by Rob Harrell
“You think you . . . could share one of those?”
I freaked. I jumped about a foot off of the floor and all of my fur stood on end. It’s possible that I screamed like a sissylizard, but fortunately there is no video evidence of said scream.
I scrambled away as fast as I could, my heart slamming away in my chest like a Speed Dragon on Red Bull.
I squinted my eyes, looking around for the source of the voice. All I could make out were those stupid fake skulls and that scarecrow hanging on the wall.
“Who’s there? Who said that?”
(Troll Kwan Do isn’t actually a thing, but I was desperate, okay?)
Everything was still for a moment before I saw the scarecrow’s head move. I felt dragonbumps break out over my entire body. (Dragonbumps eat goosebumps for breakfast.)
With a quiet rustle, the head moved up until I saw a very real eye looking back at me. A sad grin slid across its face, though it was mostly covered by a filthy, shaggy, beard.
“I . . . haven’t had a bite to eat for several days,” he rasped.
“You’re . . .” I sputtered. “You’re real??”
My heart was galloping like a royal palomino as I crept up to him. I reached out and poked his arm. Sure enough, it was warm.
“Quite real,” he croaked, which brought on a coughing spasm that shook his entire body and left his chains rattling.
My family had known plenty of hard times over the years, so I was all too familiar with the misery of being hungry. I scrambled to get a biscuit out of my pocket and held it up to his mouth. He ate it greedily, grunting with pleasure like . . . well, like a guy who’s been chained to a wall without food for a long time, actually.
He asked me to scoop up some water from a shallow puddle on the other side of the cell. I was able to carry enough in my paws so that he could at least wash down the biscuit. Gross, but effective.
It’s funny, as I watched him washing down that biscuit, I felt . . . really good. I was picturing my gramps saying “Belfords lend a hand” and felt a quick rush of pride.
“I,” the prisoner said as he let his head hang again, “am forever at your service, sir. What do they call you?”
“I’m John. I honestly cannot thank you enough, Mr. Zarf.”
“It’s just Zarf,” I said, digging another wadded-up biscuit out of my pocket. “You want another one?”
“Ah. I would, Zarf, but I fear I might toss my proverbial cookies. I haven’t had more than a few bites at a time for quite a while.”
I stuffed the biscuit back in my pocket and moved back to my spot on the wall.
“What are you in for?” I asked, and had to stifle a nervous laugh. It sounded like a line from a movie. This whole thing was feeling pretty unreal.
“Let’s just say I got crosswise with the administration.”
I told John about my run-ins with Prince-now-King Roquefort. He seemed genuinely concerned when he heard about the missing King Cheznott.
“That’s a horrible thing to hear. He’s a wonderful king.”
That kind of threw me. “Wait. Isn’t he the one that tossed you in here?”
“Oh, not the king. One of his advisors. I have reason to believe the king doesn’t know I’m down here. In fact, I think he believes me dead.”
“He’s the king! Shouldn’t he know who’s rotting away in his . . .”
“There are things he has done, things I alone know. Not to mention the wonderful things he’s done for you and your fellow trolls. Trust me when I say he is a good man. The very best, in fact. If he is gone, I fear for what will become of our kingdom.”
I thought of a Notswin ruled permanently by Roquefort and felt queasy.
We talked for a while until I thought he’d fallen asleep. I picked up one of Chester’s comics and was trying to read by a crack of light when he spoke up. His voice was so raspy, I almost didn’t hear it. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
I walked over and held the comic book up in front of him.
At this, the prisoner let out a slow, sad laugh that led into another coughing fit. When he calmed back down, I thought I heard him say under his breath, “That’s . . . just perfect.”
A few hours later, I bit into that last biscuit of Goldie’s, and the pain was like biting into a high-voltage wire.
There was something rock-hard in there. How I didn’t destroy my teeth or my jaw, I’ll never know.
I reached into my mouth and pulled out a small key. I was in so much pain that my first reaction was anger at how careless Ms. Locks was to let a key fall into her biscuit dough. (As I’ve said before, trolls are not the sharpest swords in the weapon shed.)
Finally the pain got down to a dull roar, and I remembered my weird exchange with Goldie. The gears in my stupid troll brain finally sputtered to life and I realized what I had in my hand. Unless it was some cruel joke, it had to be the key to the cell.
I jumped up and showed John what I had, and his face lit up like a piece of gleamnugget from the Glimmer Mines.
“Oh. Oh, Zarf. Can you try them on my shackles?” I got kind of embarrassed for a second when I realized he had tears standing in his eyes.
“Sure!” I moved to unlock him, checking that the guard couldn’t see us from his station. Then I paused. “Wait. You’re not some lunatic who’s going to murder me as soon as you’re free, are you?”
“Good enough for me,” I said, and I slipped the key into the lock on one of his wrists. But hard as I tried, the key wouldn’t turn.
“It must just be for the cell door.” I felt terrible as John lowered his head, defeated.
