To Alison
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
It should be made clear from the start that Blart never wanted to be a hero. He had not been brought up on tales of bravery and courage in the face of overwhelming odds; he had been brought up on a pig farm. He had not read the myths and legends of the dim and distant past where noble men and women gloriously chanced all for others; he had looked at the pictures in his grandfather’s books which were mainly about diseases that pigs got. He had not learnt to ride a horse or to sword fight or to risk his life for the honour of a beautiful woman. He had learnt that if you want to catch a pig you sneak up on it from behind and take it by surprise.
Which is why it is not unusual that, as our story opens, we find Blart leaning over the rail of a large sty with a bowl of potato scraps in his hand preparing to feed two of his grandfather’s champion pigs.
‘Here, Wattle,’ encouraged Blart. ‘Come on, Daub. Have some dinner.’
Wattle and Daub did not wait to be asked twice. When most of your life is spent wandering round and round a manure-filled pen then dinner is bound to be a highlight. Blart watched appreciatively as the two pigs chomped and munched their way through their meal. He felt that there was no more attractive sight on earth.
Eventually, pulling himself away from the pigs’ sty, Blart headed back towards the farmhouse. Nature had laid on a beautiful picture for his trudge home. The burning sun setting behind the opposite hill, igniting the lazy clouds which hung idly in the air and reflecting off the river which eased itself through the heart of the valley. The long shadows reaching across the lush fields. The slivers of smoke rising from the chimneys of the village. The horse and cart idling down the road towards home. But Blart looked mainly at his boots. They were muddy boots and hence did not so much as hint at displaying Blart’s reflection, which was probably a good thing because Blart was not a prepossessing figure – his head was too big, his eyes were too small and close together, his nose looked as if it had been squashed into his face and his mouth constantly hung half open. Below his dirty neck things didn’t get any better. His body managed to be too short while his legs were too long, and this was accentuated by his ill-fitting grey woollen jumper which hung down far too low, combined with his maroon trousers made from the cheapest cloth which were too short and featured holes in most inappropriate places. All in all, Blart’s physical appearance was really in need of a winning personality or a variety of impressive skills to counterbalance it. Unfortunately, he had neither.
However, when Blart stomped into the farmhouse kitchen without wiping his muddy boots at the door, there was something that made even him look twice. They had a visitor. Blart’s grandfather disapproved of visitors, on account of the fact that they talked to you and tried to be friendly. He had put it about in the nearby village that Blart had some kind of mysterious and extremely unpleasant disease that was highly contagious to everybody who wasn’t a member of his family. This had prevented most visitors coming but it had also meant that Blart couldn’t go to school. The only day he tried all the other children ran out of the room screaming, for which they could hardly be blamed as they were only following their teacher’s example.
But back to the visitor, who wore a large grey cloak with a hood.
‘Blart. This gentleman wants to see you,’ said his grandfather.
Blart had never ever had a visitor of his own before. Well, at least not a human one. Sometimes the pigs had managed to get out of their sty and come to find him.
‘What do you want?’ demanded Blart rudely.
‘Boy,’ said a terse voice from under the cowl, ‘know ye that I have come many miles through many dangers across strange lands and seas to see you today and what I have to say is of great import.’
‘Is it about pigs?’ asked Blart.
‘No,’ conceded the cowled figure after a short pause. ‘No. It isn’t about pigs.’
And with those words the stranger shook off his hood to reveal a bald head and a thin craggy face adorned with a straggly white beard. But what was most noticeable about his face were his eyes. For such an old man he had the deepest, clearest blue eyes. Eyes that briefly silenced even Blart.
‘My name is Capablanca and I am the greatest sorcerer alive today,’ announced the wizard with more than a touch of pride.
‘Do a spell, then,’ demanded Blart, who was not the kind of boy to go around believing old men were wizards just because they said so. ‘Turn this table into a pig.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Capablanca.
‘Are you deaf?’ said Blart.
‘No, I am not,’ answered Capablanca. ‘But I’ll turn you into a pig if you won’t listen.’
‘Wow, great,’ said Blart. ‘Would you?’
The wizard was taken aback by this response. Sighing, he stood back and went very still. Time seemed to stop ever so briefly in the little room and there was a flash of blue from the wizard’s eyes and a swift blast of gushing wind, so swift that it might not even have been there at all. And the table did indeed become a pig. A surprised pig who immediately began to charge round the kitchen.
‘Do it again! Do it again!’ screeched Blart in delight.
‘No,’ said Capablanca. ‘I shall turn all your pigs into tables,’ he added menacingly.
Finally Capablanca had hit upon a way of frightening Blart, who decided to shut up and listen to what the wizard had to say. The pig kept running and both the wizard and Blart were forced against the walls to avoid being knocked over. Gradually, though, before Blart’s very eyes, the pig began to look less and less like a pig and more and more like a table, until it was completely a table again.
