A Quest for a Cure

The sprawling port city of Weaslebottom was abustle even at so late an hour. The sounds of its industry carried on the wind. It carried down the coast to Heathstead. It carried west towards the Taulada mountain range. It carried north to the Wyldwood, whose forbidding trunks a rider and his noble steed had made their destination.

Such a loyal steed Tauber had never before seen, nor would again. For he had carried his master into battle countless times, guided him past the lances and swords of his enemies and emerged safe and, occasionally, victorious. Said creature was almost the perfect mount aside from one glaring weakness; his constitution.

Doug flatulated.

That is the polite way of putting it. The pug’s face went momentarily still, as if pondering some deep and meaningful puzzle of the universe. Then there was a sound as of a blown-up balloon being released, drawn out to a whimper as the air it contained was gradually depleted. Then came the smell.

“Urgh!” Sir Pubert gagged from his position atop the pug.

Armour clanked as he hurriedly tried to cover his nose. His hand succeeded in only partially blocking out the stench. Sir Pubert was used to the smell of goblins, being one himself. His race were not known for their hygiene and their aroma reflected this. But there was something about Doug’s expulsions that dwarfed even the malodour of his kin.

“We need to get you sorted out, boy!” Sir Pubert exclaimed, half-heartedly patting the pug on his flank with his free hand. “Then you shall be the perfect steed!”

Doug said nothing, as usual, yet somehow this nothing contained a certain sensation of peevishness that Sir Pubert could not fail to notice. Sir Pubert had many such exchanges with his steed. To an outsider it would seem as if the goblin were conversing with himself but Sir Pubert knew the truth. The pug understood him and he understood the pug. Sometimes he wished he didn’t.

“Don’t look like that,” Sir Pubert whined. “Surely even you would prefer to smell a little better?”

Doug said nothing.

“How can you not notice it? It’s so very…very…pungent!”

Doug said nothing.

“Well if you don’t notice it then you won’t miss it when it’s gone, will you?”

Doug said nothing.

“We’re nearly there, anyway,” Sir Pubert reassured the pug. “I know we’ve not had luck in the past but this time will be different. I’m told he’s the best there is!”

Doug said nothing.

“The silent treatment? Really? Well, two can play at that game.”

The pair continued without a word and climbed the crest of a hill. Before them, the ground rolled away to the fringe of the Wyldwood. Sir Pubert gave a small shiver at the sight. Who knew what lurked within those gloomy trunks? What horrors crept about in the dark, waiting to snare the unwary? Well, the person they were going to meet, probably.

At the edge of the forest, a solitary building stood. Building was probably too urban a word for it. Dwelling was a more appropriate term, if only because someone lived in…whatever it was.

It had four walls but it wasn’t clear what was holding them up. It was as if each wall supported those adjacent to it so that the removal of any one of them would cause the whole edifice to tumble. It certainly wasn’t the roof, which itself appeared to have been dropped from a height onto the walls and only by chance remained in a position to provide shelter to the interior.

There were windows but none aligned with one another or even themselves. It was as if someone had aspired to show all of the ways that you could form a four-sided shape that did not involved a right angle. As for the door…

Sir Pubert knocked on the uneven wood tentatively, expecting the minor impact to cause major structural damage. The house failed to spectacularly collapse but the knock prompted a cacophony from within that was akin to such an event. Bangs and clatters were punctuated by curses and yells until at last the noises ceased and the door was wrenched open.

“Yes? What do you want?”

The impatient voice was muffled by the mask that concealed the majority of the being’s facial features, including the long, nasal protrusion after which its owner was named. Beaky Bobby was not the most imposing of goblins in height or girth but there was something about him that projected an aura of control. Maybe it was the sizeable nose that must surely require impressive neck strength simply to hold vertical. Maybe it was the sightless eyes, clouded glass fixed into the mask’s eye sockets, that seemed to simultaneously see nothing and everything. Or maybe it was the clink of glassware emanating from his flowing robes with every slight movement.

They said when you went to Beaky Bobby it was kill or cure and the outcome might depend on how the goblin was feeling on that particular day. That kind of power over life and death was enough to give anyone an imposing aura.

