KLONDAEG SAVES FROMSDAY
STEVE THOMAS
©2013 Steve Thomas
All rights reserved.
Introduction
On October 4th, 2012, a miracle occurred. My wife and I were on vacation in the Adirondacks. We were staying in a cabin a short walk through the woods from the main lodge. We ate breakfast at the lodge and were returning to our cabin when we became mildly disoriented. There were a lot of trails, we’d never stayed there before, and we were only pretty sure we were on the same path we had taken almost a whole hour ago. We were just about to question our route when, lo! We found a coconut in the grass. In the woods. In upstate New York.
Obviously, there was only one way to interpret this course of events: Fromdon, God of Coconuts, had intervened to assure us of our direction. And we did indeed make it back to our cabin along the same trail we had been following the entire time. If that isn’t a reason to found a holiday, I don’t know what is.
A Klondaeg Holiday Special
The Frog Bay was known for its myriad perils. Pirates, sharks, barnacles, unreasonably shallow reefs, and storms all joined forces to sink any ship that made a wrong turn. The Treacherous Wench had made a long series of wrong turns, which Klondaeg the Monster Hunter found particularly shocking because as he saw it, there were only two ways to turn: clockwise and counter-clockwise. He’d flipped a coin for the direction every half-hour since he took the helm earlier that day. It stood to reason that if he changed directions randomly, and he only had two choices, the law of averages would lead him home.
Klondaeg didn’t know much about sailing, or statistics for that matter.
Neither was particularly important at the moment, compared to the more immediate dangers. He knew he’d make his way home eventually, but before he tackled the problem of navigation, he’d have to tackle the Storm Demon trying to capsize his ship.
The squid-faced, bat-winged, insect-eyed horror flew circles around the Treacherous Wench. He could feel the water surging over the rails, the salt sticking to his skin. Worst of all, the sea level seemed to be rising. The Storm Demon was churning up a water-spout directly beneath the vessel. Klondaeg clutched his battle-axe close, lest he drop it into the sea.
“Hold her steady, men!” shouted Sinister from the left blade of the King’s Rest. “As soon as Klondaeg slays this demon, the storm will end and we’ll be on Frog Island in no time.”
“As soon as the captain sobers up and takes back the helm, you mean!” added one of the crewmen.
Dexter, the right blade of Klondaeg’s axe, said, “The captain drank a whole case of rum. He’s out for the rest of this voyage.”
“That may be so, but I don’t recall him saying anything about Klondaeg being in charge.”
Klondaeg ignored the chatter and focused on the Storm Demon. He watched as it swirled above the sea. It wasn’t showing any interest in direct confrontation. That was a problem. Direct confrontation was how Klondaeg had earned his reputation. He held out his hand. “Someone give me a spear.” His gaze never left his quarry while the sailors scrambled to bring him the weapon. When one entered his clutches, Klondaeg tested its weight, twirled it once, and charged. “Graah!” said Klondaeg. He came to a precarious stop on the prow, one foot planted on a wooden mermaid’s head, then hurled the spear with all his considerable might.
The shot was true, and the shaft pierced the demon’s wing. Klondaeg allowed himself a smirk, one which quickly dissolved when the ship jerked to port.
Had he let his gaze leave his quarry, even for half a moment, Klondaeg would have noticed that the first mate had handed him a harpoon, one which was still tethered to the deck. The rope was taut, and the demon was still flying. Winds swirled and lightning flashed as the creature roared and spit, twisted and flipped, doing all in its power to sink the Treacherous Wench. The ship creaked and bobbed, and its crew scurried around the deck trying to regain control.
“Klondaeg, do something!” said Sinister. “I refuse to spend the rest of eternity trapped at the bottom of the sea with Dexter.”
“Please,” said Dexter. “We’ll rust away well before you’ll get sick of me.”
“That’s funny, because I’m already sick of you and I don’t see any rust spots at all.”
“Shut up,” said Klondaeg. He strapped the axe to his back and grabbed hold of the rope. He yanked on it, hoping to reel the storm demon in, but the monster stayed aloft. His Dwarven eyes narrowed. “New plan.”
Klondaeg climbed. Rain and hail pelted his face, but he held tight. Klondaeg feared few things so much as falling into the sea. Salt water didn’t agree with his stomach, and he was generally opposed to the downward direction if he wasn’t already in a tunnel. Going underground was healthy and virtuous. Going underwater would bring shame to his ancestors.
