In Which I Have Friends

The morning after our starlit exchange, Glob was back to normal, gruff and crude. But I saw something else in her now, behind the muck and the pong and all the eye rolling. There was something in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Or perhaps it was always there, and I simply hadn’t looked long enough. Don’t get me wrong, she still spat and belched and smelled like the inside of a horse, but after that night, she always looked a little different in a way I could never quite explain to anybody else.

The rest of the ride home was largely uneventful, save for a broken spur on the cabbage, a distressing shortage of cheddar, a run-in with the roving sentient hailstorm known as ‘Khrark’ that absolutely clobbered us and gave everyone two black eyes, as well as a brief but intense skirmish with the notorious outlaw Thunderlung and her marauding band of electric skeletons. Overall though, it was smooth sailing, as far as the Great Valley Road is concerned.

We made it back to Pugglemunt three days before the Harvest Festival, some two months after our once-bold quartet had rode forth from the city gates. We didn’t leave in the most stylish of fashions, I’ll be the first to admit, but our arrival home was considerably worse, what with half of us being dead or transformed or sliced to bits, and there being a fair few random hangers-on now with us, and all of us huddling inside a giant boiled vegetable, and my being clad in a pair of mucky lederhosen, and Astra being nowhere in sight. I must say, I really do struggle to think

of a time when I have failed more spectacularly in every single way.

Such was the sogginess of our arrival that the peasant folk didn’t even assemble; they had no idea they were parting in the street for the arrival of their, if not ‘beloved’, then at least ‘reasonably well-liked’ king. Of course, the carriage itself still received a lot of attention, with many of the slack-jawed masses elbowing each other and saying things like ‘Cor, feast yer peepers on that giant lettuce!’ I thought it best to hide away inside and stay back from the windows. The peasants could be informed later that their king arrived under cover of darkness through one of the secret underground passages that lead out of the city.*

*Which absolutely don’t exist, however my great great grandmother thought it prudent to perpetuate the rumour, so that foreign spies would waste all their time sleuthing around cave entrances and hollow tree stumps and whatnot. Smart woman, Ethelstar. As mad as a sockful of frogspawn, of course, but then I suppose the line between genius and shit-flinging lunacy has always been razor thin.

Our cabbage rolled through my city towards the palace, rumbling over the wonky cobbles, winding steadily through the crooked districts that, though once I adored, I now ran my eye over in shame. Vena’s city really was better. Everything in Bloodroot was so clean. How did they get the pillars outside the cathedral that white? Even the peasants in Vena’s city looked better. They had more teeth on the whole, and their hair wasn’t quite so matted, and while they were certainly still caked hair to heel in shit, they made it look like shabby-chic rather than governmental negligence – far sexier.

I stared out ruefully at my own stupid ugly peasants and wondered if that was part of the reason Astra left. I stewed over this as we passed through the black market (down the far end of Fug Street, just left of the Cobbler’s Noggin), and my rage peaked without warning as I witnessed a lanky milkman spill half a pint of curdled milk over himself and shrug it off.

“Oh, get a wash you horrid bastards,” I cried out of the window, leaning out and waving my fist.

“You first, you ham-nosed leprechaun,” came the reply.

“Leprechaun?” I asked, as I settled back into the carriage.

“I think he’s got his xenophobia mixed up,” said Selladore, nodding at my Lederhosen.

“Oh, yeah.”

No, I decided, Astra didn’t leave me because my peasants are dirty. She left me because I’m a bloody idiot.

We eventually wound our way out of the hubbub of the lower city and passed through the gates into the palace. We were stopped first by the guards of course, asking on whose authority we were entering. I didn’t want to be seen, and so we tried to hold up Edgar – still officially the captain of the palace guard – but the sight of a chubby worm attempting to squirm out of our grip did nothing to change their minds. We were seconds from being hurled in the dungeons for wasting palace time when Glob stepped in and, as the only member of our company that wasn’t either lying crushed in a snowy ravine or completely unrecognisable, jogged the guards’ memory of her work in the stables. Stifling laughter, they parted their spears and let us inside.

