And with that Blart’s grandfather shut the gate and walked back towards the farmhouse, counting his gold again and again and again.
Onward strode Capablanca. Looking at him you’d be surprised to think that he could carry a burly fourteen-year-old boy over his shoulder quite so easily, especially when the fourteen-year-old boy in question was screaming and kicking. However, Capablanca had spent many a day in the frozen wastes of Hypermodernia and the experience had toughened him up.
As they approached the nearby village even Blart began to realise that he was not going to be able to free himself from the wizard’s grip. He therefore put all his efforts into shouting for assistance.
‘Help!’ cried Blart. ‘Help, I’m being …’
‘Kidnapped’ would have been a good word to use at the end of this sentence. ‘Abducted’ would have fitted just as well. Unfortunately, Blart knew neither of these words and so was unable to alert the villagers to his plight.
‘Help! I’m being something I don’t know the word for!’
Blart’s shouts grew fainter as Capablanca carried him off into the distance.
Eventually the wizard put Blart down. They were by now a good way from anywhere Blart knew. However, there was only one road and he assumed that if he walked back the way they’d come then at some point he would return to his village. This was the first time that Blart had ever thought so deeply about anything and actually reached the level of forming a plan. Unfortunately for Blart, his method of distracting the wizard was not so foolproof.
‘Look, a flying pig,’ said Blart, pointing behind Capablanca who had sat down on a nearby bank of grass. The wizard turned round to look. Blart immediately sprinted down the muddy road in the direction from which they had just come. He had been carried all morning so he wasn’t at all tired.
He had run a good distance before the wizard turned round again. If anyone else had been there at the time they might have noticed a smile flick across the lips of Capablanca as he watched Blart disappear down the road. And then suddenly he was very still, and blue fire flashed briefly from his eyes. In the distance, Blart tripped up and fell on his face in the mud. He stood up, started to run and immediately fell on his face in the mud again. Again he got up. Again he tried to run away. Again his legs got muddled up and he fell on his face in the mud. He got up and did the whole thing again. And again. And again.
After falling over twenty times, Blart paused to think. He turned round to look at Capablanca. Capablanca waved to him. Blart took a few steps towards him. Nothing happened. He didn’t fall in any mud. He turned round and walked away from the wizard. Within three steps one leg had tripped the other leg up and he was back in his familiar position – face down in the mud. He did the same thing again. Towards the wizard – no problem; away from the wizard – face down in the mud. With a sigh he picked himself up and stomped back towards Capablanca.
‘What have you done to my legs?’ demanded Blart.
‘Your legs?’
‘My legs won’t work properly.’
‘They look fine to me.’
‘That’s when I walk this way. When I walk away from you I fall over.’
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t walk away from me then,’ observed Capablanca mildly.
‘You shouldn’t mess with legs,’ Blart said bitterly. ‘Legs aren’t fair. You make me come away from my pigs and then you make my legs not work properly. This is a rotten day.’
Blart, who was never very good at feeling sorry for others, was extremely good at feeling sorry for himself. He began to cry. Then he began to howl. Then he lay down on the ground and kicked his legs in the air. This really is quite shocking behaviour for a potential hero, as I’m sure you’ll agree.
Whilst Blart is sobbing, perhaps this would be an ideal time to clear up something that may have been bothering the more alert amongst you. Blart, you remember, was pulled from his bed by the wizard and carted off to save the world without any opportunity of dressing himself. Some people may be worried that Blart is now weeping in the mud wearing only his pyjamas. Allow me to put your minds at rest. Blart was a lazy boy and he chose, rather than expend unnecessary energy in removing his clothes, to sleep in them, despite them being encrusted in mud and pig droppings, so he was perfectly prepared to embark on his adventure when gathered up by the wizard. Perfectly prepared, but smelly.
Eventually Blart recognised that tears weren’t going to do the trick. He stopped crying, rolled over and looked sulkily at the wizard, who smiled cheerily back at him.
‘Finished, have we? That’s good. Come on.’
‘I’m staying here,’ said Blart.
