The Boy Who Didn't Want to Save the World

by Dominic Barker

  Perched on the edge of the water was a tiny village. A harbour sheltered the village from the sea and a jolly red fishing boat was sailing towards it. Smoke rose from some of the chimneys and dogs and children could be seen scampering hither and thither in some impenetrable game that only they knew the rules to. The strong yet soft colours of the scene blended together so effortlessly that the works of nature and the works of mankind seemed to be in complete harmony.

  ‘There,’ said Capablanca with a hint of wonder in his voice. ‘This is what we are fighting to save.’

  ‘Indeed we are,’ said Beo supportingly.

  ‘It’s boring,’ said Blart. ‘Boring old green and brown and blue.’

  ‘Boring?’ exploded Capablanca, who liked his beauty spots. ‘Boring? This, lad, this is beauty.’

  ‘I like pigs better,’ said Blart.

  ‘Grrr,’ said Capablanca, who was wondering if he hadn’t made a mistake in his research at the Cavernous Library of Ping. After all, his eyes weren’t what they were. Could Blart really be the boy to save the world?

  Chapter 11

  Well, if he wasn’t, it was too late now, Capablanca told himself glumly as they trotted into the village of Clegarn. Zoltab’s minion had said that his master would soon be rising from his underground prison and it would take far too long to read all the books again. Ten years too long.

  As they entered the village, the children stopped their games. The sight of two men and a boy riding the biggest horse they had ever seen proved much more attractive than repeatedly running round in circles shouting, ‘You’re it now.’ Somehow word spread, as word often does mysteriously spread in small villages, and the children’s mothers appeared in their doorways to see the magnificent beast.

  Blart had never seen people look at him like this. They seemed to be impressed. He swelled out his chest and held his head high as he pretended not to be listening to the complimentary remarks that came from the people they passed.

  ‘He’s amazing.’

  ‘He’s handsome.’

  ‘He’s powerful.’

  ‘Shame about the ugly kid on his back.’

  Blart chose to ignore that last remark. They stopped at what appeared to be the centre of the village. You could tell it was the centre of the village because there was some sort of small plinth there and a shifty group of men leaning against it. As they climbed down from the horse one of the men detached himself from the group and slunk over to them.

  ‘What did you pay for that horse?’ he demanded of the wizard.

  Capablanca was taken aback by this forward question.

  ‘Why … er … well … nothing.’

  ‘You was robbed,’ the man informed him.

  ‘Oh,’ said Capablanca, rather confused.

  ‘I’ll take him off your hands,’ offered the man.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Big horse like that must eat a lot. But I like horses and I’m a kind man so I’ll look after him.’

  ‘We want to keep him,’ Capablanca insisted.

  ‘I’ll give you one crown, then, to show my goodwill.’

  ‘But we don’t –’ began Capablanca, but he was overtaken by an outraged roar from Beo.

  ‘One crown?’ yelled Beo indignantly. ‘This horse is worth a hundred crowns.’

  The man smiled broadly and transferred his attention to the warrior.

  ‘Ten,’ he said.

  ‘Ten?’ said Beo.

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘He’s not for sale,’ insisted Capablanca.

  The man ignored the wizard and continued to talk to Beowulf.

  ‘Now, how’s about you and I go into that tavern and have a little drink and we can discuss this matter further.’

  ‘A drink would be nice,’ agreed Beo.

  ‘He’s not for sale,’ repeated Capablanca.

  ‘I’ll just have one,’ said Beo, ‘whilst you’re getting the supplies.’

  ‘Sell that horse and you’ll spend the rest of your life croaking,’ threatened Capablanca.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Beo, and he headed off to the tavern with the man, who seemed to laugh very loudly at everything the warrior said, which shows that a sense of humour is a very personal thing.

  The wizard shook his head.

  ‘Right,’ he said to Blart. ‘I’m going to buy some food and a saddle. You stay here and look after Pig.’

  The wizard headed off to the two shops in the village, one of which sold food and one of which sold saddles, which was very convenient.

