Chapter One: The Lighthouse in Painting
Sunrise caught the Mushroom Kingdom Harbor in a faint, blue gauze. It was early spring still, and a lingering coldness frosted the bottoms of the immense steamers and covered the lateen sails of the smaller boats. Stones of light lay soft and motionless on the water, giving the appearance of an absolute calm, if it were not for the steady swell of tides lapping up against the old wharves that crossed the bay.
Even the countless Goonies, usually active by now, were perched in the high rigging of the many ships, preening themselves and occasionally stretching their wings to test the frigid air. It was a lazy dawn, perfect for sleeping in, and it was no wonder the streets were empty.
... Well, almost empty.
A squat Mushroomer came shuffling down the main avenue of the harbor just as the sun was first glimmering on the gray and green distance of the horizon. His ample body supported the heavy uniform of the Royal Messenger, embroidered with the personal crest of Princess Toadstool herself and a worn patch that resembled the kingdom’s regal flag.
His name was Morel, and he was responsible for delivering all the most important messages from the Mushroom Palace. He sometimes oversaw the printing of large notices for the town bulletin, too, and could frequently be seen lounging around the post office during his work hours, attempting to strike up lengthy conversations about the most trivial aspects of his profession.
Morel was unquestionably loyal, though, and always delivered his messages on time and by his own hand. It was odd, though, for him to be out so early, and he did seem particularly anxious that fine, languid morning.
“Oh! What am I going to do?” he moaned, hiking his carrying bag up higher on his shoulders. “Our dear princess decides to have a party, this evening no less, for a select group of citizens, and she wants all the invitations given out in person before noon. It is too much! I love the woman dearly, of course, but it’s simply too much.”
He stopped at the next intersection to let his pack down and twirl one end of his impressive moustache. “Now let’s see. It appears the first invitation will go to a Mr... a uh... a Mr... Well! I can’t quite make this out. Surely it says where he... Ah, yes! Room 216 of the Anchor and Barrel Inn.”
Morel’s worried face lit up as he turned around. “And there it is!”
The Anchor and Barrel Inn stood imposingly above him, with its tall wooden frame and swinging sign of a ship’s anchor leaned against a piling barrel. It was a place known for its atmosphere, so to speak, most accustomed to lodging sailors and the rougher types who made their temporary home in the kingdom’s harbor town.
Even now, a lambent pipesmoke, twisted with traces of an opaque blueness, smudged against the unlit windows of the inn. This was not an indication of anyone’s being awake inside, naturally, but rather a remnant of the residents’ habit of staying up late into the evening pouring ale, playing cards, singing ragged oaths near a blazing hearth...
“Disreputable layabouts!” Morel decided.
Nevertheless, he marched up to the entrance and knocked on a rotting wooden door. After trying again without an answer, he cautiously tried the handle, and when it creaked open, he stepped inside.
A wreath of the blue smoke he had seen staining the windows curled around his head, and he let out several coughs into the silence of the main room. Dimly, he could make out many makeshift tables and overturned chairs, with glass mugs and bits of the previous night’s dinner littered over the stone floor. The flames beneath the large chimney had guttered to points of orange and yellow blinking beneath a heap of burnt logs.
“Not even a caretaker,” he mumbled with that special show of dissatisfaction that masks an uneasy mood. “I guess I’ll just head upstairs and knock on the man’s door myself.”
He tramped to the second floor, heaving from exhaustion by the time he turned into a gloomy hallway lit by the bare flicker of a few lamps hanging from the walls. He followed the numbers down to the end, where brass figures spelled out “216” a little bit above his head.
“I do wonder what sort of friend the princess could have who’d live in such a squalid place,” he said, and gave a few feeble knocks at the door. “And, of course, he won’t bother to answer the—”
“Come in!” a steady voice called from the room.
Morel stopped himself briefly, amazed at the quickness of the answer.
“The door is open, my friend! Enter!”
