By Mario Fan
Author's Note: An appendix for this
volume can be found here.
Click the link to open the appendix in a new window. You can then browse
through it at your leisure without losing your place in the story.
Chapter One: The Autumn Festival
The existence of humankind in the Plitian plane was one of particular interest during the Fourth Epoch of our world. By now, of course, the proliferation of the race has become an entirely overlooked addendum to the multitude of intelligent life. The accomplishments of Man have neither exceeded nor shamed when compared evenly with those of other sentient races, although two specific humans are still widely referred to as the Heroes of Plit. Whether the term is appropriate or not is left entirely to the coming generations of...
1.
It was midmorning in the latter days of the summer season, and the last of the warm weather was pushing through mildly. While the wind and the air were full of the scent of the changing leaves, the green grasses were darkening to a muddy brown. Everywhere could be felt the chill edge of the approaching autumn and the lifting of an invisible weight from the shoulders of everyone who lived in the Mushroom Village.
The departure of one season and the arrival of the next were commonplace in a world as old as the bones it buries, but for some odd reason, this time of change was different from all the rest. A Mushroomer out for a nightly stroll could feel the effects of a turning grave and a rising ghost on the tips of his fingers and toes. Each gust of wind felt a little more bitter and a little less inviting than the year before, and twice the year before that, and multiplied doubly on down the years for as long as anyone alive could remember.
It all boiled down to an unseen omen, a prickling sense of wrongness that whispers caution on all the standing hairs of a body in fear. In the manner of caution, however, the omen was avoided, unspoken of, and swept under the rug by the brooms of a million houses. There it lay indefinitely, gathering dust and dirt, festering and waiting quietly for the day it could roll out, blow up a flight of stairs, and put its claws upon a rocking cradle.
Despite their foreboding intuition, the people of the Mushroom Village embraced the annual harvest with wheelbarrows and crates stacked to the brim with fresh fruits and vegetables. Preparations for the Autumn Festival were underway, after all, and everyone who was anybody was expected to show up. The entire event would provide a week of labor-free enjoyment and merrymaking, including a dance and dinner hosted by Princess Peach herself on the last night of festivities. In addition, rumors were being spread that the whole ordeal would be topped off by a spectacular fireworks display imported from Moleville, a town traditionally famous for its pyrotechnics.
It was on that very day so many years ago that two particularly gossipy Mushroomers were discussing the possibility of a rainstorm.
“Nonsense!” said the local tavern owner. A leather apron was tied loosely around his ample waist as he leaned across the bar table. He never really cared for drifters, especially when they made a habit out of disagreeing with him. “The Autumn Festival hasn’t been rained out in seventy years. Besides,” he said, quietly, “it would take an awful lot of rain to dampen the excitement this year. Everyone’s looking forward to the fireworks.”
The Mushroomer in contention sat on a short stool opposite from the owner, one hand digging around in his vest. In a fluid motion, Russ T. of Toad Town drew out a pipe, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it. Smoke columns trailed from the burning tip. “See here, young sir,” he said between puffs, “fireworks don’t do so well in wet weather. Can’t keep them burning brightly, you know. They just won’t take off. Furthermore, I’m not speaking of any ordinary rainstorm.”
“Is that so?” asked the owner in mock interest. He huffed indignantly and straightened his back out. “What sort of rainstorm are you talking about, then, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Don’t mind at all,” said Russ T. and drew a long breath on the pipe. “What I’m talking about is a thunderstorm, and, if you can believe it, an unnatural one.”
“I don’t believe it,” the tavern man said matter-of-factly. “You drifters are all alike, crazy as a rocket!”
“Actually, I’m the most learned man you’re likely to meet during the entire festival, if I do say so myself,” the older Mushroomer said proudly. “I’ve spent my whole live seeking out knowledge and absorbing it like a sponge.”
“You’re definitely odd, if nothing else,” the owner said, while cleaning out a drinking glass. “Alright, let’s say you’re speaking the truth about the unnatural part. So tell me, what’s going to be so unusual about it?”
Russ T. methodically emptied the top of his pipe, deliberately dragging out the suspense. “Since you’re so keen on knowing, I suppose I shall.” He looked around, once, twice, three times, and stopped. “Someone is going to intentionally create the storm, and that’s the Stars’ honest truth!”
The tavern owner rolled his eyes knowingly and placed the glass on a rack above his head. “Make a thunderstorm, eh? You mean, like, all by himself?”
“Intentionally,” Russ T. reiterated, nodding his head. “It’ll be the biggest and most deadly storm to hit these parts in two-hundred years.”
“I give up,” said the tavern man and grabbed another glass. “Tell me what you know about it.”
“Well,” began Russ T, scratching his mushroom cap. “As well as I can remember, the tales of a monstrous storm every two centuries in this region have been told as far back as our records exist. I’ve been counting up the years, one by one, and in this very year, during this very month, it’s due to blow in.”
“Sounds like a bunch of mystic hocus pocus to me,” said the rotund Mushroomer disdainfully. “Besides, it could still be natural.”
“Ah! But that is where you are wrong,” exclaimed Russ T, emptying the rest of his pipe and placing it back in his vest. “I’ve studied the weather patterns as well, and there is no possible way that a storm of that magnitude could just appear out of the clear blue sky. Someone, or, more likely, something is going to cause it.”
“Well, it’s been interesting,” said the bartender, “but I’m afraid it’s closing time. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll be cleaning up.”
“Won’t do you any good,” said Russ T. and winked. “This place will be torn down faster than you can hope to stop it.”
With that, the eccentric Mushroomer turned and left. On his way out, he bumped into the spitting image of himself. The other Russ T. apologized and moved quickly in, ignoring the passerby. “Strangest thing,” he mumbled.
“What’s that?” the tavern owner asked and looked up. “Hey, I told you we were closing!”
“I thought I just ran into myself,”
said Russ T, distantly, looking behind him and hearing only the sound of
a diminishing laughter.
2.
The sun was rising pleasantly on the first day of the Autumn Festival. Bits of glimmer and gold from the planet’s only star angled in through the bedroom window of the house of the Mario Brothers. Dust specks floated visibly within the rays of sunshine, and presently, the brother called Mario was snoring rather loudly. As a result, his twin brother Luigi, the younger by three minutes, was having a terrible time trying to catch a few extra minutes of rest.
