Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Sorceress (4 page)

“It is so very nice to…”

“Now that I think about it, I should
introduce myself as Eaglethorpe Buxton, playwright, adventurer, and
storyteller, as my play ‘The Ideal Magic’ is such a success that I
am sure I will be doing much more of that.”

“I’m very pleased to…”

“On the other hand, it might seem strange to
say playwright, adventurer, and storyteller, seeing as how
storytelling and play writing are so closely related. Perhaps one
ought not to separate them from one another by placing them on
either side of adventuring. And it is worth noting that I have been
doing quite a bit of adventuring since writing the play.”

“Do you want pie or not?” she asked, one
hand on her hip and the other holding up the delectable object in
question.

“Oh yes. Pie please.”

“Come inside,” she said, leading me into a
simple but clean little cottage, where I sat down at the only chair
at the old but serviceable table.

She very fetchingly began to cut a generous
piece of the pie. Though it smelled wonderful, I couldn’t quite
place the combination of spices.

“What kind of pie is it?” I wondered.

“Disconsolateberry pie,” said she.

Disconsolateberries seem to be common in
this area. I just tasted some disconsolateberry syrup and the other
night I had my first bowl of disconsolateberry wine. Though I have
yet to taste disconsolateberry chutney, I hear it is very good
indeed.”

“They are indeed common all over southern
Lyrria,” she said, setting the slice in front of me. “I had
considered making it toad pie.”

I took a large bite. “What?” I asked with my
mouth full.

“I baked that pie especially for you,
Eagletwirp Buckethead.” Though she still had the appearance of the
chubby little red-head with a checkered apron and a brown bonnet,
now her eyes were flashing green.

“You are the sorceress,” I said, taking
another bite.

She picked up a wooden spoon and waving it
before her, she changed into her normal slender, blond, attractive
self. The wooden spoon took on the appearance of her flashing wand.
I was surprised, though not so surprised as to stop eating.

“Are you familiar with alliteration,
Eagletwit Bumpkin?” she asked.

“It’s Eagletwirp… I mean Eaglethorpe… Of
course I’m familiar with alliteration. I’m a talented writer.”

“How’s this then? Poisoned pie punishes
poetic pinhead.”

“I don’t follow,” I said, taking another
bite.

“When I said that I made that pie especially
for you,” said she, “I meant to imply that I had poisoned the pie.
And then when I added the bit about alliteration, you see, I
actually told you that I poisoned the pie.”

“Did you in fact poison it?” I asked, taking
another bite.

“Yes.”

“What a waste of a perfectly fine pie.”

“And you’re still eating it!”

“I can’t help it. It’s yummy.”

As the sorceress said, disconsolateberries
grow all over the southern coast of Lyrria. As you may know,
disconsolate is a word meaning sad. It is a medium powerful word
for sad, which is to say that it is more sad than crestfallen, but
not so sad as woebegone. A disconsolate person is somewhat worse
off than a person who is merely downcast, but not in nearly so bad
a shape as a person who is inconsolable. You might suppose that the
name of the berry comes from the feeling that one may feel after
eating a few disconsolateberries, but you would be mightily
mistaken. If anything, disconsolateberries lighten the mood of
anyone who eats a few handfuls of them. It is my understanding that
their name comes from a young man who lost his love. Wandering the
hills along the coast, he was determined to die of starvation, but
was unable to because he tasted one of the berries and thereafter
kept eating them, despite his sadness and desire to die.

“You just made that up,” said the
sorceress.

“Made what up?”

“That bit about the young man who lost his
love.”

“Were you reading my thoughts?”

“No, you said that aloud.”

“I did?”

“I heard that the disconsolateberry got its
name because being so tasty that one cannot stop eating them when
out picking them, one can never gather enough to make a whole pie,
leaving the maiden who is trying to do so, disconsolate.”

“I like my story better,” said I. “Although
your story does have the benefit of having a pie in it.”

“I see you’ve finished your piece,” said
Myolaena. “Would you like more poison pie?”

