“Maybe you just missed her,” said I. “And maybe I had to change her name for legal reasons.”
“And maybe you kissed her,” said Ellwood.
“I did kiss her.”
“Did you? Or was it just part of the story?” He blinked as if fighting back tears. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Oh, enough of this.” Myolaena stood up, and swirling her wand around her head three times, she disappeared.
“There. You have to admit that part was complete fiction,” said Ellwood. “No one could give up the power of a sorceress, least of all that particular woman. She’s still got the magic.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe you’re not even here. Maybe I’m having this entire conversation in my head. In fact, next time I tell the story, I will be.”
“Good night Eaglethorpe.” And with that, Ellwood got up and left the taproom.
Chapter Twenty: Second Epilog, or Post-Epilog, or maybe Epi-epilog.
I did not get up from the table with Ellwood Cyrene. Nor did I leave the taproom at that time. There were too many people who wanted to buy me a drink in exchange for one of my stories. I told the story of how I fought an entire goblin army to rescue an elven princess. I told the story of how I saved a poor farm girl from a werewolf with only a fork. And I told the story of the Queen of Aerithraine, in whose company I once had the pleasure of spending a fortnight. I told that story four times.
When I got to my room on the third floor of the Singing Siren, I was tired. I was too tired to even light a lantern. Instead, I opened the shutters and let the moonlight stream into the room. I breathed in the night air as I sloughed off my jerkin and my breeches.
It was then that I noticed a light across the inn’s courtyard. In the other wing of the building, also on the third floor, someone had their window open—someone with a well-lit room. This had barely come to my attention, when a figure in that room stepped into my line of sight. It was Ellwood Cyrene. As I stood there, he started to disrobe, removing his jerkin and breeches just as I had done. I was about to close the shutters when I noticed that beneath his shirt, his entire torso was wrapped in a massive bandage. Naturally concerned, I wondered just what kind of horrible wound he had sustained that would require such a dressing.
Then he began to unwind it. I watched as he carefully removed the wrapping, and when I saw what lay beneath, I sat back, entirely missing the bed and landing on the hard wood floor. Ellwood Cyrene, my friend and companion through countless adventures, was a woman!
To be continued…
Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Queen of Aerithraine
Chapter One: Wherein I see the Queen of Aerithraine and she fails to notice a very important person that she should have noticed.
Illustria is a magnificent city—the very gem of Aerithraine. Its golden spires rise high into the sky. Its gleaming walls sparkle. Its people are the very… well, perhaps it’s best not to mention the people, because outside of the nobles’ quarter most are in good need of a bath. On the other hand, Illustria has many wonderful shops and stores. One may purchase the finest armor or weaponry, fine silk pantaloons, or a hat with a feather in it. Or pie. The capital of Aerithraine has perhaps more piesmiths per capita than any other city in the world. And isn’t that the mark of a fine city?
I had just arrived in Illustria after a long trip from the southern coastal lands of Lyrria, where I had successfully produced a series of fine plays that almost everyone loved. Critics commented that they had never seen anything like them. The citizens practically begged me not to leave. They said that after my stay the cultural life of the realm would never be the same.
I should stop and introduce myself. I am Eaglethorpe Buxton, famed world traveler and story-teller, and as I have mentioned before, playwright. I am a writer of plays, and a wrighter of plays, which is to say a playwright. I am also a righter of plays, because several times I have taken the plays of others and fixed them, giving them the Eaglethorpe Buxton touch, so to speak. Of course you have heard of me, for tales of my many adventures are known throughout the world. Thankfully, the greatest teller of tales in the world has chosen to record my many adventures, which is to say me, for I am both the greatest adventurer and greatest story-teller of adventures.
“Eaglethorpe!” called Ellwood Cyrene. “Hurry. The Queen approaches!”
We stood at the corner of the Avenue of Spires and the Avenue of the Unwashed Masses, in the shadows of the storied spires and amid the throngs of unwashed masses. I had been looking for a pie shop and my best friend in the world, Ellwood Cyrene, was looking for a weapons smith who could sharpen his short sword. Coming up the avenue, which is to say the Avenue of Spires and not the Avenue of the Unwashed Masses, was a line of mounted knights and in front of them, on a proud white stallion, in shining armor, with a purple cloak, shining blond hair, was Elleena Posthuma, Queen of Aerithraine, Guardian of the Faithful, Protector of the Realm, and the only woman in the entire world that I have ever truly loved.
“Majesty,” I said as she passed, bowing deeply at the waist.
She continued on without a glance, as did the entire line of knights.
“WTF?” said I.
“What are you on about?” asked Ellwood.
“She didn’t say anything.” said I. “She didn’t even glance down at me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t understand it. She should have known me. I was once privileged to spend a fortnight in her company.”
“Eaglethorpe,” said Ellwood. “She’s the Queen. She doesn’t know you. Get it into your head.”
“The Queen of Aerithraine and I are like this,” said I, crossing my fingers.
“Eaglethorpe, you and the Queen are not even on the same hand.” Ellwood folded his arms across his chest, and cocked his head to the side. “Do you think that armor made her ass look big?”
