HE leaped back and immediately sat on the ground, still as a stone. For a few moments, he kept his gaze locked to the man’s back. When he became more relaxed, he looked around himself. There were many towering shelves filled to the brim with books and scrolls that were no doubt larger than him. And these shelves were stacked atop one another. It seemed a wonder that as high as they went, they did not show even a faint amount of instability. Especially when they warped toward the ceilings.

Whatever the man used, it had to have been quite strong to keep not only the shelves, but even the books in place. The room being as great as it was, it seemed the man did not have as many shelves as he needed, for not far from the boy were piles of books sitting on the floor covered in dust. Tūmbṃār slowly shuffled away, seeing how much of it was caked on them.

In front of the man’s table was a tall window that likewise stretched to the ceiling in a curved manner. The light was gone and only the night sky could be seen. Tūmbṃār seemingly had been long inside the house, scaling the stairs, but it did not feel that much time had passed, even with the hundreds of floors he crossed. At most, it felt no more than an hour.

And while he thought about this, he heard faint footsteps coming from the bookshelves on his right. He shifted his view upward to see a few blackish figures slowly trudging with a bright flame in their hands. They snickered and hastened their steps. When they were at the edge, they bent themselves back, readying to fling the flame. And Tūmbṃār at that instant, shot himself from the floor to where they were.

The blackish figured recoiled in fear, but it was too late. The boy flew to their position and crashed them into the books. The flame extinguished, and the books flew out, scattering themselves across the floor, some even falling on the man. The black figures, visibly crushed yet still able to move, escaped, crying in fear as they fled the room.

Tūmbṃār then looked at the mess and made a shame-faced smile, hoping he would not be scolded. The man kept silent. He continued to scribble away at his papers in what looked like Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr. While it was in use among religious documents, rare it was to see anyone use it to write in other contexts. And Tūmbṃār could tell what he was writing was not in any way related to such things. He could see him quickly sketch figures for forms that seemed both familiar and alien.

The boy went back to take his seat on the floor when the scratching of the needle against the paper stopped. The man rose and stretched himself. He was indeed tall, extraordinarily so, for his stature was at least three times that of Tūmbṃār’s. He turned to face the boy, his eyelids half raised and a long unkempt silver beard.

“Who might you be, child, and where do you come from?” said the man as he lurched forward to take a closer look. “At the very least, you don’t seem a demon. And I should give my gratitude for keeping those imps from here! Long have they schemed to destroy my work. The Demons as cowardly as they are, won’t themselves come here to destroy what they fear. Though I’ve no doubt that even if they put their minds to it, they could devise the same things I have. But perhaps it’s their folly to not be able to do as such and steal away from us, our designs and our lands. Fie! To the Hells with them and their ilk!”

Tūmbṃār was confused, but he stood up and said, “My name is Tūmbṃār! I come from the western part of Trdsyṃhaḥ—a village called Parāftaram, deep within the Hematite Mountains. Are you the mage, mister?”

He looked at the boy with an odd expression before bursting out into laughter. “Is that what the townsfolk call me now! Yes, yes! I suppose you could call me as such. I don’t care much for titles. At other times, I was likened to a madman and a wise-man at the same time. I suppose it is all relative to what I produce. Though such times have long passed—perhaps, I think, at least three ages.”

“Three ages!” shouted Tūmbṃār. “But that’d mean you’re from the Era of Foundation.”

“Yes, yes, indeed!” he said with a smile. “Though for me, not much time has really passed in this abode. In some cases, I’m not really here at all, if you get what I mean.” Tūmbṃār shook his head. The mage laughed and said, “Silly me! Of course you wouldn’t get it. But no matter; you said you were from a place called Parāftaram. I have not heard of such a place before. And these ‘Hematite Mountains’ you speak of are new to me as well. Tell me about it all, I wish to know in great deal.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Well, where do I start. The mountains are very large, and there’s a lot of iron inside there–”

“–Of course, of course, as is their namesake.”

“–and they give off a red hue and a very pungent smell–”

“–Yes, yes, because of the iron, but go on, go on.”

“–and inside is a large valley, where my village is, and beside it is a large forest of syconium trees–”

“–Very interesting, but tell me more about this mountain.”

