Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 46
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 46 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
Chapter Fourteen:
Lightfoot’s Disarming Lilt
On some level, I think my friends and I believed finding Lightfoot’s second stone would be easy. An odd conclusion, considering we’d found the first by accident, and only after Willoughby told us where to look. In the beginning, it did seem like we might get lucky twice. Though our study of Arthurian lore turned up nothing, Merry’s monopoly of books on Illtud led to a promising discovery: Lightfoot’s sainted knight was local. In a town near Cardiff once called Llanilltud Fawr, presently Llantwit Major, Illtud had been abbot of a famous monastery. But though Merry learned plenty about his life—that he’d been philosopher and mathematician as well as priest, with miraculous powers, and possibly cousin to King Arthur himself—she found no mention of anything resembling Lightfoot’s thirsty, flying stone.
Caerleon—or Caer Lleon, as it turned out, another name for the same town on the River Usk, several miles outside Newport, where Alfred Lord Tennyson had written his Idylls of the King—was another clue that the stone was likely nearby. But with the rest of the riddle as opaque as ever, we could only infer that it was, probably, somewhere in South Wales. Which was far too large an area to search with one of Stuart’s archeological grids.
A week passed. Then three. Only Iain’s dad seemed to care about our decision to give up band for choir, but not how we’d imagined. He was a big Genesis fan, and started imagining his son as the next Phil Collins. Merry was enthusiastic about our budding musical education, keen to offer tips and helpful advice whenever she could. “Choral singing isn’t the same as solo singing,” she warned after we surprised her in the choir room Monday morning. “But you’ll be able to pick up plenty of useful techniques, and it’s great practice.” And though it was hard at first—especially singing in front of other people—with Merry’s help, and that of the choir teacher, Mr. Jones, we began to improve. We were still rubbish, and we knew it. But maybe not hopeless.
When we weren’t studying, or singing, or in Tom’s case playing football, we continued our search for the second stone. Friday nights we met to play, despite the inevitable turmoil. Aside from the bickering, it was our best chance to practice Lightfoot’s Disarming Lilt, and for the past two games, we hadn’t been able to go five minutes without someone shouting “Ooomwah!” at someone else. Even Merry took part, though the rest of us mostly avoided trying to disarm her back… but while a great deal of possum was played, the spell never actually worked.
Based on Lightfoot’s instruction, we knew the problem was one of three things. But whether it was our singing, our intent, or our strength of will, we’d no way of knowing. Now and then, after a failed attempt, someone would report feeling a pressure behind their forehead. I thought I experienced it once or twice, but I might’ve imagined it. Iain got a splitting headache after singing at Merry, though. Bad enough to pause the game. Then it got to the point where Merry claimed to feel it every time she sang. Tom made a joke about a brain tumor, and she punched him. But week after week, no matter how hard we wished or willed it, Lightfoot’s first spellsong remained out of reach.
Until one Friday night like any other, when everything changed.
We’d been playing for over an hour. Iain and Tom, having already spent most of the game needling one another, got into an argument over the definition of a shadow. Iain told Tom—or rather, Garish—that he’d glimpsed one. Assuming it must be attached to something, Tom was outraged several minutes later when the shadow itself sprung upon Garish and drained half his health before Hurlin could dispatch it with a powerful Word. Clearly, this was cheating. Iain should’ve mentioned the shadow was some kind of monster. Iain informed Tom that he was under no such obligation, and was well within his rights to use whatever wording he saw fit. It was Tom’s responsibility as a player to be as incredulous—
“In-what?” said Rudy.
“Incredulous,” I said. “It means skeptical. Doubtful. Disbelieving.”
“Oh.”
—as possible. And his job as a good dungeon master was to make the game challenging. Monsters wouldn’t announce themselves in the real world. Why would they here? The whole point of the shadow was that you didn’t see it coming. Tom wasn’t having it, and since he and Iain didn’t get on in the best of times, the situation quickly devolved—until Stuart leaned across the table and sang in Tom’s face, just as he was gearing up to call Iain something nasty. Of course, no one expected it to work. So when Tom froze with his mouth open, blinked a few times, and settled back in his chair wearing a goofy smile, no one doubted that he was faking.
“Very funny, Tom,” said Merry. “Now can we please move on?”
Tom’s airy grin drifted her way. “Sure thing, Mer. Sorry for arguing,” he told Iain. “Truth be told, I was cross about losing all those life points. But I deserve the damage, don’t I? I was a poor sport. I’ll be more attentive in the future.”
Iain’s eyes narrowed. “You’re pulling my chain.”
“I wouldn’t!” Tom’s head shook from side to side. “I mean it, truly!” He nudged Merry in the shoulder. “Tell him!”
“Uh…” She looked alarmed.
“You know” Iain said slowly, “ now that I look at it again, I realize Garish took enough damage to bring him within inches of death.”
Tom’s head bobbed, though he did look disheartened. “If that’s what you think’s best. You are the dungeon le—err, master—after all. Hm?”
Iain hissed at Stuart. “What did you do?”
Stuart was holding the sides of his head. “I—I don’t know! I just… There was pressure, and then it was like a bubble, bursting! I feel odd…”
Merry wasn’t buying it. “Stop faking, Tom.”
“Faking what, Mer-bear?”
“Mer-bear?” Iain repeated.
“Tom—!” Merry turned pink. “Cut it out!” She kicked him under the table.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” he said. And it was the strangest thing. He sounded like he meant it.
Iain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hey Tom.”
Tom looked.
“Y’know how everybody calls you Silver-foot or whatever?”
He nodded.
“Well, I heard your mate Dafydd Roberts telling Elizabeth Rees the other day they only call you that when you’re around. When you’re gone, they call you Shite Shoe, on account of your being a terrible team captain and a worse player.”
“Iain!” Merry’s hand covered her mouth.
“He said that? I ought to ring him and apologize—”
“No!” Tom was half out of his chair before Merry could force him back down. “That’s okay, Tom. Let’s just keep playing.”
He sat. “If you think that’s best.”
So we went back to our game, all the while watching Tom from the corners of our eyes. Stuart still complained of feeling odd, though he said it was improving. Iain threw Garish toward the jaws of death, sprinkled the conversation with casual insults to Tom’s shoes, his mother, his hair. And Tom took it. Quietly and without objection, no matter how absurd, or baseless, or mean. Iain actually seemed to be hurting his feelings.
I guess I need to learn how to sing...