I remember being distracted by the figure of a naked young woman bathing in the cool waters of the Bunky River. I had thought her to be a mermaid because of her glistening skin.
I did not follow her lead because my garments went missing on that fateful day. I was almost certain it was an eagle that snatched my undergarment, but concurred that its shadow manifested a humanoid. A thief, no less!
Garty had sent a written request for a new outfit but the king refused his request because, replied the king, in writing.
“Thou has not brought me the evidence requested, or any such hope for repatriation of my daughter!”
It was obvious to Garty that his ongoing personal expenses were not included in the king’s statement:
“Whatever this costs, I shall fund it!”
Not only did the king refuse his genuine request, it was clear to Garty that the king was not happy with his progress. He seemed angry!
A cool wind whirls around his trunk and enters his chest with a sharp stab.
Garty’s strong cool thighs hug his beloved Brill. He pats his horse’s strong neck, glistening from his patient care in grooming his steed. The horse snorts lightly in appreciation.
“We have to find her anon, Brill,” he whispers to his friendly horse.
Or I shall never acquire a fresh uniform and shall need to endure rags for clothing!
He shakes his head as he speaks. Hope rises again in his heart as he spies out the town. Surely good news would be his soon! He merely needs one vital clue to this puzzle of the missing princess and he will be at peace!
“This is the place everything points towards, Brill. This has to give up its secrets for ’tis the last place she may be, or otherwise we will have to break the sad news to the King that the princess is indeed lost and invisible! My heart beats formidably within my bosom, dear friend, and thou shall be with me at the end, hopefully to celebrate!”
They ride down steep rocky pathways at a good pace. He tugs the reins and stops again.
“I need a good strategy, Brill.”
He waits to gain some inspiration by looking around the inroads to the town, removes his glove and extracts a map tucked in a pocket of his torn jacket.
With a small stub of charcoal, he marks the map, mumbling, “Lane to the West, church building on Easterly side, Lake Scatt towards South… and…”
The horse becomes restless taking off at a trot.
“Steady on…we will go shortly. I know, you are keen to have your feed! But I must indeed acquire the legend details…”
Garty looks around. He senses a presence.
To the left of the peak there are large boulders a little overgrown with moss.
It seems as if a shadow passes by, but he concludes it to be imaginary. However, he notices the birds squawking and flying around the top of the largest boulder and above the oak and ash trees nearby that sparkle with an abundance of fresh green to soothe the eye.
I shall trust my steed more readily, he muses.
“Good boy, you saw something, didn’t you?
We cannot afford to lose more clothing, or our weapons, Brill. We shall be more careful now,” he whispers into the horse’s ear, touching his pistol near his hip, still holding the stub of charcoal, finds his weapon snug and ready.
They had left the previous town, Loopa, rather early in the morning to avoid highwaymen, who generally attacked more often later in the day because they were too drunk to rise early. However, one could never be completely sure of their whereabouts.
He continues to mark the map in his hand, keeping one eye on the boulders even as he writes every detail. He needed to perform this tedious work to keep on track, and sane!
The horse grunts and waits patiently.
They had become knitted companions, devoted to each other over the years, getting older and wiser together, or so Garty likened the relationship!
Garty folds his hand drawn map and pops it along with the charcoal stub in a small pocket, keeping his eyes peeled as he feels for the pocket. He knew exactly where each pocket was located because he had diligently and with great lack of prowess sewn more pockets into his fitted jacket despite bleeding fingers and thumb.
He then plucks the minute oligarch painting from another stitched pocket using his ungloved fingers.
“Whoever it was has vanished,” he whispers to Brill.
Surely if it was a highwayman I would see crushed grasses and movement of shadows.
He looks at the picture between his fingers and thumb. It is an oil over charcoal painting of Queen Bianco, the beautiful, mother of the missing princess. The picture, now crumpled and torn on its edges, as a result of its being taken in and out of his breast pocket and compared to many beautiful women.
But none matched this beauty by a good mile, he muses. Surely a daughter, especially a princess, might be as beautiful as her mother, even identical?
Garty requires himself to keep this picture at the front of his mind to refocus on the invisible princess’ oligarch painted depiction.
On a good bright day, like today, he can see the oil brush marks over the original drawing. Perhaps the artist should be found as well, he ponders? There is no time to investigate a new line of enquiry.
The king had convinced him that his daughter would look like her mother, the queen, the one reason Garty kept this picture close to his heart.
It is the only piece of the puzzle that I believes is genuine.
Garty is feeling exhausted this morning, having begun his day just after dawn. But, is happy to see the town close by and the prospect of rest and a hearty meal warms his heart and gives him the gusto needed to go on.
