Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 37
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 37 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
“Did you really bring a pen?”
“Oh, not you too—”
“I’m just saying. You could’ve gotten something more… I don’t know—”
“Cool? Interesting? Valuable?”
“Yeah.”
“The point wasn’t to get something valuable. It was to get something precious. That trial—it was never about the object itself. It was about attachment. And the Telling. It was about convincing someone to—”
“Yeah, yeah, we get all that. But a pen?”
“Fine. I see what you’re saying. But you have to remember, I was only fif… Never mind. But before you sit there and judge me, wait till you hear what Tom Firth brought.”
“Of course.” Tom withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle from his bag. And then, for all his bragging and bluster, before handing the object to Lightfoot, he hesitated; angled his body to obstruct our view.
A rumbly “Hummm!” bubbled up from Lightfoot’s chest as Tom took a stiff step backwards. Tom Firth was nervous.
Merry edged sideways, managing to catch a peek. She gasped and put a hand over her mouth, backing away and shaking her head.
What could it be?
Tom’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Somehow he’d failed! I thought gleefully. Rejection and ridicule were coming, and he knew it.
“This—” Lightfoot boomed, “This is extraordinary!” This is stupendous! This is—”
“The Red Ranger!” Tom stepped aside with a showman’s flourish, as if his nerves had never been. And there he was: Six-inch scale, fully posable, with over twenty points of articulation, imbued with the power of the Tyrannosaurus, complete with sword and other accessories, with premium painted details—a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger.
Iain barked a laugh. I snorted. Stuart looked stunned, while Merry fought an uncontrollable fit of giggles.
“The Red Ranger…” Lightfoot repeated.
“Red Ranger…” echoed Godwyn, floating lower, knuckling his chin with obvious interest.
“Wait. What’s a… mumma-mumma Power Ranger?”
“Wha—you mean you don’t know?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Me neither.”
“Don’t kids these days play with toys?”
“Sure. Back at Wendy House we have a Playstation and a Switch.”
“Like a light switch?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“He’s too old. It’s a video game. That’s—”
“I know what video games are, thank you! They’re electronics, which don’t get along with magic. I haven’t had a television in twenty years because I’d just short circuit the thing and burn down my flat.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
“Us Bloomers never have a problem, and we’re always doing magic.”
“You’re probably just too young. You’ll see. When you’re older.”
“I hope not. If I can’t play games, what’s the point of living?”
“Do you light your flat with candles then? Or just go to bed at sundown?”
“I have candles. And a hearth. But I can use simple machines, like lamps and telephones. I even have an Empire 598 MK III Troubador—”
“A what?”
“It’s a turntable.”
“A what?”
“A record player! You know what that is, don’t you? It’s the newer things that have trouble. Something about magic and the twenty-first century don’t get along.”
“Maybe the problem is just you.”
“Or it’s in his head.”
“It isn’t—”
“Anyway, what’s a Power Ranger?”
“A television show popular when I was young… and apparently not anymore. The Rangers—picture ninjas in colorful suits—fought monsters, called… zods, or zeds, or something like that. And they could combine to make a powerful robot. I think. Listen, to be honest, it was a little after my time. Which is why Tom got his from a child.”
“He must be a legendary hero, with armor as fine as this. This is a real treasure,” Lightfoot shook the ranger in his hand, “I can feel it.”
“It’s a toy!” Iain blurted.
Tom’s head whipped around. Iain was lucky he didn’t have laser-eye action or Kung Fu grip.
“Is that true?”
Tom stammered. “I mean well, yes, technically, but—”
“A toy!” Lightfoot exclaimed. “A toy!”
I could see the excuses and half-truths forming on Tom’s tongue and dying on his lips. He’d make Iain pay for this. There was no doubt about that. Iain knew it too, his expression warring between fear of coming retribution and petty delight. I didn’t know if I could’ve sabotaged Tom that way, but I wasn’t sorry he’d done it. He’d pay a price with Merry too. But it was worth it to see Tom Firth humbled. To see him fail, just once in his blessed life. Old Silver-foot. What was he thinking, bringing a Power Ranger? Of all things…
“They’re really popular,” Tom whined.
