Frog Page 3

  It wasn’t long before he’d uncovered the shoulder-plates and the arms which ended in chain-mail gloves. The main body of the suit was now visible down to the waist. He became conscious that it was in very good condition and had somehow been preserved with hardly a scratch on it, and the last thing that he wanted to do was mark or dent it himself. In fact, he noted that there were so few obvious markings on it that the previous occupier had either been excellent at defending himself, or had not been involved in fighting at all.

  ‘Chris! Lunch! Come in and wash your hands.’

  His mother’s voice startled him from his thoughts and he rose to survey with great satisfaction the work he had done that morning .

  ‘Chris, did you hear me?’

  This time her voice was much clearer and looking up Chris noticed his mother was making her way down the gravel path. He didn’t want anyone to know about his discovery yet and he knew that if his mum found out she’d certainly have something to say about it.

  ‘Coming Mum,’ he said, getting up and running towards her.

  ‘What are you up to, young man?’ she said as she surveyed his hands and knees. ‘Just look at the state of you, what have you been doing?’

  ‘Just digging,’ he replied.

  ‘Just digging? You look as though you’ve wrestled with the compost heap, and where are your trainers and socks?’

  ‘Oh, I took them off ’cause I fell into the pond.’ (He thought this would get him some sympathy.)

  ‘Fell into the pond? I hope you didn’t frighten the fish!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘So much for sympathy,’ thought Chris.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up, and don’t you make a mess of my bathroom.’

  ‘I’ll just get my trainers and socks, be with you in a second,’ he said and before his mum could object he was on his way back to the orchard.

  ‘Right, but don’t you be long,’ she shouted after him, then thankfully she turned back to the house.

  He hurriedly spread grass over the exposed armour and when he was happy with its concealment he made his way back to the house for his lunch. After he had been escorted to the bathroom and made to change out of his damp and mud-stained clothes he was issued with his combat pants and a T-shirt. Clean socks and trainers were issued with strict instructions to stay away from the pond!

  ‘So, what’s the plan for this afternoon?’ asked his mum as he gulped down the last of his pizza. ‘I thought we might take a trip to the park and then into town,’ she continued.

  ‘No thanks, I’d rather stay in the garden,’ he replied.

  ‘Why do you want to do that?’ she asked.

  Chris knew that if he didn’t come up with something convincing he would be dragged off to the park and then on to the shops which would be totally boring.

  ‘I’m going to tidy up the grass,’ he announced. ‘I thought it would save you having to do it.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to finish the job off properly if you want some extra pocket money, you don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it so far,’ she commented as she looked out of the window at the orchard. ‘It looks in a worse state since you’ve been out there this morning. I mean, what are those mounds and that long lump by the apple tree? I don’t call that tidy.’ She turned to remonstrate further but he had already gone.

  ‘Don’t you go getting into any mischief, my boy,’ she called after him.

  2

  Sir Peacealot

  Chris had steadily worked through the afternoon and past tea time, when he had taken a short break and convinced his mum that as it was such a nice day he would like to eat his tea as a picnic under the trees. And so he found himself sitting against one of the old pear trees munching his way through an apple and studying the results of his activity.

  It was fantastic! He had worked as carefully and as slowly as his excitement would allow him, scraping and brushing dirt and grass away from all of the joints and seams until a gleaming suit of steel was stretched out before him with no visible hint of age or rust.

  He had not, as yet, attempted to move any part of the suit although he was now sure that he’d sufficiently freed up the arms and legs to do so. In fact, the whole figure appeared to be resting on a bed of earth. As he inspected it from head to toe, his eyes fell on the gleaming hilt of the sword which lay firmly in its scabbard that was buckled to the suit. It then dawned on him how strange it was that not only did the armour and chain mail look in incredibly good condition, but the leather straps which held it together were untouched by age.

  ‘Surely,’ he thought, ‘at least that would have rotted away?’ The grip of the sword had a hand-guard fashioned into the shapes of two lions heads, The detail was intricate and small ruby-red jewels glistened in place for the lions’ eyes. Staring at the shining stones he became mesmerised.

