by Sam Ferguson
“It isn’t that bad, actually,” Simplin said from somewhere in Jack’s mind. “I mean, things could be worse. He’s not a soldier fighting a losing battle, or a prisoner stuck in the stockades with tomatoes being thrown at him. He’s a farm boy. Mucking pens and taking care of animals is sort of his thing. Not all farm boys hate their lives, you know, a lot of them like doing this. Make him happier.”
Jack shook his head “Are you going to be bothering me the whole time? I can’t write if you are always interrupting! Besides, you aren’t even in this scene, so be quiet!”
“Very well,” Simplin said. “Just make the farm boy happy. I want a happy hero.”
Jack sighed and cracked his neck, and then he continued writing.
Dink whistled a happy tune as he went back to shoveling poop.
When he finished, he left the goat pen and went to the chickens, tossing feed out to them merrily as he started to skip and dance, singing out loud to himself.
“Actually,” Simplin cut in again. “I should mention that I don’t like chickens. I mean, look at their eyes, they’re so evil. The big rooster over there looks like he is always eyeing the farm boy from the side, ready to charge with his sharp talons. It’s like he’s the descendant of a dinosaur, or dragon or something, and he still has the urge to conquer the entire world.”
“So you want the farm boy to whistle happily while mucking out the manure, but feeding chickens scares him?” Jack shook his head, realizing he was asking one made-up character about another. “I’m going mad, that’s the only explanation. I have finally snapped under the pressure.”
“Yeah, writing is tough,” Simplin said. “You can go get a prescription after you’re done, but let’s keep going, Jack. Come on.”
“Fine, but I am going to fast forward to a new scene, this is getting embarrassing,” Jack replied.
Dink returned home after his chores, a basket full of apples in his hands. He kicked the door open gently and found his uncle inside preparing the fire for the oven.
“Back already?” Dink’s uncle asked.
Dink nodded. “All finished, Uncle Ben.”
“No, you can’t have an Uncle Ben,” Simplin commented.
“Why not? I like the name. It feels comfortable, and familiar.”
Simplin sighed. “That’s because you were watching a particular superhero movie the other day, but if you start spouting that line about how with great power comes—”
“All right, I get it,” Jack said. “How about Uncle Owen then?”
“Sure… if the farm boy is named Luke.”
Jack growled. “Fine, so I’ll make him a lonely and dejected orphan raised by neighbors who aren’t even related to him then.”
Simplin made a gagging sound. “Ugh, don’t even get me started on that list.”
“Well what should I make him then? A happy farm boy with no troubles or cares in all the world?”
“That sounds good, actually,” Simplin commented. “It’s different, anyway. I bet readers would like the refreshing idea.”
“Fine, but for Pete’s sake, shut up! I can’t write the story if you keep cutting in, and you do want me to finish don’t you?”
“As you wish,” Simplin said. “Oh! Maybe you should make the farm boy say that to everyone in his family, what do you think?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Jack asked.
Simplin’s stifled giggling faded to the back of Jack’s mind and the author went back to work, earning his freedom.
Dink smiled at his loving mother as he walked in the door. She was busy baking an apple pie. The aroma of fresh cinnamon and warm crust filled the house, making all the work Dink did around the farm more than worth it.
“The chickens give you trouble today?” Dink’s mother asked with a wink.
“No,” Dink replied as he set the basket of apples on the table. “Where’s father?”
“Out in town with your three brothers,” Dink’s mom answered. “They went to sell some of our surplus food, and trade for some new ploughs.”
Dink nodded and went down the hall of his upper middle-class home until he got to the stairs that led to his room. There was a soft laugh echoing down to him, accompanied by the sound of plastic figures thumping together. He quickly went upstairs and opened his door to find his little two year old sister sitting on his bed, playing with his Jonathan Haymaker action figures.
“Deidra, how many times have I said you can’t play with my things?”