  Blart stood by the horse. The men leaning against the monument all stared at him. He turned away. The women in their doorways all stared at him. He turned away again. All the children were on the other side of the little square and they were staring at him. Blart looked down at the ground. It may have been his imagination but he had the distinct feeling that the ground was staring at him.

  And then, whilst he was looking at the ground and feeling very uncomfortable, he was struck by an idea. This didn’t happen often to Blart and so it shocked him rather like a sudden punch in the face would shock most of us. He staggered to one side with the force of it.

  ‘He’s going to fall over,’ commented one of the children hopefully.

  The idea was this. He could get on Pig and ride off. They’d never catch him on Pig. Pig was the fastest horse in the world. And then when he got somewhere he could sell him and get ten or twenty crowns for him like the man had said. That was where the idea stopped.

  With a huge effort, for as we know Pig was very big, Blart hoisted himself up on to the horse’s back.

  Once he was high up he no longer minded people staring at him. In fact, he rather liked it. He met the gaze of the watchers with a haughty glare of disdain, revelling in his superiority over all of them.

  ‘Come on, Pig,’ he whispered, and the great horse began to move, gathering speed as it moved to the edge of the little square. Blart felt a rush of happiness. He was free. He wasn’t going to have to save the world or face things like perils. He was going to get thirty crowns for his horse and spend it all on himself. He was …

  Face down in a puddle and everybody was laughing at him.

  You see, what Blart had not had the foresight to see was that if a wizard could put a spell on him, making his legs trip him up as he ran away, he could do the same to a horse.

  And he had.

  Blart lay in the puddle hearing the sounds of laughter all around him. This was obviously the funniest thing that had happened in the village for a very long time. The laughter that echoed around Blart was not the sort that explodes and then dwindles down to a giggle very quickly. No. This was the sort of laughter that rolled over him in waves, and whenever it seemed to be on the point of disappearing it would suddenly rise again to a howl as one person remembered how funny it had looked to see the horse stumble strangely and Blart fly over his head, his big proud smirk suddenly altered to an expression of abject panic and fear and then disappearing altogether with a dramatic splash into the only puddle in the whole place.

  Blart’s reaction was totally understandable in the circumstances. He resolved to keep his face in the puddle and then he would never have to look at all the people who were laughing at him. Understandable, but essentially impractical.

  So he raised his head and the sight of his muddied face was enough to set the crowd off again. He noticed Capablanca coming out of the saddlery. Dolefully, he stood up and led Pig the Horse back to the wizard.

  ‘I got the only three-person saddle they had left,’ the wizard informed an uninterested Blart. ‘They’re the only people in the whole country who make three-person saddles so we’re very lucky.’

  Blart did not respond.

  ‘I might as well talk to myself,’ said Capablanca, throwing the saddle on to the back of Pig the Horse.

  ‘I’m all wet,’ Blart blurted out.

  ‘Listen, lad,’ said Capablanca as he secured the saddle. ‘The sooner you get used to the idea that you’re
going to save the world, the drier you’ll be. Now come with me. We must go to pay our respects to the ex-wizard Nimzovitsch.’

  ‘What about Beo?’ asked Blart.

  ‘We’ll come back for him later,’ said Capablanca. ‘Nimzovitsch lives in a small cottage just outside the village, and Beo isn’t at his best in small places. He tends to destroy them.’

  Chapter 12

  Together they rode out of the village until they saw a little cottage in the distance.

  ‘Can you think of a more pleasant place to retire to?’ observed Capablanca.

  They rode closer. The cottage became less idyllic the nearer they got. The front gate was off its hinges, the windows were cracked, and the garden was overgrown with weeds and nettles.

  ‘Come on, Pig,’ Capablanca urged the horse. ‘I fear foul play. Zoltab’s minions may have been here.’

  ‘They might still be there,’ pointed out Blart. ‘Maybe we should leave them alone.’

  ‘Coward,’ said Capablanca. ‘I have bonds of honour to Nimzovitsch. When I was a young sorceror he tutored me in much wizard lore. It would be an act of shame not to come to his aid now.’

