Hero's Manual: Chapter 20
Chapter 20: The Substitute
“Why did you let me eat that second bowl?”
“You liked it, master.”
“Yes, I did,” admitted Vicky, “only now I feel like I have a whole goat inside.” Vicky clutched at his middle as he tried to keep up with his butler.
“Probably do,” muttered Quasi, pushing his way through the crowd back to the town square. It was near dusk, and the square was already full of people awaiting the banquet with eager stomachs.
Vicky stopped short and spat. He rubbed his mouth and spat again. At Quasi’s look, he grimaced. “Fur, I think.”
Quasi caught sight of the snack vendor and changed trajectory. “That’s Lucretia for you: lady doesn’t joke around.”
“Exactly.” Vicky caught onto Quasi’s arm and squeezed between two early drinkers. “I just know there was hoof in there.”
“And eyeball…”
“I kind of liked that bit.”
Quasi swallowed hard. They’d reached the center of the square, where the newly-assembled banquet table was being set. A tall man in a cloak was weaving between the women as they carried plates and cups, sidestepping nervously from the path of one carrying wooden spoons. There was something odd about the man, thought Quasi, and it wasn’t just the way he kept wrapping the cloak about him, or the “Musgrave’s Hedgehogs” baseball cap shielding his face from the fading light.
“Ahoy there!” The cloaked-man waved hurried towards them.
Ah, thought Quasi. Of course there was something odd.
“Why Uncle!” exclaimed Vicky. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Oh, well, you know me,” Mycroft answered, tugging his cap farther down over his face, “can’t resist the crowd.”
Quasi and Vicky looked at him blankly. “The sun’s still-” started one, and “A bit out of the way-” said the other, but Mycroft waved them silent.
“A man’s got to eat sometime,” he said, gesturing to the banquet table, “and what better time than a feast?”
“And you just knew there was going to be a feast? Here? In a town you couldn’t spot from a hot-air balloon?” asked Quasi suspiciously.
Mycroft avoided Quasi’s glare. “Oh, well, word travels, you know.” He loosened the bow around his neck, dropping his cloak from his shoulders.
“And?” goaded Quasi, squinting to read Mycroft’s face, but the gathering dusk made it hard to see. “What else travels these woods?”
Mycroft turned to him so quickly Quasi took a step back. The vampire studied him carefully, then slowly smiled a cold, mirthless smile. Quasi had never felt so dangerously edible in his life.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Seen it.”
“What it?” said Vicky, tired of being ignored by both characters and narration. The two men carried on ignoring him.
After a moment, Mycroft stepped back from Quasi and took his cape off with a flourish, taking in deep breath. “Ah, I love this time of day. With the night just about to start, creatures bedding down or taking long, lonely strolls, the possibilities are endless.” He turned to the two and smiled, and this time it was a warm and welcoming smile. “Dear nephew, listen to the hustle and bustle of the people, the myriad of cycads rubbing their little legs together, the bleating of-” He stopped and, as one man, the three turned.
There was a goat in the town square.
“The bleating of the goat,” finished Mycroft woodenly. “Which is there.”
“Ungk,” said Quasi, desperately trying not to choke on his tongue.
At the sight of the goat, Vicky darted behind his butler. As Mycroft took a few steps toward the goat, Vicky alternated between hiding behind Quasi and peeking over his shoulder.
“It’s not Him,” said Mycroft, taking another step toward the bleating creature. Quasi hesitated a moment then walked up beside the vampire, his master clinging to his shirt all the way.
“I can’t see,” complained Vicky. “Who’s it not?”
“Would you care for a stick?”
Mycroft turned to the old woman beside him. “Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘Would you care for a stick?’” She nodded to the tethered goat. “Only it’s four Crumbles if you do.” At the confused silence, she elaborated. “This ‘ere’s the ‘onorary Dark Lord of the Woods, see, and you gets to hit it, if’n you can pay. It’s four Crumbles for a stick, two for stone and kicks go at ‘alf a Crumble, but,” she added, pointing at a pile of old boots, “you’ve got to use these shoes ‘ere.” Still no response from the men. “That’s fifty Fluffs for you foreign gents.”
