Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

Standing upon the dispensary’s stoop, flexing his sore but soothingly salved and freshly bandaged arm, Torin surveyed the bustling village square, paying no heed to the nervous, skittish looks being thrown his way. The scrutiny had begun the second he and Fortenbrass set weary foot and hoof through Tuffet Towne’s village gate.

Had this been any other village his and the horse’s striking appearances would have elicited curious and admiring glances but nothing more. The resident’s of Tuffet Towne, however, had a reputation for rabbity and excessive arachnophobia [manifested by the silver spider eradicator dangling from the belt of every man, woman and child] brought on by mass-sympathetic hysteria over the shock and ensuing breakdown suffered by their founder’s beloved daughter Miss Molly Muffet. Their intensely phobic natures were well known throughout the Kingdoms, making them objects of ridicule, contempt and the butt of many a troll’s twisted joke.

Although in a constant state of unease and fear, the Tuffetonians were expert craftsmen and diligent laborers - winners four years in a row of the prestigious Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho work ethic award. Indeed, tuffets of every conceivable size and shape, carved from a variety of native woods, were greatly coveted and graced many illustrious Nine Kingdom mansions, castles and palaces. Be that as it may, Torin found their timidity irritating and tiresomely illogical. The sooner they could leave, the better.

Fortenbrass, his injuries seen to, had been settled comfortably in the kindly [albeit extremely nervous] doctor’s stable with a full bucket of oats, fresh hay underfoot and, in the next stall, a winsome mare [nicely turned ankles…glossy, honeyed mane…velvety, come-hither eyes…coquettish tail] to keep him company. The convalescing cat [paw stitched, splinted, tightly bound, a sleep-conducive, pain numbing wreath of verdant tansy root and red mandrake stem encircling its neck] was cradled snugly in a linen sling hanging from Torin’s shoulder. Confident that all had been done for his companions that could be, Torin stepped down onto the cobblestones and, with fatigue tugging at his eyelids and limbs like a cranky child, set off in search of the Sit Down Beside Me Inn, which had been highly recommended by the doctor's skittish wife.

Torin inhaled ecstatically and his stomach rumbled eagerly, provoked, aroused, and titillated by the tantalizing aroma and lip-smacking sight of the bounteous feast laid out before him.

He grinned broadly at the goosey waitress, causing her to emit a squeak and scurry back to the kitchen. Chuckling, he delved into the feast. He’d lost count how long it had been since he’d sat at a table and dined on food that had not been hunted, skinned, gutted, roasted by his own two hands. So engrossed in relishing every toothsome bite he barely spared a glance for the childish figure that passed by, winding its way pass the tables and diners to take up a position by the hearth.

With merrily leaping, rhythmically crackling flames as a backdrop and musical accompaniment, Little Tommy Tucker, back ramrod straight, heels and feet together, hands clasped and fingers laced, turned eyes to the ceiling beams, cleared his throat, and prepared to sing for his supper.

Torin had finished two courses when, midway through his performance, the child announced that a new ballad, penned that very day, had been added to his repertoire.

Torin had lifted his tankard and taken a swallow or two when a lyric, rising sweetly, lit upon his ear. He paused, choked, sputtered and gaped in astonishment as the tiny troubadour warbled a paean [punctuated by fearful, nervous gasps and gulps from the fainthearted audience] to his and Fortenbrass’ hapless storming of the glass hill in Cristalleria.

Rising from the table, he tossed several wendells beside his plate, and casually ambled through the entryway, across the foyer, to the stairs which he took two at a time, not daring to take a breath until his chamber door was firmly shut behind him. Once inside he slid down the wooden surface guffawing helplessly, loudly and heartily.

Like air escaping a balloon his laughter at last began to peter out, resurfacing every now and then as a sporadic exhaustive wheeze. Wiping his streaming eyes he considered a trip to the stables to regale Fortenbrass with the news of how their misadventure was now being served up as dining entertainment [at least in this part of the Kingdoms], but almost immediately relinquished the notion, deciding to save it for the morning. Weariness, temporarily routed by a fortifying meal and therapeutic hilarity, had once again fastened its vampiric lips.

A little punch-drunk and most assuredly stuffed to the gills, he crawled on all fours to the bed, grasped the footboard, pulled up and hung there against the post, cheek resting against the cold iron. His overtired brain idly cast about for a good enough inducement to rise and climb into the bed rather than curl up on the rag rug where he knelt.

Hanging against the post he groggily turned his head and found himself nose-to-nose and eye-to-eye with his chamber companion, a very woozy, befuddled brindled cat. The feline met his gaze with unfocused eyes that drifted closed capitulating it once more into a drug-induced, regenerating sleep. Its head flopped back upon the quilt, its body relaxed and soft purring snores drifted to Torin’s ears. Smiling drowsily, he clambered over the rail and dropped heavily upon the bed causing the frame to protest, the bedsprings to screech and the cat to bounce…but not waken.

Raucous cock-a-doodle-doing brought Torin jarringly awake. Groaning, he burrowed deeper into the pillow, hands balled into fists as he envisioned them tightening, squeezing and wringing the wretched rooster’s neck. From the floor above shutters banged against the wall, creative cursing filled the air, and an object thudded, hard, against stone. Terrified squawking and beating of wings quickly ensued and blessed quiet was restored. Rolling over, Torin blew a kiss to the ceiling.

