In the Realm of the Midnight Gardener
Chapter 3: Preparing for the Journey

It was agreed. They would meet the next night on the outskirts of town. The Tindalosi would lead him to where he needed to go, taking the forest trail east of the town to the Garden Path. They would lead him through the Garden Path to the realm of the Midnight Gardener.

Domingo had asked them to simply give him the directions, provide him a Path map, but no. He’d not expected them to, but it was always worth a try. Details like that, directions through the Garden Path, the interlinking of wild places across the countless worlds, even he knew such secrets should be guarded closely. Directions to something as secret and as incredible as the realm of the Midnight Gardener, he’d not reveal that to his own mother, whoever she’d been. So he had to wait for the next night and for them to lead him where they would.

He spent the next day in his rented rooms getting organized. He packed his leather shoulder satchel with herbs and seeds, fruits and gourds, the potions and oils which would be his tools; his weapons and his defense in case there was trouble. And there assuredly would be trouble.

It was never easy to choose just the right combination of tools and extracts to take along on a mission. Who knew what might rear its ugly head along the way and back? However, he had his favorites, and experience gave him a good sense of what worked and what didn’t. He’d learned long ago to put indecision out of his head. Once he’d made his choices, there was no point in double-guessing them.

The leather satchel within which he carried his duster’s supplies had been custom-made to his specifications. Part pack, part sack, part belt, it was worn crossways over the shoulder and across the chest. Its wide strap and the outer surface of the pack were covered with small pockets, compartments with a small flap and snap to hold the pockets’ contents intact, but easy to access in a quick motion. These outer pockets he filled with those herbs and seeds and oils which might be needed in a hurry. Larger snaps on the bottom and sides of the pack allowed him to open and roll out the entire thing, thus avoiding digging about inside. The pack itself was made of twice-cured and reinforced leather, making it hardy enough to withstand most anything thrown at it. Plus, it made a decent enough pillow in a pinch.

Domingo never marked or labeled the pockets as to what they contained. Taking time to read scribbles on little pockets was the kind of thing that could spell doom to a duster, and Domingo had to admit that his handwriting was atrocious, indecipherable much of the time, even to him. Instead, he decided where each ingredient would go, then memorized the location by rote.

After filling the satchel, he chose weapons and tools. For tools, he had a small lantern and a bottle of oil for it, a lengthy stretch of climber vine (for scaling walls or ensnaring enemies), a long knife, some small pouches and strips of cloth.

For a weapon, he took a small military mattock, a spike on one end, a sharp-edged blade on the other. “Looks more like a military garden hoe to me,” old Juan Polino laughed, and Domingo nodded and chuckled. It did look like a larger version of a handheld garden hoe. It had been his favorite possession for years. It was useful in any number of ways, and particularly nasty in a fight. With it, he’d outfought six men armed with blades.

For supplies, he packed dried meat and fruit, an onion and cheesecloth with salted pickles. He had a full canteen and a pouch with enough gray flower petals to purify a week full of refills.

He was just finishing his packing when a knock came at his door. Gumpta fruit in one hand, knife close by, he cracked the door. “Dhystara?” a gravelly voice asked. He smiled. He’d heard the lugubrious, heavy footfalls coming up the stairs, but it never paid to take chances. There stood a diminutive Ghorl.

Well, diminutive for a Ghorl, anyway. Standing a good three meters high, the creature was a bulging wall of reptilian muscle. Its four hoofed legs clumped on the wooden floors. Two extra-long arms hung nearly to the floor, swinging absently as it swayed there, watching him shyly. Its six eyes blinked in unison, and it licked its thick lips with a pair of forked tongues. “Contract?” it asked, gently extending one of its three-fingered hands. Domingo took the contract from the bed, and handed it over. “Thanks,” it said, with a shoulder shrug, then turned and lumbered off.

The Ghorl always sent their young to retrieve such contracts from Umnya settlements. The mature Ghorl were at least twice the size and sent even the toughest human into a panic. Domingo knew how dangerous, how unpredictable they could be, but he held a soft spot in his heart for them. Left to their own devices, they were oddly a shy, unassuming race, as far as gigantic warrior beasts could be. He watched the young Ghorl go.

Domingo was satisfied. He kicked off his boots, lay down on the bed, and fell asleep with the noonday sun. It would be time to go soon enough.