Many Adventures of Eaglethorpe Buxton

by Allison, Wesley

  Chapter Ten: Wherein I taste a disconsolateberry pie and other things happen too, but the pie is the part that I remember best.

  I waved goodbye to my friend, but did not dally, for though a man may well wait for a pie, it is a verifiable truth that a pie seldom waits for a man. So, leaving Hysteria where she was, I hopped over to the where the plump little red-head with a checkered apron and a brown bonnet held her pie.

  “Good day, lovely piesmith,” said I, bowing at the waist.

  “Good day, Sir.”

  “Might I inquire whether that pie is bound for an inn or perhaps the market?”

  “Indeed it is neither, Sir.”

  “Then might I purchase it?” I asked.

  “Might I ask first your name, Sir? You seem to be a man of heroic bearing and noble manner.”

  “You are very perceptive, my pretty piesmith, for indeed I am Eaglethorpe Buxton, famous storyteller and adventurer. Really of late I have been more of an adventurer than a story-teller, for though my tales of the great heroes and their adventures have been repeated far and wide across the land, I find myself having even more wondrous adventures than any of the characters in my stories. Still, the appellation, which is to say the name of Buxton and of Eaglethorpe, is best known for stories so I still introduce myself as first a storyteller and then an adventurer.”

  “It is so very nice to…”

  “Now that I think about it, I should introduce myself as Eaglethorpe Buxton, playwright, adventurer, and storyteller, as my play The Ideal Magic is such a success that I am sure I will be doing much more of that.”

  “I’m very pleased to…”

  “On the other hand, it might seem strange to say playwright, adventurer, and storyteller, seeing as how storytelling and play writing are so closely related. Perhaps one ought not to separate them from one another by placing them on either side of adventuring. And it is worth noting that I have been doing quite a bit of adventuring since writing the play.”

  “Do you want pie or not?” she asked, one hand on her hip and the other holding up the delectable object in question.

  “Oh yes. Pie please.”

  “Come inside,” she said, leading me into a simple but clean little cottage, where I sat down at the only chair at the old but serviceable table.

  She very fetchingly began to cut a generous piece of the pie. Though it smelled wonderful, I couldn’t quite place the combination of spices.

  “What kind of pie is it?” I wondered.

  “Disconsolateberry pie,” said she.

  Disconsolateberries seem to be common in this area. I just tasted some disconsolateberry syrup and the other night I had my first bowl of disconsolateberry wine. Though I have yet to taste disconsolateberry chutney, I hear it is very good indeed.”

  “They are indeed common all over southern Lyrria,” she said, setting the slice in front of me. “I had considered making it toad pie.”

  I took a large bite. “What?” I asked with my mouth full.

  “I baked that pie especially for you, Eagletwirp Buckethead.” Though she still had the appearance of the plump little red-head with a checkered apron and a brown bonnet, now her eyes were flashing green.

  “You are the sorceress,” I said, taking another bite.

  She picked up a wooden spoon and waving it before her, she changed into her normal slender, blond, attractive self. The wooden spoon took on the appearance of her flashing wand. I was surprised, though not so surprised as to stop eating.

  “Are you familiar with alliteration, Eagletwit Bumpkin?” she asked.

  “It’s Eagletwirp… I mean Eaglethorpe… Of course I’m familiar with alliteration. I’m a talented writer.”

  “How’s this then? Poisoned pie punishes poetic pinhead.”

  “I don’t follow,” I said, taking another bite.

  “When I said that I made that pie especially for you,” said she, “I meant to imply that I had poisoned the pie. And then when I added the bit about alliteration, you see, I actually told you that I poisoned the pie.”

  “Did you in fact poison it?” I asked, taking another bite.

  “Yes.”

  “What a waste of a perfectly fine pie.”

  “And you’re still eating it!”

  “I can’t help it. It’s yummy.”

  Chapter Eleven: Wherein we discuss evil, the secret to good pie crust, and a writer of little importance.

  As the sorceress said, disconsolateberries grow all over the southern coast of Lyrria. As you may know, disconsolate is a word meaning sad. It is a medium powerful word for sad, which is to say that it is more sad than crestfallen, but not so sad as woebegone. A disconsolate person is somewhat worse off than a person who is merely downcast, but not in nearly so bad a shape as a person who is inconsolable. You might suppose that the name of the berry comes from the feeling that one may feel after eating a few disconsolateberries, but you would be mightily mistaken. If anything, disconsolateberries lighten the mood of anyone who eats a few handfuls of them. It is my understanding that their name comes from a young man who lost his love. Wandering the hills along the coast, he was determined to die of starvation, but was unable to because he tasted one of the berries and thereafter kept eating them, despite his sadness and desire to die.

  “You just made that up,” said the sorceress.

  “Made what up?”

  “That bit about the young man who lost his love.”

  “Were you reading my thoughts?”

  “No, you said that aloud.”

  “I did?”