‘All right. Suit yourself,’ said Capablanca, and he strode off.
Blart couldn’t believe it. After all that trouble the wizard was leaving him behind. He’d given up. Blart was free. He watched Capablanca continue to stride into the distance. He walked even faster now he didn’t have a large fourteen-year-old boy on his back. Soon he would vanish.
Blart’s happiness began to ebb away. There was something wrong. He knew it. If only he could work out what it was. Blart kept thinking. The wizard kept walking. Step by step Blart worked out what was wrong. If he walked away from the wizard he fell over almost immediately, so he couldn’t do that. If he stayed where he was he would eventually die of hunger, and he didn’t like the sound of that. There was only one option left – to follow the wizard, who was disappearing into the distance at that very moment.
Blart got up and, without even pausing to wipe the mud off himself, charged after the wizard.
Chapter 4
All day Blart and Capablanca walked. Through valleys, across streams, up hill and down dale. They passed clusters of little houses with children playing outside and isolated farms where men scythed the grass or ploughed the fields or simply leant against the fence, a stick of straw in their mouths, watching them walk by.
This would have been an ideal opportunity for Blart to study the beauty of the natural world in places he had never visited before. To observe the differences and the similarities and to wonder at the size of a world he had never previously considered. But instead Blart moaned and stared at the ground, unless they happened to be passing some small children in which case he immediately bent down and scooped up some stones to throw at them. Or when they passed a farmer, Blart would pull a horrible face. When he made an effort to look repulsive the effect was truly startling.
As the day drew towards its close and the sun’s power began to wane and their shadows became longer, Blart’s mind turned once more to his own needs.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said.
‘Hmmm,’ said Capablanca, who was thinking deep thoughts.
‘I want some food,’ demanded Blart.
‘All right,’ said Capablanca, and he pointed towards a building in the next valley with smoke puffing steadily from its chimney. ‘There’s food waiting for us down there.’
‘Why is it waiting for us?’ Blart persisted. ‘Did it know we were coming?’
‘It’s an inn,’ explained Capablanca. ‘Like a tavern. They sell food.’
Blart looked uncomprehending. His grandfather had never told him about inns and taverns, working on the principle that if Blart didn’t know they existed he could never ask to be taken to one on his eighteenth birthday. Blart’s grandfather was a mean man who planned ahead.
‘Oh, just follow me,’ said Capablanca in exasperation.
And with that he marched down the hill towards the tavern. And Blart who, as we know, didn’t have any choice in the matter, followed him.
The Jolly Murderers was an inn with a fine reputation. It served tasty food in large portions in a room dominated by a roaring turf fire. It had a wide range of ales and it had comfy beds that were available at cheap prices. It had stood alone in this small valley for as long as anybody could remember and was frequented by all manner of travellers, some on honest business and some on business that they were less willing to talk about in detail. It wa
s the sort of place Blart had never seen before in his life.
It was not surprising, therefore, that his immediate reaction was one of criticism.
‘Yuck,’ he said as the wizard led him into the bar. ‘It’s dirty and smelly and horrible.’
‘Hush,’ said Capablanca sternly. Inns and taverns are notoriously easy places to get into fights if you start saying rude things about them.
Capablanca strode up to the bar.
‘Landlord,’ he shouted.
From the back of the tavern a man emerged. He was thin and pale and his greasy hair hung lankly from his head. Capablanca looked puzzled.
‘Where is Mr Cheery?’ he asked.
‘Dunno. He retired,’ replied the landlord.
‘Retired?’ repeated Capablanca. ‘But he was but young. He wouldn’t have retired.’
‘You calling me a liar?’ asked the landlord, with an aggressive leer that revealed a mouth half full of yellow teeth.
‘No,’ said Capablanca hurriedly. ‘But all –’
‘Do you want a drink or not?’ said the landlord.
‘Yes. I’ll have a pint of your best ale and a glass of water for the boy and two of your superb hot pies for which this hostelry is justly renowned. And we will want a room for the night.’
The landlord disappeared. Capablanca looked around the bar with a mystified expression on his face.
