by Jon Scieszka
“Shot in the leg.”
“And you were promoted because of your valor and sacrifice?”
Benedict paused. “Jealous officers schemed against me and denied me the rank I was owed.”
The gods of war muttered a bit. Petty infighting was a common problem in all armies.
The Valkyrie glanced at her scroll. “You later defied orders and led the charge that determined the American victory at Saratoga.”
Several gods cheered.
Benedict nodded his appreciation of their support. “A glorious day. I rode a magnificent horse straight at the enemy’s guns. My courageous example rallied my men, and they followed me into victory.”
“Hmmm,” said the Valkyrie. “And you were shot again.”
“In the same leg.” Benedict frowned. “While I was bleeding and near death in a hospital, other men took credit for my actions. They stole my glory and my chance of advancement.”
“Your leg kept you from leading a command, so you were appointed military leader of Philadelphia. You used that position for your own profit, thus robbing from both your army and your country.”
“You should throw pelican poop at Congress,” Benedict said bitterly. “After sacrificing my body and my fortune, I was mistreated by those dogs. They ruined me, and then they ruined the country.”
“You were accused of misusing your powers.”
“Not true!” shouted Benedict. “I did no more than countless others. But I was the one they picked on. I was the one made to suffer shame.”
The Valkyrie sighed deeply. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. If they were treating you so badly, why did they put you in charge of West Point? They made you responsible for thousands of soldiers.”
Benedict shrugged. “They could not deny my brilliance.”
“They trusted you,” said the Valkyrie. “What did you do with their trust?”
Benedict did not answer.
“You tried to sell out the soldiers under your command.” The Valkyrie’s voice grew louder. Indeed, she grew larger and stronger as her anger flared. “You prepared to hand over the army at West Point to the British.”
Low growls came from the gods in wolf form.
Benedict’s heart stuttered. “You see, the other generals never appreciated my gifts,” he said. “They were jealous of—”
“You abandoned the cause of your country,” she continued. “You pissed on the men you were supposed to lead. You spit on the land of your fathers. Admit it!”
The stench of blood was thick in the air. Swords, axes, knives, guns, and large rocks appeared on the table. The restless gods of war were itching for a fight.
The Valkyrie shrieked in a voice of a thousand flaming eagles. “Are you a traitor, Benedict Arnold?”
“Yes,” whispered the broken hero.
3. IN WHICH THE BROKEN HERO TURNS COAT AND MAKES EXCUSES
“But if the British had only listened to me,” he added, “they could have won. I had great plans, the knowledge and the courage. I could have changed everything. I could have made it great!”
When the Valkyrie spoke again, her voice was dead calm. “You sold out your brother-soldiers and your country, and now you stand there sniveling because you didn’t like the way things turned out?”
Benedict Arnold bowed his head.
The mountain-shaped god slowly rose to his feet. The other gods regarded him with surprise, for no one could remember the last time he spoke.
“Why?” he asked, small flames curling out between his teeth. “Why did you betray your friends?”
Time paused. The other gods sat motionless. Waves on the Forgotten Sea froze in mid-swell, and the ship ceased rocking. The hearth fire and candle flames stood still as Benedict Arnold, adrift on the cursed ship, was forced to answer this most awful question.
A great bead of sweat dropped from his forehead and onto the table. He did not want to answer it.
“Well?” demanded the Valkyrie.
Benedict Arnold lifted his head. The angry young soldier had vanished. In his place stood a withered old man, his face deeply lined with disappointment, his hands twisted with age. Instead of a uniform, he wore a shabby coat and fraying pants. He was missing most of his teeth.
“The British gave me a commission,” he said. “Gave me troops to lead.”
“You already had troops to lead, American troops,” observed the Valkyrie. “Did they promise to make you king of the united Colonies?”
Benedict shook his head.
“Did they offer to marry you to a princess?”
“Already had a wife and children,” Benedict said.
“You took them with you to England, did you not?”
“Aye,” Benedict said quietly.
“Did the English people hail you as a hero? Did they throw flowers at your feet, grant you castles, erect statues in your honor?”