“Uh, no, that’s quite alright,” said Mycroft. “We were just-”
“We were admiring the fine specimen,” piped in Quasi, his voice uncharacteristically high. “How much do you charge for use of one’s own stick?”
“Oh, can’t do, sir,” she answered, crossing her arms over her amble bosom. “It’s got to be the special sticks - ‘onorary, they is - or none at all. Poor Timmy’d be havin’ a fit if he heard his Freckles was gettin’ hit with somethin’ less’n ‘on’rary.”
“Oh,” said Quasi dejectedly. Gently he let go of the candlestick and took his hand out of his pocket.
“That’s alright,” said Mycroft brightly. “We’re a bit pressed for time as it is.” He put an arm around Quasi’s shoulders and pulled him away from the goat. “Thanks all the same. And tell - Timmy, was it? - that he’s got a lovely goat.”
The woman’s face softened despite the lack of forthcoming Crumbles. “He’s right proud of Freckles, he is. Fed on hay ‘n’ frogs, nuthin’ else. ‘Cept the occasional blood sausage and that one time it ate the family quilt.”
But the three were already moving away, Mycroft leading Quasi by the arm like a child whilst Vicky huddled behind them, casting suspicious glances at the tethered goat.
The vampire kept his hold on the butler all the way to a small inn. As they sat down at the bar, Vicky asked, “What did you mean back there? ‘Pressed for time’?”
“Well, the sun’s been down, let’s see…” Mycroft shut his eyes and stood deathly still, not even pretending to breathe. Quasi got the feeling that the vampire was listening to the actual ticks of his internal clock. “Seventeen minutes. Dusk’ll be a bit yet, then there’s the bonfire, ritual sacrifice… That gives us little over an hour to find some sort of dish with which to contribute to the banquet.”
“Ritual sacri-”
“What do you mean, ‘contribute’,” interrupted Vicky. “I had a good look at the pots just now, when we were walking through the square, and it seems to me that they’ve already got food. Lots.”
Mycroft glanced at Quasi. His look said, “Still a tight-purse, is he?” Quasi could only nod dejectedly.
“Well, nephew, it’s really quite simple,” said Mycroft, draping his cloak over his lap, “The village, as an entity, is hosting the banquet. Common courtesy demands- Oh, hello.” This last was to the bartender who was coming down the steps leading to the advertised rooms. “Do you have Bloody Maries?”
“Don’t know ‘bout no Mary, but I can do you a Sue. And no swearin’ in ‘ere.”
“Right. Then it’ll be three - no, two - teas and a hot cocoa for the boy.”
“Uncle!” whined Vicky.
“It’ll do you good: Lucretia says you had two bowls.”
“Damn cocoa.”
“No swearing!” cried the bartender.
“So the banquet’s free…ish,” mused Quasi, “but we’ve got to take a little something, else we don’t get a spoon?”
“That’s right, ‘cause you’re tourists. ‘Cultural Exchange’ and all that.”
Their teas and cocoa arrived in clay mugs. After a sip, Quasi suspected the mugs had never seen the inside of a kiln. He held the mug gingerly, half-expecting it to disintegrate. From the taste of his tea, it was already doing so, albeit very slowly.
A couple came down the steps and approached the bar. The woman, upon seeing the three men, hesitated.
“Er…Burt?” she said, tugging on her companion’s arm. “Let’s go, um…out. Let’s go see the…um.”
“Tea, please,” said the man, ignoring her.
“Don’t,” warned Quasi.
“Come on, Burt.”
“Who’s Burt?”
“You are. Let’s go.”
“Gwendolyn, dear, no need to fret,” said Mycroft. “Let Hero have his appallingly-bad tea.”
Gwen glared at Hero then sank down onto a stool. “Damn it!”
