I’m back. And without further ado, here you go.
Jack Mackenzie was sitting at his breakfast table, preparing to toast a bagel, when he heard the doorbell ring. Taking a last look at the bread product, he arose with a wistful sigh and trudged to the doorbell, half-heartedly combing down what was left of his hair with one hand.
It was a knight on a white horse. Quite a young one, mid-twenties or so, with silver armour and a shield emblazoned with a golden crow.
“Hello there,” said Jack.
“Greetings,” said the knight.
“How can I help you?”
“Be you Jack Mackenzie?”
Jack nodded, thinking longingly of his bagel. “That I am.”
“I am questing for the Grail. Would you accompany me?”
Jack shook his head, sad and slow. “’Fraid not. Family responsibilities. You know how it is.”
Insofar as it was possible to tell through the twenty-three pounds of metal covering his head, the knight looked a tad disappointed. “Ah, yes. Say no more. Well, if you’re really sure, then…”
“I am,” said Jack, firmly. “Good luck out there.”
“Thanks.” The knight unholstered his lance, clicked his spurs, and was off down the driveway at eighty miles an hour, leaving only a small heap of horse droppings to mark his passing. Jack picked up the local newspaper that had been left at his doorstep (despite plaintive requests not to) and gingerly scooped it into the geraniums.
Jack returned to the sanctuary of his kitchen, and put his bagel in the toaster. He began to slice some cheese in preparation for its arrival, nice and slowly. His son, William (age 14, shoe size 10), announced his arrival at this point with his traditional fanfare of banging down the stairs at mach 8, ricocheting off every available surface as many times as he could, and Jack gave a small, half-subconscious moan at the sound.
Ding-dong, ding-dong went the doorbell. “I’ll get it,” said William, headed off before he could invade the kitchen. There was the familiar squeak-thump of the door opening, a low mutter of voices, and then the predictable call of “DAD! It’s for YOU!” Jack popped his bagel from the toaster, half-toasted, and abandoned it once more.
It was a dragon, a silvery one with reddish markings and bright yellow cat’s-eyes. Faint hints of sulphurous vapors wafted from the corners of its mouth, and the air above the driveway it had disturbed in landing was a-shimmer with heat.
“Are ye,” it asked, voice a grumble of gravel deeper than a coal mine’s shaft, “Jack the Mackenzie?”
“Yes,” said Jack Mackenzie.
It squinted at him. “Will ye come to the high mountains, in quest of ancient treasure hidden ‘neath mountain’s roots?”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “I’m retired.”
The dragon blinked. “How do ye feed yer kin then?”
“I do postal work.”
The dragon’s shrug displaced as much air as the passing of a 747. “So be it then; I shall find another. Fare ye well.” It took off, and the jetstream it left flattened the neighbour’s picket fence and nearly overturned Jack’s station wagon.
Jack trudged back to the kitchen. In his short period of absence, William had prepared and eaten what looked to be three bowls of cereal, each a different brand, and two entire apples. “Growing again?” he asked.
“You’re such a dork, dad.”
He took this in stride, and pushed the bagel back into the toaster, then extracted a plastic canister of cream cheese from the fridge. He pulled out a knife from the cutlery drawer. Then the doorbell rang again, and he swore very softly to himself. Saturday mornings. It was always Saturday bloody mornings.
He answered the door, William tagging along behind him. It was a specter, a hooded and robed form just out of synch of this side of reality. A butterfly flew through its torso as Jack watched.
“!&#^@*235!27867^^^%$6^%q$” said the specter.
Jack blinked. “Ah. Sorry, my 39@!*& is a little rusty. Do you mind if I speak English?”
“^*#^$(58233587!&*%#><” replied the specter, amiably enough.
“Thank you. Now excuse me, what is it?”
*&^#$*@$>?:{>:>^87>:{@$45’;242’34’;@#<$@#<:@>}232.:$%>#>\\” said the specter, somewhat lengthily.
“Ah. I’m sorry, I’m no longer up for that sort of thing. I do postal work now.” The specter looked dejected, or at least the hem of its robe sagged and a low-pitched hum filled the morning air.
“I’ll do it, dad,” volunteered William.
Jack frowned at him. “I think you’re a bit young for this sort of thing, Billy.”
