“Yah! My bones are like iron bones, and my tummy is made of happiness. I’ve had the most delicious dream.”
Torbjorn wanted to laugh. Storfjell had not realized what he’d eaten. “I will tell you a story, Brother, that will boggle your forehead,” said Torbjorn. “But we have a long walk ahead of us in which I will say it.”
Chapter 15 — Mercy
It took two and a half days before Storfjell and Torbjorn finally found their way. The snow had not come in this part of the country, which made the walking easier and let the bovines graze whenever they found crispy grass. Torbjorn told Storfjell all that had happened with the butter inside the cows. They ate it often when they stopped to rest.
They wrapped Storfjell’s arm in a sling made of Torbjorn’s cloak. It was probably broken. It had been shot with an arrow, and even worse, chewed on by a troll, but Storfjell did not complain. He knew how lucky he was to be alive.
They followed the moss on the rocks, which always grew on one side, until they found a river Father had taught them about that flowed from the high meadows in the woods. The going was easy this time, since whenever they tired, they could stop to milk butter from the bovines.
By the second day, the creamy butter had thinned into clear, white milk again, just as before.
“Torbjorn! Do you suppose that we joggled these bovines so much with our tumbling down the hill, their moo-ish nectar churned to buttery gold inside their udders?” asked Storfjell.
That was exactly what Torbjorn had been thinking. “Yah! It must be,” he said. “But do not forget, my brother, that we also joggled them up and down on our shoulders as we ran for many miles through the forest.”
Storfjell said, “And now without so much joggling, their butter is white and thin again.” Storfjell scratched his beard thoughtfully and got a faraway look, like his mind was thinking about many tomorrows to come.
“Brother!” said Torbjorn. “Burning the Nine Churns was an act of wisdom. But you did not know how wise you were!”
Storfjell’s distant stare broke. He smiled. “Perhaps we should find more things to burn down then, if it always turns out so nice.”
Torbjorn punched his brother in the good arm. He had not dared to do so before, but this time it was Storfjell who needed scolding.
That evening, as the brothers walked in the gathering mists and the night grew grey, a tall cloaked man with a wide brimmed hat appeared in their path. Two ravens beat their wings on his shoulders. He drove his staff into the ground so forcefully, it sounded like thunder.
It was the Wanderer. “You defied me,” he said.
Torbjorn put his hand on his knife. It was a useless gesture. They could not fight magic. Storfjell had defied Asgard, and now they would have to pay for their deeds.
“I have done what I’ve done,” said Storfjell.
Then unexpectedly, the Wanderer smiled. “And a new treasure has come of your defiance, a treasure greater than a hundred churns from Asgard could make. You’ve forged a new destiny for Smordal, one that will last nine hundred years.”
Storfjell looked at Torbjorn.
“There is great magic in loyalty – more so perhaps, than I knew before.” The Wanderer glanced at the two bovines. “Go,” he said. “Make peace with your father. Your clan needs this gift.”
Torbjorn opened his mouth to protest. He was confused. He’d been prepared for the Wanderer’s wrath, and just like that, they’d been pardoned.
“There is something far greater in store for your Golden Treasure than you know. One day, someone will come for it. Save it for those who are noble and good,” he said.
And then he was gone.
They’d been forgiven. There was nothing to discuss. Torbjorn and Storfjell knew what they had seen and what had been said. They simply turned toward the direction where the sun would rise.
One day later they spotted a new village in the distance between two hills. A high wall of sharpened logs rose up out of the ground, their points aimed at the sky. The wall was so wide it looked like it surrounded more than one longhouse, and judging from the trails of smoke that wafted skyward, the village must have been twice the size of the village in Smordal. A green banner hung from the walls.
There were cattle and men and women outside the walls, and lean-tos and cooking fires scattered down the hill, like someone was camping there. Even from a distance he recognized it: it was the herd of Smordal. The clan must have found its way to this village; the villagers must have offered them refuge.