Frustrated, the man in the green pajamas gave the bunk above him a rough kick. There was a startled noise, followed by a precious silence, and then the snoring returned, growing in intensity. Resigned to an inability to get back to sleep, Luigi slid out of his lower bunk and, without a moment’s hesitation, pulled Mario onto the floor.
“Mamamia!” came the strangled reply. The slightly rounder man in the red pajamas looked around excitedly, trying to pinpoint the source of his discomfort. “What’s the matter with you, Luigi? You could’ve broken my back!”
“Oh, yes?” asked Luigi, calmly flattening his quilt. “Well, you should have heard yourself. I can see the headline: Obese Plumber Breaks the Sound Barrier With His Incessant Snoring!”
Mario’s face flushed red. “Sorry about-a that. Perhaps you could be a little less—er—direct next time?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Luigi, putting on his signature blue shirt and green overalls. He combed his hair, grimaced at the results, and put his hat on instead. “Hurry up and get dressed. If we miss the opening ceremonies, the princess will never let us hear the end of it.”
“Speaking of the princess,” Mario said, while trying to locate his hat and complete the blue and red ensemble, “she’s going to save the last dance at the closing ceremonies for me.”
“Only one problem,” said Luigi smugly. “You don’t know how to dance. Sure, you could try, but I’m afraid Peach would be crippled for life.”
“I’ll practice with a broom or something,” said Mario, his voice a dull growl. “I’m a lot more sophisticated than you think I am.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Luigi. He headed for the door and opened it. “Just remember to keep your eyes peeled for any of Bowser’s party-crashing attempts. He’s never been brave enough to disrupt the Autumn Festival before, what with all the tightened security, but we can never be too careful.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Mario, and stepped through. The early morning air was full of fog from the nearby pond, and a light chill sent shivers through both of the brothers. Faintly, the sound of a clear and resonant humming could be heard coming down the dusty dirt road that forked off from their house. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” said Luigi, tuning his ears. Yes, there was definitely something making a noise. “Sounds like someone humming a song. A Mushroomer?”
“Well, of course it’s a Mushroomer,” Mario said jokingly. “Yeah, that squeaking can be told apart from a Koopa’s chortling any day of the week. It’s kind of worn, too, maybe an old guy.”
“I’m not that old!” said Russ T, his small silhouette stepping suddenly through a blanket of fog. He broke off the humming. “I never did learn how to whistle: a crying shame, really.”
“Nice to see you,” said Mario, and shook the elderly Mushroomer’s hand. It felt a little cold, but the temperature was dropping, after all. “I guess you came to join in the festivities, but, still, that wouldn’t account for you walking in this direction. Where are you off to this morning?”
“Back to Toad Town,” said the Mushroomer, and hugged himself warmly. “This high altitude isn’t doing too well for my old bones. It’s given me a cold, already. I might be back later in the week, though, if it warms up a bit.”
“Sorry to hear it,” said Luigi. “The fireworks display should be magnificent, a real spectacle for the eyes.”
“I don’t doubt it,” replied the Mushroomer, “but there’s talk around the Mushroom Village that a storm’s blowing in. I heard it from a bartender,” his eyes seemed to twinkle, “who seemed very convinced on the matter.”
Luigi glanced briefly at his chronometer and said, “I apologize for chatting and running off, but we’re very nearly late for the opening ceremonies. I hope you understand.”
“Yes, yes, go ahead,” said Russ T, and coughed lightly. “I must be getting on my way, as well. Why don’t you two stop by the next time you’re in town? I’ve got copies of the photos Kolorado brought back from his latest expedition. From the Jade Jungle, you know.”
“Mario’s been there,” said Luigi, “but yes, I wouldn’t mind taking a look at them. We’ll see you then!”
“I’m looking forward to it,” said Russ T, smiled, and continued on his way. The brittle humming resumed.
“He didn’t seem very sick,” said Mario, “though his hands were certainly colder than they ought to have been.”
“Yeah,” agreed Luigi, thinking of something else. He dismissed it as paranoia, though, and matched his pace with Mario’s as they both headed towards the Mushroom Village .
In the swaying branches of a nearby
oak, an ebony bird squawked irritably. Its eyes glowed darkly, malignly,
and it flew off without so much as a flutter. Left behind was a single
black feather that shriveled into a clump of ash before being consumed
in a shadowy flame. Meanwhile, on down the road, the mirror image of Russ
T. began to quicken its pace.
3.
If there were only one thing about the Autumn Festival for everyone to look forward to, it would have to have been the many tables of local and exotic foods. There were cloud candy confections from Nimbus Land, mineral-enriched vegetables from Moleville, mushroom delicacies from Rose Town, and oceanic platters from Seaside Town — all combined with the indigenous flavor to form a feast fit for any king.
Only one thing was missing: the fifteen-layer festival cake.
“Mon dieu!” exclaimed Chef Torte, the most desired culinary master in the Mushroom Kingdom. “If zhis cake ist not perfect, zhen zey might choose Tayce T. next time instead of moi. Vhat a disaster zhat vould be!”
The troubled Terrapin’s apprentice, dutifully named the Apprentice, tried valiantly to assuage his master’s worrying. “It’ll work out fine. You see,” he said, holding up a bowl of dark goop, “I’ve already prepared the chocolate icing.”
“Chocolate!” Chef Torte exploded. “I told you, the princess vants peach icing. Peach icing, you fool! Aggh!”
The disgruntled chef grabbed a pan and whacked the bowl of frosting across the grand kitchen of the Royal Mushroom Castle. Unappeased, he then proceeded to beat the poor Apprentice into unconsciousness. “Now ist no time to go to sleepy lands! Ve must start all oveir. All oveir, moi says!” He looked down and prodded the Apprentice with his foot. “Fine, just lie zhere, like a sleeping dog. Zhat’s right, you’re a dog! Make voofing sounds, you crazy canine idiot-head!”
“Ahem,” the kitchen attendant coughed lightly into his fist. “The princess asked me to check on the cake’s progress, but I see you two have things well under control.” He stepped over a puddle of cooking oil splattered here and there with bits of baking soda. “If you don’t mind my asking, what part exactly of the cake preparation involves these obscure tribal dances?”
“Zhis part!” Chef Torte roared, and hurled a handful of wooden spoons across the room at the attendant. Without so much as an “Oh, dear!” the Mushroomer scurried out of the kitchen and into the ballroom, which, by then, was filled with the sounds of a stirring bagatelle at an even allegro.
