How to Slay a Dragon - Bill Allen [48]
“You’re still going to fight the dragon yourself?” Greg asked, astonished.
“Of course,” she said. “Penelope’s my sister, and no one else is going to do it.”
Greg felt a pang of guilt, and he almost told Priscilla he would help, but something stopped him. Most likely it was his sanity. Instead he tried not to think about Princess Penelope’s predicament as he and the others gathered up their things and headed into the forest once more.
The Prophet
The sun arced overhead and had begun to drop again when Greg smelled the potent aroma of wildflowers. By the time the group emerged from Wiccan Wood to gaze across a vast field, the fragrance was nearly overwhelming.
Greg quickly decided there must be a flower of every hue in the world here—maybe more, considering this was not his world. Ahead he could see bits and pieces of trail winding through the field toward a distant structure. Though a pretty golden brown in its own right, it looked unnaturally dull amidst the splendor of the surrounding flowers.
“Welcome to Heaven’s Canvas,” said Nathan, smiling broadly.
“Wow,” Greg said. “It’s amazing.”
Priscilla smiled. “Mom would be glad we took the time to notice.”
“Well, no use standing about,” said Nathan, and with that he strode down the loamy trail that wound its way more or less toward the distant house.
Greg rushed along with the others, stopping several times to gape. As they turned the last bend and trudged up the path toward the small house, an old woman stood upon the front walk, gathering wildflowers into a woven basket. She straightened as they approached, massaging her lower back with one hand as if the effort pained her, but she did not look their way.
“Hello,” Lucky called as they drew near. “Missus Sezxqrthm, hello.”
The woman continued to pick flowers, oblivious of the group’s approach. At least it gave Greg time to study her without her noticing him staring. He had heard some people on Earth lived to be a hundred, but he estimated this woman to be twice that old or older.
“Missus Sezxqrthm?” Lucky repeated. Still she didn’t seem to hear. “MISSUS SEZXQRTHM!”
With a jerk, the woman emitted a feeble scream.
“What in blazes!” she said in a voice that was twice as loud as need be, or four times what she should have been capable of. “Can’t you see I’m an old woman? Not that you ought to be sneakin’ up on anybody, mind, but—who are you, anyway?”
“It’s me, Missus Sezxqrthm,” said Lucky.
“What?” she shouted. “You ain’t Missus Sezxqrthm.”
“No . . . I’m Lucky Day.”
“It ain’t your lucky day?” she yelled. “What do I care? Who are you? What do you want?”
“We came to see your husband, ma’am.”
“Who?” the woman blared, squinting hard enough to cut right through him. “Speak up.”
“Your husband,” Lucky repeated louder. “Simon?”
“I know my husband’s Simon,” she replied gruffly. “And you don’t have to yell.”
Greg exchanged glances with Priscilla, who covered her mouth to keep from giggling in spite of the day’s tensions.
“Say, you’re Sonny Day’s boy, ain’t ya?” the woman asked Lucky.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Lucky.”
“Good for you.” The woman squinted at the princess, scrunching up her face as if trying to recall a memory long past, and Greg silently wondered just how one went about retrieving a single event from a couple of centuries worth of experiences.
“You look familiar, chil’. Have we met?”
“I’m Princess Priscilla . . . King Peter’s daughter?”
The woman scowled. “I know King Peter’s not here. He lives in Pendegrass Castle, clear on the other side o’ the Enchanted Forest.” She turned Greg’s direction. “Who’re you?”
“Greg Hart.”
The woman sniggered. “You ain’t Greatheart. I may be old, but I know a dragonslayer when I see one. Greatheart’s a tall, strapping young buck, makes my knees go weak every time I see him. Not that my knees are all that strong most o’ the time, mind, but well . . . you know.”
Greg stared back at her. “No, Mrs. Sezx—er, Mrs. Sezxquer—er