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'I've got to do what,' asked The Prince incredulously.
'Don't ask questions of the seer,' ordered the woman behind the mask. 'What do you think this is, twenty bloody questions? You asked for what I see and that's what you get.'
'Apologies,' said The Prince, chastened. 'I didn't--'
'No, you never do, you lot,' continued the seer, getting up a good head of steam. 'It's all this "help me, help me" guff and you wake me up in the middle of the night for it too.'
'Well, it was an emergency--'
'Says you,' sneered the Seer. 'Royalty is all 'me, me, me',' she said, shaking her head. 'And me with the chilblains.'
'Is that like the clap?'
'No,' she said pointedly. 'Not like the clap. And I'll thank you not to bring things like that up in my tent.'
He opened his mouth to apologise, but was overruled.
'That's for Bertha down the road to deal with,' continued the seer. 'I'm visions, she's innuendo and issues of the nethers.'
The Prince nodded.
'Got it.'
'Now go,' she said finally. 'And let me get some sleep.'
* * *
'So what did she say,' asked Marcus the horse, standing waiting outside the tent, craving a cigarette but knowing it was a bad idea. He'd spent a fortune on hypnotism to break the habit and didn't want to repeat the experience.
'I've got to do delivery-boy with a pair of glasses,' said The Prince.
Marcus snorted.
'That's what I said,' agreed The Prince. 'But it didn't get me anywhere.'
'So what are the glasses in aid of?'
'No idea,' admitted the Prince. 'Hope they come with a bottle, that's all I've got to say. It's bloody freezing out here.'
'You think you've got problems,' said Marcus.
* * *
'Here you are sir,' said the glassmaker with a vague smile and a nod to the undercover Prince.
'Ah, right... my... good man,' said The Prince, hesitantly from beneath an astonishingly itchy red moustache and glasses that made his eyes look oddly out of proportion to the rest of his head. The disguise had been Marcus's idea and wasn't particularly convincing nor comfortable.
'Anything else sir,' asked the glassmaker.
'Not quite what I was expecting,' said The Prince. 'When I was told a pair of glasses, I thought they would be for filling.'
'Not in this instance,' said the glassmaker. 'Very specialised pair of specs these.'
'Oh yes,' asked the Prince.
'Yes, sir,' agreed the glass maker and tapped his nose conspiratorially. 'Magical spectacles.'
The Prince dubiously picked the glasses up and peered through them vaguely. The combination of the disguise glasses and these new ones was rather like looking through a telescope at an ant.
'What, they make things far away clear,' he asked. 'That's corrective lenses, not magic.'
The glassmaker nodded sagely, with all the patience of a very patient person.
'No, Magical, sir,' said the glassmaker. He tapped his nose again just to make the point.
'It doesn't involve taking pills does it,' asked the Prince suspiciously. 'Because the last time someone told me something like that it wasn't half disappointing.'
'I can only imagine, sir,' said the glassmaker. 'May I suggest Bertha down the road for that particular problem?'
* * *
'Now what,' said Marcus, trotting along with the Prince on his back. The glasses had been well secured in the saddlebags along-side the food, the one place they would be guaranteed to be guarded and protected.
'I think it's left at the forest,' said The Prince, consulting his map. 'Yep,That's what it says.'
'Good. Wouldn't want to be going into those bloody trees.'
'Why's that?'
'Infestation,' answered Marcus. 'They had a plague of tree-huggers.'
'What's wrong with that,' asked The Prince. 'Sound perfectly lovely to me. Protecting the forest from the scourge of logging companies.'
'You have no idea,' said Marcus. 'The bongo playing alone drove the wildlife out.'
'Oh,' said The Prince. 'Not so good.'
'And the wildlife got into the towns and demanded somewhere to live, equal footing with the people and all the rest of it.'
'Ah.'
'You need to get out a bit more,' said Marcus. 'Sitting up in those ivory towers is easy, but it doesn't give you much to go on when you have to make the hard decisions.'
'Such as?'
'Well, let me see,' said Marcus, now on a new road. 'How about the one where you decided to get rid of the logging companies in LowDown forest by setting loose a troupe of Robin Hoods?'