In a wash of a white-hot anger, Chef Torte swept the length of a counter free of cooking debris, knocking pots, pans, and other various items crashing and clanging to the floor. Mumbling in a rough vernacular, he pulled his Apprentice from the wreckage and slapped him awake. “Listen to me, you fool! Vake up!”
“I’m awake,” the barely conscious Terrapin managed, spitting up a tooth. “What happened? I was having the most wonderful dream...”
“Enough of zhese crazy dreams of yours! I have important news zhat everyone — which means you — needs to hear.”
“What about?” the Apprentice asked, looking around with a dazed look on his face. “By the way, how did we get here?”
Chef Torte ignored the last question and answered the earlier one. “It’s about time ve go on strike! Again!”
“I’m tired of that game,” said the Apprentice, adopting a slight whine. “Let’s play hopscotch instead.”
“I’ll give you hopscotch!” Chef Torte said and whipped out a croquet mallet. Just as he was about to bring the illogically chosen weapon down hard upon the cringing Apprentice’s head, though, he stopped, allowing a devious grin to run across his face. “Vait, no, scratch zhat! And sniff it, as vell! Moi has a much betteir idea.”
“I’m afraid to ask,” said the Apprentice, covertly searching for a way to escape. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
“If zhey vant a cake, ve’ll give zhem vone.” Chef Torte pulled out a vial of some golden liquid, bubbling actively under a moist cork. “I picked up zhis little potion in my journeys to Sarasaland nearly a decade ago. It creates an addiction, if you like, in zhe eater of your prepared meal. I vas going to save it for a special occasion, but vhat vider audience could ve get zhan zhe whole freakin’ Autumn Festival? It ist flawless!”
“The potion or your evil plan, sir?”
“Boz, you fool!” Chef Torte proclaimed,
turning about face. “Now, follow moi to zhe batter. Ve haf verk to do!”
4.
Princess Toadstool, the ruler of the Mushroom Kingdom in all but name, sat down wearily in an ornate throne at the end of the Convocation Hall. Vibrant stained glass windows with etched figures of past kings sparkled dimly in the early morning, casting images of majestic royalty across the carpets of the long and intimidating room.
Standing in the position of audience with his hands clasped tightly at the small of his back was a diplomatic economist from the Sarasaland Consortium. Staunchly Mushroomer, the only difference inherit in Sarasalian citizens were their greater heights and defined facial features. In addition, most of the males sported intricately grown mustaches, an art of pride that Mario and Luigi often identified with.
The princess spared a passing glance at a leaf of summary papers held in the spread of her lap before directing her gaze back to the rigid man below. “I was impressed with the thoroughness of your report, Master Brego. It was a pleasant surprise after the apparently uncaring manner of the last one.”
“A report not written by me, I assure you,” the Mushroomer replied, taking the moment of praise to bow imperceptibly. “It pleases me, though, to satisfy Your Highness.”
“Unfortunately,” Peach said, planting the word before the man could rise again, “I am still unclear as to the benefits of this trade agreement. As much as I would enjoy resuming our former familiarity, I cannot keep from remembering the recent embargo of your ports. To reopen them now, after years of isolation, and expect everything to be well is highly presumptuous. You, of all people, should understand my reluctance.”
The unbreakable economist brought his hands out peacefully. “Princess Toadstool, you must recognize the changing of the times. Our government has recently converted from an absolute monarchy to a fully functional democracy. We might not adopt the Parliamentary predilections of your own system, but, under new leadership, we are attempting to show a more accepting policy of international relations. We do not presume that you would trust our government, but our people, instead, and their collective will to reach out to other countries.”
“Nevertheless, the members of Parliament and their constituents are at odds over the matter,” the princess said amicably, leaning back. “At any other time of year, I would be glad to convene immediately, but the Autumn Festival begins within the hour, and we simply do not have the time. Perhaps you could stay until it is over and—”
“That will not do,” the Mushroomer said brusquely, his earlier mood abandoned. “I am under strict orders to return before the end of the week, and as you know, remaining here, however much that would suit me, is not an option. The Senate will be displeased, but we all have our priorities, I suppose.”
“Again, I am sorry,” said the princess, signaling for the guards at the end of the room to open the massive entryway. “Let this not awaken any further animosities between us.”
The economist bowed respectfully and walked briskly out of the room. The doors slammed behind him, closing the castle once more in a dusty darkness. Princess Toadstool descended from her throne and crossed her arms deliberatively. No matter how appealing Brego’s testaments were, something still was not right. It lingered on the edge of her mind, a marked line of doubt that stretched on interminably without meaning.
“You are troubled by something,” came a soft, carefully measured voice from behind the throne. The Chancellor of the Mushroom Kingdom, a wise and dieing man, hobbled into view on a marble cane. “Your decision was the right one. That man cannot be trusted, I think.”
“At least we agree on the matter,” said the princess, smiling. “You should be resting, Chancellor. The physician says—”
“Posh! That quack knows nothing. True, it might just be the old-man syndrome, a withering body not wishing to give up, but I’m not out of the race just yet. You still need me, believe it or not.”
“I know that more than anything,” said Peach, suddenly tired. “I shall have to leave for the opening ceremony in a few moments. What’s on your mind?”
“The parallel of your own worries, predictably,” said the Mushroomer, leaning against the throne. It used to be his constant position and was undeniably a comfort to him now. “I wonder why you did not mention the mysterious lack of communication with the former Princess Daisy. She aided in the transfer of power from her corrupt father to the new Senate, but signature was not on those documents.
“Again, he would have presented the plea to trust in the people and their change of heart. Still, I suspect, even if in secret, something duplicitous is in the works of the new Sarasalian government.”
The Chancellor nodded sagaciously. “Should we wait, then, to allow her a chance to be heard? If Daisy has been the victim of an uprising, delaying offensive maneuvers will only worsen the predicament.”
“An obvious obstacle,” the princess mused, nodding her head. “Hopefully the answer will come to me after the festivities. I only ask for a week of leisure. Why is it so hard to accept?”
“The curse of leadership, my dear,” said the Chancellor, his voice a dull whisper. He was never so serious. “Just remember, nothing lasts forever.”
“Is that a burden or a promise?” asked Peach, not exactly with humor.
“It is whatever you make of it,” responded the Chancellor matter-of-factly, and stumbled off into shadow. A door creaked and shut somewhere in the distance. Outside, the sounds of the Festival could be heard clear and ringing.