  “I heard that the disconsolateberry got its name because being so tasty that one cannot stop eating them when out picking them, one can never gather enough to make a whole pie, leaving the maiden who is trying to do so, disconsolate.”

  “I like my story better,” said I. “Although your story does have the benefit of having a pie in it.”

  “I see you’ve finished your piece,” said Myolaena. “Would you like more poison pie?”

  “Yes please.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “So, I can’t have any more?”

  “Why would you keep eating the pie, once I told you it was poisoned?”

  “For one thing, being evil, you are probably lying about the poison…”

  “I’m not evil.”

  “Evil people never think they are.”

  “What about Shakespeare’s Richard III? He is determined to play the villain.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Who? Richard III or Shakespeare?”

  “Neither one of them.”

  “One was a king in a faraway country. The other is the greatest writer of all time.”

  “Which is which?” I wondered. “Never mind. I don’t care about a king in a faraway country, and clearly I am the greatest writer of all time.”

  “That is a matter for some debate,” said she.

  “Anyway, for another thing, once I’ve been poisoned and I’m going to die anyway, it seems a shame to deprive myself of one last piece of delicious pie.”

  “You really think it’s delicious?”

  “Yes. Did you use magic to create it or did you kill some poor cook and take her pie?”

  “Neither. I made it myself.”

  “You did? Really? How about the crust?”

  “Of course I made the crust. You can’t have good pie without good crust. It’s one of the simplest recipes and yet it is so important.”

  “That is so true,” I agreed.

  “The trick is that the butter must be chilled.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. And you must work it in enough to incorporate it, but not so much as to warm it up all the way.”

  “It is so nice that you took the time to make it right,” said I. “So many people just go through the motions now-a-days.”

  “That is true.”

  “So tell me the truth. You didn’t really go to all that trouble of making such a fin
e pie, just to poison it.”

  “No,” she said. “I went to all that trouble of making such a fine pie to poison you.”

  Suddenly the room began to spin. I slid from my seat and flopped back, smacking my head on the dirt floor and stared up at the wooden ceiling. Myolaena moved around the table to peer down into my face.

  “Goodbye moron,” she said.

  Chapter Twelve: Wherein, as you probably guessed, I don’t die of poison.

  “Wake up, Master Buxton, wake up.” I felt a gentle slap upon my right cheek and then my left. “Here. Drink this.”

  The mouth of a small bottle was pressed between my lips and cool sweet liquid flowed over my tongue and down my throat.

  “Is that an antidote?” I asked.

  “Antidote to what?”

  I looked into the face above me. It was one of the most beautiful faces that I had ever seen. Very large brown eyes, like cow eyes, but in a good way; which is to say large and brown, and with long lashes. A cute little nose. Perfect lips.

  “I’ve been poisoned.”

  “How?”

  “You are the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen. Kiss me quickly before I die.”

  “What poisoned you?”

  “Quickly, the kiss.”

  “I don’t think I had better kiss you if you’ve been poisoned. I might get some of the poison on my tongue.”

  “Don’t use your tongue. Just use your lips.”

  “Well, that’s not really much of a kiss, is it?” quoth she.

  “I like the way you think,” I said, sitting up. “If you didn’t know I was poisoned, what was that liquid you just gave me?”

  “That was water from the well outside. It’s supposed to be naturally healthful.”

  “I feel much better, but ‘naturally healthful,’ does not quite equal ‘antidote to poison’.”

  “I ask again. With what were you poisoned?”

  “That pie over there.”

  The young woman got up from my side and walked across the room to where the remainder of the pie still sat. From my vantage point, I could see that, as beautiful as her face was, it was nothing compared to her body, especially that part of her body which she presented as she walked away across the room. In a word she was fetching, which is to say very attractive.

  “Is this a disconsolateberry pie?” she asked.

  “Yes. It was one of the finest buttocks I’ve ever had.”

  “What?”

  “I said it was one of the finest pies I’ve ever had.”

  “Well you can’t poison somebody with disconsolateberries,” she said, walking back over to me and kneeling down. “They are a natural counteragent.”

  “That’s very breast for me,” I said, getting up.

  “What?”

  “I said that’s very lucky for me.”

  “They are full of natural antioxidants too,” said she.

  “Is that good?”

  She nodded. “Would you like that kiss now?”

  Then it was my turn to nod, as I was suddenly but momentarily mute. She put her hand on my cheek and gave me one of the best kisses that I have had in my entire life. The only better ones that I can think of off the top of my head, which is to say within easy reach of my memory, are the kiss that I received from the Queen of Aerithraine, in whose company I once had the pleasure of spending a fortnight, and my cousin Tuki, who was the first girl I ever kissed and who was also a first-rate kickball player.

  “What are you thinking about?” the beautiful young woman asked.

  “Kickball.”

  “Well, stop it. I want you to think about me.”

  “I don’t even know your name, or how you found me, or how you know me, or what you want, or how you were able to squeeze into that dress, or how much pie is left.”

  “My name is Megara Fennec, and I’ve been looking for you for more than a week. I want to be an actress in your play.”

