The weather is exciting: wind and dark clouds up close; thunder, lightning, and rain in the distance. But the Plains of Ich are a mere flat infinity of waving grass, an unbroken disc of green stretching to all horizons, a front lawn for Insurance Nation. At this point I'd welcome the sight of a pile of dog poop just to break the tedium. I feel like an ant in the Astrodome.
We fly on. And on. I turn left, and left again. The horizon doesn't change. And then it does. I slow down and squint.
The deep purple clouds overhead part for an instant, so that a single shaft of light can drop like a fly ball into the middle of the landscape. It looks adventitious. At least, I think it does. Maybe I mean advantageous. Or truculent. I've never been sure what truculent means, but it sounds great.* Anyway, what I'm saying is that I notice this pop fly of light not only for its truculentness, but also because it glints off of something.
“Hey, Norbert!” I say, pointing.
There it is again. Another glint. I alter my course, shifting Barnaby under my left arm like a football. He's not much bigger than a football anyway. With difficulty, I draw my new sword. I don't want to be caught by surprise. The weapon feels warm and alive in my hand.
“Look ahead, Norbert. Tell me what you see.”
He frowns, pauses. – I see a settled land, under a strong king. I see a beautiful youth with a secret sorrow. I see children playing in a golden afternoon. I see treachery and murder, and the land in ruins. Then, for some reason, I see a tennis racket, and the six of clubs.
“Very funny,” I say. “What I meant was, do you see the knights up ahead? The sun glinted on their armor a minute ago.”
–Yes, Dingwall. They're sitting down at a picnic table, eating and drinking. Their hair is the color of straw, and their mustaches fly in the wind like banners. There's a lake behind them.
My mouth fills with water at the thought of food. “Do you think they'd let us eat something too?”
–There's enough on the table for an army! Anyway, they have no weapons that I can see. And they're waving at us.
By the time we get there they are on their feet, waving and calling cheerful greetings. As Norbert said, they have blonde hair and enormous mustaches.
I stop worrying. These guys are obviously friendly. And they're real people, not proteors. I put away my sword as they crowd around me. They're not too much smaller than I am. For Jupiter, they're pretty big.
“Pleased to meet you, flying travelers,” calls the biggest knight, in a voice of brass. He comes up to my chin. “We've been expecting you. My name is Mount, and I am a knight of Ich.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sir Mount,” I say, bowing clumsily. “My name is Dingwall and I come from Earth. These are my friends: Prince Norbert of Betunkaville, and Barnaby, a rocking horse.”
Sir Mount salutes Norbert and strokes Barnaby's head. He introduces the other knights, who turn out to be his brothers. Their names are Vey, Mise, and Prise. Mise and Prise are twins.
“How do you do,” I say. “Sir Vey, Sir Mise, Sir Prise.” Vey has bulbous staring eyes, Mise has a long thin nose that crooks a little to the side, Prise has tufted eyebrows that point up all the time. They say they're pleased to meet me. They have English accents, like all the knights I've ever seen or heard of. They say “what” a lot, even when it doesn't mean anything. Kind of the way I say “kind of.”
“Sit down, what?” says Sir Prise. “You must be hungry.”
“Yes, yes,” says Sir Mise. “When I was a boy, I was always hungry. Still am, what?” with a laugh.
“What what?” say the others.
It's hard to take them seriously. Remember the uncle who used to throw you into the air when you were a kid? Who jumped into the pool with a loud splash, so that your mom shook her head? These guys are kind of like him – slightly alarming, but nice.
They have incredible mustaches. Sir Prise's is my favorite: a thick growth all over his cheeks, spreading almost up to his eyes. He looks like he's peering at you through a window in an ivy-covered wall.
“What do you mean, you were expecting us?” I say.
Sir Mount blinks, as though I've asked a stupid question. “I don't know how else to put it,” he says. “We knew you had landed. We heard about your quest. We thought you'd come here. We expected you, what?” He nibbles at a raw carrot. Yuck.
