by Liam Perrin
CHAPTER XXII
Middlings
Snowflakes the size of small coins floated down lazily on an otherwise still, quiet, and frozen day in Camelot. Philip had looked forward to the first snow every year since he was six. On a blustery, late fall day more than a decade ago, Philip's Dad had introduced him to a delectable treat called frozen custard. Life hadn't been the same since. The season's first blanket of snow meant that not only was it cold enough to make the stuff, but now you could jam the containers right into a nearby drift and it would keep.
Restaurants like The Fine Pickle began churning the dessert out by the barrel-full. This year, they'd added strawberry to the menu, but for the First Frozen, as Philip affectionately deemed it, he stuck with the tried and true: vanilla. He got it in a bowl made from some sort of thin cracker you could eat. The girl said it was new, and she called it an "edi-bowl". She giggled every time she said the word.
He had her ladle on chocolate syrup and whipped cream and then top it all off with a bright red cherry. Philip paid her, picked up the dessert carefully, and headed to find a seat near the fire.
The Pickle was packed; Philip wasn't the only one who looked forward to frozen custard day. He had trouble finding a seat, but in the end managed to squeeze into a small table closer to the door and further from the warmth than he preferred. Glancing at the empty chair across from him, he wondered briefly what had become of Thomas; he hadn't seen him leave the wedding, and his bunk didn't look like it had been slept in – of course, they were trained to make their bunks look that way. Philip never understood this; why make the bed so carefully every morning if you were just going to sleep in it and mess it all up again?
He shrugged, picked up his spoon and dug in. It was delicious. He savored the first mouthful with his eyes closed, but was soon shoveling it in with vigor. He was about half way through when Marie walked in alone.
The Pickle was noisier than usual, but over it all she heard something that sounded vaguely like a wounded horse. She looked around and spotted Philip with his face a mess, his mouth full and his arms waving wildly in the air at her. He smiled, pointed at the empty seat and raised his eyebrows. She smiled back and after a brief wait and a discussion with the girl at the counter that involved the word "edi-bowl", some giggling, and this time even a snort, Marie joined Philip at the tiny table by the door.
"Ham oo eem ahmiff?" said Philip.
Marie laughed at the sight of Philip so unabashedly enjoying himself.
"Pardon?" she said.
Philip laughed at himself and held up a finger. Swallowing, he repeated, "Have you seen Thomas?"
"No," said Marie, suddenly serious. "I was hoping you knew what became of him after he chased off after that good-for-nothing son of Fogbottom."
Philip dropped his spoon. "He what?!"
Marie nodded. "Right before the whole thing with the wild hart and all those hounds crashing through the buffet tables."
"Oh that was something wasn't it?"
"Guinevere was horrified."
"That's the kind of thing that would happen to Sir Philip the Disadvantaged at his wedding," said Philip.
Marie laughed. "I do think Merlin exaggerated a bit. I mean, it was a terrible disruption, but as I told Lady – Queen Guinevere, no one was hurt, nothing irreplaceable was broken, and it'll give her a story to tell her grandchildren. I don't see how anyone's going to be glorified or doomed by an off-course hunting party, except of course the party-crashers themselves depending on how affronted Arthur feels."
§
The story did indeed grow over the years. Sources on the scene that day tell of a deer and several hounds crashing through the reception, and a huntress who was very distraught and fled the scene with an unknown knight in chase. The facts were quickly adapted to the meet the needs of the tellers including a victimized Guinevere, an irate Arthur, and Merlin. Five hounds became sixty, a cake covered deer became a magnificent white hart, the distraught huntress became a mysterious Lady of the Wood, and the Unknown Knight became an agent of a plot that was somehow all orchestrated by Morgan.
The reality, of course, was much less exciting; the aftermath even less so: When everything had come to rest and the whole reception stood silently waiting for the king's reaction, Arthur simply said, "Gawain, find the deer. Pellinore, find the lady." And then he stomped off with Guinevere in tow presumably to find someplace that behaved itself better in the presence of its king and queen.