‘Retired?’ he mused to himself. ‘Strange.’
‘Oi,’ said Blart, giving him a prod in the arm. ‘I don’t want water. I want –’
‘Not now,’ said Capablanca. ‘Can you not see that I have to think?’
In fact the wizard didn’t have to think, but he didn’t want to listen to Blart.
They found themselves a table and soon the shifty-looking landlord returned carrying a tray with two pies, a glass of water and a tankard of ale. Unfortunately, the disappearance of Mr Cheery was not the only change to come over The Jolly Murderers. In his absence the inn had swiftly gone downhill. The pies were small and lukewarm rather than big and hot, and filled with gristle rather than succulent cubes of meat. The ale was vinegary. Blart’s water, however, was as good as it had been in Cheery’s day, but that wasn’t much consolation.
The poor quality of the food did not stop them eating it though. Having missed breakfast, this was Blart’s first meal of the day and Capablanca was just as ravenous. Neither of them spoke as they ferociously attacked their pies. They overloaded their forks. They chewed with their mouths open. They refilled their mouths before they had emptied them and, to top it off, Blart ended the meal with one of his trademark burps so loud that it echoed off the surrounding walls, drawing stares from all the other drinkers. In all it had taken less than five minutes for them to empty their bowls entirely. The wizard had just decided that a complaint against the standard of the food was not going to get a sympathetic hearing in the face of this evidence when there was a bang and the door flew open and smashed against the wall. Its lower hinge snapped off and flew across the room, hitting the pub dog, Noose, who was lying innocently in front of the fire. Noose began to howl, but nobody paid any attention for all eyes were turned to the doorway to see what came through it.
Chapter 5
It was a tight squeeze but through the door came a big, bronzed, burly, bearded warrior. Even Blart could tell he was a warrior because on his back he carried the biggest sword that Blart had ever seen.
‘Greetings,’ hollered the big, bronzed, burly, bearded warrior.
‘You’ve broken my door,’ said the lank-haired landlord, who had emerged from the back of the bar at the sound of the warrior’s arrival.
‘Tush and pish,’ responded the warrior. ‘I gave it a mere tap and it splintered into matchwood. ’Tis no fault of mine.’
‘It’s going on your bill,’ said the landlord.
The warrior had so far made no further progress in entering the room and it soon became obvious why. His huge sword had caught on the doorframe and he was having trouble manoeuvering it in.
‘Blast this door! What sort of tiny door is this for an alehouse?’ he demanded of the landlord. ‘Is it mice and midgets you be hoping to attract with a door like this?’
The warrior bent down and wriggled his bottom in a most undignified way. Then he bobbed up and down a couple of times and suddenly shot through the door, falling flat on his face. He jumped to his feet surprisingly quickly for such a big man.
‘Who laughed at me?’ he said accusingly, bending down and pulling a small dagger from the inside of his boot. ‘The man who laughed at me has laughed his last laugh, for sure. He will not giggle again this side of hell, no, he won’t. Is that a smirk I see before me?’ he demanded of a small nervous-looking man in the corner.
The nervous-looking man looked away.
‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Now, is there anybody here who wants a fight?’ demanded the warrior.
Blart suddenly saw his chance to escape from the wizard and to rid himself of the onerous task of having to save the world.
‘He does,’ he announced, pointing at Capablanca. ‘He was laughing when you came in.’
‘Who dares do such a thing?’ bellowed the warrior. ‘You in the cowl.’ The warrior indicated Capablanca. ‘Go down on your knees and make your peace with God before I chop you into pieces myself.’
The warrior advanced towards Capablanca. The wizard showed no signs of moving. Blart held his breath and wondered if it was wrong to get somebody killed needlessly. The warrior raised his dagger high. Blart decided that on the whole he felt he could live with the guilt.
‘Good evening, Beowulf.’
The warrior stopped.
‘Capablanca?’
The wizard nodded calmly.
‘I heard you were dead.’
‘People exaggerate,’ observed Capablanca. ‘But it has been a long time.’