Klondaeg climbed as the Storm Demon continued to circle the boat. The demon dropped altitude, and Klondaeg saw the boat begin to tip, the crest of the water-spout splashing over the rails. The demon flew lower and lower, and Klondaeg continued to climb. First he was climbing up, but before long, he was swinging hand-over-hand, and not long after that, he was using the rope to guide his descent.
By the end, he was clinging to the rope with one hand and resting his leg on the Storm Demon’s shoulder. It hissed and called lightning, but Klondaeg swung and dodged the bolt. Still keeping a tight grip with one hand, he flipped around the rope and kicked the demon in its betentacled face. While the demon continued its rapid circles, Klondaeg laid blow after furious blow on the monster, dodging lightning, pelted with hail, assaulted by wind and rain. In the end, the Storm Demon met its end like so many monsters before it: at the edge of the King’s Rest.
“A fine kill,” said Sinister. “But there’s a slight flaw in your plan.”
“Forgot to burn the body?” asked Dexter. “To be fair, that’s hard to do in this weather.”
“No,” said Sinister. “The water-spout.”
Indeed, without the demon’s weather-controlling magic, the water-spout collapsed. The Treacherous Wench dropped from a hundred feet in the sky while Klondaeg wildly swung around it. Klondaeg grunted. “Not my best plan.”
“Please tell me you have a new one,” said Sinister.
“New plan,” said Klondaeg. He waited until he was moving toward a shadow on the horizon that looked like land and let go. He could hear the screaming sailors as he arced away, moving mostly downward. Klondaeg could no longer see the ship when he hit the waves. He bounced a few times like a skipping stone and skidded to a stop on the shore of a tropical island.
Klondaeg stood up, brushed the sand from his armor, checked that his axe was still accounted for, and nodded to himself. “That plan was better.”
“That plan could have drowned you and turned us into an anchor!” said Sinister. “Klondaeg, that was the most reckless thing I’ve ever seen you do! Do you have any idea what iron does underwater? It fuses into a hideous conglomeration of itself and whatever it’s touching. We could have spent centuries bonded to your armor while fish picked at your corpse, with nothing to look forward to but the Smiting.”
“Killed the Storm Demon. Saved the ship. Made it to land. No regrets.”
“I don’t like the way those hypothetical fish would be looking at us,” said Dexter.
“We don’t even know if that ship survived, Klondaeg,” said Sinister. “And killing that monster was the payment for your passage. Transporting you just became a very poor transaction for the captain.”
“Ha!” said Dexter. “That captain barely brought us in sight of this island. If anyone reneged on the deal, it was him.”
“Excuse me, did
your talking axe call you Klondaeg?”
Klondaeg sighed. Mysterious voices were always coming from behind and asking for help. “That’s right, my name is Klondaeg. The monster hunter? Yes. What do you need killed?”
Standing before him and staring at a tree was a Frog-man in ceremonial armor. He was just shorter than a Dwarf, with large, bulbous eyes and the face of a frog. His breastplate was engraved with leaf pattern and his helmet was crested with coconut hair, in accordance with the proclivities of the frog-people. An unwieldy green cape flowed from his shoulders, and his gauntlets were little more than iron finger-struts with chain webbing. He carried the traditional trident of the Royal Order of the Fromsguard, marking him as an elite soldier.
The presence of the frog soldier made one fact clear: Klondaeg was in frog-people territory. His heart lifted at that knowledge. It meant he was on the right island. The frog-people were a strange lot, but they had invited him to join their Fromsday celebration as a guest of honor. Strange company or not, Klondaeg enjoyed recognition almost as much as he enjoyed feasting, and Fromsday promised plenty of both for him.
“I am Froskur,” said the frog-man. “Welcome to the Frog-lands, Klondaeg the Monster Hunter. Your survival is nothing short of a Fromsday miracle.”
KLONDAEG
AND THE FROMSDAY MIRACLE
“His survival often does strikes me as miraculous,” said Sinister.
“Fromsday?” asked Dexter. “Is that when the Frog-people fish heroes out of the sea and put them to work slaying hideous island monsters? Because that’s the kind of holiday I can get behind.”
“You’ll have to forgive my other half,” said Sinister. “He’s something of a nematode.”
