I stood outside of Mr. Doerflinger's door for quite a while, unsure of how to approach a meeting with the CEO of the corporation. I fidgeted in front of a door that was in fact only slightly larger than the door to the mailroom in which I work but seemed to tower above me monolithically. My anxious mind flickered to an American movie called The Hudsucker Proxy wherein an employee was called to the head honcho's office with a menial task and used the opportunity to put forth some grand idea, became CEO himself, and invented the Hula Hoop or something.
I didn't want to invent the Hula Hoop. I just wanted to get back to the mailroom.
But there was nothing to be done; turning around and walking away would cost me my job. I clenched my left fist, crumpling the little slip I had received to summon me here, and reached forward with my right to knock on the door.
"Come in,” I heard a voice say. I obeyed, turning the handle to the door and pushing its heavy oak frame before me as I entered.
Even sitting down, Mr. Doerflinger was clearly tall. He was a tall, imposing man who loomed from his chair and gazed at me with piercing, dark eyes. His skin was brownish grey and his hair was a dull orange-brown, curly but slicked back tightly against his head. He wore an impeccable black suit and a black tie with a tessellated pattern of yellow triangles embroidered on it. As I walked in, he gave me a fearsome kind of smile.
"Mr. Smith, was it? Please have a seat,” he said. “Would you close the door behind you?"
I replied with assent and did as he asked. Once I was seated, Mr. Doerflinger seemed even bigger. I couldn't help but be intimidated by the man, even though he was clearly not upset.
"Mr. Smith...” he began, then paused. “May I call you Lincoln?” I nodded.
"Lincoln, I have a little job for you."
I was, of course, beset by a chill at that. Doerflinger went on. “I trust that during your time in the mailroom, you have become at least passingly familiar with what it is that our company does."
I replied that I had, and parroted what I knew. The name of the game, as I understood it, was excavation. The Old Country was known for being rich with artifacts and buried civilizations, structures and cities comparable to the kind that the Mayans and Egyptians built. We financed and staffed salvage expeditions led by museums and private collectors, providing the best much-needed guidance and protection that money could buy. I left out from my explanation that I was rather hoping to attend such an expedition someday. I had always hoped to be an adventurer, and it seemed as though excavation and exploration were the only such opportunities these days.
One might argue that being summoned from a lowly mailroom job to speak to the CEO of the company was an adventure. I would have conceded, but amended that it is not the sort of adventure I am interested in.
After I had finished my explanation, Mr. Doerflinger nodded and smiled again. “Well, my boy, I've heard that you are interested in the Old Country."
My face must have expressed surprise. “I do my homework, Lincoln,” Mr. Doerflinger said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. “I know that you want to go out and work on the sites yourself. Well. Naturally I can't offer you that opportunity. But I can give you the next best thing, given your position."
I waited for the answer. Doerflinger opened his desk and pulled from it a padded envelope. “This envelope contains important documents, Lincoln,” he said gravely. “It needs to get to the government excavation site near the Eastern Ruins. It needs to do so quickly and discreetly. Unfortunately, all of the delivery persons available to us have undesirable connections or are too well known."
He paused, letting the effect of his words sink in. “You must deliver this envelope by the end of the day, Lincoln,” he said. I began to protest, saying that my job didn't cover duties such as these. He chuckled a little. “It does, actually. You should read your contract more carefully, my boy. Deliveries are well within the requirements of your position."
My face fell. “Buck up!” Doerflinger said cheerfully, though his frightening visage made the command's lustre dull a bit. “This is a chance for adventure, Smith, and it's just one delivery. Once it's over you'll wish you could do it all again."
I sighed and nodded. “Good boy,” Doerflinger said. He stood and beckoned me forward with the padded envelope. “We've arranged to have a car pick you up. Can't afford to 'port you in, so you'll have to take the train. I'm sure you'll have fun."
I took the envelope and made for the exit. As I was going, my eyes fell across a portrait of a man with a sunken face and bizarre, piggish features. The nameplate underneath the portrait was labeled “Lucius Gann".
"Still with us in spirit,” Mr. Doerflinger's voice came from behind me, its tone a mockery of wistfulness. I clutched the envelope and strode out.
Not even an hour later, I found myself waiting at the Desert Edge Train Station. I had barely had time to throw on my favorite jacket and hat before being hustled out of the building and to the waiting transport. The car had deposited me at the train station with little fanfare in the name of discretion and sped off quickly. I frowned at the whole business, thinking that I should probably call my grandfather and let him know what was going on. He would wonder at my late homecoming.
I weaved through the people waiting at the station. They were mostly brown-gray-skinned Gerudo women, presumably headed home to the Valley station between here and the Old Country. One was strumming sedately at a guitar as I relayed the information to my slightly concerned grandfather. He took it well, though, as he takes all things, and the conversation was over quickly.