Later tales tell not only a grander version of all the events, but also of Merlin's involvement in the more fanciful variety. In the end, it's impossible to say if the event had anything to do with Merlin's subsequent disappearance from Camelot, and in any case, that's a story for another time.
§
"Well..." said Philip, then looked as though he was thinking hard about something.
"What?" said Marie, curious.
"If there's one thing I've learned from being 'unlucky'," said Philip, making air quotes around the word unlucky, "it's that you can't ever tell what's going to come of something."
Marie paused with her spoon half way to her mouth. "Um," she said. "Thanks for that insight." She returned to her dessert.
"No, I mean–" Philip laughed at himself. "Right. For instance," he started over. "I call them triggers – these events that kind of kick things off. The trigger might seem horrible or just unfortunate or it can even seem like a good thing, at first. The important thing is to recognize it as a trigger, that's all. If you focus on the trigger itself, you're done for, because after the trigger, there'll be a series of events. These are the middlings..."
Marie was looking at him with a wary expression.
"Just bear with me." Philip slid his custard to the side so he could gesticulate safely.
"The middlings can be directly linked together – a ladder falling and scaring a cat that jumps on a man pushing a wheel barrow full of watermelons that spill and start rolling down the street..."
Marie raised her eyebrows.
"...Or they can seem completely unrelated until they collide at some point – a man arguing with a lady at a counter turns abruptly and bumps into a child chasing a runaway rolling-hoop who careens into a baker who's just walked out of his store carrying a large, delicate pastry – you get the idea."
Marie was completely engrossed. Her custard sat forgotten and melting on the table in front of her.
Across the street, an argument broke out between two men. One of them was brandishing a chicken and pointing at its feet.
"In any case, the middlings aren't important either. The trigger and the middlings are all leading up to the finish. The finish is what counts; that's what's going to tell you whether the trigger and the middlings were fortunate or unfortunate."
There was a sharp crack from up the street, and a sound of someone yelling. People in the Pickle began craning their necks to look out the windows.
"Now, the thing is," said Philip, clearly in his element, "the finish itself can be a trigger for another set or even a middling set up to collide with another set of middlings to form a bigger finish."
"You've thought about this a lot," said Marie.
"It's very complicated, being unlucky. Oh!" said Philip, "that's the other thing."
A horse came careening down the street headed straight toward the two men, oblivious, arguing over the chicken.
"Someone who you might call unlucky, I prefer to think of as more cosmically involved."
Marie gave him a puzzled look.
"Sure. Because you can't always tell how the finishes are going to turn out, being involved in the triggers or the middlings – while it might seem unfortunate–"
At the last minute, one of the arguing men looked over the other man's shoulder, saw the great beast hurtling down on them, grabbed the man holding the chicken, and pulled him out of the way. The second man dropped the chicken which headed straight for the door of the Pickle, which was slowly shutting after admitting the most recent cust
omer. Both men got up and chased after the chicken.
"It just means you get to be a part of something bigger than yourself from time to time," Philip said. He picked up his bowl, and stuck a great big bite of half-melted vanilla custard covered in chocolate syrup and whipped cream in his mouth.
The chicken raced in, the door clicked shut, and Marie jumped. Philip's eyes darted to the window.
"Oh darn," he said around the spoon jammed in his mouth.
The two men shot into the Pickle, slamming the door into Philip's chair and knocking him forward. There was a great flurry of feathers, squawking, flailing of arms and yelling. In the chaos, something slipped out of Philip's coat, bounced onto the floor, spun and settled unnoticed by nearly everyone. The two men managed to snag the chicken and exited carrying the traumatized bird between them.
Philip sat motionless, vanilla custard, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream sliding leisurely down his front. Marie was frozen in the startled posture she'd assumed to protect her dessert from the fracas and herself from her dessert. She stared at Philip, then broke into hysterics.
