by Cube Kid
In memory of Lola Salines (1986-2015),
founder of 404 éditions and editor of this series,
who lost her life in the November 2015 attacks on Paris.
Thank you for believing in me.
- Cube Kid
Squeak?
Squeeeee?
Cheeeeeee-ehhhhhhh!
These annoying sounds woke me up in the middle of the night. The sounds of a spider. On top of my house.
It must have wandered into our village after sunset. And decided that the roof over my bedroom was a cool place to hang out.
Screeee?
Squeak-squeak-squeak?
I covered my head with my pillow. It didn’t help. Soon, I could hear a slime moving around out there. Blap, blap, blap. It almost sounded like someone was beating the ground with a big dead fish. Then a zombie joined in with its horrible moaning.
“What are they doing out there?” I muttered to myself. “Are they trying to start a band or something?!”
Hurrrrrr.
(In case you don’t know, “hurrrrrrr” is the sound a villager makes when thinking. Or irritated. And right now, I’m super irritated. The mobs can’t get to us in our homes, so they make noises all night just to annoy us.)
Still lying in bed, I simply stared at the ceiling and made that sound.
Hurrrrrr, hurrrrrr, hurrrrrr . . .
(I’d trade two hundred emeralds for something that could go over my ears and block that awful noise. A pillow just isn’t enough.)
Sigh.
This is the life of a villager. We’re helpless against the mobs. Monsters, that is. They arrive almost every night, and there’s nothing we can do except hide in our little houses. I wish we could fight them off. Unfortunately, villagers aren’t allowed to become warriors. The village elders say being a warrior is too dangerous. The only thing we can do is farm, farm, farm. Harvest, harvest, harvest. And stay indoors all night until the sun comes up.
Still, even if we don’t have any warriors, I’ve met some. They sometimes visit our village, Villagetown. They never stay for very long, though. Just long enough to rest up and trade. They don’t look like us at all. They have swords and armor. And they go exploring. And adventuring.
I sometimes talk to one of them. His name is Steve. He’s a pretty cool guy. A few weeks ago, he killed a couple of zombies in our village. My family was especially thankful for that. One of those zombies had just stood right outside the front door looking in, mouth hanging open, making the loudest grunting sounds.
Sometimes, I wish I could be like Steve. He gets to run around doing whatever he wants. Every morning he must wake up and think, “Oh, what will I do today? Slay some mobs? Explore some temples? Find some treasure?”
Meanwhile, the most interesting thing I do is collect seeds . . .
I often wonder:
Does Steve have a village? Where does he come from?
The next time I speak with him, I’ll have to ask.
Anyway, if I actually defeated a mob some day, none of the other kids could call me a noob anymore. According to most of them, I’m just a noob worthy of my name:
Runt
As you can imagine, I get a lot of grief over this name . . . Especially from Max. He’s so annoying. He always says I’m useless, no good. He wants to be a librarian, and he thinks he knows everything because he’s read nearly every book in Villagetown. That really doesn’t mean much at all, though, because a lot of books in our village totally stink. I mean, most of Max’s so-called worldly knowledge comes from a series titled The Adventures of Cow the Cow.
Whatever. If I ever become a warrior, he’ll be saluting me. And, after he salutes me, he’ll be shining my boots, and addressing me as “Sir,” or perhaps “Commander,” and asking me how many slices of pumpkin pie I’d like for lunch.
* * *
Okay, so, our village is boring at times.
Here’s another thing I don’t like about it: the trading.
For example, if you want some cookies, well, it’s not like you just go down to the store, slam three emeralds onto the counter, and call it a done deal. No, no, no. In reality, you walk into the store, hoping the guy selling the cookies is having a good day. If he’s not, he’s going to “hurrrrr” for what seems like forever as he thinks about a “fair price”—and the whole time, your stomach’s rumbling, and you’re telling yourself things like, “Maybe I should just have a raw potato instead.”
In fact, I had to spend a total of ten emeralds on this diary you’re reading right now.
That librarian totally ripped me off. My mom gave me those emeralds for lunch at school. If she found out that I spent a week’s worth of lunch emeralds on a diary . . .
But I guess the librarian was nice compared to that blacksmith a few days ago. He wanted thirty emeralds for a pair of leather boots, and the boots weren’t even in new condition.
Seriously, would someone actually pay that much?
Then again, my friend Stump said he once sold a moldy potato to a warrior for five emeralds. I guess that warrior was really hungry . . .
* * *
I have to watch out for more than just traders, too. Some of the villager kids are real jerks. Especially that kid Max. He’s always telling these unbelievable stories. Well, some kids believe him.
Max likes scaring anyone he can. The other day, he was telling some kids about a monster called the “poo screamer.” Supposedly, a poo screamer is a special type of creeper.