“No swearing!”
“Why did you let me eat that second bowl?”
“You liked it, master.”
“Yes, I did,” admitted Vicky, “only now I feel like I have a whole goat inside.” Vicky clutched at his middle as he tried to keep up with his butler.
“Probably do,” muttered Quasi, pushing his way through the crowd back to the town square. It was near dusk, and the square was already full of people awaiting the banquet with eager stomachs.
Vicky stopped short and spat. He rubbed his mouth and spat again. At Quasi’s look, he grimaced. “Fur, I think.”
Quasi caught sight of the snack vendor and changed trajectory. “That’s Lucretia for you: lady doesn’t joke around.”
“Exactly.” Vicky caught onto Quasi’s arm and squeezed between two early drinkers. “I just know there was hoof in there.”
“And eyeball…”
“I kind of liked that bit.”
Quasi swallowed hard. They’d reached the center of the square, where the newly-assembled banquet table was being set. A tall man in a cloak was weaving between the women as they carried plates and cups, sidestepping nervously from the path of one carrying wooden spoons. There was something odd about the man, thought Quasi, and it wasn’t just the way he kept wrapping the cloak about him, or the “Musgrave’s Hedgehogs” baseball cap shielding his face from the fading light.
“Ahoy there!” The cloaked-man waved hurried towards them.
Ah, thought Quasi. Of course there was something odd.
“Why Uncle!” exclaimed Vicky. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Oh, well, you know me,” Mycroft answered, tugging his cap farther down over his face, “can’t resist the crowd.”
Quasi and Vicky looked at him blankly. “The sun’s still-” started one, and “A bit out of the way-” said the other, but Mycroft waved them silent.
“A man’s got to eat sometime,” he said, gesturing to the banquet table, “and what better time than a feast?”
“And you just knew there was going to be a feast? Here? In a town you couldn’t spot from a hot-air balloon?” asked Quasi suspiciously.
Mycroft avoided Quasi’s glare. “Oh, well, word travels, you know.” He loosened the bow around his neck, dropping his cloak from his shoulders.
“And?” goaded Quasi, squinting to read Mycroft’s face, but the gathering dusk made it hard to see. “What else travels these woods?”
Mycroft turned to him so quickly Quasi took a step back. The vampire studied him carefully, then slowly smiled a cold, mirthless smile. Quasi had never felt so dangerously edible in his life.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Seen it.”
“What it?” said Vicky, tired of being ignored by both characters and narration. The two men carried on ignoring him.
After a moment, Mycroft stepped back from Quasi and took his cape off with a flourish, taking in deep breath. “Ah, I love this time of day. With the night just about to start, creatures bedding down or taking long, lonely strolls, the possibilities are endless.” He turned to the two and smiled, and this time it was a warm and welcoming smile. “Dear nephew, listen to the hustle and bustle of the people, the myriad of cycads rubbing their little legs together, the bleating of-” He stopped and, as one man, the three turned.
There was a goat in the town square.
“The bleating of the goat,” finished Mycroft woodenly. “Which is there.”
“Ungk,” said Quasi, desperately trying not to choke on his tongue.
At the sight of the goat, Vicky darted behind his butler. As Mycroft took a few steps toward the goat, Vicky alternated between hiding behind Quasi and peeking over his shoulder.
“It’s not Him,” said Mycroft, taking another step toward the bleating creature. Quasi hesitated a moment then walked up beside the vampire, his master clinging to his shirt all the way.
“I can’t see,” complained Vicky. “Who’s it not?”
“Would you care for a stick?”
Mycroft turned to the old woman beside him. “Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘Would you care for a stick?’” She nodded to the tethered goat. “Only it’s four Crumbles if you do.” At the confused silence, she elaborated. “This ‘ere’s the ‘onorary Dark Lord of the Woods, see, and you gets to hit it, if’n you can pay. It’s four Crumbles for a stick, two for stone and kicks go at ‘alf a Crumble, but,” she added, pointing at a pile of old boots, “you’ve got to use these shoes ‘ere.” Still no response from the men. “That’s fifty Fluffs for you foreign gents.”
