The Adventures of Theophilus Thistle

by David Partelow

  But so far, the trail was running cold and the little weed knew each passing moment further increased Calla’s peril.

  Theophilus girded himself for his search, for he had to accept he would be alone in the endeavor. He would find no trust in Alethia with the flowers, nor would he find welcome aid in Bunda-Bas. Theophilus had chosen his own path, and with it came a solitude that would indeed be more bearable if he could bring Calla back safely. For the present, it was his sole and most ardent charge.

  Placing a hand over his heart, the little weed bowed his head as he faced the endless view and possibility that was Lunaria. “Calla,” he whispered, “by my blades and my heart, I swear that I will find you again, and I will not rest until you are safe once more.” And with that said, Theophilus Thistle turned and began to run.

  Moving swiftly, the purple bristles of Theophilus’s hair raged with his exertion. The little weed made sure the little thorn blades in his belt were still secured, for he refused to slow his pace. His few possessions rested in a backpack made of leaves. His own petals trailed wispily behind him as he pushed his pace. His usually spirted, purple eyes held an intensity that had not left since the start of his quest.

  Coming to a large tree, Theophilus drew his thorn daggers before leaping. Plunging them into the bark, the little weed used them to climb quickly upward, scaling to one of the highest branches. Theophilus searched about then, being mindful of predators and patrols from both Alethia and Bunda-Bas, who would both likely treat him with hostility. With the coast appearing clear, he leaped from the tree, allowing his petals to unfurl and slow his descent into a glide.

  Landing easily upon the ground, Theophilus did not skip a beat as he continued his sprint. In his mind he replayed that fateful night over again. It had only taken precious moments of distraction, but his choice had led to Calla’s abduction, with neither the plant or weed people able to offer any clues to her whereabouts. For the moment, Theophilus resigned himself to return to the scene of the crime in hopes to discover something he had possibly overlooked.

  At last, Theophilus reached the gentle clearing. The peaceful sight of the soft stretch of land was still marred with the remnants of a picnic interrupted. The little weed looked sadly upon preparations that had come for naught. His only intention had been precious time with Calla. And now, all he could wonder was if he would ever see her again.

  Theophilus combed over the area once more. He saw the footprints of imps and the weeds that had investigated afterwards. He’d followed the trail of the imps for as long the tracks had allowed, though the prints had been lost on rocky terrain a few leagues up. Opening his pack, he procured the petal that Calla had lost in in her abduction, but still no scent or mark stood out to him in any way. Theophilus slowly resigned himself to trying to reclaim the trail of the imps.

  “I knew you would return,” said a voice heavy with annoyance.

  Theophilus turned quickly, drawing his blades. His eyes then met his former commander, Pyron. The large pigweed gazed upon him with pure disdain, shaking his head as he approached Theophilus alone. Theophilus did not lower his guard, for Pyron had his sword unsheathed as he approached. Nearing his former subordinate, Pyron stopped as he looked about the scene of the crime.

  “You waste your time,” started Pyron, practically spitting his disgust. “You held a semblance of promise. With the right training you could have been one of the best of Bunda- Bas. And yet, somehow you threw it all away for a flower, a flower that you were powerless to save. How can you justify such lunacy, Thorn-Ren?”

  Theophilus shook his head at the weed, keeping warily at the ready. “My brief moments with Calla were worth every bit of the price I paid, worth infinitely more than you will ever be in this world. And I’ve told you, Thorn-Ren is no longer my name,” he said.

  “Ha! Words of a true fool,” countered Pyron. “Your home is lost to you. And your cause equally lost. It matters not what you choose to call yourself, for your name means nothing in Bunda-Bas anymore,” he said.

  Theophilus narrowed his eyes. “Is that it, then? You have come here to gloat and rub tragedy in my face?”

  Pyron shook his head. “Far from it,” he said as he brought his sword up to hold in both of his hands. “My reasons to be here are far more personal. You have become a tarnish upon my reputation as a commander. For this I lay down a challenge and raise my weapon,” he said.