  ‘I wonder,’ he whispered to himself as he tentatively crawled towards the suit. He knelt down, studying the patterns on the hilt of the sword and the brightness of the red ruby stones. His hands reached out and grasped the handle – it was warm and somehow comforting. A tingling sensation began to grow in his fingers which spread up and into his hands and arms.

  ‘Free me. Free me,’ a deep voice whispered.

  A sensation similar to that of static electricity bristled the fine hairs on Chris’s arms and with a yelp of surprise he released his grip on the sword and fell backwards. He shook his head to clear the drowsy feeling that had crept up on him.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called, turning his head this way and that. ‘You don’t frighten me,’ he added.

  There was no reply as he stood there staring around the orchard from tree to tree. There was no sound or movement except for the gentle early evening breeze shifting the leaves on the trees.

  ‘I’ve definitely been out in the sun too long today,’ Chris mused and began looking for the water bottle that he’d been drinking from earlier on, eventually locating it in the grass and taking a gulp of the now very warm and stale water that it contained.

  ‘Yuck! That’s too gross!’ he exclaimed, spluttering and coughing the warm liquid across the back of his arm. Another breeze rippled through the trees and this time the early evening air was cool enough to bring out goosebumps on his arms. He retrieved his top from the rocks by the pond and was glad of its warming comfort.

  ‘Let’s see if my imagination is playing tricks on me,’ he breathed to himself, and with a mixture of stubbornness and curiosity he once again knelt before the shining hilt of the sword.

  He grasped the handle and felt the tingling sensation work its way into his hands. This time he noticed that all noise around him faded away, no birdsong, no rustling of leaves and, just as before, the voice whispered to him.

  ‘Free me. Free me.’

  Somehow he was unafraid; he gripped the handle tighter, the static electricity was crackling around him now and the small ruby stones in the lions’ eyes glowed like hot coals on a barbeque. The same white light that he had seen from his bedroom window the previous evening now surrounded him, visible and bright even though the sky above him was still blue prior to the evening sunset.

  His hair stood on end, the static making it ripple and shimmer. He looked down at his hands still firmly gripping the sword which had somehow released itself from its sheath, the blade gleaming like a polished mirror and as he watched, a strange luminescent writing began to appear. The letters scrolled their way from the tip towards the hilt as he stared, transfixed. Suddenly, chaos broke loose.

  Either he was spinning or everything else was spinning around him, he was too confused to tell. The light became intense and he had to close his eyes. He squeezed them so tightly that it hurt. This made bright sparks explode in his head, dizziness claiming his senses, and then with one stomach-churning lurch, darkness smothered him and wrapped him in its sleep.

  A noise echoed in his head. It was a familiar noise, a somehow comforting noise in the darkness which gradually gave way to gre
y and then bright light. He opened his eyes and the sharp pain of sunlight pierced his eyeballs, making him blink furiously. Then the source of the noise rubbed his face with its warm furry body.

  ‘Tabby! Boy am I glad to see you,’ he said, and shielding his eyes with one hand he curled the other around the cat and hugged it close to him.

  He raised himself slowly on one elbow, his mind gathering together the memory of what had just happened; thoughts and images were merging together until he could make sense of what he had experienced. Chris’s eyes fell upon the sword which now lay unsheathed by his side.

  The blade was clear to see in all its magnificent glory, it was as if the surface rippled with different hues of light and colours which danced across the strange and beautiful writing etched along the length of mirrored steel. A fine, delicate mist hung around its edges, refusing to be moved by the now constant evening breeze.

  All this Chris drank in, in wonder, distractedly stroking Tabby and allowing his mind to revisit what had happened when he had grasped the sword’s handle.

  ‘Well Tabby,’ he said absently. ‘We’re either in big trouble or something amazing has just happened.’

  ‘Or it could be both, young squire,’ came the voice from behind him.

