Sagaria

by John Dahlgren

  “All sorts of things beginning with ‘s’?” he said.

  “Well … yes.”

  “Supper’s one of them. Come on.”

  It was a little scary as the arched wooden roof closed over them and they ventured into the cave’s pitch darkness, but Sagandran tried not to communicate his fears through their joined hands. He hummed something tuneless but, he hoped, reassuring. There was just one problem.

  “Sagandran,” said Perima, “I hate to be a snotty little princess, but how are we going to know when we find the ‘viands’ Sir Tombin talked about?”

  “By falling over them in the dark, I suppose,” replied Sagandran ruefully. “But even then, we won’t know what they are.”

  “I’ve just remembered what it is that frogs eat,” added Perima.

  “I wish you hadn’t.” Sagandran had heard that in some parts of the Earthworld, various insects were regarded as delicacies (Australian Aborigines with their witchetty grubs, for example) but the thought of crunching down on a meal of dead spiders, ants, flies and cockroaches didn’t appeal to him at all.

  They stumbled out empty-handed to discover that Sir Tombin had finished building the fire. Wordlessly, he handed Sagandran a burning brand. Leaving Perima warming herself by the flames, Sagandran went back into the cavern to discover a hoard of wooden boxes, small wooden barrels and bulging leather sacks, neatly piled like he imagined provisions aboard a ship must be. One or two of the leather sacks had been chewed by shrews or other small animals, so that their contents – nuts and dried fruit – spilled out onto the ground. Leaving them well alone, he untied the cord of another sack and found what he guessed were dried pears. Clumsily, because he was trying to hold the blazing torch aloft at the same time, he filled the chest pockets of his anorak with the hard, wrinkled fruits. It was only as he was turning toward the stack of boxes next to the heaped sacks that he noticed a tidily fashioned sconce at the same height as his head on the cavern wall. He set his firebrand in it. The first two boxes he pried open held glass jars with unrecognizable somethings floating inside them. He assumed that the somethings were edible, and appropriated a couple of the jars for his side pockets. There was no doubt about the contents of the barrel. Each had, scorched onto its side in sprawly capital letters, the word:

  Sagandran had officially drunk beer on one occasion. Last Christmas. Grandpa had offered him some and Mom, who’d been laying into the sherry while the turkey roasted, had gigglingly agreed to let him have it. There had also been several strictly unofficial experiments undertaken less in the spirit of scientific inquiry than because Sagandran hadn’t wanted to look wimpy in front of the other boys. He hadn’t liked the stuff – it tasted very dead to him – so he hadn’t drunk much of it. If it had been just him, he wouldn’t have bothered bringing one of the barrels back out to the fireside, but there were Sir Tombin and Perima to think of. They probably like beer. Well, perhaps not in Perima’s case. In the court of King Fungfari, they probably drank only the finest champagne out of crystal glasses with paper umbrellas stuck in them.

  Staggering with the barrel under one arm and the torch in his other hand, he rejoined the others.

  “Cups,” said Sir Tombin, terse for once, taking the torch. A few moments later, he returned from the cave with four wooden mugs and plates. Perima was despatched to gather four sharp twigs from the undergrowth.

  At last, they were all sprawled in front of the brightly chortling fire. The unidentifiable floating objects in the jars proved to be small spicy sausages, which could be eaten either cold or – after a few finger-singeing minutes holding them out to the flames spiked on the end of a twig – hot. Sagandran hadn’t a clue what the peppery meat was, but he was hungry enough not to care. The dried pears were delicious and so, to his surprise, was the beer. It was much maltier and thicker than the pale yellow stuff he’d had before. Perima seemed to be enjoying the beer too, because she was talking a lot. Squinting through the firelight, Sagandran could see her flushed and animated face. Flip had turned his nose up at the sausages but had guzzled his fill of the dried fruit; he’d lapped some of the beer, after which he seemed to have drifted off to sleep. Sir Tombin, for his part, had become very jovial and gallant.

  “You promised you were going to tell us the story of why the worgs never come here,” Sagandran said to him after a while.