“Nematodes are no laughing matter,” said Froskur. “But I don’t think I’ve seen one speak before. I had always assumed the axe was enchanted.”
“I don’t like the way this frog-man is ignoring my question, Klondaeg,” said Dexter. “That armor looks heavy and I think it restricts his hand-paddles. You should probably dump him in the ocean.”
“Dexter!” said Sinister. “Murdering a man on Fromsday? Fromdon would crack us apart like a coconut. We’re here by invitation, must I remind you?”
“Oh, so you’ve known what Fromsday is all along, have you? Why does no one tell me these things?”
“Because you don’t pay attention,” said Sinister.
“Frog-people holiday. Honors Fromdon. Chosen people stuff. Lots of coconut-derived food,” said Klondaeg.
“And the sacred vigil of the Ceremonial Coconut Tree, from which you are distracting me.” Froskur shaded his eyes with a webbed hand and stared up at the tree.
“Sacred vigil?” said Klondaeg. “Didn’t know about that part.”
“A-ha!” said Dexter. “So they’re making it up as they go along. Well, I hope you’re all ready for my traditional holiday, which has always been called...Choppinsmas.”
“Klondaeg, I beg you,” said Froskur. “I can’t leave my post until my vigil is complete.” He waved toward a path made of seashells. “Go to the village and talk to the elder. He’ll be expecting you. Stay for the feast or ask for passage to the continent. Just leave me be.”
Klondaeg nodded, patted the frog-man on the shoulder, and headed down the path.
“Can you believe that guy? No Choppinsmas spirit whatsoever,” said Dexter.
“Choppinsmas isn’t a real holiday,” said Sinister.
“And how is that different from Fromsday?”
“Because Choppinsmas isn’t a real holiday.”
“Ha!” said Dexter. “How about we hold our sacred vigil over the stump of the Ceremonial Choppinsmas Coconut Tree? Klondaeg, about face!”
Klondaeg continued toward the village.
“Klondaeg, I demand you respect my traditions!”
Klondaeg continued toward the village. By the time they arrived, Choppinsmas was a ten million year old holiday in honor of the first battle-axe and the long list of various forms of stumps it had invented.
“Did I mention that Choppin was never even forged? He sprang fully-formed from the anvil.”
“How could you have mentioned it before?” asked Sinister. “You’ve just thought it up.”
“And do you know who the first person he chopped was?”
“The blacksmith,” said Klondaeg. “Good story. Now shut up.”
“Actually, it was the blacksmith’s wife. She was having an affair with the smelter.”
Protruding eyes turned as Klondaeg stomped into the Frog-people village. In the center of town was a pond, and dozens of Frog-people lounged in it with only the tops of their heads poking out. Houses dotted the area, small huts made of lashed branches and thatched leaves. The whole town was decorated with lily pads, flowers, and festively-painted coconuts in honor of Fromsday, and hundreds of Frog-people were hopping through the streets, dancing and laughing. No fewer than three bands contributed to the revelry, sometimes playing in tandem, sometimes dueling, and sometimes swapping members.
After the townsfrogs’ initial shock at seeing a Dwarf wore off, Klondaeg could hardly take two steps without being offered something to eat, all of it derived from coconut. He refused the coconut pie and the coconut cake, but felt it would be disrespectful to wave away a coconut shell full of coconogg.
“Happy Fromsday,” he said to the young frog-lady with the drink tray, raised his coconut, and tipped the coconogg into his mouth. If you could ferment it, Klondaeg had imbibed it, but in coconogg, Klondaeg had discovered perhaps his greatest enemy. He could already feel his stomach turning as the foul concoction slithered down his throat. But Klondaeg the Monster Hunter did not back down from a challenge. He threw the coconut shell over his shoulder and said, “Another.”
He paced himself with the second, and holding the drink shielded him from further offers of refreshment as he strolled through the village. Eventually, he came to a stage, where the young froglings drifted about in all directions while an elderly frog-man tried to shepherd them into some semblance of a formation.
“This must be the Fromsday pageant,” said Sinister. “We should sit down and watch.”
“I wouldn’t mind a break,” said Klondaeg. His stomach gurgled in protest of the coconogg He was still losing this battle. Klondaeg tossed the empty coconut shell. “Another.”
“I have to watch some brats forget their lines for the next half-hour?” said Dexter. “What have I ever done to you?”
“It’s tradition,” said Klondaeg.