  Chris looked up at where the suit of armour should still have been resting on the earth, only to find it no longer lying there.

  Tabby chose this moment to sink his claws into Chris’s leg. The cat spat and hissed while arching its back and straightening every strand of hair on its sleek body. With a piercing screech the cat leapt at least a metre into the air and shot with incredible speed across the orchard like a demented furry hovercraft heading towards the neighbouring foliage, with what Chris felt was most of the skin from his thigh trailing after it.

  ‘Reeeeowwww!’ shrieked the cat, rocketing between the trees, scattering clouds of grass in its wake.

  ‘Yeeeeeowwww!’ howled Chris, clutching his leg as the burning, stinging pain that only a cat’s claws can inflict on human flesh spread across his recently ant-bitten skin. It was the third time that day that Chris felt the need to exhibit his ability to perform a weird and wonderful dance movement induced and fuelled by pain. He leapt to his feet, using the palms of both hands to rub and massage what precious skin that he felt was left intact beneath the material of his combats while almost defying gravity by leaping up and down on the spot.

  The sound of tearful laughter gradually caught his attention as the pain receded into an acceptable stinging and throbbing. He steadied himself and opened his own tear-filled eyes which took in a sight that had the effect of numbing all feeling of pain into a distant memory.

  There, no more than two metres in front of him and sitting against the trunk of one of the pear trees with its legs splayed out before it was the suit of armour. However, the helmet was now placed upright on the ground next to the figure whose head protruded from the suit.

  The knight’s face was bright red and he spoke with an effort between bursts of laughter, his steel-encased hands and arms clutching at his stomach.

  ‘My dear young squire, I have not witnessed such entertainment since the court jester was trussed up like a suckling pig with an apple in his mouth and presented for all to see at King Hector’s All Hallows feast last season, ’tis merriment of the highest order,’ he said.

  Chris stood there trying to put some response together, some words of cautious curiosity. However, he was more than a little annoyed with what he saw as someone who obviously did not appreciate the work and effort that he had applied to free them from their earthly grave no matter how unexplained their revival was at that moment.

  ‘I’m glad that you think it’s so funny,’ Chris started. ‘Of course, if I had known that you were going to be so rude, I’m not so sure that I would have dug you out of the grass in the first place. You’re not what I imagined a knight to be like at all.’

  The knight stopped mid-laugh, his face remained red but now took on a stern and serious expression.

  ‘Who’s your master, what title and colours does he go by?’ he barked.

  Chris took a step backwards.

  ‘Come on, boy, if we’re to compare manners, then where’s the ceremony and courtesy of your introduction? Speak up I say.’

  ‘You go first,’ said Chris in his bravest voice. ‘You’re the one with all of the gear, you’re the one who’s supposed to be a knight.’

  ‘You have a strange way about you boy, but as you’ve given me such entertainment, I’ll return the favour on this occasion and humour you.’

  With that he picked up his helmet, stood up and tucked it ceremoniously under one arm while he made a fist of his other gloved hand, placed it on his hip, spread his legs and steadied his stance.

  ‘Sir Percival Peacealot, knight of His Majesty King Hector the First, lord and ruler of the kingdom and protector of his loyal subjects.’

  It was so impressive that Chris could almost hear a fanfare of trumpets and cheering crowds echoing in the distance.

  Chris studied the knight’s features. His face was now very pale which seemed to make his green eyes stand out bright and piercing. His nose was sort of pointed but not in an ugly or oversized way. His hair was thick, greyish and untidy and he had a ragged moustache which curled up at the ends and occupied most of his upper lip. There was the wisp of a goatee beard on his chin. He reminded Chris of pictures that he had seen of the character Don Quixote.

  ‘Are you or are you not a squire?’ enquired the knight.

  ‘I suppose that I might be,’ replied Chris, playing for time.

  ‘Then I would be grateful for water,’ said the knight.

  Chris looked around for the discarded water bottle but then remembered how foul it had tasted.

