by Shutta Crum
“Thomas, it’s fine to have doubts. Just don’t let ’em eat you up,” his father said. “I’ve heard tales from the castle that you’ve been every bit as good a squire as others. And brave, to boot! Now you’ll be every bit as good a knight as the king’s other knights. Better, even!” He slapped Thomas on the thigh and continued, “As your father, I know something you may not know.”
“What?” asked Thomas.
“You’ve no idea what talents lie within you. Me? I’m only a rough tradesman; my talent is in my hands.” Thomas’s father looked for a moment at his large, scarred hands. “But you … your talents are here.” He laid a hand on his son’s chest and held it there a moment. “They are deep within you. One day, I’ve no doubt, you’ll draw upon those natural talents, and they will not fail you. Mark my words, son. Other things may fall away, but what you find within … that you can always rely upon.”
Suddenly shy, his father dropped his hand and nodded. He rose and lumbered out the door toward his workshop. His mother put a hanky to her nose and waved Thomas off to bed.
In the morning, Thomas found a pouch packed and waiting for him. His mother had stayed awake all night baking and preparing for his journey. She had stuffed a bag with breads, hard cheese, and a wax-covered honey cake that would keep for many days.
After breakfast, with his family gathered around, his father presented him with a wrapped bundle. Thomas opened it. Inside was a buff-colored leather jerkin with finely worked details and three intricately crafted silver clasps to tighten the vest around him. The delicacy of the designs Da had pressed into the leather took Thomas’s breath away. He looked at his tired father, unable to find the words to thank him.
His father said, “I started it soon after you became Sir Gerald’s squire. A gift for the day my son would become a knight, because I never doubted you. Look!” His father took it and held it open. “It’s padded with the dried bark of a cork tree, which I bought at the fair. They say the stuff comes all the way from across the sea. It will keep you dry and warm and offer some protection from harm.”
He touched his son’s shoulder. “Take care with it, for this leather and the silver of the clasps are worth much. And there’s this, which I fashioned last night.” He held out a set of reins and a small metal bit for Bartholomew. “I didn’t have time to make more.”
Thomas took them, studying the patterned embossing on the leather of the reins. He raised his eyes. “They’re beautiful, Da.”
“Mayhap they will help in your quest and bring you home all the sooner.”
Thomas put on his leather jerkin. Then he covered the calmly waiting Bartholomew with his blanket and belted it tight. He hung his pouch from the wide belt around Bartholomew, and put the new bit and reins on the donkey. They fit perfectly.
Now Thomas had Starfast and his shield from Sir Gerald, Bartholomew from the king’s stables, his vest and leather reins from his father, and a pouch of provisions from his mother. He was ready to venture forth.
Isabel tugged at the pouch hanging from Bartholomew. Thomas grabbed her and hugged her. Then he swung her through the air until she giggled. Lastly, he kissed his parents good-bye. For a goodly way down the lane, Sir Thomas could see his family waving as he rode out upon a quest for his king.
Thomas had never traveled to Barren Isle before. Indeed, very few had done so and lived to tell the tale. He only knew that it must be west and a bit north along the dark coast of the sea, for many of the old tales told of the people of this region battering back the attacks of dragons. It was said the dragons had taken their treasure and retreated to caves that were burrowed into the two jagged peaks on that desolate island.
The going was steady but slow, as Bartholomew stopped often to munch grasses that grew upon the increasingly rolling hills. Villages grew fewer and farther apart as they traveled.
Yet from every holding, cottagers would wander out to speak with the young traveler and smile when he introduced himself as a Knight of the Realm. In addition, Bartholomew got hugs and bits of turnips from the children they met. In some places, adults snickered behind their hands at such an unlikely knight questing to the island of the dragons. Often, Thomas heard people whisper, “Imagine that!” or saw them shake their heads as though bewildered.
The news of the journey spread faster than Sir Thomas could travel on Bartholomew. Many times he was awaited and welcomed to share meals and shelter—no matter how humble—with families along the way. The young knight was glad of this, for it made his provisions last longer. In exchange, he regaled his listeners with talk of life in the castle, of battles, and of Isabel and the rest of his family.