'What was wrong with that,' exclaimed The Prince. 'That was a brilliant idea! The people loved it!'
'Yeah, for all of ten minutes,' said Marcus. 'What happened after though?'
'Um...' The Prince faltered. 'You know, I'd always meant to do a follow-up survey on that.'
'They took-over and now kidnap any male that goes anywhere near the bloody place,' explained Marcus. 'Left or right here?'
They had reached a crossroads. To the left was The Abyss population 666, to the right, Holey Haven, population 9.
'Straight on I think,' said The Prince, consulting the map.
'Right you are, squire.'
'I'm a prince.'
'It's an expression,' said Marcus with a frustrated voice.
'Then what happens,' asked The Prince.
'To who?'
'The hostages.'
'Well, they get a choice: join up or face getting dropped into the great Labyrinth with a shopping list.'
'Yikes,' said The Prince with some worry. Then considered. 'Where's that?'
'The Labyrinth,' asked Marcus. 'Nearest IKEA store.'
'And the shopping list,' asked The Prince, now clearly worried.
'I've never asked,' asked Marcus. 'But I do know this: no-one's ever come out.'
There were a few moments of silence as both of them considered this terrifying fate.
'So,' began Marcus. 'Where after that?'
'Well, we've got to along the Ravine of Eternity,' began The Prince.
'Oh for crying out loud,' said Marcus, cynically. 'Why can't people just name things without the exposition?'
The Prince considered and finally answered. 'Well, it's certainly descriptive.'
'What, it's been there as long as people know,' said Marcus. 'Hah. So have a lot of things.'
'Well...'
'Howsabout we consider this over a couple of bevvies? The Horse and Spoon is nearby, just a little detour.'
'It has been a long day,' said The Prince, weakening. 'No! We must continue.'
Marcus nodded, signed and kept walking.
* * *
The Ravine was, as was expected, impressively labelled. Advertising signs in various colours of neon and flourescent paint made the point that this was the one-and-only deep eroded trench in question.
'Subtle,' said Marcus, blinking at the troupe of feather-encrusted women, doing a dance routine near the entrance. Their smiles had to be fake.
'My good man,' said The Prince, leaning over to addess someone standing by the gate.
'Woman,' said the woman, winding two tickets off of the reel. 'And it'll be a fiver for that smart-arse crack.'
'You should be a little more respectful,' began The Prince, his regal ancestors queueing up in his subconscious to give him a good kicking for being such a weakling of a ruler. 'I am--'
She fixed The Prince with a glare that could strip paint.
'I wouldn't argue,' murmured Marcus, averting his eyes. 'I know this lady.'
'What,' asked The Prince.
'It's Katrina the prophetess,' said Marcus. 'Dunno how she does it, but she's the richest woman in these parts.'
'I don't care who she is,' said The Prince. 'A fiver to get through this gate is daylight robbery.'
'Now you listen to me, four-eyes,' exclaimed Katrina, anger rising in her voice.
'Four eyes,' exclaimed The Prince. 'I'm not wearing glasses!'
'What,' asked Katrina, then her shoulders dropped with bemusement. 'Oh, sod it, I've got my second sight turned on again.'
She tipped her head to one side and seemed to shake it slightly.
Marcus raised his horsey eyebrows.
'Well that explains a lot,' he said. 'Give her the cash boss. It's not worth it.'
'He's right your superiorness,' said Katrina, implying exactly the opposite. 'How do you think I got to be rich?'
* * *
'All right, we're here,' said Marcus, staring up to the castle. 'Now what?'
'Well, the Seer said that I had to present the glasses to someone called Princess Tiny.'
'Never heard of her,' said Marcus, taking a deep breath. 'Hope this is worth it.'
'She said that if I could win over the princess's heart and soul, she would tell me the location of the Phantom Paw.'
'Who?'
'I'm as in the dark about this as you are,' said The Prince. He shrugged.
'Well, off you go then,' said Marcus. 'And be quick about it, it's bleeding freezing out here, you know.'