  Theophilus nodded at this. “A duel to end this then, once and for all,” he replied.

  “Exactly,” said Pyron.

  “Then I accept, gladly,” said Theophilus.

  Pyron assumed a proper fighting stance, holding his blade before him. “Then let it begin,” he breathed.

  Theophilus and Pyron slowly circled and sized up one another as both weeds prepared for the impending conflict. Theophilus waited with solemn defiance as Pyron oozed with fury and waning restraint. It was obvious the larger weed had been hoping for such a confrontation for some time. Theophilus appeared content to allow his former commander to make the first move.

  The wait was brief, for Pyron approached, sword swinging. Theophilus opted to dodge these fierce attacks instead of parrying with his daggers. Each swing neared dangerously close to connecting with him, yet Theophilus stayed just ahead of Pyron's assault. After avoiding six of Pyron's strikes, the little milk thistle saw a breach in Pyron's defenses and made his counterassault.

  As Pyron staggered, he tried to recover with a fierce, two-handed side strike. Making quick steps forward, Theophilus rushed close to his enemy, nullifying the attack as he raised his right arm and blade. Driving his forearm into Pyron's neck, Theophilus spun on his right heel. As he did, he allowed the blade in his right hand to cut Pyron's arms, forcing him to drop his sword. Still spinning, Theophilus brought the blade in his left hand behind Pyron's knee, sending the larger weed's feet out from under him. Pyron toppled to the ground soundly with Theophilus pouncing. Placing his blades at Pyron's throat, the little milk thistle had ended the fight in a matter of seconds.

  Pressing his blades against Pyron’s neck for emphasis, the little weed smiled. “And with that, I do believe our duel has thus concluded,” said Theophilus.

  Pyron’s eyes widened as he reacted to the words of his enemy, yet the blades against him reminded him of his place. At last, he relaxed and moved not at all. “So it seems,” he mumbled grudgingly. “And, per custom of Bunda-Bas, what is the one thing that you require of me for your victory?” The larger weed was ill at ease, for everything was game to this custom, including one’s life.

  Theophilus pretended to think absently at Pyron’s question. “That is yet to be seen and depends greatly on what you know,” said Theophilus as his own eyes narrowed. “Your hands are not clean in this, Pyron. You know something, and I want to know what it is. What you think of me is trivial, for it is Calla that deserves more than this.”

  Pyron offered a feral snarl. “I owe you nothing of the sort,” he spat.

  Theophilus shook his head. “You claim to be a weed of honor and purpose, yet here you stand on the brink of death with shame on your brow and soul. Do the right thing, Pyron. You lose no face by offering such information. Go forth with a clear conscience at least,” he said.

  Theophilus could feel a trembling rage brewing from his former commander. Pyron looked up defiantly still, wishing to fight against a fate he felt sealed. Realizing his cause was lost, the larger weed finally relented and his limbs slowly slackened. Theophilus could see he was preparing himself for admission, though the words were still coming reluctantly.

  “Very well,” started Pyron. “It is no secret that the bitterness between Bunda-Bas and Alethia is longstanding. Even I do not know the true origins of such hate. But we face a greater peril, for both of our kind are held in great regard for use in potions, elixirs, and cuisine. Imps often search us out to sell at the Grand Market. There are those of our ranks who gladly rat out the flowers to save our own hides. I am sure it is the same in Alethia. If yo
u wish to recover your plant friend, you should venture there. But know that once you reach the market, you too would be in danger of sharing her fate. It is roughly nine leagues due west from here, but that information is all I can offer. Now take what is yours and be done with it, Theophilus Thistle,” he said.

  At this, Theophilus nodded gratefully before placing one of his thorn blades away. “I thank you for your compliance, Pyron. You have my gratitude,” he said.

  “Which means little when you are about to kill me,” countered Pyron bitterly.

  Theophilus chuckled, shaking his head. “I never said I was going to kill you. I can claim your life, of course, but I’ve no desire. Besides, you have something of far greater value to me than your spilled blood,” he offered.

  “And what is that?”