Some folk of this hill country told him tales as well, especially as the countryside grew steeper and wilder. These stories were often rumors of great wealth in the dragon’s lair. However, the stories that struck Thomas the most were those told by solemn folk of a dark pool of water along the coast. Split off from the cleansing waters of the sea, this stagnant swamp had given birth to a monster. Any who wished to journey to Barren Isle had to first make it past the many-headed beast of the lake.
All who whispered of it said the monster devoured passersby by catching them in its long tentacles and tearing them to pieces with its several mouths. It was a cursed lake that had cast a shadow upon the lands nearby. It was foretold that the only way anyone could survive its watery grasp, and defeat the beast of the lake, would be to return to the beast what was taken from it. Since no one—they all agreed—knew what that was, the land about the lake was doomed to be a forbidding place.
Thomas had worried about coming face to face with the dragon who had taken the princess; now it seemed there was another beast to deal with. He wondered if he might be able to sneak past it if he had to venture near the lake. He was small and good at being quiet. His quest was to rescue the princess, not kill a monster. Thomas did not want to draw down the creature’s wrath if he could avoid it. He shivered. After all, there would be the dragon to confront, and one such task would be plenty.
Sometimes a spark of anger would flare within him, for it seemed to Thomas that certain people smirked as they warned him of the beast, of its devouring heads and its many small mouths all biting and chewing. He wasn’t sure if they were trying to shake his resolve or make fun of him. Then he would remember his training and the lessons of Sir Gerald. He would do what he had come to do and not let anger, or fear, rule him.
Still, in the dark of the night, he wished he could simply turn around and hurry home. He questioned the strength of his hand and his heart. Was Da right? Was he really good enough to be a knight? When he’d been brave on the battlefield with Sir Gerald, he’d acted without thinking. He’d simply seen what needed to be done and had done it. But this was different. This was more like the squire who’d quietly—knowingly—walked into battle to do his best. That was a deliberate kind of bravery. Did he possess that kind of bravery? Would he be able to draw upon those talents Da spoke of—and did he really have any talent at all?
Thomas pushed back his doubts; he did not have time to dwell upon them now. His road led toward the coast and Barren Isle—regardless of whatever he might meet along the way. In the end he was more determined than ever to do what he must, and he pushed Bartholomew to quicken his pace.
Several days later, Thomas and Bartholomew found themselves welcomed at a small cottage by an elderly widow who fed them quite well. Beyond her home the road narrowed to a faint trail, and the wayfarers passed a whole afternoon without coming upon another village, or even a small farm holding. It wasn’t until early evening that the two happened upon a deserted cottage. There was something so sad about the place that Thomas did not want to sleep within it. He and Bartholomew settled in the lee of the crumbling walls, and Thomas lit a cooking fire.
Suddenly Bartholomew raised his head, swiveled his ears back, and turned toward a nearby hill. “What is it?” Thomas asked as Bartholomew brayed loudly and struggled to rise.
Quickly Thomas stud
ied the hilly countryside. Passing in the distance was a small group of men on foot. In the dusk Thomas could just make out that some carried raised staffs. He saw only a single rider on a horse. It was an immense silver-gray stallion. Then the last rays of the setting sun raked downward and lit a blue flag in the midst of the group.
“The king’s banner!” cried Thomas, running back to Bartholomew. “We must hurry!” He knew the king wouldn’t have left the castle unless there was the gravest need. Perhaps it was further news of the princess? Or a disaster near one of the borders? As quickly as he could, Thomas doused the campfire, repacked their bags, retrieved Bartholomew’s blanket and belt, grabbed the reins from the broken back of the cottage door, and mounted up.
Then Bartholomew picked his way over the hill, carefully and very slowly.
They were too late. The king and his men had already passed, and in the deepening twilight Thomas could not see them ahead on the path. He patted Bartholomew on the neck. “That’s all right,” he said, swallowing his disappointment. “We’re sure to catch up sooner or later.”