“–Stop interrupting me!” shouted Tūmbṃār, unable to handle the interjections.

The mage gave him a surprised look and then bellowed a great laugh. The dust looked as if it circulated in and out of his mouth, much to the boy’s disgust. The giant man bent down and patted him on his head. Suddenly, dust shot out from Tūmbṃār’s hair. He coughed a bit and swiped away the giant’s hand.

“I’m sorry for interrupting; many of my past acquaintances and friends got quite irritated of it as well. But it has been long since I’ve talked with another, so excuse my indulgence.” He seated himself on the floor. “Continue on Tūmbṃār—I shall listen patiently.”

And Tūmbṃār spoke at length, painting as much detail as he could of his home. From the swaying of the grass, to the many fields, to the day-to-day activities of the village, to the mysteries of the forest and to his antics and eventual meeting with his teacher. He surprised himself with how much he could speak of it, for he had always found his home to be rather boring in comparison to what he had seen along his journey. Since the time he invoked the oath, Tūmbṃār had not uttered a single sound, so this was a welcome change. The mage himself seemed quite interested in what the boy had to say. He blinked very slowly, as if to visualize all of what he was hearing.

When Tūmbṃār had finished speaking, the mage remained silent and closed his eyes for some time, nodding his head ever so slightly. Then he suddenly opened his eyes and went back to his desk and got another paper. He called Tūmbṃār over and the boy went to his side. The mage seated Tūmbṃār atop the table as he took his sharpened needle laced with ink and quickly began to draw on the paper.

Within a few minutes, he had finished, and Tūmbṃār gazed in bewilderment at the image of his village and its mountains depicted in such detail. The drawing seemed to zoom in and out, as he could see all the fine particulates of the surface of the canals and even the lining of the bark reproduced to exact likeness.

He turned his head to the man and said, “You really are a mage!”

“I’m glad you think so!” He took the paper and moved it gently to the stack on his left. “Now, to the most important matter: why are you here, Tūmbṃār? Though I have indulged you for some time, this is not a place in which you should linger long. Your eyes tell me you’ve been in such a place before and for quite some time at that. Then you must also know that you should leave now, before too much time passes. Are there not others that wait for you?”

Tūmbṃār recalled his friends and scoffed. “I don’t wish to see them again! They always do their own thing without listening to me—and I care less for their excuses. Their cowards! And I’d rather not associate with cowards. And in any case, I came here by walking up a hill. I didn’t think I’d end up here, but I’m glad I did, because I was able to meet you!”

“Well, I won’t say I’m not happy that you think as such, but,” his voice became grave, “you don’t really believe what it is you say about your friends. Your rage seethes within, and yet you hold reservations of what you’ve done, do you not?” Tūmbṃār remained silent. He did not want to admit to his being wrong. “As for you calling them cowards; I suppose it is best to question whether their actions are toward self-preservation or cowardice. I can see from the marks on your hands and your neck that you don’t seem to be engaging in a trivial journey. Should you not learn to control your anger?”

“I shan’t change my mind on this,” he said resolutely. “What’s done is done. Even were I to change my mind, I’ve already made on oath to never speak to them. And I guess it’s extended to them being unable to talk with me.”

The mage was horrified and shook his head. “Truly a foolish thing you have done! Ah! who taught you such a thing? Not just any person could swear an oath that even fate would uphold.”

“I learned it from my teacher—a sage,” said Tūmbṃār, cautious as to whether he should give his name.

“Hmm. Well, be as it will. I gather you won’t head back to your friends anytime soon, even if I told you to now.” And Tūmbṃār nodded his head fervently. “Very well, how about I indulge you a little as to who I am and then you can make your way back to your friends. Stay too long, and you may discover you’ve made a grave mistake in idling here.”

He had a notion of what the mage meant, having spent quite some time with the old smith. At the very least, he could tell that this place gave the same aura and he would have to keep vigilant over the time that was passing. He nodded again and the mage’s eyes suddenly lit.

“Ah yes, I forgot! I’ve yet to give my name.” He cleared his throat. “I am known as Hvālmēgkim: for I was—at one point—Covered in an Ant-hill!”