“It was perfect,” I said glumly, turning and dragging myself into the nearest shop. “Just like the rest of her.”
It is often said that when the gods take something away from a man, they give him something else. I have never said it, but it is often said, usually by people who have had a great deal taken away and very little given to them. I suppose that this is a way of consoling themselves about the fact that the gods hate them. I had no need of that, as the gods love me. Still, I was feeling disconsolate at having been ignored by the Queen. In fact, I was more than disconsolate. I was downright woebegone. I wasn’t inconsolable, because as it turned out, I was about to be consoled, for as I looked up, I realized that I had stumbled into a bakery.
There are fancy bakeries filled with crème-filled treats and perfect cakes, and they are fine. I won’t say anything bad about them. There are homey bakeries filled with tasty but lopsided cupcakes and over-sized cookies, and they are better. I wouldn’t say anything bad about them. But this bakery was a country bakery, notwithstanding the fact that it was in the middle of the city, and it had big, delicious, lopsided cakes, and regular-sized cookies, and many, many, many pies. You couldn’t and wouldn’t say anything bad about that kind of bakery.
I followed my nose, which is to say I wandered over and also that I was drawn by the mouth-watering scent to a counter covered in pies. There was an apple pie, the golden brown crust topping it shaped into an apple with a little golden crust worm sticking out. Next to it was a transparent pie, which is a kind of pie that is transparent. Right beside it was a blackberry pie, which I could clearly see because it was non-transparent, blackberries being the opposite of transparent.
“May I help you?” asked a sweet voice from the other side of the counter.
“I would like a…” I had to stop and wipe a bit of saliva that had of its own accord tried to leave my mouth for my chin.
“I would like a disconsolateberry pie,” said I, “for I am feeling disconsolate.”
“You look positively woebegone,” said the cute young woman to whom the sweet voice belonged.
“I was woebegone a minute ago,�
�� I confided. “Having found this bakery though, I have risen to disconsolate and am well on my way to crestfallen.”
“At the risk of making you inconsolable, I’m afraid we have no disconsolateberry pie. One doesn’t find disconsolateberries west of Lyrria.”
“I actually have a small pouch of them,” said I. “Alas, not enough to make a pie, and now I feel so much worse.”
“We have blueberry.”
“I feel better.”
“But we’re sold out.”
“I feel worse.”
“I have another in the oven.”
“Better.”
“It won’t be ready for half an hour.”
“Worse.”
“I have an idea how we could spend a half hour waiting for the pie to be ready,” said she, placing a hand on her hip and winking at me.
I carefully examined her, which is to say that I looked at her, not that I took out medical instruments and determined her health. She was medium height with creamy skin, chocolate eyes, cherry lips, and licorice hair, which is to say black. She wore a short dress, showing more than enough thigh and her creamy bosoms were overflowing her blouse. She was just the right amount of plump too, which is to say not too fat and not too thin—medium plump.
“You’re right,” said I. “While we wait for the blueberry pie to be done, I should eat a slice of apple pie.”
Chapter Two: Wherein I uncover the mystery of my missing family, an element that the reader should pay little attention to as I intend to strike it from the story at a later date.
I spent the next half hour enjoying the charms of a fine slice of apple pie. I of course enjoyed it with a slice of fine yellow cheese because as is common knowledge, “an apple pie without some cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze.” To say the pie was delicious would not be doing it justice, but there are scarce few words that mean delicious but have more strength. It was more than mouthwatering, but perhaps not quite so good as ambrosial. It was scrumptious. I enjoyed it more than most, but not all, of the women I’ve met. A few of those women I enjoyed enough to have married them, if they had not been subsequently killed, previously married, really a man, or magically turned into a beaver, and in one case all four. I suppose I did care enough for that slice of apple pie to have married it, if that had been possible.
If I had married that apple pie though, I would certainly have kept the slice of blueberry pie as my mistress. When I tasted the blueberry pie, I decided that it was altogether more enticing than the apple, though apple pie is the more wholesome pie—the kind of pie you would take home to your grandparents. On the other hand, just about anyone can make a passably decent apple pie. Blueberry pies are a slightly more advanced proposition. Not so much as a rhubarb pie, mind you. But I had not had a blueberry pie this good since I left home. It was a cheeky little pie, with just the right amount of suggestiveness, which is to say that it was a sweet but tangy pie.
My mother made a most excellent blueberry pie—she called it a Blueberry Excellence Pie. Why, the last time that I saw her, she promised me such a blueberry pie upon my return.
“I shall give you a Blueberry Excellence Pie upon your return,” said she.
“This is a most excellent blueberry pie,” said I, returning to the present. “Are you the piesmith?”
“I did indeed bake that pie,” said the licorice-haired minx. “I can’t take credit for the recipe though. It is my partner’s.”
“I would like to meet this partner,” said I.
“Whether you would like to or not is irrelevant,” said she, “for she is coming in the door right now.”