For a long time they plodded after the king. They followed the trail until the deep night blinded them to the way, and they stopped to give in to sleep.
In the morning Thomas saw that the countryside was much wilder. Brambles and curtains of vines grew up into stunted trees. Moss-covered boulders overhung dark openings into the earth. There was no wind.
However, Thomas could see the path the king and his men had taken—vines had been slashed to clear the way. Bartholomew needed some coaxing to follow, for an ill feeling was settling upon them. They rode along, only stopping briefly when there was a wisp of green Bartholomew could nibble.
Sir Thomas stayed mounted for most of the morning. He hung his head in the still air and nodded sleepily on Bartholomew’s back, trusting the sure-footed donkey. Except for the thud of Bartholomew’s hooves, and occasionally some gentle encouragement by Thomas, the two passed most of the way in silence.
Toward midday Thomas was roused—not by noise or wind or cold, but by a stink so vile he suddenly stiffened, sitting alert on Bartholomew’s back. His eyes watered as he swiveled to look about, trying to find the source of the stench. Bartholomew jerked to a stop and brayed piteously. Haw-aw-aw!
Sir Thomas leapt off Bartholomew and drew Starfast. He peered into the tangles of brush on either side of the path. They had been going downhill for some time, and the undergrowth had grown denser as they descended from the higher forests. Now the path had changed from rocky to mushy. Just ahead, the path left by the king and his men made a sharp turn past tall, willowy grasses. Thomas could not see around the bend.
The air felt different, too. It was wetter and clung with a heaviness that made it difficult to breathe. The smell didn’t help. Thomas pulled the tail of his shirt up and covered his nose. Bartholomew brayed again, more loudly. HAW!
Thomas grasped Bartholomew’s reins and gave the donkey a tug. Bartholomew stepped cautiously forward one step, then two—and stopped again. He tried to shake his muzzle free of the reins and bawled, Haw!
“I know, I know,” said Thomas. “Something is amiss. We need to find out what it is, and why the air is so foul.” He pulled on Bartholomew again. The donkey dug his hooves into the spongy soil, sat back on his rump, and refused to move.
“Bartholomew! I need you to come with me,” Thomas pleaded. It was no use. The donkey refused to take another step.
Thomas sighed. “All right. You wait here.” He tied Bartholomew’s reins to the broken end of a branch from a shrubby willow. Then he stroked the donkey’s side to soothe him. “I’ll just scout ahead a bit and see what’s what.”
Thomas, with Starfast raised, slipped quietly along the trampled path. The solid ground had given way to marshland. Impossibly thick grasses swayed on tall stalks above his head. Water had pooled in the sunken impressions left by the king’s men and Heartwind. They must be close ahead. With each step the stink of rancid fish, rotting vegetation, and something else—he hated to think what—grew stronger until he thought he might gag. He did not stop.
He tried thinking of sweet smells to thwart the stench. He thought of the evening primroses in his mother’s garden. When night came, the flowers opened and their perfume wafted through the open door. He thought of the smell coming from the brick oven when his family baked bread. He recalled how the castle kitchens smelled just before suppertime, when the juices from moist roasts fell into the hot ashes and sizzled. In this way he kept himself from crying out in fear.
Finally, he came to the turning of the trail. He touched Starfast lightly to his forehead, took a breath of the rot-infused air, and stepped out.
What met Thomas’s startled eyes was the sight of a bubbling pool. It was neither wide nor long. But for all its daintiness, it was not a place to linger. All about were upturned boulders and trees ripped live from their moorings. Their shriveled roots looked somehow startled.
Aghast, Thomas left the path and made his way to the edge of the water. He glanced across, hoping to see the king on the other shore. He knew they were not far ahead, and the king’s trail seemed to skirt the lake. As he stood there, a great bubble rose from the depths. It burst and filled the air with a vaporous cloud smelling of sulfur—and that other smell Thomas had not wanted to name—the stink of death.
