Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 27
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 27 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
My head snapped sideways, and there was Merry looking straight at Lightfoot, thinking the exact same thoughts I was. Only she’d thought them a fraction of a second sooner. Lightfoot was looking back at her, and I couldn’t help but think it should’ve been me. Jealousy kicked me in the ribs. This was supposed to be my adventure. I had the Book. It was my idea to come. Didn’t I deserve to be first?
Merry was my friend. I wanted her, Iain and Stuart along with me on this journey…but only so long as it was mine.
I’d never been a leader. The responsibility for deciding how we spent our time mostly fell to Iain, and the rest of us were content to go along. At least before Merry’d gone and broken his spirit. But with her off with Tom, and neither Stuart or I much suited to the role, our little band had been left rudderless. If not for the extraordinary circumstances surrounding my acquisition of the Book, it likely would’ve stayed that way until Merry got fed up with Tom or Iain got over her. It was only because of the man in green that I wasn’t sitting alone in my room that very moment, waiting for the phone to ring.
But I had found the energy to drag Stuart and Iain out of their houses. I’d brought them along to hunt for the stone. It was only by chance that Merry and Tom were there at all. Yet Tom would get the credit for finding the stone. Merry for getting us in. And now it was Merry basking in the glow of Cyril Lightfoot’s smile. Shameful and selfish though I knew it was, all I could think was that it was supposed to be me.
“A heroic name if ever I’ve heard one,” Lightfoot exclaimed. “Well met, young Meredith! I hear the makings of a great bard in the rich timbre of your voice! Tell me, do you sing?”
“For as long as I can remember.”
“I knew it! Your star will shine bright indeed. I’m sure of it.”
Merry beamed, and chocolate ice cream curdled in my stomach. I opened my mouth a second time. “My n—”
“Thomas Firth!”
Lightfoot’s eyes twinkled in Tom’s direction. “A pleasure to meet you, Thomas,” he said while my teeth ground. “I see you possess the dextrous fingers of a natural musician. I know you and I will accomplish great things, now that fate has drawn us together.”
Tom nodded as if this were a matter of course. “I’m in the choir as well.”
“Splendid!” Lightfoot clapped his hands together. “Godwyn, you’ve brought me a promising bunch.” And then, before I could get a word in, Lightfoot had moved on. “And you, with the broad shoulders of a warrior, what do they call you?”
“Iain Lloyd, sir. And…I’m a drummer.”
“I should have guessed, with arms like yours.” He turned to Stuart. “And what is your name, oh bespectacled one?”
“Stuart Jenkins, Mister Lightfoot.”
“Possessed of a quick wit and a nimble mind, no doubt,” Lightfoot winked. “And last,” he finally turned to me. “Such fiery red hair speaks to fiery passion as well! What is your name, son?”
His attention was like a bucket of cold water poured over my head. For all of my impatience, I could scarcely seem to find my tongue. “Puw…Tywysog Lyfantod, Sir Lightfoot, sir.”
“What an unusual monicker!” Lightfoot murmured. Tom snickered, and I felt my neck go hot. This was precisely why I didn’t use my full name.
“I play the tuba,” I added hurriedly, “in band.”
Lightfoot frowned. “Tuba? I’m afraid I’m not familiar.”
“He means trumpet,” said Godwyn. “That’s what the Romans called them.”
“Err, no. Trumpets are small. A tuba…” I held my hands apart to give an impression of the size, “it’s like a bass trumpet.”
“I don’t think they were invented till the nineteenth century,” Stuart informed me helpfully.
I stared at him. “Really?”
“It sounds cumbersome.” Lightfoot rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you’ll learn to play something more…maneuverable, in time.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “Yes. Of course.”
“Well, Godwyn!” said Lightfoot. “Quite the promising group of young recruits, wouldn’t you say?”
“So you keep saying.”
“Yes, fine indeed!” Lightfoot was undeterred by the Fomorian’s lack of enthusiasm. “You five have already proven yourselves once simply by getting here. It’s been…some time since we had our last recruits, and I applaud you for making it this far. My intuition tells me that all of you are verily bursting with potential. Alas, even the sharpest blade may prove brittle. The only way to know is to test it, and so must you be tested if you wish to join the Order of the Brazen Horn.”
He held up three fingers. “Three trials have I devised to distinguish those worthy of becoming my disciples, capable of carrying on this essential fight. They will require all of your art, wit, and strength. Your very lives will be imperiled. But should you succeed, your names will never be forgotten, and you will stand shoulder to shoulder with the greatest men and women who ever graced the Earth.”
