I. Sprinkles of Truth (Chapter Two)
My mornings all begin the same, right before the sun peeks over the meadows in the east. While the warblers stir me from my slumber, it’s the western thrasher that motivates me to climb out of bed. That brown bird with its black spots dancing across its breast has some of the most wonderful songs I’ve ever heard. This is when I open the window and spread my arms for the morning stretch, welcoming the lovely day ahead.
Mornings are for peace, bird songs, and a bit of selfishness. I always begin my days by reciting how grateful I am for my home, business, and health. I’ll finish off the mantras with a homemade pastry topped with sprinkles and stumble down to the cafe, where, with a wave of my hand, the overhead lights chase the shadows away. The sun is just beginning to rise, and with it come rays of light careening through the window panes.
The ovens are preheating, and flour has been spread across the kitchen table in preparation. However, before I begin baking, the first shade of the morning is used for inventory.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Flour, check. Brown sugar, check.
But you mustn't forget my affinity for the artifacts I safely store in my humble cafe. This inventory is what makes me, let’s say, unique. You also might be thinking, Does Mr. Sprinkles not know what artifacts he has? Why is he taking inventory of items he already has in his possession? I know every artifact by name, size, shape, and location, but there’s one thing that still boggles my mind. And every morning with inventory, I get a little bit closer to finding out why.
Every artifact is unique, like me and you! It’s not everyday you see a whisker walking around with sprinkles all over his body. All artifacts have a purpose, which is why they were created. Which is why you were created. You may not know what your purpose is yet, but the more you observe and learn, the closer you’ll get.
The good thing about artifacts is that their purpose is sometimes easy to discern. Take the Scale of the Crimson Sands, for example. One can simply weigh an object of importance without a counterbalance on the other side. If the object sinks, it’s fake. If the object floats, it possesses an evil spirit. But if the scales don’t move, that, my friend, means you’ve found something of real value.
These artifacts don’t always come with an instruction manual, which is why inventory is taken every day to discover more about the artifacts. Every morning, I pick up an artifact to study. I’ll run various tests and observe their inscriptions, which sometimes glow with the right solution applied to them. Others simply seem dull or lifeless. We all have those days, though, which is why it’s always nice to cheer up with a chocolate-glazed donut!
I keep a journal buried away in my office of all the findings. During this one shade, I’ll scribble as much as I can find, and then it’s off to my award-winning pastry making. Although today was a bit different than others…
INVENTORY #19746
Artifact #86d
Small cylindrical shape approximately the size of a pestle
Made of bronze
Small circles at the top with dents at each circle
Sounds like a shaker with a substance inside
Spots of rust appear around the edges
Unknown writing in 4 columns
Can’t find out how to open
Is it an instrument?
Poured hot water around it, nothing
Poured chocolate syrup on it, ate it (couldn’t let it go to waste)
Artifact #86d continues to cause errant behavior as I can’t discover the why. More research must be done to “uncap” this shaker. Will attempt again at a later date.
Some days are more exciting than others for data-entry. I generally, no, always return the artifact to its place in my collection when the first shade ends, but for some reason today I wanted to think more about 86d. I brought it into the kitchen with me and set it on the table.
I begin the normal routine with apple fritters first. The key to the best apple fritters is to cook the apples in a caramel glaze the night before, refrigerate them overnight, and then add the cold apple slices to the mix. The dough needs to be carelessly tossed. Dough can tell when one is stressed. Therefore, you must not be too thoughtful and instead try to forget that you’re even handling it. One quick toss into the air, a smack as it hits the table, and a cloud of flour rises in a towering mushroom shape.
A small bit of flour falls ever so gently onto the artifact when I suddenly hear a grating noise. Something like the sound of an old tomb forgotten by the sands of time slowly opening for the first time in a millennium. Then I want you to imagine that tomb being the size of your fingernail. It is the shaker, twisting slowly and opening the smaller holes that rest at the top. I lean over to see inside when a little puff of dust billows out, straight into my nose.
Cinnamon, no. Cardamom, no. Nutmeg, no.
