Kill the Farm Boy

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “There are many more than three!” Lord Toby shouted.

  “Sure, big guy. However many you have, she can make you grow more. I used to have it rough like you, but I joined her Beard Club for Gnomes a couple years back, and now look at me! It’s a veritable thicket! Tough as dragon hide, too. I can let the dogs play tug-o-war with it and not lose a hair. I’ll show you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Fia said, and Gustave made a small sound of disappointment. He would have liked to see that.

  The gnome shrugged. “Your loss. Anyway, don’t go before I give you a fancy invitation to see the sand witch. You won’t want to miss the opportunity.”

  “We were going to see her anyway.”

  “You were? Why’s that?”

  Fia paused before answering, and Gustave saw her face doing things that meant she was still upset about Pooboy. “We need to tell her that her nephew’s dead and see if she can do anything about it.”

  “Like have a funeral?”

  “No! Like…magic.”

  “Huh.” The gnome’s eyebrows tried to rise but were prevented from going far by the spiky poison helmet he wore. “A funeral announcement would definitely get her attention. She loves an excuse to dress up. You might have actually gotten in to see her without an invitation for that. Near impossible to see her otherwise. You have to do something extraordinary, like live through a giant attack.”

  “There will be no funeral!” Fia shouted. “Because he’s only a little dead!”

  Argabella put a hand on Fia’s arm. “Barely Deadful at all,” she assured the mighty and mightily upset fighter. “Definitely much closer to almost being alive.”

  Gustave shook his head at the mental fragility and psychological gymnastics of humans. Goats were stubborn, but Fia currently was acting downright foolish. Pooboy was one hundred percent dead, the Mayor of Deadsville, the Emperor of Not Getting Back Up Again, a Bowl of Deadamame, the President of the Board of Deaducation, the Deaditor in Chief. Gustave wished the yappy little dogs were somewhat closer to that state, as they insisted on barking and yapping while the party disembarked. Lowering his horns at them in a menacing sort of way, he used his tail to swat pellets in every direction to emphasize his superiority.

  For his part, the ferryman shucked his armor and shooed the dogs off, stomping all over Gustave’s pellets and grumbling about curry. He might have muttered a terse welcome to the earldom of Burdell, as they had crossed the river that formed the border with Grunting. Once they were all safely standing on land again, the gnome withdrew a stiff envelope from a secret compartment in his helmet and held it out with much ceremonial bowing. Toby began to take it, but Fia snatched it up first.

  “I should be the one to tell her,” she said, voice husky with gravitas.

  Gustave hoped Lord Toby would protest, and he did.

  “My dear, where are you going to put it—hkk!”

  Fia grabbed him by the throat and squeezed, shaking her head. “I’m not your dear.”

  “Gahhk. Right,” Lord Toby choked out. “Sorry.”

  Fia let him go, and the letter disappeared inside her cloak. “And I have pockets.”

  The ferrygnome said that the border town of Petrel wasn’t far and they could get some basic supplies there, then assured them that once they arrived in Malefic Beach, they’d have no trouble finding Grinda’s place: “You can ask around, but it’s the biggest bloody demesne there is.” And Malefic Beach would be a better place to restock for a longer journey. “You’ve got your regular merchants, of course, but I’d recommend a cheesemonger in the Goblin Market by the name of Hornswoggle.”

  Argabella giggled. “He’s really named Hornswoggle?”

  “Don’t let the name worry you. He’s scrupulous to a fault and has an incredible inventory. Anything you could ever want. He even has some of that magic elvish moose cheese.”

  “Elvish cheese? From the Morningwood?” Toby said.

  “Yep. That’s the place.”

  “They said they couldn’t get cheese and took all of ours!”

  The gnome chuckled. “You passed through and had to pay the toll, eh? Well, they can’t get the kinds we make. Just squirrel cheese and moose cheese and whatnot, and they don’t make a lot of it. Have you ever tried to milk a moose? It’s not quite as dangerous as walking near the Titan Toothpicks drenched in raspberry vinaigrette, but it’s close.”