  ‘I can live with shame,’ said Blart.

  When they reached the gate they dismounted. That is, Capablanca dismounted and then pulled Blart off after him.

  ‘Let us approach the house carefully,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Let’s not approach at all,’ suggested Blart.

  A faint cry emerged from the cottage just as he finished speaking.

  ‘What was that?’ said the wizard.

  They both listened.

  ‘Help,’ came the quavering cry once again.

  ‘I can’t make out what he’s saying,’ said Capablanca, whose ears were not as keen as Blart’s.

  ‘I think he said “Go away”,’ said Blart.

  Capablanca looked puzzled.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The cry came again but this time it was louder, as though the frail owner of the voice was putting every last ounce of effort into attracting attention.

  ‘Help!’

  This time Capablanca heard for himself. He looked accusingly at Blart.

  ‘He must have changed his mind,’ said Blart innocently.

  Capablanca grasped Blart by the ear and pulled him towards the door of the cottage. At the door they stopped.

  ‘We must be careful,’ said Capablanca. ‘Zoltab’s minions could be waiting.’

  Capablanca opened the door and peered in. He could see nothing. The room was filled with steam.

  ‘Help!’

  ‘Don’t answer,’ whispered Capablanca to Blart. ‘The steam could be a ruse to hide Zoltab’s minions so they can ambush us.’

  Blart nodded to show he understood.

  Capablanca took a step forward. Blart took a step forward. Capablanca took another step forward. So did Blart, hitting a large piece of furniture as he did so.

  ‘Ow!’ said Blart loudly.

  ‘Ssssh,’ hissed Capablanca.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said the voice that had cried for help. ‘Identify yourself, or I shall turn you into a rat.’

  Capablanca didn’t answer straight away. If Zoltab’s minions were waiting to ambush them, then identifying himself could be very risky. But then being turned into a rat didn’t appeal much either.

  Blart, however, piped up immediately.

  ‘My name’s Blart. I look after pigs and I’m with Capablanca who doesn’t.’

  Capablanca bristled at this description. As the greatest sorcerer in the world he wasn’t used to being described as someone who didn’t look after pigs.

  ‘Capablanca,’ said the voice. ‘Capablanca. Is it really you?’

  The steam was beginning to dissipate through the open door and the details of the room were gradually appearing.

  ‘Yes,’ said Capablanca.

  The steam continued to disappear and Blart and Capablanca were now able to see that they were standing in a kitchen. On the stove there was a pot from which the steam was pouring. And on the kitchen floor was a frail old man. And on top of the frail old man was a huge white blob of sticky goo that was pinning him to the floor.

  ‘Nimzovitsch!’ cried Capablanca. ‘What has happened to you? Who has done this to you?’

  ‘Get it off me,’ said Nimzovitsch.

  ‘Blart,’ commanded Capablanca, ‘take the pot off the stove while I assist Nimzovitsch.’

  Blart did as he was told even though it cost him a burn on his hand. Meanwhile, Capablanca knelt by the wizard and began to pull the huge blob of white goo off him handful by sticky handful.

  ‘I will find and punish whoever has done this to you,’ Capablanca assured Nimzovitsch. ‘No wizard can be treated like this. Blart. Help with this goo.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ said Blart. ‘It will get on my clothes.’

  This was the first time in his life that Blart had shown the slightest concern about getting dirty.

  ‘There is an old wizard who needs your assistance,’ said Capablanca. ‘You are a young boy. It is your duty to help and respect your elders.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that is what people who have embarked on noble quests do. They help others.’

  Blart looked unsure.

  ‘Or they get turned into rats,’ added Nimzovitsch from his prone position.

  Reluctantly Blart knelt down and began to scrape the goo off the old wizard. And once more the stick had worked where the carrot had failed.

  A few minutes later, they had managed to pull off enough white goo to allow the wizard to stand up. Capablanca helped him to his feet.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ Capablanca asked. ‘Was it Zoltab’s evil minions?’

  Nimzovitsch didn’t answer straight away.