“I hear there is a great Inn in this village, called by its ancient name, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it is,” he says as he notices a neglected sign made from timber with the words Scatt burnt on it in black lettering.
The sign has tumbled from its post and is now pointing into the grassy earth among leaves, pebbles, grass and wild flowers.
Garty feels a wave of disappointment rushing over him. He wonders just how careless the people here might be and if it is catching?
“The Maud, that’s it!”
He remembers the name of the Inn.
“We will be revived after our visit no matter what happens. Let’s head down into the village, and hope it is already operative for the day,” he says to Brill.
With a gentle nudge to Brill’s ribs, the pair make their way down the treacherous pathway towards the small town, where hewn built houses sit in a row in the village.
The hub of activity where things colloquial to the region are eventing, even as he watches from a distance.
He notices the central statue of a former king enthroned at the core of a fountain spilling sparkling water from a magnificent jug in the king’s hands.
He sees smoke curling from ancient brick chimneys, blackened by smoke, debris, and birds’ nests.
Miniature human figures move about, beginning a brand new day with beautiful sunshine, pausing to chat or cheer each other on, taking water from the fountain in pails and jugs as the day slips into its routine.
Gossiping, no doubt, Garty muses.
He takes pleasure in watching people interacting for a while, a trifle mesmerised at the puppet-like activity.
He had visited many towns and knew that they all kept secrets he could never uncover. His strategies would need to be hewn in a more subtle way to find out the hidden truths and myths in this town.
His mind begins to figure out what he might do to extract any pertinent information without upsetting the whole locality!
Gold is always an incentive. But, alas, my gold is becoming scant.
As the town looms closer he feels an air of expectancy stirring.
“This time, we may have good news for the King. But, if not, you, Brill and I, have tried our level best to fulfil the commission.”
Perhaps I could find a homey wife and live on a country farm after that!
He laughs out loud at his own abstract thoughts.
The horse neighs as if he had read his master’s mind no less!
“Don’t worry, Brill, I shall not leave you even for a beautiful woman. She would need to love you as I do before I would even ask for her hand!”
More likely I would find myself locked in a damp dark basement of a tower if I fail!
His blood runs cold at that thought!
“Harder, Brill,” he says, noticing the patch of smooth surface leading into the town. They rode harder for a few minutes, then regressed to a trot. Brill’s hoofs clinked on cobblestone. Within a few minutes he was thundering into the small town.
“We are here, Brill.”
Garty pulls on the reins to slow down. He removes his charcoal grey felt hat with its gay red feather floating on top as a gesture of respect to the people meandering in the centre of town.
Folk in the genesis of their activities stop to stare at the stranger in dark leather attire, with his chain mail still sturdily harnessed around his neck, hiding his shabby undershirt. His hair glistens like gold in the morning sunlight.
Garty detects a slow pace in this town and it pleases his tired bones.
Curiosity is a colloquial trait of these townsfolk, Garty notes, as folk watch him from behind doors ajar, curtained windows and folk leaning on garden implements in pretence of rest, staring at him and his horse as if assessing his business.
“Good morning,” he says in a clear voice. He greets them with a cheery wave of his hat with its red feather.
That seems to settle the mood a little. A few hands wave momentarily, then continue their relevant projects with vigour, to impress me no doubt, Garty assumes!
“Stop here Brill,” he instructs his beloved horse, pulling on the reins to achieve a fine trot.
“The Maud Inn! Yes, the one we were told to frequent at our last stop!”
Looking around, he sees no other Inn, so surely this was the one suggested? The horse obediently trots towards a friendly looking inn painted yellow and black, with a post outside to tie up a horse and a small space for the horse to stand in the shade of a sycamore tree bursting with glints of sunshine and freshly grown bright green leaves that almost dance for joy at their early spring-birthing.
“I’ll get you a nose bag, and your favourite drink,” Garty says, patting Brill’s neck.
The horse neighs lowly. Brill clicks his hooves on the cobbles as thought he likes the sound his master makes and orders it promptly.
“I know, you are hungry and would love a big red apple and a huge orange carrot,” he says into Brill’s twitching ear.
Dismounting, Garty takes note of the town main street, houses and shops, mainly taverns and stores, built in a row, with a footpath alongside for easement.
Typical town, he muses.
“Nothing changes here,” he whispers to Brill before he heads up the steps.
The Inn boasts three wide steps leading to an open door, painted yellow with black trims and a dab of gold paint.
He senses its welcoming mood along with the clatter of crockery and glasses, tinged with a hum of voices that carry sound waves to his auditory senses.
The yellow and black marbled entrance gives this humble inn an air of old fashioned grandeur. Carpets inlaid with emblems and designs in shades of blue, red and yellow embellish its ambience.