“No, I don’t like the look of them,” Mildred said.
I was beginning to think that stopping at Mildred’s had been a complete waste of time.
“I have one last gift to aid you on your journey,” Mildred said with great ceremony.
“I-I thought it was t-traditional to give a h-hero three g-gifts,” I said.
Mildred shrugged. “I’m a nonconformist, and you are no hero. Not yet anyway. You have quite a few things to learn first.”
“L-like what?” I asked, hoping for any clues this riddle of a wise woman might give me about how to slay a dragon.
“You will learn them when the time comes,” Mildred said. “But first, follow me.”
I was not interested in hauling any more useless stuff, but Mildred gave me a look, and I followed. We walked through the light rain to a small building behind the cottage. Inside stood a fine white horse. My spirits immediately rose. I no longer cared that Mildred had given me an almanac that didn’t predict the weather and an endless supply of turnips. This noble creature would make up for it all.
But then I had a terrible thought. What if she planned to give me a tired old donkey instead? I looked around, but the horse was the only creature in sight.
“Hobart, I would like to introduce you to Albert. Albert, this is your new master, Hobart. You will be accompanying him on his quest.”
“A quest, how exciting.”
I looked up at the horse, confused.
“I do hope that you are planning to wait until after the rain stops, though. I hate getting my hooves wet.” The horse looked at me with a worried expression. “Goodness knows we wouldn’t want me to catch cold.”
“Don’t be such a baby, Albert,” Mildred said to the horse. “A little damp won’t hurt you.”
I just stared at the two of them as I realized that this strange little sage was offering to give me a talking horse. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
By the end of the day, I was sure. It was a bad thing.
Chapter 3
In Which I Meet a Very Nasty Wolf
Albert spent our first morning together telling me his life story, from his first days as a foal through his career as a member of the king’s cavalry and right up to the day he was given to Mildred the Wise as a gift of thanks. I guessed that his former owner had more likely given Albert away in a desperate attempt to find silence, but I kept that opinion to myself.
The afternoon brought me a litany of details about Albert’s likes (he was extremely fond of chocolate), his dislikes (anything messy or muddy), his fears (which went on for close to an hour and seemed to revolve around blood, disease, and spiders), and his dreams (including one day seeing a statue of himself in the center of the main square of King’s City).
The sun was beginning to set as we traveled along the road to Jolip. I was busy daydreaming about trading Albert in for a nice mute pony when the horse suddenly started to shake.
“Oh, my goodness,” Albert cried.
His front hooves came up off the ground, and I could see one of his eyes rolling around in terror. Albert shrieked as his hooves struck the road again, and then he began to gallop. I threw myself onto his neck, grabbing fistfuls of mane just to hang on.
I yelled at Albert to stop. He yelled back at me, though I couldn’t make out a word. I thought he had completely lost his mind. Until I saw what had turned my horse into a maniac. Up ahead of us, a pile of clothes lay in the middle of the road. Crouched beside the clothes was a massive gray wolf. The beast was watching Albert with bright yellow eyes.
Suddenly, I was yelling at Albert to go, but he couldn’t seem to manage a straight line to save either of our lives. The horse ran in jagged circles, screaming. I clung to his neck, trying not to get thrown off and trampled—or worse, eaten. The wolf watched us, then eased to his shaggy feet, his eyes never leaving the horse. The light was dim, but I could still see the animal’s teeth. I was waiting for him to pounce. But instead, with wary glances at the screaming horse, the wolf slunk back into the woods.
It took me several minutes to convince Albert that the wolf was gone, and he could stop galloping in spastic circles. Finally, Albert stopped. His coat was covered with sweat and his sides were heaving. I climbed shakily down from the saddle. Once I was off his back, Albert lay down and put his nose between his front hooves. He took deep, labored breaths. I leaned against a tree.
From where I stood, I could see the lump of clothes still lying in the middle of the road. The longer I looked at them, the less empty they seemed. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I pushed off from the tree trunk and walked slowly toward the pile. My hands were cold, and my legs could not seem to work right, but my thoughts were clear. Please don’t be dead. I had no idea what to do with a dead body, let alone what the sight of one would do to my horse. To my great relief, the clothes began to move. Slowly, a head appeared, followed by long, skinny limbs. The shape of a tall boy unfolded. Beneath him I saw a small lamb. The boy turned around and looked at me.
“You—you saved us from the wolf,” the boy said.
I honestly had no idea what to say to this. And then, as if this day hadn’t been strange enough already, he knelt, in the mud, in front of me.
“I am in your debt, sir,” he said.
My face grew suddenly hot, and my jaw tightened until it hurt. I had been mocked my entire life. I didn’t need to take this from a stranger. I turned around and walked over to where Albert was still lying on the ground.
“G-get up,” I told him. Albert moaned.
“You’re not h-hurt. G-get up.” I had no patience left for this horse.
The boy approached me carefully.
“Did I offend you, sir?” he asked.
“N-no,” I snapped. “And s-stop calling me ‘s-sir.’” “Should I call you ‘my lord’?”
“N-no.” What was wrong with him?
The boy shifted his weight back and forth between his feet. “I don’t know what to do, then,” he said.
