The Boy Who Didn't Want to Save the World

by Dominic Barker

  And in front of them they saw the end of their journey (not the end of their quest – that’s something entirely different). For in front of them they saw a beach. A beach of golden sand. And on that beach there were palm trees. Palm trees that swayed easily in the warm breeze. And beyond that beach there were sand dunes. And beyond those sand dunes were fields. Lush fields in which industrious farmers threshed and scythed and ploughed and sowed and reaped. And beyond those fields were orchards. And in those orchards fruit of all kinds grew to a juicy ripeness. And beyond those orchards, shimmering in the distance, lay a silver city. And in the centre of that silver city sat a domed palace of gold. And shooting up from the centre of that palace of gold was a tower encrusted in diamonds that glistered and glimmered in the early morning sun.

  ‘Behold,’ said Capablanca. ‘The most beautiful kingdom on earth.’

  ‘I don’t see any pigs,’ said Blart.

  Chapter 18

  Capablanca decided not to try to land in the city. After all, Pig the Horse had never actually landed before and landing is the trickiest bit of flying. Therefore Capablanca spent some time picking out an appropriate field. It had to be big and it had to be flat.

  ‘Hurry up,’ said Blart, who was eager to be out of the saddle as his bottom was sore.

  But the wizard was not to be rushed. His deliberations took them further and further from the city as he rejected field after field as having too many bumps. Finally he settled on one field, let Pig the Horse circle it three times so he was familiar with the ground and, pushing down Pig the Horse’s head, directed him to descend.

  To Blart it all seemed rather unnecessary. Pig the Horse seemed to know what he was doing. The ground was coming towards them very slowly. Well, perhaps not slowly. But gradually. Well, perhaps not gradually, but not quickly. Well, perhaps, when you came to think about it, it was quite quickly. Maybe very quickly. Too quickly.

  Thump!

  Blart picked himself off the ground. The others did the same. Whilst falling off a horse is never recommended, if there was a field to do it in this was it. The grass was long so the impact of the landing was cushioned and the chances of a serious injury like breaking an arm were quite low. Blart had no more than a couple of small bruises but that wasn’t going to stop him moaning.

  ‘You’re a useless rider,’ he told Capablanca, ‘and that’s a useless horse.’

  Pig the Horse did not hear the insult as he was slowing down at the other end of the field. It should be said in his defence that he had made a successful landing as far as he was concerned: one moment he was flying and the next moment he was running. It was his passengers who’d ended up on the ground.

  Pig the Horse trotted back to the group. Blart approached him with the idea of giving him a good kick, but when he got close something in the horse’s eye suggested that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  ‘Come on,’ said Capablanca. ‘’Tis no more than a five-mile walk into the city.’

  ‘Walk?’ Blart was shocked. ‘We’ve got a horse. Why should we walk?’

  ‘This horse,’ Capablanca replied severely, ‘has been flying for two days. It is in need of rest. We have been sitting for two days and are in need of exercise.’

  And so saying, Capablanca set off, leading Pig the Horse with Beo behind them. Blart was obliged to follow but not until he’d made his displeasure clear by kicking off the heads of a few innocent daises.

  He trailed behind the others for a while as they walked across the lush fields but he caught up quickly when he noticed that they were approaching a man who was digging a hole. Blart was not going to meet a stranger alone if he could help it.

  ‘Welcome to my field,’ shouted the stranger. ‘It is a beautiful day.’

  ‘That it be,’ agreed Capablanca.

  ‘Come hither,’ he cried, stopping work and leaning on his spade.

  They walked over towards the stranger, who wore a blue smock and a straw hat cocked at a jaunty angle. His face was cheerful and his eyes shone with life.

  ‘You’re a grand sight,’ said the stranger. ‘I love to see people walking across my fields. Many is the time that I walk across the fields and I think how lucky I am to farm these fields and how much others would enjoy it too.’

