The Pitchfork of Destiny

by Jack Heckel

  “I don’t know, man,” the donkey said, stroking his gray beard with an upraised hoof. “Music runs on good vibes, man. Critical negativity dampens creativity, man.”

  “I see that, but critics are essential,” Charming urged him. “Look at me. I have had plenty of critics over the years, he is too handsome, too witty, his voice is too pure, his poetry too poetic, his calf is too well turned—­”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with your calves,” the cat on his lap purred softly. “I’ve never seen anyone who looks better in hose.”

  Charming winked at the cat. “It took years to perfect the look. I have some fascinating anecdotes about my early struggles with tights and hose that I could tell you—­”

  Will realized that Charming might spend the rest of the night and the next day on this topic, and the musicians seemed perfectly willing to indulge him. Unable to contain himself, he groaned.

  Charming looked back at the door Will was hiding behind. “Did you all hear that? I think King William might be starting to come around. Maybe I should check on him.”

  Will held his breath as all five craned around to stare at the door.

  “I guess it was nothing,” Charming said after a time. “I have to figure out what to do next.”

  “Yeah, man. What are you going to do about the King, man?” asked the donkey.

  Will leaned closer to the door.

  Charming sighed and waved off the pipe as it came around to him again. “I don’t know. I’ve pledged to follow him, and that is what I have to do, but I feel guilty. We have no plan other than ‘go north,’ and he won’t listen to me.”

  “I wanted to ask you a question about that, brother,” the dog huffed. “If you went north from here, how did you wind back up here?”

  Here it comes, thought Will. Here comes his admission of guilt.

  “I don’t have any idea.” Charming shrugged. “We traveled on whatever path we could find. Each morning we would start out going north, but the road would turn or end, and we would have to go east for a bit to go north, then west for a bit to go north, then sometimes south to go north. In end, we made a circle. I was shocked to find out I was back home. If we had stuck to the large byways, I think we could have made it to the Northern Waste by now, but . . .”

  Will stopped listening. His heart felt empty. This was his fault. The entire delay had been because he was too stubborn to take Charming’s advice. He had endangered Elle again.

  Well, he thought. We will have to start over. This time we will take the main roads, and we will make our way to the Northern Waste. We will ride day and night if necessary. No stops.

  Having decided on his course, Will began to open the door to command Charming that they would start at once, but then by fate or chance, Charming said, “I know I have to follow him, but Liz is out there all alone with no one to protect her. I have a duty to my King, but what about my duty to my wife?”

  “And Liz is actually the King’s sister, brother?” the dog asked.

  Charming nodded, staring at the paper in his hands.

  “Woof,” the dog said grimly. “Sorry about the comment earlier about her play, brother. It isn’t her fault, just . . . just the Players didn’t do it justice.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Liz hates the play. She . . .” Charming’s voice caught. “She thinks the pumpkins are ridiculous.”

  “Don’t you think the King will care enough about his sister to let you go after her, man?” the donkey asked.

  “It sounds like he does not think about anyone but himself,” the cat hissed in disgust. “Typical King.”

  “No,” said Charming. “He is thinking of Elle. We cannot hold that against him. He has the best of intentions.”

  “If you say so, brother,” said the dog. “But in my experience, the man only thinks about the man.”

  Will sat back against the wall, the judgment of the group ringing in his ears. They were right. He had been selfish. His own negligence had cost him his beloved, and now, through his own arrogance, he had endangered Liz.

  As Will pondered what to do, Charming asked, “Is it really that bad out there?”

  “Bad, man?” brayed the donkey. “The whole place looks like the end of a music festival. ­People going this way and that, strung out and crazy.”

  “Crazy!” crowed the rooster.

  “Put it this way, man. We are broke and need gigs and are hiding in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, man,” said the donkey, taking a long drag at the pipe. “There is no way we are going back out on the road with that dragon out there.”

  “Besides,” barked the dog. “There’s that crazy Dracomancer and his Dracolytes to worry about, brother. They’ve taken over the whole southern part of the kingdom.”

