The Stuttering Bard of York
Chapter Two: A Warning of Sorts
Dressed in the simple clothes of a farmer, Bennelzor Transom didn’t cut a dashing figure. He was perhaps just a little tall if one looked at him right, but his chin wasn’t jutting, or chiseled. It was a very average, decent chin, a bit of thin hair sprouting there which Ben hoped might turn into a luxurious beard. The people in the nearby village of York said there was no hope of marriage for a man who sang to his horse-and couldn’t talk sense to another man, much less stutter a sentence to a woman of marriageable quality. Ben wasn’t sure what they meant when they whispered those words over-loud as he passed on the street, or why the young women tittered so loudly, but he didn’t wonder about it much. York was his village, and he liked it as that.
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The village of York, nestled in a small clearing amid the forest that borders the Shiddow Mountains, is one of the most remote towns in the kingdom of Tarn. Being close to the Shiddow Mountains, the citizens of York constantly face the threat of goblin raids. Not being very brave or warlike, this means they mostly know how to ring the alarm bell vigorously and get very scared whenever someone thinks there might be danger. But, in spite of this chance of excitement, on a common day the streets of York are a quiet place where dogs, chickens, and pigs wander around in search of something good to eat. Often the only sound heard when walking down the main street is the clang of Cendric the blacksmith working at his forge.
Ben started down the narrow rutted trail toward York with a heavy heart. There would be questions and he would stutter. So he walked at a slow pace, Ned plodding dutifully behind.
The winding path went over the hills and through the forest. In some places massive boulders and old wizened trees rose up close, nearly crowding out the road. Then at other places the land opened up in a small clearing of tall fresh grass and flowers. But mostly there were trees. The thick forest that spread from the Shiddow Mountains was full of cool shadows, and the rich smell of rotting wood.
And strange dangerous things.
The path to York ran six winding miles. About halfway between the Transom farm and York there burbled a small stream called Bannard Brook. As Ben splashed through the cold water, he recalled that the brook was named after some old man Bannard who, it was said, had perished when a giant goblin bit off his head. This started Ben thinking about the goblins again. He glanced up nervously and saw the forest thick and dark on the far bank of the stream. He suppressed a shiver.
“Could be goblins hiding there, Ned,” he said.
Ned snorted. It was hard to tell whether he agreed, or not.
“If they came to the farm, they could be here.” Ben stood at the edge of the trees, peering ahead. His boots were soaked, and he didn’t feel very brave with water between his toes.
“How fitting if I met my end by Bannard’s Brook,” he muttered through clenched teethed. “The king preserve us-there could be goblins everywhere.”
He was very glad he had happened to take the ax along when he left the farm. It didn’t make him feel brave but . . . it was something. Gripping the haft tightly, he ventured beneath the overhanging bows.
Once Ben started thinking of goblins he couldn’t stop. Maybe a mile further on he paused a moment and said, as if continuing some thought, “If the goblins attacked our farm, they might have attacked York.”
The forest said nothing back.
“And if they attacked York, they might have destroyed the entire village. There might be no help for miles around!”
Ned snuffled at the ground, searching for something to eat among the pine needles.
“No. I’m sure York is fine.” He gave Ned a quavering smile. Then he said, “We’d better hurry.”
York was fine, he thought again.
Still, he increased his pace. York was fine, but it couldn’t hurt to hurry. A few steps later it became a run. Soon he raced as fast as his legs would carry him, terrified he would come over the last rise and see only smoking remains where York had once stood.
He arrived in town breathless and disheveled, sweating, and covered with black soot, ax in hand. Josline, the short, fat, wife of Bib the tanner was the first to spot him. She was standing on a stool in her back yard, hanging out laundry to dry when she saw Ben come gasping down the road with Ned galloping after him.
“The king preserve us!” she shrieked, “Stuttering Ben has finally lost it! He’s murdered his family and is running into town with an ax to kill us all! Save me! Somebody save me!” Any further exclamations or warnings were lost as she toppled over backward and fell into her wet laundry basket.
Doors banged open all down the street, men running from every shop, women from every house. Even the four bums, Terry, Buddle, Donn, and Loi came out from the tavern, peering and blinking in the daylight. The villagers took one look at Ben and scrambled back indoors to fetch a poker, shovel, or even a broom. By this time Ben had reached the center of the village and stood in the middle of the street, wheezing. He saw the people gathering, looking very grim, and perhaps a little determined. Sucking in another breath of air, he managed to burst out “Goblins!”
It was a fairly clear gasp considering how fast Ben had run, but the men and women stared at him a minute before some small lady off in the back squeaked, “Goblins!”
“Goblins!” Josline screamed. She had finally hauled herself out of the laundry basket and was climbing over the rickety picket fence. “I knew it! I told you! Save the children! Goblins are coming! The king preserve us, Ben has brought goblins to town!”
The fence collapsed under Josline with a crash and in the general commotion people ran around yelling, “Goblins! Save us!” and, “Goblins are attacking! Goblins have attacked the Transom farm!”