  ‘It’s a very nice field,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Thank’ee,’ said the farmer. ‘That’s a fine horse.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘I’ve just come from the orchard where I have been picking my fruit,’ said the farmer. ‘Nothing would make me happier than for you three to take as much of my fruit as you would like and eat it to your heart’s content.’

  The farmer indicated a wheelbarrow that was crammed with the most luscious of fruits. Oranges, pears, apples, strawberries, cherries, lemons, limes and a dozen other types of fruit that Blart had never seen before overflowed from the barrow.

  The travellers’ mouths watered at the sight of this fresh goodness. For the last few days their diet had consisted solely of stale bread and smelly cheese that Capablanca had produced from his cowl and they were ready for a change. Each took a handful of fruit and began to munch.

  ‘Sure, this is the finest orange I’ve ever tasted,’ said Beo.

  ‘This be the best apple,’ added Capablanca.

  ‘The pears are a bit hard,’ said Blart, but he kept eating.

  The farmer laughed with pleasure at the sight of them eating so heartily and then he bade them ‘Good day’ and went about his business, chuckling to himself as he departed.

  ‘See,’ said Capablanca. ‘The friendliest people in the world.’

  They continued to walk towards the city. Though their task was urgent even the wizard could not help but feel a sense of leisurely ease as he strolled along in the delightful morning air.

  They met a sturdy yeoman and a buxom matron. Then a farmer’s boy. Then a young man who claimed to be a poet. Then an old couple. Then a group of children. All of these people greeted them with great friendliness and all of them insisted on giving them fruit (except for the poet, who instead insisted on reciting for their pleasure his new poem, ‘Ode to a Bilberry’). They found it impossible to refuse these gracious offers – well, at least two of them did – and so in less than a mile they found themselves burdened down with fruit.

  ‘I’m not carrying it any more,’ said Blart.

  ‘Boy, you cannot reject the friendliness and generosity of these people,’ Capablanca told him.

  ‘Yes, I can,’ said Blart simply.

  They met another three people and were given even more fruit. The wizard changed his mind.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘We will dump the fruit in that shady copse over there and then the good people will not know that we have left it and we will be free of its encumbrance. Give me your fruit and I will take it.’

  Beo and Blart gave Capablanca their fruit. He disappeared into a copse.

  Beo and Blart continued walking, licking their fingers as they went but still never quite managing to get the stickiness completely off them.

  When they reached the top of the hill, Beo came to a sudden halt.

  ‘I forgot,’ he said.

  ‘Forgot what?’ asked Blart without much interest.

  ‘You.’ Beo fumbled for his sword.

  ‘Me?’ said Blart, who was, as we know, not very good at spotting what was going to happen next.

  ‘You insulted me. I’ve got to kill you.’ Beo’s sword was out and pointed in Blart’s direction.

  Blart gulped. Until now he had relied on the defence that he was the only person who could save the world, but for that defence to work he needed Capablanca to be around to enforce it. And the wizard was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Now, don’t be hasty –’ began Blart.

  ‘Prepare to die,’ said Beo, lifting his sword. Blart told his legs to run but his legs, stricken with fear, refused to obey him. Beo’s sword was poised to cleave Blart in two and with his imminent death the w
orld was once more on the brink of doom.

  And then something beyond Blart caught the warrior’s eye. He remained motionless, transfixed by the sight. Puzzled by the warrior not killing him, Blart turned round too and immediately understood why he was still alive. For what Beo had seen was the chance to fulfil all of his hopes and dreams.

  Chapter 19

  In the field below them sat five dragons. One blue, one green, one red, one black and one multicoloured. They had huge wings and long necks and pointy tails. And out of their nostrils came fire.

  And in the middle of these five dragons stood a damsel.

  ‘Page!’ cried Beo. ‘My horse.’

  Blart didn’t move, which was fair enough when you think about it. You can’t be about to kill someone one minute and give them orders the next.

  But Beo had no time to discipline Blart. This was his chance. Five dragons and a damsel in distress! If he pulled this off they’d have to make him a knight. He leapt on to Pig the Horse.