  “Dracomancer!” the rooster gave a strangled cry.

  “You shouldn’t go either,” the cat purred, rubbing the side of her body back and forth across his chest. “Norm has been telling us all about you, darling, about your poetry and your dreams.”

  “Norm says you have an artist’s soul, brother,” the dog said enthusiastically.

  “Wait!” Charming said, putting up a hand. “Who’s Norm?”

  This was a question that was also puzzling Will.

  “OX!” screamed the rooster.

  “My ox? You mean Goliath?” Charming asked in stunned disbelief.

  “Yeah, although he’s not sure about that nickname, man,” the donkey said.

  “He says it may feed into the stereotype that oxen are just big and dumb, brother,” the dog growled.

  “Sizeist!” the rooster called.

  “He’s actually very delicate, like me, dear Edward.” The cat sighed.

  “Although he’s got a great baritone, man,” the donkey said, gesturing about with the pipe. “We may ask him to join the group.”

  “You’ve been talking to Goliath . . . I mean, Norm, my ox?” Charming said, and gestured for the donkey to hand him the pipe. In the other room, Will desperately wished that he could do the same.

  “Yeah, and he’s been telling us how cool you’ve been, man,” the gray-­headed donkey said, nodding.

  “About how you were the first person to really let him express himself through his soil sculpture, brother,” continued the dog.

  “You are too sensitive to be roaming about trying to kill dragons, Darling,” the cat said as she licked a paw and ran it over her fur. “Stay here with us, and we can make beautiful music together.”

  “No!” Charming suddenly stood, dumping the cat in a disgruntled heap on the floor, and began pacing back and forth. “As tempting as it sounds, and as much as I want to get to know Norm, Liz is going right into the heart of this Dracomancer’s territory. I must do something! Somehow, I must convince the King to let me go.”

  In that moment, Will realized Charming had to go south, and he had to go north. Their partnership was at an end.

  “Good travels,” he whispered.

  He gathered his things quietly and slipped out the window while in the other room, he heard Charming announce, “I’ll give him another hour till dawn, then I’ll wake him and see if I can’t explain everything. Perhaps I can talk some sense into him.” Charming sighed. “In the meantime, I’m hungry as a dog . . . no offense.”

  “None taken, brother,” the dog said in his gravelly voice. “I’m hungry like the wolf myself.”

  “Hey,” the donkey brayed loudly, as Will slipped out the window. “There’s a song in that . . .”

  Outside, Will saddled his horse and led it quietly out of the clearing to the path before mounting. He began riding at a measured pace in the direction he knew would take him to the main north–south road. There would be no more shortcuts, and he would not abuse his mount. He still felt guilty about his treatment of the horse he had first ridden after Elle had been taken. He might have
killed it.

  The road turned and twisted through the woods. When the sun reached its height, Will came to a partially collapsed bridge that had formerly spanned a rushing stream. A narrow plank had been placed across the two standing ends of the bridge. It was just wide enough for his horse, but he would have to dismount and lead it across.

  Will stepped onto the plank.

  “Aha!”

  With an impressive leap, a man came out of the trees from the other bank to land on the opposite side of the ruined bridge in front of the plank. He held a wooden stave in his hands and wore a feathered cap.

  “Oh no,” said Will flatly. “It’s the Scarlet Scoundrel. Or rather, the Green Phantom.”

  “Aha! My reputation precedes me.”

  “No,” said Will. “We’ve met. I rescued King Rupert from your clutches about a year ago. Don’t you remember?”

  “King William, is that you?” the Scoundrel asked skeptically. He leaned against his staff. “You look terrible. What has happened to your clothes, and your face, and my God, your hands? Have you been in a battle with trolls or bears or perhaps something even more dark and sinister that has yet to be given a name? As you know, I have a particular skill with names.”

  “No, Phantom, I’ve encountered nothing.” Will said, clenching his jaw in anger. “Just get out of my way. I’m not in the mood.”