Word of our return spread fast, and our carriage drew to a halt in the centre of a courtyard lined with ranks of stony-faced soldiers, councillors, and kitchen staff. The wind rolled through the cabbage, and the square was silent save for the distant flapping of the Pugglemunt flag (light blue, and adorned with a laughing young man throwing a dog into a lake – one of Ethelstar’s less-celebrated brainwaves). A horn tooted in the quiet.

“Hail! King Athelstan has returned to Pugglemunt!”

The crowd clapped politely, and the cabbage door was eased open by an understandably perplexed guard. I stayed sat down, hidden in shadow. Boomlay eased herself out first, and a wave of whispers ran through the crowd.

“Norah, he’s let hisself go a bit!” someone gasped.

The rest of our company climbed out of the carriage, and finally I crept out, shielding my eyes from the light. The square remained silent, and several guards looked as though they were pondering whether to draw their swords. I wondered why this was at the time, but was later informed that because of my lack of hand and steed and crown and Astra and my absolutely mashed-in nose, the guards initially thought I was a scruffy imposter wearing a poorly-fashioned mask.

*****

My chambers were as I left them. Astra’s dresses hung in our wardrobe. The bed was unmade. The pillow smelled like her hair. The last time I was in this room, I was whole. But then, no – it wouldn’t do to think of it that way. I was just younger, naive and innocent – different, not any better or worse. It made me sick to my stomach to see the unchanged room, but sometimes the kindest medicine tastes the sourest.

So I made the bed, I changed the covers on the pillows. I handed Astra’s old clothes to a guard with orders for them to be distributed among the poorer regions of the city. I collected the shreds of Vena’s note up and put them in the bottom of my chest of memories. It was unpleasant, yes, but perhaps one day the memory of this troubled period of my life would provide me with strength. Perhaps one day I’d look back at that ugly note and be grateful.

It felt good to be home again, with all the familiar faces drifting through the network of palace corridors that were so laced into the enchanted meat of my brain. After a day or two I stopped comparing my city and Vena’s. I realised that, yes, his world was certainly impressive, but there was a lot to love about my own. The leaves on the trees were my favourite shade of green, the wood smoke on the wind smelled just right, and the boisterous squawks of the seagulls that dive bombed the markets sounded like home.

I didn’t see much of my companions for the next few days, but they stayed in the castle at Selladore’s request. He wanted to be near me should anything go wrong. I refused at first in order to keep what little of my dignity was left intact, but quietly I was glad. Although I didn’t get to speak with them, knowing that the people who shared my journey were just a few rooms away made me sleep a little more soundly at night, as I lay in that huge, empty, cold bed.

The preparations for the Harvest Festival kept me busy over the next week, and though Astra was never far from the forefront of my mind, the long spans of absently staring at the floor grew less frequent. I simply didn’t have time; every waking moment I was being badgered by a steady stream of councillors with a backlog of kingly duties. I spent long hours in the throne room dishing out royal orders (I requested the Queen’s seat be removed because it is very embarrassing trying to give sage advice while sitting next to a massive empty throne that belonged to your wife who fled your home in the middle of the night) and signing war declarations and browsing CV’s of applicants for the castle’s vacant kitchen porter position.

Despite everything though, the horrible, sickly, unshakeable truth remained: I was missing a piece. Though by day I managed to function – near catatonic and monotonous, yes, but functional – the evenings were a different matter. At the end of each long day, I was forced to watch my assorted staff take their leave, one by one bowing and turning and strolling away, home to their loved ones. I didn’t have any loved ones anymore. No family, no Astra. There was just me, the hollow-eyed king of the realm. And so the days and nights passed.

*****

Wom wom wom.

“Athelstan?”

“No.”

Wom wom. Wom.

“Matey?”

“Go away.”

Wom wom wom.

“Athelstan! Open up!”

“Bugger off.”