  ‘Charge!’ he ordered.

  Pig the Horse was essentially obliging in nature and so, despite his fatigue, he took a deep breath and charged.

  From a distance what a fine sight it was. Beo in full armour, charging forward on his giant black steed with his sword pointing straight out in front of him. Of course, if you were closer you’d see the rusty patches on Beo’s armour and that would have taken some of the shine off the vision. Still, there was no denying the warrior’s courage. A lady was in danger and his life was worth nothing in comparison.

  Blart watched from above as the warrior galloped nearer and nearer to the dragons, dust rising in the wake of Pig the Horse’s thundering hooves. For once, Blart wished that there was someone with him so that he could bet with them on which dragon was most likely to kill Beo. Personally, he favoured the black dragon, but it didn’t really matter. He was about to see the man who was bent on murdering him killed in a new and exciting way, and for Blart that was the kind of thing that made a morning worthwhile.

  Forward charged Beo and Pig.

  ‘Hold on, fair maiden!’ yelled Beo.

  The maiden turned to look at the advancing warrior. Terror and panic were etched on her face. She waved her arms. Beo started thinking of which place he’d take at the round table.

  ‘Go, black!’ cheered Blart from a distance.

  The dragons caught sight of the advancing warrior. They stared hard at him. They looked at each other. They returned their stare to the warrior. Steam poured from their nostrils.

  ‘Goodbye, Beo,’ shouted Blart merrily.

  And then the dragons ran away.

  Mythical beasts never really live up to the advance publicity. You can blame the oral tradition for that. Stories about dragons get told time and time again and each time they are told they get exaggerated a little bit more and so when you finally meet a dragon he’s got way too much to live up to. Essentially they were clumsy, shy creatures that lived in deep forests and high mountains trying not to bother anybody and keeping themselves to themselves. Unfortunately knights kept coming to kill them, which tended to annoy them, and when cornered they would breathe fire on an attacker if they had no other choice.

  But they much preferred to run away, which was exactly what these dragons were trying to do. However, they are big creatures with only little legs and they take their time to get going. And Beo was on a very fast horse. The green, blue, red and black dragons all managed to escape. But the multicoloured one was less fortunate. Before it could really get going the warrior had caught up with it. A thrust of the warrior’s great sword sank into the belly of the multicoloured dragon. Another thrust and blood poured from its neck. And with one final sweep of his sword the warrior removed the dragon’s head. Beo could not believe it. In his excitement he leapt from his horse and began hacking at the tail of the dragon.

  Now, in chivalric etiquette terms this was a mistake. He should first have gone to the damsel in distress and checked to see if her distress was gone and she was back to being simply a damsel. However, this chivalric code was overridden by dreams of future glory and that was why he began chopping off the tail. The tail, you see, is proof of a dragon kill and is required by a king before he can promote a warrior to the status of a knight.

  Unfortunately, so intent was Beo on separating the tail that he overlooked a threat to his rear. Blart didn’t, of course. Blart saw the threat quite plainly. After his initial disappointment that the dragons had failed to kill Beo, this at least showed some promise.

  Beo knew nothing about it until there was a tremendous bang on his helmet that knocked him face forward, straight into a pile of purple dragon dung, which is a very unpleasant thing to have your face in as it smells appalling.

  ‘Murderer!’ said a shrill but strong voice behind him.

  Beo turned round. His face was smeared purple and he did not look at his best. He stared up at the damsel who was, if the tears of anger and sorrow pouring down her freckled face were to be believed, definitely distressed.

  ‘Oh, beautiful lady,’ began Beo, ‘though it saddens me that a gentle creature such as yourself should see such violent sights … put that rock down.’

  The beautiful lady obliged. She put it down with a crash on Beo’s head, which it would undoubtedly have crushed it if hadn’t been for his strong helmet. But the helmet did sustain a serious dent.

  ‘Gentle creature, has the terror of the five dragons caused you to lose your wits? Pray calm yourself, because all danger is now gone and you are safe and … put it dow— Ow.’