‘So long I did not recognise you,’ replied the warrior. ‘Many years since we fought side by side against the skeleton hordes at the Battle of Longbarrow Hill.’
‘Many,’ agreed Capablanca.
‘Ay, those were the days, my friend,’ said the warrior wistfully. ‘But what changes have come over us all. Even you, the great Capablanca, now amuse yourself in a tavern laughing at warriors falling over.’
‘I’m afraid my little friend strayed from the truth when he told you that,’ corrected the wizard.
Blart felt an urgent need to be somewhere else. What were the chances, he asked himself, that they’d know each other? The warrior’s grip on his knife tightened.
‘Could you put the knife down?’ asked Capablanca gently. ‘It’s putting the other customers off their drinks.’
‘What, this puny thing?’ said Beowulf, looking at his knife as though it were as dangerous as an uncooked sausage. ‘Of course I’ll put it away. Once it’s done its job.’
A big slab of hand shot out, grabbed Blart and pulled him across the table. Blart found himself lying face upward with a knife across his neck.
‘I shall separate this boy’s head from the rest of him. Boys who tell lies should be decapitated,’ growled Beowulf.
‘Eeeek,’ screeched Blart.
‘Say your prayers, boy,’ ordered the warrior gruffly. ‘I am feeling kind so I will not damn thee to hell.’
‘I don’t know any prayers,’ squeaked Blart.
‘What?’ bellowed Beowulf, but Blart felt the warrior’s grip on his neck slacken slightly. ‘You don’t know any prayers? What sort of upbringing have you had, lad? Go away and learn some. And when you’ve learnt some come back and I will kill thee then,’ he boomed, pushing Blart on to the floor.
‘Ow,’ groaned Blart as his body smashed on to the hard stone slabs, but neither Capablanca nor Beowulf took any notice. Blart resolved never to learn a prayer in his life because it would mean his instant death. And so yet another young soul was lost to the Church.
‘Landlord!’ yelled Beowulf. ‘Some ale and some food. I have a mighty
hunger and a powerful thirst about me.’
The landlord moved like greasy lightning behind the bar.
‘What brings thee here, oh, Beowulf the Warrior?’ said Capablanca.
‘Call me Beo,’ said Beowulf with a gruff smile. ‘There is no need for formality between us.’
Capablanca nodded.
‘Ah, Wizard,’ Beo shook his head in sadness. ‘You see before you a frustrated man. There are no deeds of chivalry left to do. No damsels locked in castles. No dragons. The Holy Grail has been found. Even if some kind of gallant adventure comes up, before a man can get his armour on and mount his trusty steed there are a hundred knights ahead of him. We’ve a terrible problem with over-manning.’
Capablanca looked sympathetic.
‘And so I’m reduced to debt collecting. I’ve tried other things but when you’ve got your own weapon and your only qualification is a lust for blood it’s all that’s open to you.’
Capablanca shook his head.
‘Take it from me, Wizard. There’s nobody who enjoys grinding the faces of the poor less than I do.’ For a moment Beo looked doubtful. ‘Except perhaps the poor themselves. But what can I do? If only I had a quest.’
It is not often that a person is in a position to be the answer to another’s fervent wish. Capablanca savoured his moment whilst Beo gloomily contemplated the state of his existence.
‘I have a quest for you.’
Beowulf’s eyes lit up immediately.
‘You do?’
Capablanca nodded. An eager smile broke out on Beowulf’s face.
‘Is there a dragon?’ he asked.
Capablanca shook his head. Beo didn’t seem to mind.
‘A damsel in distress?’
Capablanca shook his head again. Beo seemed a little disappointed.
‘A grail?’ he said hopefully.
‘None of them,’ said Capablanca. Beowulf’s face fell considerably.
‘Don’t mess with me, Wizard,’ Beo said menacingly. ‘Don’t be saying this is a quest when all it is is a journey. I’m not one who enjoys being messed about. Be straight with me and I’ll be straight with you. But be crooked with me and you’ll be dealing with cold steel.’
The Boy Who Didn't Want to Save the World Page 2