by Adam Wallace
‘Your Majesty, may I have a moment of your time?’
The King glanced down, one eyebrow raised.
‘We are in a hurry. I cannot afford to stop and chat.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty, I see that, and it is the reason for your hurry that causes me to speak to you.’
The King called his company to a halt and turned to Pete McGee.
‘What do you know of our trip, boy?’
‘I know that you are searching for the Wilderene Flower. I know that I can help you find it and defeat that which guards it. I know that …’
‘Enough!’ Cyril interrupted. ‘You cannot and will not help us. Look at you. A skinny runt with one arm. How could you possibly be of any use to us?’
This tactic wasn’t working. Pete decided he would first confirm Marloynne was actually who he thought he was, and then try to get across what he was trying to do. He walked over to the horse Marloynne sat on and started to pat it, staring straight at Ashlyn’s great love.
‘Your Majesty, you are right to doubt Ashlyn, I mean me, but Ashlyn, I mean I, can help you. Ashlyn Ashlyn Ashlyn Ashlyn Ashlyn.’
King Cyril the Slow, never having bothered to learn the names of his servants, had no idea what Pete was talking about. He simply thought he was a stupid boy. Marloynne however, was staring into space, deep in thought. Faydon, who realised exactly what was going on, leapt off his horse and ran over to Pete. He grabbed the lad by the arm and leant in close, speaking softly but firmly into his ear. Pete could smell stale food and drink on the man’s breath. He struggled to break free but his arm was held firm.
‘Do not try this boy. There are those of us who have worked too hard to let you spoil our plans. I need the servant, so he comes with us. Go now, go home, you cannot and will not interfere any more.’
Pete couldn’t think of anything to say, so he shook his arm free and tried to leap onto Marloynne’s horse. He grabbed the reins with his arm and tried to swing his legs up, but only succeeded in kicking the horse, which reared up onto its back legs sending Pete, Marloynne and Faydon tumbling to the ground. Whatever thoughts Marloynne was having disappeared when he hit the dirt, and he turned on Pete.
‘You stupid, stupid boy. Be gone, and leave us to our journey. Look. Look what you have done to my sandwich!’
Marloynne’s sandwich had landed before he did, and now was mushed onto his backside. Pete tried to explain, but he had lost all confidence.
‘But, but I, but but …’
‘Yes I know it’s on my butt,’ Marloynne interrupted. ‘That’s the problem!’
Pete flinched away a little, fearing Marloynne was about to hit him, or at least rub the sandwich in his face. Before anything could happen though, Faydon stood up, brushed himself off, and handed a new sandwich to Marloynne. He turned back to Pete then, his grin returning.
‘It is too hard for you alone boy. Go now and leave what has to be done to men.’
He turned and remounted his horse, leaving Pete still on the ground, lying there as he watched the group move off down the road. Slowly he got to his feet, his clothes covered in dust, and all he could think about was that he was on his own. He was trying to succeed where so many had tried and failed before him. He didn’t want these thoughts but he couldn’t stop them. It began to hit home just what an enormous task lay ahead. In all the excitement, Pete had never really thought about what he was doing, never really thought that he wouldn’t succeed. But how could he? He was a boy, as everyone kept calling him, so how could he possibly do this? He had no powers, no weapons, nothing. He had to face up to the fact that his mother would die and the evil King Cyril would get the flower. That was all there was to it. Even if the King was to fail, that would just add to the chance of Pete’s failure.
He turned around and faced back the way he had come. His pack still lay by the side of the road. He walked over to it and swung it over his shoulder. He felt useless. He couldn’t go on, but he couldn’t go home either. This was a decision he didn’t want to have to make alone. Suddenly, he realised he may not have to, for he felt a familiar presence by his side. He turned his head and saw Sir Loinsteak. As proud as when Pete had first seen him, somehow the knight seemed different. It was a general feel about him, a look; something wasn’t right. Pete couldn’t put his finger on it, and didn’t really want to try. Sir Loinsteak smiled at his young friend.
‘Sir Pete. Dost thou not face the wrong direction?’