There followed a long pause and then, dramatically, Capablanca began.
‘I have come to take you with me, boy. For it is our destiny to travel to far-flung lands, to undertake deeds of great glory and to endeavour to save the world from a terrible peril.’
Chapter 2
We all know what should happen when a healthy strong boy of fourteen is offered the chance to save the world from peril. He should grasp the chance firmly with both hands. He should not hesitate. He should pause only to arm himself with his trusty dagger and then he should put his bold feet forward to meet the challenges that lie ahead.
‘I’m not going,’ said Blart stubbornly.
‘You’ll be a hero, boy,’ said Capablanca.
‘I don’t wa
nt to be a hero.’
‘Bards will write epic poems in your honour and balladeers will sing of your great deeds.’
‘I want to stay here with my pigs.’
‘You could have more pigs.’
‘More pigs?’
‘You could have the biggest pig farm in the world.’
Blart was tempted. However, far stronger in Blart even than the desire to own the biggest pig farm in the world was the desire to say no to somebody who had asked him to do him a favour.
‘No,’ said Blart.
The wizard sighed. He decided upon a new approach.
‘Sit down, boy,’ he said. ‘And let me tell you some history.’
Though it was against his nature to do as he was told, Blart found himself obeying. His grandfather sat down too, though he made sure he pulled his chair well away from the table.
‘Now,’ began Capablanca, ‘we must go back far into the past.’
Blart sighed. This didn’t sound much fun.
‘A long time ago, at the dawn of time, the earth was made by the Creator, and soon after he created seven lords in human form to oversee the development of the world. These lords were Andromeda, Baikal, Centaur, Dub, Efcheresto, Fluther and Zoltab. The Creator made these lords immortal, trained them himself and, when their training was complete, divided the world into seven great sectors and gave each of the lords one to administer. But he made them all swear a solemn oath that they would work only for the good of mankind but without ever interfering directly in their affairs, that they would never try to use their power for their own glory and that they would never under any circumstances attempt to take on human form and stalk the earth as men. To this they all agreed. The Creator departed and left the world in their hands. All seemed well. But one lord did not abide by his word. Zoltab was tempted by power and by evil. Nobody is sure why, but it is suggested that he first became frustrated because his name was last on the register at the Creator’s training school and he developed an inferiority complex. We will never know for sure. Zoltab broke his oath and tried to use his power for his own glory and to raise himself to the status of the Creator and have men worship him. There was a terrible battle with the other lords. Zoltab was defeated, but the other lords could not kill him because he was immortal so they imprisoned him deep in the bowels of the earth. Once more, all seemed well.’
‘I do like a happy ending,’ said Blart’s grandfather. ‘It rounds off a story nicely and sends you off to bed with a warm feeling.’
‘Stay, old man,’ said Capablanca. ‘For this story has no end.’
‘Modern, is it?’ said Blart’s grandfather disapprovingly.
‘It is both ancient and modern,’ replied Capablanca gnomically. ‘Know ye that some foolish men did band together and work for the return of Zoltab. For many centuries the Cult of Zoltab has worked in secret, sending out Ministers to convert others to their evil cause through lies and cunning and deceit. Their influence has steadily increased until today they lie poised to take power throughout the world. They await only one thing – the return of Zoltab. And his return is near because for all these centuries the Minions of Zoltab have been digging to free him. They have died in their thousands but they have continued to dig. And so they have created the Great Tunnel of Despair which soon – how soon I do not know, but very soon, mark you – will reach Zoltab in his underground prison. They will free him and he will rise filled with vengeance after enduring aeons of confinement, attempt to take control of the world, and there will be famine and disease and pestilence and death. This must be prevented and in order to prevent it Blart must come with me to do battle against the Ministers and Minions of Zoltab and to place a Cap of Eternal Doom on the Great Tunnel of Despair. So concludes my sobering narrative.’
There was silence at the table, broken only briefly by a belch from Blart that he did not attempt to cover with his hand. Finally, Blart’s grandfather spoke.
‘It’s a good tale that you tell, I’ll not deny that, but it seems to me that there are a few holes in it.’
‘Holes!’ The wizard was outraged. ‘Old man, let me tell you that I have spent hours and hours in the Cavernous Library of Ping, which contains so many books that if you stuck them end to end they would reach into the heavens and touch the most distant stars. For ten long years I have worked in that library from dawn until dusk. I have concocted my narrative from thousands of different sources, checking and cross-referencing each event dozens of times.’
‘Well, I say there’s holes,’ insisted Blart’s grandfather. ‘And stop calling me “Old Man”. I’m in late middle age. You talk about the return of Zoltab as though it were a big problem and that there’ll be death and disease and famine and the other thing.’
‘Pestilence.’
