The Incredible Journey of Pete McGee (2 page)

Every morning Pete would get up early in order to clean the house and make breakfast for his mother. They lived on the outskirts of town, on a little block of land. They had a few animals and they grew crops which they gave to their landlord as rent, keeping only a little for themselves. Although it wasn't a big house, cleaning took Pete a little longer than it might have taken others, for he had been born with just one arm, his left arm. People had said Mrs McGee should get rid of him, that he would be a burden to her. But she had known better. She had cradled her newborn son in her arms and whispered, ‘You'll not be a burden to me. Sure, those with two arms will have an advantage over you, but none will have your heart. You will go far, Pete McGee. Your courage and determination will make up for your losses.'

When he was seven years old Pete's mother had written him a note. It was a day where nothing had gone right and Pete was feeling about as low as he thought possible. It was certainly the lowest he'd ever felt in his short life. But then his mother handed him his note, and now he never went anywhere without it. It read:

You are Sir Pete McGee, a brave and noble man, slayer of monsters and righter of wrongs. You are strong in so many ways. Believe in yourself and the world will see just how great a man with one arm can be.

Sir Pete McGee. That was what she called him. She said that there was a great knight just waiting to burst out of him. If he was good and true, one day a situation would arise when the knight within would be awakened.

But for now, all that mattered was that he was running late.

Meanwhile, in one of the many corridors of King Cyril the 23rd's castle, a shabby-looking servant edged along the wall towards the Throne Room. He looked like he could do with a good meal. He was dressed in torn and dirty clothes, and his big toe poked out of his right shoe. His name was Marloynne, and in his hand he held a note from the King's doctor. Sir Clancy, King Cyril's leading knight, had taken ill and wouldn't be able to go on the planned journey. Marloynne knew no details about this journey, but he knew King Cyril the Short-Tempered was going to be mad. Really mad. Marloynne had worked as a cleaner and general dogsbody in the castle for only three months, but he had already witnessed the King's awful temper on many occasions. As he reached the massive doors to the Throne Room he leant against the wall and took some deep breaths. He brushed as much dirt off his clothes as he could, trying to make them look respectable. He smoothed back his hair, and as he did so he noticed his hands were shaking.

‘Be brave Marloynne, don't be a wuss,' he said to himself, trying to will the words to have some effect. He turned and knocked on the door. An impatient voice came from inside.

‘Enter.'

Marloynne turned the door handle and winced at the creaking sound the door made. He looked around the room and saw that all eyes were on him. Ashlyn smiled from where she was cleaning and Marloynne winked at her. He longed to talk to her, but that would have to wait until mealtime. He had met Ashlyn on his first day at the castle and they had been inseparable ever since. He loved her deeply, she was by far the best thing about working in the castle. But, first things first, he needed to deliver the note. He walked over and bowed low, holding out the piece of paper at arm's length.

‘Your Majesty.'

King Cyril the Temperamental took the note without a word and read it to himself. A small noise began in his throat, building like a volcano until it erupted in a massive roar. He stormed around the Throne Room, still yelling, waving the note in the air. He was a fearsome-looking man. He had a hooked nose, as most dastardly people seem to have. It made him look rather like a vulture, or an eagle, or an evil parrot. On either side of the nose were cold, hard eyes, and they were set in a face of stone that only ever smiled devilishly. Actually, it wasn't even really a smile. It was more a sneer, a sneer that never reached his eyes and that gave away his evil intentions. The great royal cloak billowed out behind the King as he ranted. He grabbed whatever obscenely expensive objects he could and started hurling them around the room. The King was a strong man, and many items smashed into pieces against the rough, stone walls. The servants were forced to dodge as well as they could. Marloynne ran and stood in front of Ashlyn to protect her from any danger, wincing as a vase thudded into his back. King Cyril the About-to-Explode stopped for an instant, hunched his shoulders, then yelled as he straightened up:

‘How will I find this flower without Sir Clancy?

How?'

He wheeled around, grabbed Marloynne by the collar and wrenched him away from Ashlyn. Marloynne's feet dangled in the air as the King lifted him so that their noses were touching. The King breathed deep and roared again.

‘HOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW?'

Marloynne's hair blew back and his body went limp. Along with a fearsome temper, King Cyril the Garlic-Lover also had fearsome breath. The King grunted and dropped his servant to the ground. Ashlyn rushed over, dropping to her knees as she tried to rouse Marloynne, stroking his face as she spoke to him.

‘Oh, how sweet,' the King simpered. ‘The two lowest, scungiest people in the castle are in love. Ahhhh, it makes me WANT TO THROW UP! To vomit! To chuck, chunder, spew! Get it?'

He turned to a guard.

‘Remove this girl from the castle. I never want to see her again. The slave boy will come with me in search of the Wilderene Flower.'

Ashlyn threw herself at the King's feet, pleading with him as she clutched at his robes.

‘No Your Majesty, please. He will be killed if he travels with you, and he is the sole reason I rise in the morning. Without him I shall surely die.'

‘Then die you surely shall, sho shuffer Shtupid … I mean, suffer. Yes, that's it, suffer. There will be sacrifices needed on this journey. Your lover boy will come in very handy as one of them. Be thankful I am a kind and noble king and don't have you killed on the spot for daring to touch the royal robes.'

