Garinor remained very still and focused his thoughts outside the crate. Everything had come to a crashing halt, literally, but he held to the plan. Merlumo would summon him out of the crate when all was safe for him.
His crate remained in its tilted, twisted state for a while. His feet were slightly raised and so blood rushed into his head. He softly tried to hum a note just below hearing in order to concentrate and stay focused. He was waiting for the knocks.
There was a loud snap outside and it alerted Garinor with a sudden excitement. He thought it was the first of Merlumo’s knocks, but when a second one didn’t follow, he realized that something else had made the sound. Closing his eyes, he trained his ears to determine what had made that noise.
As he lay in the new position, his bent arm was caught underneath him. He couldn’t move it and soon the pressure of his body on top of it cut off the circulation. An awkward tingling sensation burned all along the arm but there was nothing he could do about it, even as he tried to wriggle around. The blood rushing into his head made him feel like a boulder was sitting on top of him.
Another loud crack sounded nearby and Garinor’s hopes rose again. The crate started to move slightly, as if someone was trying to roll it into its proper orientation. He was glad for that, as he was able to free his pinned arm and start moving his fingers against the pain.
A third bang erupted with a jolt against his crate. Garinor breathed a sigh of relief, because now Merlumo was righting the cart and getting ready to release him. He was glad, because he felt completely miserable.
The fourth knock came at last and with it the crate was freed of its awkward angle. The crate pitched forward so that his feet were lower down and then with a great thump it landed flat on the ground. Or, relatively flat, for it was pitched somewhat to the side again.
And as Garinor lay there waiting for the base to be removed by his protector, something dreadful happened. The crate teetered further to the side and then started to roll. It went slowly at first, but then it grew in speed. Garinor’s whole body was battered forcefully by the awful tumbling of the crate as it thundered down an unknown slope. Candles dug into him with each turn of the giant box. The crate, meant for the king, held together wonderfully and not even the loosened panel by his foot came free on the entire trek.
Then the maddening tumbling ended at last with a loud, hissing crack, after which the crate stabilized and swayed slightly. Garinor’s stomach was in shambles and he didn’t think he would ever recover from that much dizziness.
He soon realized that dizziness was a minor inconvenience. Because as the seconds crept by, Garinor noticed he was growing noticeably colder. Not just colder, but wetter too. The crate was filling with water.
In a panic, he tried to kick out the base of the crate to escape. After a couple tries, he succeeded in freeing the panel but that only let the water in faster. Soon the entire crate was full of water.
And so were Garinor’s lungs.