What will I make of it?
5
The Magikoopa Kamek sat cross-legged atop a recently constructed tower while overseeing the fortification of Castle Koopa’s new artillery summits. Glistening beads of sweat covered the bodies of the countless Goombas, scurrying across narrow board planks to deliver tools to the Koopa engineers and builders. Once in awhile, a frantic worker would stumble in the late summer heat, waver precariously close to an edge, and then topple over. The following screams were cut off abruptly a few seconds after.
Presently, though, Kamek was watching the distant surf of the Vista Sea, feeling each furl of briny water as it crashed against the beaches. Instead of enjoying one of the many wonders of existence, though, the Magikoopa was analyzing the smell of the tide, measuring the velocity and potency of a storm yet unformed. He was certain that it was going to be the most deadly he had ever seen.
An engineer scrabbled against the sloping roof of the tower, standing up to address him. “Lord Kamek, the deliveries from Booster’s Tower have yet to arrive. We cannot fit the artillery holders until we receive the measurements for the cannon bases.”
Kamek waved away the Koopa’s concern with his hand. “They will come, sooner than later if Booster knows what’s good for him. King Bowser will not tolerate that maniac’s laziness much longer.”
Still, the engineer refused to leave. “Begging your pardon, mi’lord, but that’s just it. King Bowser, sir, he wants an explanation for the delay of the construction, and he wants it directly from you. He demands you meet him as soon as possible in the Dining Hall.”
Worry, Kamek thought. The messenger was distraught, probably afraid for his life. Bowser is angrier than usual. If he’s eating, perhaps that will direct some of the viciousness away from me. Either way, I’ll have to be on my guard.
“Do not bother sending a correspondence. I shall leave immediately. You,” he designated, “are in charge. I want everything except that which requires possession of the cannons done before nightfall.”
“Yes, sir!” the engineer saluted and worked his way carefully back down the rooftop.
Kamek waved his wand, looking on approvingly as a cluster of clouds joined in the classic cumulus formation around his legs. He controlled the feather-light vehicle as it carried him lower, floating downward until he reached the balcony entrance of his private chambers. Straightening his blue-pointed hat, Kamek stepped from the cloud and walked briskly into his room, listening for the sound of the balcony windows closing shut behind him. When the familiar jangle and slam did not reach his ears, he whirled around, wand buzzing like a swarm of ravenous bees.
“Iggy,” he whispered low and pocketed his wand.
“Don’t give me that look, Kamek,” said the rainbow-haired Koopaling. He had recently arrived from his castle in Giant Land, one of the seven habitable kingdoms of Kooparian. “I used to cherish our visits, you know, before you became so dreadfully busy.”
“What do you want, Iggy? Speak! I am already late for a meeting with your father. He is irritated with the delays of the artillery summits.”
“I need more potions for my experiments,” said the young king, suddenly somber. “I’m onto something big this time, something so completely radical that it requires more than the usual amount of my patience.”
“Experiments?” said Kamek, scowling. “Abominations!”
“And your spells are not?” Iggy growled. “Come now! I shall only ask you one last time. Besides, if you had taught me how to make them when I first asked you, my yearly visits wouldn’t be necessary, now, would they?”
“You disgust me,” said Kamek, his mouth unexplainably dry. “To let the secrets of the dark powers fall into your hands, young sir, would be an error I could not live with.”
“Fortunately, my father was never so reluctant to instruct me in the subtleties of combat,” said Iggy, fingering a priceless piece of sculpture. He lifted it roughly and shattered it with a contraction of his claws. “Don’t ever insult me again.”
Kamek lifted his gaze from the shards of pottery that littered the stone floor beneath him. Drops of blood from the Koopaling’s hand splashed among the fragments, bathing them in dark crimson. “Remember this: physical power is nothing in the face of sorcery.” With a flick of his hand, the scraps of the broken sculpture reformed, melded, and settled gently upon their former resting place. “Still, your audacity in challenging my patience is admirable. Take whatever you need. I can always make more.”
Iggy tilted one side of his mouth up in a devious smile. “You always did know how to sate my appetite, Kamek.”
The Magikoopa’s mind was full of fleeting thoughts, criss-crossing, yet ultimately unrelated. Iggy’s allusion to eating is a common tactic among the royal family. Absorption, consumption: the trademarks of an implacable domain. But does he actually think I need reminding of his father’s power? I am well aware of the fragility of my life! But he, like dear old dad, does not recognize my genius, the very key to my continued survival. My powers are strong, yes, but without restraint, they would be worthless. I need King Bowser and his legions as the chess player needs his pawns.
“I know more than you could ever dream, child,” said Kamek, flashing a canine. “Never forget that.”
Iggy stood quietly, his face impassive, unreadable. Then, without warning, he clinched his right fist. “That is why I’ve always liked you— thought of you as uncle, even. Yes, Uncle Kamek.”
“Leave,” said the Magikoopa, and Iggy hastened from the room without another word. The tone of the Koopaling’s voice and the twitch of his eyes made it unmistakably clear. He wishes to kill me.
Kamek shivered violently, hugging the
deep blueness of his cloak tight around him. He could almost hear the snap
and spit of Bowser’s steel jaw crunching in the distance.
6.
Mario and Luigi strode quietly onto the Festival Grounds nearly an hour before noon. The last of the decorations were being strung up along the lines of booths and picnic tables, and the performers were practicing their grin and dazzle, eating fire, juggling rainbow cubes, and dancing hand-in-hand. Party streamers and multicolored confetti fluttered in the air, weaving in and out of the red and white bandstand.
“Hey, look!” said Mario, pointing at a booth to their immediate left. “It’s that game where you throw the ball at the bottles. I always had a knack for this when I was a kid."
“Yeah, something like that,” said Luigi, sighing. “All I remember are your embarrassing victory dances afterwards. A carnival game is hardly cause for such an elaborate celebration.”
But Mario had already rushed off to slap a gold coin on the desk and across to the purveyor of the stand, leaving Luigi alone to contemplate the sound of his own words. He looked overhead, the memory of Russ T’s warnings of a storm still black in his thoughts. It already had worried him that the older man had walked all the long way to the Mushroom Village from Toad Town, only to return again for the sake of an imperceptible sickness. Why did he feel the need to leave so soon? The royal doctors were more than adequate enough to cure any ailment he might have.
