It is with great relief and much relaxation that I return to Wormwood Valley after so long away. No one in Wormwood ever truly asks too many questions about what lies beyond our great mountainous borders, but for a few of the hardy and adventurous here in our small town, we seek to know more, even if it is done through the guise of “good readership and literary inspiration.”
It is my proud honor to be a member of the Wormwood Valley Adventurers and Explorers Guild. We are aptly located beneath the catacombs of Sir Finneus McShrinks Adventure, Exploration and Hardware Equipment Store. It is a secluded and private membership of course, but going against such staunch social norms can prove quite difficult in Wormwood Valley, especially for such notable members of society, therefore, we must, to some degree, keep our membership a secret. Besides, we are, if nothing else, creatures of habitual, ritual and classical pomp and circumstance.
But I am using this months’ Wormwood Daily update not to invite or encourage such exploration, so much as to detail the initial part of my findings, in however a brief form they may take, that were discovered just beyond my very door. For it is there, often in plain sight, that if one is looking with a keen eye and a true heart, that they may find just the adventure their soul is seeking. And sometimes, they don’t even know it yet. And so it was with me. Being somewhat of a history aficionado, I felt it in my bones to explore the north –western mountains above Wormwood Valley, a most formidable and horrific place, if one was to believe all that is taught here in the Wormwood Valley Educational Institution.
Crossing the snow capped peaks, equipped with little more than a tent, a sturdy pack and as many provisions as I could carry, I set out up the North slopes of Mount Wormwood towards St. Bernard’s Peak to investigate the historical mythology and rumors of the long lost Abbey of the Knights of Wormwood. As many of my fellow residents know well enough, I am nearly half, well almost entirely of the ‘Toad’ species. Wormwood Forest Bullfrog to be exact. Therefore, bugs, worms and various carrion-esque delicacies take up little or no room in ones sack. As a result, I am quite fortunate to be able to carry quite enough food for several weeks. Being only three and one-quarter feet tall as well, makes travel quite easy, albeit somewhat longer. It is of course quite difficult to “leap” or “hop” when equipped with sturdy boots, fur-lined parkas, climbing ropes, carabineers, a sturdy ice ax, stove and various survival provisions. But equipped with a special Wormwood Bullfrog-sized pair of Glacier goggles (courtesy of Sir Finneus McShrinks himself) and a full pack, I set out for this long lost mountaintop castle.
After a long days walk through along the Old Forest Road and across the Wormwood River Bridge I found myself finally exciting the north end of Wormwood Forest and beginning up the tundra and grassy-covered slopes of the Northern mountains. It was here, at the first plateau above Wormwood Valley that I made my first nights camp. Looking out across Wormwood Valley, and seeing the clear skies blanketed in milky waves of sparkling stars, shimmering like diamonds on a sea of black, gives one a new perspective, a fresh outlook and a renewed vigor in the bones. Inspiration for a new day and the adventures it may bring.
Wrapped up in a freshly laundered wool blanket and sheltered against the icy wind beneath a good stiff canvas tent, I settled in for a bit of late night writing before bed, basking in the yellowy-glow of lantern light. It wasn’t until much later that eve, that I encountered my first official ‘adventure’ of this particular excursion.
One only ponders the word “adventure” when in the relative safety and warmth of comfortable, and often, familiar surroundings. Adventure is quite often best described as “when something goes terribly awry. Should everything unfold quietly and uneventful, it could hardly be detailed adventure any more than a simple walk to the store. Adventure without risk is merely ‘travel.’
But it is a rare thing indeed to consider one’s experiences, in the thick of them, “adventure’ when life and limb and froggy-booted legs are at risk of being eaten by a large carnivorous mountain leech, quite common on the slopes of wormwoods grassy peaks, but not usually quite so early in the spring.
And so it was the low grumble and familiar grinding of stone and dirt and tundra that I awoke from a pleasant dream of tea and crumpets with the Queen (her wardrobe curiously resembling that of a Wormwood Valley Carrier pigeon). As I leapt from my warm blankets, reaching for my ice axe, I found my tent rising high into the night sky, attached firmly to the roaring and spiny-clad back of a white Wormwood mountain leech, its’ frosty tundra covered hide rippling with twitching muscles and spindly poison tipped spines. Rising to a roaring height of nearly 15’ and crashing down upon my once roaring campsite fire in search of an apparent midnight morsel, I dodged to the rocks bordering my small plateau , utilizing my frog-like agility to position myself just above it’s gaping may, teeth shimmering in the night sky and the hot breath steaming from its cavernous mouth, blindly searching for its next meal. Now, as everyone knows, or at least, should know, Wormwood Mountain Leeches have no eyes. Therefore, my target could be only one single spot, the interior upper roof of the monsters mouth. Waiting for it to approach my position atop the rocks, I readied myself, ax in hand. When the nostrils of the great beast began to sniff and blow, covering me with the thick translucent goo of its slimy nostril snot, I waited, positioning the tip of my ax just so, wedged into a crack in the rocks at my feet. Being so small, I would hardly satisfy this great hulking demons desire for food, and therefore, could not allow myself to become little else than a single swallow. As the great mouth opened, the razor sharp teeth gaping wide to swallow me whole, I hunched back, waiting for either my ultimate end or the warm and wet sensation of Wormwood Leech blood to flood my entire camp.
As the disgusting worm bore down on me in one foul swoop, my ax held fast, piercing the roof of its soft pinky mouth, just beyond the inner rim of its massive teeth (nearly equal in size and length to myself) and driving straight up into its miniscule brain. Letting out a squeal as if from the very fathoms of hades itself, the worm stopped completely, dripping its foul smelling, but oh-so-sweet tasting blood all around me, bathing the rocks and all my gathered equipment in a virtual deluge of thick gloppy blood.
Thankfully, for Toad folk such as myself, Wormwood Mountain Leeches are also a rare delicacy. And so, not only did my attacker become my morning meal, it’s massive frame provided me with quite the shelter for a warm evening spent wrapped up in the inner workings of its thick slime covered tongue. Drying off the massive amounts of blood and hanging my equipment from the inside edges of the creatures massive curled teeth, I found that I had not only a finely constructed shelter, but all the food I could eat, only a hands length away.
Tomorrow would bring new sights, new perspectives and all thing going “un-adventurously,” the top of St. Bernard’s Peak and my first view at the rumors of the ruined and abandoned castle of the Knights of Wormwood.
But that my dear Wormwood Readers, will have to wait until the next issue. Worry not, for it shall surely satisfy the adventurer in you all.
Writing from deep below Wormwood Square,
Inkley Tolew III Esq.
Wormwood Daily
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