William scowled. “I hate that name. No one calls me that name but you. Why do you keep calling me that? And you were younger than me when you started!”
“All right, all right, all right. Go on. That is, if it’s all right with Mr. ^$& here.”
“(3&#^2&$*4)” opined ^$&.
“Great! See ya later, dad.”
“Take care. Don’t take any free gifts ‘cause there’s no such thing, offer fair trade, and look both ways crossing the road.” Jack watched his son and the specter walk down the driveway, then hastily added “And don’t trust witches, faeries, or wizards!”
“I know, dad!”
Warning delivered, Jack headed back to the toaster, from which a burning, festering smell emanated. With a sinking heart, he pressed the eject button, and found his worst fears confirmed. The bagel lay before him, charred and cindered as a volcano’s heart. Could this morning get any more inconvenient?
The doorbell answered him, smartly on time. Jack swore, quietly yet savagely, then got up again, leaving the ruins of his breakfast to glimmer malevolently at him from the toaster.
He knew something was wrong as he approached the door. Absolute silence lay on the other side. Stifling worry, he opened it, and no one was there. A parchment post-it note was attached to the front of the door. Jack yanked it down and read it.
We have the boy. Leave 3 thimblefuls of mortal sweat & tears & happiness at the curb of Main and Thomas Ave. on Sunday sundown, or he gets it.
Jack read the note three times, each time his brow furrowing a little deeper, his eyebrows slouching a little lower. Right. So that was how it was going to be, eh?
He went back into the kitchen, examining its contents with a ready eye. Then, with surprisingly quick movements, he plucked the bagel from the toaster, the cheese slicer from the cheese, and the cream cheese from the counter. He tucked them into his pockets and walked outside, slamming the door behind him.
Someone had a lot of nerve if they thought they could take his son like that, without so much as a by-your-leave. Even more if they thought he couldn’t take care of it himself nowadays. Besides, he didn’t have a lot of tears or happiness to spare in these busy times. Sweat was still plentiful, though.
At the end of his driveway Jack’s walk took on a complicated twist, as if he were trying to walk sideways in both directions at once while still moving forwards, something John Cleese might have managed but would foil any other human on the planet. About a twinkling of a moment after he began this, he vanished without fanfare.
Orange St. was much prettier when you were looking at it properly. From this side of perspective, Jack’s home (a rustic and well-kept cabin) was in a tidy forest glade, alongside a babbling brook that murmured gleefully to itself as it played with a fallen tree.
“Hold any further callers,” Jack told the brook. “I’m busy today.” It splashed insolently at him, sputtering nonsense and agreement.
Jack set off. Down the forest trails he went, twisting and winding every way, taking the left-right-left and the left-left-left-right, and then the trick question that was the right-right-left-right-stand-still-for-five-seconds-and-walk-backwards-three-paces. That one could catch you up if you weren’t careful. Then he came to the tree-stump that blocked the path, bigger than his house, said “Argulbathanara” to it very carefully in a high-pitched voice, and walked into its knothole.
There was a surprisingly large amount of room inside it. A whole city, for one thing, a warren of brownies and other miniature faeries that would barely come up to Jack’s calves. The polite thing to do would be to adjust your size accordingly and be a respectable guest, but Jack was in a hurry and made haste, taking the spiraling grand staircase downwards thirty steps at a time, sending the pedestrians scattering away. He would have to apologize the next time he came through.
At the bottom of the stair (which was longer than it looked) was the river. It was deep and dark and a deep dark peat smell wafted up from it. The dock Jack stood on was ancient wood, the great old tap-root of the stump, and it creaked and bent in the water, stronger than steel. Jack walked down the root and stood before the ferryman who stood at the end. His ferry was a modest punt.
“Will you pay your fare this time, Jack?” asked the ferryman politely, in the voice of an aged woman.
“No thank you,” said Jack. “I talk too much for it to be convenient.”
“Such a little thing,” sighed the ferryman, in the dulcet tones of a young maiden, “all it is sound.”
“My voice stays,” said Jack. “Besides, you always love seeing how I get out of it.”
“Very well,” said the ferryman, rough-throated as a giant in his prime. “But one day, that voice will be mine. You know the rules: pay the toll or float ‘till the thirst or the river takes you.” A chuckle, a cackling goblin-laugh. “But I can’t wait to see how you try and get out of it this time. You know I can’t be fooled the same way twice.”
