Plob

by Craig Zerf

  ‘The sea,’ offered Cabbie. ‘The sea is a sailor’s master.’

  ‘No, no,’ disagreed Horgy. ‘The sea is a sailor’s mistress, the sea’s always a mistress. Anyway, a midshipman outranks a gunny. I think.’

  ‘I thought that a gunny was a sack,’ said Dreenee. ‘You know, a gunny sack.’

  Smegly sighed. ‘The Gods help us.’ He pointed forward. ‘Let us be off, Cabbie, and show some haste.’

  ‘It can’t be a poker,’ said Terry. ‘No one paints a poker red. Could be a piece of piping, a red piece of pipe. Or a length of reinforcing rod.’

  ‘A fire bucket,’ suggested Hugo. ‘That’s red.’

  ‘Yep,’ agreed Terry. ‘Or a toy fire engine. Or that red Tele-tubby. What’s its name? Tinky-winky? Or little Red bloody Riding Hood. Or a red bicycle…or…or…just be real can’t you, Hugo, a fire bucket. Geez.’

  ‘Po.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The red one is called Po. Tinky-winky’s purple.’

  Terry rolled his eyes skywards in frustration and disbelief.

  They set off at a goodly pace as Cabbie had harnessed both his snow-white charger and the noble Kashfloh to the cab. After a few hours they stopped for an al fresco lunch of ham, bread and cheese that Smegly had purchased from the inn that morning.

  Plob’s head was still thumping, although the nausea had stopped and he had finally managed to quench his outrageous thirst by putting the top of a water skin into his mouth and liberally squeezing a jet of about two gallons of water down his parched throat. This had left him re-hydrated but uncomfortably full. Also he sloshed when he moved - still, can’t have everything. Cabbie had suggested he down another ale. ‘Hair of the cur that had savaged him the night before.’ Plob shuddered at the thought. Anyway, he still remembered his vow of abstinence taken at the latrine.

  After the quick lunch they were back on the road. Smegly felt that there was some need for speed as they were all still unsure of how, and even what they were going to fight, and they still had to journey through the valley of ‘Strange’ and onwards still, over the dreaded mountains of ‘Steve.’

  Plob fervently hoped that the quest would involve little or no violence. Not that he was afraid, no, not our intrepid magician’s assistant. There had never really been the need for Plob to be physically afraid of much. From as early as he could remember he had always been built like an aspiring blacksmith, and tall into the bargain. And the physical nature of his work with Master Smegly had honed all of his baby fat off and left him a fine figure of a teenage almost man.

  It was simply that Plob didn’t like violence. He thought it a silly, unnecessary and, usually, ineffective way of dealing with a situation. Mature thoughts from our hero. Wrong. But mature nonetheless.

  I know that it’s abhorrent, but let’s be brutally honest (how brutal? Well, that’s up to you. But nothing kinky, huh. OK). Violence is often silly and unnecessary but it is also often an extremely effective way of dealing with things. Especially if you’re a bit thick. In fact violence is definitely the thicky’s friend. Thickies unite for a violent world, one could say. Fortunately true violence is impossible for the thickies to achieve. To achieve real state of the art, world cock-up-type violence one needs to be bright. The brighter the better. Don’t believe me? Well -tell that to Einstein, E=MC I rest my case.

  Also Plob was experiencing a few reservations regarding Horgy, nice guy that he was. Although he was definitely a knight and, most probably very noble, Plob really would have preferred a knight that would be able to fight in his armour as opposed to next to it.

  Dreenee was great, what with her being the quintessential beauty and all. It was just that, far be it for him to complain, but she wasn’t quite right. Weren’t the beautiful maids in quests meant to be demure, shy, reticent and ever so slightly nervous? The only thing that Dreenee was nervous about was that she might kill someone by mistake. Being in possession of freakish strength, coupled with an extremely volatile character and the world’s shortest temper meant she was less of a beautiful maid and more of a small blonde, succulent wrecking machine.

  And they didn’t have a thief. Plob was sure that a thief was essential.

  And then there was Cabbie. Best leave thinking about him for later.

  At least there was no doubt as to the master magician and the master magician’s assistant. So that was a plus.

  Plob sighed.