  “Ah, yes, young lad. All four of us have our stories to tell, though your small companion,” he said with a nod toward Flip, “mayhap will have to save his turn until the morrow.”

  “I’m not sleeping,” protested Flip suddenly. “I was merely listening with my eyes closed. An Adventurer Extraordinaire never sleeps much. Haven’t you noticed? That way, I never miss much.”

  “I apologize, Master Flip,” said Sir Tombin with a slight bow of his head. “It was the snoring that had me fooled – the clever imitation snoring, I mean, a stratagem adopted solely for camouflaging your true state of consciousness.”

  “The trickle of drool dribbling down your chin was a cunning disguise too,” added Perima.

  Flip looked at her as if he were about to explode.

  Sir Tombin diplomatically resumed talking. “To get us into a fine mood for storytelling, I shall narrate the true history of this monument.”

  He proceeded to provide a very long and complex narrative full of dates and scores of names that meant nothing to Sagandran, but must refer to illustrious personages from Sagarian history. The gist of it was that this part of the forest (or Everwoods, as Sir Tombin called it) was known as the Weeping Forest because of a mighty war that had taken place centuries ago between humans and worgs, who had sided with the armies of an evil tyrant from the Shadow World called Cleonthes. The loss of life had been horrific; Sir Tombin painted many a vivid picture of corpses piled high upon corpses, worg and human alike. In the end, so many died that the opposing forces agreed that the matter should be settled once and for all by an unaided bout of combat between the human King Brygantra and the worg Boss Thumbhammer.

  “All day and all night and all the next day the contest between them raged, and still neither would concede to the other. At last, both so weak from loss of blood they were barely alive, King Brygantra seized the cudgel from Thumbhammer’s battle-numbed fingers and hefted it high above the worg king’s head. Thumbhammer raised an arm to shield himself from that doughty blow, but his weakness made his movement slow and he was too late.

  “The first time the great club landed on the worg king’s skull, the sound rang out so loud that trees lost their branches and birds fell stunned from the sky. To his knees did Thumbhammer topple, all fight gone from him. King Brygantra was prepared to accept his submission, but Thumbhammer shook his gore-streaked head and told him nay – the only surrender he would offer was his death, for having failed the worgs, his people.

  “So, with reluctance, did King Brygantra smite again and, this time, the crash was so great that the skeletons of the dead were startled from their graves, to fly up into the air and come tumbling down to lie in heaps of bones.

  “But still Boss Thumbhammer lived.

  “And a third time did King Brygantra smite with the gory cudgel. This time, the blow smashed Boss Thumbhammer’s skull, shattering it so that wet green brains flew in all directions, splattering every tree in the forest and filling the air. Still, if you watch the dawn, you can sometimes see a green light in the sky, and that is what’s left of Boss Thumbhammer’s brains, still floating high above the clouds.”

  Perima looked revolted yet fascinated at the same time. “And this monument tells the tale?”

  “Yes, fair lady,” said Sir Tombin ponderously, “though the tale it tells has long been wiped clean by nature’s mops.” Sagandran had a mental image of this, but thought it probably wasn’t the one that Sir Tombin had intended. “Yet the words will never die, for they are forged in the metals of eternity within the hearts of humans and worgs alike. No worg will come near here, for to them it is an accursed place.”

&nb
sp; The word “accursed” seemed to hang around the fireside like a hot mist.

  Sir Tombin waved a hand to disperse it. “Now, let the real tale-telling begin, though first let me fill my mug with this most excellent ale. My throat is dry and I would dearly quaff.”

  Flip volunteered to go first. He related the tale of Mishmash and Tod’s dare and the hawk Old Cobb sent to carry the Adventurer Extraordinaire to the far side of the mountains. Sir Tombin was visibly impressed and so was Perima. Sagandran, who had heard the tale before, noticed that this time, Flip was adding much more detail to his account. He had to concede that this had all been no small feat for someone the size of a little rat. Not that Sagandran was fool enough to use the word “little,” and certainly not the word “rat.”

