Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 34
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 34 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
Chapter Ten:
The Telling
My sodden trousers clung to my legs, my pocket tighter than a child’s glove. Straining, I managed to slide my fingers in just far enough to wrap around the smooth, warm body of a pen. And as though waking from a dream, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake.
“Maybe I sh—”
“Out with it now,” Lightfoot beckoned.
Sweat broke out on my forehead as I wrestled the pen free and placed it in the bard’s silvery palm. A bloody pen! I was a fool. I felt sick. He turned it over in his hands, brow furrowed. Butterflies the size of seagulls were trying to scrabble from my stomach into my esophagus. I wasn’t worthy of getting in the door, and this was what I’d brought? Why hadn’t I seen it sooner?
I’d been so pleased with it before. It was smooth, and heavy, and… it wasn’t plastic. It had a proper cap. It twisted, instead of clicked. But the shiny bits were undoubtedly brass, or something equally worthless. It hadn’t been easy to get, but did that make it precious? Oh, I’d thought myself so bloody clever…
Now he was sniffing it. Sliding it beneath his nose with a thoughtful gleam in his eye. Godwyn said we could try multiple times. Next time I’d do better. I’d get something really good. A hat, or—
“It’s very nice,” Lightfoot said. “What is it?”
“I—” I opened my mouth and closed it again. “It’s… a pen.”
“A pen!” his eyebrows rose. “Where is the plume?”
“Uh… there’s no plume. Here—” I reached out and tugged off the cap.
The bard’s eyes went round, and he held the pen so close that his eyes crossed. Behind me, Stuart stifled a snicker.
“Beautiful,” Lightfoot breathed. Even Godwyn drifted closer, though he kept his arms crossed and only peeked from the corners of his eyes.
“And see,” I said, realizing with a thrill that Lightfoot had probably never seen a ballpoint pen before. I tapped the nib with my fingertip and held it up for him to see.
He goggled at the speck. “Ink?”
I nodded. “It’s inside.”
“Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “Wonderful! Now tell me. How did you get it?”
“You want to know how…?”
“Yes, of course! The Telling is very important. Leave out no detail.”
That was when I began to wonder whether getting the pen had been the test at all. Bards were storytellers, as well as singers. Was the story all he really cared about?
Where to begin?
“The truth is,” I said haltingly, “I got about eight pens. It turns out a lot of people keep them on hand, and they’ll just give them to you if you ask. But… I knew!” I held up a finger for dramatic effect. “I knew we were meant to get something special. Something that wouldn’t be given up easily. So I asked, and I asked. And I waited for the one who’d finally tell me no.
“There I was, on the side of the street—”
“Details, lad!” Lightfoot urged. “Details!”
“—on the side of the street, err—downtown! It was… mid-afternoon, and the sun was a sort of orangey color, like tomato soup—”
“Ugh…” Godwyn groaned. “Fewer details, please.”
Lightfoot shushed him.
“Iain, Stuart and I had just split up, each off to complete the trial our own way. My stomach was heavy with cheese eggburger, but my mind was sharp. It was Saturday, so there were lots of people about. Shopping. Running errands. I was outside a used clothing store. The Branch. Sort of dingy, with a big smiling sun and a moon in the window; I’m not sure whether it’s meant to be surprised, or blowing—” I puckered my lips and raised my eyebrows.
“When I first had my pen-epiphany, I didn’t realize how easily people would give them up. I’m always losing mine, and on a fixed income it’s always difficult getting more. Pens were perfect, I thought. Precious, to be sure, but common enough that given sufficient quantities of charm and wit, and I’d be able to lure one away from its owner.
“I spotted my first mark. A middle-aged woman in a navy suit, with the sort of bag that just screams, ‘There’s a pen in here.’ I walked up to her with my hands together, all—what’s the word? Reticent? Penitent? Rueful? Never mind…
“I said, ‘Excuse me, ma’am. I’m in dire need of a pen. My—’
“And before I could get another word out, there was a pen in my hand. Not a very nice one, mind, but inarguably a pen. ‘Here you are,’ she said with a friendly pat and was on her way. Leaving me standing there, one pen richer, but no closer to completing the trial.
