The Boy Who Was Wanted Dead Or Alive - Or Both

by Dominic Barker

  Though they could not understand it this news seemed to spur on the horses, who surged forward towards the edge of the wood.

  Behind them the noise of the chasers grew louder. But the forest boundary was within reach and Blart, Capablanca and Uther flashed across into the lands of the Earl of Nethershire.

  It was almost a furlong before they could bring their horses to a halt. They wheeled round to see the Duke’s men emerge from the wood and reach the border of his lands. They waited for them to stop.

  The Duke’s men didn’t.

  ‘Oh,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Another great plan,’ observed Blart.

  ‘They’re trespassing,’ said Capablanca indignantly.

  ‘They’re trespassing towards us,’ pointed out Uther.

  They urged their horses on again. Ahead of them was the Churn, a river that slithered its way through the plains of Nethershire. With no bridge in sight, their only hope was that their horses would leap across or, the river being too wide, swim it. The horses, however, both decided that it would be far easier not to attempt to cross the fast-flowing river at all, and so came to an abrupt stop that sent Capablanca, Blart and Uther flying over their heads and crashing down the riverbank.

  The Duke’s men, seeing what had happened, slowed their horses cautiously to a trot.

  ‘Any ideas?’ asked Uther sarcastically, picking himself up.

  Capablanca shook his head.

  Knowing they had their prey cornered, the Duke’s soldiers advanced steadily.

  ‘Do you know you’re trespassing?’ Capablanca shouted to them. ‘This arrest will be declared invalid in any court of law.’

  ‘If you’re who we think you are,’ shouted back one soldier, ‘we’re not going to arrest you. We’re going to kill you. Now pull up your visors.’

  There were no options left. Capablanca and Uther put up their visors and prepared to fight to the death like men.

  Blart, on the other hand, was backing into the tall reeds that grew beside the river.

  ‘Just as we suspected,’ shouted the soldier. ‘You are not members of our cohort. You are associates of Blart, the friend of Zoltab. And you must die.’

  Blart felt a clunk. He had walked into something in the reeds.

  His hand felt an oar.

  ‘Now, when you say associate,’ Blart heard Uther begin in his best argumentative style, ‘could you define just exactly what you mean by it because –’

  ‘There’s a boat here,’ shouted Blart.

  Uther stopped talking and started running. Capablanca followed. They plunged through the reeds towards Blart.

  ‘After them!’

  The soldiers jumped off their horses and charged.

  Blart, who was rather shocked by the turn of events, was the only person to remain still.

  ‘Push it out,’ shouted Capablanca, hobbling as fast as he could.

  Belatedly Blart too leapt into fantastic action. His nervous shaking hands untied the boat from its moorings and pushed it out. The strong current tugged at the little craft and all Blart’s strength was needed to stop it being pulled away.

  Uther and Capablanca splashed past him and collapsed into the boat.

  Uther leant over the stern.

  ‘If you could let go,’ he said. ‘You are preventing our escape.’

  ‘I’m stuck in the mud,’ explained Blart. ‘Pull me in.’

  ‘Another time,’ said Uther, loosening Blart’s fingers.

  Blart heard the murderous cries of the soldiers behind him and felt the surge of the water as it prepared to pull the boat away from him for ever.

  But just before the river could grab the boat and the soldiers could grab Blart, a bony arm shot out and hauled him over the side.

  The boat was spinning away. Behind them the soldiers hollered in anger.

  Chapter 11

  The recent rain had swollen the river and it was flowing fast. By morning it had taken the questors far from the wrath of the Duke and his men. At first they had tried to steer the boat, but it soon became apparent that the boat was in the grip of the river, for better or worse, and so, leaving it to the will of the water, they each gradually drifted to sleep, as the boat floated further and further into the unknown.

  Blart was the first to wake. He looked up at a bright blue sky. He listened to the gurgle and slap of the river.

  Capablanca stirred, waking up from a dream in which he was turning the final page in an ancient book in the Cavernous Library of Ping which would have revealed a spell which, when cast, would once and for all confer upon him the title of Greatest Sorcerer Ever. It was a dream he had a lot.