I curled tighter into a ball on my bed and clutched the pillow hard over my ears. It was the day of the Harvest Festival and I was alone, barricaded in my chambers. Outside my window I could hear the crowds. The giddy masses of Pugglemunt were at that very moment crowding beneath my balcony to hear their King and Queen announce the beginning of the festival. The people loved Astra. They loved her far more than they would ever love me. She had that effect on people.

“Right, you, I’m sorry for this, but–”

I won’t demean myself by attempting to use onomatopoeia to recreate the sound of my bedroom door being booted out of its frame by a squinting pirate in a dazzling silver dress and a white wig. I groaned with the exertion of lifting my head up to address him.

“What.”

“We’ve come to check up on you.”

Glob and Boomlay filed in behind Selladore. Edgar wriggled in last wearing a specially adapted suit of armour that made him into an almost perfect silver tube.

“Oh, hello everyone,” I sighed.

“You’re supposed to have started the festival by now. We was all waiting outside to see you come out on the balcony,” said Glob.

I looked mournfully over to the balcony, the same balcony that Astra had escaped down. Golden sunlight was streaming in, and a warm breeze danced with the curtains. Beyond, ten thousand of my people waited for the emergence of their King and Queen. Ugh.

“You can go out instead. Tell them I’m ill.”

“You can’t back out now,” cried Glob. “When I were a kid I remember seeing your dad open the Harvest Festival with an arrow sticking out of his shoulder!”

“I just don’t want to do it, alright. I’m the King. It’s my festival, and I’m not doing it.”

I sat forwards and buried my face in my hands. I’d never gone out on the balcony alone, not ever. Mum or Dad were always there, and when they weren’t around anymore I had Astra. During her years by my side, Astra had guided my judgement. She’d calmed me, advised me, aided me, and propped me up when I fell short. She was even-handed yet firm, noble yet level-headed, wise and stern and brilliant and kooky and adorable. And gone, I reminded myself. Very much gone. Absent, absconded, absolutely, utterly vacated.

“Ten thousand faces outside my window, and here I sit with nobody who loves me.”

And then, in the smallest voice:

“It’s okay, Sire. We love you.”

I blinked at the chubby armoured worm sitting across from me.

“Edgar, what the hell?” I cried. “All this time you’ve been able to talk?”

The little worm looked at me blankly. “We love you,” he repeated, nodding in agreement with himself.

It was clear that being transformed hadn’t improved his intellect any. But the sound of his voice no longer drove me to imagine him being launched over the battlements via trebuchet. I suppose I’d sort of got used to it. I’d got used to the whole weird pack of them.

I looked up and found the four oddballs I had come to know as friends surrounding my bed. Well, maybe three, because Boomlay quite openly thought I was a wanker and was only hanging around because I owed her money, but even so, I like to believe that our mutual hatred bonded us. I looked from face to face, and I saw something I’d never noticed before – because I’d been too busy looking downward and backward. In the faces of my assembled friends, for the very first time, I saw genuine concern for my wellbeing. I saw kindness. And there, in my room, as I heard the ripples of the impatient crowd outside, I felt a familiar sensation again, just for the briefest moment, like the smell of a bakery on the morning breeze.

“You love me?”

My friends looked at me steadily with tender faces. I felt a wretch in front of them. I hated myself for being weak enough to ask their affection, but I couldn’t stop it. I needed to know. I never knew it mattered to me at all, but suddenly it seemed like everything.

“Of course we do.”

It was a warm day, but the hairs on my arms stood on end. I felt a gentle sting behind my eyes.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to say it if you don’t mean it.”

“Athelstan, we love you.”

“And everything will be okay?”

“Yes. Beyond all shadow of a doubt.”

And there it was again, that feeling that had slipped away. The feeling I’d given up on entirely, forgotten, tossed away, burned up, shredded and scattered on the breeze like the confetti of Vena’s letter. You never quite realise when you lose it, Belief, because usually when you do, you lose a lot more besides – Dignity, Security, Sanity – and they take priority during the search party that follows. But more than any of the others, it’s a lack of Belief that’ll keep you down. And as I looked into the faces of four friends that believed in me with such ease and simplicity, I felt that perhaps I could believe too.