  Another crash against Beo’s helmet. Another dent.

  ‘Sweet lady, I have saved thee from a fate … put it down.’

  You’d think that Beo would have learnt by now, but apparently not. The giant stone smashed into his visor.

  ‘Look, woman, they’ve gone. I’ve saved your life so you could at least show a bit of gratitude to a knight-to-be who –’

  The damsel showed no desire to display any gratitude. Instead she bent down and picked up the stone again.

  Beo could, if he’d wanted to, have overpowered the girl and taken the stone from her, but that would have been a serious breach of the chivalric code, which stated that on no account could a maiden be handled roughly. The knight had two options if he was going to obey the chivalric code. The first was to have his helmet continually dented; the second was to run away.

  Beo picked the second.

  Grabbing the tail, he sprinted towards Pig the Horse. The enraged damsel in distress pursued him. Beo leapt on to Pig the Horse and gave him a kick. The damsel in distress threw one last stone. Beo ducked. The stone flew over his head and Pig the Horse took him clear of her throwing range and back up the field towards where Blart stood watching. The damsel screamed at his retreating back. Her distress was definitely getting worse.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Capablanca, appearing at Blart’s side.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Blart.

  ‘What’s he riding that horse for?’ demanded Capablanca, seeing Beo charging towards them. ‘He needs rest.’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Blart. ‘He said something about you being a smelly old goat and not doing what you said any more and that the next time you turn your back on him he’ll cleave you in two. Perhaps we should kill him.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Capablanca, who felt that there might be more than a small chance that Blart wasn’t telling the truth.

  Beo galloped up to them.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted.

  ‘What are you doing on that horse?’

  ‘Urgent bit of chivalry,’ replied Beo. ‘Let’s ride the next bit.’

  Capablanca was about to say no and point out that Pig had not been given adequate time to recover from his exertions. However, a quick glance at the sun confirmed to him that the morning was past and afternoon was now upon them. Every hour brought Zoltab’s return closer. Pig was going to have to wait a little longer before he could rest.

  ‘All right,’ agreed Capablanca. H
e noticed something behind Beo. ‘What does that damsel want?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Beo quickly.

  ‘She appears to be in distress.’

  ‘She’s not,’ insisted Beo. ‘I’ve just been to check. She’s not distressed. She’s quite happy.’

  ‘She’s waving her fist,’ pointed out Blart helpfully.

  ‘She’s coming this way,’ mused Capablanca.

  ‘Coincidence,’ said Beo. ‘Come on. Sure Zoltab will be in charge of the world and we’ll all be here looking at a damsel in distress.’

  ‘I thought she wasn’t in distress,’ Blart reminded him.

  Beo flashed an angry look at Blart.

  ‘She’s not in proper chivalric distress,’ he replied. ‘It’s just that she’s got an allergy to grass.’

  ‘We could give her a lift,’ offered Capablanca.

  ‘I offered,’ said Beo, ‘but she’s got to try and get used to it. These damsels have got to stand on their own two feet sometimes. Now come on.’

  Capablanca looked at the damsel. She was running towards them as fast as she could and her long red hair streamed out behind her. He knew something wasn’t right but then he also knew that he didn’t have enough time to solve every problem that came along. Zoltab’s minions would be ever nearer to the Great Tunnel of Despair.

  So he and Blart climbed on to Pig behind Beo and they rode for the city.

  They made better progress on the back of Pig but they were still hampered by people constantly stopping them to wish them good day and to say how happy they were to see them and to give them more fruit. Even the wizard’s politeness was gradually eroded. He merely waited until they had ridden past the fruit-givers before dropping it directly on to the road.

  Eventually they rode over the hill and saw the city laid out in front of them, the diamond tower and the golden dome at the centre surrounded by a haphazard muddle of houses and streets. Blart had never seen anything so big. Some of the buildings were so tall that he was sure it would take a day to get from the bottom to the top.