“As always.”
Jack stepped onto the punt and the voyage began. At first they moved slowly, oh so slowly. The dock drifted away behind them with the speed of a departing snail. Jack tried to catch the exact moment the current took them, but as always, he missed it. One instant they were idling in the water, the next sweeping along, earthen walls a blur, the fumes of the river whipping at him like a lash.
“Your destination is near-reached, Jack,” called the ferryman in the rock-grit voice of a dwarf. “Now pay the toll.”
“Alas, ferryman, I shall not,” replied Jack. He said the same words every time.
If he could see the eyes under the hood, he’d guess they would be twinkling. “Then on you go forever and ever – unless you think you can escape.”
Jack grinned into the teeth of the wind. Always the old rituals. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bagel, its charred rim biting at nothing. Then he snatched at its center, faster than a cobra, and pulled away something clenched in his fist, knuckles white with the strain of holding it.
“What is that?” asked the ferryman, dull curiosity in an ogre’s brutal tones.
“A bagel,” said Jack. “They normally look a bit different. I took something important out of this one just now.” And he slapped his palm against the hull of the boat and let slip the bagel’s hole.
“Oh NO!” laughed the ferryman in a little boy’s shrill squeak, water flooding the punt in an instant’s instant. “You tricky fox! That’s almost as good as the time that –” water made its next words indistinct, and Jack left the wreckage behind at a breast-stroke’s pace, holding his breath as tight as he could against the intoxicating vapour of the river. Light glimmered from a shore just ahead, and he hauled himself out of the water just as his vision began to swim grainily in front of his eyeballs. He spat on the grassy bank just to be safe, glancing back over his shoulder. The merest sip of the alcohol that permeated the stream would put you out for a week. A mouthful would leave you lying for a century. Jack had had that happen once, and that was more than enough.
A thought struck him, and he checked his bagel. Its hole was missing, and it looked forlorn, as if it knew it were no longer a proper bagel. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it was you or me.” Then he smeared a little cream cheese on it and ate it. He needed to keep his strength up.
Jack walked onwards, up away from the river, not looking back. He passed through a dense forest, much more dark and sinister than the one that stood in the same place as Orange St. There were no paths here, and the trees spun and twirled to block his path when they thought he wasn’t looking, but Jack knew their tricks and whistled sharp and loud whenever he saw them creeping up on him, sending them flinching back and waving their branches in a tizzy. Before long they thinned out, and he left the woods muttering and grumbling in his wake, much put out by his refusal to lie still and become fertilizer.
At the end of the woods lay a barrow-mound, its entrance lit by a blazing bonfire. And in front of the barrow-mound was a great troll. It stared at him.
“I suppose you aren’t going to let me pass,” said Jack.
“No,” said the troll.
“Do you have a riddle?”
“No,” said the troll.
Jack frowned. “Then will you fight me?”
“No,” said the troll.
Jack thought for a moment. “Will you prevent me from entering?” he inquired.
“No,” said the troll sarcastically, and it unsheathed a gigantic sword from its belt, narrowing its eyes.
“It was worth a shot,” admitted Jack. He drew out his cheese-slicer.
The troll smirked as it compared the weapons, eyes traveling from its own six-foot blade to the six-inch length of jack’s implement. “No,” it repeated, smugness filling the word.
“Bewitchment, I take it?”
The troll tapped its chest as it stepped forwards, sword hanging idly in one hand. “No.”
“Ah. A pleasure to meet you, No, and a greater to know your name. Names are important.” Jack waved the slicer. “Tell me, do you know what the name of this is?”
“No,” confessed the troll. It hefted the sword overhead, looming over Jack.
“Would you not rename your sword ‘Cheddar’?” asked Jack, speaking very quickly now.
“No,” said the troll, a bit of puzzlement entering its tone. Its blade came screaming down with the force of a diving jet plane and impacted Jack’s cheese slicer, which skimmed off a good quarter of its length.
The troll’s eyes unsquinted, nearly bulging from their sockets as it examined the length of the blade. “No!”
“You can’t be not really not named ‘Cheshire,’” added Jack, lunging forwards.
