by Ben Zackheim
She went back to dusting and then perked up as a thought crossed her mind. “I don’t think he means ill, per se. I think he sees a big picture that makes it hard for him to keep something as trivial as other people’s feelings at the top of his mind. It’s why I always tell him, ‘Take a vacation! You’re making us all crazy!’”
Simon smiled. “Has he ever listened to you?”
“Oh, you bet he has. If he didn’t he’d be cleaning up his own mess, and we can’t have that, can we?” There was a silence that lasted a little longer than Simon intended. Mary broke it with an enthusiastic, “Did you see Guinevere? She’s back! I think it’s so exciting, don’t you?”
“I guess. I kind of know her already. I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“I doubt that. Why would she not like a nice, handsome boy like yourself?”
He smiled. “Ask her.”
“Oh, I will,” Mary said, quite upset.
“I’m kidding.”
“Well, we have hard times coming up and we all need to get along. You let me know if she’s out of line and we’ll have a word. Royalty is no excuse for bad manners, I say!”
Simon really liked Mary and it probably showed, because she gave him another big smile, turned around, and left, but not before making a request. “I’ll give you your privacy, Simon. But do try to get outside. There’s no happier day in the kingdom than the first day of the fair. Except maybe April Fool’s, which is my favorite.”
“Thanks, Ms. Mouthy. I will.”
“Mary, dear,” she said, with a wink.
When she was gone Simon sat and stared at the slivers of sunlight cutting through the gray room for a moment. It was time for him to confront what was really bugging him.
He pulled the tin box from his pouch and laid it gently on a table. It had two latches, one on either side. The lid bore an ornate design.
He leaned in closer to get a better view. He figured it probably wasn’t smart to just pop open mysterious boxes you bought from hooded strangers in New Camelot. But when he didn’t hear a ticking time bomb inside he decided to take a chance and unlatch the hooks.
Inside the box was another box. It was a smaller replica of the one he’d just opened. Was this some kind of joke? He opened that box and found an even smaller copy. This went on for another six boxes. By the time he got to the ninth one, it was the size of the tip of his pinky. He laid them side by side on the table and stared. A part of him thought they’d do something interesting. But they only sat there, in perfect symmetrical order, perplexing him.
How could this mess on the table help him speak to his parents? Did the stranger even promise that? Their transaction felt like a dream now. Why did he let himself get excited?
“Simon?” Maille’s voice came from the other side of the door. “May I come in?”
“Sure. Door’s open.”
The lineup of boxes snagged her attention. “Where did you get those?”
“I bought them at the fair.”
“From who?” Simon shrugged. “Well, you can’t keep them,” she said, firmly.
“Why not? They’re just a bunch of boxes.”
“You don’t know who sold them to you. Who knows what they can do. They might be magic.”
“The guy said I could use it to tell my parents about New Camelot.”
Maille’s stern face softened. “You could end up with a couple of ghosts haunting you for the rest of your life. Do you want that?”
“Of course not,” he said.
“Magic will trick you by its nature. Tell you what. Put it back together and we’ll give it to Merlin. He could get it to work.”
Simon could fight her about it, but he knew she was right. He opened the biggest box to put them back in order.
But it wasn’t empty anymore.
It had a seed inside.
“Weird. That wasn’t there before.” He opened up another box. It had a seed in it, too. They all did. The seeds also got progressively smaller with each box. Simon managed to open the tiniest one and found a seed the size of a grain of sand. He bunched them up into one pile on top of a handkerchief and tied it up.
“What do you figure they grow into?” he asked Maille.
“What do I look like, a botanist? Look, Simon I didn’t come here to yell at you. Some of the guys were wondering where you went. Arthur, Chester, whatever is dancing with the maidens and trying to sing for people. Not very well, mind you, but he’s trying.”
“I was out there. I was having fun! Then I saw Gwen and I had to think a little.”
“You mean Guinevere?”
“When I met her at school she was Gwen. She helped me at first, but then she kind of ignored me. But, anyway, now she’s being paraded around New Camelot.”
“I heard about that. She’s so upset about the way they propped her up that she won’t come out of her room now.”
“Really?” Simon liked that Gwen wouldn’t let them push her around.
“You know,” Maille said, crossing her arms, “just because all the stories had you two falling in love with each other doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.”
Simon was hurt. From the moment he’d realized Gwen was Guinevere, he’d hoped it meant she secretly liked him. Guinevere was in love with Lancelot, after all. There was a small part of Simon that couldn’t wait to see her again, maybe even be alone with her, to talk about everything that was happening. He’d never felt this way about a girl before, and Maille was trying to ruin what little hope he had left.
“Get out,” he told her.
“Simon…”
“GET OUT!”
Maille blinked at his ferocity. “I’m sorry,” she said as she left the room.
He sat on a bench near a window and stewed for a while. It wasn’t like Maille to be mean. She was good at riding him, but she’d never said anything cruel before. Maybe she didn’t mean to, but Simon still thought it was weird.
Outside the window, the fair bustled. From on high he could see the tents and booths roll through all the streets of the kingdom. Flags of every color (including many with the Lancelot dragon crest) whipped around in the wind.