Now that he thought about it, though, the rumor of the storm did seem to pervade the quiet calm of the town. It was in every casual conversation and insignificant platitude, a dark reminder of something or other that was nothing more than a mild point of interest. Most strange, though, was the sheer ignorance of anyone as to where he or she had first gained the insight. It was as if a traveling hypnotist had brushed through the town on a light autumn wind, softly whispering into the peoples' ears and then blowing off again.
Whatever the variance or degree of urgency in the telling, Luigi noticed, one fact seemed to remain constant. The storm itself was expected by the end of the week. No matter how persistently he argued the clearness of the sky and horizon, not one Mushroomer was willing to admit misunderstanding.
He looked to the east. The noon sun was caught high in the early sky, blushing prominently over the Festival fields and the smoking chimneys visible just over the tree line. It was another day in the Mushroom Kingdom, and cheers went up in the air as a crowd gathered around Mario to watch him play.
Dragging himself away from the problem at hand, Luigi directed his gaze towards the towering steeples of the Royal Mushroom Castle. They were older than the dustiest of history books in Russ T’s library and even more majestic than the contents of the Royal Vault in all their splendor. It reminded him of the heritage of the Harvest and the enjoyment it promised, and so he let himself forget his worries for the moment. Everyday could not be spent in paranoia, no matter how much he feared the iron claw of Bowser and his armies.
I will not submit to you, he thought, clapping and laughing along with a hundred smiling Mushroomers.
The bandstand struck up a chorus, and the streamers were let fly once more. Even Mario pried himself away from a successful game to join the thousands of other citizens heading down the promenade. From there, Princess Peach made her way onto the stage, and the day only grew more promising.
“Citizens of The Mushroom Kingdom,” she said, pausing and smiling for the cheers and rounds of applause to end. “Seven years ago, Mario and Luigi led our forces in victory against the armies of the Koopa Kingdom, breaking the bondage we had suffered for more than fifty years. Every year since then, we have celebrated our new life and the harvest of freedom that comes from our revolution. For the next seven days, let us remember those who have died to bring us the seasons of peace and family.”
As the crowd continued to celebrate, Princess Toadstool waved and stepped down from the stage. Her personal retainers followed her down the long and winding path to the city. Mario shielded his eyes from the blazing sun, watching her go. “It’s hard to believe these people weren’t even free to have festivals just seven years ago. Has it only been that long?”
“We’ve aged,” said Luigi, smiling. “You more so than me, of course.”
“Yeah, right,” said Mario. “Anyway, where’s the grub? I’m starving over here!”
As if in answer, the crowd parted slightly, and they could see the buffet table being replenished with hundreds of exotic and local dishes. Mario beamed and ran over to grab a plate and get in line. Luigi followed at a leisurely pace, but his attention was caught by a figure moving through a group of people off to his right. He stopped and peered over several heads, but whoever it was was too far away to recognize.
He thought about shouting out, but it would seem awfully awkward with all the people around, so he chose to walk over instead. “Koover! I thought it was you. How’s everything going in the Koopa Village?”
“Wonderfully calm and without a trace of change, as usual,” he said, proudly. “Goompapa and Fishmael came over from Toad Town, too.”
“Goompapa?” asked Luigi. “I thought they lived to the west of the city, down nearer the Vista Sea.”
“The kids became lonely, I suppose,” he said and shrugged. “Anyway, they all live in the abandoned house over by Tayce T’s restaurant now. I hear the old gal’s even teaching Goombaria how to cook like a professional. Speaking of food,” he said, “who’s catering this party?”
“Some foreign Terrapin named Chef Torte. He supposedly is extremely touchy about his work. The weirdo even attacked Mario during the Machine Wars for jumping on his cake. Speaking of that,” said Luigi, “I’ve heard rumors that his food sometimes comes alive — I know, crazy — and attacks the customers. Nothing like that’s happened so far, though, so I guess they’re not true.”
“Goompapa!” the Koopa shouted over the crowd, beckoning with his arm.
The squat Goomba waddled over and did his best of bowing in salutation. “Luigi! I was hoping to meet you.” He looked around. “You know, so was Goombario. I brought him along just to meet you and your brother. Where’d he go off to, anyway?”
“I think,” said Luigi, “he’s already found him.”
They both looked over at Goombario, who was jumping up and down excitedly in front of Mario, while the plumber nodded appreciatively and stuffed his face with a huge bowl of spaghetti and meatballs.
“Oh,” said Koover, scratching his head, “I spoke with Russ T. earlier today, when we finished decorating everything. He was whistling a tune of Kolorado’s from the Dry Dry Desert Outpost, you know. Very catchy. I went something like this—”
“When the decorations were finished?” asked Luigi. “Are you sure?”
“Well, yeah, most of them,” said Koover, carefully. “Why, is something wrong?”
“No, I guess not,” said Luigi, checking on Mario again. It would be difficult to track him down in the plaza if he went off, and he did not want to wander around without someone who knew the people. “It’s just that we saw him earlier heading towards Toad Town. He probably started feeling better and came back soon after we arrived.”
“Must be,” said Goompapa, and nudged at Koover’s legs. “Come on. We have to go grab Fishmael and sign up for the Fishing Tourney. They won’t accept any more applicants past 6 o’clock.”
“See you around,” said Luigi, waving as they merged back into the stream of Mushroomers, Koopas, and Moles all around. He looked back to the buffet table. “Oh, no.”
Mario was nowhere to be seen, and it was growing dark. He would have to check out a room at the Mushroom Kingdom Inn, but he could not just leave without telling Mario where they were staying. Gathering what courage he could muster, Luigi started off into the crowd in a direction that seemed favorable at the time.
Meanwhile, the brother in question had wandered off with Goombario into the sparse woodlands surrounding the Festival Grounds. “Over here!” the Goomba called, crashing through a leafy thicket.
“Hold on!” Mario replied, leaping over a row of plants and landing sloppily in a mud bank. “Where’d you go, Goombario?”
“Right here. Hurry!” Goombario was leaning over what looked like a couple of thin depressions in the mud, but he was staring at them too intently for them to be anything so ordinary. “I found them earlier. Do you think they’re footprints?” he asked excitedly.
Mario huffed and squatted down beside the diminutive boy, carefully studying what were obviously tracks of some kind. “Yeah, sure are footprints. I can’t quite make out where they came from, though.”