The day was looking up, which is to say that I was looking forward more to the rest of the day. If there is anything better than one plump baker with creamy skin, chocolate eyes, cherry lips, licorice hair, and overflowing bosoms, it is two of them. I turned to watch an attractive woman a few years younger than me step in through the open doorway. Notice, I say doorway, because in fact, despite what my licorice-haired beauty had said, she came through a doorway and not through a door, which is an entirely different thing. This new young woman was at least as fetching as the first, with creamy skin, chocolate eyes, cherry lips, and heaving bosoms threatening to burst from her rather skimpy blouse. Notwithstanding all this, I did not find her attractive in the least. Not in that way. I couldn’t.
“Put some clothes on, you hussy!” said I.
“Eaglethorpe!” she squealed, running to me and enveloping me in her arms, which is to say hugging me. “When did you get into town?”
“Tuki? What are you doing here?”
It was none other than Tuki, my cousin, former Onion Queen three years running, a first rate kickball player, an accomplished piesmith, more than accomplished if the present blueberry pie was any indication, and the second best kisser that I have ever encountered.
“This is my bakery,” said she.
“This is our bakery,” said the licorice-haired vixen.
“I see you have met my partner Accordia,” said Tuki.
“Accordia,” mused I. “What a musical name.”
“Anyone can squeeze me and get a sound,” said Accordia, “but only someone with talent can make music with me.”
“I would love to show you my melodic capabilities, which is to say my music making skills,” said I. “At this exact moment though, which is to say now, I need to find out how Tuki escaped the vampires.”
“What vampires?” asked Tuki.
“You and the rest of my family were taken by vampires.”
“No we weren’t.”
“Werewolves?”
“No.”
“Goblins?”
“No.”
“A drunken bugbear?”
“No, of course not.” Tuki frowned, making her face look very cute, not that I noticed, because she’s my cousin. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”
“I returned home to find you all gone. There was a knife stuck in Gervil’s bed. There were drops of purple liquid leading out the back door. And someone had hung bunches of onions from the rafters of the dining room. Most mysterious of all was the fact that the tracks led away from the house only fifty feet and then disappeared entirely, even though it was morning and the tracks should still have been there.”
“We moved,” said Tuki. “Your parents moved to a little house in Dewberry Hills. The rest of us moved here and there. Gervil and Mother moved there and I moved here. You would know this if you came home more often.”
“And the knife?”
“Gervil was always leaving his knife somewhere. He still does, except that now it’s a new knife.”
“But the tracks…”
“There were seven of us living there, Eaglethorpe. There were tracks everywhere. The ground was so worn that the grass wouldn’t grow.”
“How do you explain the onions?” I asked, sticking up my finger and striking a triumphant pose.
“We were onion farmers,” said Toki, as if that explained everything. “That explains everything.”
“Forsooth,” said I, shaking my head sadly. “The dastardly vampires will pay for what they’ve done.”
“What vampires?” asked Tuki.
“The vampires who will have killed you by the time I finish the second draft of this story,” said I.
Chapter Three: Wherein I remind the reader of the secret of Ellwood Cyrene and the very manly way in which I came across it.
“There you are, Eaglethorpe,” said Ellwood Cyrene, stepping in through the open doorway.
“Ellwood!” shouted Tuki, running at my friend and leaping upon him like a Virian leopard leaps upon a hippoleptimus, which is to say like a Virian leopard leaps upon anything, because leaping is chiefly what the Virian leopard is known for. That and spots.
“Tuki?” gasped Ellwood, as she kissed him all over his face, and as Ellwood tried to pry her off of him. “Tuki, is it really you?”
“No,” said I. “Tuki was tragically killed by vampires.”
>
Tuki continued to kiss Ellwood, as kissing, along with kickball, is one of her favorite pastimes, and something that she is particularly good at. She is particularly good at kickball too, frequently playing first, second, and third base all at the same time. But she was perhaps not so good at kickball as she was at kissing, and at least of late, at making pies. Ellwood Cyrene had always been the favorite object of Tuki’s kisses, which is to say that she liked to kiss him more than anyone else. This was at least true after the first time that she saw my adventuring friend. Prior to that, her kissing inclinations were chiefly directed at me. I bore it stoically.
Despite the fact that Ellwood Cyrene had always seemed a very manly individual, he had always attempted to avoid Tuki’s kisses, and he was attempting to do so even as I stood enviously watching him. Even as I watched him unfeelingly. Even as I watched him with relief. Yes, it was with relief that I watched him, because I didn’t want her to kiss me. She was my cousin.
Of course, now I knew why Ellwood had avoided Tuki’s lips, and now that I thought about it, the lips of the many, many women who wanted to press their lips to his. Weeks earlier, in Lyrria, I had seen Ellwood undressing. It had been an accident, which is to say that it was an accident that I saw him undressing and not an accident that he undressed himself. I happened to look into his window by accident. There could be no other reason for me to look into the window of another man except by accident, unless I was looking for said man to kill him. Kill him in a very manly way, with blood and other manly effects. When I looked into his window, I saw him undress. I didn’t wait and watch him undress. He was already in the process of undressing and he undressed very quickly. The result was that for the first time, I saw Ellwood without clothing, which is to say naked. It was then that I discovered Ellwood Cyrene, my friend in a hundred adventures was a woman or a girl, but more to the point, a female person.
Many Adventures of Eaglethorpe Buxton Page 11