Shadowcroft Year 3 - Chapter Thirty-Two

Marko licked his lips for a millionth time. He was sweating so much that his fur was dark. “We can’t. Inga, I’m telling you. We can’t go in there.”

They were standing outside Professor Gilligan’s office. His office hours started in five minutes. They were agonizingly early.

Marko gulped in a breath. “I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

Logan’s stomach lurched. And he ate rotting things for a living. “Don’t talk about being sick. Yesterday, in my misfit fungaloid class, I had two dungeon guardians throw up. Projectile vomit like a firehose. I didn’t know you could vomit from cultivating.”

Marko put a hand to his lips. “Don’t. Say. The Word. Vomit.”

Logan blinked sweat out of his eyes. “Don’t think about it. Let’s just cultivate. I can work on twine. Yeah, that’s okay. Did I tell you Nightfall University doesn’t want me to bring my twine around anymore? It smells too bad.”

“It does stink.” Marko gulped in a breath.

Treacle’s jawbreaker clacked in his mouth. He didn’t seem at all distressed that they were about to face down the worst, most deranged opponent they’d ever encountered. Far worse than Steve. Leagues above Chadrigoth. Not even Rockheart could compare. This was professor Professor Ahrah-Koonem Gilligan they were dealing with.

Inga tired fruitlessly to buoy their spirits. “You two are being silly. I’m telling you, this mysterious professor of yours is not what he seems. Given what I’ve discovered about him, he can’t be all that—”

The door burst open with a crash. “Early! You’re early! Why are you early? I have my freakin’ office hours at a specific time. But now, you’re out here chattering and trying to puke on your own shoes. Good. Great. Wonderful! Just COME IN ALREADY!”

Standing in the doorway was s six-foot raccoon with greasy fur covered in bald patches that looked like manage. Where he had hair, he had lice. One ear looked chewed on. The other lay limply on his skull. Logan thought he should have an eyepatch. It would fit. Instead, he had two bright blue eyes with different shaped irises. One was dilatated like an open sewer. The other was the size of an anthill’s entrance. “So, Murry and Laskarelis. Couldn’t keep your traps shut, huh? You know, snitches get stitches., right? Right! I should cut you two up.” He squinted and glanced between Inga and Treacle. “What did you tell mothie and the minotaur?”

It was like someone had taken a dishrag and wiped Logan’s mind clean. No words would come. He stood there, frozen in terror. His thoughts were a jumbled mess. He wanted to answer the crazed raccoon, but they only thought came to his head was that mothie and the minotaur might make a good buddy cop movie. He didn’t say that.

All he could do was not throw up.

Marko kept licking his lips. It was so loud!

The raccoonish dungeon core then blinked, turned on them, and shouted. “Oh, I get it. You’re not real. Tell me your real! Tell me your real!”

Inga took over. “We’re real, Professor Gilligan, and we have questions about—”

“You might as well call me Ahrah, since you’re not in my class.” He scratched his ear a little too violently. The good ear. Not he bad ear. He smelled like patchouli in a back alley underneath a Chinese food restaurant.

Both Marko and Logan both said, “Ahrah is all right,” at the exact same time.

The raccoon grinned. “Ah, I taught the snitches something after all.” He spun and threw a little raccoon hand over a shoulder, beckoning them inside. “If you’re really real, come on, come on, come on. I have important things to do. Product to sell. Narcs to avoid. And then there’s the tweakers. So many tweakers. My whole flippin’ life is tweakers!”

Inga walked into the room. So did Treacle.

Marko was frozen until Logan grabbed him by the forearm. “We’re in this together, buddy. We’ll get through this. Esprit de corps.”

“Esprit de corps,” Marko muttered.

They walked into a mad scientist’s lab. There were bubbling beakers everywhere. It smelled like a chemical plant. Or the carpet in a crack house. There was a scented candle burning. It added a chocolatey brown smell. Rather soothing after all.

Ahrah-Koonem Gilligan fished a pair of goggles off a nearby table and slipped them over his eyes. He was in a yellow jumpsuit, just like Walter White in Season 3 of Breaking Bad. Had he been wearing that all along? No, it had been undone to the waist when he answered the door. “Just cooking up some alchemy. Alchemy for everyone. But I have to know.” He wheeled around pointing a dirty spoon at them. “What did they freakin’ tell you, mothie?”

Inga shook her head at him. “Nothing. That’s the problem. They don’t remember a thing.”

The methed out raccoon nodded. “Good. Good. Just as it should be.”

“But I have all the receipts, Ahrah,” Inga said ominously.

“A narc?” the raccoon adjusted his goggles. “Mothie the Narc. It rings true. Yes it does. Yes it does.”