“Uh, no, that’s quite alright,” said Mycroft. “We were just-”
“We were admiring the fine specimen,” piped in Quasi, his voice uncharacteristically high. “How much do you charge for use of one’s own stick?”
“Oh, can’t do, sir,” she answered, crossing her arms over her amble bosom. “It’s got to be the special sticks - ‘onorary, they is - or none at all. Poor Timmy’d be havin’ a fit if he heard his Freckles was gettin’ hit with somethin’ less’n ‘on’rary.”
“Oh,” said Quasi dejectedly. Gently he let go of the candlestick and took his hand out of his pocket.
“That’s alright,” said Mycroft brightly. “We’re a bit pressed for time as it is.” He put an arm around Quasi’s shoulders and pulled him away from the goat. “Thanks all the same. And tell - Timmy, was it? - that he’s got a lovely goat.”
The woman’s face softened despite the lack of forthcoming Crumbles. “He’s right proud of Freckles, he is. Fed on hay ‘n’ frogs, nuthin’ else. ‘Cept the occasional blood sausage and that one time it ate the family quilt.”
But the three were already moving away, Mycroft leading Quasi by the arm like a child whilst Vicky huddled behind them, casting suspicious glances at the tethered goat.
The vampire kept his hold on the butler all the way to a small inn. As they sat down at the bar, Vicky asked, “What did you mean back there? ‘Pressed for time’?”
“Well, the sun’s been down, let’s see…” Mycroft shut his eyes and stood deathly still, not even pretending to breathe. Quasi got the feeling that the vampire was listening to the actual ticks of his internal clock. “Seventeen minutes. Dusk’ll be a bit yet, then there’s the bonfire, ritual sacrifice… That gives us little over an hour to find some sort of dish with which to contribute to the banquet.”
“Ritual sacri-”
“What do you mean, ‘contribute’,” interrupted Vicky. “I had a good look at the pots just now, when we were walking through the square, and it seems to me that they’ve already got food. Lots.”
Mycroft glanced at Quasi. His look said, “Still a tight-purse, is he?” Quasi could only nod dejectedly.
“Well, nephew, it’s really quite simple,” said Mycroft, draping his cloak over his lap, “The village, as an entity, is hosting the banquet. Common courtesy demands- Oh, hello.” This last was to the bartender who was coming down the steps leading to the advertised rooms. “Do you have Bloody Maries?”
“Don’t know ‘bout no Mary, but I can do you a Sue. And no swearin’ in ‘ere.”
“Right. Then it’ll be three - no, two - teas and a hot cocoa for the boy.”
“Uncle!” whined Vicky.
“It’ll do you good: Lucretia says you had two bowls.”
“Damn cocoa.”
“No swearing!” cried the bartender.
“So the banquet’s free…ish,” mused Quasi, “but we’ve got to take a little something, else we don’t get a spoon?”
“That’s right, ‘cause you’re tourists. ‘Cultural Exchange’ and all that.”
Their teas and cocoa arrived in clay mugs. After a sip, Quasi suspected the mugs had never seen the inside of a kiln. He held the mug gingerly, half-expecting it to disintegrate. From the taste of his tea, it was already doing so, albeit very slowly.
A couple came down the steps and approached the bar. The woman, upon seeing the three men, hesitated.
“Er…Burt?” she said, tugging on her companion’s arm. “Let’s go, um…out. Let’s go see the…um.”
“Tea, please,” said the man, ignoring her.
“Don’t,” warned Quasi.
“Come on, Burt.”
“Who’s Burt?”
“You are. Let’s go.”
“Gwendolyn, dear, no need to fret,” said Mycroft. “Let Hero have his appallingly-bad tea.”
Gwen glared at Hero then sank down onto a stool. “Damn it!”
“No swearing!”