I started to pace, but had only gone a few feet when I stopped.
I walked over, got a good grip on one of his cuffs and pried it open, the rusted metal hinge groaning. John fell from the wall, now held up by only one arm. “Troll strength,” I explained.
I pulled open the other cuff and he crumpled to the floor. “Sometimes I forget I have it.”
John had been hanging there for so long he wasn’t able to lift himself, so I grabbed him under his incredibly ripe underarms and pulled him up. I leaned him against the wall as best I could, where he closed his eyes and let out the longest sigh I’ve ever heard.
I paused, thinking it might be the first time I’d ever heard the words “magnificent” and “troll” put together like that. I kind of liked this hairy skeleton.
· 20 ·
THE GREAT ESCAPE
For the next couple of hours, John and I put our heads together and came up with a plan. (Actually, I made sure our heads didn’t come anywhere close to touching. I think he could have used some of that delousing talc. I saw things moving in that big tangle of hair more than once. So nasty.)
So, once night fell, I casually made my way over to the bars of the cell, coughing and hacking up a storm. I made a pretty good show of it, sniffing and snortling. Wiping my nose on my arm. I won’t say I deserve an Oscar, but I think my performance was pretty believable.
It’s a well-known fact that goats are germaphobes. For example, you will never get one to shake your hand—it’s hoof bumps all the way for them. And if you ever need some Purell or a wet nap, find a goat. Which I realize is weird, as they also eat garbage.
So I called the goat guard over to the bars and told him I thought I was coming down with something. He immediately looked concerned and backed up a foot or two.
“What do you want me to do about it?” he bleated warily.
“I was hoping you could get me a . . . a . . . ahh . . .” And that’s when I totally let him have it. The grossest, most explosive fake sneeze I could muster. And I made sure to spray him, but good.
The guard froze as spittle and little bits of porridge biscuit rained down all over him. I actually felt kind
of bad as all the color drained out of his horns. He started making little huffs and puffs like he was going to hyperventilate, and then turned and ran up the stairs as fast as his hooves could carry him.
I immediately reached around and unlocked the cell door, swinging it wide open. I ran back and helped John to his feet. He teetered and swayed like a newborn wobble gnome while I threw on the fancy royal jacket and powdered wig. We tried for a while to get John’s legs to move—first his knees would knock together, then swing out wide, then he’d collapse against me—before we realized it wasn’t happening. So I threw him over my shoulders in a fireman’s carry and bolted for freedom. Score another one for troll strength!
The hallway at the top of the stairs was empty, so I picked a direction at random. I ripped the first tapestry I could find off of a wall—a huge, heavy piece of fabric—and rolled John up in it like a big shaggy burrito. Then, hefting him back over my shoulder, I wound through a maze-like series of corridors. At one point we passed an incredibly large lady-in-waiting coming out of a dining hall. She gave me a funny look, so I had to improvise.
Rounding another corner, I saw a door that looked like it led outside. I was running toward it as quietly as I could when I heard it. Roquefort’s voice.
I froze. Were we busted? But then the prince/king went on, clearly chewing out an underling. “Do you call these underpants soft?? I’m the king! I should not be chafing! Ever!!”
I stifled a laugh and made for the door. When it swung open, we came out behind the castle on a loading dock. Some sort of service entrance. Two rough-looking pigs were sitting on a stack of pallets having a smoke break. One of them gave me a hard stare and flicked his cigarette in my direction.
I smiled weakly and walked past them. Then, as soon as I was around the Dumpster where they couldn’t see me, I ran as fast as I could for the woods.
· 21 ·
SANCTUARY
It was close to midnight by the time we got to the tree house, and I was a hot mess. I laid John down as carefully as I could on the ground and started to unroll him. The commotion woke the Wishing Tree, who immediately started up with the wishes.
“I wish I was a deeper sleeper.” “I wish I had a midnight snack or something.”
I collapsed there on the ground for maybe an hour. I didn’t have to worry about falling asleep—my mind was racing a mile a minute. Or, as my gramps would say, “my Brain Hamsters were a-goin.”
After maybe a half an hour, I got up and told John I was going to go take care of a few things.
“I’m going to cover you up with some leaves and twigs and stuff so you’re less noticeable, but I’ll be back before the sun comes up. You okay with that?”
John smiled. “Camouflage away. I look kind of like a big hairy stick these days anyway.”
I woke up the next morning to John’s voice calling my name. The sun seemed like it had been up for a while. I was reeeally tired, and my eyes felt like two swollen sand toads.
“Zarf! ZARF!” he was whispering, as loud as he could. “There’s somebody coming!”
That jolted me awake. While I had slept in the tree house, we’d had no choice but to leave John on the ground—right out in the open where anyone could see him. I grabbed the binoculars and snake-crawled out onto the tree house landing to survey the area.
