Chapter Eleven: Wherein we discuss evil, the secret to good pie crust, and a writer of little importance.

As the sorceress said, disconsolateberries grow all over the southern coast of Lyrria. As you may know, disconsolate is a word meaning sad. It is a medium powerful word for sad, which is to say that it is more sad than crestfallen, but not so sad as woebegone. A disconsolate person is somewhat worse off than a person who is merely downcast, but not in nearly so bad a shape as a person who is inconsolable. You might suppose that the name of the berry comes from the feeling that one may feel after eating a few disconsolateberries, but you would be mightily mistaken. If anything, disconsolateberries lighten the mood of anyone who eats a few handfuls of them. It is my understanding that their name comes from a young man who lost his love. Wandering the hills along the coast, he was determined to die of starvation, but was unable to because he tasted one of the berries and thereafter kept eating them, despite his sadness and desire to die.

“You just made that up,” said the sorceress.

“Made what up?”

“That bit about the young man who lost his love.”

“Were you reading my thoughts?”

“No, you said that aloud.”

“I did?”

“I heard that the disconsolateberry got its name because being so tasty that one cannot stop eating them when out picking them, one can never gather enough to make a whole pie, leaving the maiden who is trying to do so, disconsolate.”

“I like my story better,” said I. “Although your story does have the benefit of having a pie in it.”

“I see you’ve finished your piece,” said Myolaena. “Would you like more poison pie?”

“Yes please.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“So I can’t have any more?”

“Why would you keep eating the pie, once I told you it was poisoned?”

“For one thing, being evil, you are probably lying about the poison…”

“I’m not evil.”

“Evil people never think they are.”

“What about Shakespeare’s Richard III? He is determined to play the villain.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Who? Richard III or Shakespeare?”

“Neither one of them.”

“One was a king in a faraway country. The other is the greatest writer of all time.”

“Which is which?” I wondered. “Never mind. I don’t care about a king in a faraway country, and clearly I am the greatest writer of all time.”

“That is a matter for some debate,” said she.

“Anyway, for another thing, once I’ve been poisoned and I’m going to die anyway, it seems a shame to deprive myself of one last piece of delicious pie.”

“You really think it’s delicious?”

“Yes. Did you use magic to create it or did you kill some poor cook and take her pie?”

“Neither. I made it myself.”

“You did? Really? How about the crust?”

“Of course I made the crust. You can’t have good pie without good crust. It’s one of the simplest recipes and yet it is so important.”

“That is so true,” I agreed.

“The trick is that the butter must be chilled.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. And you must work it in enough to incorporate it, but not so much as to warm it up all the way.”

“It is so nice that you took the time to make it right,” said I. “So many people just go through the motions now-a-days.”

“That is true.”

“So tell me the truth. You didn’t really go to all that trouble of making such a fine pie, just to poison it.”

“No,” she said. “I went to all that trouble of making such a fine pie to poison you.”

Suddenly the room began to spin. I slid from my seat and flopped back, smacking my head on the dirt floor and stared up at the wooden ceiling. Myolaena moved around the table to peer down into my face.

“Goodbye moron,” she said.

Chapter Ten: Wherein I taste a disconsolateberry pie and other things happen too, but the pie is the part that I remember best.

I waved goodbye to my friend, but did not dally, for though a man may well wait for a pie, it is a verifiable truth that a pie seldom waits for a man. So, leaving Hysteria where she was, I hopped over to the where the chubby little red-head with a checkered apron and a brown bonnet held her pie.

“Good day, lovely piesmith,” said I, bowing at the waist.

“Good day, Sir.”

“Might I inquire whether that pie is bound for an inn or perhaps the market?”

“Indeed it is neither, Sir.”

“Then might I purchase it?” I asked.

“Might I ask first your name, Sir? You seem to be a man of heroic bearing and noble manner.”