The beaklike nose swung first to the goblin knight, then to the pug and back again.

“I have heard of you,” Beaky Bobby revealed after a moment’s reflection. “You are the one known as Doug the Flatulent.”

Sir Pubert grimaced. “A common mistake. I am Sir Pubert. This,” and here he gestured to his canine companion, “is Doug.”

As if to confirm the knight’s assertion, Doug flatulated. It was only a small noise, the squeak of a mouse caught in an effective and fatal trap, but the reaction was instant. Beaky Bobby shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the stench from his nostrils, and his whole body shivered.

“So I see,” he said, his voice strained. “Or should that be, “so I smell”? What can I do for you both?”

“I’m hoping you can cure him.”

Beaky Bobby looked at Doug. “Cure him?”

“Yes,” Sir Pubert confirmed. “Cure his…windiness.”

“Ah, I see,” said Beaky Bobby. “You’d better both come in.”

The interior of the dwelling was no less chaotic than the exterior. Jars of strange and interesting substances, the origin of which Sir Pubert could only hazard a vague guess at, were crammed wherever they could fit. Slanted shelves leaned as haphazardly as the walls to which they were affixed. Glass jars were stacked dangerously along them and Sir Pubert wondered how any one of them could be retrieved for its contents to be used without causing the whole lot to come crashing down.

The rest of the room was no less cluttered. The fronds of strange plants sprouted from beneath the solitary bed, the wash basin played host to some bizarre growth, and what was presumably Beaky Bobby’s workstation was so crowded with specimens that it was a wonder he could find enough space to actually use them.

Sir Pubert pulled a glass jar from the nearest shelf with great delicacy. Thankfully nothing fell. He turned it over in his hands. There was no label.

“How do you know what any of this stuff is?”

Beaky Bobby was by his side in an instant, snatching the jar from Sir Pubert’s hand and setting it back reverentially on the shelf.

“Everything has its place,” he hissed. “Do not touch anything. If you do not touch anything then you cannot move anything. If you do not move anything then I know where it is when I need it.”

The goblin continued to mutter as he stalked over to the workstation. A quick rummage retrieved an empty beaker and then ensued a strange dance as Beaky Bobby skipped about the room, snatching up flasks and vials seemingly at random and adding them to his creation. The result was a thick, greenish substance that glooped viscously.

“There,” said Beaky Bobby, grinning proudly at his creation. “That should do it.”

Sir Pubert stared uncertainly at the jar. “Will it work?”

“This cured even Gotchgut’s stomach problems,” Beaky Bobby claimed.

Sir Pubert was impressed. He’d seen what the giant could put away.

Doug said nothing.

“And Doug just has to drink it?” the knight asked.

Beaky Bobby sneered. “I wouldn’t recommend any other method of getting it into his system.”

The green goo was emptied into a bowl and set on the floor. Sir Pubert wrestled Doug towards it. For some reason the pug was reluctant to approach.

“Come on, boy,” Sir Pubert cajoled. “This will make you better.”

Doug eyed the liquid dubiously, tilting his head this way and that. It didn’t looked appetising through either eye.

He tried to pull back but Sir Pubert was holding him fast and, before the dog had time to prevent it, Beaky Bobby scooped some of the green substance onto a finger and smeared it across the dog’s lolling tongue just as Doug was retracting it. The net result was that he pulled the substance into his mouth and swallowed.

Sir Pubert watched his mount intently, looking for some form of reaction. The dog wasn’t retching, which was surely a good sign. In fact he wasn’t doing anything. He simply stood there with an intense look of concentration on his features.

“Is it working?” Sir Pubert asked.

An observer from outside the dwelling would have appreciated the idyllic setting. The rolling hills. The towering woods. The quaint if slightly erratic structure that stood between the two.

But that tranquility would quickly have been shattered by a sound like a giant sitting on a whoopee cushion a yard across. It went on for a long time and as it finally waned it gave way to bangs and crashed punctuated by cries of, “my specimens!” from within the structure.

The door to the dwelling was wrenched open and Sir Pubert came stumbling out, clutching at his throat and retching. Doug scampered out after, seemingly unaffected, followed by Beaky Bobby, who stood in the doorway gesturing angrily at his former guests.

