Chapter 37

 

Over on the opposite side of the castle, Kinsmere was trying to prepare for the day’s next event. But it was exceedingly difficult to prepare for something about which you knew nothing. He was more confused about his event than Gehry had been at the outset of the gas-off.

A group of servants had led Kinsmere to a large swath of bright, green grass, uninterrupted but for a single shed-like structure. Windowless and made of wood, the shed was basically just a big box of mismatched planks that had been nailed together. Kinsmere saw a few servants – their mouths and noses covered with rags – carrying buckets over to the shed. Reaching down into the buckets, they scooped out a dark, gummy substance and smeared it into the seams between the shed’s boards. It took them several minutes, but as soon as the servants were absolutely certain that the shed was airtight, they anxiously darted across the lawn away from the thing.

Kinsmere was looking around in the hopes of finding someone who knew what was going on when, without a hint of warning, there was another blast from the horn-blower’s terrible instrument. Clapping his hands over his ears, he watched the horn-blower, still sporting his giant, bright orange shirt, climb atop a stool in order to address the crowd.

“Contestants!” he cried. “Please step forward.”

Kinsmere approached the horn-blower along with half a dozen men. The boy scanned the group, and saw that the Peachy Knight himself would be competing in this event. The rogue knight locked eyes with Kinsmere and, chuckling to himself, rubbed his meaty hands together. Then, nudging the man nearest to him, indicating Kinsmere with a jerk of his thumb, the Peachy Knight said, “What do you think? One minute? Two?”

“You’re gonna give him that long?” the other man said. He pretended to study Kinsmere. “I’d say thirty seconds.”

“Twenty!” said another.

“Ten!” said the one beside him.

And the one beside him said, “I’ll bet he doesn’t even make it through the door.”

The men laughed heartily, and Kinsmere smiled right along with them, putting on a brave face even though he still had no clue just what his event entailed. Once the laughter had subsided, the horn-blower addressed the upcoming event’s contestants directly.

“Exiting the locker will result in immediate disqualification,” he said. “Fainting and vomiting will result in the same. In the case of fainting – listen closely, Sir Ickney – the body must be left where it is. Opening the door to rid the locker of a fainted opponent will result in the immediate disqualification of the door-opener.”

The horn-blower looked from one man to the next. Last of all, his gaze settled on Kinsmere.

“Understood?”

The men all said, “Yes.”

Kinsmere said it, too, of course, even though he did not understand. But this would’ve been an exceedingly foolish thing to admit in front of his opponents. Besides, the rules of the contest were simple enough, and Kinsmere figured the workings of the competition itself would become clear once it actually began.

The horn-blower cried, “Proceed!” and the contestants, Kinsmere included, started toward the shed.

It was after just a couple steps that the stench reached the boy’s nose.

 

Chapter 38

 

Kinsmere decided that his half dozen opponents had all simultaneously passed gas. How else could such a horrendous stench arise all at once, out of nowhere? As he came closer to the shed, however, the stench intensified, and Kinsmere couldn’t help it – he gagged. And not just the once. He gagged and gagged and gagged, as if someone were trying to force a fist-sized turnip down his throat. He only just barely kept himself from bringing up the few bites of soggy bread he had eaten the night before.

“Great Barber’s Beard!” one of his opponents said. “You were right!”

“Through the door?!” said another. “He can’t even make it to the door!”

Clutching their bellies, shaking their heads in amusement, the men continued toward the locker.

Kinsmere quickly got his gagging under control and forced himself forward, too.

With every step, the air grew heavier. Soon Kinsmere felt as if he were wading through a hot, putrid soup. Another step, and again the stench somehow got worse.

Finally, Kinsmere gave up all attempts to appear undaunted in front of his opponents. He clapped a hand over his nose and mouth, breathing in a bit of his own scent along with the fetid air.

The men, in any case, had quit paying attention to Kinsmere. It was clear that the stench had begun to affect them as well. Their pace had slowed considerably. A few of them were even dragging their feet.

Five or six steps from the locker, Kinsmere’s brain began to wobble. It was as if the rancid scent had congealed into a club and clobbered him on the back of the head. His mind, panicked, sent a single urgent message down to his body:

 

TURN AROUND!

TURN AROUND!

TURN AROUND NOW!!!

 

Off to Kinsmere’s right, a man began to retch. He put up a valiant effort, but ultimately couldn’t fight back his body’s need to empty itself. Peach chunks and cheese bits splattered across the grass.

Kinsmere winced.

And the Peachy Knight, still striding toward the shed, threw his head back and laughed.

 

Chapter 39

 

There was a minor holdup while the men argued about whether the guy who had vomited should be allowed to continue on in the competition. One man was vehemently against it. The others, however, pointed out that the rules didn’t specify what sort of penalties a contestant might incur by vomiting before he entered the locker.

Kinsmere thought it odd that no one consulted the man himself, who just stood there, glassy-eyed and swaying from side to side.

Eventually, the horn-blower was called over. The men had decided to leave the final ruling up to him, a disinterested, and in fact uninterested, party.

The horn-blower spent no more than a second looking the vomiter over. Then he cried, “Let him compete!” and rushed away from the locker. The crowd – gathered at a safe distance, many of their noses plugged with strips of knotted cloth – cheered and clapped. And the vomiter, dimly aware that the applause was for him, swung around and threw his arms into the air.

But the man’s glory was short-lived.

Moments later the Peachy Knight reached the locker, and throwing open the door, he led the way inside. The others were right behind him, and after taking just one more step, the vomiter vomited again, this time hitting the back of the man standing in the locker’s doorway.

The vomited-upon man instantly began to gag. He clapped a hand to his mouth – but it was already too late. Vomit sprayed forth from between his fingers, smacking the man in front of him square in the face. This man then began to gag. But before he could vomit – before he could even clap a hand to his mouth – his eyes fluttered shut and he collapsed in a jumble of loose limbs.

By the time the fainter hit the floor of the locker, the pair of vomiters were gone. They were hurrying off, desperate to escape the stench’s reach.

Kinsmere was the only still-eligible competitor who had yet to set foot inside the locker. He spent one last moment in the relatively fresh air outside the door, then stepped in.

The Peachy Knight, who had stationed himself just past the doorway, grinned at Kinsmere as the boy passed by. Then he reached for the door and, chuckling to himself, pulled it shut, plunging the locker into darkness.

 

Chapter 40

 

Kinsmere couldn’t see a thing inside the sealed-up locker. However, doing some quick arithmetic, he concluded that there were three men left in there with him. Four, actually, if he counted the man who had fainted. He was still in there, lying unconscious near the remaining, non-disqualified competitors’ feet.

Of his opponents, Kinsmere knew the Peachy Knight had the upper hand. The rogue knight hadn’t even flinched during that long, awful walk to the locker.

A voice came out of the darkness.

“Lovely way to spend a morning,” it said. “Don’t you think?”

Kinsmere suspected it was the Peachy Knight, and when the speaker started chuckling to himself, Kinsmere knew he was right.

“Where’s the boy?” asked another one of the men. “Still alive?”

Since stepping into the locker, Kinsmere had kept his nose and mouth covered, surviving on shallow breaths of the somewhat less-rancid air trapped in his palm. But he didn’t want his opponents to know this, and talking to them through his fingers would give him away. So Kinsmere dropped his hand, and bravely breathing in the rank, steamy air, he answered the men.

“I’m right here,” he told them. “Alive and well. Feeling good. Great, actually.”

In reality, of course, Kinsmere felt terrible. He was certain the locker’s tainted air supply had already done irreversible damage to his lungs.

“Great, huh?” one of the men asked him. “Not just good, but great.”

“Yup,” Kinsmere said. And to convince the men of his lie, the boy took a long, loud, chest-expanding breath. It was like guzzling a gallon of curdled milk. And Kinsmere couldn’t help it – he started to sputter, to cough and choke.

The men cracked up at his botched show of bravery. But the laughing – it got them sputtering and coughing and choking, too. And then all of a sudden there was a great commotion.

“Ow!”

“Move!”

“What’s – ?”

Something darted past Kinsmere, blowing warm air across his face. Then the door to the locker flew open – the daylight so bright Kinsmere had to squeeze his eyes shut against it – and a man rushed outside. The door swung shut behind him, returning the locker to its dark, smelly silence.

“And then there were three,” the Peachy Knight said, chuckling again. “You – ” Somehow, the rogue knight found Kinsmere in the darkness, and tapped the tip of his nose with a grimy fingertip. “ – you, and me.”