  The bandit bowed. “My apologies, Your Majesty, but I can’t let you pass. First, you are the King, and as such, you are my sworn enemy. Second, as you have proved, I have a reputation now to think of, and letting my sworn enemy cross the bridge I have claimed as my own without challenge would ruin me. Also,” he said in a lower voice, “I’ve decided to steer away from the Green Phantom name. I have a new theory about alliterative—­”

  “Alliterative imprimatur,” Will said in disgust. “Yes, I’ve heard it.”

  “You’ve heard,” the Scoundrel said with surprise, then brightened. “My fame must be growing faster than even I suspected. This makes the current debate over my name all the more important to resolve. I would like your view, Your Majesty.”

  “I don’t care.”

  The Scoundrel either didn’t hear or ignored him. “I’m debating between the Scarlet Scoundrel and the Violet Varlet, although, I have also thought about the Verdant Vigilante, but I’m not sure it’s right for my own particular . . .”

  “Idiom?” offered Will.

  “Idiom!” the Scarlet Scoundrel shouted.

  “Can we hurry this up?” Will asked.

  The Scoundrel looked at him crossly. “You have changed, Your Majesty. Last time we met, you were far more courteous and a great deal more fun. I believe the crown must be ageing you. Be wary of that. Kings never look as good when they leave the palace as when they enter it. However, enough banter; if you wish to rush straight to your own humiliation, let’s have at it.”

  The Scoundrel extended his staff in a challenge but did not yet step on the plank.

  “You have a staff, and I don’t,” complained Will.

  “True,” replied the Scoundrel. He whistled. A hand reached down from an overhanging branch near Will, holding a staff. A quiet voice from above said, “Here you go, Your Majesty.”

  Will dropped the reins of his horse, grabbed the staff, and stormed onto the plank toward the Scarlet Scoundrel. The Scoundrel took one disappointed look at him, and said, “You don’t seem like the quick-­witted young man I remember.”

  Swinging his staff wildly, Will shouted, “I’m not a stupid peasant anymore. I’m the King now!”

  “Yes, you are a king now,” the Scoundrel said sadly. “Pity.”

  With that, he kicked the edge of the plank off his side of the bridge. The next thing Will knew, he was falling, then he hit the water. The stream was freezing cold, and Will realized he couldn’t breathe. A heartbeat later, he felt something tug at the back of his tunic and his head burst to the surface. The Scarlet Scoundrel was holding Will up with his staff. He swung him over to the bank.

  “Now, if you will be so good as to drop your sword, my men will liberate you of any valuables. Please understand, Your Majesty, this isn’t personal. It’s just business.”

  Will coughed and spluttered. He could hear men in the trees laughing at him. He lay on the bank of the stream, cold and miserable and feeling completely and utterly defeated.

  He heard a commotion in the trees. “We’ve got a problem,” a hidden voice said.

  “What is it?” asked the Scoundrel. “Someone deal with it, we’ve got the King here. Show some respect. After all, this is a Royal Robbery. Oh, I like that one.”

  “It’s a lone rider, and he’s coming fast,” came another hidden voice.

  “He looks really impressive,” said yet another voice.

  “Wait. Does it seem like he’s staring at the far horizon?” asked the Scoundrel.

  “Yes, that’s it,” called another in a worried tone.

  “My God, we’ve got to get out of here,” said the Scoundrel.

  There was a clatter of hooves on the road.

  “Ahem, too late,” came Charming’s voice from atop the bridge. “Hello, Daniel.”

  “Don’t call me Daniel, Edward,” the outlaw hissed. “You know I’m the Scarlet Scoundrel. And why are you here anyway?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know,” Charming said in his most obnoxiously superior voice. “I’m the King’s personal squire.”

  “A squire? You?” The Scoundrel laughed. “Squire Charming?”

  “The one and only,” Charming said, and Will looked up to see him tap his heels against his horse’s flanks, and the horse gathered itself and leapt the gap in the bridge.

