Short Short Story - The Mildew King

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?