“Another cop show,” Logan muttered.

The professor wasn’t pleased. “You can call me Professor Gilligan, Narc. You a narc too?” He pointed a raccoon finger at Treacle.

“Former gnome,” the minotaur said. “Current poet engineer.”

Gilligan smiled. “Oh I like you, cowboy. Cowboy poet engineer. Fine. Fine. Fine. You have receipts. So you know about my side hustle.” The professor grabbed a beaker of boiling blue goo, sniffed in, and then took a sip. “Gah! Not supposed to drink that one. Dammit! Why don’t I label things.” It was a declaration more than a question. He marched over to another beaker of bubbling green concoction. He drank it down. He whirled. “How much, Mothie? How much do you want? I can payoff narcs. I did it once, I can do it again.”

The only reason why Logan wasn’t running was because Marko was gripping him so hard, and the satyr was rooted to the spot.

Inga folded her arms. “I think you want people to know you sell drugs. But you don’t. You do the exact opposite. I know about the grants and the donations. The Hazelnut Treatment center in the Twin Worlds owe their entire existence to your generosity. This, whatever this is”—she waved a hand at him then at the lab—“is all for show, I suspect.”

Professor Gilligan’s eyes went wide. One pupil shrank. The other expanded. “Worse than a narc. You’re worse than a narc. You’re like a gossipy mothie gossip. You a reporter? Bet you’re the press.”

“Fake news!” Marko burst out. “We can leave, Professor. Ahrah is all right. We can leave.” He started to titter manically.

Logan, though, was feeling better about the raccoon professor. “Wait, hold on a second. You get grants and donations.”

Inga nodded. “That’s right. When he’s not teaching alchemy classes no one remembers, he provides tinctures to drug addicts. He also helps cultivators with damaged cores because there’s a lot of snake oil salesman out there.”

“I did not oil those snakes!” The trash panda professor burst out. With how vehement he was, Logan suspected that he may in fact have oiled them. “But yeah. Mothie is right. Found out all my secrets. Sure, I use student labor, but mixing this stuff takes time. And there’s a lot of people who need what I can give them. Me. Right? I did what the worst alchemy teachers did. Got high on my own supply. Experimented on core potions that opened the doors in my mind, man. Threw them open. Couldn’t close them. They squeak, a-holes. The freakin’ hinges squeak.”

Gilligan grabbed a pipe and started loading it up with something.

Treacle flipped open his thumb’s fingernail and lit the pipe with a dancing orange flame.

“Thank you, poet cowboy,” the racoon said.

The air smelled much better now. It was cherry infused tobacco in the pipe. “Can I get you four an espresso? Now, I don’t do any of the hard stuff. Just my pipe. Some coffee. A lot of coffee. Too much coffee? Probably. Too much coffee? Never!”

He went to an espresso machine that did four at a time and started grinding up the beans. “Two more months of cooking. End of the year is coming. I know you four will be competing in the interschool tournament Finals. I had to fix a lot of these kids who tweak their core for the tournament. Tweakers, I’m telling you, all the time. My whole life is tweakers.” He spun, and both of his pupils were wide, until they shrank down to pinpricks. “Now, why are you here? Both of you are doing fine. The satyr isn’t the boozer he says he is. But if he asks for peach-flavored beer one more time, I’m going to lose it. Freakin’ lose it!”

Logan still wasn’t sure what was going on. He did have memories of Marko wanting to make peach-flavored beer. True story. Everything else was so hazy, though.

Inga had to do the talking. “We’re here about the Blue Divine Philter. Logan’s been his God’s Eye Caps to produce it for Treacle and Marco, but they haven’t advanced and there have been so significant issues— ”

Professor Gilligan marched over with tiny little cups in his hands. He shoved one into Treacle’s hands. “This one has the crotchet thing, the poor bastard. I see it all the time. And you, boozie, you have the conspiracy theory thing? Yeah, yeah, yeah. C-Classes. Not the dirt they should be. Not the Azure Branch cultivators they wanna be. Seen it a million times.” He forced Marko to take the espresso cup. The tiny cup rattled on the saucer.

The raccoon went over and grabbed two more cups and gave one each to Inga and Logan. “Nice work, shroomy. The Blue Divine Philter is no joke. I can help your friends. But what’s in it for me, huh? I want God Cap’s Eye, shroomy. As much as you can give me. We have a deal?”

“Yeah, we have a deal,” Logan said, utterly perplexed by what was going on. “But why do you torment us so? Why? In the name of all that’s holy. Why?”