Inside Torbjorn’s heart was happy – then his throat tightened, and he feared. This was the clan that had exiled them as traitors.
Storfjell must have seen his fear. He placed a steady hand on Torbjorn’s shoulder. “We have news for them,” he said.
A large man outside the walls turned and ran toward them. He raised his hand and hailed them.
“Father,” Torbjorn said.
“My sons,” Father said. He smiled so wide, his hay-colored beard parted down the middle. Soon, they would taste butter as a clan once again.
Chapter 16 — Golden Destiny
“And that is how we gave up butter churns centuries ago. Everything changed for our people then,” said today’s Torbjorn to Braxton as he finished his story on board their ship. He stood up from the barrel he sat on and patted the young cow that pulled at the oars. The telling of such a tale seemed to have tired him.
“Well now ain’t that a hummmmdinger,” said the old pilot Braxton. “Then how did you end up with the same exact names as those two ancient fellas?”
“Easy!” said Storfjell. “Our father gave them to us! Ever since they learned to joggle the bovines the clan has named somebody in each generation after the greatest Smordaler that ever lived! There has been a Storfjell and Torbjorn ever since.”
“After that, there were many who came looking for the Golden Fortune of our herds,” said Torbjorn. “They sailed up and down the coast, raiding and plundering villages. To stay hidden, our clan moved away to an island out in the sea where no one could find them.”
“Bjørnøya,” said Braxton. It was the same island where he’d met Torbjorn and Storfjell in the first place.
“After learning to joggle the bovines our people began to live very long lives. Longer than a hundred years. Something had changed in the butter, and that something changed us,” said Torbjorn. “Some even lived to be twice as old as a tree.”
It was remarkable, Braxton had to admit, that these boys were already in their eighties. They looked so young. “But wasn’t that Wanderer angry with those fellas? He had something grand planned for that butter after all,” asked Braxton.
Torbjorn turned. “But joggled butter is so delicious!” he said, scooping a glob of golden butter from the barrel.
“There was another messenger that came to our fathers, before we were born,” said Storfjell. “He was not the Wanderer as we knew him, or perhaps he was the Wanderer in a different form. The Master Mead-Maker, they called him. He told them the same thing, that with the Golden Fortune of our Herds, violent men would beat their swords into cooking pots and the roar of the dragons would cease.”
Storfjell said then, quietly, “I believe now that the promise still holds.”
“He told our fathers of a city far away that he was to build where that promise would come true. In it the Master Mead Maker would gather the tastes of the world,” said Torbjorn. “It was to be a city of delicious taste.”
“That is why your Warmlander friends must not fail,” said Storfjell.
“The Johnsonvilles,” whispered Braxton to himself. It pained him to think how far away they must be. He did not know what had happened to them.
“I believe this Guster, the one with the all-searching tongue, he is brave,” said Torbjorn.
“Not to mention how feisty that mother of his can get,” Braxton said.
He pulled back his cap, ran his fingers through his wispy grey hair and let out a long whistle. There was a lot there to c
hew on. “You know, I’d never heard a tale so tall that it couldn’t reach knee-high to a grasshopper until today,” he said. “I don’t know which one is harder to believe – trolls and cows or this city of taste.”
“How about men sitting inside great silver birds and this funny weaving you wear?” said Torbjorn, pointing at Braxton’s clothes.
Braxton laughed. Torbjorn was talking about his plane. The plane certainly must have seemed as strange to the two giant Buttersmiths as their story seemed to Braxton.
“We will take you to the Warmlands,” said Torbjorn. “And there you must find the Johnsonvilles.”
“I will,” said Braxton. He had to help them if he could.
And with that, he ate another blueberry muffin. Storfjell and Torbjorn ate seventeen more apiece.
Bonus Chapters!