“That is a lost cause!” he declared. “That potion cured a giant but it only made the dog worse!”

“Please,” Sir Pubert begged between gasps, “there must be something you can do.”

“Not me!”

“Then who?”

Beaky Bobby laughed. “Someone you wouldn’t want to meet.”

“I’ll try anything.”

Beaky Bobby regarded Sir Pubert for a moment and then a sly grin spread across what was visible of his features.

“Try Shabbaroon, then,” he suggested. “If anyone can find an unconventional cure it’d be that madcap mushroom muncher.”

“Where can I find him?”

“In there,” said Beaky Bobby, gesturing to the looming woods. “You’ll hear him before you see him.”

Sir Pubert regarded the Wyldwood with trepidation. Many were the rumours of the dangers it contained. But he had promised to do anything to fix his mount’s dodgy digestion. It was getting dark, though.

“Can we at least come in and stop the night so we can head out at first light?”

“Certainly not!” Beaky Bobby snapped.

And with that he slammed the door, leaving goblin and pug alone once more.

***

An hour later, Sir Pubert finally admitted to himself that he was lost. Dark trunks towered all around. The canopy overhead mostly blocked out the moonlight. It let through enough to see by but not enough of the sky was visible to permit navigation.

On top of that it was so easy to be knocked off course. He’d set out in one direction but there were no paths of any sort and so no sooner had he wound his way around a trunk or taken a detour around a particularly thick clump of undergrowth than he had lost his bearings.

He turned to Doug. “Maybe we should try and make camp for the night.”

Though where said suitable camp could be found he could not say. The insects seemed hostile. The noises in the undergrowth seemed hostile. Even the trees seemed hostile, though he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why.

He turned back to Doug. The pug was sat, eyes wide but unfocussed, his ears twitching to some sound beyond the range of goblin hearing.

Before Sir Pubert had a chance to quiz his steed, Doug was off. His short legs did not make him the fastest of runners but once he had made up his mind about a destination he doggedly persevered until he arrived.

After only a moment’s hesitation, Sir Pubert set off in pursuit. His armour clanked and his breath quickly grew laboured. He was used to charging into battle but usually it was his mount who was doing the actual running. Such exertion was uncommon for him and it showed.

He was dimly aware, beyond the heartbeat throbbing in his brain, that he was making a lot of noise. Armour, breath, footfalls; all would conspire to give away his position for miles around. And yet beyond this fear lay a deeper one. If he could not keep up with Doug then he would be all alone in the forest.

The thought lent extra strength to his ailing muscles and he pushed himself on, racing headlong until with a cry of dismay and a yelp from Doug, he tripped over the dog, who had stopped in his tracks.

Sir Pubert groaned. Armour was not the most comfortable attire at the best of times. Falling over in it was akin to dropping onto angular metal sheets. Only when his heartbeat died down in his ears did he become aware of another sound, no doubt the sound that had drawn Doug to this place.

It was a low chanting, rhythmic and primal. And yet when the words filtered through to his rattled brain they were entirely at odds with that sensation.

“One spot, two spot, three spot, four

Which of my mushrooms has got more?

Five spot, six spot, seven spot, eight

Which of my mushrooms will choose my fate?”

Sir Pubert opened his eyes. The scene was askew from his prone position but he wasn’t at all sure it would have made more sense if it wasn’t.

They had arrived at a clearing. The whole area was bathed in the light of mushrooms of all shapes and sizes. Each was emitting an eerie blue glow that gave a ghostly cast to the strange goblin who danced amongst them.

His skinny arms and legs contrasted with his pot belly, on which a crescent moon tattoo had been inked. His only nod to any form of decency was a tatty loincloth slung around his waist. It shifted with each movement in a way that might have been seductive on a more desirable being; on the goblin it was more of a threat.

And yet, despite the strangeness of all that, it was the goblin’s face, or more specifically his eyes, that drew the most attention. Set in a large face that already sported a bulbous nose, gaping mouth and comically oversized ears, the eyes were wild. Sir Pubert had faced down many foes in his time and yet none of them had been so very obviously mad.