Norbert and I sit down at a table the size of a tennis court. It's full of all of my favorite foods: fresh oranges and smoked sausages, fried peppers and cabbage rolls, spaghetti and meatballs, spareribs and corn on the cob, kung pao chicken and vindaloo curry, and taffy tarts. There are mountains of peanuts, fields of oatmeal cookies, forests of black licorice, and oceans of chocolate milk. There's more than that, but I don't have time to notice. I reach out greedily, filling my hands, my plate, my mouth.
–Careful, Dingwall, says Norbert quietly.
“Something more to drink, boy?” asks Sir Prise kindly. He's sitting next to me.
“Yes, please.”
“Oy, down there!” he shouts. “Oy, Vey, pass the cold cocoa for our guest.”
Norbert sits up eagerly. –There's cocoa?
“Oy, yourself,” says Sir Vey. He passes the cocoa. I notice that he's got a carrot going too.
“Ahh, that was good,” I say, putting down my glass. “Now, you knights say you know my quest. Can you help me with it? I really want to find the Lost Schloss.”
The knights look at each other across the table. Eyebrows and mustaches are hard at work. Sir Mount takes the floor. “I think we can offer our mingled congratulations and condolences, boy,” he says.
“That's like good news and bad news, right?”
“The good news is that you stand at the gates of the Lost Schloss.”
I look around. I can't see it. Is it invisible? Are they making a joke?
“Okay, what's the bad news?”
Sir Mount raises an ironic eyebrow. “I think it only sporting to tell you that, when you have finished eating, you will have to fight us,” he says.
“Hear him!” says Sir Vey, nodding vigorously, so that the ends of his mustache bounce up and down like a cheerleader's pom-poms. “Hear him.”
“You see, boy,” explains Sir Prise, “we are the guardians of the Lost Schloss. Our lord and master is called the Black Dey of Ich. This is his food you are eating.”
Lightning flashes off to the right.
Norbert squeaks in dismay, spilling his cocoa.
I leap to my feet. I can't tell you how stupid I feel. I still don't see any kind of castle. I'll have to look later, though. The knights are on their feet, too, brandishing their carrots at me.
*truc-u/lent (proposition). 2. A point in English common law, specific to borrowed vehicles. By invoking the truculent clause, the borrower disclaims all knowledge of the vehicle in question, as in, “Gee, Harry, I don't know what happened to the truc-u-lent me.” See adventitious.
Yes, I said carrots. They've been nibbling away at the ends, flattening and shaping the carrots with their teeth so that now they look like … well, like knives. Big orange knives full of vitamin A.
I don't like raw carrots. When I was little, my mom used to peel one and put it – whole – on my plate beside the Kraft Dinner, or spaghetti, or meat loaf, or whatever, and then she and Dad would go out and leave me with the baby-sitter, who would always insist that I eat the carrot before I could watch TV or play. It might take me the whole evening to choke it down.
Funny, since everything else on this table is food I love, that there should be a plate of raw carrots, and that they should be used as swords against me. I don't understand Not Peas but a Sword what's going on, but it's clear what I have to do. I pull out my own sword.
“Do you want to fight me?” I ask Sir Mount.
“No, of course not. You're a charming young man. But we serve the Dey, what? We are honorable men. He ordered us to guard the door to the Lost Schloss. So we will guard it. WITH OUR LIVES!” He waves his carrot in the air. “Come on, now, b
oy. Let's see what you're made of, what?”
“Yah! What?” cry the other knights. They brandish their carrots too.
It's ridiculous, of course. I'm bigger than they are, and I have a real sword.
“Have at you!” Sir Prise surprises me, leaping past his brothers, with his arm outstretched. The pointy end of the carrot is coming right at me. I take careful aim with my sword, and slice the end off his carrot just as another flash of lightning lights up the sky. The thunder is pretty close behind.
He gasps, and stumbles back to the table. There's one of those curved horn of plenty things near his plate. Fruit spilling out of the end. Sir Prise grabs it, and holds it upside down. Plums and peaches come rolling out. He brandishes the empty thing in the air. It looks like a megaphone. Is he going to use it as a weapon? Not a great attack weapon, the megaphone.
–Behind you, Dingwall! Norbert is in the air, keeping his eye on the battle.