Creepers are green, of course, because they’re made out of leaves. But a poo screamer is brown because it’s . . .
Um . . .
Made out of poo.
When it attacks, it doesn’t hiss like normal. It makes a loud gurgling sound. Or so Max says.
Of course, Max just made it up. I know that. But a few little kids totally fell for it.
While those kids were playing in the street, Max hid behind a nearby house. Then he made the sound a poo screamer supposedly makes.
“Graagraaagggurrrrgggggg–ftttttt”
It terrified some of those kids. From what I heard, they wouldn’t go near a bathroom for days after. They didn’t want the poo screamer to get them.
Yeah. Welcome to my life.
Irritating mobs.
Greedy librarians.
And Max.
Last night, I had a crazy dream.
Our village had warriors, and I was one of them.
I looked endermen straight in the eye.
I deflected skeleton arrows with my bare hands.
I mowed down zombies like a farmer harvesting beetroots.
Finally, I punched a creeper so hard, it bounced off the ground and flew up into the sun, where it exploded, making the sun brighter. The brighter sun burned up the rest of the skeletons and zombies.
Yeah.
But that was just a dream. The reality is . . . school is starting on Monday, and I just turned twelve.
Twelve. That’s the age when villagers stop being kids and learn a profession. A lot of other kids are into subjects like farming, crafting, and building . . . but combat is my favorite subject. I just wish our school had a few combat classes. I don’t want to be a blacksmith or a butcher. Maybe a priest? Or maybe I can just run away and be like Steve.
No, ho
w could I run away? I love my mom too much. My dad’s pretty cool, too. Of course, he wants me to become a farmer like him.
It’s hard being a farmer, by the way.
People can just walk up and steal your crops. That happened today. Some weird guy came into our village and started taking our carrots. My dad tried to stop him, and the guy hit my dad with his stone pickaxe. I was really angry. But the iron golem nearby was way angrier. The golem punched that guy so hard, he dropped his pickaxe and ran away.
I sold that pickaxe to a blacksmith for three emeralds . . .
I guess I’m learning, huh?
The mobs attacked again last night.
Why would anyone want to attack such a beautiful place?
Now, some of you reading this diary might be thinking:
“Wait!! Villages don’t have walls”
This isn’t just any village, though, it’s Villagetown. And it wasn’t us who came up with idea for the wall. Steve taught us how to build it.
Besides, if you were a villager, what would you do?
Would you seriously not want to build a wall? We’re not stupid, you know. Most of us, anyway. The mayor won’t let us fight the mobs directly, but we can still defend ourselves. Not that it matters too much. . . Even with a stone wall surrounding our village, the mobs still get in, as you can see from the other night.
The mobs around here are really, really smart.
Don’t believe me?
Let me tell you about what the mobs did last night.
They came up with a way to get a bunch of slimes over the wall. It’s a nasty little trick that shows just how clever the mobs can be.
We’re calling it the creeper bomb
I’ll try drawing it to give you an idea.
This is how it worked:
Basically, slimes piled onto a creeper. And boom! The creeper exploded. The blast threw the slimes high into the sky. Some went over the wall, into the city. Of course, the explosion killed the slimes. Here’s the thing, though: When a slime dies, it splits into smaller slimes.
So the result of a creeper bomb is:
I was outside when it happened. As I looked up, a baby slime fell from the sky . . . and landed right on my face. It died from the fall. But I was drenched in disgusting ooze. Also, I coughed up a slimeball. Gack.
I’m probably going to have nightmares tonight. Don’t laugh at me. I mean, how would you feel if a baby slime splattered all over you? You probably wouldn’t be very happy.
Then, as luck would have it, my mom made mushroom stew for lunch. Really? Was that some kind of joke? I get attacked by a slime, and she’s making me mushroom stew? I wouldn’t eat it.
I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
Anyway, you just wouldn’t believe how creative the mobs are. They’re getting smarter. They’re cooperating. And that creeper bomb is just one of their cheap tactics.
There’s also the “zombie ladder,” where zombies form a staircase next to the wall.
Or the “spider elevator,” where spiders carry other mobs up and over the wall.
Maybe you’re thinking:
“Wait! Mobs don’t do those things!
Mobs don’t work together”
All I can really say is . . . just come to my village. You’ll find out. The life of a villager isn’t easy in these parts.
It’s humiliating, the way they treat us. I really wish we could fight back. Then we wouldn’t have to suffer anymore . . .
However, there is a rumor going around that maybe, just maybe, some of the students can enter warrior training this year. I’m not getting my hopes up, though.
Okay, I have to go take another bath.
I’ve already taken one, but I still smell like slime.
School starts tomorrow.