“Yes please.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“So I can’t have any more?”

“Why would you keep eating the pie, once I
told you it was poisoned?”

“For one thing, being evil, you are probably
lying about the poison…”

“I’m not evil.”

“Evil people never think they are.”

“What about Shakespeare’s Richard III? He is
determined to play the villain.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Who? Richard III or Shakespeare?”

“Neither one of them.”

“One was a king in a faraway country. The
other is the greatest writer of all time.”

“Which is which?” I wondered. “Never mind. I
don’t care about a king in a faraway country, and clearly I am the
greatest writer of all time.”

“That is a matter for some debate,” said
she.

“Anyway, for another thing, once I’ve been
poisoned and I’m going to die anyway, it seems a shame to deprive
myself of one last piece of delicious pie.”

“You really think it’s delicious?”

“Yes. Did you use magic to create it or did
you kill some poor cook and take her pie?”

“Neither. I made it myself.”

“You did? Really? How about the crust?”

“Of course I made the crust. You can’t have
good pie without good crust. It’s one of the simplest recipes and
yet it is so important.”

“That is so true,” I agreed.

“The trick is that the butter must be
chilled.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. And you must work it in enough
to incorporate it, but not so much as to warm it up all the
way.”

“It is so nice that you took the time to
make it right,” said I. “So many people just go through the motions
now-a-days.”

“That is true.”

“So tell me the truth. You didn’t really go
to all that trouble of making such a fine pie, just to poison
it.”

“No,” she said. “I went to all that trouble
of making such a fine pie to poison you.”

Suddenly the room began to spin. I slid from
my seat and flopped back, smacking my head on the dirt floor and
stared up at the wooden ceiling. Myolaena moved around the table to
peer down into my face.

“Goodbye moron,” she said.

“Wake up, Master Buxton, wake up.” I felt a
gentle slap upon my right cheek and then my left. “Here. Drink
this.”

The mouth of a small bottle was pressed
between my lips and cool sweet liquid flowed over my tongue and
down my throat.

“Is that an antidote?” I asked.

“Antidote to what?”

I looked into the face above me. It was one
of the most beautiful faces that I had ever seen. Very large brown
eyes, like cow eyes, but in a good way, which is to say large and
brown, and with long lashes. A cute little nose. Perfect lips.

“I’ve been poisoned.”

“How?”

“You are the most beautiful woman that I’ve
ever seen. Kiss me quickly before I die.”

“What poisoned you?”

“Quickly, the kiss.”

“I don’t think I had better kiss you if
you’ve been poisoned. I might get some of the poison on my
tongue.”

“Don’t use your tongue. Just use your
lips.”

“Well, that’s not really much of a kiss, is
it?” quoth she.

“I like the way you think,” I said, sitting
up. “If you didn’t know I was poisoned, what was that liquid you
just gave me?”

“That was water from the well outside. It’s
supposed to be naturally healthful.”

“I feel much better, but ‘naturally
healthful, does not quite equal ‘antidote to poison’.”

“I ask again. With what were you
poisoned?”

“That pie over there.”

The young woman got up from my side and
walked across the room to where the remainder of the pie still sat.
From my vantage point, I could see that, as beautiful as her face
was, it was nothing compared to her body, especially that part of
her body which she presented as she walked away across the room. In
a word she was fetching, which is to say very attractive.

“Is this a disconsolateberry pie?” she
asked.

“Yes. It was one of the finest buttocks I’ve
ever had.”

“What?”

“I said it was one of the finest pies I’ve
ever had.”

“Well you can’t poison somebody with
disconsolateberries,” she said, walking back over to me and
kneeling down. “They are a natural counteragent.”

“That’s very breast for me,” I said, getting
up.

“What?”

“I said that’s very lucky for me.”

“They are full of natural antioxidants too,”
said she.

“Is that good?”

She nodded. “Would you like that kiss
now?”