I listened, rapt, hanging upon every word.
“If you harbor any doubts, there’s no shame in bowing out now. Not everyone is meant to be a hero.” He fixed us with a penetrating look. “What say you? Will you settle for a quiet life and mediocrity? Or will you join me on the path to greatness?”
We regarded one another. I saw my own decision reflected back in Merry, Tom, and Iain’s faces. Only Stuart hesitated, wrestling visibly with fear and doubt. The silence stretched, and for an instant I thought he was going to refuse—till Iain put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Stuart looked up at him, jaw set. And he nodded.
Iain turned to Lightfoot. “We’re in.”
A bell chimed, a single ringing note to mark the moment our lives changed forever.
Lightfoot grinned. “Excellent!” He clasped his hands together. “Your first task follows thusly: Go forth and find a stranger. Convince him to give you willingly something he wishes not to part with, then bring it here to me. It may be anything at all, so long as he values it. Lie, if you must, but do not steal or resort to threats or violence. Such are the blunted instruments of simple folk.” He tapped his head. “Your mind.” His hand moved downward. “Your lips and tongue. These are the tools of your craft. A bard is a musician, yes, but the spoken word can be as powerful as the sung. Prove to me your tongues are sharp and your minds keen, and I will know you have the makings of a bard.”
“Sorry, Mister Lightfoot. May I…ask a question?”
Lightfoot nodded at Merry.
“What is the…” She searched for words. “…the end goal of all this? If we start down this path with you, where does it lead? What does it mean to be in the Order of the Brazen Horn?”
Lightfoot nodded as though he’d expected the question. “For some it leads nowhere. A normal life of contentment or regret. Not everyone is cut out to be a bard. For the rest, it means struggle. Never easy, often thankless but always worthwhile.” He spread his hands. “There are many paths through life, some worthier than others. You five stand at the first signpost of a hero’s road, strewn with stumbling blocks and lined with danger. The battle you join has raged since time immemorial, and you may not live to see the end. I struggle on, even in death. For as the waves beat ever upon the shore, so too comes our primordial foe. Our duty is to drive them back, again and again, for as long as we are able, so that the rest of the world can carry on. We fight for humanity itself.
“Understand. This, like all roads, has only one end. And whether you find it on hilltop or meadow, under shady roof or baking sun, in the fathomless depths or the comfort of a warm bed, all that matters is how you get there. Follow me, and I promise you will see and do and know things beyond your wildest dreams. And when you finally do take your final rest, you will have lived a life worth singing songs about.”
We digested Lightfoot’s words in heavy silence. It was hard to conceive at fifteen of a lifelong struggle. Had we properly understood what that meant, perhaps we’d have decided differently. But I didn’t think so.
“Um, Mister Lightfoot?” Stuart’s hand rose as if we were in class.
“Yes, Jenkins?”
“I was wondering. The Fomorians…” He glanced at Godwyn, who made a face. “If they’re so terrible…why haven’t we ever heard of them?”
But I’ve heard of them! I nearly said. I know! I have the Book! I kept my mouth closed, however, for now that Stuart had asked the question, I wanted to hear Lightfoot’s answer.
“The most dangerous enemy is the one you cannot see,” the bard replied. “And the Fomor are more seldom seen than any. They wield power in a thousand subtle ways. Their agents are everywhere, often unaware themselves of the hand that moves them. Rest assured, when calamity strikes, the Fomor are not far.”
“What do we get,” asked Tom, who’d remained silent far longer than I’d have guessed, “when we complete the first trial?”
“The second trial,” said Lightfoot, and Tom frowned. “And your first bardic technique.”
I couldn’t contain myself. “What does it do?”
“Passionate indeed.” Lightfoot’s moustaches quivered. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait and see. Until then, Godwyn and I shall eagerly await your return.” He stepped back, and the knot, which had lain dormant all this time, flared to life. Godwyn harumphed. This time Stuart was first. He touched it gingerly with his toe and vanished. Iain gave Lightfoot a stiff nod and followed.
“We’ll be back,” Merry told Lightfoot. “Soon.” The bard smiled as she went, dragging Tom behind her.
I took one last look around the room, committing it to memory, afraid I was about to wake from a dream too good to be true. Godwyn and Lightfoot watched me, wearing very different expressions. Then I stepped forward, and all of it was gone.