Ashlyn stared for an instant before speaking in low tones.

‘You are vile and evil. One day you will pay for your actions. I hope I am there to witness that moment.'

King Cyril the Yeah-Yeah-Whatever laughed arrogantly and waved his hand at Ashlyn as he turned away.

‘Remove her! I said I don't ever want to see her again. Revive the boy from his cowardly faint and take him to Faydon. NOW!'

A guard moved over to Marloynne.

‘Come on Princess,' he chuckled as he dragged the still unconscious Marloynne out of the room. Ashlyn watched them go, offering no resistance as she was led by two other guards out of the castle grounds. Outside, with heads lowered, the guards told Ashlyn she must not return, for to do so would mean her death.

‘My death is assured as it is,' she answered. ‘My heart has been removed and it is only a matter of time before my body realises it is so.'

The guards shook their heads, their faces betraying their sadness. They re-entered the castle grounds and slammed the gates.

ete McGee cleaned the house first and then he cooked breakfast. His mother couldn't do much around the house, for barely six years after Pete had been born she had been stricken with an illness. As the McGees were poor, the illness had remained undiagnosed. The pain through her body, the dizzy spells and the coughing attacks confined Mrs McGee to bed, apart from the short walks to the front yard she would take on her good days. Such days became rarer as time went by. She had arrived at a stage where eating was difficult, and the pain was a constant sharpness that reminded her of her fate. Mrs McGee knew that she was dying, and Pete knew it too. Neither of them spoke of it though, as if by keeping it secret would put off the inevitable.

Pete's father had left not long after the sickness struck. A disabled boy and a dying wife? The place must be cursed. The whole town spoke of the McGees in whispers behind their backs.

‘The poor boy, with his problems and having to look after his mother as well.'

‘How they get by is anyone's guess. They're both pretty much useless.'

And so on …

Occasionally the McGees would hear such talk. Rather than get them down, it raised their determination to be as normal as they possibly could.

The smell of a cooked breakfast reached Mrs McGee before the actual food did, wafting in and teasing her nose before darting away on the breeze from the open window. Pete raced in, the tray of food balanced precariously on his open palm.

‘Sir Pete, good Sir, why the rush?'

In his excitement Pete basically threw down the tray, then jumped onto the edge of the bed next to his mother.

‘You know exactly why, Mum. You know today is the greatest day of the whole year. The rides. The games. The Tellings.'

Putting on her confused face, Mrs McGee shrugged.

‘Good Sir, this means naught to me. Methinks thou art a young man of twelve years who merely wishes to see that of which he speaks.'

‘Oh cut the fancy talk, Mum. You
know
.'

‘Sir Pete, thy tongue is vicious. Surely thou can talk like a knight to get thy message across to a poor, sick maiden.'

Pete knew that the only way he could please his mother was to play along. Usually he loved this game, but today was different. He groaned and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

‘Do I have to?'

Mrs McGee nodded. Pete jumped off the bed, placed his hand over his heart and began to speak.

‘Hear ye. Hear ye. It doth please me to announce that this day marks the fifth anniversary of our King's inauguration. That snot-faced shoe-licker, whose taxes mean you cannot get any pain relief, has ruled us harshly for five years now. Verily, though I do believe him to be an evil and wicked swine fit to wallow in mud and eat slops, he doth put on one humdinger of a soiree.'

‘Very well then, Sir Pete McGee, be gone. Be sure to have many great tales to relate as we sup tonight.'

Pete grinned a broad grin that did reach his eyes. He kissed his mother's forehead and bolted out the door. Mrs McGee smiled. She knew that she would struggle to keep down the breakfast her son had cooked, but she couldn't let Pete know that. He lived to help her, so she wanted more than anything for this to be a perfect day for him.

Pete raced into his room and grabbed his pack. He slung it over his shoulder and flew down the corridor. The Green Book on the shelf caught his eye, as always, but he ignored it and burst out the front door. The note his mother had written all those years ago was tucked safely in his inside jacket pocket. Pete skidded to a stop in the dirt in the front yard, turned around, and closed the door. A sudden itch attacked his back. He tried to reach it, twisting and squirming. Unfortunately, the combination of holding a pack and no right arm meant the itch remained unscratched. Pete edged up to the house and relieved his discomfort by rubbing his back against the rough wooden surface. His look of relief turned into a smile as he saw one of the pigs in the yard in exactly the same pose, with a look of relief on its face, rubbing against the wooden post. Pete laughed and ran off again, chickens clucking and scurrying out of his way. He headed for the town centre, which was where all the action would be. He rounded a corner and the royal castle came into view. As always, Pete was struck by how huge it was. Also as always, he stopped and stared, wondering why it was he was stuck in a little peasant's shack when someone like the King got to live in luxury. Pete knew that King Cyril the Crooked wouldn't have got his money through honest means. Rather, it would have been at others' expense, through unfair taxes or imaginary fines. He shook his head clear, knowing he would much rather be with his mother in their house anyway. He was about to move on again when he heard a voice calling to him.