 

Chapter 41

 

Kinsmere wasn’t holding up too well. He and his competitors had spent four full minutes in the smelly locker, and if the boy was going to make it even one more, he was going to need something powerful enough to convince him to go on standing there letting that evil stench poison him to the core. Dreams of winning a tournament, of beating a man like the Peachy Knight, had only gotten him so far. Inside the locker, those visions seemed wispy, insubstantial, even a tad foolish. His brain wanted nothing to do with them. It was busy sounding alarms and sending out increasingly urgent emergency signals.

 

GET OUT!

GET OUT NOW!

ARE YOU MAD?!

GET OUT!

HURRY!

BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!

GET!!! OUT!!!

 

Kinsmere fought the urge to flee, but as the seconds passed, and his opponents showed no sign of giving up, the boy was finally forced to resign himself to failure. He reached toward where he thought the door must be – but then reared back as it all of a sudden swung open. Kinsmere blinked against the harsh light that spilled into the locker, and was just able to make out the figure of the horn-blower standing in the doorway. The man had the bottom of his enormous shirt wrapped around his face for protection, and so his voice came out muffled when he called, “Round Two!” Quickly, then, he set a candle down on the locker floor and, running off, slammed the door shut behind him.

The candle’s flame wavered in the wind made by the swinging door. Kinsmere watched the little lick of light steady, wondering if the horn-blower had left it in the locker for a reason.

It was only a moment later that the man beside Kinsmere began to gag. And turning away to dodge any oncoming vomit, the boy finally noticed the walls. They were horrifying enough to make him forget all about the vomit he was supposed to be dodging. Which is why he got a bellyful of the stuff to the side of the head.

 

Chapter 42

 

Piles of rotten meat and maggot-infested fruit, heaps of rat corpses, mounds of insect eggs, and buckets filled to the brim with a muddy substance that, all things considered, probably wasn’t mud – this was what Kinsmere saw lining the walls of the locker. He brought his hands back up to his face, now covering not just his nose and mouth, but also his eyes.

The Peachy Knight, Kinsmere’s final opponent, found this quite humorous. Chuckling, he said, “Oh sure, boy. Go ahead and hide your eyes. Bet it doesn’t make a smidge of a difference.”

He was right. It didn’t. But Kinsmere had to keep his hands busy. Otherwise he would be using the things to open up the door and get himself out of the locker.

“Won’t be long now, will it?” the Peachy Knight went on. “Nope. Not long till you run out of here with a bit of your own upchuck on you, too.”

Kinsmere did his best to ignore the man, and also ignore the images of dead rats and brown-stained buckets flashing through his head.

“Did you think you could do it? Did you really think that you, a mere boy, who’s lived a life of luxury, who’s grown up in King Beribahn’s own castle – did you really think that you could compete with me? A little brat like you, slurping up your soup with a golden spoon? Ha! I’ll bet you aren’t half as tough as my meagerest servant.”

The Peachy Knight’s words – the last few in particular – set off a chain of connections in Kinsmere’s brain, and for the first time since that crazy day had begun, he thought of her again. The girl. The one with the dirt-caked face and those eyes – eyes like a lush meadow in the midst of a muddy bog.

And Kinsmere realized: those eyes, that girl – she was the something that he needed.

Slowly, he slid his hands off his face. Then he lifted his head and glared up at the Peachy Knight.

“Having a second wind?” the man said, laughing. “Well, guess what, boy? I’ll stay in here all day, if you’d like.” He spread his arms out to his sides and looked around, sizing up the candlelit accommodations. “Yep,” he said. “Suits me just fine. I could – ” He jerked his hand away from the wall suddenly. His knuckles had grazed a piece of maggoty fruit. “Um – ” he said, trying to pick back up where he had left off. “Ahh, errr – oh!” He laughed again, though compared to his laughter of a moment before, it sounded hollow. “I could stay in here all day, boy!” he said, but said a bit too eagerly. “All day!”

He was bluffing. The man’s mask had slipped. And seeing it, Kinsmere now knew that he could do it. That they could do it. He and the green-eyed girl. Because she was with him now. She had stationed herself inside the boy’s head.

We need you.

That was what she had said.

You must do something.

Put an end to this evil man’s reign.

Free us from this unjust imprisonment.

That is what knights do.

Standing there in the smelly locker with the maggots and dead rats and not-actually-mud-buckets surrounding him, Kinsmere realized that the girl was right. Growing up, Kinsmere had thought a knight’s life consisted of riding about the Realm from tournament to tournament, fighting for prominence and, ultimately, dominance. And it was true that plenty of knights did do only that – the Peachy Knight, for instance, who semi-annually arranged this so-called Tournament of Champions and then filled the days with strange events skewed toward his own bizarre abilities. Scoring easy wins and having his own castle was all that being a knight meant to him.

It was pathetic. And, Kinsmere decided right then, not knightly in the slightest. His favorite knights, the ones he had run around pretending to be as a child, had all competed in contests, fought with swords and spears, defeated countless enemies and slayed every variety of beast. But, he saw now, there had always been a reason. A higher – a nobler – goal. They were helping a person in distress, feeding a family in dire need, protecting a village, or ridding the Realm of villains. The most important part of a knight’s tale isn’t the beginning, Kinsmere realized. It’s not the weapons and the horses and victories at the tournaments. The most important part of the knight’s tale is the end – the helping, the feeding, the protecting, the ridding. The mission that set off the adventure in the first place, the goal achieved by the tale’s close – that, Kinsmere finally understood, was the only reason that the knights he had always admired even did any of the competing and fighting and slaying.

“Hey.”

The Peachy Knight was flapping a hand around in front of Kinsmere’s face.

“Hey, boy, are you listening to me? Are you hearing this? All day. That’s how long I can last in here. All. Day.”

Kinsmere wasn’t listening. He was busy trying to figure out how to rip the Peachy Knight’s mask right off his face, and then step out of the locker the winner.

An idea came to him quickly, and Kinsmere didn’t even pause to consider it. Scanning the heap of garbage gathered against the nearest wall, he reached out and plucked a maggot-stuffed peach from beneath a block of moldy cheese. Slowly, then, making sure the Peachy Knight saw the whole thing, Kinsmere brought the ruined piece of fruit to his mouth.

“Are you . . . ” the man said. “You’re not gonna . . . ” He swallowed hard. “You – you wouldn’t . . . ”

Kinsmere sank his teeth into the peach. It took a few chews before the rogue knight’s cheeks abruptly puffed. Immediately after, the man’s head began to jerk forward and back. He gagged. And then, at last, he whirled around and barreled out of the locker.

Kinsmere dropped the peach and spit out the chewed-up bits he had in his mouth. Then he bent down and grabbed the ankles of the guy who had fainted all that time ago. And dragging the body behind him, Kinsmere, victorious, stepped through the door of the locker and out into the clear, bright sunlight.

______

Text copyright © 2020 by Jarrett Lerner

All right reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

 

PART IV: The Peachy-slash-Cheesy Tournament of Champions

 

Chapter 31

 

A human tsunami of dirt-caked, soot-stained servants came barreling down the corridor at the boys. The giant writhing knot of flailing arms and legs and spinning, bickering heads quickly overwhelmed them, carrying Gehry in one direction and Kinsmere in another. Bruce and Gerwin managed to keep track of each other for a few seconds after the crowd had reached them, but then lost sight of one another for good.

There were protests from the boys:

“Wait!”

“Ouch!”

“You’re tickling me!”

But for all the listening the servants did, they may as well have been deaf.

A smaller pack of servants brought each of the boys to his very own dressing room. Big, warm, fully furnished, the sight of these luxurious rooms let Gehry, Kinsmere, and Bruce know that the Peachy Knight had purposely given them the castle’s worst accommodations the night before. Each of the underslept boys gazed longingly at the big, plushly blanketed beds.

But there was no time for a nap.

Moments after the boys had been swept into the rooms, another wave of dirty, scrawny men, women, boys, and girls surged in carrying an array of large, shiny objects. It looked like armor. Not full suits, but bits and pieces taken from here or there. Or, perhaps, from a trash heap. Amidst the chaos, Gehry glimpsed a dented chest plate, Kinsmere saw a visor-less helmet, and Bruce noted more than a dozen sizeable holes in a chainmail shirt.

The armor-carrying servants handed their loads over to the other servants, who immediately set about dressing the young contestants. Little to no attention was paid to the sizes and shapes of the pieces of armor and the sizes and shapes of the boys’ bodies. They were squeezed and stuffed into steel pants tight enough to slow the flow of the blood in their veins, pushed and pulled into heavy iron vests intended for full-grown men.

There were protests:

“Wait!”

“Ouch!”

“Okay – that really tickles!”

