was the old Shaman, whose knowledge of potions and spells
tipped off the King to the treachery of a woman who tried to murder him. There
was the Butcher, who heard the strange whispers of an unusual monster that
would murder thousands outside of her shop. The story of her trying to figure
out what these monsters were, and to save a few hundred, was lost. The stories
the Palace Greeter told were so vivid that any gossiping person would kill to
get their hands on.
But there was one story in particular that intrigued the woman. It
was a strange one, and perhaps that was why she was so intrigued. It told about
a creature known as the dryad: a human-sized living being that was the
protector of trees. It is said that when a tree is found to be sick or dying,
the dryads do their best to heal it back to health. Their origins are unknown
to most, people putting them off as just another mystery of nature. But the
truth is that the skills of a dryad are not some mysterious skill that one is
simply born with. They are learned skills, skills that must be taught by a very
powerful wizard.
The book spoke in detail about how a dryad is taught, what they
must go through, and how they are chosen. It goes into great detail about one
man in particular. It speaks of how the man devoted his life to the study of
healing trees. Despite this, the wizard who was his mentor had come across
students who were far more skill then he was, and he was left behind. In the
beginning, the wizard had high hopes for the man, but he could never master the
skill of healing. It seemed as if he did the opposite. Instead of encouraging
the trees to grow, he discouraged them. This caused them to go into an opposite
state – a state of decay. The Wizard really had no use for decayed trees, and
so the man's studying went on the back burner.
Perhaps he was a dedicated student. Although, one would think that after failing
in a skill, he would have tried a new one.
Instead, he spent years perfecting his art: always trying to be like the
dryads, and always failing.
There were stories told about him. The kind a parent tells their child in hopes
of encouraging them to do good things. It
was a kind of cautionary tale about the repercussions of not proving your worth
in the world. But, as time passed, people believed the man to be an urban
legend. They believed that it was something that was based around parents
trying to get their children to be good, rather than real occurrences.
As the woman read more, she too believed the story was a myth. But
a strange visit to what she thought a rather normal place would change her mind
forever.
She was doing her daily visit of the shady man of the town, as
she did every day, asking him for quest to bid her time with. The man was
insane, completely out of touch with reality. But the purple-haired woman felt
bad for him, and so she would always do as he asked. This time it was about
rats. The poor man thought that rats were planning to attack him. The woman
knew explaining to the man that rats don’t have the capability to think, let
alone plan, was pointless. The man had got it into his head that the rats were
slowly building up an army to take him down. The fact that such an attack had
not happened in years did not seem to sway his obsession. So, as she always
did, she humored him.
The woman did not really enjoy going rat hunting. She was a book
worm, and while you could say because of that she was accustomed to dust, it
was the mildew smell that sneaked its way into her nostrils that irked her the
most. It was an awful smell: The smell
of dirty laundry which has been sitting out for days, spoiled food which worms
called their home, and, most awfully…the smell of unwashed feet and armpits. Regardless,
the woman did not have anything to do, and decided to press on. Perhaps it was because of this boredom that
led her to where she went next; or maybe, just perhaps, something else inside
of her drove her there. She could not really name it or even explain the
feeling, but she continued until she found herself in a rat-filled cave. How
she managed to get there was a matter she refused to speak about.
As she was standing around, examining a very foul smelling rat,
she heard a strange noise coming from behind her. It was the sound of a very
creaky door opening. Her curiosity peaking, she peered behind her. Just as the
sound suggested, a door inside of the cave of rats had opened. The woman
thought this a little strange. She had been given this same task by the shady
man so many times, that she knew this cave of rats far too well. She knew it
better than the back of her own hand, which proved to be a very sad fact
indeed. The woman decided not to share this fact with anyone, seeing as she had
few friends to begin with and such strange facts might scare any future ones
away.
