The Incredible Journey of Pete McGee (3 page)

‘McGee! What are you staring at? You're not still dreaming about being a knight are you?'

The voice was whiny and smart-alecy, and Pete knew instantly who it was. Larson Smithers. Larson was training to become a knight, and now that he was fourteen had just started in the service of Sir Joustalot. By the time he was twenty-one Larson Smithers would be a knight of the realm, something Pete could only dream about. Pete turned and saw Larson walking towards him, a wicked grin on his face.

‘It'll never happen McGee. Never. You can't even hold a shield and a sword at the same time. And you would never be able to joust, unless you held the lance with your mouth or something.'

Pete glanced over Larson's shoulder and saw a group of trainee knights. They were all watching and laughing. Larson continued, right next to Pete now.

‘No knight would take you on McGee, so even when you turn fourteen you won't be able to do anything. Just keep dreaming, Stumpy.'

Pete felt anger welling up, the heat rising to his cheeks. He knew that Larson was basically mean for the sake of being mean, but that didn't make it hurt any less. Pete felt so angry he wanted to knock Larson flat, but he knew that Larson was bigger and stronger and better trained than he was. Then he tried to think of something smart to say, but all that came into his mind was, ‘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.

ing Cyril the Astounded entered his chambers. His anger over the unavailability of Sir Clancy had all but disappeared. Never before had he received such an ovation from his people, but then he had not become King by entirely honest means. He was merely a distant relative of the royal family, but when the time was right and a new ruler was needed, money had changed hands, the right people were disgraced and the crown was his. It had been for five years now.

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 would his immortality be assured. He declared to Faydon that he would search for the flower, he would cross the Plains of Obon, and he would return triumphant.

A hissing voice jolted Cyril back to reality.

‘Your Majesty?'

The King swung around to see Faydon at the entrance to his chambers. He had snuck in silently, sliding along the shadows. There was a smile on Faydon's pointed face. He looked like a little rat, with his squinty eyes and long, sharp front teeth. No tail though. He didn't have fleas either … as far as anyone knew.

‘Faydon. Must you always sneak up on me?'

‘My apologies, Sire. I wanted to congratulate you on the reception to your speech.'

The King's smile returned.

‘Yes. Yes, they loved it didn't they?'

Faydon nodded then slipped up close to his ruler, speaking quietly.

‘You are their King, Sire, and they do love you now. Perhaps you should stay here and rule your people and I shall retrieve the flower for you.'

The King thought for an instant, then with a smile decided against Faydon's idea.

‘I see what you're trying to do Faydon, and I like it. You want me to stay safe here, away from any danger. It is a nice thought and you are a fine advisor, but I will be coming along on the journey. I want that flower and I want that wish.'

Faydon nodded, backing slowly out of the room as the King began admiring his profile once more, oblivious to all but his reflection. A wicked grin spread across Faydon's face as he slipped further into the shadows, speaking in a low voice intended only for himself.

‘Yes, your Majesty, you and your men may be required, but perhaps it will not be you who gets the flower in the end.'

The shadows consumed him.

Back at the Main Stage, the Tellings were getting into full swing. Pete McGee was having a ball. The most recent Teller had spoken of meeting a creature so small that it sat in the palm of his hand. He spoke of the fear he saw in the tiny creature's eyes, fear that was replaced first with false bravado and finally kindness. They had spoken of their respective species, their families, and had promised to meet again. Pete imagined himself as the tiny creature. How would he react if a giant picked him up? If it ever happened, he certainly hoped the giant would be as kind as the Teller, and not one of those giants that just crushes you and eats you on toast or something.