But the servants were too focused on their tasks to listen.

The madness, fortunately, didn’t last long. Fully, if not fittingly, armored, the boys were finally ready for the tournament. The servants nudged, shoved, and at times even carried the boys out of their dressing rooms and down the castle’s crowded corridors.

There were protests:

“Wait!”

“Ouch!”

“Yes – I know I’m weirdly ticklish!”

But amidst such chaos, the servants couldn’t hear a thing. Nudging, shoving, and carrying when they had to, the servants brought the boys down the last of the castle’s corridors, through the front doors, and out onto the lawn.

 

Chapter 32

 

The crowd assembled outside of the Peachy Knight’s castle contained an extraordinary assortment of people. There were men from every profession imaginable, and women from the highest and the lowest classes, not to mention all of those in between. Packs of screaming children tore around the property staging their very own tournaments, competing to see who could throw the farthest, run the fastest, jump the highest, or shout the loudest.

Seeing the children, Gehry, Kinsmere, and Bruce each couldn’t help but think back to the day before last, when they had been so much younger than they were now. They had spent that oh-so-distant afternoon tossing stones at the slope’s big oak tree, and now, a mere two days later, they were far from home, wearing mismatched suits of armor and preparing to compete in their very first tournament.

Gerwin, the wizard-to-be, was out there, too. Currently he was keeping a close eye on a man dressed in an enormous, painfully bright orange shirt. The boy jammed his fingers into his ears as the man, tripping constantly over his ill-fitting shirt, climbed atop a nearby barrel and brought a strange, trumpet-like instrument to his lips. Inhaling deeply, the man blew into the horn, which emitted a high-pitched squeal as harsh as anything that had ever been heard in the Realm. It was like the scraping of a thousand knives on a thousand bare plates. The noise caused several men to drop to their knees. One woman vomited. Dogs as far as two miles from the castle fainted dead away.

Lowering his instrument, the horn-blower gave everybody a moment to recover. Then he said, “Would the owner of a blue, four-wheeled cart please move your vehicle to the designated parking area. You are currently parked in the middle of a contest zone.”

There was some mumbling among the members of the crowd, and then a man stepped forward and raised a hand to get the horn-blower’s attention. “What kind of blue?” he said.

The horn-blower blinked down at him from atop his barrel. “What do you mean? It’s a blue, four-wheeled cart.”

“Yeah, yeah. But what kind of blue? Is it light? Is it dark? Is it like the sea’s blue, or is more like the sky?”

The horn-blower considered for a second. “I guess . . . Well, I guess it’s light. But a bit more like the sea than the sky.”

The man from the crowd nodded, as if he found this description deeply interesting.

“So,” the horn-blower asked at last. “Is it yours, or . . . ?”

“No, no, no,” said the man in the crowd. He chuckled. “I walked here.”

The horn-blower glared at the man, then turned back to the rest of the crowd and made an amended announcement.

“Would the owner of a light, sort of sea-blue, four-wheeled cart please move your vehicle to the designated parking area. You are currently parked in the middle of a contest zone.”

No one moved to do so.

Someone shouted, “Start the stinkin’ tourney already!”

The horn-blower sighed and then quickly muttered, “Andnowitismyhonortoannouncetheofficialstartoftheseconddayoftheworldfamoussemiannualpeachyslashcheesytournamentofchampionsletthegamesbegin.”

The crowd went wild. They clapped and cheered, embraced one another and leapt gleefully into the air.

Amidst all the jumping and jostling bodies, Gehry finally spotted Kinsmere, then Bruce. He began to make his way toward them, but it was slow-going in his too-big, mismatched armor. Before Gehry could even get near enough to call out to them, he was swallowed up by a swarm of servants.

“Wait!” he cried. “My friends! Just give me a second!”

“We don’t have any of those,” one of the servants told him.

“Not even one,” said another.

And a third, giving Gehry a firm, encouraging slap on the back, said, “Your event’s about to begin!”

 

Chapter 33

 

The servants brought Gehry around the corner of the castle to a portion of the lawn that had been set up for jousting. Or so it seemed. A large rectangular patch of grass with a dirt track running down the center had been fenced off. Gehry thought the track was too narrow, so thin it could easily confuse a horse. Maybe the course wasn’t fully set up yet? There wasn’t a lance or a shield in sight. There weren’t any horses, either.

The servants motioned for Gehry to head to the center of the arena. He went, looking around for a clue as to what was going on.

A crowd had begun to form along the fence. Kids squeezed themselves in beside their parents, desperate for an uninterrupted view of the action. Further back, infants and toddlers and even a few smaller adults were being lifted up and set on other spectator’s shoulders.

But there were still no horses. Or lances. And where was Gehry’s opponent?

One of these three things showed up a moment later.

The crowd along the fence suddenly parted, making a big enough gap for a normal-sized man to squeeze through. But there was nothing remotely normal-sized about the man now entering the arena. It was the Cheesy Knight. Gehry recognized the sour tang that accompanied the man from the night before. But the quick glimpse Gehry had gotten of the man in that dark, smelly corridor hadn’t prepared him for what he saw now. A towering stack of broad, bulging muscles, the Cheesy Knight made his brother, the Peachy Knight, seem puny. The man seemed to be quite battle-tested, too. His armor appeared to have been bent, broken, and fused back together several times. This, Gehry finally realized, was because the suit had been fashioned using pieces of armor originally made for a horse. There was even a faded stamp of a horseshoe in the corner of his thigh plate to prove it.

Gehry knew it was important that he stay calm. At the very least, he had to do a convincing job pretending to stay calm. He had learned this from his books. And standing there on the Peachy Knight’s lawn, watching that man’s monstrous brother stomp toward him, certain passages that Gehry had set to memory in the comfort of his castle back home began to pop into his mind.

 

There are two kinds of knights: those who are brave, undaunted by even the greatest of dangers, and those who are able to conceal their fears behind showy pronouncements, loud shouts, and exquisite posture.

 

Not feeling particularly brave at the moment, Gehry knew he had better do some concealing. He kept his eyes fastened on the Cheesy Knight’s, and reminded himself of all that he had overheard the night before – that this terrifying, fatally massive man had some sort of evil design against Gehry’s father, and was planning on using Gehry and his friends to help see it through – in the hopes that it would bring about anger, if not bravery.

The Cheesy Knight strode right up to Gehry, stopping only once he was a foot away. Gehry had to tip his head back as far as it could go so he could continue to look the man in the eye.

“Ready?” the Cheesy Knight asked him, sending a sharp, moldy breath crashing across Gehry’s face.

Somehow, Gehry managed to not even flinch. And despite the fact that he had no idea what was supposed to be prepared for, he told the man, “I’m ready.”

The Cheesy Knight gave Gehry a cocky smirk. Then he leaned in close and belched into the boy’s face.

 

Chapter 34

 

At first, Gehry thought the Cheesy Knight was greeting him according to the customs of his, Gehry’s, castle. It was, after all, Gehry’s father who had institutionalized the practice of belching in the face of a guest, friend, or family member. Over the years, it had become a deeply respectful gesture, an intimate symbol of letting another into your private life by giving them a whiff of your insides. And while it was true that the Cheesy Knight was secretly orchestrating some kind of sinister plot against King Beribahn and, very possibly, the entire Realm, Gehry decided that the guy must have at least a smidgen of non-rogue decency in him.

So Gehry dug down deep and, popping up onto his toes to get his mouth a little closer to the Cheesy Knight’s face, he belched right back at the man.

The Cheesy Knight wrenched his head back. He seemed surprised by the force of the boy’s belch. He really shouldn’t have been. As the king’s son, Gehry had to be able to belch – and belch well – easily and on command. On holidays and other feast days, when lords and ladies from all over the Realm came to pay their respects to the royal family, Gehry had to stand beside his mother and father for hours at a time, belching into the faces of hundreds of people in a row.

The Cheesy Knight clearly hadn’t known this, for he was still looking down at Gehry with an expression that was equal parts amazement and, it seemed, fear. Gehry gave the man a moment to get his emotions under control, and looked once more around the arena. The lances and shields and horses definitely should have been there by now.

He turned back to the Cheesy Knight, thinking he would just ask him what the holdup was. But before Gehry could get a word out, the man leaned back down and belched for a second time in the boy’s face.

Wincing at the unexpected gust of nastiness, Gehry thought the Cheesy Knight’s behavior exceedingly strange. Because you never belched in someone’s face twice. At least not one after another like that.

Gehry looked up at the man, confused.

“Done already, then?” the Cheesy Knight asked him. He was smirking again. “Nothing left in that” – he dropped his voice into a toddler’s whimper – “wittle taiwny bewwy of yours?”