“You are very perceptive, my pretty piesmith, for indeed I am Eaglethorpe Buxton, famous storyteller and adventurer. Really of late I have been more of an adventurer than a story-teller, for though my tales of the great heroes and their adventures have been repeated far and wide across the land, I find myself having even more wondrous adventures than any of the characters in my stories. Still, the appellation, which is to say the name of Buxton and of Eaglethorpe, is best known for stories so I still introduce myself as first a storyteller and then an adventurer.”

“It is so very nice to…”

“Now that I think about it, I should introduce myself as Eaglethorpe Buxton, playwright, adventurer, and storyteller, as my play ‘The Ideal Magic’ is such a success that I am sure I will be doing much more of that.”

“I’m very pleased to…”

“On the other hand, it might seem strange to say playwright, adventurer, and storyteller, seeing as how storytelling and play writing are so closely related. Perhaps one ought not to separate them from one another by placing them on either side of adventuring. And it is worth noting that I have been doing quite a bit of adventuring since writing the play.”

“Do you want pie or not?” she asked, one hand on her hip and the other holding up the delectable object in question.

“Oh yes. Pie please.”

“Come inside,” she said, leading me into a simple but clean little cottage, where I sat down at the only chair at the old but serviceable table.

She very fetchingly began to cut a generous piece of the pie. Though it smelled wonderful, I couldn’t quite place the combination of spices.

“What kind of pie is it?” I wondered.

“Disconsolateberry pie,” said she.

Disconsolateberries seem to be common in this area. I just tasted some disconsolateberry syrup and the other night I had my first bowl of disconsolateberry wine. Though I have yet to taste disconsolateberry chutney, I hear it is very good indeed.”

“They are indeed common all over southern Lyrria,” she said, setting the slice in front of me. “I had considered making it toad pie.”

I took a large bite. “What?” I asked with my mouth full.

“I baked that pie especially for you, Eagletwirp Buckethead.” Though she still had the appearance of the chubby little red-head with a checkered apron and a brown bonnet, now her eyes were flashing green.

“You are the sorceress,” I said, taking another bite.

She picked up a wooden spoon and waving it before her, she changed into her normal slender, blond, attractive self. The wooden spoon took on the appearance of her flashing wand. I was surprised, though not so surprised as to stop eating.

“Are you familiar with alliteration, Eagletwit Bumpkin?” she asked.

“It’s Eagletwirp… I mean Eaglethorpe… Of course I’m familiar with alliteration. I’m a talented writer.”

“How’s this then? Poisoned pie punishes poetic pinhead.”

“I don’t follow,” I said, taking another bite.

“When I said that I made that pie especially for you,” said she, “I meant to imply that I had poisoned the pie. And then when I added the bit about alliteration, you see, I actually told you that I poisoned the pie.”

“Did you in fact poison it?” I asked, taking another bite.

“Yes.”

“What a waste of a perfectly fine pie.”

“And you’re still eating it!”

“I can’t help it. It’s yummy.”

Chapter Six: Wherein I am returned to my human self, an event you probably expected as toads seldom tell stories and most especially do not see them published in book form, and then I have a most peculiar conversation.

It is true that toads do not have much of interest in their lives. They chiefly go about their business eating bugs and other small creepy-crawlies and attempting to not get eaten themselves by cats. I honestly don’t remember too much about it, no doubt a result of my toad brain having been somewhat smaller than the average pea. It did feel like quite a long time had passed. I am not sure how long toads live, but I would guess that it is somewhere in the neighborhood of a year or two and as I was a toad for at least a week, I must have aged at least seven years. The next thing I truly remember was waking in a hard bed in a room that was obviously not in one of the better inns in town, with Ellwood Cyrene leaning over me.

“Oh varlet, villain, and false friend,” I said, and felt my lips crack as my swollen tongue moved around to form the words.

“Do not speak Eaglethorpe,” said Ellwood, pressing the brim of a glass of cold water to my lips. “You must know that I love you.”

“In a very manly way, no doubt,” I croaked.

“Yes. Very manly indeed.”

He took a clean white cloth and dipped it in the water, using it to bathe my brow.