  Chapter Thirteen: Wherein I hear the story of two star-crossed lovers.

  I stood looking at the young woman, whom might well be the most beautiful creature that I had ever seen. She struck a pose and tossed her thick locks of dark brown hair back over her shoulder.

  “You are so beautiful,” I said. “Why would you want to go into such a disreputable business as acting? You could do anything you wanted.”

  “It’s not what I want; It’s all that I have left,” she replied. “You see, my family the Capillaries…”

  “I thought you said your name was Fennec.”

  “That’s my stage name,” she explained. “My real name is Megara Capillarie. And my family and other family, the Montenegroes, have been involved in a feud for dozens of generations.”

  “Is it the kind of feud in which you fight the other family, or the kind in which you challenge them to some type of word game?”

  “It is the kind in which you fight and kill the other family.”

  “Hmm,” said I. “Those types of feuds can be bad, especially if you are the one being fought and killed.”

  “But there’s more. I met a lovely young man and fell in love with him, only to find out later that he was none other than Henri Montenegro, the son of my family’s great enemy. We met and exchanged fair words and fair kisses. But then yesterday there was a fight in the street and Henri, beautiful, sweet Henri killed my cousin.”

  “So you don’t love him anymore? You hate him now.”

  “Of course I don’t hate him! I love him! But we can never be together. He has been banished to Oordport, and I shall never see him again.”

  “It so happens that I already have all the actresses that I need to portray the characters in my play,” said I.

  “You are one short,” Megara said, tossing her hair back. “Two days ago, the Sorceress Myolaena Maetar arrived at the theater just after the performance and turned your lead actress Angelletta Seedling into a tree.”

  “Oh bother,” said I. “I suppose though, that with a name like Seedling you have to expect that sort of thing. I guess I will have to find someone who can change her back.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You see the locals are in constant need of firewood, and well…”

  “They didn’t.”

  “I’m afraid so,” she said.

  “I find myself in need of an actress then,” said I. “But I could not claim the names of Buxton and of Eaglethorpe, which is to say Eaglethorpe Buxton if I were to take advantage of your unfortunate predicament, which is to say your situation, for my own gain. Before you settle for the life of the stage we must see if we cannot reunite you with your lost love.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Of course,” I replied. “I am Eaglethorpe Buxton, friend to the friendless, protector to the defenseless, finder of lost children and reuniter of lost lovers. And I have a plan.”

  Chapter Fourteen: Wherein I divulge my plan to reunite the lovers.

  I led the beautiful Megara Fennec, which is to say Megara Capillarie from the home of some unknown person, who was no doubt a plump little red-head with a checkered apron and a brown bonnet, and out into the town square of Potter Town, where the shadows were growing long, which is to say it was getting late. My valiant steed Hysteria still waited patiently at the well. As we walked, I explained my plan.

  “The plan is thus,” said I. “I will fetch from the apothecary a dram of a potion that is known as living death. You will go home and make peace with your parents and then take this potion. It will make you fall into a coma, a semblance of death itself. From you there will be no evidence that you still live: no breath, no heartbeat, and no body warmth. Your family will think that you are dead and place your body in the family crypt. In the meantime, I will send a message to your beloved in Oordport, telling him the entire plan and he will rush to your side, to reach you just as you return to life, having experienced nothing more than a pleasant sleep.”

  We reached Hysteria’s side and I turned to smile at my lovely c
ompanion, but she was frowning.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Your plan seems fraught with unnecessary problems,” she replied.

  “How so?”

  “If the apothecaries of the area are wont to sell drams of ‘living death’, won’t someone suggest that perhaps I have been given ‘living death’ when I appear to die of unknown causes.”

  “Living death is pretty secret,” said I.

  “How secret?”

  “Really secret.”

  “But not so secret that just anyone can purchase it from an apothecary?”

  “No, not so secret as that.”

  “What if, when I die, they decide to burn my body instead of placing it in the family crypt?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “To save space.”

  “You are a member of the family, are you not?”

  “Yes, but I’m just a girl, and I’m young. I haven’t had a chance to do anything grand or impressive that would warrant entombing me in a place of honor. Our family has had that crypt for at least a dozen generations and there have been a lot of us. It’s getting pretty full.”

  “But you are Lord Capillaries’ only daughter.”

  “I am the only child of his current wife, true. But my mother is his fourth wife and I am his sixteenth daughter.”

  “I see.”

  “Now that I think about it,” she continued. “I don’t think that I would want to wake up in that crypt anyway. It’s got to be pretty rank in there, and there is always the possibility of zombie attacks.”

  “Yes, I forgot about zombies.”

  “The only people who can afford to forget about zombies are those people with no brains.”

  “That is true,” I agreed. “I suppose we could plan to have your body sequestered somewhere else.”

  “And here’s another thing,” she said. “What if your message doesn’t get to my beloved in time? Suppose he hears about me dying before he finds out about your plan. He might do something rash—like hurt himself.”