  Now it was his turn. He felt a little lump in his throat. Sagandran realized that he wouldn’t be able to bring the dramatic intensity and vast vocabulary to his story that Sir Tombin had deployed in his history of the war and that last great battle between King Brygantra and Boss Thumbhammer. He would just have to do his best.

  He first recounted Grandpa’s tale of finding the portal and coming through it to Sagaria, of journeying to Spectram and the court of Queen Mirabella.

  “Ah, Queen Mirabella,” interrupted Sir Tombin with a dreamy note in his voice. “More beautiful than all the starlit summer nights. Her eyes like sparkling emeralds lit by the morning sun. An ageless wisdom surrounds her, and her smile is balm for the sorrowful heart.”

  Sagandran and Perima gazed at him in amazement.

  “You’ve met her, then?” said Sagandran.

  Sir Tombin gave a sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of his chest. “Ah, yes, but only on a few occasions. To my great misfortune, more often I have but seen her from afar. Yet, even seeing her from a distance has been enough to make my heart pound like great breakers on the shore. I could be watching her from many miles away and still feel her goodness wash through my every fiber.”

  How strange, thought Sagandran. He’s a frog and she, according to Grandpa, is a human being. Surely, it’s lady frogs that Quackford should be finding beautiful, not lady humans? Maybe he’s like one of the medieval troubadours, happy enough worshiping women from afar and praising their beauty in song to all who would listen, yet likely to run a mile if any of them showed a sign of returning the affection. That’s what Mrs. Marvell said in literature class, anyway.

  “But pray continue,” said Sir Tombin with another of those lovesick sighs.

  So, Sagandran described to his audience how Grandpa had shown him the Royal Seal of Spectram, which he had with him even now. He dangled it in the firelight then passed it to Sir Tombin, who wanted a closer look. Then there had been the strange noises and Grandpa’s disappearance, and so Sagandran came through the gateway to be brought eventually to this very glade.

  “You’re so brave,” said Perima, her palms pressed together beneath her chin, gazing at him with eyes that glittered in admiration. Sagandran wondered if she’d be quite so expressive had she not had a mugful-and-a-half of beer, but happily took the opportunity to bathe in her approval.

  Now it was Perima’s turn.

  “My name,” she began, “is Perima, though you know that already. I’m the eldest daughter of King Fungfari the First, and thus a Royal Princess of Mattani. My father … well, my father has never cared much at all for me, you see.”

  She sucked in a tight little breath and raised her face with a look of defiance that Sagandran quickly realized meant she was trying not to burst into tears. He wanted to put his arm around her shoulders to comfort her, but she was on the far side of the fire and he didn’t want to embarrass her – or Sir Tombin, or himself – by making a great palaver of shuffling round to sit beside her.

  “He’d set his heart on a boy, an heir, a son to ride out each day in jingling armor and a brightly caparisoned horse. What he got instead was … me.”

  “Well, one can’t have everything,” Flip put in.

  Perima ignored the remark – just as well for Flip. “All my father thought a girl was good for was sewing and knitting and being married off at the earliest possible opportunity to the richest of the many princes who came to court seeking her hand. He banished me to the women’s quarters and decreed that I should be brought in front of him only when he wanted to show me off to some fat, balding, wrinkly prospective suitor. He was trying to dispose of me before I’d even learned how to walk.”

  She gave a sorry laugh, as if at the ridiculousness of it all.

  “But I was a rebellious little tyke. When he displayed me in front of those horrid old men, like a cake in a bakery window, I would … well, let’s not go into details, but I would do the most unsuitable, offputtingest things I could think of. After a while, it got so bad that even the women among whom he’d set me couldn’t stand me any longer, what with my tantrums and my habit of smashing things when I didn’t get my way. They just gave up and let me wander as I willed, which was usually down to the stables to visit the horses. I think the horses are the only ones at court who’ve ever really listened to me.”

  “We’re listening,” said Sir Tombin softly.

  “Until now, I mean. Anyway, all the while when I was growing up, my two younger sisters were rejected by my father for exactly the same reason – they weren’t boys, but they were perfectly happy about being rejected. All they want to do is to be ogled by all the boys and prance around empty-headedly having decorative swoons at appropriate moments.”