“I can play,” she said as her big brown eyes looked up to him. Her curly, black hair framed her little face perfectly as she gave him a smile that would have melted most people’s hearts. Not his though. He could see through her little puppy-dog eyes and her cute-smiles. He knew what she really was. A toddler who had reached the terrible-twos. She manipulated others with her cuteness, but not him. Not this time.
“Out!” Dink said as he pointed to his door. “Go on, now. You have your own toys to play with.”
Deidra shook her head and took the Jonathan Haymaker figure in one hand and a troll action figure in the other. She roared and slammed them together.
“No!” Dink said as he rushed in and yanked the items from her little hands. “These are collectibles, not toys!”
Deidra looked up at him, her lower lip pouted out and her eyes filling with tears. “WAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!” So terrible was her wailing that Dink just stood there wide-eyed, unsure of what to do.
“DINK!” his mother yelled from downstairs. “What did you do?”
Dink backed away from Deidra, who was now throwing her head back in the air and crying at the top of her lungs while making tiny little baby fists and pounded the bed.
“I didn’t do anything, honest!”
It was too late. His mother was already on her way. Her footsteps thumped upon the stairs and she threw the door open. The front of her apron was smeared with flour and she still had the rolling pin in her left hand. She looked down and saw what Dink was holding in his hands. “Honestly, Dink, would it kill you to share with your little sister?”
“But…”
“Go outside. Just go.”
Dink placed his collectibles on a shelf as his mother picked Deidra up and the toddler shot him one final, pitiful look with her big, doe-like eyes. Dink stuck his tongue out at her for good measure, but that proved a mistake, for his mother turned around just in time to see what he was doing.
“How dare you tease her!?” His mother pointed to the toys. “I’m taking those. You just lost them for a week, young man. Now go outside and make yourself useful.”
Dink made sure not to slam the door on his way out. His older brother had done that once and it hadn’t ended well for him.
The young teenager walked out through the front yard and looked around. It was late afternoon already, so there wasn’t enough time to go all the way into town. However, there was enough time to go the other way, and make his way to the Yellow Dragon Inn. He liked going there, as there were always travelers from far beyond his hometown of Steinypurd.
He walked along the dirt road, kicking a rock as he went.
Soon he found himself approaching the large, three story building. He had never understood why so many people came here from all over. Steinypurd offered precious little in the way of entertainment or work. Other than the few farms and the inn, there were only a handful of shops and a tiny school which most of the children never attended anyway because they had too much farm work to do. Still, there were often mercenaries, merchants, performers of various kinds, and even wizards to be found inside the local inn. The Yellow Dragon offered something for everyone, it seemed, and Dink was no exception.
He pushed the door open to find the usual thick layer of smoke covering the ceiling of the main hall. He coughed a few times until he was able to adjust to the inferior quality of air as he walked to the bar, where he found Hoss, the inn keeper.
“What’ll it be?”
“A milk, as usual,” Dink said.
“Sorry kid, fresh out of milk. Just had a bunch of people from a place called Wisconsin come through and clean me out.”
Dink frowned. “Never heard of it,” he said.
“Apparently, they produce the most dairy out of all fifty states, somewhere a long way from here, or at least that’s what they said.”
Dink nodded. “So I suppose just a cup of water then.”
“Water?” Hoss said. “You know we haven’t invented indoor plumbing and purification plants yet. You drink plain water from here and it’ll be filled with all sorts of micro-organisms, not to mention the dirt and other gunk that gets in there. Honestly, even pulling the stuff from the well isn’t much better. Tastes like sulfur.” Hoss shook his head and wiped a mug with a dingy cloth. “It’s the only water I know of that gives me gas,” he added as he set the mug down. “Listen, I just made a new drink. I bet you’ll like it. I start off with three ounces of lemon-lime soda, three ounces of ginger ale, add in a dash of grenadine, and then stick a maraschino cherry on top for garnish. I call it a Shirley Temple.”