“Choppinsmas doesn’t have pageants. Or children. It’s not really a safe holiday for children.”
“Uncharacteristically responsible of you, but you should consider adding a pageant,” said Sinister. “It’s a good way for people to learn how holidays started. People who, for example, can’t seem to remember that certain holidays even exist.”
“Oh, so the kids are going to sit there and pretend they know the true meaning of Fromsday?” asked Dexter. “Well, tilt me towards the stage and get Klondaeg another coconogg. This should be good.”
Soon, the benches filled up with parents and grandparents, Klondaeg’s stomach started to settle, and the elderly frog-man half-hopped, half-flopped forward. He spoke in a gruff, croaking voice. “Frog-ladies, frog-gentleman…the Dwarf in the back and the magic talking axe…Welcome, and happy Fromsday. The froglings have put together the yearly pageant. They’re all very excited. As little Tolmy’s father is acting as the Fromsday Ceremonial Yon Toadlius, I felt it appropriate to ask him to narrate.”
The frog-man stepped aside and a small frog-boy hopped up next to him. “Happy Fromsday,” said Tolmy. “I hope you all have Fromdon’s blessing this year, and like the coconut, never fall onto sharp rocks, but land gently on the sand, roll into the sea, and eventually float to a new and pleasant island.” The parents clapped.
Tolmy took an awkward step forward. He spoke in a monotone, halted prosody
, each word completely disconnected from the previous, as if he was remembering his lines one word at a time. And he probably was. “Long Ago The Frog People Came To This Land Because There Were Many Coconuts And It Is The Promised Land.”
The parents let out a collective, “Aww.”
“But This Land Was Populated By Coconapes.” Tolmy flicked his arm up to ever so briefly point at the stage. There came a hiss from the director. Tolmy pointed again, more emphatically this time. “But this land was already populated.”
A chaotic clutch of children hopped onto the stage and huddled together. They were dressed all in brown and topped with hats that were vaguely evocative of monkeys’ heads. “Well, I’ve lost interest,” said Dexter.
“Hush,” said Sinister. “I’m sure…” Whatever compliment he was trying to pry out of his mind was holding on for dear life. “I’m sure they spent a considerable amount of time on those hats.”
“Should have spent that time learning their lines,” said Dexter.
One of the nearby parents shushed the axe.
“I’m saying they should have rehearsed this.”
“We got it,” said Sinister. “Let these poor parents watch their offspring stumble around on stage in peace.”
“The one in the back seems to be doing well,” said Klondaeg.
“The one hitting his sister with a coconut?” asked Sinister.
“Aye.”
“That’s my son,” said the frog-woman sitting next to him with a sidelong glare.
“You must be proud,” said Klondaeg. “He has good form. Swap that coconut for a hammer and he could conquer this play before the next scene.” She let out a huff and turned her eyes to the pageant.
When a group of children wearing linked-coconut armor hopped on stage and started half-heartedly bludgeoning the apes with grass stalks, Klondaeg’s heart lifted a bit. Perhaps this was a mutiny, and some brave child would become the new director and free this pageant from the shackles of traditional holiday celebration. But he quickly realized that the attack was scripted, as Tolmy continued to narrate. “The Coconapes And The Frog People Fought For One Hundred Years And A Day But It Was A Stalemate The Whole Time.”
“What, every battle?” said Klondaeg.
“Shush,” said the frog-woman to his left.
“What’s a coconape?” asked Dexter.
“It’s a sort of ape that spends all night sleeping on top of coconut trees,” said Sinister. “They go up at sundown and come down at sunrise. It’s a fairly effective defense against nocturnal predators.”
“They should call them tongue-twister apes,” said Dexter. “No wonder I never listen to these stories. Klondaeg probably hears the word ‘coconape’ and runs off.” All the frog-people within three seats gasped. “Well, shall we?”
Klondaeg shook his head. “Coconapes are off limits,” he said. “Religious reasons.”
“They can do that?” asked Dexter.
“This is why you never find out what Fromsday is,” said Sinister. “You always rush off onto these wild tangents, lose interest, and forget the whole thing.”