“No!” denied the troll in furious bemusement, and then it roared as Jack’s cheese slicer whipped through its leg, which came away in neat and tidy sheets. Jack danced circles around Cheshire as it flailed, slicing and slicing until sweat ran down his face and Cheshire was a heap of thin troll-slices, still grumbling and rumbling in anger.
“A pleasure, Cheshire,” said Jack, wiping his cheese slicer on his pants leg – more for show than anything else; he feared the troll’s blood had corroded the metal beyond recall.
“No,” muttered the heap. It jiggled grotesquely.
Jack shrugged. “Have it your way, then.” He walked onwards and into the barrow-mound, beneath a massive archway of slab-sided stones, snatching up a burning piece of kindling from the troll’s bonfire to serve as a torch as he went.
The mound’s pathway twisted and turned, and soon the disgruntled grousing of Cheshire was left far behind him. Dark paintings loomed and leered on the wall in turns, bison and bulls, men and monkeys, swords and stallions, war and women. Jack examined them with a keen yet idle eye as he passed. The kindling burned lower, and lower, and then, just as it was about to scorch Jack’s fingers, the final corner of the corridor was turned and he was in the barrow’s heart. The withered corpse of some or another long-dead faerie king lay on a slab, and in an iron cage just before it sat William. “Hey, dad,” he said.
“Hello Billy. Know anything about what’s guarding you?”
“Just some troll. Haven’t seen anyone else since I got stuffed in here.”
Jack inspected the cage’s bars. Sound as any five bells you cared to name. “And how did this happen again?”
“Dunno. Got to the end of the driveway and it all went blurry and black.”
Jack sighed as he pulled out the cream cheese. “It figures. The one time I let you go out on your own is the one time it’s someone out to extort me.” He chucked the plastic container through the bars, and William caught it one-handed. “Slather yourself up with that and squeeze on through the bars.”
“Gross.”
“If you’d like to stay in there, son, be my guest. Or the guest of whoever it is that’s caught you in the first place.”
Grimacing, William coated himself finely with the spread, then slowly began to squish his way past the bars, which grudgingly made way for him. He took one step, two steps, was out of the cage, and then slammed to a standstill, hand stuck.
“What is it?”
“Wasn’t enough, dad.”
Jack took a look, and sure as daylight there hadn’t been enough cream cheese. William’s left little finger was uncoated, and it was stuck fast between the bars of the cage. “Damn and blast. Should’ve had eaten that bagel.”
“What now?”
“Now we wait for your mother to show up,” said Jack in disgust. William tried his hardest to look innocent. “Oh, don’t play the fool. This was all the doing of the pair of you, wasn’t it?”
“Pretty much,” said a soft voice behind him.
Jack forced himself not to jump and failed rather badly, half-turning and half-falling in midair. Mary Mackenzie smiled at him. She was only four feet tall and she had a short tail, but that only showed itself this side of perspective or when she tried very hard. “Really, Jack, it took you this long? In the old days you would’ve seen right through me at the doorstep, or recognized my accent.” She clicked her tongue and the cage swung open.
“Why bother?” demanded Jack. Mary gave him a look. “Dear,” he amended.
“Because you were getting tired, Jack dearest. “A bit of a break” is all well and good, but a quarter-century one? You were starting to say you were retired for goodness’s sake, and you should’ve been taking William on trips since he was nine and letting him roam free at twelve, not little hand-holding tours starting two years ago. It’s time you manned up and headed back home for a time. Besides, we haven’t seen my parents for half a century.”
Jack winced. “Sorry, dear. It’s just that the mail route-”
Mary poked him in the belly, and he doubled up wheezing. “You despise that mail route, Jack. I’ve heard you grumble and moan about it every morning for twenty years and that’s quite enough for goodness’s sake! Besides, you may be rusty, but you did a fine job today. One I hope will be the first of many more to come. It’s not too late to get yourself back on track and William an education.”
Jack surrendered. He knew when he was beat, and it was now. He’d faced three trials, used three tricks, and his quiver was shot. “Fine then. But we’ll need time to pack.”
“I did that after you went out the door. We’re all moved in.”
He sighed. “Wife dearest, I have one request, one demand to make even as you overturn my life again.”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “Yes, husband?”
“Could you make me a bagel? I can’t seem to get it done without burning it these days.”
Copyright Jamie Proctor, 2009.