The Incredible Journey of Pete McGee (9 page)

‘What?' the little man asked sharply. ‘Haven't you ever seen a short person before?'

‘Well, no actually,' Pete replied, ‘I haven't.'

‘I suppose you think it's pretty funny then, hey? Go on, make all your little jokes about my height.'

Pete just stared. He hadn't even thought to joke about the guy's height.

‘Oh, oh, do you need some help then? Come on, I'll get you started. Do you want to know how I got this scar? I'll tell you. I got it by walking into the second rung on a ladder. Do you know that when I go in a chariot, the driver puts up a ‘Baby on Board' sign? I worked for two years in a freak show as the hairiest baby alive. The bearded lady played my mother. I'm knee high to knee high to a grasshopper. I pose for trophies in my spare time. Knock knock. Whose there? A man. A man who? A man who can't reach the doorbell.'

This guy was a regular stand-up act. Pete started to talk, but before he could get a word out, the little man butted in.

‘Look, I don't want to hear your jokes but I'll give you some advice. Both of these roads end up at the same place, but don't take the path to the left. It looks all fancy and nice, but it's not, I say, it's not at all. Go up the hill. It's steep but it's safer, believe me.'

The little man turned to walk away and fell straight into a pot hole, disappearing from view. Pete held out his arm to help him out, suppressing a giggle. The strange man just gave a grunt and got out by himself. He gave a little bow to Pete then stormed off talking at the top of his voice about the state of the roads.

Pete didn't know what to do. He had no reason not to believe what the little man had told him about the roads, except for the fact that he was one of the weirdest people he had ever met. And why would he have given Pete advice anyway? Pete didn't know him from a bar of soap. He looked again at the fork in the road. Off in the distance, along the left path, he swore that he could see a group of men on horses. It could be King Cyril and his men, Pete thought to himself. If he squinted, one of the men looked like Marloynne, although from such a distance it was hard to tell. It was a risk Pete had to take though. Besides, the left road looked so much nicer. So our young hero hitched up his pack and took the low road.

Pete walked briskly, keeping the group of men in his sight. If it was the King's party, and he was sure now that it was, he didn't want to lose them again. But there was so much to distract him. People were singing and dancing across his path, smiling at him, offering him things to buy. Trinkets, food and drink. Pete refused them all. He had to. He had virtually no money after that sweet, sweet burger. Even so, the people continued to close in around him, thrusting things in his face, but they weren't all smiling now; they were almost snarling, daring him to buy their wares. The food wasn't looking so good up close either. Most of it was brown and mouldy, and smelt totally rotten. The grass was dying off along the river, the waters of which had turned black. Pete looked through the dancing people for the group of men he was following, but they had disappeared. The dancers bumped into Pete, jostling him left and right, forcing him to strain to stay upright. They no longer thrust things at him, but had begun to sing again. Only now it wasn't really a song, more a low humming, murmurs of danger. Pete's hand moved quickly to the dagger at his side, ready to strike. The people weren't hurting him but they were scaring him plenty, and they began to guide him off the road towards the river. Pete tried to move back to the road but his path was blocked, the singing gaining in intensity. The crowd closed in even more, dancing, singing, bustling, pushing, touching. Pete yelled out at the top of his voice, not words, just a yell, a noise. He turned once again, or was turned by the crowd, and with his next step he went straight down a hole.

King Cyril the 23rd stopped walking and leant on his stick, breathing heavily. On Faydon's advice they had taken the high road, but it was hard going. The men had decided to walk beside the horses to ease their load, as the animals were struggling. The King started up the hill again. All he could think about was how good it would be when they reached the top. They would rest, and then things would speed up as they descended the mountain. Then the plains, then the flower, then the glory. He took a deep breath and walked a little faster, his men struggling to keep up.

The hole became a tunnel, the inside of which was totally covered in moss. Pete hurtled along its smooth surface; a slippery dip like no other. His pack came loose from his shoulder and bashed into him as he tumbled and slid. Everything was a blur as he spiralled down, the pack in front of him now and getting away. He grabbed it, holding on for dear life, no time for thinking, everything a reflex action. Suddenly he burst out of the end into nothing but air. Pete screamed, his eyes shut tightly. Still clinging to his pack he plummeted through space, waiting to hit. He didn't have to wait long, as he skidded and squelched into a waiting swamp. Pete opened his eyes and glanced around cautiously. He had landed in a soft, beautiful, gooey, waist-high, mud-filled swamp. He laughed loudly, a laugh of relief as much as anything. Pete was amazed to be alive, but now that he was safe the adrenalin kicked in. That ride had been a huge rush. He jumped around in the goo, throwing it high into the air and letting it fall onto his face. This was fantastic! He felt something brush against his leg as he danced around. Before he had time to think what it may have been, something burst out of the water and grabbed him by the arm. Pete cried out, and pulled back, but then his leg was grabbed as well by an invisible under-mud attacker. It began to pull Pete under.

