Barf of the Bedazzler Page 3

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because, Moxie,” Pan says. “Look at them.”

  Moxie turns to the figures before us. Bows drawn. Faces stern.

  “Two!” says Peat Blossom.

  “They’re elves,” Pan says. “Like me.” She lowers Moxie’s hammer arm.

  Moxie grits her teeth. But she drops her hammer into the muck. I drop my staff. TickTock tosses his dagger. Bizzy even tucks away her stinger.

  “Smart move, y’all,” says Peat Blossom.

  Pan holds out her palms and strides confidently toward the lead elf.

  “Thelasma au delnadre enenthau Panalathalasas,” says Pan.

  Peat Blossom squints at her. “What’d you say to me, runt?”

  “Sentau aureanth ethenousenlasa?” says Pan.

  “You best shut that jibber-jabber up right quick,” says Peat Blossom. “Before you get yerself hurt.”

  Pan crosses her arms. “That is not jibber-jabber,” she says. “That is High Elvish. I would expect any elf to understand it.”

  “Well, la-dee-da, Yer Highness,” says Peat Blossom with a laugh. “Hear that, y’all? That there’s High Elvish! Any elf worth spit should be able to understand it!”

  The elves burst into laughter.

  Peat Blossom leans in close to Pan. “We ain’t high elves, sweetheart.” She takes off her hat and flicks some moss from it. Her hat is tattered, but her eyes are full of fire. “We’re muck elves.”

  Peat Blossom shoves Pan with the tip of her bow. “Now scootch back on over next to yer friends. And no more talkin’.”

  “I thought they were elves,” Moxie whispers. “Like you.”

  “They may be elves,” says Pan, wrinkling her nose in distaste, “but they are nothing like me.”

  Peat Blossom turns to her companions. “Know what, boys?”

  “What’s that, Peat Blossom?”

  “Since princess here can’t keep her yap shut, let’s just simplify things good and proper.” Peat Blossom pulls out a small tube. A blowgun. “Dart ’em.”

  FFFT! FFFT! FFFT! FFFT!

  I feel a prick in my neck. Drowsiness hits me hard, and I know I’ve just been shot with a sleeping dart.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When I wake up, I’ve got a weird feeling. It’s that feeling of dangling from a pole like a feast-day goose. You know the one.

  I open my eyes. And I realize why I feel that way.

  ’Cause I’m in a boat, dangling from a pole like a feast-day goose.

  “Where are you taking us?” I demand. Only I’m still kinda groggy. So it comes out mostly as “Wherakaboo?”

  “Ain’t takin’ you nowhere,” says Peat Blossom. “We’re here.”

  These weird elves don’t speak High Elvish. But apparently they speak Wherakaboo.

  “Welcome,” says Peat Blossom, “to the Holler.”

  I don’t know what a holler is. But what I see knocks my socks off. My wet, soggy socks.

  The boat drifts to a stop under a large building. Peat Blossom lets out a call, and suddenly we’re rising up into the belly of the building.

  We are led through dim halls to a thick wooden door. The elves throw us in. And lock the door.

  “Y’all get good and comfy, now,” Peat Blossom hoots through the bars in the tiny window. She glares at Pan. “Especially you, precious. After all, this here’s the luxury suite. Reserved especially for the use of high elves like you!”

  She lets out a laugh and ambles away. Two elves with spears take up positions outside the door. And there’s silence. Just the hum of crickets and swamp frogs fills the air.

  “This is great,” says Moxie. “Just great.” She turns to Pan. “We should have fought them when we had the chance!”

  “These are not spindernots,” says Pan. “These are elves.”

  “And I’m a dwarf!”

  “They had bows,” Pan points out.

  “I have a hammer!”

  All our weapons have been taken.

  “I understand how you feel,” Pan says, shaking her head in exasperation. “They took my necklace. That belonged to my mother!” She flops into a dark corner. “But they would have shot us down before we even landed one hit.”

  “At least we would have gone down fighting!” Moxie snaps.

  “Fighting a group of elves is never a logical choice,” Pan says. “Even reckless, slovenly elves like these.”