What kind of tournament is this? Gehry wondered. And then, suddenly, his brain leapt back to the previous night, to when he had overheard the Cheesy Knight and his brother “practicing” for the tournament. They had held a “posterior” gas-off, as opposed to an “anterior” one. In other words, they had farted instead of belched. But Gehry could only suppose that this here, this event that he currently found himself competing against the Cheesy Knight in, was the other kind. It was a belching contest. And a belching contest was something that Gehry, King Beribahn’s one and only son, had been born and bred to excel in.

Grinning up at the now somehow not-so-intimidating rogue knight before him, Gehry said, “Oh no. Don’t you worry. I’ve got plenty left.”

 

Chapter 35

 

Gehry gave the Cheesy Knight a second whiff of his insides:

 

blerck!

 

This time, the rogue knight remained perfectly still, letting the belch waft over him. Once the brunt of it had passed, however, the man dropped his head and gazed glassily at the foot or so of dirt track between him and Gehry.

Gehry immediately recognized the man’s expression. The Cheesy Knight was neither dazed nor distracted. He was fully focused, searching inside himself for an airy pocket of nastiness. And so Gehry was ready when the man brought his head back up and unleashed a beast of a belch:

 

BLOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRAAGHARAGHRAROOOOGAHHH!

 

It was extraordinary. Gehry wasn’t sure whether he had ever encountered such a powerful belch. He had certainly never been on the receiving end of such a thing. He was so overwhelmed by the sudden and storm-like force of the cheesy emission that he staggered back several steps.

As soon as he had stopped and steadied himself, the crowd began to clap. It was, Gehry realized, the quiet, polite sort of clapping that a tournament crowd might do if a contestant threw a particularly nice horseshoe or shot an arrow near, but not directly through, the bullseye.

Gehry looked out at the crowd. Then he looked down at the dirt track that ran clear across the arena. It was too narrow, as he had noted before, to accommodate a pair of horses. But it was perfectly proportioned for a pair of people.

All at once Gehry understood how this belching contest worked. He saw how one of the competitors could eventually “beat” the other. Exchanging nothing but belches, he and the Cheesy Knight were to try and force each other back along the dirt track, all the way to the fence at the opposite end of the arena.

To make sure he was right about this, Gehry pretended that the Cheesy Knight’s belch had swung around for a second attack. Waving his hands in front of his face, coughing and clutching at his throat, he stumbled back another step.

Once again, as soon as he had stopped and steadied himself, the crowd quietly, politely clapped.

The Cheesy Knight grinned over at the spectators. He gave them a few winks and a quick wave. Gehry could tell that the rogue knight believed himself to be on his way to an easy victory. He was so confident he was going to win that he didn’t even bother advancing on Gehry. He stayed there in the middle of the arena, at the very center of the dirt track, and let the boy walk back up to his starting position.

Heading there, more words popped into Gehry’s mind. These, however, weren’t from books. They were the words Gehry’s father had said to him at his send-off feast, the night before he and his friends had set out on this adventure. We know you’ll make us, and the Realm itself, as proud as we could ever hope to be.

Gehry glared up at the Cheesy Knight. He dug deep, deeper than he ever had before, and pulled up a belch as fierce as any he had belched before. The force of it nearly sent him, Gehry, toppling to the ground:

 

BLEEEEERCHAREEEEEECHKAAA*#####010387AAAAACHCHCHCAKWOIQPPPPAOIASHAFSAAAAAAAA!!!!*@&$#*!)_!!!!!!!!!

 

The Cheesy Knight fared even worse. Staggering back, tilting and tipping, his face contorted in horror.

As the crowd clapped and murmured, Gehry strode forward, stopping only once the toes of his boots were an inch from the Cheesy Knight’s. There, he tipped his head back defiantly, welcoming the best – or worst – that the rogue knight had to offer.

 

Chapter 36

 

Now that Gehry had a handle on the rules of the contest, things moved fast. So fast, in fact, that the spectators soon last track of whose belch was whose, which odor had come from which competitor. Now and again, even the competitors got confused. Their belches bled together, the stinks mixing to create brand-new stenches, ones that had never before been sniffed by a human nostril.

Yet Gehry and the Cheesy Knight battled on. They leaped and leaned through the cloud of foul gas that had built up around them, and sent one belch after another crashing across each other’s faces.

 

            berrrgh!

                                                                                    bluuURP!

                        BLORRRAHHHHHH!

                                                            blehp! blehp-blehp-BLEHP!

BAROOoOooOoOOOOO!

                                                                                    blap!

                                    blip!

                                                            blop!

                                                                                                BLERCK!

                        BLARRRCHGHARAGH(!)*!

                                                                                                                        BeRELAaAA

                                                                                                                        AGHAGHAG

                                                                                                                        HAGHAKCC!

                                                            bleeeggharegaah!

 

The competitors’ back-and-forth soon grew so intense that the crowd was forced to ignore the belching entirely. The only way to keep track of the contest was to focus on the contestants’ feet. How many steps did the boy just take back? How far did the Cheesy Knight stumble? Where was each competitor in relation to the fence behind him?

Of course, Gehry and the Cheesy Knight had to keep track of this, too. After every few belches, they had to look down at the strip of dirt beneath their feet or glance back at the arena behind them.

It was a tight battle. Gehry would make a gain – but then the Cheesy Knight would advance on him. Gehry would fire back fiercer than ever – but then the Cheesy Knight would bring up a belch twice as powerful as his last.

Eventually, Gehry got tired. His body had simply had enough. His stomach was tight and twisted. His throat ached. His eyes were desert dry. His nostrils burned as if he had sniffed a lit torch. And as the pain and discomfort grew worse and worse, he began to realize that the contest couldn’t be won by burps alone. He and the Cheesy Knight had proven themselves to be evenly matched. If they tired at a similar rate, they might be able to go on forever – or at least until one of them fainted from exhaustion.

But what could Gehry do?

He thought – then stopped thinking, briefly, to tug up a belch – and then thought some more. And eventually, amid the blurps and BLERGHs, Gehry found in his head another passage from his books.

 

Now and again, a knight may encounter a foe unbeatable by force or quickness alone. In such situations, cleverness must be employed in order to win the day. Looking past the body, to the vulnerability hidden away within all of us, the knight must locate the soft spot carried in his enemy’s soul. With a sharp enough barb, the knight can strike a deadly blow. Picture a thorn piercing a barely boiled egg – driving beyond the solid outside to reach the soft, runny center.

 

Gehry could practically taste that gooey yoke. But where, he wondered, was the Cheesy Knight’s soft spot? It took him another minute – enough time for both him and the Cheesy Knight to fire off another eight belches each – but then it came to him. He remembered something else he had heard the night before when listening in on the Peachy and the Cheesy Knight’s conversation.

After his next belch, Gehry said, “Hey.”

The Cheesy Knight belched back. “Hey, yourself.”

“You sure – blaaarghaerrrree! – you’re really a knight?”

“I’m – blurrrrP! – among the finest knights – blaghh! – there has ever been.”

“That’s weird. Cause – BERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH! – every great knight I’ve ever known has had their own castle.”

The Cheesy Knight’s lips, opened wide to release another grisly burst of gas, began to quiver. Then they shut.

“And, I mean, this – ” Gehry gestured toward the castle behind him. “ – this is the Peachy Knight’s castle. Your brother’s, not yours. Everyone knows that.”

The rogue knight blinked. “Th-they do?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Gehry said. “Definitely. Everyone in the whole Realm. They all talk about the Peachy Knight. They say, ‘Sure. Guy’s got his very own castle!’ But when someone says, ‘Doesn’t he have a brother?’ people are always, ‘Does he? I don’t think so. If he does, I’ve never heard of him.’”

The Cheesy Knight’s head began to shake, tiny nervous ticks back and forth. “Th-the name,” he said. “We’re changing it. It’s just – the paperwork. We’re – ”

“Right,” Gehry said, interrupting the rogue knight’s stammering explanation. “But I’ve heard horror stories about that. The paperwork – it can take a lifetime.”

The Cheesy Knight stumbled back a few steps.

Gehry took a few steps forward. “And it’s too bad, too,” he said. “Since, you know, once a guy’s gone, if he didn’t have his own castle . . . ” He shrugged. “Well, how are people gonna remember him?”

“B-b-because – ”

“So many knights forgotten,” Gehry said. “Some great ones, too, I bet. Maybe even some of the greatest!” He tsked his tongue. “If only they’d had a castle named after them.”