The crowd outside were singing songs in their excitement. The curtains rippled, and as the wind toyed with them I caught glimpses of the balcony beyond, and of the long blue skies over Pugglemunt. I could see white gulls circling on high, and the tops of trees beyond the city walls, their branches shimmering in the afternoon heat. Thin plumes of lazy smoke wound up over the mismatched rooftops and their cacophony of missing tiles and washing lines.

There was a whole world out there. A whole world of pirates and witches and stable girls. A world of boats and sunsets and glittering cities, and scruffy cobbles and scraggly dogs rolling about in the mud – a world of squawking seagulls and creaking mooring ropes, of crackling fires and clustered taverns packed with ruddy-cheeked folks all broiling in the heat. And for the first time in as long as I could remember, I believed in everything. I really did. I believed in the crowd outside, I believed in my friends that stood around me with kind eyes, and finally, quietly, just barely, I could believe in myself. Just a sliver – just the tiniest, tiniest bit.

No, I was not cured of my sorrow. Yes, there were still ways to go. It would take more time, more bravery, more sickness and sleepless nights. I would be forced to conjure more endurance, more strength, but as I stood up from the bed, I resolved to fight the good fight. My friends believed in me, and I’d make them proud. I would be courageous, like the old heroes in the books I’d loved as a young kingling. Well – almost like them.

“Listen, I just want to say to you – Selladore, Edgar, and, I suppose, Boomlay,” I mumbled. “I want to thank you. For everything.”

I hugged my companions in turn. Selladore kissed me on the cheek. Boomlay grabbed me and bear hugged me until my eyes bulged out of my head, and I felt a flash of rage but swallowed it down and nodded at her curtly as we parted. Edgar’s pink flesh was very soft against my cheek – a sentence that would have mortified me a couple of months ago.

“Oi,” said a quiet voice as I stood back from my friends. “Worrabout me.”

“I was just getting to you,” I told my stable girl. From the top drawer of Astra’s old dresser I drew a crude carving I’d been working on for the past few evenings. I held it out, and she took it from me, frowning.

“Eh?”

“It’s for you. I made it. To make up for being a massive bastard for most of the time we’ve known one another. It’s meant to be your dad. So you can pray for him again.”

“It doesn’t look like me dad.”

“Well, yes, I didn’t know what he looked–“

“This statue’s got a giant head.”

“Yes, I struggled with the head but–”

“And me dad never had a pot belly.”

“Look, it’s very hard to whittle a statue–”

“It really is terrible.”

“Yes but–”

“I like it.”

She smiled at me out of the corner of her mouth, and pulled me in for a brief, awkward hug.

“Thanks for everything, Glob.”

And then it was time. With one last pat of Edgar’s head, I turned, drew a deep breath, and took a step towards the doors. I parted the curtains. The warm fingers of the late afternoon air caressed my skin, and the crowds grew silent with anticipation for their King and Queen. And then a memory flooded my heart without warning: our very first Harvest Festival, just after we married. We were just kids, giddy and chaotic and obsessed with one another. Inseparable, giggling, infuriating to be around as a couple. We were late heading onto the balcony that year, too, but for reasons far less sombre and far more gratifying. My guards had been hammering at the door to our chambers for fifteen minutes until finally we’d answered with hair a-mess and faces flushed, feigning innocence with our arms around one another’s waists.

That was a long time ago. I glanced back at my friends, anxious, preparing for the familiar anguish as the joy of nostalgia lurched into the dizzying nausea of loss. But the feeling never came. Instead, I saw only my friends smiling at me, excited for me, urging me forwards. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders. And when I had made my announcement, and I came back inside, I knew those arms would be open for me, waiting. They were here; they weren’t going anywhere. I didn’t know how, or what I’d done ever in my life to deserve them, but here they were. The thought straightened my back. I turned back to the open balcony, and the daylight streaming in gold through the curtains.

With a smile on my lips, I stepped forwards.

****************************************

**************************