Yawning and stretching he climbed out of bed and discovered he’d slept in his clothes. Grimacing at the gamy scent, he tugged off the wrinkled shirt and filled the washbasin. The goosebump-raising water did much toward restoring a good mood. Toweling off he stooped, adjusted his height to the small mirror and examined the darkening stubble spreading like new forest growth across cheeks, chin and migrating down his neck. While debating the necessity of shaving he caught the reflection of the invalid…the cat [a scrawny, bedraggled and very pitiful sight], sitting on a chair tenderly washing its bandaged paw.

Suddenly conscious of being watched it froze; tongue suspended in mid-lick. Swiveling its head it considered him with inscrutable, unblinking eyes. Apparently sensing there was nothing to cause alarm it dismissed him with an audible sniff and returned to its ministrations.

Unaccountably annoyed, Torin thrust his arms into a clean shirt, stuffed the soiled one into his rucksack and, picking up the sling, crossed to the animal. In an explosive flash it was on its feet, wounded foot tucked belly-close, spine arced unnaturally, tail rigid as a flag-pole, growling low in its throat, needle-pointed fangs barred.

Astonishment, annoyance and offense flash-carded through Torin. In a huff he stomped from the room, down the stairs, out the door and took a left toward the doctor’s stable cussing the miserable, thankless creature all the way. Reaching the doctor’s he stopped before rounding the stable yard corner and glanced over his shoulder. There, following at a cautious distance and hobbling clumsily on three legs, was the abominable feline. Realizing it had been spotted it promptly sat and feigned interest in the citizenry bustling about their morning transactions. With a peevish shake of his head Torin entered the stable, relaxing as the comforting odors of horses, hay and leather filled his nostrils.

Fortenbrass stood, glumly backed into a corner. Munching halfheartedly on a carrot he cast nervous glances towards the mare that fluttered lush lashes his way, a saucy gleam in her eye. He immediately perked up, whinnying a relieved greeting when Torin came into the stall.

After a few moments of fond ear scratching and muzzle rubbing Torin pulled a currycomb from the rucksack and set about grooming the dusty coat and gnarled mane. As he worked he recounted the previous night's astounding revelation: they were heroes and, to top it off, also the unlikely subjects of a song!

Fortenbrass snorted, rolled his eye skeptically and playfully nipped at Torin's knee. Laughing, pushing the great head away and good-naturedly swatting the massive rump, Torin swore on Pinocchio's nose that it was the truth and nothing but. They continued in companionable silence until Torin left for the inn to get breakfast and settle his account.

While counting out the requisite wendells into the innkeeper’s trembling palm Torin made a unsettling discovery. The lavish meal and comfy lodgings had greatly overextended his meager purse. He’d have to find an odd job or two and soon. Walking back to the stable he mulled over his circumstances. Any consideration of seeking work in Tuffet Towne never crossed his mind. The villagers’ over-the-top preoccupation with fear set his teeth on edge. No, he’d seek gainful employment elsewhere.

Still deep in contemplation, he pulled up short halfway into Fortenbrass’ stall, all thought of monetary ills promptly annulled by the tableau before him. Reclining in sphinx-like ambiguity upon the horse’s broad dock, purring with ‘bellyful of minced mice’ contentment was the blasted, confounded, damnable, execrable…cat.

Flummoxed by the sight and suspicious of its seemingly docile demeanor, Torin approached the pair with some misgiving, footsteps muffled by the straw. At Fortenbrass' neighed greeting, the cat roused from its meditations. At sight of the man so close, it tensed and stood. Balancing awkwardly it held its ground. The horse nickered reassuringly and it relaxed, somewhat. Mindful of the outcome of his first attempt to console the beast Torin followed Fortenbrass' lead, lowering his voice, speaking gently and calmly, all the while edging closer. Gingerly, non-threateningly he raised the back of his hand for its nose to sniff. Apparently mollified, it settled back on its haunches, tail flicking lazily and seemingly at ease but within it was ever ready to defend or escape.

Concluding that the best course was to treat the animal no different from Fortenbrass, Torin set about explaining to both the financial situation, the need to move on and seek work. While talking he moved casually around the cramped enclosure, readying the horse for departure. To avoid a second set of scars, he courteously asked the cat to vacate its perch so the saddle could be placed upon the stallion’s back. Surprisingly it complied, hopping to the stall railing where it tottered upon landing, faltered for a minute then steadied on its three good legs, the fourth held out to the side as a balance bar. Pity overcame self-preservation and Torin gently plucked the teeter-tottering feline off. Settling it on solid ground, he cautioned Fortenbrass to watch where he set his hooves.

Once everything was set to go, Torin still dawdled. Unnecessarily retightening the cinch, he mulled over what to do with the cat. It had been nothing but trouble, not to mention almost getting them killed. It was smelly, undernourished, lame, and had the disposition of a constipated ogre, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to abandon it.

Decision made, he addressed it and extended an invitation to come along if it so chose. But, he explained, if it did come, the safest and most comfortable way for it to travel, at least until the injured paw had healed, would have to be inside the sling. Thus said, he kneeled, held the material open, and waited for the cat’s acceptance or rejection. After a moment it limped over, inspected the piece of cloth, scrutinized Torin’s face, then unpredictably stepped in and settled down.

Hiding his surprise, Torin looped and tied the sling’s ends behind his neck. With the cat secure against his chest he strode outside with Fortenbrass clopping in his wake. Mounting and gathering the reins, he gave the horse the go-ahead and they set off at an easy gait from the stable yard. Trotting through the square and out the village gate, they soon left Tuffet Towne and its paranoid residents behind.