Back on stage, the fighting died down. The soldiers and the coconapes sauntered off stage, all but one coconape, the largest coconape, the Great Coconape. He entered stage right and dropped a stool on the ground. It was topped with tacked-on leaves, obviously meant to evoke a coconut tree. The Great Coconape climbed atop the stool and stood there, his arms crossed, his eyes wandering. Tolmy raised his arms. “Then One Day A Hero Came To Defeat The Great Coconape.” Yet another frog-child hopped on stage, this one wearing gold-painted coconut plate armor. Tolmy pointed at the frog hero with an open hand. The parents cheered. “Yon Toadlius, Yon Toadlius, where do you stand?”
Yon Toadlius stepped forward, and when he said his line, the whole crowd said it with him. “With coconuts, with coconuts, upon this promised land.”
“There’s rhyming now?” said Dexter. “I thought this was all pantomime and prose.”
“Yon Toadlius, Yon Toadlius. Whom do you fight?”
“The coconape, the coconape, who sits on my birthright.”
Yon Toadlius leapt high into the air and half-heartedly swung a webbed foot nowhere near the Great Coconape’s head. The Great Coconape gingerly climbed down from his stool (while his mother sucked in a sharp breath), and dramatically flopped onto his back, groaning. Yon Toadlius unsheathed a blunt wooden sword and, holding it with his thumb and fore-finger, dangled it over the Great Coconape’s chest like a pendulum.
“And So,” said Tolmy, “Yon Toadlius Jumped Very High And Knocked The Great Coconape Down And The Coconapes Were Defeated And The Frog People Lived Here Happily Ever After The End.” He gave a quick bow and ducked off stage. The parents clapped and cheered.
“There,” said Sinister. “Do you understand now?”
“No!” said Dexter. “Some kid had a poorly choreographed fight with a hammy monkey-hat mama’s boy and we’re celebrating that? That was not worth celebrating.”
Klondaeg was halfway through another shell of stomach-curdling coconogg when he felt a tug on his belt. He suppressed his bashing reflex and instead turned his head calmly to the side. Then down.
It was Tolmy. “Excuse me, sir, but does your axe really want to kill a coconape?”
“Yes,” said Klondaeg. “Which is why they don’t make the decisions.”
Tolmy frowned. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Klondaeg never keeps secrets from us, little frog-boy,” said Dexter. “Now, shoo! We have coconapes to kill.”
“Dexter! Be civil,” said Sinister. “He’s only a child.”
“Don’t go anthropomorphizing that thing. He’s not even a mammal.”
Klondaeg ignored that. “Go ahead.”
The boy grabbed hold of Klondaeg’s beard and yanked the Dwarf’s ears down to his wide mouth. “I think you should kill the coconape.”
Dexter let out a hearty laugh. “I can’t believe this boy’s talents are being squandered on narrating. Someone sign him up to play Yon Toadlius next year.”
Klondaeg pried the green fingers from his beard and stood tall. “Don’t tempt me.”
“You’re a famous monster hunter. You could get away with it. You just have to say you didn’t know.”
“Of course he knows,” said Sinister. “The day his reputation made it to this corner of the world, the Frog-people sent a stream of emissaries to kindly ask Klondaeg not to kill any coconapes.”
“But you have to!” The frog-boy’s eyes started to water.
“So you have one in mind,” said Klondaeg. “What did it do? Maybe I can make an exception.”
“He made my father miss the pageant.”
“How? Threw a coconut at his head and knocked him out?”
“No. The coconape won’t come down from the tree.”
“Hard to hold someone hostage from up there.” The tears started to flow and the boy sputtered. Klondaeg sighed and put a hand on Tolmy’s shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”
Tolmy sniffled. “My father is this year’s Ceremonial Yon Toadlius. He’s supposed to stand vigil over the Great Coconape Tree to commemorate the—”
“Yes, yes, we saw the pageant,” said Dexter.
“Dexter!” shouted Sinister.
“I’m still a little unclear on—“
“Dexter!” shouted Sinister.
Tolmy cleared his throat. “It’s tradition. He’s not supposed to leave until the coconape comes down. It always comes down at sunrise, but the coconape is still up there. He’s been there for hours, and Father couldn’t even leave to see my pageant. All he cares about is guarding things.”
“Is this still about the coconape?” said Klondaeg.
“He always finds an excuse to skip my plays,” said Tolmy. “Ever since my mother died…” Tolmy quickly devolved into blubbering incomprehensibility.
“Of course it isn’t,” said
Klondaeg. He patted Tolmy on the head. “I’ll bring your father back.”