  ‘Where are we?’ demanded Uther grumpily. He had been halfway through a dream in which he had owned the biggest farm in the world and everyone was his slave and had to work for no money. It had been the best dream he’d had for ages.

  Capablanca looked down at the river, which was now calm and serene. It gave no hint as to their whereabouts. He looked out at the empty grassy plains that surrounded them. They gave no clue. He looked up at the sky to see if the position of the sun could aid him. It couldn’t. It looked as though Capablanca was going to have to answer with his least favourite phrase – three little words that made him feel physically ill to say.

  But before he could open his mouth, Blart shouted, ‘There’s a sign!’ He was right. A roughly hewn sign stood in the centre of the river.

  The wizard, by squinting his eyes, managed to pick out the words.

  ‘I can now answer your question about our location with complete confidence,’ he told Uther smugly. ‘We are approaching the Rapids of Hell, which lead to the Devil’s Falls.’

  ‘Rapids?’ said Uther.

  ‘Falls?’ said Blart.

  Capablanca looked pensive.

  Already the tranquil river had begun to run faster. Ripples had become waves. Drift had become current.

  ‘Perhaps it won’t be so bad,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘What do the words Hell and Devil conjure up in your mind?’ demanded Uther.

  ‘Perhaps we are passing through a land which is steeped in the traditions of irony,’ countered Capablanca.

  ‘How ironic does that roar sound?’ recountered Uther.

  The three questors listened. In the distance there was an unambiguous unironic roar of water.

  Bang!

  They were all thrown forward in the boat as it bumped violently into a rock.

  Crash!

  The boat hit another rock and spun round.

  Bang! Crash!

  As they entered the rapids, the boat picked up speed. Water spilled over the sides.

  ‘I’ve read about this in the Cavernous Library of Ping,’ shouted Capablanca.

  ‘All he does is read,’ observed Blart. ‘When he’s not doing that he’s messing my life up and keeping me away from my pigs.’

  ‘My pigs,’ corrected Uther.

  ‘In a situation like this,’ continued Capablanca, determined to put his learning to good use, ‘according to Being Shipwrecked Made Easy we should lash ourselves to the mast.’

  The boat lurched alarmingly to one side as it was smashed against another rock and more water flooded in.

  ‘This boat hasn’t got a mast,’ Blart pointed out.

  A further wave buffeted the boat and sent him flying backwards into Uther. The roar of the approaching waterfall grew louder.

  ‘Hold on to whatever you can,’ shouted Capablanca.

  Blart grasped Capablanca firmly.

  ‘Not me,’ cried Capablanca, kicking him off. ‘Hold on to the boat.’

  Shocked into an unusual state of obedience by the ever-growing roar, Blart entwined himself around the seat.

  And just in time too. The roar grew louder, the boat got faster and the crashes grew ever more violent. The three questors closed their eyes as the boat raced towards the thundering Devil’s Falls and plummeted over.

  Chapter 12

  ‘Glug,’ gurgled Blart.


  He was in the middle of a deep, calm, blue pool. Above him was the angry white cascade of the Devil’s Falls. He took a brief moment to be amazed that the deep, blue pool and the angry white cascade were the same thing – water.

  Then he remembered he couldn’t swim. Immediately he remembered, he began to sink.

  His eyes darted around the pool in the hope of seeing something he could grab hold of and float on.

  There was nothing.

  The water covered his head and he fought for breath.

  Then, suddenly, he felt a tug from behind.

  He was being pulled – pulled hard and fast through the pool. And then up. Up towards the surface, banging against rocks on the way. And then he was being scraped over more rocks as he got closer to the sides of the pool. By now he could have climbed up himself but the force kept pulling him relentlessly. He was buffeted, banged, jarred and scratched and then, suddenly, he was out of the water on dry land. He opened his eyes.

  Uther and Capablanca looked down at him.

  ‘Trust you to be nearly drowned,’ said Capablanca, ‘while the rest of us had the good sense to stay in the boat.’