The Cheesy Knight fell back a little farther, and then farther still, until he stood just a few feet from the arena’s fence. The crowd had quieted down to hear what Gehry was saying, and so they offered no help in clueing the rogue knight in on how close he was to losing the contest. But even if the spectators had been hooting and hollering, it probably wouldn’t have mattered much for the Cheesy Knight. He was terribly distracted, busy both trying to refute Gehry’s claims and convince himself that he would go down in history as a great, brave, and revered knight despite the fact that he didn’t have a castle that bore his name.

Gehry was patient, standing by while the Cheesy Knight stumbled and stammered away. He focused on gathering the necessary gas for what he hoped would be his final belch. He was just about depleted, and if one last big belch didn’t bring about a victory, Gehry wasn’t sure he would have anything left to fight with.

“But I’m – the signs,” the Cheesy Knight was saying. “There’s the – the little cheeses on the signs? P-p-people – th-they – they see them. The signs – they see the signs and they – ”

That was when Gehry let loose:

 

BAAHHHHROROORROOOÔÖÒÓØØØØØÒÓOOOOOOooOoOoOoooOOOOOoooOoOoOooOooOoOoOOÖÖÖÖÖOÖOOÖÖooooooooooo&&&*2863@&&&U33Oooooooo^^^E~““~oØØchRRRRRØØoooooooooooØoØooooooooooooŌÕ!

 

The rogue knight went silent. His eyes, wide and worried, slowly rolled back. And then, his limbs as stiff as if he had been seized by a sudden paralysis, the man tipped backwards and cracked his head on the top of the fence.

The crowd erupted. Men, women, boys, and girls all hopped the fence and, rushing toward Gehry, stepping on the downed Cheesy Knight if they had to, lifted the boy up into the air. They carried him around the arena as if he were a trophy and they were the winners, everybody squirming to get closer, desperate to give Gehry their congratulations, to lay their hands upon him for even the briefest of moments.

______

Text copyright © 2020 by Jarrett Lerner

All right reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

 

Chapter 24

 

The knocking grew louder, and then became more rapid.

Kinsmere decided that it must be Gehry and Bruce out in the corridor, probably trying to play some sort of trick on him. Or maybe they had somehow gotten themselves locked out of their room? Either way, Kinsmere didn’t feel like they deserved to be let in right away – especially not while he was in the middle of such a good dream.

So he laid back down on his plank-bed.

He shut his eyes.

But then the knocking grew even more insistent. It turned into pounding.

“Okay,” he called toward the door as he hopped down off his plank. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

The knocking stopped.

Kinsmere crouched down and pulled open the tiny door.

No one was there. The corridor was as dark and empty as a dried-up well.

Kinsmere sighed.

“Seriously, guys?” he said. “How old are you – four?”

He was about to stand up and climb back onto his plank when he saw something shift among the corridor’s shadows. It was quick and slight, one patch of blackness moving over another, but enough to keep Kinsmere crouching there and staring out the tiny doorway.

“Hello?” he asked.

And then he saw it. There was a face, so dirty and soot-stained that it was almost impossible to see it in the corridor’s gloom. The face turned, and trained a pair of dazzling green eyes on Kinsmere’s own.

 

Chapter 25

 

Gehry knew that he should leave. Not only was he eavesdropping on a private discussion between two very scary-sounding men in a castle that he shouldn’t have been sneaking around in the first place, but that private, secretive discussion was about him. If the men caught him listening in, who knew what they would do.

Nonetheless, Gehry couldn’t go. For one thing, if there were men in the castle who had malicious designs against him, it would obviously be advantageous to have some advance warning. But it wasn’t for his own sake that he went on standing there in the corridor. Not entirely, at least. He stayed because the men around the corner had now begun to talk about his friends.

“I get it,” said one of the men. “I do. But I still don’t see what the harm is in letting the little brats compete. We can rough ‘em up a bit, show ‘em what’s what. It’ll be fun.”

“The harm,” the other man said, “is in them fleeing. Every second we don’t take them in is another risk taken. A stupid, foolish, completely unnecessary risk.”

“Fleeing? Those boys aren’t doing any fleeing.” There was a pause. “Well, I suppose the chunky one might try. But he’d be easy enough to catch. The other two, though? That cheeky one and the king’s son? They’re drunk on tales of the Realm’s bravest, most noble knights. They’ve been dreaming of competing in their very first tourney all their lives. Those two aren’t going anywhere.”

“Maybe you’re right. But even so, I’d still be more comfortable locking them up and bringing them to you-know-who right away.”

The first man tsked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Bah,” he said. “I don’t see why you’re always licking that guy’s boots, anyway.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve already got your own castle.”

“Hey. It’s yours, too.”

“I guess . . . ”

“Oh, come on now. Don’t be like that. You know it is. What’s mine is yours, brother.”

“You say that, but it’s the ‘Peachy Knight’s Castle.’ That’s what everyone calls it. That’s how everyone thinks of it.”

“No, no, no. Not at all. What about those signs? The signs with those little cheese drawings on them?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Big whoop.”

The first man sighed. “Well, what do you want me to do? You want me to get the name changed? The paperwork for that – it’s a nightmare. And you know how much I hate paperwork.”

The other man mumbled something too low for Gehry to hear.

“Aw, stop that. Come on, let’s change the subject. Here. Here. Have a peach. See?”

There was a crunching sound, closely followed by a sucking sound.

“Iss gooh.”

“Huh?”

There came the sound of someone swallowing down a large, drippy mouthful of food.

“It’s good.”

“Of course it’s good.”

“Here. You want some . . . you want some cheese?”

“Mmhm. Don’t mind if I do.”

There was a long silence, during which the men in the room crunched and sucked and chewed and swallowed.

Finally, the first man said, “Don’t you worry about a thing, all right? In a day’s time, you-know-who’s gonna be so grateful for what you’ve done, he’ll build a brand-new castle just for you.”

“You think?”

“Definitely,” the first man said. “Now – let’s get on to other matters. Let’s get back to cheering you up. How about a little practice for tomorrow, hmm? What do you say? Shall we have ourselves a good old-fashioned gas-off?”

“Anterior or posterior?”

“Up to you, sir.”

“How about – ”

There was a sudden, loud and long burbling sound. A kind of brrrrruphhfffffffffffffffhfub. It took Gehry a moment to identify it. The smell – like a hunk of hot, sixty-year-old cheese – helped. It was, of course, a blast of gas from one of the men’s posteriors. In other words, a fart.

“Oh, yeah?” the first man said. “Well, how do you like this?”

There was a faint, high-pitched whining sound, like wind squeezing through a crack in a wall: pwweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehht. The sound was accompanied by a sharp, sour scent – once again cheesy, but this time with subtle notes of rotten fruit.

“That,” said the other man, “is the worst thing I’ve ever smelled. Utterly nasty!”

“Please. Yours was far worse. Like it came straight from the devil’s rump!”

“Oh, you’re too kind. Far too kind. Here – a little something for your kindness.”

There was another rough, chunky, burbling sound:

 

bbrrrbbrubbrrbpruurbrrrbhuffffffffhhfhfhfffhffff

 

Out in the corridor, Gehry plugged his nose.

 

Chapter 26

 

Fortunately, there was a wheelbarrow in a pantry off the kitchen. Without it, Bruce wouldn’t have made it more than a few feet with those enormous bags of spices, and it was hard enough as it was. But after a handful of false starts, the boy finally managed to steer the barrow out of the kitchen and all the way to the castle’s entrance. The ground outside was another challenge. Bumpy and sloped, and with only the moonlight to see by, it proved nearly impossible to navigate.

It was right after the bag of cardamom toppled over for a fourth time that Bruce, fed up, turned to Gerwin and said, “Hey, wizard.”

Gerwin continued peering intently toward the distant Forest of Egergrel, as he had been since they had first stepped out onto the castle’s lawn.

“Hey,” Bruce said again.

This time, Gerwin turned. “Me?”

“No,” Bruce said. “The other wizard out here.”

Gerwin shook his head. “Wizard-to–be,” he said. Then he gave a little laugh. “I’m afraid I’m a long ways away from being an official, full-blown wizard.”

“Whatever,” Bruce said. “I’m afraid I’m not gonna be able to haul these sacks all the way out to that forest. Can’t you make them float out there or something? Don’t you have any powers?”

“Unfortunately,” Gerwin said, “I have yet to develop those particular powers.”

“And there’s no chance you can develop them in the next five minutes?”

Gerwin began to retch violently. Bruce set down the barrow as quickly and carefully as he could, then hurried out of the way, sure the wizard-to-be was about to vomit. But several seconds passed, and nothing came out of the boy’s mouth.