He spotted Caradoc looming over everyone with a couple of shopping baskets dangling from his fingers. What could a troll possibly buy at a fair? Simon watched him weave his way through the crowd like an elephant in a daisy field. It would have been funny, if he hadn’t kept knocking people over by accident. It didn’t help matters that he’d lunge like a kid in a toy store for every trinket that caught his fancy.
When Caradoc passed underneath Simon’s window, he stopped, sniffed the air and glanced up. He spotted Simon and waved. Simon thought of stepping back into the shadows but it was too late. Caradoc lifted a basket in the air and smiled a broad, ugly grin, packed to the hilt with dagger-sharp teeth and that pair of horrifying tusks protruding from his bottom gums.
“Come on down, Simon! I have something for you!” he hollered, so loud that the fair came to a standstill for a moment.
Perhaps it was how pitiful Caradoc looked, alone and despised, but Simon couldn’t find it in him to be rude.
“Be right there!” he yelled down.
He’d promised Mary he’d head back out anyway. And he always kept his promises. Simon threw his shoulder armor on the bed, leaned his training sword on the wall, and left.
He walked out of Wellwoven, rubbing the seeds in his pocket with his fingertips.
27
Simon did his best to stay cordial as they strolled around the fair. But it was tough. The last time he’d had spent any time with Caradoc, he’d been a tad intimidated. He resented that Caradoc had split Red and him up. The troll, for his part, was a bundle of politeness. He made it clear that he knew where he stood with Simon.
After a few minutes of awkward sideways glances, Caradoc stopped and sighed. “I know we got off to a bad start,” he admitted. “How is your friend doing in the, uh, dungeon?”
“He was okay yesterday. I’m going t
o drop off a Yellow Swirl for him.”
“Oh, he’ll love that. So... well... I want to make it all up to you.”
He handed Simon a box wrapped in pearly white paper, with a dainty red bow tied around it.
“Uh. Thanks. You didn’t have to…”
“It’s nothing, really. Just a way of saying I’m sorry.”
He ripped the paper off, while fairgoers cut a wide circle around them. Simon could feel their glares. They were probably wondering what Lancelot’s heir was doing standing around with a troll at the fair, opening presents with pretty bows.
He lifted off the top of the box to find a butterfly inside. It fluttered its wings a little and appeared ready to fly off. Simon put his hand over the top to keep it trapped, but regretted it immediately. The ‘butterfly’ bit his hand so hard he dropped it on the cobblestone street.
Out of the box walked a winged creature on two legs. Its face was almost human, but its exaggerated features made Simon flinch. It scowled at him with a long mouth and big eyes, then fluttered its wings angrily.
“What is that?” Simon asked.
The buggish beast flew above their heads and peered around, scoping the scene out and seeming not the least bit happy with what it saw.
“It’s a færie.” Caradoc said. “They bring good luck!” The færie zoomed past Simon and slapped him on the forehead before checking out the area again. Still not the least bit happy with what it saw. “But they can be a little testy when they first meet their new owner. It’s a pride thing. They get over it mostly. Feed it once a week. Directions are in there.”
Simon took a small slip of paper from the box:
Congratulations!
You have a færie to enjoy for the rest of your life, or his (depending on which ends first). Please note the following important care instructions:
Feed weekly on Wednesdays, unless the Wednesday falls on the 13th, in which case you should feed on Thursday.
No eye contact on Sundays.
Don’t let a færie meet a færie on Fridays.
“Yes, heed that last one especially. Nasty business.”
“What happens when a færie meets a færie on Friday?”
“All kinds of stuff, really. Mostly to do with them conspiring to kill their masters and then each other.” Caradoc shifted on his feet a little, with a half-formed smile on his face. “Still! Despicable characteristics aside, they are good luck and all!”
“Um, thanks, Caradoc.”
“My pleasure.” Simon watched the færie fly over the tents and disappear in the distance. He hoped that was the last he’d see of the thing. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back. Yer bonded with him, now that he slapped you on the head.”
“Great.”
“So, where do you want to go?”
Maybe it was the foul mood he was in, but Simon couldn’t go on with this whole polite-to-the-troll act anymore. “I’m sorry, Caradoc. I appreciate the gift and all...”
“It’s about that whole kidnapping mess, now?”
“Well, yeah. Why did you do it? I don’t get it.” Caradoc broke eye contact with Simon and shuffled his feet in some kind of awkward monster dance that was as dangerous to on-lookers as it was pitiful. “It’s complicated, really… A combination of factors and convoluted things of that kind of nature, and all.”
“Like what kind of factors?”
“Well, first off. I was, er, a little not in me own head. The wine goes straight to the brain, if you know what I’m saying.”
“So you were drunk?”
“Tipsy, more like it. Not thinking straight. Didn’t help that all I brought with me for the journey was more red wine in a water pouch.”
“So that’s why you didn’t give me anything to drink.”