“Take your lamb and go h-home,” I told him and then grabbed hold of Albert’s reins and pulled.
“I am having heart palpitations,” Albert moaned.
“N-no, you’re n-not,” I said.
The boy was staring at my horse, who had rolled onto his side moaning. “He talked,” the boy said.
“H-he does that,” I said, with a look of great annoyance at my horse.
The boy shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs out of his thoughts. “I can’t,” he told me.
“You c-can’t what?”
“I can’t go home,” the boy said, “at least, not unless you come with me. You saved my life. I’m in your debt until I do the same for you.”
“I-I did not s-save your life,” I nearly shouted.
“But you did,” the boy said, nodding vigorously. “If you and your noble steed hadn’t come along, the wolf would have killed me and Dolly.”
Albert’s ears perked up at the words “noble steed.”
“Look,” I said slowly. “I’m g-glad that you didn’t g-get e-eaten, but I didn’t mean to s-save you. I d-didn’t even realize that you were a p-person until after the w-wolf left.”
The boy shook his head firmly. “It doesn’t matter how it happened. I have to stay with you until I repay my debt.”
I just stared at him.
“Come home with me for supper,” he said.
He seemed serious, and I was more than a little hungry.
“My family will want to meet you,” the boy said. “And my mother is an excellent cook. She would be happy to have you.”
I finally gave in.
The boy beamed at me. “I am Tate of Fair Oaks.”
“H-hobart of F-Finnagen,” I said, and then waited for the comments and the laughter.
“Good to meet you, Hobart,” Tate said cheerfu
lly.
“G-good to m-meet you too,” I said, more than a little surprised.
We talked Albert back up onto his hooves and then climbed onto his back. Tate used one arm to hold on to me and the other to hold on to Dolly the lamb. I hoped that Albert would behave himself.
“Wh-which w-way?” I asked Tate. “Straight ahead,” he told me.
So Albert started out, still shaking on occasion and moaning quietly to himself, but he didn’t buck or gallop. Tate took over the talking.
“You’ll like Fair Oaks,” he said. “It’s a real friendly village. My family has lived there for ten generations. My great-great-grandfather kept the sheep of Lord Dillingham himself. When his lordship died, he left my great-greatgrandfather a flock of his own. My family have been independent shepherds ever since.”
We came over a small rise, and Tate straightened up. “There’s Fair Oaks,” he said. “My house is the first on the right.”
Tate pointed out a large, well-kept cottage. The wooden shutters stood open, letting warm firelight and the comfortable smell of freshly baked bread seep out into the evening air.
As Albert stopped in front of the house, the door opened. A cluster of blonde children spilled out into the yard, followed by a round blonde woman.
Tate slid awkwardly down off Albert’s back, set Dolly on her own small hooves, and then was instantly mobbed by the throng of people. His little brothers and sisters pulled on him. His mother hugged him and then led him into the house. I hung back, standing as close to Albert as I could, until Tate’s mother looked back over her shoulder at me.
“Come along, dear,” she said. “Terrance will look after your horse.”
A boy of about ten took Albert’s reins from me, and then a small hand grasped mine. I looked down at a little girl.
“Come on, Tate’s friend,” she said with a smile. “Mama has supper ready.”
Tate’s little sister led me into the cottage. It was as warm and cozy on the inside as it looked from the outside. A stone hearth covered one entire wall. A large bed stood on the opposite wall. Above the bed was a sleeping loft that housed a line of beds, each covered with a patchwork quilt. In the middle of the room was one long wooden table.
In the firelight, I got my first good look at Tate. He was tall and skinny, with golden hair that stood out from his head like straw. He had a round face and bright blue eyes above a broad smile. It was a face I saw scattered throughout the room in various sizes. I counted eight children, five boys and three girls. A large man with the same twinkling eyes came over to introduce himself and shake my hand. The round woman settled me on a bench at the table. The places on either side of me quickly filled with small, eager faces.
At first, there was a jumble of chatter as bowls of stew and chunks of bread were passed. But then Tate began to tell the story of his encounter with the wolf. All other conversation stopped as every face turned toward him in expectation.
“I had just found Dolly when the sun started to set,” Tate said. “We made it as far as the last hill before home, and then something moved off in the woods.” He paused, looking around the table. “It came closer, and I saw that it was a wolf!”
A few of the smaller children gasped.
“It came toward us, slow and growling,” he said. “I reached back for my staff, but it was gone.”
“No,” a little boy whispered.
“I threw a few rocks at the beast, but it just kept coming, its eyes glowing yellow.” Tate was clearly enjoying himself. “Dolly tried to run. The wolf leapt in her direction. And I did the only thing I could. I threw my body over hers and waited to die.”
One little sister clapped her hand over her mouth.
“But then I heard hoofbeats pounding down the road, and a great white horse burst onto the scene. Brave Hobart of Finnagen had arrived!” Tate said. “He charged the wolf, circling around us, and drove off the beast, sending it slinking back into the woods with its tail tucked between its legs!”
The table erupted into applause. A brother reached over to clap me on the back. Tate’s mother came over to hug me, dabbing tears from her eyes.