At which point Bruce realized that Gerwin wasn’t sick at all. He was laughing. Yes, apparently Bruce’s question – asked in total and complete seriousness – was the funniest thing the wizard-to-be had ever heard. The boy shook with such forceful laughter that his baggy brown robe flapped about him, looking as if it were being blown by a strong wind.

Bruce grabbed the bag of cardamom and lugged it back up into place. Then he took hold of the barrow’s handles and began to wheel it forward again.

Gerwin lagged behind, laughing up a storm. But as soon as he was able to get himself under control, he hurried to catch up with Bruce. “You’re funny,” he told him.

“You’re funny-looking,” Bruce muttered back.

“Ugh, I know,” Gerwin said. He frowned down at his robe. “They make all of us wear these things. So ugly. They used to be better. Much better. You wanna know what the robes used to look like?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He had no intention of talking to the crazy person responsible for sending him on this insane errand about fashion. Or about anything else, for that matter. He vowed to remain silent for the rest of the night.

That vow, however, didn’t last long. Two minutes after he had made it, Bruce’s dry, hollow stomach began to growl more than ever. Desperate to get his mind off his hunger, he started the conversation back up again.

“This is crazy, you know,” he told Gerwin. “I mean, it probably isn’t even going to work.”

“Oh, it’ll work,” Gerwin said, once again smiling that sleepy, knowing smile of his. “And believe me – in about twenty hours, you’re gonna be really, really grateful it did.”

Bruce wanted to demand that Gerwin tell him how he could possibly know such stuff, and then ask him why, if he really did know it, he didn’t just go ahead and tell Bruce how it all turned out, seeing as then maybe he would be a little more motivated to haul these giant bags of spices all the way out to the forest. But something about the wizard-to-be’s smile let Bruce know that the boy wasn’t going to share a single detail about the future. So he tightened his grip on the barrow’s handles and said, “Okay. All right. Fine.” He sighed. “What did the robes used to look like?”

 

Chapter 27

 

Those eyes. They were unlike any eyes that Kinsmere had ever seen. They made his heart race. They made his lungs ache. They made his brain whirl and his spine quiver and got things stirring in his gut that he never even knew had been down there, just waiting to be stirred. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t dare. Just then, he felt he would’ve been content to stay there, hunched down in that tiny doorway looking into those green, green eyes, forever.

But the owner of those eyes also had a mouth, and she used it now to let Kinsmere know that she preferred to do otherwise.

“May I come in?” she whispered to him.

It took Kinsmere a moment to get his legs working, but then he stood up, backed away, and stammered something in the green-eyed girl’s direction. “Um, bahhh, yes – yes, please, come – uhh, in.”

The girl crawled through the room’s tiny entrance and, once inside, closed the door behind her. When she climbed to her feet, Kinsmere saw that those brilliant green eyes were a head or so higher than his own.

“Where are your companions?” the girl said.

Kinsmere hardly heard her. He was busy wondering how a face that contained such glorious eyes could ever become as soiled as it was.

“Sir.”

This jolted Kinsmere out of his reverie. Most of the way, at least. “Huh?” he said.

“Your companions,” said the girl. “Where have they gone?”

“Oh, I – ” Kinsmere looked around the empty room. “They’re just – they’ll – ”

“Never mind,” the girl said. “You can fill them in later.”

“Fill them in?”

The girl crossed the room, closing the distance between herself and Kinsmere with two long, strong strides. She reached out and, despite the darkness, found the boy’s hands easily. She held his fingers in her own, and the contact, slight as it was, sent pins and needles sweeping through Kinsmere’s wrists, over his elbows, up his arms.

“We’ve been waiting for you a long time,” the girl said.

“For – for – ”

Those eyes. They were so close now, so dazzlingly bright – like a pair of full, green moons. Kinsmere was once again having trouble concentrating.

“For me?” he finally managed.

“Yes,” the girl told him. “For you and your companions.” She gave Kinsmere’s fingers a squeeze. “It was hard to keep our hope alive, but we knew one day King Beribahn would send help. We knew one day knights – good knights, noble knights – would come and deal with our disgraceful master.”

“Oh, well, you see, we’re not – not actually – ”

“You’re our only hope,” said the girl.

Kinsmere blinked up at those eyes. “Right,” he said. “Yeah, um, okay. And who – you keep saying we.”

“Yes,” the girl said. “Myself and the rest of the castle’s servants. All of us. We were brought here, tricked into joining the castle’s staff with promises of great pay and wonderful working conditions. Or, in some cases . . . ” The girl’s grip on Kinsmere’s hands loosened, slipped. “In some cases we were simply taken from our families and our homes.”

Kinsmere was slowly overcome by a sadness, a sort of frustrated ache. But this wasn’t the frustration of, say, losing an argument with Bruce, and it wasn’t the frustration of being barred from participating in the jousts and sword-fights that took place in the tournaments and practice rooms of the castle back home, either. This was a different feeling, something new. Just then, Kinsmere couldn’t figure anything out about it besides the fact that it had brought about by her, the girl.

“That boy,” the girl said now. “The one who brought you and your fellow knights here to your room earlier today? He is one of those who was taken. He used to live beside the Oolga River, and one day, while playing along its banks, he was spotted by the Peachy Knight, and that rogue – he scooped him up, brought him here, and forced him into this wretched servitude.”

Kinsmere’s head began to move from side to side. “That’s . . . ” he said, taking a moment to look for some other word, one the girl hadn’t just used, but finally giving up and saying it: “That’s wretched.”

“Yes,” the girl said. “It is. And that is why we need you. You and your companions. You must do something. You must put an end to this evil man’s reign. You must free us from this unjust imprisonment. That,” she said, “is what knights do.”

Kinsmere wasn’t a knight. And while this fact didn’t prevent the boy from believing himself capable of competing against the Peachy Knight in a joust or a swordfight, he didn’t see how he could possibly do what the green-eyed girl was asking of him.

Put an end to this evil man’s reign.

How? By doing what?

Free us from this unjust imprisonment.

Were there instructions for such a thing? A bewitched orb to destroy? A document to steal? A person – perhaps an adult – to go and fetch for help?

Kinsmere didn’t know. But with the girl standing there, clutching his hands and aiming those big, beautiful, bright green eyes right at him, none of that mattered.

Giving her fingers a gentle squeeze, Kinsmere said, “We will.”

 

Chapter 28

 

The gas-off went on for several minutes before the men finally declared the contest a tie and called it quits. Gehry couldn’t believe how much hot, smelly air the pair had been able to produce.

“Bring that power to the tourney tomorrow,” one of the men now said, “and you’ll be unbeatable.”

“Unless,” said the other, “it’s you who’s doing the beating.”

The men had a long laugh over this, then agreed that they should probably go to their rooms and get some sleep.

Gehry was too busy trying to figure out what a posterior gas-off could possibly have to do with a tournament to realize that the men in the room were headed directly toward him. It caught him off guard when the first of them stepped through the doorway and out into the corridor. If Gehry hadn’t already been pressed against the wall, the boy certainly would’ve been spotted.

He stood there rigid while the second man emerged, hoping he would follow the first down the other side of the corridor. He did, and as soon as he felt it safe, Gehry slipped into the room the men had been talking in and hid himself in the darkness.

The sounds of the men’s voices faded, and shortly after that the clip-clop of their boots disappeared, too. Only then did Gehry let himself stand up. He looked around the room, and in the far corner saw a pale silver glow – the faintest trace of moonlight.

Gehry hurried toward the light and, there, found a narrow opening in the wall. He poked his head through the gap and looked down upon what was, just then, the world’s most gorgeous sight: a toilet.

Ninety seconds after he went in, Gehry emerged from the bathroom. Crossing the outer room, he paused in the doorway to listen for voices or footsteps. Hearing neither, he stepped into the corridor and headed for his room, running through everything he had heard the men say as he went, not wanting to forget a single thing, needing to tell his friends that something – and something big – was afoot.

 

Chapter 29

 

In the end, Bruce and Gerwin didn’t have to venture into the Forest of Egergrel. They found the troll-giant out in the field, enjoying the cool, star-studded night. The boys approached him cautiously, but of this there proved to be no need. It almost seemed as if Egergrel had been expecting them. Spotting the boys, he gave them a mellow little wave and said, “Hey.”

Bruce let go of the handles of the wheelbarrow, which hit the ground with a thud and began to tip. He didn’t even bother trying to save the bags. The spices spilled, a wave of cardamom seeds washing over the grass. A light breeze blew a handful of loose cinnamon toward the troll-giant.

Egergrel sniffed the air. “What’s that?”