I couldn't really shake either the dread or the excitement from my heart. I knew that this was a unique opportunity, one that I had dreamed about ever since I was a kid. True, I wouldn't really be able to participate in the excavation, but I'd be right there! Perhaps if I was lucky, I'd be able to ask a few questions to one of the archaeologists or historians there.
Not sure what I'd say, though. I'm not really much of a talker.
But that was just the excitement. The dread mostly came from my boss, Mr. Doerflinger. I didn't know what to make of him, and his behavior cast a pall over whatever anticipation I might be feeling for the trip. Why did I get the feeling that he was sort of hoping that something would go wrong? Maybe I was just being prejudiced; seeing a Gerudo man in public is odd enough.
While I was lost in thought, the train pulled up to the station. I boarded immediately and took one of the wall-seats. Several of the people waiting on the platform filed in and littered the train sparsely. We sat in silence, the conductor gave the all-aboard, and we were on our way.
I heard a grunt from the Gerudo woman with the guitar about fifteen minutes into the journey and realized that she was staring at me. Things had gone without incident so far, and for the most part I had been ignored. The woman with the guitar had strummed through a few familiar tunes. I'd heard them before back in school when they were trying to get us to be more multicultural without actually having to expose us to culture firsthand. Anyway, apparently the strumming had become boring to the woman, and so she turned her attention to the only fair-skinned boy in the car.
"Hey,” she said. "Duende."
I tried to ignore both her call and her mildly derogatory epithet.
"I'm talking to you hada,” she said. “You got a pretty voice?"
I looked up and shook my head 'no', realizing that she wouldn't be ignored but that this might divert her attention. She snorted and went back to strumming the guitar. I blinked a little bit, and realized finally that she wanted me to accompany her. After a bit of hesitation, I reached into my jacket and withdrew my ocarina.
It was easy to pick up the woman's chord progression. Gerudo scales were something I used to practice back when I actually took ocarina lessons, so improvising along those lines wouldn't be difficult. I picked up the dull grey plastic instrument (I couldn't afford a nicer ocarina) and raised it to my lips gently. After quickly fingering the phrygian scale to remind me of how it went, I began to play.
The Gerudo woman looked up, startled, for just a moment. I didn't stop playing, so she quickly resumed strumming, keeping the pace as I began the tune of a well-known Gerudo tune. This caught the attention of the other Gerudo in the car, who stared at the ghost-white hada playing one of their tunes. On an ocarina! I tried to keep a straight face, but I was actually fairly proud of the reaction. It wasn't long, though, before two of the women were clapping out a dual rhythm, their attention once again on the music and not me.
We played until the conductor came through the train, calling out the name of the Gerudo Valley station. One by one, the women fell out of the accompaniment, stopped paying attention. Eventually I did, and then the woman with the guitar allowed her guitar accompaniment to come to an end. She fixed me with a level, intimidating gaze before she got up.
"You're special, Duende,” she said flatly, not making it sound like a compliment at all. “Be careful. There's something in the air."
She exited the train quickly, leaving me wondering at her cryptic phrase.
The train pulled away with a squeal from the Gerudo Valley station and headed toward the Old Country, toward the Eastern Ruins. The Old Country was mysterious in many ways, and one of them was the fact that it was reputedly once a beautiful and arable land. This had been the location of the monarchy, long ago. Now the King lived in a fine mansion, far away from the dry dirt and brush of the Old Country. Now it held the Eastern Ruins.
I sighed, watching the countryside go by. It was still beautiful, in its way. I squinted my eyes as we passed by the site of the founding farm of the Lon Lon Ranches, trying to catch sight of the historical building. I'd been once in Elementary School, when we went on a field trip. In recent years, no children went out there; it was too dangerous.
That returned my attention to the present. Quite dangerous, this area. I couldn't help but wonder how far from the excavation site the Old Country station was. I knew that some people lived out there, and that there were roads, but none were paved. What few cars people owned worked poorly. Surely Mr. Doerflinger would have made arrangements... right? My eyes strayed from the countryside to my car. There was only one other person in it, a figure in a dark brown robe that covered him from head to toe. A white beard spilled from the robe like a patch of frost, but the cowl of the hood obscured the figure's face otherwise. I knit my brow, curious, and started to walk toward the man.
There was suddenly a loud squeal as the brakes of the train set in, and I found myself sprawled on the floor, a sharp pain in my wrists and elbows from halting my fall. Looking up, I saw that the man in the robe had stumbled but not fallen, grabbing onto one of the train's straps. He looked to me and I saw the craggy face of an elderly Hylian, an old man of my race. There was a silence for several seconds, the train's engines and wheels mutely telling that we were not going anywhere. The sound of horses' hooves approached our car. The man turned his head and looked outside just as the clopping hooves reached us.
Gunshots reverberated shockingly into the car from outside, and several of the windows shattered. The man, unhurt but shocked, fell awkwardly onto the floor for protection, and something clatterered on the floor. “Moblins!” He shouted hoarsely.