I turn swiftly. Sir Vey is circling around me. I don't want to hurt him, but I don't want him jumping me either. Sir Mise begins moving the other way. Now there's a knight on either side of me, and I have to move quickly. I fake a lunge at Sir Vey, who backs up, then I spin sideways and slice off most of Sir Mise's carrot. He falls backward, arms in the air like a diver. I don't wait for him to hit the grass. I run back to Sir Vey, who is charging hard. I sidestep, and swing down. Before you can say What's up, Doc? his carrot – an extra long one – is gone too.
The score is: sword 3, carrots 0.
“What about you?” I ask Sir Mount. Sweat and rainwater in my eyes; I wipe it away. I'm panting a bit from running back and forth. “You want a piece of this?” I hold out my sword. He counters with his carrot. I take the end off it with a backhanded slash. He's left holding an orange stub. The sword tingles happily in my hand.
Sir Prise holds the narrow end of the horn of plenty up to his mouth. He blows the riff the organist plays at the ball game when the hitting star – say, Fred McGriff – steps up to the plate. You know the one: da da da DAH, da DAH. The brothers cheer. He blows it again, the pitch slightly higher: de de de DEE, de DEE. And another cheer. And then … nothing.
We wait. The thunder growls. Norbert lands beside me.
“What now?” I ask him.
–Don't ask me. Like I said, this is your show.
Barnaby, who is rocking on the bank of the reedy lake, lets out a sudden high-pitched whinny of fear. We race Not Peas but a Sword over, arriving just as a big guy in a black helmet charges up out of the lake and stands on the bank, panting. He looks as though he's run downstairs to answer the doorbell.
“What's wrong now?” he calls. His voice is muffled by the helmet.
“Hi, Dey!” cries Sir Mount.
“Hi, Dey!” cries Sir Vey
“Hi, Dey!” cry Sir Mise and Sir Prise together.
“Hi,” says the big guy.
Norbert nudges me. –I think that's the Dey, he whispers.
So this is my opponent – the reason why I'm here. I study him carefully. He's a big one, all right, taller than I am with the helmet, and at least as broad. On Jupiter that makes him a giant. The helmet is the kind the knights used to wear, flat on the top, with slits to see out of and breathe through. It's black, and covers his head completely. His cloak is black too, and goes down to his feet.
His sword is a beauty – straight and heavy like mine, only his is shiny – and he's got a scabbard to keep it in. When he turns quickly to face me, his cloak swirls around him. The rest of his outfit is black too – a shirt with puffy sleeves, tight pants, high button boots. It's all pretty cool, I guess.
He stands in the wings of the storm, ready to fight. His knees are bent. He holds the sword lightly.
It's pointed at me.
“Who the hell are you?” he cries. His eyes flash behind the slits in his helmet. A tough guy.
“This is Dingwall, sir,” explains Sir Mount. “He's the boy from Earth.”
“Ah, yes! Dingwall.” He spits out of the mouth slit in the helmet. I bet he's practised that. “You are the earthling trying to fulfill the ancient prophecy. We've been expecting you. Are you ready to meet your … doom?”
On the word “doom,” the thunder booms.
–You look like you're wearing a lampshade on your head, says Norbert.
The knights look shocked. I smile. The Dey's helmet does look like a black metallic version of the shade from the reading lamp in our living room.
He straightens up. “I know you, little elf,” he says. “You're the prince from Betunkaville.”
–Who are you calling an elf, you overgrown …
The wind whips his words away.
“Don't forget, little elf, that I have your princess inside,” the Dey reminds Norbert, who stops talking for a full three seconds. He's so mad he can't finish a sentence.
–Why, you … you … you … He's fizzing, like a half-opened can of soda pop. You better not hurt her. If she's hurt, I'll … I'll …
“You'll do nothing. I am all that is powerful on this planet.”
Lightning flashes behind the Dey as he speaks. Good timing.
I'm thinking hard. You stand at the gates of the Lost Schloss, said Sir Mount. The castle must be nearby, but I can't see it. Not a turret, not a tower, not a single stone.
In plain sight, and yet none can see. I don't get it. I don't get it.
“Now, Dingwall, prepare to meet your doom!” The Dey flourishes the sword, sweeping it back and forth, like he's buttering a giant piece of bread. The knights gather round him.