“I only belittled you because I thought that it might make the sorceress let you go. You know I have the highest respect for you.”

“And my storytelling?”

“And your storytelling.”

“And my heroic adventuring?”

“Heavens above Eaglethorpe. If I did not love you so much, I would hate your guts.”

“What happened anyway?”

“She turned you into a toad, a quite ugly one at that. It took me all of a week to locate you and three bags of silver to get an apothecary who was willing and able turn you back into yourself.”

“What happened to you?”

“Oh I managed to escape her after a few hours.”

“A few hours?”

“Yes.”

“A few hours?”

“Yes, a few hours.”

“A few hours?”

“Yes, a few hours. Did you damage your brain while you were a toad?”

“So you were with her for a few hours?”

“I believe we have established that.”

“So… she made you do things.”

“What?”

“You spent time with her?”

“A few hours!” Ellwood rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“She… you know.”

“Know what?”

“She quenched your fire?”

“Campfire?”

“The fire of passion.”

“What? No!” He stood up and began pacing back and forth across the room. “Well, I’m sure she would have liked to, but I got away long before that could happen.”

“Why?” I asked.

“What do you mean why?”

“Why didn’t you wait till after the quenching before you escaped?”

“Because she’s a sorceress.”

“So?”

“And she’s evil.”

“So?”

“Well, she’s a… She’s just not my type.”

“Why not,” I wondered.

“She’s… too pale… and too blond… and too short.”

“What complexion do you prefer for your woman?”

“A complexion about like yours.”

“That’s too dark. What hair color do you like?”

“About like yours, with little streaks of grey.”

“Then she would be too old for you,” said I. “A young man like you should have a beautiful young woman. How tall do you prefer?”

“About your height.”

“That is way too tall for a woman.”

“I know,” said Ellwood, and then turned and rushed out of the room.

Chapter Five: Wherein an old friend causes me some momentary discomfort and a most remarkable transformation.

“Ellwood Cyrene,” I cried, so glad to see my old friend that I momentarily forgot my ruse. “Um, is me, which is to say that I am Ellwood Cyrene.”

“Yes,” said Ellwood stiffly. “He is Ellwood Cyrene. And I am the… ahem… great story-teller Eaglethorpe Buxton.”

“Story-teller adventurer,” I offered.

“Story-teller adventurer.”

“Great story-teller adventurer,” I added.

“I said great,” said Ellwood.

“You said great the first time, but you didn’t say great the second time.”

“I am the great, the marvelous, the wonderful adventurer and story-teller Eaglethorpe…”

“And hero,” said I.

“Never mind,” said Ellwood. “He is Eaglethorpe Buxton. Go ahead and kill him. I no longer care.”

“Foolish children you are,” said Myolaena, her face taking on a snarl which quite detracted from the, well, if not beauty, then certainly the attractiveness that I had felt for her before. “Do you think for one moment that I could not tell who this idiot was?”

“Idiot is not quite the word you are looking for,” said I. “Perhaps bard or wordsmith might be a better fit.”

“Silence! I know who the true Eagle-brained Buffoon is.” She turned to Ellwood Cyrene. “Just as I know who you are. You have your father’s eyes.”

“I met his father once and I don’t think he looked anything like him,” I opined. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was adopted.”

“That is because you are an idiot,” hissed the sorceress. “What do you know of it? What do you know of anything? You write a play about the royal family of Aerithraine and you wouldn’t know the Queen if she fell on you!”

“That is not so,” said I. “The Queen and I are quite close. I once spent a fortnight in her company.”

A smirking noise came from my friend, which he, somewhat less than valiantly, tried to suppress.

“You find this funny?” asked Myolaena.

“Well, yes,” said Ellwood. “You see, he actually did spend a fortnight in the company of the Queen. It was her infantry company, and he served in it for a whole two weeks before he was drummed out for failure to carry out his duty.”

“Oh varlet, villain, and false friend!” said I.

