Stories & Boy

Stories

“All the best stories happened once upon a time in lands far away,” claimed Luis.

His sister was inclined to be skeptical. “When was once upon a time?”

“Long ago. Before you were born.” He gave the question a further moment of thought. “Before Grandpa was born!”

“That would be a long time,” Rebecca agreed, her eyes flicking for just a moment to that grandfather, ensconced in a nearby, well-cushioned chair. He couldn’t decide whether or not she was being sarcastic.

“Once upon a time was just as long ago when I was your age as it is now,” he told them.

Luis frowned. “Is that possible?”

“It is in lands far away. Those are always just as far away no matter how long you travel.” His eyes seemed to search for those lands, for just a few seconds. “Always over the next hill or around the corner or even across the sea.”

“So how do we get there?” asked the girl.

“Your brother already told us. They’re in all the best stories.”

“I’d like to go there,” declared Luis, a bit dreamily. “To lands far away.”

“Then Grandpa should take us,” said Rebecca. “He knows all the best stories.”

“Only some of them,” the old man informed her. “No one can know all that happened in far away lands, once upon a time. We keep finding new stories, no matter how many we already know. Settle down here by me and I’ll go looking for one. Ah, yes, that should do.”

And so he began.

 

Boy

There was a boy named Boy. If his family had owned a dog, perhaps they would have called it ‘Boy’ but as they didn’t, his father decided to use it for his son. “What is he if he isn’t a boy?” he reasoned. His wife had no ready answer but still didn’t much like it.

His brothers and sisters—and they were numerous—had more normal names. There were Ted and Tom and Alice. Joe and Maria and Patty and Linda too. Is that all? One, two—yes, seven of them. Boy made eight.

Now, you may have heard of a boy named Boy before. There was one in the Tarzan movies, but not in the books. He was given the perfectly good name of Jack there. Hmm, I am getting away from our story, aren’t I?

All of this was once upon a time, of course, and, yes, in far away lands. Boy set out to make his fortune in those far away lands, one morning. He was tall now, taller than his father, and yearned to cross the hills and the seas. But he had gotten no further than the dirt road winding through the middle of his village when Rosa called to him from an upstairs window.

“Are you a good boy?” she asked, and laughed.

Rosa had dark hair and eyes and a merry smile and Boy rather liked her. “I’m going to fetch,” he told her and continued on his way. Maybe he would come back someday and see her again.

Maybe he would not. As he strolled down the sunlit way, Boy pulled forth a small flute he had made of a reed. He might not have gotten the fingering holes in quite the right places so it was a little out of tune, but he didn’t care. He played past the mill on the edge of the village, and on into the open country beyond.

By noon, he was in lands he didn’t know. Boy had a vague idea that other villages existed, down the road. After all, a road must lead somewhere, right? But for all he knew, if he followed it till evening he might come back to his own village from the other end.

He had no idea of the size of the world. That had never been a problem before. Ahead, he saw a wagon beside the pathway. It was unlike any wagon he had ever seen before, more like a box, and he saw no way one might fill it with hay or turnips. Boy was curious and became more curious as he drew closer. That usually worked out the other way around.

He could see bars on the side of the wagon and a reclining form inside. A corpulent man sat beside it on a three-legged stool, eating his lunch. His gown had surely been black once but had faded to a rusty tone. Boy nodded a hello and peered into the wagon-cage.

“What is it?” he asked. It seemed to have wings.

“Why, that’s a griffin, lad.”

Boy gave it another look. It was about the size of one of the miller’s mastiffs, but looked less fearsome. It gazed back at him with yellow cat eyes. “I thought they were bigger.”

The man chuckled. “Think on it, boy. His father was an eagle and his mother a lion. You can’t expect him to grow larger than his parents, can you?”

Boy was larger than his parents but felt that wasn’t pertinent. “Haven’t I heard of folks, um, riding on them?

