The Boy Who Didn't Want to Save the World

by Dominic Barker

  ‘Sure you’ll soon have it sorted,’ reassured Beo. ‘And you know if you drink five or six tankards it stops tasting that bad.’

  Cheery’s interjection had distracted them. Briefly they had taken their eyes off Zoltab’s minion. This proved to be a mistake because in the short time he was free from the gaze of his captors he had managed to furnish himself with a dagger.

  ‘He’s got a dagger,’ said Blart, pointing out the obvious.

  ‘’Tis a puny thing,’ mocked Beo. ‘We are four against one here. You have no chance of escape.’

  ‘Put down the knife and answer our questions and things will go easier for you,’ Capablanca told him.

  The minion laughed.

  ‘Easier for me, a minion of Zoltab? If I were to help you foil Zoltab’s return, why, I would be subject to tortures that you cannot imagine. Those who serve Zoltab know that a traitor faces a punishment worse than death. Know ye only that you are too late. Very soon Zoltab will rise from his underground dungeon and take his place as the ruler of the world. That is all I will tell you. I will never speak a word that would prevent the return of my Lord Zoltab.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Beo grimly.

  ‘Shall we?’ said the minion, and he stuck out his tongue at the warrior. This would have seemed a puerile or childish gesture if it were not for the fact that the minion followed it by raising his knife to his mouth and with one swift strike severing his tongue from its root.

  ‘Ugh,’ said Blart.

  ‘Damn,’ said Beo.

  ‘We’ll never know the reason they took over the inn now,’ said Capablanca in frustration.

  ‘Do you think it’ll stain?’ asked Cheery.

  Meanwhile the minion writhed on the floor, his face contorted in pain but no words coming from his bleeding mouth.

  Chapter 8

  ‘He’s not our responsibility,’ insisted Capablanca.

  ‘Well, he’s certainly not mine,’ replied Cheery.

  It was the next morning and the questors were standing outside the inn. There was dew on the grass, a fresh sun in the sky and birds sang from the trees. The natural world seemed utterly unaware that all that was good and pure was threatened by Zoltab’s return.

  ‘We rescued you,’ said Capablanca. ‘And now we’ve got to go and save the world. And all we want you to do to help is lock the minion in your cellar until we return.’

  ‘I want him out of here,’ insisted Cheery. ‘I don’t want to give him another chance to take over my inn. Who knows how much he’s affected trade already?’

  ‘Have you got a well?’ interjected Beo.

  ‘At the back,’ replied Cheery.

  Beo nodded and wandered off.

  ‘Now,’ continued Cheery, ‘I’d like the world to be saved as much as the next man, but I’ve got my own priorities and they don’t include being a gaoler for one of Zoltab’s minions.’

  ‘But we have no time,’ pleaded Capablanca.

  ‘Look, I’m very sorry, but I’m a businessman. If it’s not good for trade then I don’t want to know about it.’

  ‘But the end of the world will be terrible for trade,’ argued Capablanca. ‘You must think long term.’

  ‘I’ve said I can’t help you and I’m sticking by it. And you haven’t paid for last night.’

  ‘You mean that’s not on the house?’ Capablanca was shocked.

  ‘Ten crowns, please.’

  ‘I demand a discount.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What for? Nearly being murdered in our beds. That’s what for.’

  ‘All right. I’ll knock off two crowns.’

  ‘I’ll pay you the full price if you keep an eye on Zoltab’s minion until I get back.’

  ‘No need,’ said Beo, butting into the conversation.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Capablanca.

  ‘He just fell down the well. Tragic accident. We were just wandering along, me talking, him listening, and suddenly he’s not there any more.’

  ‘But that well’s got a cover on it,’ said the landlord.

  ‘Someone’s taken it off,’ Beo said, shaking his head. ‘Kids, I suppose.’

  ‘We’re an isolated inn,’ said Cheery. ‘There aren’t any kids around here.’

  ‘Maybe birds, then,’ said Beo slightly less confidently.

  ‘Birds?’ shrieked the landlord. ‘That cover must weigh two stone.’