The Royal Messenger did just that, after another moment’s hesitation, and stepped into a room unmarked by the grime and smell that seemed to infuse every other square inch of the establishment. A magnificent painting hung to his left, over a handmade chest-of-drawers with gilt handles and intricate carvings, upon which sat a silver tray, serving pitcher, and cups. The painting was a miracle of tones running together, portraying a high cliffside awash at its base with the dense fume of a storm-beaten sea, and a tiny lighthouse shedding a single beam of brightness into the murk and the mist.
To his right towered several bookcases, brimming full of new and old volumes, most of them priceless, by Morel’s keen sense of quality. What was most surprising to the Mushroomer, though, was the clear evidence that they were actually being read: there were different paper marks, and a few of the books lay open on a table in front of the shelves. It was only the sudden appearance of the mysterious tenant that roused him from his admiration.
“Ah, there you are! I’ve been expecting you, believe it or not.”
Morel looked up and saw a young Frog crouching slightly on his vigorous, bent legs and wearing a round, blue hat topped by a white puff almost like a dandelion. A scarf of the same color as the hat hugged the strange figure’s neck tightly, and trailed off behind in the shape of dark leaves. One of his broad, webbed hands held another of those magnificent books, which appeared to be a famous treatise by the mystic philosopher, Frogfucious.
“Is something the matter, my friend?” the Frog asked, leaning to meet him. “Could I offer you some tea? It is nearly ready.”
“Yes, yes, I... ” Morel faltered. “Wait a minute, you are one of the distinguished disciples of Frogfucious, aren’t you? You must be!”
A smile crept up the wide corners of the tenant’s mouth. “Why, yes, I am— a traveling disciple, that is. At the moment, anyway.”
The Royal Messenger was beside himself with excitement. He rushed over and shook hands before the young scholar had time to fetch the tea.
“A pleasure to meet you, honored sir! No wonder the princess... Oh! I almost forgot.” He slapped a hand to his forehead, and reached into his pack. “I have a personal invitation from Princess Toadstool, addressed to you. Although, of course, I can’t really read the name on the envelope, but it is addressed to this room, so... ”
“You are correct,” the Frog smiled again, and put one hand on the Mushroomer’s shoulder to calm him. “My name is Avicenna, and I am an old friend of Peach, and the Mario Brothers as well. Mario himself, in fact, stopped by yesterday to see me off the boat I took from Seaside Town.”
“Remarkable!” Morel burst out. “Of course, you must know all about this party of hers, then... Although... may I ask why you are staying at the Anchor and Barrel Inn? Surely you would have preferred one of the more luxurious hotels near the palace?”
Avicenna laughed gently, and placed the book on the table beside him. “Oh, no. Mario already offered me a room in the palace itself, but I would rather stay here, especially since I plan to work on my latest manuscript for the next month or so. You see,” he continued before the messenger could object, “I require a simple background for my thinking, free of the constant attention and services I would receive from my friends at the castle.”
“Besides,” the young student grinned, “the ale here is the best in the harbor.”
“Oh, I would not know that, sir,” Morel blushed. “However! You do seem to be cozy here, and you have more than a few months’ worth of books, I imagine. I would like to sit and chat with you for an hour or so, too, maybe become enlightened, but I have so many of these invitations to deliver. Really, I must be going!”
“Some other time, then,” Avicenna said cheerfully, and watched the nervous Mushroomer stumble over a few notebooks on the floor before disappearing into the haze of the hallway.
“Goodbye, goodbye!” he called, invisibly, and was down the stairs.
“Odd little man,” the disciple pronounced before turning to the invitation.
He had some idea of what it would say, naturally, from Mario, but he opened it carefully right away, and pulled out a heavily embossed page filled with the elegant script of the princess, and stamped at the top with the royal seal. He read it aloud, quietly, to himself, as he did with everything, to hear the shape and flow of the words on his tongue:
My dear friend, Avicenna,
I know you must be deeply occupied with your studies and meditations, but a matter of considerable importance has come to light, and your wisdom would be a great comfort to me in its decision. Ostensibly, a party is being held, of course, but this is only to dispel any alarm that may arise in the palace before we have gotten to the bottom of recent events.