“This,” Gerwin said, swinging an arm out toward the heaps of spices beside Bruce, “is what you’ve been waiting for all your life.”

 

Chapter 30

 

In his eagerness to get back to his friends, Gehry had forgotten that he had forgotten how to get back to their room. There was nothing for him to do but wander aimlessly around the castle and hope that he stumbled upon the proper corridor, the right tiny door. But the corridors were countless and frustratingly uniform, one seemingly indistinguishable from the next. Gehry wandered so long that the sky began to grow light, and only then, with the night about to end, did he find a tiny wooden door.

Gehry made his way toward the door, his eyelids drooped, his body heavier and heavier with every step. He was trying to remember if anyone had mentioned what time the tournament was set to start, hoping he might be able to squeeze in at least a few minutes of sleep before he had to get ready, when the door at the end of the corridor swung open. Gehry expected to see Kinsmere or Bruce, or maybe even both of them, perhaps heading out to search for their inexplicably missing pal. Instead he saw a tall, dirt-covered girl crawl into the corridor and climb to her feet.

Gehry just about collapsed. Because this wasn’t it. He still hadn’t found the right room.

He was looking around the corridor, seeing if there was a spot he could curl up in, when someone else crawled out of the doorway.

It was Kinsmere.

Gehry watched his friend get to his feet and then bow to the tall girl. Kinsmere dipped so low that his hair brushed the stone floor. It was a very knightly thing to do, and it left Gehry greatly confused. His confusion was quickly compounded when, after leaving Kinsmere behind, the girl spotted him, Gehry, and hurrying over, took his hands lightly in her own and placed a gentle kiss on his knuckles. She rushed off, then, before Gehry had a chance to ask what in the name of the Realm was going on.

A moment later, Kinsmere was by Gehry’s side. “Where’d you guys go?” he said.

“Guys?” Gehry asked.

“Yeah,” Kinsmere said. He began to point at something over Gehry’s shoulder, but stopped before he had even lifted his arm high enough to do so. “Wait. Who’s that?”

Gehry turned, and saw Bruce coming toward them, accompanied by a kid dressed in a big brown bag of a robe.

“Where’d you go?” Bruce called over to Gehry.

“I had to find a bathroom,” Gehry said.

Bruce’s face scrunched up in confusion. He jerked his chin toward the corner, the one directly next to their room’s tiny door. “There’s one right there.”

Gehry squinted over at the wall. “Seriously?” he cried.

“Excuse me.” This was Kinsmere, eyeing the boy who had shown up with Bruce. “Who are you?”

“Gerwin,” the boy said, as if that explained everything.

“He can see the future,” Bruce told his friends.

“Huh?” said Gehry.

“He can what?” Kinsmere said.

Gerwin gave the boys a sleepy, knowing smile. Then he said, “You all have news to share. Important news. But you won’t be able to get it out in time. You have six seconds. Now five . . . four . . . ”

“What the – ”

“Wait!”

“You guys – ”

“ . . . three . . . ”

“I heard – ”

“We went – ”

“The girl – ”

“ . . . two . . . ”

“Hold on!”

“You hold – ”

“We have to – ”

“ . . . one . . . ”

“Just – ”

“But – ”

“If you – ”

Gerwin placed his hands over his ears just before the bells began to ring.

The ringing of the bells was soon joined by the barking of the dogs.

After which came the pounding of the pots and the rattling of the buckets of rocks.

Then came the people. Where they had come from, the boys couldn’t have said. But suddenly there they were, swarms of them, pouring out of nowhere, piling up, all of them in a frenzy as they made their preparations for the Peachy-slash-Cheesy Tournament of Champions.

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Text copyright © 2020 by Jarrett Lerner

All right reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

 

PART III: Encounters in the Night

 

Chapter 18

 

The boys went to bed, but only Kinsmere fell asleep.

Almost immediately he sank into a dream. The dream was about a tournament, a sort of collage of the countless contests he had attended as a child, always stuck on the sidelines, clapping and cheering for his favorite knights, desperate to get in on the action himself.

Kinsmere’s father was there. The words he had said at the boys’ send-off feast boomed in the background, providing a kind of accompaniment to the dream’s various scenes.

Don’t be cocky, Sir Colton had said. Don’t be foolish. And don’t do anything to make me regret agreeing to send you out there in the first place.

If you’re half the man I was at your age, you’ll be fine.

Kinsmere was up on horseback, the butt-end of a lance tucked in his armpit. He was galloping toward another knight, big and ugly and sticky with peach juice and –

POW!

Kinsmere knocked the guy square in the chest, sending him toppling off his horse and crashing to the ground.

Even in his sleep, a grin curled onto the boy’s lips.

Over on the opposite side of the boy’s cold, cramped room, leaning back against the wall, Gehry sat with open eyes.

Bruce found this enormously frustrating. Laid out on his plank-bed, he had been waiting impatiently for his friends to fall asleep. Kinsmere had drifted off quickly enough, but Gehry – it seemed he was so uncomfortable that he wasn’t even trying to get any sleep. Bruce was close to giving up, to climbing down off his plank and just telling Gehry what he wanted to do. And if Gehry tried to stop him? If he made a fuss or tried to hold Bruce back physically?

Fortunately for Bruce, he didn’t end up having to answer such tricky questions. Seconds before he swung his legs off his plank, Gehry began to squirm around. Bruce shut his eyes, assuming his friend was finally trying to get cozy on the stone floor. Once it was quiet again, Bruce opened his eyes and looked back down, but he couldn’t find Gehry anywhere.

Rubbing at his eyes, trying to get them better adjusted to the darkness, Bruce scanned the room. The floor was empty. And the tiny door – it was open.

Gehry was gone.

Bruce sat up on his plank. For a moment, he forgot all about his plans. He only wondered where Gehry was going.

It didn’t take him long to figure it out. He thought back to before, to when the boys were sharing that loaf of bread. Gehry hadn’t taken any himself. He hadn’t even asked for any. He had eaten the soggy bit that Kinsmere threw to him, but no more.

Why?

Bruce nearly laughed out loud when he realized that Gehry had had the same idea as him all along. Careful not to wake Kinsmere, he got off his plank, dropped down onto his hands and knees, and crawled through the door. Out in the corridor, back up on his feet, Bruce pulled the small door shut behind him. Then he went to meet Gehry in the Peachy Knight’s kitchen.

 

Chapter 19

 

Bruce was wrong about Gehry. He had no interest in returning to the Peachy Knight’s kitchen. Unless, that is, the kitchen had a bathroom in it. If there were a cozy little chamber tucked away, say, behind that giant wheel of cheese, then Gehry would have been extremely interested in a visit.

He had to pee. He had to pee far worse than he had ever had to pee before. What’s more, he had had to pee for several hours now. His stomach was in knots, and the lower half of his body had long ago begun to go numb.

He made his way down one corridor after another. But it was too dark in the castle to see much of anything. The handful of torches still lit hadn’t been fed in hours, and their flames cast such a dim light that they seemed to make it harder, not easier, to see. Gehry was forced to rely on his nose as opposed to his eyes, sniffing about the castle’s corridors for a bathroom’s telltale scents.

As he did, he began to think about all of the knights and knights-to-be in the great and glorious history of the Realm, the countless stories he had been told by his lesson masters and the innumerable tales he had read in his favorite books. He had marveled over each and every one of those stories, lovingly read and reread all those highly detailed account of the great men’s adventures and deeds. Yet the boy couldn’t recall a single instance in which a knight or even a knight-to-be had been struck by the need to pee. Had he missed something during his lessons? Was he different from everybody else? Had all those brave and noble knights rode around defending the Realm in dirty pants?

Gehry didn’t know, but if he didn’t stop thinking about it, he was going to have dirty pants. So he put all these extraneous thoughts out of his head and focused on finding a place to pee.

 

Chapter 20

First things first, out in the corridor, Bruce stopped by the bathroom. Conveniently, there was one located right outside the boys’ room. Bruce had noticed the chamber earlier. Or, it should be said, his nose had noticed it. For purposes of privacy, Bruce supposed, the chamber had been tucked into the corner of the corridor, out of reach of the nearest torches and thus enveloped in shadow.

With his bathroom business taken care of, Bruce set off for the kitchen. Here, his nose was once again hard at work. It picked through the layers of scent trapped within the castle walls, seeking out the smells of dough and cheese, cinnamon and cardamom.

It wasn’t long before Bruce found himself a few steps from the kitchen doorway. He paused beside it, closed his eyes, and sent a brief prayer up to whatever gods oversaw fresh bread and deliciously stinky cheese. Please, ran the prayer. Please don’t let me turn this corner and find they’ve locked everything up for the night. I need some cheese. I need it bad.