  ‘Look,’ said Beo, pointing his finger aggressively at Cheery. ‘I don’t know nothing more than the fact that he’s in the well. All right?’

  Cheery’s expression changed to one of horror as he realised the true terror of the situation.

  ‘My water. It’ll be poisoned. I’ve got to get him out.’

  And without further ado he rushed off towards the well.

  ‘You didn’t push him into the well, did you?’ asked Capablanca.

  ‘Me?’ said Beo innocently.

  ‘Wow!’ said Blart. If you could just go round throwing people into wells then this quest might be more fun than he had previously thought.

  And without waiting to pay their bill, the three of them set off to save the world once more.

  Chapter 9

  ‘We must go faster,’ said Capablanca urgently. ‘I can’t go faster,’ said Blart, sitting down abruptly. ‘I’m too tired.’

  They had been walking for two days and had left all human habitation far behind them. The land they now travelled through was a mixture of grasslands and rocky hills, but it contained no buildings and no people. Blart had never been fond of people but he would still have liked some of them around to dislike.

  ‘Show some pluck, Blart,’ urged Capablanca. ‘Zoltab’s minions will have wasted no time after escaping from the inn to spread the news of our quest. Their presence in The Jolly Murderers shows that their influence has spread even further than I thought possible. Our quest has become even more difficult and we must assume that his minions will be found everywhere and will be ready to kill us.’

  ‘’Tis a powerful shame that they stole my horse when they fled,’ observed Beowulf. ‘Otherwise we’d have made good speed.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t smell so much,’ added Blart rudely. He was, however, accurate. The warrior was a big man and he had been sweating for two days.

  ‘Quiet,’ said Capablanca. ‘Look at this.’

  He pointed at a large pile of dung that lay on the grass.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Blart.

  ‘Because it is a sign of hope.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Beo.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Capablanca. ‘For where there is horse dung, there are horses. And this grassland is home to the wild horses of Noved.’

  ‘The wild horses of Noved,’ said Beo. ‘I have heard of these powerful steeds which are twice the size of a normal horse and can carry three men into battle.’

  ‘The very beasts,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘But I have also heard it said,’ said Beo, ‘that they are impossible to capture because they are so fast and fierce and that a man risks death if he attempts to mount one.’

  ‘That sounds like exaggeration to me,’ said Capablanca.

  ‘But it was the same man who told me both things,’ protested Beo.

  ‘There is no time for discussions,’ said Capablanca hastily. ‘We must find a suitable place to catch a wild horse of Noved.’

  ‘What do we do then?’ demanded Blart.

  ‘We tame him, of course,’ answered Capablanca. ‘Now follow me towards those high rocks. That looks like the kind of place where we might be able to catch one.’

  Blart’s eyes followed Capablanca’s finger. The rocks seemed a very long way away to him.

  But Capablanca strode off purposefully and Beo marched behind him. Blart had no choice. He sighed and shuffled after them.

  Half a day later, they were standing high above a narrow gulch that lay amid the jumble of massive rocks. After an exhaustive study of the horse dung in the area, Capablanca h
ad concluded that a pack/herd/can’t remember what of wild horses must regularly pass through it on their way to the water hole.

  ‘This is perfect,’ he announced. ‘Now let me tell you my plan for catching a horse.’

  Capablanca told them. Beo nodded and agreed. Blart did neither. To him the plan sounded very dangerous indeed. Having previously been opposed to walking, he now began to see its appeal. It might be slow but at least it wasn’t going to kill him.

  ‘Couldn’t we just walk instead?’ he asked.

  Capablanca looked exasperated.

  ‘You haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said, have you?’ he accused Blart.

  ‘I have,’ replied Blart indignantly. ‘I can listen to single words. It’s just when you stick them together in long bits that I get bored.’

  ‘Look!’ shouted Beo.

  They looked.

  In the distance there was a plume of smoke. As Blart watched it moved and began to come closer. And then came the sound. A pounding which seemed to make the whole earth tremble. And finally he saw them. The horses. Huge beasts – twice the size of any horse he had ever seen before – galloping towards the gulch.