‘I thought you were only meant to show up when I’d shown strength and truth and valour. Well, I’m giving up, quitting, going home, so what the hell are you doing here? It’s not really your time to appear, is it?’
Pete McGee spat the words out, his disappointment in himself fuelling his anger. Sir Loinsteak’s face showed no emotion, although he paused a little before answering.
‘Thou art correct. However, thou didst show courage in even approaching the King. His words, and those of his advisor, are foul and evil, and do turn thy thoughts against thyself. ‘Tis truly a time of need for thee, and thus I am here to help.’
‘But how can you help me? Everyone’s right, even Mum thought it: I’m just a boy; I’m a little kid with one arm who thinks he’s a knight, but I’m living in fantasyland. I’m just a dreamer and that’s not gonna help anyone.’
‘No, Pete McGee, thou art wrong. Greatness is born from dreams. Merely by leaving the comfort of thy house and embarking on this quest thou art converting dreams to reality. By telling the King thy reasons for wanting the flower, thou has made thyself vulnerable, a true sign of courage. ‘Tis just that thou needs to see past others’ words into the part of thee that knows thy values are noble, that thou art capable of completing thy quest. True, thou dost not seem to have much to carry with thee in case of battle, but thou hast more than thou believes. Weapons are necessary, to be sure, but they are not always a person’s greatest defence. And I will be by thy side, Pete McGee, when thou needs me. I will face danger with thee, but I also give thee this.’
Sir Loinsteak handed Pete a dagger. It was an incredible-looking weapon. Pete wrapped his fingers around the grip and, to his astonishment, the handle moulded itself into his palm. It would fit him and him alone. The blade glowed, giving no indication of its age, and looked as sharp as if it were brand new. While Pete was grateful to have something to defend himself with, he also wondered if he could kill another living thing. As if reading his thoughts, Sir Loinsteak placed a huge hand on Pete’s slim shoulder.
‘I truly hope you never have to find out, Sir Pete, but sometimes fate doth place us in situations that we cannot control. Thou must be equipped to deal with them. Until then, guard this weapon well, for it is embedded with magic. If thou art forced to use it, the dagger shall seek out any attacker and guide thine arm to them.’
Pete placed the dagger in his belt. He could feel the coldness of the metal against his skin, even through his clothes.
‘Continue on, Sir Pete McGee, and as thou travels, remember to believe in thyself. Thou can accomplish greatness on this journey, but thou must not let cruel words sway thee from thy course. Thou art well on the way to becoming a fine man; a true knight. It is a path littered with danger and doubt, but if thou doth stay true to thyself, goals and dreams shall be reached, and greatness found.’
Pete nodded, turned, and began walking once again, more determined than ever to attain the Wilderene Flower and rescue Marloynne. Suddenly he realised what was different about Sir Loinsteak. He had lost his edge, his sharpness. There had been a slight blur around the edge of the knight, although it had been hard to notice due to the aura the man had. Pete also realised that he hadn’t thanked Sir Loinsteak for the dagger, but as he turned he had the feeling that he would be alone. And he was right.
Wow, phew, that was close huh? I mean, I was almost out of a job there. If Pete McGee had kept walking home that would have been it, end of story. Not even a happily ever after in there. Nothing to see here folks, move along to the next book please. But that kn
ight though, Sir Loinsteak, he’s pretty cool, huh? He’s got a way with words too. I mean, you know, all those doths and thous and thees and thys and needests and all that. Pretty la dee da fancy schmancy, but it seems to work. Pete McGee’s back on track, ready to go ahead with his journey, his quest if you will.