“Not on griffins. One needs a hippogriff for that and that’s exactly why I cart this chimera about the countryside. He’s at stud. There are those who will pay well for his services.” He seemed pleased by that thought and not so pleased by the one that followed. “In between, I can make a few pennies displaying him in villages.”

He looked the lanky lad over. “I’m Guy D’Laniger. Sit down and have a bite, why don’t you?” Boy took a place beside him, on the ground. The man handed over a chunk of stale bread and moldy cheese. “That’s about it for my hospitality, boy, until I have some more of those pennies. You don’t mind if I call you Boy, do you?”

“Everyone else does.”

Guy passed him a crock. Boy cautiously sniffed—it had a pungent unfamiliar odor about it—and took a sip. Only a sip. He politely did not spit it out. “What is it, sir?”

The man cocked his head at him. “Naught but an ordinary red wine. You’ve had wine before, haven’t you, Boy?”

“Only my grandmother’s elderberry wine. It is not, uh, much like this.”

“I can imagine. Now say, Boy, might you be interested in a job? My last keeper—er, assistant—left me kind of sudden-like and I could use a lad like you. At least as long as we’re traveling the same way.” He regarded the young man for a moment, before deciding, “I’ll pay you a penny a week.”

Boy stared at him in amazement, unable to answer. That seemed like untold riches to him.

“Oh, okay, make it tuppence,” said Guy D’Laniger, misinterpreting. “No more!”

“Yes, sir!” said his new assistant, finding his tongue.

Guy got the one old piebald nag pulling the wagon to start moving at a leisurely pace. Both walked alongside, kicking up the red dust of the road. After a while, Boy pulled out his flute and began another tuneless tune.

What was that sound? He hadn’t noticed it at first. Was someone humming along?

“Penrithega likes your playing,” Guy observed. “He’s purring. Never known him to take to anyone like that before.” He seemed to hesitate a few seconds before admitting, “My previous assistant didn’t exactly quit out of the blue. Old Pen bit his hand off one day. He can be dangerous, lad. Reckon you should know that.”

That cruel curved beak did look dangerous. Whether the talons up front or the paws with claws at back might do more damage, Boy couldn’t decide. Either might well kill one who got too close. “What does Penrithega eat?” he asked.

“Meat and nothing but meat. He’s expensive to maintain.” Guy attempted a weak grin that looked more like a grimace. “Pen might have been a bit peckish when he went for Samkin. Would have eaten all of him, given the chance.”

Boy decided to make certain Pen was always well fed. It was too bad the griffin couldn’t be let out to hunt on his own but he much doubted he would return to his cage. He played another tune as they tramped along. It sounded much like the one before it.

The next day they reached a village and a couple days later another. There was more to this world than Boy had realized. “Good news, Boy,” Guy told him after disappearing into a tavern for some time. “There’s a local farmer with too much money and a mare ready to breed.”

Boy gave him a blank look.

“He wants to make a hippogriff. That takes a griffin for a sire and a mare for the mother.”

“What if one did the opposite?” wondered Boy. “A stallion and a female griffin?”

“There are no female griffins. That’s why the beasts go after horses.”

And why they were rare, decided Boy. At least, he’d never seen but one and he’d been to three villages now. “Have you heard, Penny?” he asked the winged creature as he fed him that evening. “You’re going to have a ladyfriend tomorrow.” As Penrithega tore apart a couple chickens—he swallowed his food whole, eagle-style—Boy played for him on his reed flute. The griffin always seemed to enjoy listening. He was less irritable too.

Not surprisingly, D’Laniger urged Boy to play often and long. A placid griffin was much to be preferred over the evil-tempered Penrithega he had come to know and fear. “Keep the music going,” he said, as they trundled toward Farmer Hamm’s stead the next morning. That Hamm was well-to-do was obvious. His fields were wide, his cattle many, his house large.

Not surprisingly, he was willing to bargain long to get the best price for Pen’s services. When at last an amount was agreed upon, the farmer led them to his mare. Guy seemed just a little surprised to behold a rather large draft mare but, of course, the customer is always right. Whether a hippogriff of draft horse size could get off the ground was not his concern.