I stiffened, paralyzed by rage and fear. Entrusted with an important artifact for delivery, trapped with a helpless old man. Surrounded by moblin raiders, notorious for sparing no one in their vicious orgies of violence. This was not the way I wanted to die, but it just seemed inevitable.
Wait, the artifact! I checked my jacket pockets and didn't feel it; it must have fallen out when I fell. I frantically looked about me for a moment and caught sight of my precious cargo. It had caught between a pole and a seat when I fell, and the top had been torn off. The bubble wrap of the inside was visible, and a small bit of gold-colored chain spilled from the top of the envelope. I cursed and rushed to it, dismayed at the damage. I was hesitant to touch it, afraid that the contents might already have been damaged.
The old man, who had been crawling toward me, gasped at something. I looked at him, and he said “I hear them!” I stopped and listened. There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the floors of the adjoining car.
The Moblins had boarded the train.
I gritted my teeth and reached over to grab the envelope, pull at it. It began to tear in the middle, stuck fast in its place. I cursed again and pulled elsewhere, but the envelope only tore worse. I was having trouble fighting back tears at this point, scared out of my mind and certain of my own death. Clinging to duty as the only thing that I might have left. Despairing, I reached forward and grabbed the chain protruding from the envelope.
That's when everything changed.
My mind was clear and calm. Fear was useless here; I would need to keep my head if the old man and I were to survive this. The first thing was to secure the artifact. Without thinking, I pulled on the chain gently, and the rest of the artifact-- some kind of amulet, it seemed-- came free and swung in the air. A shaft of light from the outside caught it, and a green flash briefly blinded me. Blinking, I beheld what appeared to be a smooth emerald stone about an inch in diameter, set in a gold mounting.
"It can't be!” the old man said, gazing at the stone.
But I didn't have time to ask for clarification. My Courage had returned to me, and I quickly opened the clasp of the pendant and fastened it about my own neck. I dropped the stone itself down my shirt; it could handle a little sweat, but having it loose wouldn't work. I looked to the old man. It must have been clear to him that I had to try to defend us, because he nodded and shuffled about in his robes, on his knees.
"It's dangerous to go alone,” he muttered, pushing a hand past his robes, holding something. “Take this."
I looked. It was an old sword in a beat-up leather scabbard, a belt hanging from it. I reached forward, nodding my thanks, and strapped the sword about my waist. Steeling myself, I moved to the end of the car, but not before drawing the old blade with a steely hiss.
I barged into the adjoining car just as a moblin was preparing to open the door. It was a hideous thing, a bulky humanoid figure with the face of an ugly warthog. It was hunched and muscular, and wore hide clothing cobbled together from the skins of many animals. It also carried a makeshift spear in one hand.
I didn't give the beast time to bring the spear to bear. I gripped the sword in my left hand, braced it with my right, and drove its point into the beast's belly. It squealed in pain and alarm as I impaled it, and I heard two more noises from behind: the thing's comrades. I looked over the Moblin's shoulder and saw them; one carried a spear like this one, but the other was more dangerous: it had a makeshift pistol, composed of metal piping and a crude trigger mechanism.
I braced my shoulder and pushed the stuck pig in front of me toward his gun-toting fellow, using him as a human shield as he futilely tried to bring his spear to bear. Just as I was about to reach the Moblin with the gun, I shoved the impaled one aside fearlessly, throwing him off of the blade. I simultaneously reached forward and grabbed the nearby Moblin's gun hand, then shoved upward. The gun went off, firing a large metal ball through the ceiling of the train car. The Moblin's beady eyes widened, realizing that he was now defenseless.
I drew back and stabbed him, then wheeled just as the third and only standing Moblin bore down on me. I managed to pull my sword from my recent victim just in time to strike a glancing blow to the spear, knocking it to the side, but it wasn't enough. The sharp point of the spear pierced my t-shirt and I gasped in pain as it drew a long gash across my side, narrowly avoiding becoming buried in my stomach. I brought the sword up and swung it with all of my might, connecting with the Moblin's neck. The sword was dull and the Moblin's thick neck resisted the blade, but it drove quite deep; when I yanked my sword free dark fountains of blood erupted from the wound. The Moblin gurgled as it dropped, dying, to the ground.
I gingerly touched my wound once and winced. I got off pretty easy, but there were bound to be more Moblins on and outside of this train. Going outside would be suicide right now; these cramped quarters would be the only way to face Moblin gunmen, archers and lancers. The short Hylian blade that the old man had given me would be best in here. If only I had a shield, it'd be a lot easier to draw on the swordfighting lessons my grandfather was always trying to give.
I went back to the door and called to the old man, who joined me and surveyed the horror grimly. He looked up to my face, his expression very serious.
"Where did you get that artifact?” he asked. I shook my head and held up a hand, indicating that this wasn't the time. I introduced myself instead.
He nodded. “Lincoln. It is good to meet you,” he said. “I am Sahasrala.” I recognized that as a very old-style Hylian name, unusual in people even who lived near the Old Country. I let that fact go and explained my strategy in clipped phrases to Sahasrala.
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