Then it was my turn to nod, as I was
suddenly but momentarily mute. She put her hand on my cheek and
gave me one of the best kisses that I have had in my entire life.
The only better ones that I can think of off the top of my head,
which is to say within easy reach of my memory, are the kiss that I
received from the Queen of Aerithraine, in whose company I once had
the pleasure of spending a fortnight, and my cousin Tuki, who was
the first girl I ever kissed and was also a first-rate kickball
player.

“What are you thinking about?” the beautiful
young woman asked.

“Kickball.”

“Well, stop it. I want you to think about
me.”

“I don’t even know your name, or how you
found me, or how you know me, or what you want, or how you were
able to squeeze into that dress, or how much pie is left.”

“My name is Megara Fennec, and I’ve been
looking for you for more than a week. I want to be an actress in
your play.”

I stood looking at the young woman, whom
might well be the most beautiful creature that I had ever seen. She
struck a pose and tossed her thick locks of dark brown hair back
over her shoulder.

“You are so beautiful,” I said. “Why would
you want to go into such a disreputable business as acting? You
could do anything you wanted.”

“It’s not what I want; It’s all that I have
left,” she replied. “You see, my family the Capillaries…”

“I thought you said your name was
Fennec.”

“That’s my stage name,” she explained. “My
real name is Megara Capillarie. And my family and other family, the
Montenegroes, have been involved in a feud for dozens of
generations.”

“Is it the kind of feud in which you fight
the other family, or the kind in which you challenge them to some
type of word game?”

“It is the kind in which you fight and kill
the other family.”

“Hmm,” said I. “Those types of feuds can be
bad, especially if you are the one being fought and killed.”

“But there’s more. I met a lovely young man
and fell in love with him, only to find out later that he was none
other than Henri Montenegro, the son of my family’s great enemy. We
met and exchanged fair words and fair kisses. But then yesterday
there was a fight in the street and Henri, beautiful, sweet Henri
killed my cousin.”

“So you don’t love him anymore? You hate him
now.”

“Of course I don’t hate him! I love him! But
we can never be together. He has been banished to Oordport, and I
shall never see him again.”

“It so happens that I already have all the
actresses that I need to portray the characters in my play,” said
I.

“You are one short,” Megara said, tossing
her hair back. “Two days ago, the Sorceress Myolaena Maetar arrived
at the theater just after the performance and turned your lead
actress Angelletta Seedling into a tree.”

“Oh bother,” said I. “I suppose though, that
with a name like Seedling you have to expect that sort of thing. I
guess I will have to find someone who can change her back.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You see
the locals are in constant need of firewood, and well…”

“They didn’t.”

“I’m afraid so,” she said.

“I find myself in need of an actress then,”
said I. “But I could not claim the names of Buxton and of
Eaglethorpe, which is to say Eaglethorpe Buxton if I were to take
advantage of your unfortunate predicament, which is to say your
situation, for my own gain. Before you settle for the life of the
stage we must see if we cannot reunite you with your lost
love.”

“You would do that for me?”

“Of course,” I replied. “I am Eaglethorpe
Buxton, friend to the friendless, protector to the defenseless,
finder of lost children and reuniter of lost lover. And I have a
plan.”

I led the beautiful Megara Fennec, which is
to say Megara Capillarie from the home of some unknown person, who
was no doubt a chubby little red-head with a checkered apron and a
brown bonnet, and out into the town square of Potter Town, where
the shadows were growing long, which is to say it was getting late.
My valiant steed Hysteria still waited patiently at the well. As we
walked, I explained my plan.

“The plan in thus,” said I. “I will fetch
from the apothecary a dram of a potion that is known as living
death. You will go home and make peace with your parents and then
take this potion. It will make you fall into a coma, a semblance of
death itself. From you there will be no evidence that you still
live: no breath, no heartbeat, and no body warmth. You family will
think that you are dead and place your body in the family crypt. In
the meantime, I will send a message to your beloved in Oordport,
telling him the entire plan and he will rush to your side, to reach
you just as you return to life, having experienced nothing more
than a pleasant sleep.”