  ‘Why the sigh, Plob?’ enquired Dreenee as she leant forward to touch his arm. Her head tilted enquiringly to one side, lips slightly apart, her thin cotton dress betraying her impossibly lush figure which had been thrown into stark relief by the now sinking sun.

  Plob paused before he answered. Not because he was thinking of what to say, he was more thinking of what not to say, the ‘Nipple’ incident still fresh in his mind. He knew that he would never be able to live down another inadvertent body part blurtation. And who knows which specific part he might mention next.

  No it didn’t bear thinking about. Bear. Bare. Bare Dreenee. Bare naked Dreenee. Oh Gods, Plob fought for control and, admirably, attainted it, although the nausea and great thirst were now back with a vengeance.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he replied, thinking it better to deflect the situation.

  Dreenee slid over to his seat, sat next to him and laid her head on his shoulder. ‘You worry too much,’ she said, with what sounded like real concern. ‘Don’t. You’re too young to be so unduly perturbed. There’s a time for worrying and a time for relaxing. This is a good time for relaxing, start your worrying in your twenties. I promise you there’ll still be plenty to go around.’

  Fat chance, thought Plob. How can I not worry with this vision of loveliness nestled up against me, the mouth, the long eyelashes, and the soft smell of her recently washed, thick blonde tresses? Who knows what will betray me first – my body or my mind.

  Dreenee snuggled a little closer to Plob and gently drifted into slumber. Plob held his breath until, with surprise, he realised that not only was his body not overreacting uncontrollably but his mind was also almost totally devoid of any inappropriate or lascivious thoughts (I say almost because it is impossible for any young man’s mind to be totally devoid of inappropriate or lascivious thoughts). Plob grinned to himself. Amazing, he thought. I do seem to have some control over my hormones. Brilliant. He put his arm around Dreenee’s shoulders and also proceeded to trundle off to the land of nod.

  That night they stopped off at another inn that was much like the one from the night before. As they sat in the cosy taproom, eating a hearty warm lamb stew with hunks of newly baked buttered bread, Plob found himself with a tankard of ale in his hands. He shrugged and reckoned that perhaps oaths don’t count when taken under duress, for in all honesty he had thought that he was going to die that morning.

  He at least had enough sense to retire fairly early after only two or three tankards and spent a couple of hours studying one of his master’s weighty tomes on wild magic and its effect on human biology.

  They rose early the next morning and Master Smegly, normally so staid and calm of demeanour, seemed a little out of sorts. After they had been travelling for a couple of hours he called to Cabbie to halt and pull off the road into a glade of silver-green ash trees that straddled a fast flowing stream of cold, clear water.

  ‘Right.’ He surveyed the quest members with a stern eye. ‘Up until now this whole thing has been a bit of a lark. We all have our own private reasons for coming and now will be a good time to review them. From this moment on we will begin to travel further and further into the realms of nightmares. I have no knowledge of Bil de Plummer but, over the past few decades, I have both studied and fought Evil in almost all its misbegotten forms and guises. And this one thing I can promise you – it’s no bloody picnic.’

  Smegly paused for a while and then turned his gaze to Dreenee. ‘My girl. You are no longer in danger from the king’s men. We have travelled far from their magisterial district and, if I were
you, I would go back to the last village that we passed through, get a job, settle down and live a long and, perhaps, happy life.’

  Dreenee held Master Smegly’s iron gaze until it was too much for her and then she turned her head aside. ‘Work as a waitress,’ she said in a flat voice. ‘Do you think that’s all I’m good for?’

  ‘You, all of you, are worth what you decide. Except Plob, of course, I’m his master so I will decide both his worth and his fate. And at the moment his fate is to stick with the quest. Anyway, it was his idea after all.’

  ‘I’m staying,’ said Dreenee. ‘You’re my friends. I don’t leave my friends.’

  Smegly turned questioningly to Horgy.

  ‘I’m a knight,’ Horgy said. ‘Questing is what I do. It’s pretty much my middle name. Sir “questing” Horgelbund - the pheasant killer. Oh, if I could tell you all of the quests that I’ve been on well I’d…I’d…tell you…about them.’ Horgy looked down embarrassedly at the ground. ‘Friends?’ He glanced at Dreenee. ‘It’s unusual for accounta…knights to have friends. And this knighting lark has cost me an absolute bucket so far. I might as well stick with it and try to show some return on capital invested. Count me in.’