  ‘Do not be afeared to speak,’ said Capablanca. ‘I am on my way to defeat Zoltab’s minions. If they have humiliated you then defeating them will give me even greater pleasure. Can you tell me their names or what they looked like?’

  Nimzovitsch looked a little sheepish.

  ‘You must tell me,’ said Capablanca. ‘Everything I can learn about my adversaries will assist me in my great quest.’

  Nimzovitsch sighed and then he spoke in a thin, reedy voice.

  ‘I was making stew,’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Capablanca. This was not the answer he had been expecting.

  ‘I was making beef stew,’ repeated Nimzovitsch. ‘And I thought to myself, “What goes nicely with beef stew?”’

  Capablanca was too astonished by the turn the conversation had taken to answer.

  ‘And then,’ continued Nimzovitsch, ‘I thought to myself “Dumplings”.’

  ‘Dumplings,’ repeated Capablanca.

  ‘Dumplings,’ confirmed Nimzovitsch. ‘So I prepared my dumplings. But when I had prepared them they were too small and I hate small dumplings. I decided to make some new ones. But I had run out of ingredients. I thought to myself, “How else can I make small dumplings into big dumplings?”’

  The bizarre speech from the old wizard had left Blart and Capablanca dumbfounded.

  ‘“I know,” I said to myself,’ continued Nimzovitsch, “I will cast an enlargement spell on the dumplings and they will grow.” So I did. But something seems to have gone awry for the dumpling increased vastly in size, shattered the bowl I was holding it in and pinned me to the floor. And then the dumpling kept growing because I couldn’t remember how to stop the spell. Meanwhile the stew boiled dry on the stove and filled the room with steam. If you hadn’t come, I would have been smothered by my own supper.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just mix the small dumplings together until they became one big dumpling?’ suggested Blart.

  Nimzovitsch considered the suggestion and his face became angry. No wizard likes being made a fool of by a young lad.

  ‘It’s all very easy being wise after the event,’ he said irritatedly. ‘I was faced with a tricky culinary dilemma.’
>
  ‘I’m sure you were,’ said Capablanca soothingly.

  ‘I think you’re stupid,’ observed Blart less soothingly.

  ‘Be quiet,’ Capablanca snapped. ‘One day you too may be old and a little confused.’

  And it is true that wizards are not free of the absent-mindedness and general befuddlement that can come with age. However, in their case a little confusion can have far more drastic consequences. A little slip-up when saying a spell, and suddenly they can turn themselves into toads and ruin what could have been a very happy retirement. It is for this reason that retired wizards are encouraged to avoid using magic.

  ‘Let us sit down and talk,’ Capablanca said to the old wizard. ‘Blart. In payment for your rudeness you may clean the kitchen floor.’

  ‘Why should I?’ demanded Blart. ‘He made the mess. He should clear it up.’

  ‘If you don’t then I’ll let him cast his next spell on you,’ threatened Capablanca.

  Blart considered. If Nimzovitsch could make this much mess with a dumpling, imagine what he could do to him. Blart decided to do some cleaning.

  Meanwhile Capablanca and Nimzovitsch retired to Nimzovitsch’s study for a talk.

  Capablanca emerged just as Blart was wiping up the last of the goo.

  ‘We must go without delay,’ he informed Blart.

  ‘Why?’ said Blart, who wouldn’t have minded a brief rest after his exertions.

  ‘Nimzovitsch tells me that from rumours he has heard in the village it is likely that Zoltab’s minions are closer to their goal of releasing Zoltab than I had previously thought.’

  ‘What are you listening to him for?’ demanded Blart. ‘He’s just nearly killed himself with his own dinner. He probably doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘He is of sound mind,’ insisted Capablanca. ‘He simply makes occasional mistakes. But he has given me an idea that might help us speed up our progress and give us more chance of preventing Zoltab’s return.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s …’ began Capablanca. And then he stopped and looked doubtful. ‘I don’t have time to tell you now,’ he continued brusquely. ‘We must return to the village and collect Beowulf. Nimzovitsch fears that there may be minions of Zoltab there already who will take note of every stranger that passes through.’