Then it hit me like a ball of dough. This artifact is a spice! I must cook with it! Suddenly, I was enlightened. I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s like passing a test I didn’t study for, dodging an obstacle without knowing it’s there, or finishing a sentence for a friend. The oven couldn’t cook fast enough! But alas, you can’t rush the process of cooking; merely a quarter of a shade passed by with me staring into the oven. The sun is showing fully in the sky; soon customers will be rushing in, and I will have made nothing for them.
Finally, the edges are perfectly crisp, the top a light golden brown, and steam rises as if from the hot springs near Sky Wind. Being a perfectionist baker, I “patiently” wait another few moments to let it cool. Then slowly, with steady hands, I reach down and break it open with a perfect split down the middle, smelling the spices as if I were a bee meeting a flower. That’s when a message appeared, floating just above the split pastry in sparkling writing.
“Old friends are on their way,
Trouble has come and is here to stay.
They seek your help, wisdom, and more.
The world is knocking on your front door.”
My eyes go wide with surprise, maybe shock. I have discovered the why.
*ding ding*
The door opens, and a whisker and her daughter walk into The Rising Café. Not a single pastry is on display.
“Hello? Mr. Sprinkles? Is the store open?” the customer asks gently, as if she is intruding.
I spring from behind the counter. “Of course we are! Although I do need some more time before the first batch is done, what do you prefer?”
“Twisted Sprinkle Delight!” the young whisker shouts.
“Yes, ma’am! Coming right up!”
The day passes with raised eyebrows at every bell ring.
Who are these old friends? When will they get here? Is this just a joke?
The sun slowly creeps toward the western sky, casting a longer shadow across the fields in front of The Rising Cafe. The last customer wobbles out of the store with powdered sugar scattered across his garments. The sluggish feeling of a long shift without reward begins to overcome me. After the final sweep, I begin to close shop when I notice a few whiskers running toward the door. With the door locked, I run to grab the artifact, then scamper to my office and lock that door behind me too.
“Did he just lock the door on us?” Burt asks as he catches his breath.
“If he did, it’s because he saw you!” Allard reminds Burt.
You laugh, and then you notice the other two captives laughing as well.
“Oh, be quiet!” Burt shouts.
You and the crew make it to the door of The Rising Café.
*knock knock*
“Mr. Sprinkles, it’s Allard!”
*knock knock*
“Mr. Sprinkles!” Allard shouts again with his thunderous voice.
“Why would anybody answer a call like that? It sounds like you're threatening to beat him up. Let’s try a friendlier approach, shall we?” Burt suggests, then walks to the door.
“Mr. Sprinkles! It’s Burt. You see, we came for some help! We also love your pastries! Yum!”
You and Allard look at each other in amusement. Mr. Sprinkles peeks his head out of his office, and Burt waves to grab his attention. Once Mr. Sprinkles sees Burt, he closes his office door again with a slam.
“Nice, Burt. Now we have to get him out another way.” Allard rolls his eyes.
You walk to the window in front of the shop and peek inside. Why would Mr. Sprinkles be hiding from you? Suddenly, you notice the office door open, with Mr. Sprinkles slowly heading toward the door of the store. He gives you a friendly wave as if he never saw you coming.
“Sorry, my friends, I had some business to take care of.” Mr. Sprinkles raises one of his eyebrows.
“No problem, Mr. Sprinkles. My apologies for arriving after hours.” Allard bows.
"Hi, Mr. Sprinkles!” Burt squeaks with over-compensating joy.
“Yes, Burt. Hi to you, I guess. Eh, what brings you all here? It’s not every day I get to see the Great Allard!” Mr. Sprinkles sounds suspicious.
“It is but a private manner, Sprinkles. May we speak behind closed doors?” Allard suggests.
“Absolutely.” Mr. Sprinkles opens the door for you to join him inside. “I guess I’m holding prisoners now as well?”
“I do apologize again, but don’t worry, I’ll do the holding,” Allard says as he adjusts the ropes on his shoulders with ease.
Mr. Sprinkles locks the door behind them and says,
“Let’s not dawdle. I know why you’re here. Burt, go sit in the corner; I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Burt looks at you and shrugs, then moseys his way over to the booth and lays down. You bring your attention back to Mr. Sprinkles, who looks at you and forces a smile.
“How do you know?” Allard asks.
"Intuition, I suppose, but there’s more to it than that. It’s how I got this intuition. One moment, let me go to my office.”