  ‘He’s still alive,’ said Uther, shaking himself dry. ‘That means you owe me double the fee for saving him.’

  ‘You didn’t need to drag him over the rocks like that,’ said Capablanca critically. ‘His clothes have been torn to pieces. He’ll have to have new ones or he’ll catch a chill that could become a fever and then kill him.’

  ‘I’m c-c-cold,’ shivered Blart.

  ‘Follow me,’ said the wizard.

  Cold and shivering, Blart followed Capablanca and Uther. They left the pool behind them and fought their way through briars and nettles until, bleeding and exhausted, they came upon a rough path. They followed the rough path until it became a smooth path which seemed to be well used. Capablanca stopped and looked about him.

  ‘I have been doing some calculations,’ he began smugly, ‘and I have concluded after studying various astrological, geographical and geological features –’

  ‘What?’ said Blart, taking a break from shivering for a moment.

  ‘The land and the sky,’ explained Uther.

  Capablanca affected not to hear.

  ‘I have concluded,’ he continued, ‘that overnight the river swept us right through the lands of the Earl of Grindstone and has now deposited us in the lands of the Prince of Murkstan.’

  ‘Murkstan?’ repeated Uther.

  ‘With an M,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Oh,’ said Uther.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Capablanca.

  ‘Possibly.’ Uther looked shifty. ‘It’s just that they are not very advanced in their business practices,’ he grumbled. ‘Suffice it to say I must warn you that if I am discovered in Murkstan I am liable to immediate arrest. I must be incognito.’

  ‘Wh-wh-what?’ said Blart, shivering again.

  ‘Nobody must know I’m here,’ explained Uther.

  ‘Indeed?’ said Capablanca distractedly.

  ‘There!’ said Uther. ‘A cottage.’

  As they drew closer they saw that it had a well-tended garden, smoke coming out of the chimney and bright flowers in boxes on the window sills. It was the kind of cottage that gave cottages a good name.

  ‘Wait here,’ Capablanca said to Blart. ‘I will see if I can borrow some clothes for you from the good inhabitants of this cottage.’

  ‘H-h-how do you know they’re good?’ asked Blart. ‘They might be horrible.’

  ‘One should always expect the best of people,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘W-w-why can’t I come in?’ asked Blart. ‘I am cold and there’s a fire.’

  ‘We cannot allow the good people of the cottage to be suddenly shocked by the sight of you in shredded trousers.’

  ‘I will wait outside too,’ said Uther.

  ‘Why?’ said Blart, who was not fond of Uther’s company since he’d tricked Blart into slavery.

  ‘Because there’s the slight possibility that I sold these people some of my Marvellous Miracle Seeds when I was passing through the area in days gone by.’

  ‘Marvellous Miracle Seeds?’ said Blart. ‘They sound great. What do they do?’

  ‘It turned out that it would be a miracle if they did anything,’ said Uther. ‘I was let down by my supplier.’

  Capablanca and Blart stared hard at Uther, who maintained an air of studied innocence.

  Shaking his head, Capablanca walked over to the cottage and knocked on the door.

  Half an hour later, Capablanca emerged from the house with a large package and a big smile. He had not looked so well since the quest began.

  ‘You look happy,’ said Blart suspiciously.

  ‘I have had a pleasant conversation and a piece of cake and a glass of cordial with the woman of the house and her six pretty daughters,’ answered Capablanca. ‘Why wouldn’t I be happy?’

  Capablanca tossed the package he had brought over to Blart.

  ‘They very generously gave me some clothes for you.’

  Blart eagerly tore open the package. But on seeing the contents his face fell.

  ‘It’s a dress,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a woollen dress,’ said Capablanca, whose poorly hidden smile was becoming an unsuppressed chortle. ‘A woollen dress that will keep you warm.’

  ‘But it’s a dress.’

  ‘There was a woman and her six daughters,’ said Capablanca in exasperation. ‘What did you expect? A suit of armour?’

  Blart threw the dress on to the ground and lapsed into a sulk. A cold sulk.