  They all turned to Cabbie who laughed out loud. ‘Well obviously I’m staying. I have to. What’s a quest without a Cabbie? There has to be a Cabbie.’ He winked at Plob. ‘Doesn’t there?’

  Plob grinned widely and nodded. ‘Yep, Cabbie, there surely does.’

  ‘It’s settled then,’ quoth Smegly. ‘Right, Plob, break out the travelling oven, the anvil and the number three hammer. Cabbie, start a fire over there. Dreenee, collect some water and, Horgy.’

  Yes,’ answered Horgy.

  ‘Keep guard. Now hurry along, people, I’ll explain the whys and wherefores as we proceed. Come, come,’ he continued, clapping his hands together. ‘We have many complex and difficult spells to forge before the sun sets.’

  Plob enjoyed mass spell forging. Smegly prepared the spells and cast them, glittering and writhing, into the oven. Cabbie kept a brisk fire going with use of both wood and bellows. Plob removed the newly forged spells from the oven with his tongs, hammering them into shape on the anvil using the medium-weight number three hammer and passed them on to Dreenee who quenched them in a bowl of water, before wrapping them in their protective vellum skins.

  At the same time as they worked Master Smegly explained what he was doing.

  ‘As Plob knows there are two types of spells. Those created from common “air” magic and those forged from the powerful “earth” magic. Simple spells such as creating small quantities of light, starting fires, placing minor curses on people and the curing of certain trifling afflictions, are all common magic or “air” spells. These can be cast on the spot by using various incantations, gestures and breathing techniques.

  ‘The more demanding spells – general protection, calling up storms, the casting of lightning bolts and so on fall into the powerful magic or “earth” spell camp. Now, the essence of these spells has to be prepared beforehand, cast, forged into shape and kept ready for use. Upon release they are channelled, via the aforementioned incantations etcetera, into the specific guise that we are looking for at the time. For instance, a thunderbolt, a fireball, or a small hailstorm would be cast from the same forged spell. It is on release that the magician decides which form that particular spell will take. Remember, however, that a protection forging cannot be used for an attack spell and vice versa.

  ‘When Plob and I discuss spells, we will always refer to them as air spells or earth spells followed by their designation, such as “earth, attack, thunderbolt”, “earth, protect, shield wall”, or “air, light”. Get used to those terms so as to avoid possible confusion in moments of extremis.’

  Master Smegly stopped his casting for a moment and went over to the small pile of vellum-wrapped spells. He drew a number of rolls of ribbon from his pocket and started tying the various colours around the different types of spells. Yellow ribbons for protective spells and red for attack spells. After this he took over from Plob for a while and spent almost an hour forging one spell himself. As he held onto the raw superheated magic with the tongs and hammered away he used both mental and physical force to bend the earth power into the semblance of the spell that he wanted. He then wrapped it in a double layer of vellum and tied it in a white ribbon onto which he inscribed many detailed and complex runes. The forging of this spell seemed to exhaust the master and he sat down next to the fire with a colossal sigh.

  Dreenee went over to the cab, opened the dickey boot and took out a small cask of ale that they had purchased from the inn that morning before they had left. She carried it over to the fire, broached it with her tiny fist, and drew Master Smegly a tankard full.

  Smegly looked up appreciatively as she brought it to him. ‘Thank you, my girl,’ he said. ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘I know,’ said Dreenee as she giggled. ‘Horgy already told me so, remember.’

  She walked on back to the cab. ‘All right, chaps. Why don’t you all clear up, put the tools away and have a bit of a wash. I’ll prepare dinner.’

  Dinner wasn’t half bad. Dreenee knocked up a thick soup of ham, potatoes and dried peas, cooked in ale and flavoured with some peppery herb that she had noticed growing in abundance next to the small stream.

  Using air magic Smegly cast a warning perimeter around the campsite, then they all wrapped themselves in their blankets and promptly fell asleep.

  The next day was almost a carbon copy of the day before. They rode all day, stopping for a quick bite at lunch and, that evening, they stopped for the night at an old, slightly shabby, inn.