"So," she said between laughs, "was that a fortunate or unfortunate finish?" She grinned ear to ear.
Philip gave her a scathing frown and said, "I'm going to go clean up."
He got up slowly and made his way to the restroom in as dignified a manner as possible. He caught several people chortling on the way and gave them looks intended to shut them up. This only added to their amusement.
In the washroom, Philip scraped the bulk of the errant confection off his clothes into a wastebasket, picked up a towel, wetted it and began to scrub at what was left.
"...the farmer rebellion..." he heard someone say.
Philip froze.
Hadn't heard of any rural discontent, thought Philip, other than, well, the land dying and all. No outright rebellion in any case.
He shrugged and started scrubbing again.
"...good to have them out of Camelot for a bit..."
Philip scrubbed slower and listened harder. The voices were coming through a window on the wall of the washroom. Philip leaned a bit and managed to catch a glimpse of two gruff looking men. One was wearing red and white, but Philip couldn't make out any other identifying marks.
"...don't know how you stand it," the colorless one said. "They're a rotten pair to work for."
"I'd quit if I had somewhere to go," said the one in colors. "I'm just glad I got the transfer out of Fogbottom, miserable pit that it is..."
Philip gasped. His mind raced and his eyes darted around the room.
"Not farmer – Farmer," he said and gasped again. He threw down his towel, threw open the door, and smashed right into the linen closet. He backed up, closed that door, opened another that looked just like it, and rushed out of the washroom. On the way out of the Pickle, he grabbed a startled Marie by the arm and yelled, "C'mon, we've got to find Pyralis."
CHAPTER XXIII
The Farmer Rebellion
Thomas surveyed the cold, damp cell for a more comfortable place to sit. He'd already decided several times that there wasn't anything better – the whole cell was equally miserable – so he settled for shifting positions. He was surprised how torturous it was to simply be uncomfortable with no foreseeable relief.
He distracted himself from his physical discomfort with a mental one: trying to think of something he could say to his brother. Everything seemed inadequate. All he'd needed to do was to take the opportunity placed before him at the start of this whole mess and none of it would've happened. The Farmer's could've lived a nice, quiet life on the outskirts of Fogbottom, working the land, such as it was, and making do. Instead, Thomas had single-handedly disintegrated the family, wrecked any hope of relief for Fogbottom, and made an enormous fool of himself in Camelot. What had he been thinking, befriending people like Philip and Marie? They deserved so much better. He didn't even merit the company of a washed up evil wizard and a codependent giantess.
"I'm sorry," said William.
For a moment, Thomas thought his mouth had gone ahead and done the job his heart was working up to.
"Thomas," said William.
Thomas turned his head and saw William sitting in a similar fashion on his cell floor, staring at him with wet eyes in a face that was quite a bit hollower than he remembered.
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
Thomas stood up and went to the bars separating their cells.
"You're sorry? For what?"
"For getting us into this mess."
"But you didn't – I..."
And suddenly, Thomas was furious.
"There you go again! It's always about you. William's the hero. William's responsible–"
"Didn't you hear me? I said I screwed up!" William stood, and for the first time since Thomas had seen him in the dungeon, he reminded him of the William he knew.
Thomas poked himself in the chest. "No, William, this time I screwed up – I mean – Aaah!" Thomas pounded the bars in frustration.
"All you did," Thomas shouted, "was march up a stupid, little hill and get yourself thrown into prison. I'm the one who dealt with Mum and Dad. I'm the one who went to Camelot to petition Arthur for your release. I'm the one who traded the one chance to rectify it all for a shot at saving the world.
"Don't look at me like that. You'd have done the same." Thomas turned his back on William and slumped down on the floor.
"You did what now?" said William carefully.
Thomas sighed and told William his story.
§
It was impossible in the windowless dungeon to tell how much time had passed while they talked. Thomas managed to forget where and how uncomfortable he was as he related all the events that had transpired between their incarcerations.