When the cloud rained its reek on him, Thomas staggered. He knew without a doubt that this must be the lake the hill folk had spoken of in their frightening tales. It had to be the den of the many-headed beast of the lake—the very place Thomas had hoped to avoid.
Thomas’s stomach gave a lurch, and his arms felt sickly and limp. Still, he gripped Starfast with both hands. There was no avoiding the lake now. He raised his sword high and declared, “This is the way of my path, for good or ill. Beast of the depths, I mean you no harm. Disturb me at your peril!”
With that, Thomas exhaled and prepared to turn back to the king’s trail, but he discovered that while he had stood on the shore, his feet had sunk into the muck. He was already buried to his shins. He felt the greedy suck of quicksand. “No!”
Quickly sheathing Starfast, he grabbed at one of his legs with both hands and tried to pull it up. Instead, he was sinking faster and was now buried to his knees. “No!” he cried again, struggling against his sinking. His violent wriggling only made it worse.
Not like this! I don’t want to die like this! He forgot what to do to free himself from quicksand.
In his blind panic he did not see a tentacle flick up from the water and explore the lip of the lake. Therefore, it was with a shock that he felt the muscular arm of the beast wrap around his chest. Thomas had only seconds to draw Starfast from its sheath. He jabbed his sword into the fleshy tentacle up to its hilt and yanked it back out.
The pool bubbled over with black bile. The long arm unwrapped itself, swung around, and slapped Thomas into the air and down into the muck.
As he lay on his side in the mud and the ooze from the wounded beast, Thomas’s first thought was I still have Starfast. His second thought was I’m free of the quicksand! Immediately he flipped onto his stomach and began to slither away from the lake as quickly as he could without letting his knees and elbows sink in.
He’d gotten only a short distance from the shore when the tentacle whipped out again and caught Thomas around the waist. It dragged him back toward the water. There, several muck-crowned heads were rising from the depths. Thomas slashed at the beast as it lifted him. He took only a quick look at the greedy mouths that were snapping on the heads of the beast.
With each cut Starfast made, Thomas felt the beast quiver, he heard the waters rumble, and he smelled the dizzying reek of polluted outrage. Into his mind flashed his mother affectionately calling him stubborn. And then he remembered the day he’d met the king in the castle. He had waited hour after hour in the long, lonely corridor, holding on to hope. That hope had led to the king’s bestowing his knighthood.
He held on to hope now. He
took a deep breath and methodically stabbed and dragged Starfast through the tentacle. He didn’t really want to kill the monster; he wanted to get free. The only way to do that was not to give up. Stubbornly, Thomas and Starfast did not give up, even as the water churned around them and the beast pulled him toward its hungry mouths.
Thomas went underwater. In the inky vastness, he sensed an evil beyond his understanding. It was an old evil—and he was young and afraid. Still, in the bright, hard knot of his mind, he would not stop fighting. Patiently, repeatedly, Starfast plunged into the flesh of the beast.
Thomas was drawing upon the last thin pockets of air in his lungs when he was thrust above the waves. He coughed out water and sucked in air. Then he gagged. He had inhaled the stench from a mouth filled with jagged teeth. It was close to his face.
It wasn’t a terribly large mouth, and there was a gap between the teeth along one side. Suddenly Thomas knew what had to be done. He prayed that he and Starfast would be small enough to do it.
Thomas aimed, and—all in one smooth movement—he thrust his arm and Starfast straight through the tight gap in the beast’s mouth. He twisted Starfast upright, yanked the sword back toward him, and wedged it between the creature’s jaws.
As Thomas pulled his arm out, he felt a tremor pass through the tentacle that was holding him. The head bobbing before him, with Starfast lodged in its mouth, shuddered and began to jerk about, biting down on the sword. The other heads that had been coming at him from all sides began to pull back and sink below the surface.
The last thing Thomas heard as he, too, was pulled under was a loud cracking sound that reverberated across the lake. The last thing he saw was Starfast’s iron shaft flying out of the creature’s bloody mouth and splashing into the dark water. The hilt had been bitten off and was jammed tightly into the gap in the creature’s teeth.