Benedict muttered something under his breath. The mountain-sized god leaned forward, a hand cupped behind his ear, and grumbled in irritation.
“I said no, they did not,” Benedict repeated louder, lifting his chin. “But I had the respect and admiration of the king and his councillors.”
The enormous rat giggled.
“King George, the Mad King, called you a disgusting worm,” said the Valkyrie.
The gods of war murmured, nodding in agreement.
“He did not!” protested Benedict. “I walked with King George! I walked by his side and explained the mistakes made by his generals. The king respected me!”
“Worm! Worm! Worm!” the gods chanted, beating the table with their fists.
“Stop it!” shouted Benedict. “It wasn’t fair! They never gave me the money they promised!”
All noise stopped.
The Valkyrie picked up a shard of bone from the floor and used it to pick a bit of gristle from her teeth.
“Do you repent?” she asked quietly. “Do you wish you could apologize to the country and the people whom you sold for a small bag of silver?”
“No!” declared Benedict. “I was right! If they’d listened to me, I could have won it all. They would have crowned me with glory instead of shame. It wasn’t fair, none of it!”
“Worm!” the gods of war roared. “Worm! Worm! Worm!”
A few of the gods started banging on the table with their weapons. The noise made dust rain from the ceiling. An ax flew across the table (no way to tell if that was an accident or not), and shouting erupted. A few more sharp-bladed weapons followed as words spoken in all the languages of time turned into the shrieks and caws of war ravens. The fog of battle had returned, soaking through the walls with the sharp tang of bloody fear.
Old Benedict shifted his weight off his bad leg and grimaced. How many more centuries would he have to suffer this torment? He weakly slapped the table. “It wasn’t fair,” he whispered.
“Time to go up top,” said the Valkyrie. “Time for the Judgment.”
4. IN WHICH THE ALMIGHTY PELICAN OF JUDGMENT DROPS THE VERDICT OF THE COURT UPON THE TURNCOAT
The walk up the stairs was longer and harder than coming down them had been. A third of the way up, Arnold unaged and became a thirty-year-old soldier again. After climbing many more flights, he returned to being a lad of ten. His back was straight and tall, his wounded leg had healed, and his heart was mostly pure. But his soul was still stained with his crimes and polluted with his lack of remorse.
The gods of war drifted up the stairs, some in raven form, others retaining arms, legs, and bits of humanness that combined into hideous shapes that delighted them as they took their places on deck and on the rigging. Somewhere a single drum beat loudly.
The wind gusted, blowing curtains of fog across the deck. Young Benedict Arnold shivered and clenched his fists.
The wind blew again, ruffling the sails rhythmically, like bellows, or the regular breath of a giant. The clouds parted.
The Almighty Pelican of Judgment flapped into sight.
Benedict groaned.
&nbs
p; The gods cheered.
The Ship of the Darned rocked violently on the churning waves, and the boy fell to his knees. He pounded the deck with his fists. “It’s not fair!”
The Almighty Pelican of Judgment, a creature somewhat larger than a T. rex and a bit smaller than a blue whale, swooped over the ship, sighted the target, and twitched her tail feathers to the side. A waterfall of pelican poop rained on the head of the guilty, silencing him. The soldier who had betrayed his country and his oath collapsed under the weight of the smelly goo and officially became a living turd.
“Benedict Arnold,” muttered an empty-eyed sailor. “General Poophead.”
The gods of war faded into the fog, laughing with grim satisfaction. Some were called to their work in the present age, others traveled to long ago or to an age yet to come. The Valkyrie signed the court transcript in blood and melted into the mist, still dreaming of a nap. The empty-eyed sailors refilled their buckets and returned to the endless task of swabbing the deck.
One of them whistled “Yankee Doodle.”
THE WARRIOR AND THE KNAVE
BY INGRID LAW
“If you’re going to complete this perilous undertaking, young man, you’ll need the right tools and weapons.”