  The last available inn before entering the valley of Strange.

  They drew up into the forecourt at the front of the inn to be greeted by a wizened old hunchback with perhaps the thinnest neck that Plob had ever seen. It made his head look like a half-deflated pink balloon tied to a lollipop stick. He nodded and bobbed up to the cab.

  ‘Ah, masters, masters, masters. So good to have you here,’ he gurgled, head wobbling back and forth.

  ‘No. Just one master,’ corrected Horgy. ‘He’s an assistant, I’m a Knight there’s the cabbie and here,’ he gestured towards Dreenee, ‘our very own angel of prettiness.’

  The old man stared incomprehensibly at Horgy. ‘Master?’ he questioned.

  ‘No,’ repeated Horgy. ‘I’m the knight. He is the master,’ he affirmed, pointing at Smegly. ‘Concentrate now. Master, knight, cabbie, assistant, beautiful maid. One master. Only one.’

  ‘Yes. Like a yacht,’ interjected Cabbie helpfully. ‘Only one mast. A single master as it were.’

  The old man’s head started to vibrate in confusion as it whipped frantically from one quest member to the other, his brain working feverishly as he continued to silently mouth the words ‘masters’ under his breath.

  Fortunately he was saved from a total mental collapse by the timely appearance of the innkeeper who bustled up busily, wiping his hands on his apron and shaking his head in annoyance.

  ‘Come along now, Mister Hobgoblinsson, stop bothering the good masters and take their horses off to the stable to be fed and watered.’

  ‘One,’ said the old man in a confused voice.

  The innkeeper looked at him irritably. ‘What?’

  ‘Just one,’ repeated the old man, raising a single spindly digit skywards in proclamation. ‘Like a boat,’ he continued. ‘Exactly like a boat.’

  He dithered over to the horses and started unhitching them, a constant low level muttering issuing forth with the minimum of help from his decrepit old vocal cords.

  ‘Sorry about him,’ apologised the innkeeper. ‘It’s simply that it’s almost impossible to find decent help this close to the valley. Here, good masters, let me help you with your bags.’

  ‘No…’ started Horgy.

  ‘Leave it,’ snapped Smegly. ‘For God’s sake leave it.’

  Their baggage was car
ried in and they were shown to their various dusty, seedy rooms. After they had changed out of their travelling clothes into more comfortable attire they met in the taproom.

  Cabbie was busy raving at the innkeeper.

  ‘What do you mean you don’t have any ale? What sort of wretched establishment doesn’t keep ale? How is a man supposed to recover from a hard day’s journey without the help of a tankard or four of good, dark ale, or mediocre ale, or even bad ale, any ale? But no ale? This is a disaster. A travesty. It’s deplorable. And cruel, yes, mainly it’s cruel. You should have a sign outside saying ‘No Bloody Ale at This Inn,’ then you wouldn’t get people fixing their taste buds for ale only to be offered a choice of either bugger all ale or none whatsoever ale. What’s the name of this ale-free establishment?’

  ‘The Pigs Garters, sir,’ replied the innkeeper.

  ‘Right,’ continued Cabbie. ‘From now on it shall be known as “The ale less cruel and deplorable buggery pig’s garters and no bloody ale place” inn.’ Cabbie paused for a breath.

  ‘We have red wine, sir,’ interjected the keeper quickly whilst he had a chance.

  ‘Oh,’ exclaimed Cabbie as he was brought up short in mid rant. ‘Well bring forth a flagon of your best red then, my good man. Quickly now as I grow weary of your constant chatter regarding your ale free existence and I may soon expire due to a build up an excessive amount of blood in my alcohol stream.’

  The keeper rushed off at top speed with a suitably chastened expression adorning his plump and sweaty face.

  ‘Oh stop being so mean, Cabbie,’ said Dreenee with a smile. ‘You can live without ale for a night or two. I’m more concerned with the state of the rooms. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen so much dust in one place. I suspect that the innkeeper collects it as a hobby.’

  ‘Either that or he has a dust fetish,’ retorted Cabbie seriously.

  ‘Can you?’ asked Plob. ‘I mean can one have a dust fetish? It’s just that that seems a bit weird. Even for this neck of the woods.’