“I can not be responsible for any damage done to your mare,” he once again warned Hamm. “Sometimes he’ll just decide he’s hungry rather than amorous.”

“Oh, I have some insurance to make sure your griffin behaves. In fact, here she comes now.” He turned to Guy and Boy and, for that matter, Penrithega, and announced, looking up, “That’s Bertha.”

A dragon was spiraling down toward them. Boy had no idea whether it was a large dragon as it was the first he had ever seen. It was gray. That he could tell. He might have expected a more outlandish color. Green, maybe.

Suddenly, Pen squalled loudly and took off, dragging D’Laniger behind him on the leash affixed to his collar. Guy went bumping along, hanging on, sometimes bouncing off the ground, sometimes a few feet above it.

The dragon settled into a landing beside Farmer Hamm. “Oh, I say, I didn’t mean to spook it. Hamm asked me to drop by.” She nodded toward the farmer, her sleek head bobbing atop its long neck. “He and I are old friends.”

Said farmer was laughing uproariously. Boy noted that the horse was not in the least perturbed by the great beast’s presence. She must be a frequent visitor.

“I do feel responsible. I’ll try to catch up with them. Do you wish to come along, young man?”

“I don’t think I could keep up,” said Boy.

Bertha laughed too, though more decorously than Hamm. “I meant you could ride. Hop on!”

Why not? Boy took a seat behind her wings. The body was surprisingly thin, almost snake-like, but covered with coarse fur, not scales. He grabbed hold of that fur as Bertha the dragon launched herself into the clear morning air and sped in the direction they had last seen Penrithega and Guy D’Laniger. It was not long before they spied a black form on the ground below. The dragon alit near it.

D’Laniger had apparently fallen from some distance. “Oh dear. It seems your master is quite dead. He really should have let go of the leash sooner.” She regarded the body thoughtfully for a moment or two. “I am rather surprised your griffin—”

“Penrithega,” interjected Boy.

“Yes, quite. I am surprised Penrithega didn’t stop to eat him. He must have had something else on his mind.” Bertha rose into the air a short distance, looking all about as she hovered. “There.”

Tracks. The imprints of the cloven hooves meant nothing to Boy.

“A unicorn. And in heat—I can tell from the scent,” the dragon told him. “I wonder what sort of offspring could arise from that.” Then she laughed. “Oh, but only a virgin can catch a unicorn. I am sure Penrithega does not qualify. Nor,” she added, a little more seriously, “do I. Which is too bad, as I have been curious as to how they taste.”

“Umm,” began Boy.

Bertha raised an eyebrow. Or the dragon equivalent of one. “Oh. Well, let’s get going then.”

With Bertha’s strong wings to carry them, they soon caught up with the griffin and the object of his affection. Somehow, Penrithega could just not connect with the unicorn, which eluded him no matter how ardently he attempted to corner the beautiful beast. She seemed to think it was a game. The sun shown on her very long and very sharp ivory horn as she tossed her head; she might be amused by the griffin at the moment but that weapon could be deadly if she changed her mind!

Boy slipped from the dragon’s back and pulled forth his flute. At the first strands of his simple but haunting (and slightly out of tune) song, Penrithega began to settle down. Boy took a seat on the ground, playing on, and before long the griffin came to lie beside him, purring contentedly.

The unicorn looked long at the young man. Then she danced over to him, to lay her head in his lap. Boy stroked her neck and told her, “Get along now, girl.” She bounded away, a flash of white disappearing into the woods.

“I suppose it wouldn’t have been sporting to eat her,” commented Bertha. She didn’t sound completely sure of it.

The village was falling into dusk, the shadows of the houses lying long and purple across the street, when Boy arrived home, a week or so later. But Rosa was at her darkened window and spied him. “So what did you do while you were gone, Boy?” she called to him.

“I chased a cat!” he called back.

Penrithega padded silently at his side.

 

There two stories appeared in Lands Far Away

Stephen Brooke ©2021