Yes! I barely restrain myself from pumping my fists in the air. Somehow I manage to hold my arms motionless where I stand. I’m pretty sure I look more dignified this way. More like a real hero in the making. Mom always says I don’t know the meaning of the word “motionless.” She rolls her eyes when she says it, too, like it’s a bad thing. But you know how parents can be—teachers, too—always blowing things out of proportion.
My parents and teachers are far, far away now. Mom, Dad, Coach Fulton . . . they won’t have a clue where to start looking when they discover me missing. How could they? I don’t even know where I am! Who’d ever guess that Allie Chen keeps a crazy, sucking black-hole vacuum-vortex thingy hidden in the back of her locker, right behind her coat and a poster-board collage of pig pictures? Long-tailed pigs, short-tailed pigs, pigs with curly tails. There are even pigs with cartoon speech bubbles that say “Wee-wee-wee” . . . and so on.
Note to self: As soon as you return to reality, Wendell, ask Allie why she likes pigs so much—and why she has a crazy, sucking BLACK-HOLE VACUUM-VORTEX THINGY inside her locker.
I turn my attention back to the old woman who’s been talking to me. It’s her quaintly thatched cottage I’m currently standing in, her garden and world I’ve so recently landed in, after getting sucked through the back of Allie’s locker. This woman—she told me to call her “Mother,” which seems all kinds of wrong and creepy—is dressed like she’s about to march in a Thanksgiving Day parade: funny black hat, long woolen dress, old-fashioned shawl. She has downy hair, and small eyes that are a bit too close together. She also has the most impressive nose I’ve ever seen; it’s practically a beak.
“I was expecting the girl,” says Mother. “But I suppose you’ll do.” She squints at me like she is sizing me up. Or like she’s trying to decide what I’d taste like chopped into bite-size pieces and baked inside a pie, along with some plums and a few blackbirds, maybe.
“The girl promised she’d return as soon as she finished battling the Gee-Omma Tree,” says Mother. “Did the villainous tree defeat her? Has she perished?”
“Er . . . do you mean Allie?” I ask. “Allison Chen? I’m pretty sure she’s fine. I think she’s got world history now, not math. But I’m here, and, ahem, you said something about weapons?” I waggle my eyebrows meaningfully.
Mother nods and shuffles away from me. She moves toward a large cabinet on the far side of the parlor. I’m beginning to like this room. Here, Mother has already served me cake and told me exactly why she needs a champion like me.
Let me repeat: a champion like me.
She really said that.
No one has ever thought of me as a champion before. Not in the entire history of my life. Not even last week, after I spent four straight days of spring break searching unsuccessfully for Mrs. Finkleman’s missing dog, Mr. Sixpence.
I think I’ve grown an inch or two just by being around this old lady and her insanely misplaced confidence in me. My jeans definitely feel shorter and less baggy. My Grandville Middle School Warriors T-shirt is probably getting all stretched out from the pride ballooning in my chest. If this keeps up, Mom and Dad might not even recognize me when I get home.
If I get home?
Nope. Nuh-uh. I will definitely be going home soon. Right after I knock this whole hero thing out of the ballpark.
I squeak a little and jump back as four gray mice zip past me. One mouse scampers up the side of a grandfather clock in the corner, then runs down the other side again, just as the clock gongs a single chime. The three remaining rodents scurry around the room crazily. They bump into the furniture. Into one another, too. Like they can’t see where they’re going. I’m unable to decide if this is entertaining, sad, or a little bit disturbing. But as Mother unlocks the cabinet, I forget about the mice and allow myself to pump my fist in the air, just once.
You know how there’s that moment in some fantasy stories when the main character is presented with the Hammer of Whosit, or pulls the Great Sword of Whatsit from a big rock, or finds the magical bow of the Lost Warrior of Wherever? And then, not long after, through a series of bruising trials, the young hero becomes the next Triple-Awesome Champion Deluxe of All Time, even though they’re only eleven, twelve, maybe thirteen years old? They might only be able to do one push-up. They might only have a friend group of two (on a good day). But invariably, a fantasy hero always gets to transform into the champion no one ever believed they could be. Not even themselves.