Professor Gilligan took Logan’s espresso and downed it. “Memories tied to trauma stick better. It’s all a part of my teaching strategy. During class I release a semi-toxic gas I created called Phaspuroxin—the street name is Manic Smile. Lots of terrible side effects, including short term memory loss. But, but, but”—he waggled a finger at them—“it sharpens your senses and helps you retain information.

“The catch is, it needs a potent emotional experience to bind to. Nothing is better than trauma. Not. A. Thing. No. No. No. Once the fumes get out of your system, you’ll know your alchemy like no one’s business. My methods are controversial. Another reason why I make sure the fumes mess with your memories.” He winked. “Don’t wanna get caught. Narcs and tweakers, man, my whole life is narcs and tweakers.”

Gilligan quickly dumped one potion into another. There was an explosion of gaseous proportions but the professor hardly seemed to notice. Or if he noticed, he didn’t much care.

“You need to make Lojjikki Lotion. I got a starter kit for it, like yeast, but you two know about yeast. Boozie can’t get enough of fermented yeast, and shroomie knows that yeast and fungi eat at the same diner. Fine. Fine. Fine. You two make the lotion, the ol’ Double L. Need Aldaleeran rat liver oil, the starter yeast, Carpaygian powder, liquid pardum, and some other stuff. Got a recipe. You’ll make it. It’ll clear up all the problems with the ol’ Blue Divine. Now, get out of my office. I have work to do that doesn’t have anything to do with tweakers and narcs for once.”

Seconds later, Logan found himself with his friends outside the door with a stack full of items and elixirs piled in his hands. Marko had a large tub of yeast clutch tight against his chest.

He heard Gilligan singing, something about one pill makes him smaller, and one pill turns him into a basketball. The fumes from the explosion hung in the air.

Inga coughed a little. There was a dazed look in her eyes as if she were just waking up from a very strange dream. “That went… Well?” she said, as though it were a question. She blinked several times. “I think it went well. It’s so strange, I can barely recall our meeting with the professor. I do remember that after you mix the lotion, you’ll need to apply it three times a day for two weeks. That’s what Ahrah said. Or was it Professor Gilligan?”

Marko sniffed the tub of goo. “Ahrah is all right. The Lojjiki yeast smells so flowery and wonderful. We shall smell like roses, Treacle. Like little happy roses that don’t remember the mean raccoon man at all. Not. At all.”

Logan’s memories were fuzzy, but he remembered the basics.

Turns out Professor Gilligan was insane, but he had proven useful.

So, in two weeks, they could start their campaign to lure in Lou Shador and to kill him freakin’ dead. Logan had hoped to be A-Class when that happened, but at this stage, that was just a pipe dream. Instead, he’d needed to focus on getting Treacle and Marko to B-Class. Four Azure Branch cultivators should be able to take on an A-Class and his dungeoneering party.

That was the hope at any rate.

Back in their suite, Marko and Logan had no problem brewing up the lotion. Treacle had a full chemistry lab to help him build his engineered creations and Marko and Logan had everything else they needed scattered around their room. Logan didn’t remember doing his alchemy homework, but he must’ve done some, since they had so many supplies on hand.

Once they had the lotion ready, Treacle created little electric contraptions to help him apply the thick paste. It was tricky with all that hair. Once it was on, Treacle looked like a wet dog. He smelled nice, though. He also built his own steampunk chairs with surfaces he could easily wipe off because he was so greasy.

The minotaur wasn’t the problem.

Marko, however, was a nightmare. He needed help applying the antidote—he didn’t like Treacle’s little contraptions getting that close to him. He said he’d had a bad experience with a barber one time, and he’d never been the same. The satyr could get most of his body, but he couldn’t get his back, so he went to Logan, who had to slather on the goop in a thick layer. It was super gross and incredibly awkward. Marko looked even more like a wet dog than Treacle, and Marko would forget he was so goopy, and so he’d sit on furniture and make a horrendous mess.

Inga yelled at him, which made Marko even more miserable. It was going to be a long two weeks.

Logan tried to go to sleep with the cloying scent of the magic lotion filling up his senses, but eventually it became so stifling, that he was forced to leave. He just couldn’t take it.

That night, it was like winter had given way to spring. The snow had all melted, and there was a nice warm breeze, which smelled like rose petals. Or was that just the Lojjikki Lotion? The old double L. Hard to tell. Logan wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything, anymore.

He tried to sleep but couldn’t, so he ended up wandering the night darkened grounds of Arborea until he found himself in the Akros Coliseum, standing in front of Chadrigoth. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well train, he reasoned. Outside once more, Logan wore the sweatbands as his thick fingers furiously tried to work the knots out of the ball of twine.