“I don’t think I understood anything you just said,” Dink commented.
Hoss shrugged. “It’s either that or an ale like everyone else.”
Dink slapped the bar and shook his head. He walked toward a small table in the back corner. It was his usual spot. From here he could watch everything. Not to mention the air was a bit cleaner. He wasn’t sure why, but there was a cone of clean air in this spot, no matter how many people were smoking in the main hall.
He saw a pair of jugglers tossing balls back and forth to each other over the seated patrons while a pair of acrobats prepared some sort of shtick with a costume. After one climbed up to sit on the other’s shoulders, they wrapped a long white coat about themselves and began calling out to everyone, gesturing grandly and claiming to be the world’s “most giant physician.” Nobody paid them any attention, except for a surly man wearing strange green clothes with a sour look on his face who promptly shoved the acrobats into a table and then smoothed back his curly red hair and began whistling as he left the building.
The two acrobats apologized profusely to the table they had crashed into, but the dwarves who had been sitting there refused to accept their apology and chased them out of the inn.
“Fun night, isn’t it?” a man said as he appeared in the chair in front of Dink.
Dink pushed back from the table and shook his head in surprise. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
The man smiled and pushed the rim of his floppy, gray hat back to reveal a very badly sunburned face that had a white streak across the eyes and bridge of the nose. “My name is Simplin the Wise, and I have come for you, Dink of Steinypurd, for you will save the entire world!”
Dink pointed to Simplin. “What happened to your face?”
“Someone thought it would be amusing to make me fall asleep outside with my arm over my eyes,” Simplin said as he tossed a glance upward. “It’s just a sunburn. It will fade.”
“It looks like it hurts.” Dink reached forward and poked the man’s cheek. The bright red skin flashed white and Simplin pulled himself back.
“Don’t do that!” Simplin folded his arms for a moment and shook his head. “Why would you do that? What possible motivation could you have for doing that?”
Just then Genny, the hostess of the Yellow Dragon, came over and poked Simplin’s other cheek. “Looks painful,” she said.
Simplin jumped up from his chair. “No one touches my cheek!” He pulled his wand out and glanced to Genny and Dink for a moment before casting an angry glare upward. “No more touching my cheek!” he shouted.
From some place far away, the sound of muffled laughter was heard as everyone in the room stopped and stared at the group.
“Great, so much for being discreet,” Simplin huffed as he sat back down.
“Would you like a drink and some soup?” Genny asked after Simplin quit mumbling. “We have mutton soup for tonight.”
“Can I get that with the little croutons sprinkled around the top?” Simplin asked.
Genny frowned. “Little what?”
“Croutons,” Simplin said as he emphatically gestured as if sprinkling something onto the table. “Little cubes of dried bread with herbs that you throw on the top of a salad, or in a soup.”
“As you wish, sir,” Genny said. She then turned and smiled at Dink. “Anything for you, dear?”
“No, thanks, Genny.”
“Oh come on, I have plenty of money. I’m buying,” Simplin said.
Dink shrugged and looked up to Genny. “All right then, I’ll have three eggs, over easy, a plate of hash browns, two pancakes, but with the bacon on the side, I’m too old for smiley-faces, and a glass of orange juice.”
“Would you like the four ounce or six ounce ham steak with that?” Genny asked as she scribbled everything down.
“Let’s go with the six ounce please,” Dink said.
“Wait a minute, why didn’t you tell me I could have that?” Simplin asked.
“I asked if you wanted the daily special, and you said yes,” Genny replied.
“No, you asked if I wanted soup.”
“And you said yes,” Genny answered with a slow, dramatic nod.
“Well, now I want what he’s having,” Simplin said.
Genny shrugged. “Sorry, that was the last Grand Whack Breakfast. I’ll be sure to get your croo-tawns though, so sit tight sweetie.” Genny turned and hustled away from the table.
Simplin leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table and reaching up to rub the sides of his head with his fingers.