Read the first book in the Evertaster Series:
Course of Legends
Adam Glendon Sidwell
Praise for Evertaster
“Wonderfully talented writing; funny.” – Orson Scott Card, NYT Bestselling Author of Ender’s Game.
“Sidwell is a talented comedian, and that is certainly reflected in his writing. The characters are quirky and likable.” – Deseret News
“One of the most original, well-crafted and imaginative MG stories I’ve come across in a long time.” – WordSpelunking Book Review
A legendary taste. Sought after for centuries. Shrouded in secrecy.
When eleven-year-old Guster Johnsonville rejects his mother’s casserole for the umpteenth time, she takes him into the city of New Orleans to find him something to eat. There, in a dark, abandoned corner of the city they meet a dying pastry maker. In his last breath he entrusts them with a secret: an ancient recipe that makes the most delicious taste the world will ever know — a taste that will change the fate of humanity forever.
Forced to flee by a cult of murderous chefs, the Johnsonvilles embark on a perilous journey to ancient ruins, faraway jungles and forgotten caves. Along the way they discover the truth: Guster is an Evertaster — a kid so picky that nothing but the legendary taste itself will save him from starvation. With the sinister chefs hot on Guster’s heels and the chefs’ reign of terror spreading, Guster and his family must find the legendary taste before it’s too late.
Chapter 1 — The Heist
The vault was supposed to be impregnable.
And it was — for the most part. Mr. Italo Arrivederci had made sure of that. It had stopped dozens of would-be thieves over hundreds of risky years; though no one knew exactly why it was so effective.
That night, things would change.
Epiglottis pushed his mop back and forth across the marble floor of the outer hall. A guard in a dark blue uniform nodded to him as he passed, the click-clack of his footsteps echoing between the ivory columns as they did every night. For all the familiarity it brought with it, Epiglottis hated the sound. Epiglottis had waited for years, posing as a lowly janitor, casting aside his true self, enduring a Scavenger’s life. Tonight it would end.
He adjusted the miniature camera housed discreetly inside the pen stuck in the left breast pocket of his coveralls. It was a direct video feed to the man with the pencil-thin tie — another source of frustration.
“Take up your position,” crackled the voice through the microphone hidden in Epiglottis’ ear.
“Already there,” he whispered, irritated, as he ducked behind one of the two massive, polished white columns that flanked the five-hundred pound, double wooden doors. He wished the Arch-Gourmand were giving the orders. He would appreciate the magnitude of the task at hand.
The guard had turned the corner by now. He wouldn’t be gone long. Epiglottis looked at his watch. Now, he thought.
There was a splintering smash, then a crack, and the doors tore from their hinges and crashed to the floor. Two huge men, each at least a foot taller and twice as wide as Epiglottis strode through the empty door frame. Their chests were bare and their bellies hung over their loose, wooly gray pants. Executioner’s hoods covered their faces, except for the eyes and mouth.
The guard was back in a flash, his gun drawn. The two hulking brutes each plucked a huge door from the floor and swung them in front of the guard like a shield; he fired. There was a pop! Pop! as the bullets shattered the surface of the wood.
The first brute heaved the door on top of the guard, knocking him to the ground. And then it was quiet.
Epiglottis stepped out from behind the pillar. He was impressed. He’d heard that the giant brutes could not taste or smell — but it was their brawn that was useful.
“This way,” he said, leading them down the hall. More guards would certainly come soon, so they had to work fast. They descended a steep stair that led underground. At the bottom was a locked door; this one steel. He’d never been through it; he wasn’t given clearance for that. He pulled a stolen badge from his pocket and swiped it through the sensor. The lock clicked and he pushed it open.
“We’re in,” he said activating the microphone in his ear.
“Good,” said the man with the pencil-thin tie.
The dark corridors were lit by candle. The first brute shined a flashlight on his palm. It was tattooed with a map of the inner chambers — he had probably been raised and trained just for tonight.
The brute struck out to the right. In a matter of minutes they would have what they came for. So much for impenetrable defenses!