I heard the squeaky wheels of Kevin’s old red wagon before I saw them. Then Chester and Kevin came around a stand of bushes. Kevin was pulling the overloaded wagon and constantly looking over his shoulder. Chester had a couple of large bags in his arms, but managed to give me a big wave when he spotted me.
The guys had come through for us, and from the looks of that wagon, they’d come through big-time.
“It’s okay, John,” I said as I swung out and dropped awkwardly to the ground. “They’re my friends. They’ve come to help.”
I had tried to go by my house the night before, but it was being watched by several of Roquefort’s ogres. They had tried to disguise themselves as shrubs, but I had been able to make them out.
So I’d gone on to Kevin’s house—giving him a near panic attack when I chucked a rock at his window—and asked for the guys’ help.
I introduced John to the guys, who were nice enough but understandably gave this human mess of hair and bones a few wary looks. Then we unloaded the wagon.
Kevin and Chester had put together a small feast for me and John, and we immediately dug in. I was a little shocked by John, who tore into that food like he was in the Annual Dragon-Dog-Eating Contest at the Notswin Fair. I guess he was feeling a little better. There was flumpmeat pie, an impressive array of smelly cheeses and fruit, some sort of mutton-based trail mix (Kevin’s), a jar of non-alcoholic mead, and enough pastries to fill a minivan. We even fed some of the cheese to the tree, who appreciated it for maybe a minute before starting up again.
While John was still going at it, I helped unload some of the other supplies. Chester had managed to sneak my hoodie and phone out of the evidence room in the castle. He said it was no big deal, because the flying monkey who guarded the room slept most of the time anyway.
I carried a bucket down to a small stream, and brought up enough water for John to shave. He started trying to comb out the messy tangle of his hair, but eventually gave up and moved on to his beard.
Kevin, Chester, and I were sitting on a large log watching John as he began to shave, using a mirror and razor the guys had brought. Chester turned to me and sheepishly asked the burning question on his mind.
“Did you happen to get out of there with my Knoble Knight comics?”
I turned to him, not believing my ears.
“No, Chester. I had other things on my mind. Maybe if I had an extra hand growing out of my butt, I could have gotten around to . . . ”
And that’s when Kevin gasped. A loud, sharp gasp, like the time he found a spit-worm in his sock. Chester and I turned to see what he was staring at, all buggy-eyed.
John had now scraped off the majority of his beard, and what was underneath caused all of our jaws to drop.
Sitting in front of us, propped weakly against the Wishing Tree, wasn’t John the prisoner. Not anymore. Now it was clear that this man was John Myth.
THE John Myth. The Knoble Knight himself.
The one who the comics were based on. We’d seen his pictures so many times in books, there was no mistaking him.
“You’re . . .” I gawked. “You’re him! You’re you!”
The Knoble Knight smiled crookedly as he swished his razor around in the sudsy bucket.
“Well, I used to be.”
· 22 ·
LEGENDS OF THE FALL AND RISE
Chester immediately geeked out and went all fanboy.
“Can . . . Can I get your autograph I mean after you get done and we find a Sharpie and maybe I find a copy of one of the comics and you could sign it to me Chester ’cause I think you are the greatest thing since ever and oh my gosh it’s so cool to meet you I thought you were dead!” He had run over and was shaking the knight’s hand wildly.
Kevin finally found his voice. “But . . . We all thought you died in the dragon battle at Snuff’s Pillow Mountain! It was in the paper! It’s in our textbooks!!”
John freed his hand from Chester’s death-grip. “Not dead. But I might as well have been. I’ve been chained up in that disgusting hole ever since. It’s a wonder I can lift my arms at all.”
I was horrified. “But how did you end up in prison if it wasn’t King Cheznott?”
“Well . . . are you all familiar with his chief war advisor?”
“Pembrook. Sure. I know him,” Chester said. He knew most everyone up at the castle through his dad. “Big tubby guy with poofy hair.”
The knight
grinned, looking away. “Let’s just say Pembrook’s girlfriend . . . She took a liking to me. Very much so.”
“So?” I asked.
“So nothing! I never would have gone out with her. I respect the man code. I mean, noble is right there in my name! Or knoble, at least.”
He sighed, looking off. “But that didn’t matter. Pembrook felt threatened, and he and his private goons pulled me out of my tent in the middle of the night.”
He stuffed a puffberry muffin into his mouth. “And the rest, as they say . . . is history,” he said through a mouthful of dough, crumbs flying. “If I can give you all a bit of advice, avoid small-minded men with any sort of power.”
I thought of Roquefort, standing on his throne.
Everyone looked around at each other for a bit before I cleared my throat and spoke up. “I’ve been thinking about this. Right now, John and I are probably, like, Public Enemies Number One and Two. Roquefort and this Pembrook guy are going to want our heads on a platter.”
Kevin let out a little groan and looked like he might faint.
“So, what if we flipped the script on them? What if we turned ourselves into heroes?” This was met by another little whimper from Kevin.
Chester made a grimace. “I’m listening. But John already IS a hero—lot of good it did him.”