  Theophilus grinned. “Your mount, of course.”

  Pyron fumed. “You cannot have Renard!”

  Theophilus shrugged. “It’s like you said. It is nine leagues to the market and I have time to make up. It is either that or the alternative,” he said, tapping his blade upon Pyron’s head.

  “Oh, very well,” spat Pyron in disgust. “I should have just let you send me to the Dream.”

  “Another time,” said Theophilus as he took the binders from Pyron’s belt. He spun the weed around before securing Pyron’s arms behind his back. “A patrol will be along soon enough I’m sure. Until then, I cannot have you chasing after me in vengeance. It would be bad form after losing to me so soundly,” he added.

  “I would do no such thing!” Pyron protested fiercely.

  Theophilus patted him on the back before taking a pouch from Pyron’s belt and standing. “Forgive me if I have difficulty believing you with regards to our history,” he said as he looked about for Pyron’s mount.

  Pyron kicked at the ground under him as he bellowed his frustration. “Curse you, Theophilus Thistle! We shall meet again one day!”

  Theophilus placed his other blade away before nodding to his subdued foe. “I am counting on it, Pyron. Thank you again for the ride,” he said before heading off.

  “Theophilus!”

  Pyron’s words, however, fell on deaf ears, for Theophilus was already headed toward the next steps of his journey.

  It did not take Theophilus long to find Pyron’s camping spot. A little fire was warming a pot of stew. Theophilus inhaled the welcomed scent as he looked upon the supplies that were laid out. It was obvious that Pyron had been waiting for the little weed. Scanning the camp, Theophilus’ eyes soon met those of Renard. Noticing the little weed’s approach, the fox was roused from his doze, offering a growl. Theophilus could see the fox’s short, soft fur clustered with hues of white and brown. Oversized ears stood at attention as a coal black nose smelled the air warily. The little fox was scared and adorable to Theophilus.

  The little weed held his hands out, approaching the fox slowly. “Hello, Renard. It’s been a while. I certainly hope you remember me, though I have little doubt that you do,” said Theophilus as he opened the large pouch carried by Pyron. He procured a piece of dried meat and instantly held the attention of the fox. “I’ve something for you.”

  Theophilus inched closer, careful to gain the fox’s trust over time. Holding out the dried meat, he let Renard smell it cautiously. The little weed tossed it gently and the fox caught it eagerly. As Renard devoured it, Theophilus procured another piece, this time hand feeding it to the fox by hand. With this done, he started to scratch behind Renard’s ear. The reaction to this was almost instantaneous, for the fox soon licked and rubbed his head against Theophilus.

  “Ha! I knew you would remember me,” said Theophilus as he petted the fox with both hands. “I’ve a journey to make and I require your help. When it is over, I shall offer you your freedom. Do we have a deal?” The fox nuzzled him again and Theophilus continued his petting. “Due to the language barrier I will assume that is a yes,” he added before going alongside Renard and taking hold of the reins and climbing upon the fox’s back.

  Patting Renard’s side, Theophilus looked about before coaxing the fox in the direction they needed to go. Renard was more than happy to oblige, much to the little weed’s relief. Theophilus made sure his pack and blades were secure then as he prepared himself for the journey. Ready, he nudged Renard forward, hoping that the fox would comply. And Renard did not disappoint.

  In a flash the fox was off, sprinting forward at a pace that surprised Theophilus. The little weed recovered just in time, saving himself from toppling off the speeding fox. Soon the fox and weed were streaking across the landscape, clearing the gentle forest and heading into more open terrain. Theophilus could not help but grin then as the wind rushed through his bristles. The fox beneath him appeared at home within the glorious rush of speed.

  Theophilus was boldened by this turn of events and good fortune. Nine leagues would be much easier with a mount. Yet the smile on the little weed’s face was soon replaced with determination. He reminded himself fiercely of the task still ahead, vowing again to fulfill his promise at any cost. And now, with the help of Renard, Theophilus was off to an unknown fate, hoping against all doubts that Calla could still be saved.