  Charming stared down at the Scoundrel. “Now, the way I see it, Daniel, we can do this the easy way, and you can drop the staff and run, or I’ll take it from you and dunk you in the water in front of all your Hardy Hooligans.”

  “Now, listen, Charming. I can’t just back down. And ixnay on the Anielday, I’m the Scarlet Scoundrel, and these are my Heinous Highwaymen.”

  There was a murmuring in the trees and the sounds of several arguments.

  “Well,” admitted the Scoundrel. “Some of our names are still under discussion.”

  “Personally, I like Heinous Highwaymen,” said Charming, confidently. “Are you going to back down, or do I beat you with your own stick?”

  The Scarlet Scoundrel began to back up, holding his staff defensively in front of him as Charming advanced on his horse. “Be reasonable, Charming.”

  “No! No! No! This isn’t right!” shouted Will.

  Both Charming and the Scarlet Scoundrel paused. Charming cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, it’s perfectly fine. The Scoundrel knows I can thrash him. I’ve done it a dozen times although he’s got me when it comes to archery.”

  “And swinging on ropes.”

  “True, that has never really been part of my milieu,” nodded Charming. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. This thrashing will take no time, then we will be back on our way north.”

  Will sat up and put his head in his hands. “It’s impossible. I can’t do this.”

  The Scoundrel put his staff against the railing of the bridge and, approaching closer to Charming, whispered, “Edward, this seems like a bad time.”

  “I know. Let me handle this.”

  “Please tell me that he’s not crying. I couldn’t stand it if I brought the man to tears.”

  Charming nodded. “Maybe you should help him up out of the mud there. Oh, Heinous Highwaymen,” Charming called out. “Can you come down out of the trees? I think we need to regroup.”

  Men began climbing down from the branches.

  “Wait, I give the orders,” shouted the Scoundrel.

  The men paused.

  “Okay, do what Charming said.”

  The bandits resumed cl
imbing down the trees.

  Will didn’t care about the Scoundrel or Charming. All he cared about was Elle, and he realized that he had no idea what he could do or where he could go to help her. Charming was right. There was no reason to go north. Even if, by some miracle, they found the dragon, Will had no idea what to do, and from their conversation on the road, he knew that Charming didn’t really know either. They had wasted a week riding around the kingdom. He had failed as a man to protect the woman he loved. He had failed as the King to keep his subjects safe. The last great thing he had done was to place Princess Gwendolyn in judgment over the fairy.

  Then it came to him.

  He shook his head and laughed, as the Scarlet Scoundrel threw him a rope. He was still laughing when the Heinous Highwaymen helped him onto the bridge.

  “I know what to do.”

  Charming came over to him. “Will?”

  “I know what to do.”

  “Go north?” Charming asked with resigned voice.

  “We aren’t going north,” Will said with a bemused laugh.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Who knows how a Dragon thinks? Who understands Dragons? Who has talked more to Dragons than anyone else?” Will headed over to his horse.

  The Scarlet Scoundrel and Charming shared confused glances and shrugged.

  “I’m telling you what Liz figured out a week ago,” said Will. “We need to go south! We need to head to the one place that I can always find—­home. We have to go back to Prosper.”

  “Why?” asked Charming.

  “Because that’s where we will find the one person who can help us—­Princess Gwendolyn Mostfair!”

  And with that, Will mounted up and started riding south.

  *Editor’s Note: Solicitors representing The Seven Players™ have asked us to insert the following advisory notice or risk being subject to swift and crippling legal action.

  ADVISORY NOTICE: The views expressed by the Bremen-four concerning The Seven Players™ and whether Ash and Cinders™ is in fact an existentialist exploration of anything are only the uneducated opinions of the Bremen-four, and do not represent the opinions or views of any member of The Seven Players™, particularly Grady Dwarf™, who would not bother with the existentialist school if you held a knife to his throat, and he’ll teach anyone who claims otherwise a lesson they won’t soon forget.