I’m a little nervous. I still haven’t put much thought into my profession.
This morning, I had to go gather seeds again. Sigh. My exciting life. I took a stick with me. I pretended the stick was a sword. The tall clumps of grass were skeletons. The short grass was spiders.
Pathetic, I know.
After thirty minutes of attacking the grass for their seeds, I saw Steve.
As he approached, I remembered the question I’d wanted to ask him. “Hey, where do you come from, anyway? A village?”
“Village?” He shook his head.
“No, no.
I’m . . . from another world.”
Another world? What was he talking about? I must have looked at him kind of strangely, because he sighed.
“Whatever. None of the other villagers believe me. Why should you?”
For a second, I decided to just play along. I thought maybe he was joking with me or something.
“Okay,” I said. “Then what’s the name of your, um, world?”
“Earth.”
“Earth? That’s a strange name, isn’t it? How did you get here?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t remember much. One second, I was there. And then, I was here. But that was months ago.”
Well, he didn’t look like any of us villagers. Maybe he really did come from another world. When I looked at him, I saw a kind of sadness in his eyes. I wanted to cheer him up.
“I hope you find your way back home,” I said. “Your parents must miss you.”
“Thanks,” he said, and paused. “Wait. So . . . you actually believe me?”
I nodded. “Of course. You saved our village, after all. You showed us how to build that wall. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said. “The mobs around here are pretty hardcore. Figured you guys could use a hand.”
I nodded again. For a moment, neither of us said anything.
“. . .”
“. . .”
Then I spoke up.
“Steve? Do you think a villager could ever become a warrior?”
Steve beamed like the square sun.
“The way you were slaying that grass earlier,” he said, “yeah. I don’t see why not.”
“But our elders won’t allow it,” I said. “They say it’s too dangerous.”
“Well, sometimes, you have to fight back,” Steve said. “That’s part of life, you know?”
I sighed. “The only thing I know is watering crops. And feeding chickens and pigs.”
Steve put a hand upon my shoulder.
“You’re not missing out on anything,” he said. “Trust me on this one. Three days ago, I was sleeping in a dirt hole and eating raw fish. Sound amazing to you?”
“Not exactly.”
“So appreciate what you have.”
“Maybe you’re right. Hurrrrrr.”
“By the way,” he said, “did you start school yet?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm. Let me show you a few tricks on crafting.”
And so, for the rest of the day, I learned a few things from Steve. While we were crafting tools, he asked if he could borrow the wooden stick I’d been playing with earlier. I told him it’d be his for the low, low price of just twenty emeralds . . .
Yeah.
I’m definitely learning.
I had my first day of school today.
It wasn’t so bad.
Max saw me writing in this diary, though. Since he plans to be a librarian, he wanted to take a look at it. I didn’t let him, of course. If he read anything about himself, he’d find a way to get revenge. He’d probably tell all the other kids something involving me, diapers, and a poo screamer.
A couple of villager parents were talking nearby in old villager speak:
“ . . . rurr . . . hurrr-hurr, rhurrr . . . rurr? . . . rhurrhurrhuurrrrrr . . .”
First thing in the morning, assistants gave students their schedules.
Here
are my classes:
Hurrr.
I’m not really into crafting, to be honest. I’d take farming over crafting, anyway.
Mostly because my parents have already taught me the basics of farming, so I feel comfortable with it.
At some point, the village elders showed up at our school—along with the mayor himself. That meant something important was happening, obviously. And when the mayor started giving one of his speeches, talking about mobs, my heart started to soar.
“We need to adapt,” the mayor said. “The mobs are getting smarter. Stronger. They’re working together. So we need to start fighting back.”
“We know many of you have been asking about this,” said another elder. “We realize we can’t just hide in our homes forever . . .”
The head teacher stepped forward.
“And so, what this means is . . . the top five students this year . . . will have the opportunity to be warriors . . .”
A few gasps spread through the crowd of students. Then hushed excitement. No one could believe it. Including myself. The rumors were true?
At the end of the school year, the top five students can choose to become warriors?
It was as if my prayers had been answered. (I did pray, sometimes. Our village has a church, you know.)
However, there are 150 students this year . . . The competition will be extremely tough. Max is most likely going to try, just so he can brag about it, and so will Pebble, a kid who is arguably worse than Max. Actually, most of the students will probably try out. Wielding a sword? Wearing armor? That’s just too cool.
This year, the elders are actually giving students a reason to do well in school.
After the speech, I talked things over with my best friend, Stump. He was freaking out about the whole thing even more than I was. An hour later, we had to take a bunch of tests. They were simple tests, like crafting sticks and planting wheat. But it was all timed. After the examination was over, the teachers gave each student a “performance sheet.”