ete tried to yank his hand away but it was gripped tight. The leg that was being pulled slipped along the slimy surface of the swamp. The mud was thick, but not thick enough to stop Pete being pulled under. With his one arm gripped tightly he couldn't even reach for his dagger. He pulled against the force with all his might, straining, bursting, desperately trying to think of how he could escape. His eyes flicked left and right, searching for something that may help him, but there was nothing. Then … a familiar voice.

‘Didn't I tell you to go the other way?'

Pete's head jerked up at the sound. He couldn't believe it. That little man was watching him from the side of the swamp, a look of ‘I told you so' on his face. Pete didn't answer, his lack of response a combination of surprise and the effort he was still putting in to not be dragged into the swamp.

‘Well, didn't I?'

Pete nodded, not wanting to waste energy talking when he was fighting the mud creature with all his might.

‘Sometimes, young man, the path that looks easy doesn't always turn out that way. To get to our goals, we have to follow the hard road, the road less travelled. Success only comes before work in the dictionary, you know.'

On and on he went, a regular little inspiration booklet. And still Pete struggled against the creature in the mud. He was breathing hard, his strength being drained just trying to stay above water.

‘The grass isn't always greener, you know. What looks to be the entrance to the garden of Eden can sometimes be the gates into Hell. You can't always …'

‘Excuse me,' cried Pete. ‘I'm sorry, but it would be quite pleasant if you could give me a … gloop, gloop, gloop.'

Pete had gone under. The little man looked shocked for a second before he realised what had happened.

‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. My mistake.'

He danced across the mud at the edge of the swamp, barely seeming to touch it. When he got to the bubbling surface where Pete had disappeared, he drew his sword, leapt into the air, did a pike with a half twist and dived in, surfacing five seconds later with Pete McGee in one hand and the severed tentacle of something else in the other. With some effort, because waist-high to Pete was head-high to the little man, he waded to solid ground, pulling Pete along behind him. Once out, the two took one look at each other and burst out laughing. They were both covered from head to toe in black mud. The little man glanced at the tentacle he held, snorted in disgust, and then threw it back into the swamp.

‘Thank you, thank you so much.' Pete McGee wiped his face with his sleeve and saw, some distance behind the man, Sir Loinsteak. Pete realised that he had been watching, ready to help if needed. Sir Loinsteak raised a hand in greeting before turning and walking off into the trees behind him.

The little man bowed.

‘What was that under there?' asked Pete, still breathing hard.

‘That, my boy, was a … well actually, I don't know what that was. Let's call it a mud-beast-dragger-underer, shall we? Yes. I like that. Now, where are you headed?'

Pete wasn't sure how much to tell, so he said that he was headed for the Plains of Obon to try to catch up with the royal party, and that was it. The little man didn't ask any more questions. He told Pete to get his breath back and then he would lead him to the plains. Whether the King and his party would be there was another story.

Pete rested for a few minutes to regain his composure before he stood, picked up his pack and they moved off. The man introduced himself as Santora. While they walked Santora kept Pete enthralled with tales of his adventures. The stories were so like the Tellings he adored that Pete didn't dare interrupt at any time. They hadn't walked for all that long when Santora suggested they camp for the night, as the sun was beginning to set. It seemed as though Pete's new friend had talked all he wanted to for the day, and within minutes he was asleep. Pete lay there for a while, watching the sky, thinking of his mother and Ashlyn. He reached into his jacket and took out Ashlyn's crystal and his mother's note. Eventually he fell asleep with both clutched tightly in his hand.

The next day dawned clear and crisp, and Pete McGee woke feeling refreshed but hungry. Santora had obviously been up for a while, as he was preparing some breakfast for them, stirring something in a bowl made from bark over a fire. The first mystery of the day was how the bark wasn't burning, as the flames licked at it eagerly. Santora scooped a portion into a smaller bark bowl and offered it to Pete, who held it under the base, the bark warmed from the food within. Pete looked at the food, a brown, porridge-type substance. He sniffed it and wrinkled his nose. He noticed Santora watching him and, not wanting to be rude, he scooped some out and began to eat. He was so hungry that he would have eaten almost anything, but the breakfast tasted rotten. It was all Pete could do not to spit it back out. So he closed his eyes and swallowed.