  “Yeah,” Moxie mumbles. “Because getting locked in jail is real logical.”

  I hate seeing Moxie like this. “It’s not Pan’s fault,” I remind her.

  Moxie whirls on me. “NOW you chime in?”

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing!” she cries. “That’s the problem!”

  “Now wait just a second…” I start.

  “I’m Fart!” Moxie says mockingly, doing a completely terrible imitation of my voice. “When danger strikes, I stand there and say nothing. Or I cast Banana-Pants!”

  “That spell is called Slip ’N Slide,” I inform her. “And for the record, you sound nothing like me!”

  “I sound exactly like you.”

  “NOTHING!” I screech.

  “Friends! Stop fighting with our own selves!” TickTock yells.

  Moxie lets out a long sigh. She looks at me sheepishly. “Sorry.” She grips and ungrips the bars and then huddles miserably in a dark corner.

  I sigh in helpless defeat. She’s not wrong. I could never take action the way Moxie does. She would brave a hundred minotaurs with nothing but her hammer and a spunky attitude. She’d body-slam a thousand liches, and the smile would never leave her face. But being locked up like this … Without her shield. Without her hammer. It’s gotta be pure torture.

  TickTock wrings his hands and shivers next to me. “TickTock and swamps always be a bad idea.”

  I flump down next to the phibling. “So you had to leave your home too?”

  TickTock looks up at me. “Yes. Phiblings are not believing in metal and machines. Are saying it is unnatural. TickTock broke phibling laws by building his gizmos. Phiblings say TickTock is no phibling. Banish him from the swamp forever. Say never come back.”

  “Wow,” I whisper. “I get it.”

  “This is the same for Fart-boy?” asks TickTock.

  “Let’s just say I was not a great farmer.”

  TickTock sighs and curls into a ball. “TickTock likes Fart-boy, whether good farmer or not. But now that TickTock is in a muck-elf prison, he is wishing baby heroes had left TickTock with Kevin.”

  There’s that word again. I’ve had it with being a baby hero. I’m ready for monsters and muck elves and even Pan and Moxie to look at me with trembling awe!

  My staff and dagger are gone. But there … hidden underneath my robes. I feel my spellbook. Clearly the elves missed it when they confiscated all our weapons.

  I flop the heavy book onto my lap. I thumb through the pages. Past the well-worn first-level spells. Past the dog-eared intermediate spells. To the back of the book.

  Here the pages are smooth and unstained. Here the spells have powerful and mysterious names.

  Mind Control. It’s the spell Kevin mentioned. I try to imagine the possibilities that would be at my fingertips if I had the power to control the thoughts and actions of the muck elves.

  It’s fun to imagine. But I can already hear Master Elmore’s voice in my head. Don’t get ahead of yourself, boy! You’re not ready for that! Think small!

  And yet. Where did that kind of thinking get Master Elmore? Dead. Kaput. Killed by goblins.

  That’s where.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It’s impossible to know how long we’ve been rotting away in this cell.

  Days?

  Weeks?

  Months?

  At long last, we hear the rattle of keys.

  It’s Peat Blossom. “Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey,” she says. “Only without the bakey. And no eggs, either.”

  “It’s about time!” I cry. This
endless imprisonment has broken my spirit completely. I’ll do whatever they say. I’ll tell them anything they want to know.

  “Whatcha mean ‘about time’?” Peat Blossom asks. “Y’all only been in here about twenty minutes.”

  Oh.

  “Now git up,” she says, unlocking the door. “Y’all been summoned.”

  “Summoned?” asks Moxie. “By who?”

  “By the madam of the muck. The soul of the sludge. The head honcho of the Holler.” Peat Blossom smiles broadly. “Y’all been summoned by the Grand High Meemaw.”

  We are led to a great hall. The ceiling is ribbed, like the underside of a giant mushroom. Glowing beetles and iridescent lizards bathe the room with radiance. It is otherworldly and magnificent. But before us sits the most otherworldly and magnificent sight of all.