  Chapter Two

  A Wanted Weed

  With Renard’s speed, the leagues between Alethia and the Grand Market grew infinitely smaller. And while there was still quite a distance to go, the little weed had no desire to over-tire his acquired mount. As Renard began to pant heavily, Theophilus brought his sprint to a light trot as he searched for a nice place to rest. After some scouting, Theophilus noticed a small spring offering clear, cool water. He urged Renard in its direction before dismounting and letting the fox get a deep drink.

  Patting the fox’s side, Theophilus grinned. “Rest yourself, Renard, for you’ve earned it,” he said as he looked about. “I am guessing we have come almost five leagues. You’ve done well, my new friend. We will be at the market in no time.”

  Renard stopped lapping water long enough to look at the little weed curiously before continuing his drink. The little weed chuckled as he patted the fox again. Theophilus waited patiently until Renard was finished. Once he was, Theophilus brought him over to some shade and had him lay down. He then gave the fox what was left of the dried meat, making a note to get more provisions at the market. With Renard settled, Theophilus took a little walk to stretch his legs as he surveyed the area.

  As Theophilus walked, the little weed let the sights he beheld distract him, for the beauty of the area was quite abundant. He was used to the gentle fields and forest regions of Alethia and Bunda-Bas, and the expanse he was now offered made him feel smaller within such an immense, unexplored world. The prospect excited and scared him equally. Many were the tales of fairy folk, dragons, and magical beings, so many things he had yet to see and experience for himself.

  But Theophilus banished such thoughts for now, for first he had a mission and a promise to fulfill. He shuddered to think what Calla was going through then. Instantly guilt struck his chest, yet he exiled it away quickly. Guilt would not help Calla. He would save such feelings for failure. Right now, a beautiful flower needed him at his best.

  Still savoring the view, Theophilus spoke to his new friend. “I’m glad I bumped into you, Renard. You have truly been a blessing. And I cannot wait for you to meet Calla. I have no doubt that you will like her even more than you like me,” he said before looking back at Renard. The fox had cocked his head as he looked at the little weed curiously. Theophilus chuckled to himself. “And yes, I know I am likely crazy for talking to a fox, but you are still a better conversationalist than most of the weeds I’ve had to endure in my day.” Renard barked at him and Theophilus liked to think it was because the fox agreed with him.

  Theophilus ventured back to where Renard was resting. The fox watched him intently, wagging his tail as the weed approached. Petting him again, Theophilus then sat, resting his back upon Renard’s soft fur. The comfort he found there immediately beckoned to the little
weed with its warm softness. Theophilus quickly had to fight heavy eye lids. Renard nudged him with his muzzle and Theophilus scratched under his chin. By how he responded to such things, Theophilus surmised that the fox was starved for affection. With the warmth that Pyron generally offered, this came as no surprise to Theophilus.

  As relaxing as it was, Theophilus practically fell asleep right then and there, yet something snapped him awake. He didn’t know if it was a gut feeling or the urgency to save Calla, but the little weed raised his head, looking about. Renard saw the sudden change in the weed and smelled the air himself. The unease refused to leave Theophilus as he continued to scan the open expanse that surrounded him.

  Theophilus and Renard noticed trouble almost simultaneously, for as the little weed rose to his feet the fox began to growl and bark. Squinting his eyes, Theophilus observed in the distance at least six flowers upon floral mares watching him. Instantly, Theophilus could make out the leader of the group to be Lennix, the flower he had quarreled with in the past. Upon being noticed, the lead rider held up a hand and the group rushed toward Theophilus and Renard.

  This was all the motivation Theophilus needed as he leaped upon Renard’s back. “Let’s go, my friend,” he shouted. Renard was more than happy to oblige.

  As Renard sped forward, Theophilus heard Lennix’s voice boom toward him. “Theophilus Thistle of Bunda-Bas! You are charged with the kidnapping of a citizen of Alethia. Surrender now and live to face trial and judgment!”

  Theophilus shook his head. He means face death now or death later, he thought bitterly. “All things considered, I’ll take my chances,” responded the little weed.