Bruce turned the corner – and his knees gave out beneath him. He had to clutch the nearest wall in order to keep from toppling over. Because nothing, not a single morsel of food, had been put away. If anything, there seemed to be more to eat in the kitchen than there had been before. It was better than Bruce could have possibly hoped for. The mountains of sugar and piles of peaches, the gigantic bags of spices and great big gobs of dough, the heaps of vegetables and mounds of dried meats and, most importantly, that colossal wheel of cheese. Every last bit of it was there, just begging to be consumed by a famished, empty-stomached boy named Bruce.

He went for the cheese first, swerving around a bunch of turnips and grabbing a fresh, still-warm loaf of bread on his way. As he tore a hunk of bread off the loaf, steam poured out and heated his palm. It was a beautiful sensataion, and it made Bruce’s head spin.

By the time he finally reached the cheese, Bruce looked more like a rabid dog than a hungry boy, and he was just about to dive mouth-first at that massive wheel of gooey goodness when a voice stopped him short.

“You mustn’t do that.”

Gehry?

That was Bruce’s first thought. His second thought, however, was, No. Gehry wouldn’t say ‘mustn’t.’ Who says ‘mustn’t,’ anyway?

The realization that the voice behind him didn’t belong to his friend was a powerful one, momentarily shoving aside Bruce’s hunger and replacing it with another feeling – fear. Frantically searching his brain for an excuse as to what he was doing in the Peachy Knight’s kitchen in the middle of the night, Bruce slowly, cautiously turned around.

 

Chapter 21

 

In his dream, Kinsmere had once again knocked the Peachy Knight off his mount. Enraged, embarrassed, the rogue knight climbed to his feet, spat at his horse, and tossed his jousting lance aside. He reached for his sword, then, gripping the hilt in a big, angry fist, and unsheathing it with a single fierce tug.

The slice of steel letting go of leather sang through the air, and before the sound had even ceased ringing in Kinsmere’s ears, the Peachy Knight charged.

But the boy was ready.

Well before the rogue knight made it within striking range, the boy had his own sword drawn. He stood there, waiting, his muscles tensed and prepared to send him dodging this way or that. And when the blade finally came swinging toward him, Kinsmere leapt back, swung his own sword upwards, and blocked the attack.

Steel struck steel with a resounding clank. The Peachy Knight was surprised that he had been thwarted, and Kinsmere didn’t waste a second taking advantage of it. He threw his weight forward, driving his shoulder into the rogue knight’s chest, sending the big man staggering backwards.

The move bought him only a few seconds, but that was all Kinsmere needed to ready himself for the next attack. He got into position, knees slightly bent, muscles tensed, the hilt of his sword loose and maneuverable in his hand.

Meanwhile, the Peachy Knight had regained his balance, and now he came rushing at Kinsmere again, this time raising his sword high over his head, preparing to bring it bearing down like a battle-axe.

Kinsmere swung his own weapon upwards, putting everything he had behind it. Blade met blade, and the devastating force of the Peachy Knight’s blow traveled down the length of the boy’s sword, jolting the thin bones of his fingers and wrists.

Strangely, though, there was no clank. When the rogue knight’s sword struck Kinsmere’s, it made more of a thud – a soft, almost hollow sound, like knuckles rapping on a door.

But there was no time to worry about that – the Peachy Knight already had his sword raised up high over his head again.

Kinsmere knew he couldn’t get his own weapon up in time to block the blade. All he could do was dive out of the way.

So he dove, his body hitting the ground with a soft, hollow knocking sound.

He looked back in time to see the Peachy Knight’s sword hack into the ground. It sunk several inches down into the dirt with a soft, hollow knocking sound.

Kinsmere blinked.

He opened his eyes in darkness. It was thick, close, and pressed down on his body like an itchy blanket on a hot night.

It took him several seconds to remember where he was. At which point he looked around for his friends and found that they weren’t there.

“Guys?” he asked the darkness, even though he knew he was alone.

Of course there came no answer.

But a moment later, there was a soft, hollow knock at the room’s tiny door.

 

Chapter 22

 

Gehry still hadn’t found a bathroom, and now he was lost in the castle. He had started out memorizing each of the turns he was taking, figuring he would be able to retrace his steps to get back to his room. But now he couldn’t remember whether he had taken two lefts and then a right, or a right and then two lefts.

“Ungh,” he groaned, adjusting his body to see if he could more comfortably accommodate his expanding bladder.

He couldn’t. But a moment later, he noticed something hopeful down at the far end of the corridor – a soft glow spilling out of a doorway.

Carefully, Gehry headed toward the light. And he had nearly made it to the doorway when a smell, terrible as any he had ever encountered, wafted out to assault his senses. It smelled like cheese and farts, and like cheesy farts. As big of an emergency as Gehry was dealing with, his good manners were deeply ingrained, and he waited with as much patience as he could muster for a turn in the chamber. It wasn’t long before he heard the voices.

There were two of them, both low and rough and far more similar than they were distinct. He listened for a moment, trying to make out  what the voices were saying, when he heard something that stopped him cold. One of those voices – it had just said something about him.

Or so it seemed.

The king’s son. That was what Gehry thought he had heard.

He leaned his head a little closer to the doorway.

“Do you not understand the enormity of that?” the same voice said. And then he said it again: “The king’s son. King Beribahn’s one and only child.”

 

Chapter 23

 

Turning around, Bruce didn’t find an angry Peachy Knight behind him. About that, he was glad. And he was even gladder to see that the person who was behind him was just a boy. He looked about Bruce’s age, or maybe even a little younger, and was dressed in a baggy brown robe-type thing. But despite the large, loose-fitting garment, Bruce could see that the boy was fairly scrawny. Which meant that if he tried to stand in the way of Bruce and that glorious, enormous wheel of cheese, Bruce could probably overpower him.

The boy, however, didn’t seem all that inclined to use force. He simply stood there in his silly robe, regarding Bruce with a sleepy, and somehow knowing, smile.

“It’s frustrating, I know,” the boy said. “But you mustn’t have another bite to eat tonight. It’ll ruin your appetite for tomorrow. And believe me, tomorrow you will need your appetite more than ever.”

Believe me? thought Bruce. Who was this kid? And who was he to act like he knew the first thing about Bruce’s appetite?

As if he had been listening in on Bruce’s thoughts, the boy said, “I am Gerwin, a wizard-to-be, and I know much more than the first thing about your appetite. And I am telling you that you must resist temptation tonight, for it is imperative that you be ravenous tomorrow morning. The safety of yourself and your friends depends upon it.”

“Wait,” said Bruce. “Hold on. How – ”

“How could I possibly know all this?” Gerwin interrupted.

Bruce, who had been about to ask exactly that, could only say, “Ah, yeah.”

“As I have mentioned,” the boy said, “I am a wizard-to-be, and during my quest thus far I have developed some relatively powerful visionary capabilities.”

“You mean – ”

“I know what you’re going to say before you say it, yes. It requires a great deal of concentration, but I can maintain such levels of focus for many minutes at a time. I can also see further into the future. Earlier this afternoon, for instance, I knew that you would be visiting the kitchen tonight, and I knew that, once here, you would be too distracted by that gigantic wheel of cheese to realize the true purpose of your visit.”

“The true purpose of my visit?” asked Bruce.

Gerwin’s sleepy smile livened up. “The true purpose of your visit, yes.”

“Which is . . . ” Bruce said.

But the boy just went on smiling.

“Um,” said Bruce. “Were you gonna tell me, or . . . ?”

Gerwin gave his head a single shake.

“No?”

He shook his head once more.

“Why not?”

Gerwin stiffened a finger, then ticked it from side to side.

“You’re not supposed to?”

He nodded.

“Oh-kay,” Bruce said. He looked around the kitchen before turning back to the boy. “Could you give me a hint, at least?”

Gerwin considered Bruce’s request. His expression became grave, his eyebrows and lips scrunching toward the middle of his face. But just as suddenly as it had disappeared, that sleepy, knowing smile returned. The wizard-to-be said, “It’s never wise to cross a troll.”

“Well, yeah,” said Bruce. “Everyone knows that.” He thought of Kinsmere. “Or should,” he added. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“Give it a second,” the boy said.

“Huh?”

“Just – it’ll come to you.”

“What will come to – ” Bruce stopped, a series of connections having just been made in his brain. His eyes popped wide. His head shook back and forth. “No,” Bruce said. “No way. Not me. I can’t do that.”

Gerwin, the wizard-to-be, simply went on smiling.

______

Text copyright © 2020 by Jarrett Lerner

All right reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.