“I did not hear “liar” amongst those names,” quoth he.

“Enough of this,” snarled Myolaena.

“Yes, enough of this,” said Ellwood. “Let this foolish hack go on his way and you and I will find some quiet place to quench your fire.”

“Campfire?” I asked.

“The fires of passion!” hissed the sorceress.

She did not have the passionate look on her face that I had expected. In fact her expression was nothing like it had been when we had spoken before, when she thought I was Ellwood Cyrene. But at last she gave a curt nod.

“We shall go,” she said. “But Eaglethorpe Buxton shall not go his way unscathed.”

And before either Ellwood or I could do anything, she aimed her wand at me and I was engulfed in a purple light. I felt myself shrinking and had just enough awareness left to realize that I had been turned into a toad.

Chapter Four: Wherein we find another, more interesting tavern to visit.

“I grow weary,” said Myolaena Maetar with a sigh, after we had left the fourth or fifth tavern. “I suppose I shall just kill you and blow up the playhouse.”

“Blow up the playhouse!” I cried. “You can’t do that!”

“I can do that.”

“Well, you shouldn’t…”

“Why not?”

“Eaglethorpe Buxton, which is to say me… I mean my friend, put his life into that play. Kill him if you must, but the play must continue. The play is the thing.”

“What thing?”

“Just the thing.” I suddenly spotted the sign above the door of the Fairy Font. “And this is just the place.”

“What kind of place is it?” she asked.

“It’s just the kind of place that I… that Eaglethorpe Buxton would visit.

Jumping ahead of the sorceress, I opened the tavern door and allowed her to enter, then followed. Despite the hour, now closer to morning than night, the Font was full of customers—mostly sailors. As I believe I mentioned before, the Fairy Font is known for its nightlife, especially among the rougher crowd. Pipe smoke hung in the air like fragrant fog and drinks were flowing freely.

“Six crowns cover charge,” said the heavily-muscled man just inside the door.

“I’m with her,” said I.

Myolaena threw a small pouch of coins at him. We waded through the sea of humanity and dwarfanity and elfanity and I think one or two trollanity and found an unoccupied table with two stools, where we sat down. The patrons of the establishment, already loud and raucous, began chanting something and pounding their fists on the table.

“This is most odd,” said the sorceress. “They have their drinks. What else do they want?”

“Entertainment,” said I.

“We are not going to have to sit through another play, are we?” She rolled her eyes.

As if in answer, directly above our heads and directly above each of the tables in The Fairy Font, which is to say all over the taproom, small doors opened in the ceiling and little platforms were lowered on chains. When the platforms had reached the tabletops, knocking over quite a few tankards of ale is they did, we could see that upon each was a small basin filled with dark, rich, mud. Sitting on either side of the basin of mud was the tiny form of a fairy, wearing a teeny little robe cut open in the back to allow her wings to stick out.

The round basin of mud reminded me of the mud pies that we used to make as children. My sister Celia and my cousins Gervil, Tuki, and Geneva used to play on the front step of our house, which is to say Cor Cottage just outside Dewberry Hills. Celia was a master piesmith, at least of the mud variety. Interestingly enough, when she grew up, her pies at best could be considered mediocre. Tuki could make quite a fine pie as an adult—all the more strange as her childhood mud pies were the antithesis of Celias, which is to say that they were no good at all. Geneva’s mud pies were better than Tuki’s but not as good as Celia’s, and since she died as a child, no one can tell if she would have grown to be a decent piesmith or not. Gervil didn’t make pies, though he did force me to eat more than a few.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Myolaena Maetar.

“Pies.”

“Well stop it. We’re here to find Buxton.”

“And now the moment you’ve been awaitin’” said an unseen announcer. “Fairy mud-wrestling!”

A great cheer filled the room, but then all grew quiet as the audience watched the pair of fairies on each table disrobe.

“I’m Taffy,” said the six inch tall red-head, as she carefully pulled the robe over her gossamer wings.

“I’m Mustard Seed,” said the other fairy.