The heels were rounded, but there were three clawed toes on both feet, each separated by a bit of webbing at the base of the joints. All together, they definitely indicated a reptile of some sort, bipedal, and able to run lightly, judging by the depth of the indentations and the procession they made to the nearest tree. Mario looked up.
“Who do you think they belong to?” he asked, his excitement changed to a slight anxiety. “I’ve never seen the likes of these anywhere before.”
“Whoever it is,” said Mario, “had been traveling from tree to tree. In a thin forest like this one, that means some impressive jumping abilities. Other than that, it seems like he fell out and then scrambled back up.”
“You mean like he was running from someone?” asked Goombario. “He might be in trouble! Let’s see if we can find him.”
“No, we’d better not right now,” said Mario. “Let’s go back and enjoy ourselves. I’ll talk to Luigi about this later and let you know if anything comes up, ok?”
“Ok,” agreed Goombario, and they made their way back to the freshly lit lampposts of the Festival Grounds.
Luigi looked up from his weary position on a wooden bench and waved. “Decide to walk around Plit?” he sneered, but lightened his mood when he saw Goombario. “Did you two find anything?”
“Footprints!” said Goombario before Mario could stop him. “Really odd ones, too. Mario said whoever they belonged to was traveling through the treetops. Some jumper, that’s for sure.”
The man in green looked concernedly at his shorter sibling for a moment, but then glanced back at the Goomba. “Your father’s over at the dunking booths. He’s looking for you.”
“Oops,” he said and trotted off as the last of the lamps were lit by a Mushroomer on stilts.
“Anything else on the tracks?” asked Luigi. He stood up and stretched back and forth lazily.
“Yeah,” said Mario, his eyes noticeably distant. “They were definitely reptilian, and the prints I saw indicated a fast pace, at least by our standards. Either our missing person was in a hurry or is the quickest thing on two legs I’ve ever encountered.”
“Two legs!” exclaimed Luigi. “You didn’t mention that. This is something. Do you want to try hunting it down later tonight?”
“No,” said Mario, pushing back his cap. “I don’t want to interfere unless we know something’s the matter. Still, I’d like to see what it looks like. Who knows? We might even become good friends.”
“Maybe,” said Luigi, incredulously. “In the meantime, I went ahead and took out a room at the Mushroom Kingdom Inn. The princess was kind enough to reserve a suite for us. She even stocked it with some Italian cuisine, and mamamia, what fine tastes, too! Spaghetti with parmesan, grated meat sauce spread over a mighty helping of ravioli, and of course, a basketful of garlic breadsticks. Peach sure knows how to appeal to a couple of old-fashioned heroes.”
“I’m already hungry,” said Mario, “and you know what that means.”
“What?” asked Luigi, grinning.
“A late night snack for the one that gets there first!”
As they both raced down the road to the Mushroom Village, a silently hissing figure nimbly balanced between two limbs in a nearby tree followed them with two reflective eyes. “Thiz one does not think they look too much like heroes. Still, the Princess Toadstool would not lie to us.”
He tasted the air with a forked tongue
and leapt soundlessly from tree to tree without disturbing a single branch.
Overhead, the two harvest moons cast their pale glow across the sleeping
land, and in the distance could be heard the untroubled waters of the Vista
Sea.
7.
The double image of Russ T. stumbled through a patch of thorn weeds, his skin torn and dripping blood. With his breath coming in rapid heaves, the imposter threw himself to the ground in a barren patch of dirt. He lifted his head and saw the trees around him grow dark as if under the veil of an endless night, and with the invisible wind came the flutter and screeching caw of a black-feathered bird.
It tilted its neck, and then, with an almost contemptuous squawk, it buried its head into the earth and pulled out a mouthful of worms. The beak of the bird ripped and snapped, flaying flesh and spilling the odd bit of meaty refuse.
“I have spread the rumor, but it was not needed. The flooding will no longer be necessary,” said the false Mushroomer. His skin was slowly starting to peel and curl away in the dust. “I have met those you had hoped to uncover. There is no doubt; we have found them at last.”
“Perhaps,” a deep and silvered voice came from the presence of the bird. With every syllable, the decaying Mushroomer shivered in a paralytic haze. “I do not doubt your judgment, though you must understand this. My purpose in conceiving the flood was not only to reveal the Humans, but to also test the Legend.”
“Do you doubt the history?” asked the other. His bare muscle tissue began to sprout nerve webbing and then finally a rough blanket of scales.
“I am a willing skeptic,” said the bird, gently ruffling its feathers. “This is why in the end of all things, my victory will be complete. To live by faith alone, to place trust in the forces around you, is a foolish mistake. I was taught this at a high price. Learn it well.”
The one who had appeared as Russ T. was now completely a Magikoopa, robed in a flowing black cloak and hood. Stitched into the fabric of his clothing was an ever-changing vision of the universe— spiraling nebulae, careening comets, and stars exploding the birth of a new age.
“Are you willing to kill them all, then?” asked the wizard, a twisted brown wand materializing in his claws. “That is what will happen, you know, if I am mistaken.”
As the bird was quiet, a field of wavering shadow surrounded its body, withering the grass and trees that ringed the pastoral clearing. “I have decimated the surfaces of a thousand planets and breathed in the flaming ash. I have torn the throats of a trillion screaming souls and absorbed their defiance like sweet honey. Yes, Zarith, I am more than willing. We must be certain at any costs.”
The Magikoopa bowed low again, chanting something incoherent as the bird took to the air and soared away north. In its wake there was left an empty void, briefly tearing the sky of the late afternoon.
Zarith rose uneasily from his knees, silently observing the trails of non-luminous dark matter in the sky as they raced toward stabilization, scrambling to balance the variation in gravity. Despite the number of times he had had the privilege to witness the natural anomaly, he never recovered from the sheer power it must have taken to control and manipulate the forces of the universe that way.
I fear you, he thought, striding carefully through a line of hedgerows. Why did you choose me all those years ago, when the essence of the universe was at your disposal? What part must I play that no one else can?
As he considered these things, mulling over the impossible, Zarith gratefully breathed in the familiar smells and tastes of the Plitian atmosphere. He was home, however changed it was, and nothing could separate him from that fact. The sky under which he had been born, the grass in which he had rolled and slept, even the long-dead Koopa he had fallen in love with — all came back to him now in a swirling wave of emotion.