  “Hey,” Gustave said. “You said you had kids. They have any old shoes they’ve outgrown?”

  “Yes. Why?” the ferrygnome asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Well, I’ll take them all off your hands and give your wee gnomelets a goatback ride in exchange.”

  The deal was struck, and Gustave was able to moan in gourmet delight for the remainder of the journey while the rest of the party had to eat whatever sad, dry breads Lord Toby could conjure each night. The only “basic supplies” the border town of Petrel was willing to sell them was water and wine, reserving all else against the day Ol’ Faktri came to raid their stores. The goat couldn’t help snickering, a greasy gnome bootie tender on his tongue, as he watched the silly humans struggle to swallow the first night’s stale pita rounds. Even Argabella’s sensitive snoot couldn’t find a sunchoke to spare in Ol’ Faktri’s vegetable-stripped territory. They were anxious to reach the next province if only to find some sort of roughage besides Toby’s almost-bread.

  The village of Malefic Beach—or, more properly, the burgeoning hamlet, since it lacked a church—was larger than any the goat had ever seen. There was more than one street, to begin with, and each one of them was in dire need of the attentions of a diligent pooboy like Worstley. Gustave stuck close to Fia so that no one got any ideas about goat stew. He couldn’t be sure if the eyes directed at them were lusting after Fia’s flesh or his, since it was significantly warmer in the south than in Borix and she had unfastened her cloak.

  The ferrygnome had been quite accurate in his description: they really couldn’t miss Grinda’s place. This was no witch’s hovel but a grand palace nestled on a fine stretch of white sand beach, towering over everything else in the hamlet and visible from miles away, an edifice of such brave architectural braggadocio that it caused Poltro to breathe “Cor” in a tone of wonder.

  “Yes, well, it’s very nice for what it is, but it doesn’t have shrubbery like mine, does it?” Lord Toby said, his hands in fists and shedding magical crumbs. “And I think my tower is taller.”

  “What is it with wizards and the size of their towers?” Fia muttered.

  “Right?” Argabella giggled. “What are they overcompensating for?”

  The ferrygnome’s sealed letter granted them immediate entrance through the gates, and they were ushered through Grinda’s castle by an elderly halfling butler who introduced himself as Milieu Goobersnootch of the Caskcooper Goobersnootches. He walked slowly enough to allow them time to gawp at the interior. Both Argabella and Fia pointed to a particular tapestry at the same time and said, “I’ve seen that before,” because they had.

  “Where?” Gustave asked. The tapestries depicted unicorns graphically disemboweling young squires, much to the delight of some smiling maidens. Presumably the maidens thought the squires deserved their fates, so they must have been naughty squires indeed. Although he wasn’t generally a fan of art, Gustave resolved to delve further into the mysteries of unicorn justice based on this stunning tableau.

  The rabbit woman answered, “There’s one just like it in the bedchamber of the sleeping Lady Harkovrita.”

  “It is probably very similar, but not exactly like this one,” the butler said with a sniff. “This is an original Pickelangelo from his Blue Period. You have most likely seen another piece from the same series.”

  “But…I don’t see any blue,” Fia observed.

  “Pickelangelo was depressed, for he had prophesied his own d
eath and was plagued by recurring nightmares of being slain by unicorns. He produced these magnificent tapestries during that time and art historians have labeled it his Blue Period.”

  “Oh, that’s very Sadful,” Argabella said. “Did he actually die of unicorns?”

  “No, he choked to death on an olive in his cocktail glass. Pickelangelo was a fantastic artist, no doubt, but absolute rubbish as a prophet.”

  The butler paused before a door and coughed politely. Behind the castle, Milieu warned them, shielded from public view, was the Garden of Pellish Delights, famous or infamous depending on one’s view of carnality. “We will need to walk through it to get to my Lady Grinda, so avert your eyes if you are scandalized by, er, naughty bits. Ahem.”