Dude. I love those kinds of stories.
I am that gangly, awkward twelve-year-old nobody. I have all the qualifications. Back home, in Grandville, I currently have a friend group that teeters precariously between one and zero, depending on whether Jay Gupta is talking to me or not. And Coach Fulton merely shakes his head whenever I celebrate the completion of one epic chin-up by dancing the funky chicken. So now that I face the prospect of a completely unforeseen fantasy-hero type situation—of getting my very own enchanted weapons . . . me, Wendell James MacDougall-Flowers—I am psyched. I am over the moon. I am jumping-up-and-down, peeing-my-pants-with-excitement thrilled.
My skin prickles as the tall cabinet door creaks open. Dust motes hover around me, illuminated by a single sunbeam that spears the room. Stepping into the light, I find myself bouncing on my toes a little. Shaking out my arms. Trying to stay loose the way athletes do. I can’t believe any of this is happening. No more than forty minutes have passed since Cameron Jamison stuffed me into Allie’s locker in the abandoned seventh-grade hallway.
I was in school, then—SHHHLOCK!!—I was here, in some mysterious, distant world, being told I’m a warrior. Being asked to save the day.
Maybe I’ll get some armor, too, I think. And a cape! A cape would rock.
Picturing myself decked out in broad-shouldered battle gear, I don’t hold back. This time I pump both fists in the air, adding a tiny hop.
“Your enemy is a contemptible bandit and a ruffian,” says Mother as she rummages through the cabinet. Things clatter, clunk, crash, thunk, before . . .
“Bingo!” she says triumphantly. “I’ve found just what you’ll need to go up against the Knave.”
According to Mother, the Knave has been harassing people, stealing their stuff, and generally acting like a colossal monkey fart for some time now, making the residents of Mother’s world colossally miserable. This kid stole Mother’s only goose, and now she wants it back. I don’t really know what the big deal is. I mean, it’s a goose, not a Nintendo 3DS or something. But when a guy gets called upon to help, he helps. Right?
I straighten up, standing taller in my sunny spotlight. I am ready. Ready to receive my new weapons with pride and—
What the freaking fish sticks? My jaw drops as Mother steps out of the
shadows and shoves a jumble of objects into my arms without fanfare: a pie tin, a shepherd’s crook, and an empty burlap bag barely big enough to hold a shoebox. It is a disappointing turn of events. What kind of a hero carries a pie tin, a shepherd’s crook, and an empty burlap bag?
“Er . . . what exactly do you expect me to do with these?”
Mother observes the droop in my shoulders and hoists one tufty eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re up for this, young Wendell? Perhaps I’d better wait for the girl to re—”
“No!” I quickly cut her off. “I am totally up for this, I swear. I mean . . . I just . . . I’m going up against the Knave, right? Shouldn’t I have a sword or something? You know. Just in case?”
“In case of what?” asks Mother.
“Er . . . trouble?”
“Be assured, my boy,” Mother replies solemnly, sticking her big, beaky nose in my face. “There will most definitely be trouble.”
Before I leave the cottage, Mother fills my burlap bag with some provisions: an apple, some cheese, and an egg salad sandwich big enough to feed all the king’s men and their horses. I watch her do this. And yet, when she hands the bag back to me, it’s empty. Though the bag itself seems somewhat bigger than it first appeared.
“What the—?”
“It’s enchanted, of course.” Mother dismisses my astonishment with a wave. “The bag grows to hold whatever you need. But it will never get any heavier, and you won’t ever be able to see or feel anything you’ve placed inside it. So you’ll have to remember.” She knocks her knuckles twice against my forehead. “In order to get what you need from it, you’ll have to speak the name of the thing you want, backward. But heed this warning, young Wendell! Don’t ever reach into the bag! If you do, you’ll be drawn inside and trapped forever—unless someone says your name backward to get you out.”
“Backward?”
“Try putting that shepherd’s crook in there and see what happens,” instructs Mother.
I look at the long, hooked staff. “It’s way too big.”