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Chapter Four
Madness Takes It's Toll
Leaving the forest they silently walked across the open plain until coming to a river. Looking for a place to cross she spotted a bridge. Nodding in its direction they started walking again. She found herself repeatedly glancing at Sark who hadn’t said anything since leaving the forest. Normally she wouldn’t choose to talk to Sark, but being in this odd world the silence was starting to make her edgy.
Reaching the bridge she let Sark go first. Looking down at the river she missed when he suddenly stopped and bumped into him. She was about to sharply reprimand him when she saw the reason he had stopped. Blocking the bridge was a small, misshaped … the only word that came to mind was… gnome.
“This is my bridge. If you wish to pass you shall have to pay the toll.” It wheezed at them.
“What kind of toll?” she asked.
Sark cut in as the gnome opened its mouth, “I don’t think so. If this was your bridge you’d have a proper booth to collect the toll before we crossed. Since there was no such booth you obviously don’t own this bridge and I have no intention of giving you anything. Now move aside.”
Fighting to keep her face straight she watched as the gnome opened and closed its mouth, no words getting out. Sark walked up till he was towering over the gnome and sneered at it. Gulping the gnome scrabbled to the railing and over the side of the bridge.
She smiled at Sark as they stepped off the bridge, “Who would have guessed your arrogant attitude could actually be useful.”
“I believe you’re confusing arrogance for confidence.” He haughtily corrected her.
She merely snorted and briskly started down a dirt road.
Again they walked in silence and after a while horse drawn carts joined them on the road, then people walking. An hour later they entered a bustling village.
It was a quaint village with thatch roofed houses and just about all the people were smiling and friendly. Considering what seemed to be the common dress here, a mixture of styles from around the colonial period, she was relieved to see that their outfits, although fancier, wouldn’t attract any extra attention. Well, any suspicious attention, she amended noticing the looks Sark was getting from a group of young women who looked suspiciously like shepherdesses. She smiled pleasantly in their direction, ‘if they only knew’.
Her attention was distracted when she felt Sark put his hand on her back and guide her over to a large sign. She ignored his hand on her when she got a good look at the sign. It turned out to be a large map with a big red arrow near the bottom that read, ‘You Are Here’, and pointed at … she peered closer … a chair. With the words ‘Beantown’ printed next to it.
“Sydney,” she looked at where Sark’s finger was pointing. Just above Beantown was a castle with the words ‘Snow White Memorial Prison’ printed by it. Glancing at the rest of the map she murmured, “Definitely not Kansas.”
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