This is Marimoor…
The final leg of the passage to Marimoor changes dramatically, transitioning from the frightful images previously encountered to ones quite serene. Perhaps this is a means of rewarding those who have endured great hardships to reach this point in their precarious travels, but I believe it also foretells of the wonder that lies ahead. Perchance the most spectacular adventure waits, for it requires the weary traveler to locate and pass through Velontra Falls, which no foreigner has ever found and most assuredly never will. According to folklore, the waters of Velontra Falls are indiscernible to the senses: the cascading waters are believed to be so crystal clear they cannot be seen with the naked eye, so quiet they cannot be heard even in close proximity, and so purified that the droplets slide off your finger tips without so much a sensation of touch. Behind the falls is a dark, narrow passageway that opens into a lush valley known as Kellanord, unspoiled and untouched by machine, or pollution, or war.
The sparticlast flower blooms each morning in brilliant hues of orange, red, and amber; and at sunset its blossoms are transformed into the most gorgeous shades of periwinkle and amaranth. The sweetest fragrance of a million blooms permeates the air as if every flower lives each precious moment in sincere desire to simply bless others with sight and smell of its bouquet. The abundance of fruit on the orfonza bush and the bounty of nuts draping from the sarficious tree provide nourishment for all the wild creatures, both great and small, that thrive with the valley, the hills, and the surrounding mountains. And the rejuvenating backwaters of Velontra Falls sustain all life in the valley as they course their way throughout the adjoining streams and pools.
Marimoor is barely visible beyond the far edge of Kellanord Valley. From this vantage point one can just see the rooftops of the houses, the pillars of the court house, and the steeple of the church. Jutting from the roofs of thatch are stone chimneys that billow puffs of grayish smoke, giving the visitor a sense of tranquility about this small village. The weary trekker is almost hypnotically drawn closer, overcome with wonder as he witnesses this serene spectacle beyond the valley.
To cross Kellanord Valley one must make his own pathway, the waist-high vegetation so plush that the branches and grasses fill in behind you so completely it is nearly impossible to tell you had once passed through. As you draw closer to the tiny village your pace quickens; your five senses seem to be mysteriously magnified in such a way that you want to take in more and more of the experiences you are about to discover.
Nearing Marimoor you acquire an immediate sense of the life there, one of peace due to its isolation from the rest of the world but also a sense of calamity within its own borders. You soon realize that this calamity is in part due to the awkward mannerisms of the townspeople as they scurry to and fro in a most puzzling and comical random pattern. This is the first and most conspicuous observance upon gazing down Luxorn Street, the Main Street of Marimoor that divides east from west. There are several side streets crossing Luxorn Street: Maradoshia Avenue, Berstrovian Street, and Paragotre Lane to name a few. If visitors should ever enter the town from the valley they would likely go curiously unnoticed by Marimoorians, quite odd since the presence of a newcomer is such a rarity one would think the occasion would foster many quizzical stares.
But it appears the people of this small village are so entranced by their own mundane activities, scurrying about on their feet in a most laughable fashion and at a most dazzling speed, that they simply do not notice much else that goes on round about them. Watching this spectacle one might wonder how they maintain their footing and balance, but remarkably they do. As they scuttle about they lean forward at what would appear to be a most uncomfortable degree of angularity, clasping their fingers behind their backs as if clinging to some invisible support that prevents them from toppling forward and smashing their huge noses. And I suppose the way in which their arms pump up and down behind their backs as they walk, bending at the elbows at each shuffle of the feet while the head remains nearly motionless, provides some stability to their movements.
While the Church of Marimoor is the soul of the city, Aragantican Park is the heart. The park is frequented most every weekday evening and on weekends by families. Here wildlife is abundant and there is no shortage of things to do, including festivals, parties, and reunions. In Lake Marimoor swim the duck-like drunggles, feeding on the berries from the canticockle bushes that grow along the south end of the lake near the covered bridge. You won’t find any mechanical devices of any kind here, such as motor boats or Ferris wheels, but what you will find in the park are people who know how to enjoy the moment. Isolated from the rest of civilization, Marimoorians are generally content with what they have.
They dream of nothing more. But even in the world of dreams all is not as it appears to be. For as Marimoorians are the masters of self-sufficiency, they believe that they, alone, control the elements of the dream world. The breadth, and length, and depth, and height of their dreams, as well as the frequency, the colors, and the sounds of the characters and activities in this nighttime theatrical production of the mind, are presumed to be assembled from whatever preconditions they are exposed to during the course of the day. But this is just not so, for as you will see this is the legacy of the Liverwurts.
Meet The Liverwurts
As with many things in life it is often that which is not seen that yields the greatest revelation. A jack-in-the-box is merely a colorful cube until, of course, the handle is turned, a special note is played, and the lid springs open to the delight of a child. Autumn leaves scuttle across the landscape, propelled by an invisible force we accept by faith as the wind. And likewise, we acknowledge that, in the interconnecting catacombs of the root system beneath the sarficious tree, creatures of the right size, the right temperament, and the right instincts could construct a complex civilization without the rest of the world ever mindful of their existence. Undisturbed by the clueless world above, this vast expanse of fissures, stretching from beneath the soil of an untold number of sarficious trees in Marimoor all the way to Kellanord Valley, are home to the world’s only colony of Liverwurts.