William interrupted frequently with growing admiration:
"A real giant?" he said.
"A giantess," Thomas corrected, and continued.
Later, William roared with laughter: "An egg right in Bane's face!"
And then with the kind of respect men gain for each other only when one of them does something very brave and very foolish: "You rode against him? The Black Knight? This... Accolon?"
Thomas nodded and continued. William wanted to hear everything about people like Arthur, Merlin, Guinevere, Gawain and Kay. Along the way, Thomas described Pyralis, Gorgella, and Sir Philip the Disadvantaged. He realized, fondly, what a bunch of misfits he and his friends and mentors all were.
He was recounting his experiences with Ox the Monosyllabic and Dedric the Diplopian at Madame Rhapsody's–
"Her cat's name is 'Sir Cuddlington'?"
"Mm-hmm," said Thomas. "Cuddles for short."
William groaned, and Thomas was glad to find himself connecting with his brother so effortlessly, but the moment was short-lived.
Sounds of some commotion filtered down the hall: a heavy door being thrown open, keys jangling, and voices. Thomas immediately recognized one of them as Bane's.
§
Bane strode toward them as if he owned the place which, indirectly, he did. He had a smug grin on his face the whole way, and when he stopped in front of Thomas's cell, he was having such a hard time containing his glee that he actually bounced on his toes.
"How are you doing Farmer?" Bane's voice dripped with twisted delight. An image flashed in Thomas's mind of Bane as a small boy torturing bugs.
"Can I get you anything? A blanket perhaps?"
"Bane," said Thomas through clenched teeth, "what's going on?"
"Why, Thomas, you're doing your duty to your lord of course. When Father found out I'd squashed the rebellion in Fogbottom and had the ringleader carrying his own sentence to our warden, he was overjoyed."
"What are you talking about? What rebellion?"
"Oh Thomas, stop pretending to be so innocent. The Baron told your brother he couldn't open the storehouses, William here wouldn't take 'No' for an answer, and when my Father did what he had to do maintain order–"
/> "Maintain order? My brother came to you in simple supplication for the good of your own lands!"
"This is exactly what I'm talking about. Who are you, Farmer, to decide what's good and bad for my – for my Father's land? And when he holds his ground against this insolence, off you go to Camelot to slander our name and push your own selfish agenda."
"Selfish agenda? Bane, the land is dying!"
Bane took a breath and when he spoke again he was dangerously calm. "What do you know about running a kingdom, Farmer?"
"I know enough not to trust someone who betrays me and then publicly humiliates me."
Bane's face went red with anger. He stared at Thomas and was clearly exerting great effort to contain his fury.
"Do you?" said Bane cryptically.
Thomas suddenly felt very cold.
"What do you mean?" he said.
"How did you wind up here Farmer? Did someone betray you? Someone who has publicly humiliated you? Someone who intends to ensure that Fogbottom's needs are met?"
Thomas was no longer looking at a boy ripping wings off of insects. Somewhere, things had turned very dark and very serious. A few winters ago, Thomas had been out in the middle of a frozen lake, alone, enjoying the silence when an ominous crack sounded under his foot. Nothing had come of it, but his stomach was doing the same thing now as it had done then.
"What are you saying?" said Thomas.
A grin crawled across Bane's face – not the same gleeful grin he'd entered the dungeon with, this one was vicious. He spoke now as if addressing an audience.
"The Baron of Fogbottom hereby orders the execution of the Farmer rebels, tomorrow, at dawn, by hanging."
William stood up a bit too quickly, wobbled, and steadied himself on the iron bars of his cell.
Thomas stared at Bane in horror.
"Bane," he whispered. "Stop playing, this isn't – you can't be serious."
"Oh I assure you Farmer, Fogbottom's interests will be protected."
He leaned in close then and spoke softly and directly at Thomas's ear: "What possessed you to think we were cut from the same cloth, that we would ever drink from the same cup, that we should ever, ever, sit at the same table?"
