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The year in this place was 959 ASD, and when he asked about the Carousel, people looked at him suspiciously and gestured with their hands to ward off evil.

He and his lopes kept on the move.

He worked at odd jobs: a field hand, a fruit picker, a bank guard (itself with moments in which his dexterity was quite useful), a pipe fitter—anything that would keep him and his lopes from becoming too uncomfortable. The attachment between the three grew strong.

A Last Name

He encountered a local war between farmers and uniformed troops. He told the lopes to stay out of sight. Sizing up the imbalance, he fought for those defending their territory from the invaders. The battle had reached high intensity. He was good with a bow or a sword or a knife and helped drive back the enemy. His energy and accuracy inspired the others to fight harder. The soldiers decided hurriedly to abandon the attack.

The leader of the defenders was Hiram Goodthistle, a farmer as were most of the defenders. Goodthistle was a large man, built like a bulldog. His was the largest farm in the county with three barns, a large house, a wife his equal in every way, and four children, all learning the ways of farm life. He was mayor of the county seat. More though, he was a man who could get things done. Though none asked, all knew he was a Brother of the Pentagon with connections throughout the land. He bore the tattooed emblem of a pentagon with many curved lines within on the underside of his left wrist. When he spoke, others listened carefully.

That evening Goodthistle threw an old fashioned all-you-can-eat puppy roast. He was not a man to waste anything. His champion bulldog bitch had delivered a litter of six. (Her name was Cinnamon; she was as large as George and heavier than George and Gracie put together.) A buyer from Pierian Spring, capital of West Centralia, had purchased all but the runt that even the mother refused. Riding bulldogs was a sport for the wealthy. He paid five silver coins for each puppy. On a farm anything edible that is no longer needed becomes food. Mrs. Goodthistle prepared seventeen varieties of vegetables for the guests.

John was treated by the victors as a hero. When they saw that John ate only the vegetables they gave him a last name, Narrowpath. Then everyone clinked tankards of boot rear and drank to his good health.

Addressing John, Goodthistle said, “Those were Myrmidon soldiers from Sudlandt. They send squads out to lonely corners of Nordlandt and Eestlandt trying to steal grain. Their own farmers can’t grow enough because their sons are all put in one of King Fugal’s legions or the reserves.”

John asked if there was any place without war or conflict. “Not outside the monastery,” was the reply.

He conferred with his jackalopes, and they agreed. “Then I shall seek it out.” One of the farmers whose land had been spared drew a map for him.
The next morning, as John, the lopes, and the wagon turned the corner of the country road, a farmer asked Goodthistle what he really thought of John.

Goodthistle replied, “I don’t trust him. He’s a foreigner and may be an Appearer.” He went home and sent encoded messages by way of the network, a means for sending information around the world.


The Flying Pig

There was early snow, and as it deepened, the pace slowed. John Narrowpath led his little group to a shelter, a wayside inn called the Flying Pig with a good barn and as good a bar. The sign above the door indicated that the proprietor was Fiesta Rohling-Boyle. He took his wagon into the sturdy barn, unhitched his lopes, brushed the snow from their backs, and led them to a food trough and water basin. Fiesta was a jolly ample woman. Had she been twenty years younger, she’d still be more than twice John’s age. That did not matter to her. When he asked for accommodations, she threw her ample arms around him and gathered him into the globe of pheromones that surrounded her. There were seven guests that night including John.

As a friendly gesture, he bought a round of stout for everyone including Fiesta. To while away the evening, each guest told a story, telling not whether it was fact or fiction.

The first to volunteer was Hans Vashre, a soap salesman. He told of a sad maiden whose father, after the death of his wife, married again. The stepmother was jealous of the beautiful child. When the father went on a long journey, the stepmother locked the girl in the tallest tower of the house and fed her only crusts and water. This put the girl in a snit. The next time the stepmother came to bring the crusts and water, the girl kicked her down the stairs—thump, thump, thump. When the father came home, he called out that he had made a fortune during his trip. The sweet girl kissed him fondly. When he asked for his new wife, she told him of her “accident.” “Ah, well,” he responded. “She was getting a bit crabby, don’t you think?”




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