Sir Mount is nibbling on a new carrot. His brothers are already re-armed and ready. “Hear him!” they cry. “You are doomed!” Sir Mise twists his mustache, which is drooping a bit.
Norbert hovers near my shoulder. –No pressure, Dingwall, he says. Just remember: we're all counting on you.
“Sure. No pressure.” I raise my voice. “Listen, Dey,” I say, “or Ich, or whatever you call yourself. Before we beat ourselves to death, I want to talk. Fighting is so destructive, so pointless. Can we find a peaceful solution here?”
“No!” says the Dey.
“No!” cry the knights.
–Geez, Dingwall! cries Norbert.
“Oh.” I nod. “Well, then.”
So much for the United Nations.
“I will crush you! I will annihilate you!” The Dey waves his sword some more.
“Fine. I've traveled a long way to meet you,” I say. “Along the way, I beat your hired hands and your proteors to get here. I beat your silly knights. And I can beat you.” I flash my sword back and forth too. The handle feels good in my hand. “Are you ready to fight?”
“My knights and I are ready!” he cries. “Aren't we?”
“Aye, Dey!” cries Sir Prise, his eyebrows arched like tents.
“Aye, Dey!” cries Sir Vey.
“Aye, Dey!” cries Sir Mise.
“Aye!” cries the Dey. He charges sideways to kick Barnaby, knocking him over.
Poor Barnaby. He's just a little guy. I'm outraged. I hate a bully. I charge after the Dey, swing wildly, and miss.
–Hey, Bucket Head! Pick on someone your own size! yells Norbert. He hurries over to help the horse back onto his rockers.
The Dey turns his attention to me, swinging his blade in a wide sweeping arc, trying to cut off my legs.
I jump back.
He takes another step forward. His sword blade has a blood groove down one side. It sings in the air. Gosh, he's fast. I think about using my sword to block, but by the time I move it, I'm too late. He slices off a piece of my bathrobe. That was close!
“Loser!” he cries. “You will fail!”
I point my sword, to show him I'm not afraid. I am, though. I'm afraid the Dey is right – I will fail. I remember Norbert saying –You know what I hate about Dingwall….
I grip the sword as hard as I can.
The Dey swings again, and I can't think how to get my sword over to knock his blade away. I move to the si
de. Not far enough. This time he actually cuts me. I feel the trickle of blood, warm and wet against my skin. I don't feel any pain, but my mind is flooded with the idea of failure. I don't Not Peas but a Sword have any sword-fighting experience, and it shows. I can't seem to make the blade do what I want. I retreat again.
He gives a you-are-doomed-ha-ha-ha laugh. “You have no idea how powerful I am! See here!” He leaps into the air and hangs, suspended, before dashing down at me, his sword raised. I duck. He swooshes past.
What an idiot I am. I forgot about my slippers.
“Flying!” I say. “Of course!”
He misunderstands. He thinks I'm overwhelmed. “Yes. Is it not wonderful!” He stands in the air, hands on his hips. “Yield now, champion from Earth. You cannot win from the ground while I fly.”
“That's true,” I say. “So … I guess I'd better join you.” And, in a twinkling of toes and practice, I take off, fly twice around his head, and hang there in the air above him.
The Dey tries to conceal it, but he's surprised. “You can fly too?” he says.
Meanwhile, Sir Prise stabs at Barnaby with a carrot. The rocking horse opens his mouth and takes the end off it. Sir Prise retreats. Sir Vey is throwing away the broken end of a carrot he holds in his hand.
“Well done, Barnaby!” I shout.
–Watch your left! cries Norbert.
I turn, and there's the Dey's sword coming at me. Too late to think – I throw out my own sword instinctively, and block the Dey's thrust. He flies around me and swings again. I try to turn around and fly backwards, but my feet point wrong, and I sort of sit down in midair. The Dey strikes like a cobra, and I know I'm dead. I throw out my arm without thinking about it. Block. He tries a combination: lunge sweep backhand: I'm still struggling to get myself pointed the right way. I'm not used to flying and fighting at the same time. I block the Dey's strokes without thinking. Clean blocks, too. My sword blade hits his at the right angle, knocking it aside.
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