  Her golden skin reflects the oranges, purples, and blues of the lights around us. Yet it seems to glow with a source of its own.

  I kneel.

  “Stand, child,” she says. Her voice is rich and deep. “There’s no need for that here.”

  She takes a moment and looks at each of us in turn.

  “So, Peat Blossom,” she says. “These are the intruders.”

  “Yes, Meemaw,” says Peat Blossom. “We found ’em trompin’ through our lands like they owned the place.”

  Moxie steps forward. “Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

  “Please, child. Call me Meemaw.”

  “Well, Meemaw,” she says, scratching her armpit awkwardly. “We were just traveling through your swamp on our way to the city of Wetwater. We didn’t mean to trespass.”

  “We muck elves are a territorial bunch,” Meemaw says melodiously. “We love our home and we guard her borders well. It is not our rule to welcome outsiders freely.”

  Moxie gulps. “We didn’t know.”

  “I wonder,” says Meemaw. “Is ignorance of a rule an excuse to break it?” She turns her head to address Pan. “What do you say to this, Panalathalasas?”

  Pan’s ears perk up at the use of her proper elvish name.

  She eyes the woman thoughtfully, as if weighing her response. I cringe. She has not been impressed with these odd elves. Showing disrespect to their boss lady could be bad news for all of us.

  “No, it is not,” says Pan softly. “We saw the markers. We should have sought permission before entering these lands. We are guilty.”

  Moxie drops her head into her hands. Pan has sealed our doom.

  But Meemaw seems satisfied with this answer. She squints down at us, evaluating us carefully.

  “I sense no malice in your hearts. I believe that you meant us no harm or intrusion.”

  “That’s right!” says TickTock. “No intrusion was being meant! Not even a little—”

  “Yet intrude you did,” whispers Meemaw, cutting the phibling short. “Therefore, as payment for your uninvited trespass, you will perform a small act of service for us.”

  Pan looks around at the muck elves who stand in neat formation before their leader. She kneels in respect. “We accept this judgment.”

  “Beg pardon, Meemaw,” interrupts Peat Blossom. “Yer gonna let this riffraff off with a slap on the wrist? You shoulda heard how this fancy-pants elf talked to us! On our own lands!”

  “Peace, Peat Blossom,” says Meemaw. “This is no slap on the wrist, child.”

  The Grand High Meemaw stands. Colorful beads rattle at her neck and her housecoat flows softly around her feet.

  “They will vanquish SquishRabble from our lands once and for all. In doing so, they will earn our respect, our friendship, and their freedom.”

  * * *

  SUPERHEROIC ACHIEVEMENT!

  Get a Quest within a Quest!

  (100 Experience Points Awarded)

  * * *

  Peat Blossom rubs her grimy hands together. “Yer sendin’ them to fight SquishRabble?” She shoots a look at Pan. “Oh boy. This is gonna be good!”

  Meemaw holds up her hand. “Do not rejoice yet, Peat Blossom. Because you are going to lead them there.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  We’ve been given our weapons back. Moxie hugs her hammer like she’s never letting go.

  Meemaw promises our gold and other possessions will be returned if we slay SquishRabble. Which, according to Peat Blossom, doesn’t seem likely.

  Though with a name like SquishRabble, how scary can he be?

  Peat Blossom chooses two more muck elves to escort us. Jethro. And some guy named Boondoggle.

  After a couple hours hiking through the sludge, Peat Blossom calls for a stop.

  “We’ll rest here, y’all,” she says. She makes herself comfy on a filthy log and pulls out a musical instrument.

  “Music?” Moxie grips and ungrips her hammer nervously. “You sure that’s a good idea? You might attract something yucky.”

  “Trust me,” she says. “I know these parts better’n the back of my hand. A little fiddle-playin’ is safe fer now.”

  Jethro pulls out a harmonica and Boondoggle grabs some sort of reed flute from his pack.

  “Oh goody,” Pan whispers. “Prepare yourselves for a down-home jamboree.”

  Peat Blossom lowers her fiddle. “Yer a snob, princess.”

  “My name is Panalathalasas, not princess,” says Pan curtly. “If you must call me anything, call me Pan.”