  ‘Ready,’ cried Capablanca.

  The first ten horses were into the gulch when blue light shone from the wizard’s eyes and suddenly both the entrance and the exit were blocked with rocks. The horses nearest the entrance to the gulch reared back, their forelegs rising in the air. Horses behind clattered into them.

  Blart, however, was more concerned with the ten horses that were trapped in the gulch immediately below him. They galloped to the exit to discover it was blocked by rocks, wheeled around and cantered back towards the entrance to discover that that too was now blocked by rocks. Blue light continued to shine from the wizard’s eyes and his face was contorted with the effort of maintaining the illusion of the rocks. The horses stopped for a moment, obviously confused by what they could see but as yet unable to work out that they were trapped.

  Blart knew now was the time to throw the rope Capablanca had given him, before the horses panicked and began to charge up and down the gulch. Beside him Beo threw his. It snaked through the air, missed all the horses and landed on the rocky ground. Beo’s rope might have missed but the horses had noticed it. Whinnying, they shuffled away from it as though it were a snake. Blart spun his lasso into the air above his head as he had done many times at home when preparing to catch a pig. The speed of the rope made it crack. Blart swung his arm faster, injecting more and more energy. And then he let go. It flew down and looped round the head of the largest horse in there – a jet-black stallion that felt the rope tighten around his neck and exploded with anger.

  If Beo had not moved quickly to grab the rope then Blart would have been pulled over the edge and would have been trampled to death by the stampeding horses, all terrified by the panic of the captured stallion. But even Beowulf’s mighty arms would not be able to hold the rope for more than a few seconds.

  ‘Wizard,’ cried Beo.

  Capablanca, his eyes still burning blue, grabbed hold of the rope.

  ‘Jump,’ yelled Beo.

  They jumped.

  And crashed on to the back of the horse. The instant they landed the blue light vanished from the wizard’s eyes, the rocks disappeared and the stallion bolted out on to the plain, bucking and shaking and kicking as it did so.

  ‘Yee-haw,’ shouted Beo.

  ‘Woah,’ grunted Capablanca.

  ‘Ooooh, my bottom,’ yelped Blart, who felt very much like he was in trouble at home and his grandfather was beating him. Except ten times worse.

  The horse ignored all these remarks and continued to attempt to throw them from his back. He rose up on two legs but somehow they clung on. He tried to gallop very fast and then stop very suddenly in the hope that they would shoot over his neck and land in a crumpled heap at his feet. If this worked he planned to trample on them afterwards, because he was a horse who thought ahead.

  It didn’t. Gradually the horse began to tire. His shakes became less violent, he could no longer get his front feet off the ground and his sudden stops began to resemble long rests. Finally, partly because he was a horse with a surprisingly philosophical approach to life but mainly because he was exhausted, he came to a stop, panting and sweating.

  Not trusting the horse not to run away, the questors took it in turns to dismount. There was fruit on a nearby bush and they picked it and fed the horse. Further off was a stream. They led the horse to it and encouraged him to drink. The horse began to feel that there were compensations to being ridden. He’d had to get his own food before. Eventually Capablanca and Beo decided to take a risk. They left the horse without a rider and waited to see what happened. He stayed.

  ‘Good horse,’ said Capablanca. ‘I shall name thee Magic.’

  The horse shook his head and neighed.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Capablanca, rather put-out.

  ‘’Tis a noble beast,’ said Beo. ‘It should be called Valiant.’

  Again the horse shook his head and neighed.

  ‘See if I care,’ said Beo, quite offended.

  ‘They’re both rubbish names,’ Blart informed them. ‘I shall call him Pig.’

  ‘Sure you can’t call a horse Pig,’ Beo told him.

  ‘Ignorant boy,’ said Capablanca loftily.

  But the horse nodded its head and its neigh sounded much more like a yea, and so Pig the Horse it was.

  ‘I know about names,’ said Blart smugly. ‘I’m better than either of you.’

  Capablanca and Beo exchanged glances. They were both hoping Blart wasn’t right too often on the quest, because it could quickly become very irritating.