  ‘Put it on!’ ordered Capablanca. ‘The woman in the house told me that a cohort of the Prince’s soldiers passed through here a day ago, asking questions about allies of Zoltab. It is obviously not just the Duke’s men who are pursuing us now and we cannot hope to elude them for long. We must press on to find Beowulf the Warrior and Princess Lois in the hope that they can lead us to Zoltab’s prison, so we can prove our innocence and save our lives.’

  ‘Do you promise that as soon as we can we will get me some boys’ clothes?’ Blart demanded of Capablanca.

  Capablanca nodded.

  ‘And you promise not to laugh.’

  Capablanca nodded.

  ‘And you promise to turn Uther into a toad if he laughs.’

  Capablanca nodded.

  With a sigh and a particularly violent shiver Blart bent down to remove his trousers.

  ‘There!’ said Capablanca. ‘I bet you’re warmer now.’

  Blart stood before them in a bright red dress.

  ‘It brings out the colour in your eyes,’ observed Uther without laughing.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Blart.

  ‘But we should really must do something about your posture if –’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Blart again.

  ‘Uther,’ warned Capablanca.

  Strictly speaking Uther was correct. For Blart stood with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his knees slightly bent and his head drooped forward. It was obvious he had never been to finishing school.

  ‘Let us go,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘Where?’ asked Uther.

  ‘We must head for Illyria with all speed to find the Princess and hope to pick up news of Beowulf’s whereabouts on the way,’ said Capablanca. ‘We must keep moving if we are not to be caught.’

  The urgency in Capablanca’s tone galvanised the others and they immediately set off. Their vigorous walking generated heat and Blart swiftly felt the advantages of the woollen dress. He stopped shivering and began to feel like himself again. Just to make sure he really was himself he did some grumbling to Capablanca as they walked about how unfair it all was and how much he’d rather be with his pigs. It felt good.

  They followed the road over a hill and into another unattractive valley. By now, night was upon them and they needed to find somewhere to stop. Luckily, nestled in the valley was a village. As they got closer a sign announced they were
entering Screeb. In keeping with the surrounding countryside it was not the most prepossessing village. Instead of pretty cottages, there were functional houses. Instead of gardens or pretty flowers, there were a lot of sheds. Instead of a green or a pond in the centre of the village, there was a set of stocks.

  At the outskirts of the village Blart insisted they stop.

  ‘I can’t go into the village,’ he said to Capablanca. ‘People will laugh at me.’

  ‘We’ll get you a change of clothes as soon as possible,’ Capablanca reassured him.

  ‘I’m not going to be laughed at,’ insisted Blart. ‘I hate being laughed at.’

  ‘They will only laugh at you if they think you’re a boy,’ said Capablanca. ‘If they think you’re a girl they will simply admire your dress.’

  Blart was dismayed. He felt the solution to his problem was to return him to being a convincing boy, not to make him an ever more convincing girl.

  ‘Simply bury your head in the side of my cowl and people won’t see your face,’ said Capablanca. ‘Anybody watching you pass will think you are my very shy granddaughter. Then we will take a room in the local tavern and I will go out to procure your clothes and you will emerge as a strapping youth with nobody any the wiser.’

  Capablanca was stretching the truth to snapping point. There was no way Blart was going to emerge as a strapping youth whatever clothes they found for him.

  ‘Come on, Blart,’ urged Capablanca. ‘We must go on. Remember that we are wanted dead or alive. Who knows what is behind us?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Blart,’ added Uther. ‘If you do this then I’ll give you back one of your pigs.’

  ‘Really?’ said Blart. His resolve, previously insurmountable, was suddenly weaker.

  ‘Yes,’ said Uther.

  ‘All right, then.’

  Blart took a deep breath and buried his face into the wizard’s cowl.

  And so they walked into the village. Little did they know that in Screeb shyness in maidens was prized above all other virtues. A girl in a red dress with her head buried into what they assumed was her grandfather’s cowl to hide her modesty was a bright beacon to any young buck in the village. The local young men appraised her with wanton eyes as she passed along the village street. The mystery conjured up by the maiden’s modesty played havoc with their emotions. Eventually one particularly bold young man hailed the wizard.