So do you know what happens next? Got any idea what faces our young hero? No? Well I’m not going to tell you here. You’ll just have to keep reading.
ete McGee walked on, eyes down, staring at the ground. Cyril and his merry men had a bit of a lead now, but that wasn’t a huge issue. He just needed to keep following the road which, he suddenly noticed, went into a fork about 50 metres ahead. Pete groaned out loud, wondering which way he should take. The Green Book hadn’t mentioned any fork. Pete looked along the choice to the left. It was a nice little road that ran alongside the river, bordered by thick, leafy green trees, brightly coloured flowers and people dancing and singing. Everyone was smiling and laughing; it looked like a wonderful road to take. Pete turned his attention to the right. It didn’t look too great by itself, let alone in comparison to the left road. It went straight for a bit then curved and went uphill. Way uphill. In fact, it was the steepest hill Pete had ever seen. People slowly walked up its gravel path, grumbling and mumbling to themselves. There were no smiles on their faces and there was certainly no singing. Even the people coming down were having trouble, the hill was so steep. There was one old man at the bottom of the hill in a heap, having rolled down the last little bit. Pete ran over to help him up. As he did he asked if the royal party had gone by. The man brushed Pete’s arm away, telling him not to hark up about royals, they never gave the common man anything. Then he started up the hill again. Weird.
Pete pondered his choices. There was left, with the happy people, the river, and the colour and joy. Or there was right, with no happy people and one steep mumma of a hill. Left? Right? Pete had no idea which one would take him to the Plains of Obon. They were both headed in the right direction now, but who knew if they twisted and turned ahead or not? Left or right?
‘Having a little trouble deciding?’
Pete had been so lost in his thoughts that the voice made him jump. It had come from his left, but when he looked left there was no-one there. He lowered his gaze and saw a tiny little man. Now Pete wasn’t exactly tall, but this guy only came up to his waist. He was a funny looking little man as well. His plaited hair went all the way down to the back of his knees and his nose was bent, as if it was made out of play dough. He had massive forearms, muscles rippling with every movement, and hands that looked as though they had been made out of leather. There was also a painful-looking scar across his forehead. Pete couldn’t help but stare.
‘What?’ the little man asked sharply. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a short person before?’
‘Well, no actually,’ Pete replied, ‘I haven’t.’
‘I suppose you think it’s pretty funny then, hey? Go on, make all your little jokes about my height.’
Pete just stared. He hadn’t even thought to joke about the guy’s height.
‘Oh, oh, do you need some help then? Come on, I’ll get you started. Do you want to know how I got this scar? I’ll tell you. I got it by walking into the second rung on a ladder. Do you know that when I go in a chariot, the driver puts up a ‘Baby on Board’ sign? I worked for two years in a freak show as the hairiest baby alive. The bearded lady played my mother. I’m knee high to knee high to a grasshopper. I pose for trophies in my spare time. Knock knock. Whose there? A man. A man who? A man who can’t reach the doorbell.’
This guy was a regular stand-up act. Pete started to talk, but before he could get a word out, the little man butted in.
‘Look, I don’t want to hear your jokes but I’ll give you some advice. Both of these roads end up at the same place, but don’t take the path to the left. It looks all fancy and nice, but it’s not, I say, it’s not at all. Go up the hill. It’s steep but it’s safer, believe me.’
The little man turned to walk away and fell straight into a pot hole, disappearing from view. Pete held out his arm to help him out, suppressing a giggle. The strange man just gave a grunt and got out by himself. He gave a little bow to Pete then stormed off talking at the top of his voice about the state of the roads.
Pete didn’t know what to do. He had no reason not to believe what the little man had told him about the roads, except for the fact that he was one of the weirdest people he had ever met. And why would he have given Pete advice anyway? Pete didn’t know him from a bar of soap. He looked again at the fork in the road. Off in the distance, along the left path, he swore that he could see a group of men on horses. It could be King Cyril and his men, Pete thought to himself. If he squinted, one of the men looked like Marloynne, although from such a distance it was hard to tell. It was a risk Pete had to take though. Besides, the left road looked so much nicer. So our young hero hitched up his pack and took the low road.
