‘Yeah, well shut up ‘cos you are too,’ and that didn’t even make sense. So instead he just stared at the ground and didn’t say anything. Larson suddenly reached out and grabbed Pete’s chin, raising it so they were staring at each other. He didn’t need to, but he spoke loud enough for his mates to hear.
‘One-armed knights don’t exist. You’re a fairytale, like Cinderella or something. Rumplestumpskin. You don’t even exist McGee, just like your right arm.’
Larson let go with a push and danced off to his group, pretending to be a fairytale princess to roars of laughter from his friends. Pete watched him for a bit. One day he would stand up to Larson Smithers. He breathed out slowly before following the crowd towards the town centre. The day hadn’t got off to quite the start he had hoped for.
As Pete got closer to town his spirits picked up. He jogged down the dusty road, passing people as he went. Those in groups were laughing and chatting, ready for the big day ahead. Some were leading animals, which Pete assumed they would try to sell in town. By the time he got to the town centre it was absolutely packed. Pete was a skinny boy, and he was barely noticed as he slid though the crowd. Every now and then someone would stare at the one sleeve hanging loosely by his side, but Pete had learned to ignore the stares. The people who focussed on his missing arm would never take the time to find out who he was. The ale flowed and the crowd was already rowdy, even at this early hour. Pete couldn’t be distracted though. He loved all the rides, the food and the games, but nothing stirred him more than the Tellings. All day, on the Main Stage, people would stand in front of a massive audience and tell their stories. Always in rhyme, the Tellings were magical tales of lands far away, of adventures, of confronting wondrous creatures in fierce battles. Were they true? Only the Teller knew, but Pete didn’t care because in his mind they were all true. Every Telling was played out in his head, full of colour, his own vision of what was being told. One day he knew that he would have a great Telling. He would be up on the Main Stage and the whole town would be listening. One day for sure.
Before the Tellings could begin however, the King would address his people from the balcony. He always read from a speech prepared for him. Every year the speechwriter had been ordered to write a speech that made the King out to be the greatest ruler there ever was, the likes of which had never been seen before or would ever be seen again. And the order would be carried out. This year however, the speechwriter, who couldn’t stand his job, had written a not-so-flattering speech for his king. He hoped that no-one would dare stop the King or even let him know that he was making a fool of himself. He had been made to show the speech to Faydon, the King’s Chief Advisor, and had expected to be fired on the spot, or jailed for treason, or beheaded, or maybe something even worse. But for some reason, Faydon had fired him and banished him from the kingdom, and that was it. Not too bad at all. He did stay to hear the speech though, and it was with great surprise that when he heard the King start talking it was the original speech, word for word.
‘Loyal subjects, it is I, King Cyril the 23rd, here to open this celebration of my reign.’
The crowd cheered, mainly because guards had threatened the townsfolk that they must cheer or they’d be poked by the pikes that were pointed menacingly at them. Pete giggled at King Cyril the Dorky’s name and found himself a spot where he wouldn’t be seen, or poked, and refused to cheer one word. King Cyril the Attention-Lover, taken aback by the wild response to his opening statement, read on, totally unaware of what he was saying.
‘Although without me you would be nothing, it is because of you that I am the greatest (threatened poke, cheer), most incredibly fabulous (poke, ROAR!), unbelievably large pea-brain there ever was (thunderous applause, no poke required).’
The King beamed with pride, the cheers blocking out the tiny voice in his head that suggested stopping talking may be a good idea. So he continued on, while in another room the ex-speechwriter fell to the floor laughing.
‘Yes people, my brain is a pea. Do you know that sometimes I like to dance around the Throne Room wearing nothing but the royal slippers? Which are in the form of little moo cows? And I sing “Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle”?’
The crowd erupted into roars of laughter, and even Pete McGee was cheering.
‘Royal subjects, I truly believe that if my butt was a balloon I would fly to the moon with a hairy baboon.’
The crowd were yelling themselves hoarse. The King, wanting more and more adoration, raised his voice, building to the mighty finish of his speech.
‘Just the other day, after drinking my bottle of warm milk, I took a bubble bath. My, I sank under the water and my cares floated away in bubbles of love. I realised right then that if my spew was blue I’d make a stew, so without further ado, and before my head turns back into a pumpkin, LET THE FESTIVITIES BEGIN!’
The pokers may as well have gone home, for the crowd cheered long and loud. King Cyril the Blind-to-the-Truth raised his arms in triumph and the crowd cheered even louder. Believing this to be the greatest moment of his reign, the King returned inside as the crowd began a Mexican wave. Along with the rest, Pete leapt in the air when the wave reached him.
He hadn’t been known before his reign had begun, and it often felt as though he had to earn the trust of the peasants he ruled. Oh how he hated them, believing them to be dirty, smelly, less than human, below him and his nobles. But he was a king, and he not only wanted to be a feared king, but a loved and admired one as well. He stood in front of the mirror, chest swelled out with pride, and winked at himself. What a handsome devil he was!
‘Yes you, that’s right. You are a handsome man. Oh yes you are. Yes. You. The one in the crown.’
After the success of his speech, King Cyril the Big-Head was certain that he would find the Wilderene Flower. He hadn’t believed his ears when he had first heard the story. He had dressed as a commoner and gone to the local pub, wanting to hear all the great things that everyone surely said about him when they were out. But a disgusting, slobbering drunk had latched onto him the minute he had walked in, blabbering utter nonsense. He asked if the King had heard of the Wilderene Flower. When the answer was no, the drunk proceeded to tell of a flower with a pollen that cured all ills, a scent that would grant one wish and thorns that would kill you instantly upon touching your blood.
The King had listened patiently to the story, but when the drunk asked him for a little cuddle and a slow dance he was out of there.
King Cyril the Curious consulted Faydon early the next day. Faydon did his research and confirmed that the drunk’s story was indeed true. The one existing Wilderene Flower lay ten days’ march from the kingdom, eight days if the Plains of Obon were crossed. Faydon said there was great danger awaiting any who dared cross the plains, as it was a crossing rarely successfully completed. The Wilderene Flower would be found growing at the base of a great oak tree, fully three metres in diameter and fifty metres high. The flower was guarded by a beast so terrifying it was better to die than to escape alive with the memories. The King had just laughed, and decided then and there that he would lead an expedition to capture the flower. Only then