'Look, I don't mind you taking some liberties with addressing me,' said The Prince. 'But I'm the one who gives the orders if you don't mind.'
Marcus rolled his eyes.
'Yes, your eminence,' he said in an almost sincere voice.
'That's more like it,' said The Prince, dismounting.
He delved into the saddlebags and retrieved the glasses, checking they were still inside the purple velvet case.
'Wouldn't mind a quick snack, squire,' said Marcus. 'Getting a bit peckish.'
'I'll deliver these, then we'll eat,' said The Prince.
'Fair enough,' said Marcus, glancing up, 'Head's up, here's the father.'
Sure enough, a man with a pitchfork and a determined expression was running down the hill towards them.
'Gerroff my land you bloody interlopers,' he yelled. 'This isn't a public highway!'
'He's right there,' said Marcus. 'Not enough traffic lights for a start.'
'Mister Tiny,' began The Prince. 'I am Prince Regency Byproduct of the fourth dynasty.'
'Yeah, and I'm the bleeding queen of Sheba,' exclaimed Mister Tiny, reinforcing his opinion with three obvious points of contention, all at the end of a solid wooden handle.
'Now there's no need for violence,' said The Prince, backing off.
'I told you,' began Mister Tiny, thrusting the pitchfork forwards. 'Bugger orf or I'll perforate yer!'
'Dad,' called a vaguely whiney female voice. 'What are you doing?'
'Get back in the castle, princess,' said Mister Tiny, turning his head a little to address his daughter. 'I'm dealing with something down here.'
'There's no milk,' she called out. 'And no honey.'
'I'm busy,' called out Mister Tiny a dose of frustration in his voice, while losing the upper-hand by the second.
'As I said,' explained The Prince. 'We have a gift for your fair--'
'Dad!'
'Busy darling!'
'There's no hot water again!'
'I said I'm busy!'
'Oh, fine,' screamed the girl. 'You always do this. Everything is more important than me! You never listen!'
There was a sound of a door slamming closed. It splintered.
Mister Tiny, still standing behind the pitchfork seemed to shrink slightly. He mentally counted off how much money it would take to repair that door.
'Teenage daughter,' asked Marcus, breaking the permafrost.
'Yeah,' said Mister Tiny, pitchfork still well and truly aimed at The Prince.
'It's all hormonal,' said Marcus. 'Or so I've heard.'
'Has to be,' said Mister Tiny. 'A year ago she was all love and kisses for her old dad, now she's all demands, tantrums and visits from the carpenter.'
'No respect for her elders?'
'Respect,' scoffed Mister Tiny. 'Respect? You know she doesn't even know how to spell it right! It's all R-S-P-K-T and when she says it, it sure as hell doesn't have the same meaning as you or I would think; it's all about imitating badly dressed musicians with their bums out of their trousers.'
'You know--' began The Prince.
'Shut up, you,' said Mister Tiny.
There was another crack of broken wood.
'Bloody hell,' said Mister Tiny, taking his eyes off of The Prince for a moment.
The Prince bolted for the broken front door, determined to deliver the damn glasses and get the hell out of here. If only he'd listened to Marcus, he'd have been doing a Knees-up at The Horse and Spoon with a tray of beers under his belt and nothing but the sweet feeling of oblivion rushing to meet him (unless he ran into Loise of course, then there'd be a rushing of entirely a different sort).
''Ere,' yelled Mister Tiny, chasing The Prince up the hill.
Marcus bowled him over, sending the pitchfork through a mathematically precise arc. It twanged when it hit the ground, narrowly missing Mister Tiny's windpipe and pinning him successfully to the well watered turf.
The Prince reached the door, wrenched it off of its severely damaged hinges and burst into the castle.
A girl of perhaps fourteen glanced up at the commotion, with a surprised and guilty look on her face. This time-sharing arrangement was brought to her by the fact of said commotion and that she had her hand in her fathers money purse and a wad of fifties in her grubby little mitt.
She yanked her hand out of the purse, and turned toward The Prince, making damn sure the fifties were still in her hand. She deftly and quite deliberately placed the now substantially lighter money purse onto the kitchen bench where it had previously lain.