I assume Mario has filled you in on this much, at least, but I wanted you to hear it from me. Please, come as soon as you are able.
Princess Toadstool, “Peach”
“Master Frogfucious was right, then,” he muttered, already deeply troubled by the barely hidden urgency of the letter. “It is a good thing I didn’t wait any longer to come.”
He stood that way for several minutes, invitation in hand, and stared across the room at the painting Morel had noticed. It glowed back at him now in the pale candlelight, and the dissonant yellow in its thick cloudscape seemed to shudder with rage. The single lighthouse was a speck on the pinnacle of the jagged cliff.
A sudden thought came to him, and he walked over to the table where he had set his master’s book down. As if by instinct, he flipped through the pages until he came to an underlined section near the end.
“Take heart, and gather the contentment of things around you,” he read softly, almost without sound. “Every event in the endless realm of what has passed has conspired to bring us this moment, in which you, and in which what strives against you, exist together in the perfect contemplation of the Stars.”
~
Just as Avicenna was leaning over his table on the second floor, the street outside was ringing with the first footsteps of the day. There were the shopkeepers, mainly, heading to the marketplace to open their stands, but also a few sailors swaggering down to the dock with their caps slanted on their heads, and several fishermen shouldering their poles and carrying tackleboxes.
The greatest commotion, though, came from a group of three young friends on one of the smaller landings, arguing over who was going to be Mario and who was going to be the dreaded King Bowser in a pretend battle. Of course, everyone wanted to be Mario, but it was better to be the infamous tyrant than the only other role, which was Princess Peach, eternally captured and crying for help.
“You have to be Peach, Railie, you’re the girl,” the Koopa of the group decided.
Railie, an especially tough little Goomba, spat back, “I may as well say you have to be King Bowser, since you’re a Koopa and a boy. How’zat for you?
She wore the red bow with streaks of pink her parents had given her more like a bandana, and preferred the make-believe battles and feats of strength her male friends took part in to the timid games of the other girls at her school. She had even forced her mom to enroll her in martial arts classes at the local dojo, under the direct tutelage of Master Laozi.
“She’s got a point, Terho,” said the third member of the group, who was a Goomba himself, to the Koopa, “even if you do usually end up being Bowser.”
“Taking her side again, Emmet,” said Terho, slyly. “I’d almost think you guys were in love.”
“Th—that’s not true,” the boy Gooma stammered, unsure of himself.
Railie fumed so intensely, she was not even certain why. She was tired of being pushed aside by boys to the stupid roles in the games, and of having to deal with their awkward affections or o simply being ignored by the girls.
“You’re both morons,” she said, and turned away without another word.
“Hey, wait!” Emmet called after her, but it was no use.
She was so angry that she forgot to look ahead of her, and walked straight into the busy street, where she collided with Avicenna on his way to the palace. He dropped his pack and nearly fell over, before he collected himself and helped the girl up.
“Oh, Mister, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she almost pleaded, worried that the Frog was someone important, since his kind mostly stayed in the bottomlands and swamps. She rushed to a stack of papers and a couple of books that had scattered to the stone pavement. “Here, let me help you with that.”
Avicenna, struck by her personality, tried to keep from laughing, not wanting to embarrass the Goomba, and managed to lead her to the opposite sidewalk without too much trouble. He placed the rest of his things back carefully into his pack and sat down beside her, sighing heavily.
“Now, then! The world is right once more. What a pleasant surprise, though! Tell me, daughter, what is your name?”
“Railie,” the girl said, a bit more confident now that she saw how cheerful the stranger seemed. “My name is Railie. Again, I’m very sorry!”
“Please, no more of that.” He finally did laugh. “I was just on my way to the Royal Palace, actually, and the bump in the street was exactly what I needed to get my mind in order. See? It was meant for us to run into each other.”