“You saved my boy,” she cried, and then hugged me again.
“I j-just h-happened to be there at the right t-time,” I said weakly.
“And he’s modest, no less,” Tate’s father announced. He reached across the table to shake my hand. “You are welcome at our table anytime. What a lad!”
“And he has a talking horse,” Tate said.
That statement caused an uproar.
“How did you get a talking horse?” one little boy asked with wide eyes.
“M-Mildred the W-Wise gave him to me, to h-help me on my journey,” I said.
“Where are you going?” an older boy asked.
“T-to Rona, to try and k-kill a dr-dragon,” I said, feeling awkward.
“A quest!” Tate’s father said. “The boy ventures out on a quest, and our Tate is to accompany him! What a day!”
No one could seem to talk about anything else for the rest of the meal. They peppered me with questions. Tate’s family wanted to know all about me and my travels so far. They were awed by Mildred’s gifts, and when supper was finished, we all had to travel out to the shed to speak to Albert, who thoroughly enjoyed the attention.
That night, I lay in the sleeping loft under a patchwork quilt, warm and well fed, surrounded by the soft snores of Tate and his siblings. But I couldn’t sleep. This whole household of people thought I was a hero headed out on a noble quest. What would they think of me if I failed? With a tightness in my stomach, I realized that coming back to Fair Oaks in disgrace would be even worse than being Ho-brat of Finnagen for the rest of my life.
Chapter 4
In Which I Accidentally Drown Tate
The next morning, Tate, Albert, and I left Fair Oaks.
All of Tate’s family, and most of the village, came out to send us off. The women embraced us. The girls kissed our cheeks. Boys shook our hands. Men gave us last bits of advice:
“Keep your eyes open.”
“Don’t trust any man dressed in silk.”
“Look after your horse. You don’t want to have to walk home.”
Not a single person in the whole village laughed or said that we would be home by dinner. Most of them probably figured that they would never see us again, but at least they had the good manners not to say so.
Albert was glowing, and not just because Tate’s brothers had given him a good brushing. The horse had an audience, and he was enjoying every minute of it. He pranced his way down the main street of Fair Oaks, tossing his head to make his bridle jingle. I finally gave up on the reins, since he was clearly going to do what he wanted.
Tate rode behind me again. He held on with one arm and waved to his village with the other.
“I’ll bring back dragon gold!” he yelled.
I wasn’t sure that was the wisest promise, but the crowd cheered. Small children ran along beside us, waving.
Tate’s mother had to yell to be heard over the noise. “Take care of each other.”
“Such brave boys,” an elderly woman said as we passed her.
We reached the edge of the small village, and I glanced back once, just to see the waving crowd, before the road turned to the left and Fair Oaks disappeared from sight.
Tate talked almost constantly that first morning, all about the adventures we were going to have and the stories he would get to carry home. But I didn’t hear much of what he said. That old woman’s words kept bouncing around inside my mind, and I had to wonder: Am I really brave? I had tried more than a few foolish things in my attempts to become a hero; but I wasn’t sure that any of them counted as acts of bravery. I wasn’t sure that I even knew what brave really meant.
When the sun reached the center of the sky, we stopped to eat and then rod
e all afternoon. By nightfall, we were so tired that we just ate some of the food Tate’s mother had sent, lay down beside a small stream, and went to sleep. The next morning, I was stiff and sore. Tate laughed as I hobbled around like an old man.
“I’m guessing you haven’t slept on the ground much,” he said.
“N-no,” I said.
“You’ll get used to it.”
I highly doubted that.
No one had told me that becoming a hero was so uncomfortable or frustrating. That night we tried to build a fire. Since neither of us had a flint, we tried the “spinning stick” method. If anyone ever tries to tell you that this means of starting a fire is easy, know that person is a liar.
The way it works is you make a little notch in one stick; then you stand another stick up in the notch. You spin the standing stick back and forth between your hands until you develop blisters, begin thinking dark thoughts about the inventor of the spinning stick method, or actually create a spark. Tate got blisters. I thought dark thoughts. We never did make fire.
After two days of riding, spending hours attempting to make sparks, and falling onto the ground exhausted each night, we ran out of the food Tate’s mother had given us. So we turned to the magic turnip satchel. I half expected the thing to stay empty, considering our recent luck, but it filled itself up, just as Mildred had promised. We didn’t have any spices or even a way to cook the things, but when you’re hungry enough, anything tastes good, for a while.
On our third day past Fair Oaks, we came to a river. On the opposite side, I could make out a faint continuation of our road, but there was also a track worn into the dirt that turned to the north, avoiding the water. We had crossed a few creeks, but this river was wide, and the waters were moving swiftly. Spanning the river was a rickety-looking bridge. A sign in front of the bridge read:
It is hereby decreed that this bridge is from now on and forevermore closed to all traffic, by order of the Lord of Greenville.
Good sense would have suggested that we turn north and follow the path made by hundreds of feet. But I was tired and hungry and admittedly grumpy. And all I really wanted to do was get to Rona and either kill a dragon or be eaten by one and be done with this whole miserable trip. I turned Albert toward the bridge.
The Legend of Hobart Page 2