Am I really willing to destroy it all? he asked himself, the screams and fires of a thousand burning worlds flooding into his awareness. What have I become that I no longer care?
After another hour of uneventful pondering, Zarith came to a quiet little pond at the mouth of a narrow creek, clear and clean from the absence of thought. A raking sniff of the air confirmed his relative safety, and so Zarith knelt by the shores of the crystal water, peering at the image within. The blur of colors was initially disrupted by the velvet caudal fins of a koi fish, but then the picture slowly began to reform.
I am no longer alive, he said to the Magikoopa in the water as it was rippling and decaying in an endless state of change. He saw the faces of the countless thousands he had slaughtered, holding their throats in a procession of bleeding masks. I have become the Hand of Death.
He roared, bellowing in a low moan of despair, and sent a trembling blast of purple radiation into the pond. The untouched water disintegrated—steaming into the clouds, simmering while the fish and plants gasped and blackened in agony.
There would be no rest for him that
night.
8.
Chef Torte walked proudly back and forth between the long dining tables of the First Day’s Feast, smiling and nodding as he went. “Ist it good? Yes, of course moi made it from scratch. Zat’s right. Scarf it on down! Plenty for eveiryone!”
“They seem to be enjoying your cake,” whispered the Apprentice excitedly, who was trailing close behind Torte.
“Of course zhey are, muffin head. Moi made it, afteir all. Now zhen, vatch as zey scramble to receive more, more, and still more!”
As the foreign Terrapin indicated, all of the guests who tried a slice of the cake immediately rose from their tables and strode to the end of the aisle for additional helpings of the delicious confection. The more enthusiastic even shoved and shouted their way to the front, positively maddened at the thought of not tasting another bite.
Chef Torte eagerly rubbed his mittens together, making obscure, accented noises. “Zat’s right, moi’s little puppets! Eat your heart out; eat until you can eat no more. Soon you vill consume no food unless it has been prepared by yours truly.”
The Apprentice shuffled his feet nervously under an apron that was two sizes too large. “Master Torte, why are you still wearing your mittens? Ack!”
Chef Torte responded by swiftly removing his flower and vine mittens and mashing them into the Apprentice’s face. “Don’t eveir again question moi’s supeir secret chef techniques! Zat vill only bring you pain and perhaps a few unsightly facial blemishes.”
It was most likely a humorous twist of fate that suddenly made the Apprentice remember something terribly important he had read on the empty bottle of his Master’s potion. “Uh, Master Torte, there’s something I forgot to tell you. Ahem. Master? Master Torte!”
“Vhat do you vant?” screamed Chef Torte. He turned around to see the Apprentice dancing as if he had to use the restroom urgently. “Make it quick. Moi ist enjoying his awesome victory oveir ze dining preferences of ze public at large. Can you not zee zat?”
“It’s about the potion, though, sir!”
“I’ve had just about enough of you,” said the Terrapin, narrowing his eyes menacingly. He made an elaborate series of gesticulations that were ultimately more confusing than informative. “I vant you to zip, clip it, and vrap it up tight.”
“Wha... ”
“You heard moi!”
“Me no comprehendo.”
“Shut up!”
Both the Apprentice and Chef Torte grew suddenly wide-eyed as everyone in the Dining Hall fell quickly and soundly asleep. Many were slumped over their cake, but a few had even slipped onto the floor.
“Apprentice?”
“Yeah? Oh, about the sleeping and the addiction wearing off, you must have bought that potion from a hack. The stuff’s practically worthless—”
“Don’t say anozeir verd. Juzt head for zhe door like nozing happened.”
And so they did. Needless to say, Chef Torte and his bumbling Apprentice did not stay for the second day of festivities. This was all well and good, especially since over a thousand extremely groggy Mushroomers were wishing to have a few choice words with them the next morning.
Unfortunately for everyone who remained,
the first night’s incident would pale in comparison for what the coming
days of the Autumn Festival had in store.
9.
Kamek walked cautiously down the central aisle of the Dining Hall, while noting the four separate tables, each with its one hundred carefully ranked seats. Not even a reasonable percentage of the chairs was ever used, but King Koopa was incorrigible in his desire to make everything immense. The room itself, with its gothic arching support columns and stretching clerestory windows, was loftier than the towering spires of the Royal Mushroom Castle. Even the merest whisper sent a clanging and a crashing of iron bells rising to the rafters in a world of sound.
The gravely ceremonious wizard paused to take in the collective grandeur of the spiraling gray and black paint strokes brushed across the domed ceiling. In what was ultimately an unsettling observation, Kamek noticed how the contrast with the brittle red-gold light of the afternoon sun cast a crimson blood glow that dripped and floated down to the galleries beneath. He let out a suppressed breath of air, reformed his perception, and continued walking.
After that, each dragging footstep brought him nearer to the Table of Nobles set horizontally at the far end of the room. When he finally reached the carpet of audience, he stood still, hands clasped tightly at the small of his back. There were seven gilded chairs, the largest one in the middle where King Bowser sat and was now enjoying a lavish feast. On the right side, in descending rank, would sit the highest of the Magikoopa Guild: Grand Guildmaster Kamek, Guildmistress Kammy, and Guildmaster Vermik. In the same manner, to the left would sit General Jagger of the Royal Military, Admiral Jade of the Royal Fleet, and Defensive Advisor Inire.
At this hour, though, so late in the day, only Kamek and the High King of Koopas were present. And as the wizard waited there, idly counting the specks of illuminated dust drifting within his field of vision, Bowser continued eating.
With what could only be described as a grotesque excitement, the massive Koopa grasped a squealing animal of some exotic origin from underneath a silver covering and worked its head off between his canines. Then, with an equal amount of relish, he consumed the body and bones in one snap of his powerful jaws, not even bothering to remove the excess material that fell onto the tablecloth.
“My Lord, you wished to see me?” Kamek asked experimentally, dispelling the urge to lean forward. “I have been informed that you require my attention.”
“Spare me the formalities, Kamek,” said Bowser. With a wave of his gleaming claws, he casually picked a piece of meat from his teeth and scraped it across the table. “I am drunk with feasting and am not in the mood for your sharp tongue.”
Good, Kamek thought, not able to restrain a creeping smile. At least he is in an easy manner. I shall still have to be wary, though; his behavior is nothing if not erratic.
“Prince Iggy visited my quarters earlier day,” said Kamek, not allowing room for a response. “He sought additional supplies for his experiments, which I granted.”