  Pan looks for a clean spot to sit, but everywhere is moist and mucky. “And no, I’m not a snob. I was just taught how to be an elf.”

  Peat Blossom looks at her quietly for a moment. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t judge people so quick. Maybe”—she pauses to spit a loogie into the sludge nearby—“just maybe there’s more’n one way to be an elf.”

  She raises the bow to her fiddle and plays. As Jethro and Boondoggle join in, the melody rises into the night sky. I’ve never heard anything like it. If soaring eagles and dancing fireflies and thunderstorms gathering on the horizon could be turned into music, this is what it would sound like.

  I don’t know how much time passes. Minutes? An hour? But when they are done playing, I glance at Pan. She’s wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Nobody dares to breathe as the spell of the music fades into the night.

  Pan finally plops down in the muck moss with a squelch. “Why must everything in this place be so filthy?”

  Peat Blossom shoots a look at Pan. “Ain’t you a monk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ain’t monks supposed to be all lovey-dovey fer the elements?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And ain’t earth and water two of them elements?”

  “Yes. Yes, they are.”

  “So what’s more glorious than bein’ covered in muck, which is just earth and water mixed together?”

  Pan clears her throat uncomfortably. “I guess I never thought of that.”

  An awkward silence descends. TickTock clears his throat. “TickTock has never heard of elves living in swamps.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” chimes in Moxie. “Why do you live on this mucky land?”

  “That there’s a long story,” says Peat Blossom. “And one that ain’t really yer business, if we’re bein’ honest. But we done made it our home. And we come to love it.”

  “I never thought of that, either,” says Pan softly.

  “There’s a lot you ain’t never thought of,” says Peat Blossom. The muck elves shoulder their packs and rise wordlessly. “Let’s move. Ain’t got too far to go. It’s time fer y’all to meet SquishRabble.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  An enormous deformed tree claws the sky before us.

  Jethro and Boondoggle eye the tree in terror. But Peat Blossom is cucumber-cool.

  “That there’s SquishRabble,” whispers Peat Blossom, pointing at the tree.

  The tree looks super haunted and long dead, but other than that it just looks like a tree. “I don’t see anything,” I hiss.

  But Moxie points up into the branches.

  And there, as the moon peeks out from behind a clo
ud, I see it. A creature wrapped in a cocoon of vines and twigs.

  Oh my gosh. SquishRabble is a big boy.

  “Good luck,” says Jethro. The elves turn and head into the mist.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” says Moxie. “Aren’t you gonna give us any pointers?”

  “You gotta whoop him fast,” says Peat Blossom. “’Cuz he’ll start sendin’ off spores. And if them things take root, yer gonna have more than one muck man on yer hands. Yer gonna have one big daddy muck man and a messload of little baby muck men.”

  “Say ‘muck man’ a few more times,” I tell her. “I don’t think I’ve got the full picture.”

  Pan eyes the muck elves suspiciously. “You seem like skilled fighters.”

  “Yes indeedy,” Boondoggle answers without hesitation. “We beat you.”

  Moxie grins. “Well, we never technically fought,” she argues.

  “But my point is,” Pan interrupts, “why haven’t you simply taken care of this muck man yourselves?”

  Peat Blossom gives Pan a calculating look. “’Cuz muck elves got sensitive ears,” she answers. “I’m guessing your hearing is less touchy on account of that thick head of yours.” Peat Blossom tugs some oversize earmuffs from her pack. She hands them to Pan. “Just in case, you better put these on, high elf.”

  “Why?” asks Pan, taking the earmuffs nervously.

  “On account of the screeching,” says Jethro.

  “Good luck,” says Peat Blossom again. “We’ll keep watch from over here.” And they disappear into the mist.

  We turn and face the decrepit tree. “Well, we clearly need a plan,” Pan points out.

  “We could do the old standby,” suggests Moxie.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “I beat it on the head with my hammer until it stops moving.”

  “What about the spores?” Pan asks.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Unless you can conk it out in one shot, it’s going to be muck-baby city around here.”