‘Yes, peskyness or whatever. But what about these six other lords? They got rid of Zoltab before. They’ll just do it again, won’t they?’
‘Ah,’ said Capablanca with the smug air of a man who knew that he had an answer. ‘The first time Zoltab broke his word and attempted to use his power for his own glory he did so by himself. It was his idea. Therefore the lords could act against him. This time man is acting to bring Zoltab back. The lords cannot act for to do so would be to intervene in the affairs of men. What man has done only man himself can undo.’
‘Oh,’ said Blart’s grandfather, who didn’t think Capablanca needed to look quite so pleased with himself.
‘Your next hole?’ said Capablanca.
‘Oh, right,’ said Blart’s grandfather, who was a little less confident this time. ‘Well, look at Blart.’ The wizard looked, though not for long. Blart’s mouth hung open and his tongue hung loosely out of it. He resembled a rather stupid dog. ‘Now, you’ve been talking about Dark Lords and magic and Cults and Ministers and stuff. It all sounds a bit above the boy’s head to me. Don’t get me wrong, he’s good with the pigs. But that’s about all.’
‘Ah,’ said Capablanca with a look of self-satisfaction on his face. ‘In my researches at the Cavernous Library of Ping I discovered reference to an ancient text rumoured to have been written by the ancient soothsayer Reti in the ice-covered land of Hypermodernia. From it I found out many things, but most important of all I discovered that a lord in human form can only be vanquished by a human whose ancestors are the first-born son (or daughter) of a first-born son (or daughter) of a first-born son (or daughter) and so on going back and back to the dawn of time. For another twenty years I searched, roaming far and wide, examining graveyards and church records in many lands. I could not find such a man until finally I stumbled upon the records of an obscure and unremarkable family, some might even say insignificant –’
‘Steady,’ said Blart’s grandfather, but the wizard was too engrossed in his story to listen.
‘I traced it back and back and back to the dawn of time and then forward and forward and forward to make sure I hadn’t made any mistakes and then I came here. For Blart is the first-born son of the first-born son of the –’
‘I see,’ said Blart’s grandfather testily.
‘And this is what brings me to your isolated pig farm. To take Blart with me to the Great Tunnel of Despair to face and defeat Zoltab and his Ministers.’
There was a silence after that whilst both Capablanca and Blart’s grandfather looked questioningly at Blart.
‘Blart,’ said Capablanca. ‘Having heard what I have said and having discovered that you are a chosen one amongst legion of others, will you reconsider your decision and accompany me?’
‘No,’ said Blart. ‘I’m not going. Especially now I know that you’re boring as well as everything else. I’m going to bed.’
And with that the last hope of humanity got down from his chair and stomped upstairs, burping loudly and repeatedly.
‘Well,’ said Blart’s grandfather, standing up and indicating that it was time for his guest to go. ‘You can’t say you didn’t try. Goodnight.’
The wizard was ushered into the cold nig
ht air, the farmhouse door was shut behind him and mankind was doomed.
Chapter 3
Except, of course that it wasn’t. For Capablanca had not spent decades in the Cavernous Library of Ping seeking ancient texts and tracing back innumerable family trees merely to go away because Blart said no. He spent a night out in the open with only his cloak to protect him and got very cold, which did nothing to improve his temper. When the first cock crowed, he got straight up, marched to the farmhouse door and rapped firmly upon it. After a time it was answered by Blart’s grandfather. Capablanca gave Blart’s grandfather a small bag. Whatever was in it made Blart’s grandfather fling the door wide open and usher the wizard in.
Blart had heard the knock on the farmhouse door but he had thought that he’d leave his grandfather to answer it, even though he knew his grandfather’s knees were not what they were and it didn’t do him any good to be rushing downstairs at his age. Blart had snuggled down deeper into his bed and closed his eyes and dropped immediately into a deep sleep.
Which is of course why he had no warning when his bedroom door was thrown open, his blanket pulled back and he was lifted into the air and placed firmly over the shoulder of the wizard who marched out of the room, down the stairs and out through the kitchen door, not caring one jot how many times Blart banged himself against the walls along the way.
At first, Blart was too surprised and too bleary-eyed to do anything. However, by the time they had reached the kitchen he had caught on to the fact that he was firstly, upside down and secondly, in trouble.
‘Put me down!’ he shouted.
Capablanca did not respond. Instead he began whistling.
‘Help me!’ said Blart, catching sight of his grandfather who was standing by the gate looking lovingly at the contents of a small bag that seemed to glisten in the morning sun.
But Blart’s grandfather didn’t help him. Instead he opened the gate for the wizard and saluted him as he strode past.
‘Grandfather,’ said Blart in dismay as he was dragged past him.
‘Goodbye, Blart,’ said his grandfather, waving to him. ‘Don’t forget to write. Oh, you can’t, can you?’
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