Pete walked briskly, keeping the group of men in his sight. If it was the King’s party, and he was sure now that it was, he didn’t want to lose them again. But there was so much to distract him. People were singing and dancing across his path, smiling at him, offering him things to buy. Trinkets, food and drink. Pete refused them all. He had to. He had virtually no money after that sweet, sweet burger. Even so, the people continued to close in around him, thrusting things in his face, but they weren’t all smiling now; they were almost snarling, daring him to buy their wares. The food wasn’t looking so good up close either. Most of it was brown and mouldy, and smelt totally rotten. The grass was dying off along the river, the waters of which had turned black. Pete looked through the dancing people for the group of men he was following, but they had disappeared. The dancers bumped into Pete, jostling him left and right, forcing him to strain to stay upright. They no longer thrust things at him, but had begun to sing again. Only now it wasn’t really a song, more a low humming, murmurs of danger. Pete’s hand moved quickly to the dagger at his side, ready to strike. The people weren’t hurting him but they were scaring him plenty, and they began to guide him off the road towards the river. Pete tried to move back to the road but his path was blocked, the singing gaining in intensity. The crowd closed in even more, dancing, singing, bustling, pushing, touching. Pete yelled out at the top of his voice, not words, just a yell, a noise. He turned once again, or was turned by the crowd, and with his next step he went straight down a hole.
King Cyril the 23rd stopped walking and leant on his stick, breathing heavily. On Faydon’s advice they had taken the high road, but it was hard going. The men had decided to walk beside the horses to ease their load, as the animals were struggling. The King started up the hill again. All he could think about was how good it would be when they reached the top. They would rest, and then things would speed up as they descended the mountain. Then the plains, then the flower, then the glory. He took a deep breath and walked a little faster, his men struggling to keep up.
The hole became a tunnel, the inside of which was totally covered in moss. Pete hurtled along its smooth surface; a slippery dip like no other. His pack came loose from his shoulder and bashed into him as he tumbled and slid. Everything was a blur as he spiralled down, the pack in front of him now and getting away. He grabbed it, holding on for dear life, no time for thinking, everything a reflex action. Suddenly he burst out of the end into nothing but air. Pete screamed, his eyes shut tightly. Still clinging to his pack he plummeted through space, waiting to hit. He didn’t have to wait long, as he skidded and squelched into a waiting swamp. Pete opened his eyes and glanced around cautiously. He had landed in a soft, beautiful, gooey, waist-high, mud-filled swamp. He laughed loudly, a laugh of relief as much as anything. Pete was amazed to be alive, but now that he was safe the adrenalin kicked in. That ride had been a huge rush. He jumped around in the goo, throwing it high into the air and letting it fall onto his face. This was fantastic! He felt something brush against his leg as he danced around. Before he
had time to think what it may have been, something burst out of the water and grabbed him by the arm. Pete cried out, and pulled back, but then his leg was grabbed as well by an invisible under-mud attacker. It began to pull Pete under.
ete tried to yank his hand away but it was gripped tight. The leg that was being pulled slipped along the slimy surface of the swamp. The mud was thick, but not thick enough to stop Pete being pulled under. With his one arm gripped tightly he couldn’t even reach for his dagger. He pulled against the force with all his might, straining, bursting, desperately trying to think of how he could escape. His eyes flicked left and right, searching for something that may help him, but there was nothing. Then … a familiar voice.
‘Didn’t I tell you to go the other way?’
Pete’s head jerked up at the sound. He couldn’t believe it. That little man was watching him from the side of the swamp, a look of ‘I told you so’ on his face. Pete didn’t answer, his lack of response a combination of surprise and the effort he was still putting in to not be dragged into the swamp.
‘Well, didn’t I?’
Pete nodded, not wanting to waste energy talking when he was fighting the mud creature with all his might.
‘Sometimes, young man, the path that looks easy doesn’t always turn out that way. To get to our goals, we have to follow the hard road, the road less travelled. Success only comes before work in the dictionary, you know.’
On and on he went, a regular little inspiration booklet. And still Pete struggled against the creature in the mud. He was breathing hard, his strength being drained just trying to stay above water.
‘The grass isn’t always greener, you know. What looks to be the entrance to the garden of Eden can sometimes be the gates into Hell. You can’t always …’
‘Excuse me,’ cried Pete. ‘I’m sorry, but it would be quite pleasant if you could give me a … gloop, gloop, gloop.’