Perhaps it was her social awkwardness, and thus her perpetual
bored state of mind which caused her to go through the strange door. Regardless, she went through it. As she
ventured inside, it was not what she had expected. It was a rather small room,
which was quite possibly moldier then the cave of rats itself. However, despite
this, it looked to be very lived-in. Several pieces of furniture were strewn
about, in no particular order. There were all sorts of strange ingredients and
potion bottles everywhere. There were so many scents to smell, that it would
have taken years to identify them all. What piqued the woman's interest the
most was a strangely neat pile of old, dusty books. A grin quickly came across
the woman's face, seeing as old, dusty books were her favorite thing in the
world.
She made her way hastily over to the book pile, eager to read
their contents. Although at first glance
they looked extremely dusty and torn, the woman quickly realized that they were
simply worn in. She examined one in particular, which looked as if it had been
read a hundred times: its title which graced the cover had long been worn out,
leaving only a few letters visible. The pages were crinkled in every place
imaginable. There were many stains of meals long past, and liquids that once
quenched someone's thirst.
Caught up in her examination, the woman did not notice the old
man behind her. She was not prepared when the old man snuck up behind her and
breathed a hot, sticky breath on her neck. He certainly wasn't pleased when the
woman, in complete fear, leaped so high into the air she not only hit her head
on the roof of this small room, but spilled over the entire pile of books. He
was almost mortified when the woman, bumping her head quite hard, passed out.
The woman did not know how long she had been out for, but when
she woke up, her head pounded with pain in the most unimaginable sense of the
word. It did not help one bit that the strange, smelly, old man was staring
right at her as she opened her eyes. But before she could leap up and hit her
head again, the old man smiled in an obscure way, causing her to stop. Perhaps, the woman thought to herself, this
man once had a wonderful smile. But as of right now, it appeared crooked and
worn under his rather large and hairy beard.
Before she could even think of the many questions she no doubt
had to ask, the old man began to speak to her. The woman quickly noticed that
this old man probably had not spoken to anyone in quite a while, because his
sense of common manners had long flown out the window. The woman just added it
to the many other unpleasant things about this place, and tried to listen
intently. After all, this old man obviously hadn't seen the light of day in
years and probably had a lot to say. The woman smiled to herself, remembering
how her mother always told her to listen to her elders, and hoping that she
would be proud.
As it turned out, the old man had quite a lot to say. He
explained to the woman about a band of what he called "tree-folks." He told the woman about how a Wizard had taught
these creatures how to heal the trees, and how it was a great honor to know
about these things, let alone learn of them.
The old man explained how he had trained with them, and how proud of it
he was. But the woman did not understand.
She had guessed he meant the dryads, which was a strange
coincidence. After all, she had been
studying about the dryads before this strange occurrence. But, seeing as she did
not know the ways of fate or the like, she decided to just go with the flow.
The woman asked in the nicest way she knew how, why the old man
was living down here, instead of doing what the dryad did - healing trees. At that moment, the woman thought to herself
that she had never seen such a sad looking man, and quickly regretted asking. But,
the old man soon explained his many failures. You see, he was never good at healing
anything. The only thing he managed to do was create mildew and mold. Seeing as
there wasn't a great need for either of those, the old man decided to no longer
be a part of society. He spent his days perfecting his art of creating mildew. In
fact, the old man told the woman with delight returning to his face, he created
this cave! It may not be that pretty, or smell great, but the woman couldn't
help but to feel proud of the old man for his accomplishments.
The woman decided to cheer the old man up by asking him a strange,
but simple, request: To allow her to write about his story. The woman wanted to
share with others the importance of learning about stories of the past. Because
of her kindness, the old man gave her a gift, a token of his skill. She
realized as she waved goodbye to the old man that her constant search for knowledge
does have its rewards. After all, she would have probably overlooked the opportunity
to meet such a strange, although somehow wonderful, person.
She would have never been able to see a different side of
history. The side of history that isn’t known by many people, that isn’t
written in the history books; the side that is hidden away in some obscure,
dusty old book. The side that is strange and forgotten, yet somehow wonderful
in its own weird way.
The woman will always remember the old man Monkaushka. She
promised him that she would tell his story.
She would always remember her adventure. After all, how could you forget
that much mildew and mold?