“Sorry, but booze wouldn’t have done you any favors. So, anyway, I heard from trusty sources about how they found Lancelot and he was wandering around near the inn and I went lookin’. Happenstance that I succeeded, actually. I can get lucky that way. I have a færie of my own, you know. Though now I think of it, I haven’t seen her for a while.” He glanced up in the sky as if he might spot her. “So that’s that, and off we go!” He winked at Simon, hoping that was the end of the subject. But Simon wanted more.
“What do you mean ‘they’ found me?”
Caradoc’s shoulders slumped and he took a seat. This could take a while, and there was no avoiding it.
“The manager woman. What’s her name, again? Heather, I think. She told everyone that she met you. Big mouth on her. Got in a lot of trouble with Merlin.”
Heather. The name was familiar. Simon’s eyes went wide. If Caradoc meant the Heather from Uncle’s place…
“Wait a second. Heather works for my uncle. So people from New Camelot work at my uncle’s castle?”
“Sure. All his workers come from New Camelot. Only the ones Merlin approves, of course. Some kind of arrangement between the old men. Everybody goes to work through there.” The troll pointed to a nearby hill. It had a tall, wide set of doors in its side. One of the doors opened and a man emerged, dressed in the outfit that Uncle Victor’s workers wore. The man took in the view of the fair with a big smile and strode into the booths while checking his change.
“How can that door lead to Victor’s place? The castle is miles away.”
“Magic,” Caradoc said with a wink.
Simon recalled hearing two men talking from behind his bedroom walls at Victor’s mansion. Were the voices from New Camelot? Now that he thought about it, they’d said something about the mayor and wizard going at each other’s throats.
“So my uncle gets antiques from the castle.”
“Quite an arrangement. Smart man, yer uncle. New Camelot is packed with treasures.”
Why didn’t he think of it before? It should have been obvious the instant Hector showed up. Simon had been so stunned to see him that he’d missed it. Until now.
Uncle Victor knew all about New Camelot.
It followed that he knew his ‘driver’ Hector was a knight who worked for Merlin. It also made sense that Victor knew about the Sharp family’s connection to Lancelot.
But most importantly, Uncle Victor may have known that Simon’s parents were getting close to something big. Did he want the discovery all to himself? His mom and dad had left the mansion quickly, leaving their research materials behind. Did Victor put them on the plane that crashed? No. Simon wasn’t ready to pin murder on his own uncle. Not yet. But, as far as Simon was concerned, Uncle Victor had a lot of questions to answer.
Simon eyed the doors on the hill. The expression on his face must have made Caradoc nervous.
“So yes… anyway… that’s that… and all that. You forgive me, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“So where are we off to, young knight?”
“Do you know a place where I can plant some seeds?”
“What kind of seeds you got?”
“I’m not sure. I bought them at the fair from some guy. He says I can find anyone or anything with them, so I thought I’d try to talk to my parents. Tell them they were right about Camelot.” He pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and started to unwrap it when something snagged it from his hands.
“Hey!”
It was the færie. It floated twenty feet up, peeked into the handkerchief with a cackle and flew off. Simon chased after it but he was too slow. The scoundrel was pulling away. Then, like an ugly angel from above, Caradoc scooped Simon up, put him on his shoulders, and ran. Now they were really moving.
The flying rodent was headed toward a circle of stones on a hill.
“Oh, boy,” Caradoc mumbled.
“What’s wrong?” Simon said, trying not to get thrown off his two legged steed.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t go through the Lazies.”
“What are Lazies?”
“Portals to wherever you want to go. Not active right now, but that’s a færie and they kind of make things happen when they shouldn’t.”<
br />
“Oh, boy,” Simon agreed. Caradoc picked up the pace.
But the færie didn’t use the Lazies. In fact, it settled on top of one of the stones, and seemed to be waiting for the slowpokes to arrive. When Caradoc came to a stop, heaving hard, the færie threw the handkerchief on the grass and crossed its arms again. It had a refined talent for making a person feel slow and stupid.
“I think he wants you to plant the seeds there,” Caradoc said, sounding excited.
“But it hates me. Why would I do what it says?”
“Aw, he doesn’t hate you. He’s yours now. He won’t steer you wrong, unless you have another færie around.”
“Or make eye contact on Sundays.”
“Yeah, that’s a painful mistake too, I hear.”
“Okay, then. Here I go.”
The færie observed, eyes at half mast, as if it had little interest in the whole situation. Simon used his hands to dig a shallow hole. He placed the seeds next to each other in a circle, like the stones nearby. He thought it was fitting somehow. He stepped back and watched the mound of dirt.
After a moment, Caradoc cleared his throat. “Yes, well, not much use standing around waiting for it to grow, is there? To the jousts?”
“I’m going to stay here. You go on.”
“Suit yerself.” The troll shrugged and lumbered off with the færie following him. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the boy had changed his mind. But Simon was sitting cross-legged, watching the seeds do nothing.
If Simon had bothered to look Caradoc’s way, he would have seen a face filled with pity.
28
Simon made himself comfortable on the hill and enjoyed the view of the fair. Best he could tell, he was in a park somewhere in the middle of New Camelot. A young couple passed him on a nearby path. They recognized him and waved. Simon waved back. They giggled and ran off.