  ‘I’ll need to fetch some, be back in a minute,’ he announced and before the knight could object, he was heading up the path to the house. Minutes later when he returned with two plastic bottles of spring water he found the knight once more sitting against a tree.

  ‘Here you go,’ said Chris sitting opposite the knight and handing him one of the bottles.

  Staring at the bottle, the knight hesitated.

  ‘What witchcraft is this?’ he whispered.

  ‘What are you on about?’ asked Chris.

  ‘The water is hard and yet it moves,’ said the knight in wonder.

  ‘It’s a plastic bottle of water, look,’ Chris said as he took the bottle, unscrewed the cap and offered it back to the knight. ‘Go on, it won’t hurt you,’ he encouraged.

  The knight tentatively took the bottle and holding it up to the sky looked at it closely. He then turned the bottle to examine it further, however this was when he tilted the open end downwards and gravity pulled a stream of liquid onto his upturned face. There followed much coughing and spluttering and Chris had to be quick to catch the bottle before it spilt the rest of its contents over the convulsed knight.

  ‘Steady!’ he cried. ‘You’ll be rusting up if you’re not careful.’

  The knight pulled off his steel, chain-mail gloves to reveal reddened but strong-looking hands.

  ‘How can you control such vessels?’ he asked as he wiped his face.

  ‘Look, it’s easy,’ Chris replied and demonstrated drinking from his own fresh bottle. He handed the other half-empty bottle back to the knight, who this time slowly copied Chris’s actions and as he swallowed each mouthful his thirst gave him confidence and he swiftly drained the contents.

  The knight stared at Chris for a few seconds and then finally said, ‘I do not know what your standing is boy, but something tells me I must take counsel with you. I am gradually becoming aware of old memories which are clearing the confusion in my mind and I now know all is not as it should be for me.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Chris. ‘First question, what year is it?’

  ‘Why, the year of our king, fourteen hundred and thirty-two,’ announced the knight.

  ‘Who is on the throne?’ asked Chris, hol
ding down his excitement.

  ‘King Hector the First, son of Eduard the Fallen,’ came the reply.

  Chris searched his memory and knowledge of English kings. He could not recollect these names as much as he tried, however, he would give the knight the benefit of the doubt for now as there was a strong chance that he may not have been paying attention when his teacher had mentioned these particular names.

  ‘I’m afraid that I’ve got some rather surprising news for you,’ he announced.

  ‘Believe me, dear boy, I have encountered many things in my life from the enforced visions of witches and wizards to the floating trees of the Emerald Forest and the living ghosts of the Wastelands. Nothing can surprise me as my mind is open to all possibilities.’ ‘Well, let’s see how surprised you are with this,’ continued Chris. ‘Somehow you’ve slept through the last five hundred and seventy eight years. This is the year two thousand and ten.’

  The knight’s face was creased with concentration.

  ‘She couldn’t have,’ he murmured. ‘The power would have destroyed her in doing so surely?’ He paused. ‘Unless she lies sleeping also.’ His mouth became dry.

  ‘I would favour some more of your water, no matter what the vessel, would you oblige me, boy?’ he asked.

  ‘You can have mine,’ said Chris, passing the knight his bottle. ‘I do have a name you know.’

  ‘Which you have yet to reveal,’ corrected the knight as he gulped down the water.

  ‘Chris, my name is Chris.’

  The knight inspected him, staring intently.

  ‘Hey!’ said Chris. ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?’ ‘I apologise, young Chris, but I am wary of your motive and I need to be sure that you are not one of her disciples.’

  ‘One of whose disciples?’ asked Chris.

  ‘The wretched hag that I suspect has cursed me to this world – Belzeera!’

  He looked around him cautiously and Chris noticed that a chill breeze disturbed the leaves on the trees and made him shiver uncomfortably.

  ‘Her power crosses time and worlds. She still exists somewhere but her influence is very weak,’ whispered the knight. ‘Let us hope and pray that she does not find an accomplice to free her in this world.’