  Sagandran giggled. He was remembering the cliquey girls at school again. Perima shot him an angry glance, then also chuckled.

  “It’s what girls at Fungfari’s court are expected to do,” she said. “But what my father doesn’t realize is that ever since my mother died giving birth to my youngest sister, Emmelina, the older women at court have essentially run his kingdom for him. But that hasn’t meant that the rules about me have relaxed at all. The only times I’m supposed to be on public view, dressed all lah-di-dah as a lady …” She paused and held up the torn hem of her grubby white skirt. “You might not believe it now, but this was a beautifully tailored formal dress just a few days ago. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, me and the princes. Most of them have been too frightful for words, though there’s occasionally been a younger one I’ve quite liked the look of – until I discovered that he had mahogany for brains. None have been as brave and dashing as, oh, someone I could mention.”

  Sagandran noticed that Sir Tombin’s chest had puffed out and that Flip was smugly brushing an imaginary bit of lint off his fur. With horror, Sagandran then realised he was doing the same. He lowered his arm, embarrassed, and hoped that Perima hadn’t noticed He stared into the flaring embers, not knowing if he wanted her to be watching him or not.

  “At the beginning of this week, there was a fanfare of trumpets and a banging of drums, and I knew yet that another suitor had come to call. Despite my kicking and struggling and wailing, the maidservants forced me into this dress and combed out my hair,” she said absently, running her fingers through it, “one hundred times and one, as the custom has it. They painted my lips and my cheeks. Then they went to gawp at the newcomer, foolishly leaving me on my own for a few moments. Before you could say ‘Hartleberry Spratpole’ (that’s a common name in Mattani), I was down the back stairs as fast as my legs could carry me, then sneaking through the narrow, dark corridors the servants use until I reached the stables. As luck would have it, a carriage had just been kitted out to take one of my father’s courtiers somewhere and I was able to crawl beneath it and cling to the underside of the chassis without any of the stable boys noticing. Minutes later, the popinjay of a courtier had boarded along with his wife and daughters, and soon we were rolling through the castle gates. The carriage came to a halt a few miles out into the country, and I slipped into the roadside hedge and hid until they were gone.

  “I had hopes of finding a farmhouse where folk would take me in and put me to work feeding the animals or – oh, how I hope
d this might be the case – tending the horses in return for my board and lodging. That way, I thought, I might live out my life as a normal person, not a Princess of the Blood Royal. I soon discovered that farmhouses are scarce in those parts and at the few I did encounter, I received a most ungracious welcome – one of the farmers even set his dogs on me! You would have thought I was a demon, the way they behaved toward me.”

  She looked back and forward between Sagandran, Flip and Sir Tombin, as if expecting at least one of them to make a sympathetic comment.

  “Perhaps it was something you said,” murmured Sagandran soothingly.

  “Or perhaps just the way you said it,” added Sir Tombin with a glitter of mirth in his dreamy eyes, “but carry on with your tale.”

  “There’s little more to tell. Disheartened, I wandered into the forest. I’d been walking in among the trees for hours, half a day or more, when I was set upon by a worg. The rest you know.”

  “You’re a brave lass, Princess,” said Sir Tombin.

  Sagandran looked long and hard at her. “And a very strong one. It must have been difficult to hold onto the undercarriage like that. What happened when the coach hit a bump in the road?”

  “I just had to hold on tighter,” said Perima sweetly. “I’m quite strong, really, even though I am, after all, only a girl.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” he hurriedly assured her, holding up his palms as if in defense. “What I meant was that I don’t think I could have done it.”

  She grinned.

  The moon was high in the sky now. Sir Tombin put the back of his webbed hand to his mouth and yawned loudly. “We should plan to be off by dawn tomorrow, and the night is growing late. We should think about going to sleep – to sleep, and perchance to dream.”

  Sagandran stared owlishly at him. How could a frog in a world that was not the Earthworld be quoting Shakespeare? He was just opening his mouth to ask when Perima, who’d been swallowing yet another unwisely long draft from her beer mug, spoke instead.