That’s when the most wonderful aroma struck Epiglottis like a mallet. It was chocolate, pure, sweet and rich as a milkshake or a slab of fudge. It filled his nose and then, like a mug filling with cocoa, his head. He bolted after it to the left.
“What are you doing? Stick to the plan!” shouted the voice in his ear. He did not care. The Scavenger was a fool, and the brutes could not smell a thing. This had to be it. He passed a hallway, then turned left, then right, closing in on the smell.
When he turned the corner he found the source of his delight: a flatbed cart stacked evenly with block after block of pure brown chocolate. It was parked in a cell, a fan gently blowing the aroma toward him.
“This is it!” cried Epiglottis. He reached through the doorway, not caring that a set of iron bars protruded from the ceiling, waiting to drop. It was within his grasp!
An enormous hand grabbed him by the back of his coveralls and yanked him back. Epiglottis winced as the second brute threw him over his shoulder like a child. He kicked. He screamed. And then the brute started to run back the way they’d come.
The precious chocolate was disappearing from sight! It had been so close. The object of their mission! Why couldn’t the brutes see that? Didn’t they want it? They were going the wrong way!
“Epiglottis, you fool!” said the voice in his ear. “You’ve fallen into their trap!”
The first brute lifted his palm at every branch in the corridors, studying the map as they ran. The scent grew weaker. Then came new breezes with similar smells — more chocolate down this corridor, or that one.
He wanted to scream, to break away and run. But the gray-hooded brute was too strong.
They followed the twisting passages until, deep inside the corridors, at the end of a long hallway, there was a room with a safe inside. A bald man in a coarse brown robe stood there.
“This is not what you seek,” he said. Epiglottis sniffed the air. He had to be right. There was no smell.
Without hesitation, the first brute knocked the robed man out of the way. Then he opened a satchel slung across his shoulder and removed a block of sweet, caramel colored substance. He stuck it to the safe door, then inserted a needle with a timer on the end. He pressed a button and backed up.
The block exploded. The safe door swung open. Inside was a platter covered with a silver dome lid.
The brute removed it from the safe and lifted the lid, breaking the seal. Underneath was a stack of chocolate bars so rich and brown, Epiglottis could have sworn they were glowing. The air around them looked edi
ble, like flavored heat from a smoldering fire. It was luxurious. It was wonderful. It was beyond compare. Every bit of chocolate he had seen up to this point was a mere distraction.
Now he understood. This is what they came for. He never should have been so blinded by second-rate treasures!
“Mine!” he cried. In a burst of adrenaline, he kicked the second brute. For one brief second the brute’s grip loosened and Epiglottis broke free, wriggling to the ground. He leapt for the chocolate, unable to control his appetite. He knew how angry the man in the pencil-thin tie would be, but it didn’t matter. He had to taste it at once.
The second brute moved quicker. His fingertips inches away from the chocolate, Epiglottis felt a hand catch him around the throat and an arm latch around his waist as he was hoisted into the air by his coveralls.
The first brute clapped the silver dome down on the platter again, hiding the sacred chocolate from Epiglottis’ view. The aroma waned, then disappeared. Bring it back! thought Epiglottis. Couldn’t they smell it?
The brute with the platter tucked it under his arm and bolted for the exit.
“It was not meant for you!” cried the brown-robed servant, lifting himself from the ground.
The remaining brute took one look at him and snorted, then ran out into the corridor, Epiglottis under his arm.
It took less than half the time to get out of the passageways as it did to get in. When the brutes reached the stairs, they charged up them as quickly as they could. The first one knocked another guard out of the way and bolted through the smashed doors to the outside.
A bucket-shaped wicker basket the size of a small car was waiting for them in the courtyard. They leapt inside. A red zeppelin floating above pulled on a set of ropes tied to the basket until they tightened, hoisting them skyward.
The Buttersmiths' Gold Page 10