  Chapter 10

  The horse had galloped many miles in his attempts to unseat them and the land had taken on a different hue. Gone were the arid plains where they had captured Pig the Horse, as he must now be called, and instead there were once more green hills and trees and plants. Most people would have felt more cheerful with this onset of natural beauty, but Blart preferred the arid plains as there wasn’t as much to look at and Blart found looking at things rather boring. However, he did notice one thing. There was a different smell in the air. Or was it a taste? Or was it a smell that tasted or indeed a taste that smelt? Blart didn’t know.

  ‘What’s that?’ he demanded of the wizard.

  ‘What?’ said Capablanca, looking around him sharply as though he were about to be attacked.

  ‘That smaste,’ said Blart.

  ‘What?’ said Capablanca, who had never heard of a smaste and thought it might be a new kind of demon. Wizards were always having difficulty keeping up with new varieties of demon. ‘That smaste,’ said Capablanca, eventually guessing Blart’s meaning, ‘is the Eastern Ocean.’

  Blart looked confused. ‘Ocean’, like ‘kidnapped’, was one of those words that was absent from his vocabulary.

  ‘That smaste, as you call it, is the sea,’ explained Capablanca.

  Blart’s face registered understanding. However, you would have to know Blart for a few days before you recognised this. His face of understanding was still pretty gormless. Blart had never seen the sea before and wasn’t sure what he thought about it.

  ‘Bet it’s rubbish,’ he said, deciding to expect the worst.

  ‘You will soon know,’ Capablanca told him. ‘For now is the time to depart. We must make for the seaside village of Clegarn. There we will buy provisions, and if we are lucky we may be able to discuss our mission with Nimzovitsch the ex-wizard, who has made his home there.’

  ‘Ex-wizard?’ repeated Blart.

  ‘He’s retired,’ said Capablanca.

  And so, having each stroked Pig the Horse a few times to let him know that he was appreciated, they climbed back up on to his back, saying ‘Good Pig’ and ‘Nice Pig’ and ‘Lovely Pig’ in soothing tones as they did so. Apart from one swift shake, Pig seemed perfectly happy to have them aboard and, after a few minor direction problems, bega
n to trot towards the hill where Capablanca wanted him to go. Trotting along on the magnificent beast Blart felt like a king, which was just the sort of delusion that was bound to get him into trouble sooner or later.

  Pig the Horse carried them up the hill so easily that they might have been nothing more than fleas riding on his back. Indeed, fleas might have caused him more annoyance by biting him. As it was the only annoyance caused was by Beo, who sang a lusty ballad in which he compensated for the lack of a tune by bellowing out the words at the highest possible decibel level.

  The song was called ‘The Colours of the Dragon’ and was not the sort of thing that you wanted booming into your ear for a whole journey. To give you some idea of the suffering that Blart and Capablanca were forced to endure, here are a few of the verses.

  ‘Oh, the green dragon is the colour of grass

  But nowhere near as nice

  While grass grows in the fields

  The dragon burns your eyes.

  Oh, the blue dragon is the colour of the sea

  But is no good for swimming

  The sea is a home for all the fish

  The dragon just likes killing.

  Oh, the red dragon is the colour of the rose

  But the rose is surely sweeter

  You can give a rose unto your love

  A dragon would just eat her.

  Oh, the black dragon is the colour of coal

  It lives near the equator

  But coal will warm your house at night

  A dragon will incinerate yer.

  Oh, the multicoloured dragon is the colour of a garden

  A garden in full bloom

  But a garden is filled with living things

  This dragon spells your doom.

  By the time Beo had sung the song three times they had reached the top of the hill. It would be a person with very little soul who was not moved by the sight that met the eyes of the three travellers. Directly in front of them lay the vast ocean. It was a calm clear day and the sea stretched out before them in all its deep blue magnificence. Only a few rocky islands rose up to disrupt its infinite smoothness but the sea was marvellously unconcerned by their intrusion. Have a bit of space, it seemed to say. I have more than enough myself.