Finally someone shouted, “Sound the alarm. Someone sound the alarm!”
It was a mad rush for the bell tower. The bums-who had been keeping back in case there actually was a fight-made it to the far end of the street first. All four of them took hold of the rope and began heaving. Terry, Bubble, Donn, and Loi avoided any work in normal circumstances, but now all four of them heaved at the rope with surprising vigor. Up and down they went, filling the town with a wang-wang-wang-wang that quickly made Ben feel like his head was ringing.
The racket did little except summon the mayor and Androbobel, the two men coming from the mayor’s basement where they had been counting the mayor’s lucre.
Before Ben had time to stop thinking about how the bell made his head ring, the villagers crowded around, everyone talking at once.
“How many goblins?”
“Are they coming right behind you?”
“Where is your dear mother?”
“Where is Jemima?”
“Where is your father? Did old Abe send you?”
The shouting faces pressed close, demanding answers. Ben opened his mouth to answer first one question, then another. “I-No. They-the Goblins. It-We-they. The fire-it-” He began stuttering quite badly, and knew it because he could see the spit flying, great big flecks, as he tried to make the words come out of his mouth.
“You’re not going to get anything out of him now,” Fannie, the pretty miller’s daughter shouted. “He’s lost his brain again.”
“Oh, maybe just his mouth,” Cendric said, more charitably. The blacksmith, though not wide as he was tall, was certainly wider than any person had a right to expect. With his massive size and bushy black beard, frayed and ratty from where forge sparks had burned through, Cendric tended to a slightly maniacal appearance that did his gentle disposition an injustice.
“Citizens, people!” Androbobel called out in his crisp voice. “This is a crisis which concerns us all. Please calm yourselves and let those in authority-those wiser and more capable-handle this national tragedy.”
“Here, let me at him.” Drasel, the mayor’s wife, elbowed her way to the center of the crowd. She was a bony woman, with long fingers that looked quick to pinch.
“Now listen, Ben.” She pointed one narrow finger at him. “You just nod or shake your head. Hear? I’ll ask the questions. The goblins attacked, that’s right?”
Ben nodded.
Drasel looked at his burned and soot stained garments. “And they burned your house and . . . and . . . killed your parents!”
Ben nodded, then shook his head.
“The savages!” Cendric said.
The words went round the crowd.
“Utter savages!”
But Drasel said, “How can you nod and shake your head? Either the goblins did or they didn’t.”
“Farm’s gone,” Ben managed to say, stuttering over the first word so it sounded like, “Garm.”
Someone gasped, but Ben managed to continue, “Ma and Da sent me for help.” He thought about mentioning that his Da had actually been the one to burn down the house, but he didn’t think he could explain it, and anyhow, the goblins would have burned down the house-like his Da said-so it was good enough.
“Not dead!” Cendric shouted.
“Someone should do something about the goblins,” a voice called out. “Destroying farms and trying to kill such nice people as the Transoms-it’s a disgrace.”
“Indeed,” Androbobel echoed, finally managing to work himself to the front of the crowd, the mayor right behind him. “This is a disgrace.”
The professor was a thin man with an equally thin mustache which hung down around his mouth and appeared well oiled. The man wore a finely embroidered purple robe which put him at stark odds with the rough pants and shirts of the York men. A gold rimmed eye-piece perched precariously on the professors narrow cheek as he stared at Ben.
“What do you say, professor?” The mayor panted. He was a short and fat man, with a balding top. “What does this situation call for?”
“Ah. It is the duty of an enlightened state to care for its citizens. In this moment of weakness I see a opportunity to take care of a certain problem.” Androbobel elbowed the mayor. “We must take advantage of this situation.”
“Aye,” Cendric said, missing the sly undertone. “We should do something.”
The talk quieted then.
“Do something . . .” The mayor repeated, rubbing his stomach where Androbobel had elbowed him and eying the professor quizzically. “About what?” he finally said, cautiously.
“The goblins.” Cendric jerked a meaty thumb toward the looming Shiddow Mountains.
“The goblins,” the professor agreed, quickly.
“The goblins.” The mayor gave a small laugh. “And exactly what do you think we-”
“With the power of the masses nothing is impossible,” Androbobel intoned. “We shall harness this power to work great good.”
“A bad thing has happened to Ben,” Cendric continued. “We should help him.”
“Help him?” Drasel said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Help him,” the professor said, a strange smile spreading across his lips.
“Oh, help him,” the mayor said loudly. “Of course! Exactly what I was thinking! We must help Ben deal with the terrible tragedy brought about by the goblin attack. In such trials like this the village of York is brought together in unanimity and determination. We condemn such evils as this in the strongest possible terms. In fact, we’ll have a town council over this.”
“An excellent idea!” Several people chorused. “I knew we elected you mayor for a reason, Horace!”
“Exactly,” the mayor said, trying to sound determined and full of leadership. “Everyone to the tavern. We’ll sort all of this out over a few drinks. Ben will know the meaning of help by the time we’re finished.”
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