It was nice to be out there in the darkness, and he thought about what he’d tried to teach those misfit mushroom cores in his off-world class. There were some violent reactions—Amanda Pears and the Gary Bernardii were the ones who lost their respective lunches. However, Professor Rick made some definite progress, as did the fungal basilisk, Pewig Bulge. Actually, there was a good chance that Pewig would become an Iron Trunk Cultivator before the end of the year in he kept practicing with AMKAP.

Logan thought about his fungal friends as he picked at the twine. There was so much Apothos in the coliseum that night. The wind was so warm. Logan realized he was very comfortable, almost perfectly at peace.

He envisioned his core, a perfect marble of jade and gray energy, shot through with veins of golden power. Encircling it, like the brilliant rings of Saturn, were golden lines of mystic energy, intertwined to form a pair of graceful knots. It was beautiful in its way. It was easy to forget that he’d become so powerful, so fast. The decked had been stacked against him from the beginning, but because of his work ethic and the power and belief of his friends, he’d surpassed all expectations.

He survived where only death was promise. Thrived where only misery was the only assurance. Built a community in a world where everyone only looked out for themselves.

Despite all the hardships, he was grateful. The only other time he’d felt this grateful was when he woke after the IED took his leg in Iraq. The fact that he’d survived at all, was a gift beyond measure.

He had his eyes closed, but as he continued to meditate and contemplate his journey, he sensed a warm light with his fungal vision. He cracked one beady eye and glanced down. The sweatbands were glowing brightly. The neon greens and eye-searing pinks were as bright as a Vegas billboard. The more grateful he became, the more they glowed. But they weren’t just giving off light, they were giving off Apothos. It was like being hooked to an industrial-sized generator.

It occurred to Logan, that the reason they hadn’t ever worked for Chadrigoth was because the Abyss Lord wasn’t exactly overflowing with gratefulness. That, and he hadn’t really worn them because they were kinda dorky.

Logan realized that he had enough Apothos that he had slack in the ribbons of energy circling his core. Darnol had said that if Logan had enough extra energy, he could truly utilize the AMKAP technique. As Many Knots As Possible—just the idea of that filled Logan with hope. Even drawing from Inga’s core hadn’t been this potent. There was so much energy, it radiated from the sweatbands in waves.

Letting gratitude fill his body and settle his soul, Logan began the grueling task of pushing that energy through his meridians. Then, just as quickly, he retracted the pulse of Apothos, cycling it back into his core. Refining it, purifying it, then forcing it out again in rapid fire succession. He could feel his core strain from the unbearable, impossible effort. His limbs trembled and the glowing band of energy encircling his core responded in kind. He could feel it twist and distort from the stress.

A third knot was forming. It was the only way to handle the incredible influx of energy. A combination of fierce joy and anxious fear raged through him along with the surge of Apothos. Instead of giving into either, Logan just wrapped himself in gratitude like a cloak. He let his gratefulness anchor him in the moment. The bands burned ever brighter in response, feeding more of their energy into his center.

As the third knot formed around Logan’s core his eyes popped open. Intuitively, he knew the next piece of twine he needed to undo. The problem was, he’d accidentally tightened a knot, but with just a little tweak, he could fix that. He tugged here, pushed there, and let out a satisfied smile as another strand came loose. He worked in the neon light from the sweatbands, fingers moving with a purpose of their own. He was seeing things from a different angle—more light, more shadows, more nuance—and he saw a thread he’d somehow missed before.

He pulled it through a loop, and half the twine fell loose.

Again, he almost exploded with excitement. But he was worried if he tensed up, he might find another tough knot to untie. Instead, he stayed calm and grateful. He had such good friends. He was alive and doing wonderful things. And he was a few moments away from unravelling the stinky twine.

Again, thanks to the neon light from the sweatbands, he saw exactly what he needed to do. There was a few moments where he thought he’d have to tighten the ball of twine again. But nope. He undid strand after stand until the ball of twine came apart effortlessly in his hands. The second he’d unravelled the ball of twine, the Miami Vice sweatbands vanished. Their work was done.

Logan had done it. He’d completed his cultivation task.

But there was one little problem… There was nothing inside the twine.

Absolutely nothing.

He was lost in darkness as he pulled up his stat sheet. He knew without looking that nothing had changed. He was still an Azure Branch Cultivator, B-Class, Rank 4. Surely tying a new knot should’ve pushed him up a rank. But it hadn’t. He was exactly the same as he ever was. Suddenly the gratitude evaporated, burned away like fog in the noonday sun. What replaced it was anger. He’d done so much. Worked so hard. And for what? That damn Yullis Rockheart had a lot to answer for.

There was nothing worse than the reverse-Karate Kid.