Mr. Sprinkles heads to his office, then emerges holding a cylindrical bronze object.
“This, my friends, is an artifact. I’ve had it for many cycles of the moon and never knew the power it held inside.” Mr. Sprinkles holds up the artifact so all can see.
“What does it do?” one of the prisoners asks in amazement.
“One moment, please.” Allard lays the prisoner down and pulls back like he is about to knock him out.
“Not here, Allard. Let me handle it.”
Mr. Sprinkles struts over, and with the cast of a spell, the prisoner falls asleep.
“Much more subtle, and I’m not cleaning any blood tonight, tomorrow, or ever. That’s not me.” He dusts his hands off. “Today, I finally discovered its truth. Its purpose.”
You and Allard lean closer to Mr. Sprinkles, ready to hear his big discovery, when you suddenly hear Burt snoring in the corner of the room. Mr. Sprinkles rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t put him to sleep. Typical Burt.”
Mr. Sprinkles clears his throat.
“The spice contained within this object can help you see through lies and can guide the user with information about events to come. It’s how I knew you were coming. It’s why I knew you were here. Although I did go to my office and use more because I needed to be sure. Sorry again for locking you all out.”
“No worries,” Allard replies.
“Here, take this.”
Mr. Sprinkles hands the artifact to Allard.
“Do not give this to Burt. That koi has a gift for losing things. I’m still in disbelief that he had and lost the Atlas of Old. I mean, look where that got you all. Right back here, in my cafe, with you and two prisoners, preparing to face Andromadus to save The Great Pond once again. Listen, I’m not a whisker who meddles in the troubles and threats of The Great Pond anymore. That’s a past life that I don’t care to reignite. Look at me as merely a collector, a chef, or a friend. Although Burt pushes the boundaries of the latter. Allard, I trust that you will make the right decision when the time comes. And who knows, with the spice, you might find out more about yourself,” Mr. Sprinkles says with a smile and a wink.
You hear Burt yawn in the corner of the room. He rises from the booth and rubs his eyes.
“What did I miss?”
“Tell me, Andromadus.” Nefexian says, slowly walking around the inside perimeter of an old, decrepit stone floor. “Surely those two insignificant whiskers didn’t get the best of you?”
“Not a chance; I simply didn’t want the attention. The Shuffle has many eyes. I’d rather live in the shadows,” Andromadus explains as he sits on a wooden pew facing the shattered stained glass windows.
Four towers of stained glass once stood at the ambulatory, facing the aisles. Each glass once represented one of the four children of the late King Lozendar. Now, most of those glass panes are strewn across the floor. This cathedral, the Saxum de Phasma, once held hundreds of whiskers in celebrations during holidays, and the late King himself would knight accomplished guardsmen here on occasion. Stone walls had been built three stories high, with intricate facades displaying the proud achievements of Wisteria. The throne that once stood as the centerpiece of the hall has been reduced to nothing but a pile of rubble. This place is off limits to Wisterians and has been abandoned since the rise of Queen Moonfabias.
“That’s your excuse?” Nefexian raises an eyebrow.
“I…” Andromadus stutters.
“You what?”
Nefexian scowls.
“You think bringing me the Atlas of Old would subdue my anger? Why would I want to look at myself on a map? Unless…” Nefexian begins to contemplate.
“They will come; we have the map and their friend.” Andromadus points at Quatal, who’s bound by rope on the cold stone floor.
“But of course they will come. They will bring more than just themselves, Andromadus.” Nefexian spits on the ground. “I may have been too hasty in honoring you as First Lieutenant. Perhaps that honor belongs to Zaranoah?”
Andromadus swallows.
“You have nothing to worry about, my liege. Once the shard is back in our hands…”
“Once the shard is back in my hands,” Nefexian interrupts, “then we can discuss the next steps. For now, we need to deal with our visitors. And who knows how many they’ll bring? Although I have an idea to get rid of these petulant fools. With this Atlas, I may be able to access more than just The Great Pond.”
“More than The Great Pond? I don’t understand…I'll kill them and make quick work of it,” Andromadus says with a raised voice, standing up.
“Patience, we mustn’t be overzealous, Andromadus. Some whiskers are much more useful alive.”