“The soup’s good,” Dink said.
Simplin looked up with his chestnut colored eyes and forced a fake smile that showed his old, slightly yellow teeth. “I’m sure.”
“Now, you said something about looking for me?” Dink said.
Simplin took off his hat to reveal a head of short, white hair. As he shook his head, the hair grew out longer and longer, swinging back and forth slowly as an intense shine built up in his hair, reflecting the light so brightly that Dink had to put up a hand to protect his eyes.
“How did you do that?” Dink asked.
“Good quality shampoo, bought at an expensive salon,” Simplin said as he smoothed out his hair with his left hand and winked. “And a pretty fine conditioner too.”
“No, I meant how did you make it grow so—”
“Strong?” Simplin guessed. “I use the extra strength and volume formula. Works wonders.”
“Never mind,” Dink said. “What did you want to see me for?”
“Do you know of…” Simplin cut his sentence short and leaned in close enough to whisper. “Skidmark the Brown?”
“AHH!” a large man screamed at the next table over. “You can’t say the dark master’s name out loud! Don’t you know that?” The man started to gather his things and pack them hurriedly into a small backpack, stuffing them in while cursing his bad luck.
“Oh, that’s just a silly superstition,” Simplin said. “Nothing happens if you say a man’s name, I assure you. It’s the same as shouting out for Sam, or Leroy. It doesn’t automatically call every Sam and Leroy in to kill you, now does it?”
“Fool!” the man blurted out. “You can’t say HIS name, not the dark master’s. If you say it, death always follows.”
“No, I don’t buy that,” Simplin said. “Nothing happens. It’s just an old wives tale, I promise.”
“No!” the man shouted. “Skidmark hates his name. He hates it! Anyone who says Skidmark the Brown will bring death and destruction. You mark my words!” The man wagged his finger at Simplin and then ran out of the Yellow Dragon. Dink and Simplin watched through the window as the man sprinted across the road and dashed unaware into an archery range. A terrible scream erupted through the air as three arrows struck the man in the neck.
“Now that’s just poor timing,” Simplin said as he drew the red velvet curtains closed over the window. H
e pulled his pipe out and pointed to it with his finger. A blue spark leapt out, but nothing happened. “Well, what’s the matter with you?” Simplin asked as he shook his finger before trying again.
“Sorry sir, this is a non-smoking table,” Genny said as she placed Dink’s orange juice down in front of him. “Be back in a minute with your food, loves.”
Simplin grunted and put his pipe away. “As I was saying,” Simplin began as he leaned in close once more and the other patrons returned to their usual activities. “Have you ever heard of Skidmark the Brown?”
Dink shrugged and shook his head as he took his juice in hand and drank some of it.
“Really?” Simplin asked as he drew his brow into a knot. “You have never heard of the man who slaughters whole villages for fun?”
Dink shook his head. “Nope.”
“Have you heard of the Scourge of Brockland? The Lion of Evershire?”
“No,” said Dink. “I don’t actually get to school much with all the chores around the farm.”
“No schooling?” Simplin said. His mouth hung open in a mix of surprise and disgust as he looked Dink over with his great big eyes. “Well, what about books boy, haven’t you read the tales?”
“Can’t read,” Dink replied. “Most people can’t read here. Literacy really doesn’t become a major issue in society for a while. It’s not like there is a printing press anywhere. Why, I’d be surprised if anyone in Steinypurd can read besides Genny. She learned how to read and write so she could become a waitress. It’s a fine profession, you know.”
Simplin blinked incredulously and then pulled himself back from the table a bit. “Tell me you have at least heard of the Destroyer of Deltyne. Tell me at least that much has gone around.”
Dink shook his head. “No, sorry. By the way, you never said where you are from,” Dink said.
“I am from Deltyne!” Simplin said. “You would know that if you had read the prologue.”
“The what?”
“The prologue, it’s at the beginning of our tale, lad, do try and keep up.”