  Gustave wasn’t scandalized by such things. He’d seen all manner of creatures doing their business in the barnyard, and thus the moaning and writhing of the assorted beings on the benches and in the baths and acrobatically hanging from tree branches didn’t interest him. There weren’t any randy she-goats among them anyway. The garden itself was far more interesting. People had left their clothes just lying around, and for a goat like Gustave, it was an all-you-can-eat buffet. He quickly snatched up an abandoned slipper and a nice wide sweaty leather belt, carefully gnawing around the buckle.

  “Er, why does she have this garden anyway?” Argabella asked, blushing fiercely.

  Milieu looked down his nose at her. “To keep the courtiers out of trouble, obviously.”

  “Judging by what my father told me regarding the birds and the bees and the bongos, they are getting up to plenty of trouble,” she stammered.

  “Only the ones who don’t keep up with their cardio,” Fia said with a smirk.

  All too soon for Gustave’s taste and appetite for leather, they were through the garden and walking across snowy white sands toward an isolated sling chair that looked out at the ocean. The beach ahead glittered with pinpoints of reflected light, and Gustave quickly realized that they were gems affixed to the shells of countless crustaceans with menacing pincers.

  Milieu Goobersnootch spun on his heel and raised a hand to stop them. “Remain here a moment, please. We must take precautions or,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, “you’ll get crabs.”

  Stopping was fine with the billy goat. He still had about a third of a belt to gnaw through. Once the butler was satisfied that they all would stay where they were, he turned, cupped his hands around his wee lips, and drew a wheezing breath to call to the beach.

  “Lady Grinda! You have visitors who recently escaped the endless hunger of Ol’ Faktri! May we approach?”

  An extremely pale white woman hiding underneath a vast bonnet closed a book and swung out of her sling chair to see who’d come to visit. She wore a red swimming costume and oversized sunglasses that gave her the appearance of insect eyes. She threw her arms wide as if overjoyed to welcome long-lost friends.

  “Dahhhhlings! I was beginning to despair that no one would ever pass the Titan Toothpicks safely again! Come here, I must meet you—it’s perfectly safe.” She dropped her hands and flicked long fingers at the crabs. “Shoo now, pets, let them approach.” The sparkling guardians sidestepped and cleared a path on the beach, and Grinda looked up, pleased with her trained bodyguards, to grin at the newcomers with brilliant white teeth.

  Gustave blinked as he finished his succulent stolen belt. He’d expected someone a bit more haglike in appearance or at least dressed in black and prone to uncontrollable cackling fits. He’d thought there’d be flying monkeys or a long-suffering princess in disguise dressed in rags and singing about her forced servitude with a chorus of forest creatures determined to aid her and provide a winsome descant. Instead there was a loyal and well-dressed Goobersnootch who was proud of his service and a cadre of loving crustaceans. Grinda apparently eschewed all the traditional trappings of diabolical witchcraft. Gustave wondered if this was a conscious decision on her part or an accident. He swung his head around to see how the others were taking it.

  Fia looked as surprised and uncertain as he felt; the Dark Lord Toby was trying and failing to conceal his occult arousal; Poltro appeared to be dwelling on the manifest horrors of crabs and possibly running a mental comparison with chickens; and Argabella—whoa. For once, the rabbit woman wasn’t afraid. She looked ready to break her lute over Grinda’s head.

  The sand witch must have spotted that expression shortly after Gustave did, for her smile melted away into something like shock.

  “That’s…one of my spells,” she said, uncertainty in her voice. “Isn’t it? From the sleeping castle? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be guarding your rose?”

  “My name is Argabella, and I thought I’d come south and get some sun,” the bard replied, steel in her tone. “Maybe some answers, too. And I wouldn’t say no to a little vengeance. I’m not going to be your scapegoat anymore. Darn that stupid rose!”

  Grinda’s smile was pitying as she clasped her hands and shook her head sadly. “Oh, my dear, I can certainly give you sun and answers, and I can only hope to convince you that vengeance isn’t warranted. There’s so much you don’t know. But come here first and introduce me to your friends.”