“My second attempt went much the same, but with an older gentleman in tweed. And so the third, the fourth, the fifth, till I really started to worry whether I could hide the bushel of pens growing in my pocket.”
“Let it be over soon…” Godwyn moaned. I tried to ignore him.
“My savior was shortish. Balding, with circular spectacles. I’d refined my approach by then. I got right to the point. ‘Please sir,’ I said. ‘I’m in desperate need of a pen.’
“‘A pen, you say?’ says he, making a show of fishing around his briefcase. He looked up at me, apologetic. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
“And I said, ‘Wait, what about that one?’
“He glanced down at the pen I was pointing to. That pen.” I nodded toward Lightfoot’s hand.
“He shook his head. ‘Oh no. I can’t give you that one.’
“‘Why not?’ I said.
“‘Why, it’s dear to me,’ he said. I struggled to keep the excitement from my face, aiming for a look of desperation. ‘I signed the deed to my house with this pen,’ he told me. ‘I’ve had it for years. Borrowed from a beautiful hotel in Majorca. It verily glides across the paper.’
“‘But sir—’ He shook his head again, and I could see that he thought he’d made up his mind. ‘Good hotel pens are extremely hard to find. I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask someone else.’
“I said, ‘Please, sir—it’s just a pen! My mam’s sister might die!’
“He went fish-eyed. ‘Die?’
“I nodded. ‘She’s in hospital, up north. And she needs an operation like yesterday. On her gall bladder, see. And my mam, she’s at the bank now, down the street.’ I pointed. ‘Trying to wire the funds. The hospital won’t do the surgery till they’re paid. But, here’s the thing—nobody has a pen to complete the, you know—forms!’
“‘Surely someone at the bank—’
“‘Not a pen among them.’
“He looked around, eyeing all the passersby. ‘Can’t you ask somebody else?’ And I was terrified somebody might overhear and offer one up.
“‘I asked! Nobody just… walks around with pens in their pocket! Nobody but you. It’s fate that brought us two together, sir. That’s the honest truth!’
“And he made a face, like this—” I made the face. “—and said, ‘Fine. Take it. Go on. Save your mother.’
“‘Thanks, Mister!’ I swiped the pen and ran off before he could change his mind.” I paused, because the story was over, concluding, somewhat lamely, “And that is how I got this pen.”
Lightfoot smiled, and I smiled back. “A pen.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What say you, Godwyn?”
“I think it’s rubbish. The least moving tale I’ve heard since that boy cench’ries back who brought us the head of cabbage.” My smile turned brittle. Tom let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
Lightfoot twisted to stare at his Fomorian servant. “Dunstan?”
“Aye, that may have been the lad’s name.” Godwyn pondered his fingernails.
“He went on to become one of the greatest heroes of his age!”
“Yes,” Godwyn muttered. “Well, I always thought he was dreadfully dull. On and on, it was—about anything at all! You could dry linens with the hot air escaping that boy’s mouth. A real bore.” Godwyn jerked a stubby thumb in my direction. “He en’t quite as bad as ol’ Dunny. But it’s a near thing.”
After one last bemused look at Godwyn, Lightfoot turned back to me. I was trembling. Failure was one thing. I hadn’t been anticipating the public critique. “I can think of no better recommendation,” he said, “than Godwyn’s disapproval.”
Godwyn muttered something I didn’t catch because my ears were ringing. My head was a gong, and it’d just been struck. “I—I pass?”
“I’ll be expecting great things from you,” Lightfoot wagged a finger. “If you can inspire such ire in my Fomorian friend, I’ve no doubt you’ll prove a gifted disciple.” He handed back my pen. “Now, who’s next?”
I'll need to hold onto my pens from now on...