“Oh, you mean that boring old castle,” she trailed off. “My dad works there. He’s one of the Chancellor’s retainers, ya’see, and if my mom’s busy, I have to stay up there with him in an empty room with nothing to do all day.”
“Sounds terrible,” Avicenna said, and blinked his wide eyes thoughtfully.
He looked across the street and saw Tehro and Emmet watching him anxiously, until they saw him meet their glance, and they made themselves suddenly busy with each other.
“And those are your friends, I assume?” the Frog asked.
“No, those are morons,” Railie declared again. “They are the most reckless boys in the entire kingdom, and one of them thinks he loves me, but he just doesn’t know how to deal with a girl who can win against him in a fight.”
“Maybe so,” the young scholar said, and brought one hand up to his chin, glancing briefly at a tall Shroomnut tree nearby. “Say, why don’t you come with me to the palace? Perhaps you’d best leave your friends to themselves for a bit, and I’m certain your father will be there.”
“All right, fine,” she huffed, feeling like she had somehow gotten into trouble again. “Of course, you’re more interesting than those other guys. Where are you from, anyway?”
“Seaside Town, of late, although I was raised in Tadpole Pond. I am a student of the noble Frogfucius, you see, several years into my travels.”
“Frogfucius!” Railie’s interest was sparked. “Master Laozi— he teaches me at the dojo— he’s always talking about him. He says they’re old friends, and that he’s the wisest creature in this part of the world.”
“Hmm.” Avicenna led them cautiously back into the street. “Master Laozi, yes, he is a remarkable fighter, and very wise himself. It is impressive that you are training under him at such a young age. Ah! We are both students, then, aren’t we?”
“Watch out!”
They both jumped at the blast of noise, coming from a Shy Guy dressed like a dirty gold coin, with tarnished coppers and yellows melding together in his robe. The impudent little monster had swung past them all at once, then shouted as he turned quickly again and motored past them on his stubby feet.
This villain was known as Donero to the regulars of harbor life, and was definitely a loudmouth, probably a pickpocket, too. After he brushed past the two friends on their way to the castle, he jumped to the sidewalk for a stretch, then dove into an alley between an abandoned storage building and a dingy thrift store.
“Yo, Bumrush!” his mouth battered at the peeling plaster walls.
A particularly nasty-looking Chow had his rust-red haunches buried in a mound of garbage halfway down the alley. At the sound, he pulled up, with his thick goggles glistening and oily in the shade.
“What did I tell ye about shouting my name while people is up and about, eh?” the dog-faced monster snapped.
“Easy, o! me Bumrush,” the Shy Guy bellowed in a confidential tone, stepping right up to the jagged teeth of the Chow. “You told me not to go doing it. ‘Natch!”
“‘Course I did,” his partner scowled back. “So anyway, what have ye brought me so early?”
“I just so happened to ‘bump’ into that Frog fellow you were so riled up about before I even got to his hotel. Out in the street with some Goomba child!”
“And?” Bumrush leaned forward, expectant.
“I might’a snatched a souvenir,” Donero said, and produced the very book that Avicenna had been reading in his room. “Musty old dust trap, rather. Something by... Frog-uh-muh-queue-uh-ee-us, or something like dat. You know I can’t read so well!”
“Then hand it over, ye dunce, before ye tear it,” the Chow growled. “Now, let’s see... Frogfucius. Yes! Well done!”
“So this guy, then, he’s this... He’s the guy?”
“Yes, Donero, he is the student we were told to find, and now that we know he’s in town,” Bumrush licked his chops disgustingly, “we can tell our generous employer and collect our reward.”
“Now those is the words I been waiting to here!” Donero shot back, voice nearly bracketing all the way to the streets.
Both of them snickered now, though, pawing over the book and rummaging through the trash heap for a more delectable treasure.
Meanwhile, Avicenna and Railie turned at the main gates of the town and started up the long road to the Royal Palace, unaware they had been robbed and busy with a thousand other thoughts and places.