  Argabella didn’t soften or relax, but she didn’t go directly to vengeance either. Gustave got the idea that for all her brief bluster, she was more terrified of the sand witch than she was of most things. Still, she went through with introductions with a certain stiffness in her bunny back, as if she had to use every bit of politesse she possessed to keep from breaking down.

  When he switched his focus from Argabella to the witch, Gustave realized that something was wrong with Grinda’s face. It appeared youthful but somehow wasn’t, as if a waggish rogue had hastily rubbed out the wrinkles but left everything smeared and just slightly off kilter. When she took off the sunglasses, it was even clearer: those were old, lying eyes. Not because there were crow’s feet at the edges of them—there weren’t—but there was an utter lack of innocence and wonder like what he used to see in Worstley’s eyes. And she also looked vaguely familiar.

  When Argabella finished introducing them all, ending with Gustave, the sand witch said, “You know, my sister used to have a billy goat who looked just like you.”

  “Yeah, that’s because it probably was me,” Gustave said. “I think I remember seeing you when I was a kid.”

  “You’re the same goat?”

  “Yep. Had to leave because your sister had plans to eat me. Hope you’re nothing like her in that regard.”

  Grinda laughed a light sort of laugh that did a poor job of hiding derision and contempt. “I’m about as different from my sister as anyone can be. She married beneath her, of course—girlish rebellion. Thought a farmer with a honey mead habit was a bad boy. And then they lost Bestley, the poor dears. Too handsome for his own good. How’s my nephew, Worstley? I worry about him growing up with such backward parents.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about him growing up anymore,” Gustave said. “So that’s good news.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There’s no gentle way to say this,” Fia interrupted, much to Gustave’s relief. Let the one with muscles tell her what happened. “I accidentally fell on Worstley from a great height and broke most of his bones.”

  “What? There are no great heights at my sister’s farm. Mostly mud and putrescence if I remember correctly.”

  “It wasn’t there. I fell from the enchanted tower of the Earl of Borix.”

  “You know the one,” Argabella said icily.

  Grinda’s eyes flicked back and forth between Fia and Argabella, trying to process the information. “But then what was Worstley doing there? Why would he leave the farm?”

  Fia looked down at Gustave, and he understood that it was up to him to explain that bit. “He was under the impression that he was the Chosen One, destined
for greatness, but he didn’t really know what that meant. He went to the tower because he thought it was the first step of his new destiny. But his second step was getting splattered.”

  Grinda’s eyes bugged out. “Where on Pell did he get the impression that he was a Chosen One?”

  “This nasty pixie showed up and told him so. Her name was Steph or Staph or Stump or something.”

  Grinda startled. “Staph? Staph the pixie? You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. One blue sock. Very suspicious.”

  The sand witch deflated, returned to her sling chair, and sat down with her face in her hands. A glimmering crab-shaped ring on one bony finger caught the light as her jeweled crustaceans skittered around her feet worriedly. She softly spoke something that sounded like a liquid cough.

  “What was that?” Argabella asked.

  Grinda moved her hands away and glared back at her. “I said Løcher. Løcher is behind this.” When all she got in response was looks of bewilderment, she explained. “He’s the chamberlain to King Benedick and my mortal enemy.”

  “You mean he’s a wizard?” Lord Toby asked, perking up a bit.

  “Yes. One who’s been after the throne for many years now. I used to spend most of my time at the capital foiling his plans and convincing the king to treat the peasants well. About five years ago, I thought I’d finally checked Løcher for good: I slapped a costly Inhibition on his head to prevent him pursuing any plot against the king. I couldn’t afford to perform the same Inhibition regarding plots against myself, however, so I needed to leave after that if I wanted to live, because his rage was boundless. This is obviously how he got around it: convince Staph to anoint a Chosen One to upset the established order. And he gets back at me at the same time by telling her to choose my nephew. What did you do with him, by the way?”

  “I laid him in bed next to the sleeping lady in the tower, thinking whatever kept her preserved might work on him, too, until we could find you and perhaps revive him,” Fia answered.