As if Lightfoot would care about that.
“I can see why!” the bard replied.
What.
“Just look at him! In my wildest dreams, I never imagined… but tell me Thomas, how did you acquire him?”
Tom recovered immediately, taking his luck in stride. “Bit of divine inspiration it was. What d’you call it? Serendipity. With some quick thinking on my part, of course. It was Saturday, football practice. I was leading the team in drills. I’m team captain, I don’t know if I mentioned that… when what should catch my eye but a little dwt frolicking at the edge of the field. That’s when it came to me. I waited till practice was done and ran over.” He nodded at the toy in Lightfoot’s hands. “You told us to get something valuable, and I realized—it was like an epiphany, really—that nobody values anything as much as a young lad does his favorite action figure. Especially when it’s as nice as that one.
“‘Hey kid,’ I said. ‘That’s a tidy little hero you’ve got there, mate.’
“He squints up at me, sun in his eyes. ‘So?’
“I say, ‘Give you a tenner for him.’
“‘No way!’ he says. ‘Jason’s the best!’
“‘I like you, kid,’ I kneel down.” Tom knelt before an imaginary child. “‘What’s your name?’
“‘Christopher,’ says he.
“I say, ‘Christopher. Tell you what. I’ll give you twenty quid for that toy. How does that sound?’
“‘He’s not for sale!’ he answers back. ‘He’s my friend!’”
Tom leaned forward, and I imagined him looming over the poor child. “‘Fifty pounds.’ I look him dead in the eye. ‘How about it? Hm?’ And there—he hesitates. That’s when I know I’ve won. ‘You can buy a whole lot of friends with fifty pounds,’ I say.
“He looks at his Red Ranger. Up at me. Suddenly he’s suspicious. ‘Why?’ I tilt my head, waiting for more. ‘If you’re so rich,’ he says, ‘why don’t you just get your own? Why d’you want mine?’
“‘It’s my brother’s birthday,’ I tell him. ‘His name’s Christopher too. I didn’t have time to buy him a gift, but then I saw how much fun you were having with Jason there, and I thought, that looks like a solid young man. I bet he could help me out of this pinch I’m in. So what do you say, Christopher? Help a mate do right by his little brother?’
“He’s still torn, frowning down at his toy. ‘All right,’ I say. ‘Seventy-five. Final offer.’ And it’s a deal.” Tom snapped his fingers and stood. “Little Christopher enjoys an unexpected windfall, and I complete the first trial.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. He bought it?
“You bought it?” Iain’s mouth was agape.
Tom turned. “Persuasion is about having what people want and giving it to them. What I did is no different from you and your new gig at the record store.”
“But I didn’t outright pay him for it! I—”
“Found what he wanted,” Tom nodded, “and gave it to him.”
“Every now and then one comes along,” said Lightfoot, “who has the means and the inclination to pay for what he wants.” He handed Tom back his toy, and gave him an appraising look.
Go on, I thought. Nail him! Let him fail, just this once. Show him that not everything can be bought with money and great hair.
“But not everything can be bought with money.”
Yes, yes yes—
“I want you to remember that as you continue on this journey.”
What? No—
“Now, there have been members of the Order who hailed from wealthy houses. And in their dealings with men they used their resources to great advantage. But when the time comes to face your true foe, know that no amount of riches—no quantity of gold or silver—will avail you.” Lightfoot clapped his hands over Tom’s shoulders and gave them a fatherly squeeze. “I see you, Thomas. You are strong, and quick, and clever, with a silver tongue to boot. Your cup runs over with potential. You mustn’t allow your purse to prop you up, or you’ll find yourself in dire straits indeed, in the moments that matter most.”
“I, uh—” Tom cleared his throat. “I’ll do my best.”
The sprig of hawthorn on Lightfoot’s helm wobbled as he straightened, and his smile returned. “Good!”
Tom backed into line, adrift in his thoughts. Silver foot and now silver tongue? If his head gets any bigger, it isn’t going to fit indoors.
“Now.” Lightfoot grinned. “There remains the matter of your reward.”