“Do not mention him, or any of my children, for that matter,” said Bowser, his dripping teeth clinched tightly. “They are free to come and go, as they wish, but I don’t want to hear about them.”
The Koopa King stared blankly back at Kamek for a moment or two, as if preparing to say something else. When he remained silent, the wizard spoke, “Forgive me, your Highness, but I have become tense with the constant blunderings of the work crews. In addition, Booster’s products have not arrived. We have been delayed countless hours.”
That had to strike a note, thought Kamek. He knows I’ve divined the purpose of this meeting. What will he say to that?
“Forget about those boring business troubles for a moment,” said Bowser, with his right hand propping up the tremendous weight of his skull. “We have plenty of time to prepare our defenses.”
What is he rambling on about? Defenses! Kamek mentally smoothed his face over, and when he spoke it was with the clear ringing of a crystal waterfall. “My Lord, you speak of ample time, but for what? Have you lost so much trust in me?”
“No, Kamek, I have lost none of my trust in you,” said Bowser with a hint of surprise. “I have only been waiting, you see, preparing my plans for the proper time to present them to my most honored advisor. Now, though, I feel I have completed them to a degree that will satisfy even you, or at least inspire a few brilliant modifications.”
“Very well,” said Kamek, highly doubtful that Bowser’s ponderings had yielded anything useful. “Tell me this, though. When are you planning to invade, this time?”
“Ah, but Kamek!” he said with a marked glee and slammed an enormous fist upon the table. “There will be no invasion of the Mushroom Kingdom, or anywhere else, either.”
Kamek raised one dubious eyebrow and crossed his arms deliberatively. “You have caught my attention.”
“You see, Kamek, I discovered that our constant invasions of the Mushroomers' home land were our, if you will, recurring flaw. Then I thought, if only we could convince them to come here, instead, then our chances of victory would be dramatically increased.”
“Yes,” admitted Kamek, “that is certainly true. I worry, however, that you are forgetting how easily Mario and Luigi infiltrate this castle of yours on a regular basis. If our forces cannot handle two humans, what makes you think they can repel the full might of the Mushroom Kingdom Army? Besides, how can we possibly prod them sufficiently into coming here with all swords blazing?”
“By using their own method and sending two lone operatives,” said Bowser, taking pride in the wash of disbelief on Kamek’s face. “What better time than this ridiculous Autumn Festival to start a war?”
“The defenses, then,” Kamek surmised, “are being bolstered for their eventual offensive. You are displaying considerable foresight, my King. Tell me, how did you conceive this remarkable scheme?”
“You’ll never believe me,” said Bowser, vaguely chuckling, “but it came to me in a dream.”
“A dream, sire?” asked Kamek, trying his best to appear receptive. The words that then came from the king’s mouth were clear and concise, almost seeming to be the product of another spirit.
“Or a vision, if you prefer it,” said Bowser, quickly. “I found myself standing upon the pinnacle of a rocky summit that descended steeply all around me. Ahead, and I do not give a distance because my vision was inexplicably blurred, I saw a roiling throng of dark and purple clouds. They discharged several bolts of searing lightning, but, and not too oddly, they did not give forth any precipitation.
“It was then that I began to notice something reminiscent of eyes consolidating in one of the upper formations. Following those were a lively glow and a curved, calculating mouth that worked open and close to a sort of steady cadence. Eventually it spoke. At first, there were only low growls and mumblings, nothing discernible. Next, I could hear my name, low, and roughly pronounced. From there, it proceeded to describe the plan as I have related it to you. Even the defenses I have ordered installed are per its instructions.”
“A very direct vision,” said Kamek, simply. “Apart from the actual message, the rainless thunderstorm indicated a certain victory. Still, the minimal area of the pinnacle suggests that you must not sway from the directions given, or else all will turn to ruin.”
“You believe me, then, that it was a valid omen?” asked Bowser, not entirely surprised. “You were always such a skeptic.”
“I am assuming all the details you have given me are true, and, assuming that, the vision you describe is inarguably what it seems,” said Kamek. “I shall continue with the defense preparations, but I shall also dwell on this matter. You will inform me, of course, if you have any more of these visions?”
“Of course, Kamek,” said Bowser and slumped in his seat. He closed his eyes, and his breathing softly slowed.
The Magikoopa gave him one final glance and turned back around. As he covered the considerable distance to the exit, his mind slowly began processing the data he had received. I had thought of a plan similar to that years ago, but he rejected it without thought. It is that vision that has convinced him of its success. I would normally not be so accepting, of course, especially since Bowser has never displayed the signs of an adept, but he spoke with such uncommon clarity that it was as if a Contact were speaking through him. The coming storm and this incident must be related somehow. If I am to properly use our position, I shall have to discover the connection, gain control of it, and destroy it if necessary.
Kamek stopped after leaving the Dining
Room and closed the massive doors behind him. But how?
10.
Diplomat-Economist Brego of the Sarasaland Consortium had set sail later that afternoon from the Toad Town Harbor, and now, nearly five days later, he came upon a storm. Then again, it might have been said that the storm came upon him, for the swiftness with which it appeared seemed unexplainable. One moment his sailing vessel was threading tranquilly through the peaceful waves of the Vista Sea, and the next, he found himself under a barrage of rain and lightning, black clouds and fury.
“An omen of the times to come,” he said, almost involuntarily. The strictly enforced superstitions of the old monarchy would probably never leave him. “I must turn back.”
Resolved to abandoning the journey home, Brego immediately set to work altering the ship’s course. As he unfurled the sails and fixed them in the opposite direction, the soft sprinkles of preemptory precipitation began to patter against the deck and swell the freshly cleaned woodwork. The aroma of burning air and the strong brine of the mixing ocean drove him onward, as did the low rumblings of thunder rolling in the distance.
“Several miles away, still,” he said hopefully, not bothering to quell his persistent habit of speaking with himself. “I shall make it, yet.”
He turned around, a wall of spray covering the length of his body and briefly choking him. Another wave of sea water crashed against the bow of the ship, slamming him into a rough bank like a dishrag.
The storm complex doubled in speed, tripled, and then commenced hunting its prey at a rate nearly ten times the original. Brego threw himself to the deck, squealing, as a monstrous, sprawling tsunami plowed forward and consumed his meager vessel in its towering berth.
Ahead and along the far horizon, the Mushroom Kingdom slept as the seventh day of celebration approached.