“I’m enchanted,” said I.

“I’m going to vomit,” said Myolaena.

The two fairies waded out into the mud, which to them was about knee-high, where they wasted no time. Mustard Seed jumped on Taffy, knocking her down and coating them both in the ooze. Taffy grabbed Mustard Seed’s hair and they both rolled across the bowl, squealing in their tiny little voices.

“Come along. We’re leaving,” said the sorceress.

“You don’t like the show?” I was frankly incredulous.

“You hussy!” shouted Mustard Seed, though I don’t know if she was speaking to Myolaena or to Taffy.

“Come.”

“But they’re so cute and wee.”

“Come now!”

“I must visit the little warrior’s room first,” said I.

“Fine,” she said. “I will be waiting outside.”

I was loath to leave, but what was I to do. I stepped out back to, um… wash my hands. Then I headed back through the taproom for the front door, stopping just a moment to help Taffy, who was floating face down in the mud, while Mustard Seed was biting her on the foot. When I exited the tavern, I found the sorceress standing with a man. I didn’t recognize him until I got close—it was Ellwood Cyrene.

Chapter Three: Wherein I hear from my harshest critic.

We stepped outside of the Singing Siren and headed up the winding stone street, the breaking waves of the ocean far below down the hill to our left. I was at something of a loss as to where to search for the famous story-teller and adventurer Eaglethorpe Buxton, not the least of which was because he was me, though I didn’t say as much. I did know where I didn’t want to go.

“Why don’t we go back to that sorry excuse for a theater and look for him there,” said Myolaena Maetar.

“No, I don’t want to go there,” said I. “What I mean is that I don’t think we would find him there.”

“Why not?”

“There are a lot of people who know me at the theater… and they know that no good Buxton, and they might see that we are after him and give him a warning. He might skip town and we would have to search the entire country of Lyrria for him.”

“That’s a good point,” she agreed. “Where shall we look for him?”

“I have a few spots in mind,” I lied. “Why don’t you tell me what he has done to anger you so?”

“Have you not seen the travesty he calls a play?”

“I thought it quite a fine play,” I said, truthfully.

“He maligned my character.”

“Perhaps the author was misguided by some incorrect information,” I suggested. “It is no doubt misinformation that you once tried to usurp the throne of the King of Aerithraine.”

“No,” she admitted. “That part was true.”

“Well, surely you did not attempt to ensorcel the King.”

“That part was true as well,” she said.

“Mayhaps you did not really consort with a dragon?”

“No. That is not the part that was wrong.”

“Then perhaps you could enlighten me as to exactly what element of the play brought forth your ire, which is to say, made you unhappy.”

“You might note that the playwright’s deus ex machina involves me accidentally falling victim to my own magic.”

“God in the machine?”

“The machination of the gods—it is how poor story tellers fix holes in their plotlines.”

“I thought that bit where you ensorcelled yourself was rather funny.”

“Funny at my expense. That would never happen.”

“And I would hardly call it a deus ex machinegun…”

“Deus ex machina.”

“I don’t think it qualifies at all,” said I. “It’s not as though that couldn’t happen…”

“It couldn’t happen.”

“It’s within the realm of possibility…”

“It is impossible.”

“I don’t think we have the same definition of ‘impossible’.”

“Not possible; unable to exist, happen, or be,” she said. “Unable to be done, performed, effected, etc.”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “That is the definition I usually use.”

“Not to be done or endured with any degree of reason or propriety.”

“Well, not quite to the point, but…”

“Utterly impracticable, totally unsuitable, difficult, or objectionable.”

“I suppose that last part fits your point of view better than mine,” said I. “I still would not go so far as to refer to the plot’s resolution as a deus ex machina…”

She glared at me.

“If that is not what happened, then what was it that alerted the King to your plan to usurp him?”

“I had my spies, but the church had its spies as well, and they preferred Justin’s imperfect rule to mine.”

“I suppose there is just no pleasing some people,” said I.