'!' she said.
'Princess Tiny,' said The Prince. 'I come bearing gifts.'
'Oh,' she said, a grin successfully evicting the other expressions from their picturesque location. 'What is it?'
'I should introduce myself--said The Prince.
'What is it,' she said in a whiney demanding voice. 'Really.'
'I am--'
'I want you to give it to me,' she demanded.
'I'll give it to you all right,' muttered Marcus, his head poking through the door just behind The Prince.
'Well, began The Prince, realising he was holding the purple velvet case in an obvious way.
'Oh,' squealed Princess Tiny, rushing forwards to snatch the package from The Prince's hands.
'Don't mention it,' murmured Marcus. He withdrew and wandered down the hill to where Mister Tiny was trying ineffectually to shift the fork from its current location.
'Ohmygodit'sthem!' said Princess Tiny in a slightly deeper and awed voice. 'It's them!'
She wrenched the glasses from the case, which fell to the stone floor and rushed from the kitchen.
'Um, said The Prince, attempting to make a point-of-order. 'May I ask...'
His voice petered out as it became very evident that the young lady had vacated the vicinity. There were crashes in the near distance, a thump-thump-thump-thump of feet pounding up wooden stairs and then sudden quiet.
The Prince walked from the kitchen into a corridor, and stopped beside some paintings. He wasn't sure where Princess Tiny had gone, and felt slightly embarassed to have just barged into someone else's home. He coughed politely, hoping not to incur the wrath of anyone else in the house.
The Prince sniffed for a moment, clearing his sinuses, and waited for something else to happen.
There was a terrible noise, and then silence. This was followed by more running footsteps on wooden stairs another crash of a wooden door reduced to a pile of kindling, and Princess Tiny reappeared.
On her face were the glasses.
'These are awesome,' she exclaimed.
'What are they,' asked The Prince.
'You don't know?!'
'Would I have asked if I did?'
'ScrewTooth glasses,' explained Princess Tiny. 'My friends will be SO jealous.'
'Screwtooth,' murmured The Prince, in an understanding tone. He didn't of course. 'Aha.'
'They're made with the best front teeth of the endangered Tofubeest,' continued Princess Tiny. 'Only really, really interesting and famous people have these.'
'Right,' said The Prince. 'And what can you see with them?'
'See,' she asked. 'What do you think I can see?'
'I was told they were magical,' said The Prince. 'The man definitely said that.'
'Yes,' admitted Princess Tiny. 'Magical KendoForce, the designer. You are SO not with it.'
She rolled her eyes in that special way that teenagers do; just the right edge of sarcasm, assumed superiority and contempt to set any adult off.
The Prince stared.
'You mean to say that I paid a small fortune for a pair of glasses made from bloody teeth and delivered them here to you?'
Princess Tiny was staring at a picture. She didn't acknowledge his statement.
'I said--' began The Prince.
'Can you see this,' she asked.
'What?'
'Can you see this?'
The Prince stepped closer and stared at the picture.
He paused, in contemplative thought.
'It's a picture,' he began. 'Not a bad likeness of an Old Basturd... but I think it's a fake.'
'The Phantom Paw... Striks again,' she murmured.
'What,' asked The Prince incredulously.
'The Phantom Paw--' began Princess Tiny, just as the glasses were whipped from her face and plonked onto the nose of The Prince.
'Bloody hell,' he said. 'What the hell does it mean?'
He was punched viciously in the mouth by the fist of a rabid teenager. Just before the glasses flew from his face, he noticed, in large lettering on another painting:
Meet At Old Moes
Wednesdays
He fell backwards and smacked his head rather hard on the stone floor.
Everything went black...
In the next episode:
Who is The Phantom Paw and why can't he - or she - spell 'Strikes'?
What's the big deal about Old Moes
Is the Painting a real Old Basturd, or a cunningly designed fake... and if the former, will its resale value be substantially reduced by the graffito?
And what fate awaits the Tofubeest and our heroes?
For the answers to these questions, read the next installment:
The Phantom Paw Rides Again
Northcote, May 1st 2007
Based upon a tarot card I once saw...
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