Sir Pubert pulled himself into a crouch and looked on as the goblin danced around the mushroom patch, feeling slightly voyeuristic about being there unannounced yet not wanting to be so rude as to interrupt the strange ritual. After all, if the sound of him crashing to the ground hadn’t disturbed the goblin, what chance did verbally announcing his presence have? A glance confirmed that Doug was similarly entranced.

The goblin suddenly halted by a mushroom that looked no different to those surrounding it to Sir Pubert’s untrained eye. He crouched and caressed its gills with a tender hand.

“Well, my pretty,” the goblin crooned. “What is Shabbaroon to do? Here is Shabbaroon, minding his own business, and people come to spy on him!”

“No!” Sir Pubert protested, upon realising that the strange goblin was well aware of their presence.

He got to his feet and stepped into the clearing but Shabbaroon made no move.

“Should we let them live?” Shabbaroon enquired.

He cocked his head and appeared to be listening to the fungus intently.

“Hmmm,” he said eventually. “You think we should see what they are about and then decide whether we should kill them?”

There was a pause as Sir Pubert processed what had been said. Was this Shabbaroon asking him a question indirectly by talking to the mushroom? Given what he’d seen already, he wouldn’t put it past the goblin.

“I’m here about my dog,” Sir Pubert explained. “He has a problem…with his digestion.”

“What’s that, pretty?” Shabbaroon said, placing one oversized ear against the mushroom. “Better out than in? I agree!”

He cackled and began stroking the cap with the back of his slender fingers.

“In Doug’s case, “out” tends to result in injury,” Sir Pubert confessed.

“A bung is sometimes useful for stopping things coming out, or so I’ve always found,” Shabbaroon told the mushroom.

Sir Pubert held up his hands. “No-no,” he protested. “I agree that “out” is better than “in”. What would be best, however, would be “not at all”.”

Shabbaroon frowned. “What do you think, pretty one?” he asked the mushroom. “Should Shabbaroon help?”

The goblin’s face suddenly broke into a manic grin and he cackled loudly. Sir Pubert looked from goblin to mushroom and back again.

“What did it say?” he asked.

“She!” Shabbaroon snapped, and for the first time he addressed Sir Pubert directly, glaring at him through narrowed eyes.

“Sorry,” said Sir Pubert, holding up placatory hands. “What did…she…say?”

Shabbaroon relaxed and turned back to the mushroom, a smile once more on his features. “Kill or cure.”

Suddenly Shabbaroon tore a chunk off the mushroom and popped it into his cavernous maw. He chewed hard, and his eyes glowed with the same strange light the mushrooms were emitting. A hand came up suddenly and smacked Shabbaroon across his own face. The other came up shortly after to repeat the action on the other side. Each impact snapped the goblin’s head to the side with a worrying thwack. And then Shabbaroon cast his head back and extended his arms to the sky.

For a moment Sir Pubert stood in suspense, wondering if this drama was all a part of the goblin’s obvious madness. Then the wave of energy passed over him. Yet far from leaving him invigorated, as the surge passed him by it left him feeling suddenly sore and weak.

“What was that for?” he protested.

Shabbaroon glanced his way. “Just getting my strength up.”

Sir Pubert sagged. “By draining mine?”

Shabbarron shook his head. “Not my style but sometimes it does have that side effect. Strange thing, magic. Very unpredictable.”

“Just like its wielder,” Sir Pubert muttered, though he did notice that the strange goblin was now speaking to him directly. Whether that was due to the maiming of the mushroom he had previously been conversing with or as a result of the spell he had just cast, he could not say.

In any case Shabbaroon didn’t appear to hear the comment. He was already gesturing towards Doug, arms flowing and fingers waggling as his body swayed in time to some unheard tune.

“What are you doing now?” Sir Pubert asked.

“Seeing just how bad it is.”

Sir Pubert glanced down at Doug. The pug was watching the strange goblin intently. He didn’t seem scared of whatever strange future Shabbaroon was conjuring. Sir Pubert decided that if his dog could show bravery then so could he.

With a final thrust of a hand, Shabbaroon suddenly froze mid-sway, immobile.

“Is that it?” asked Sir Pubert when nothing happened, glancing from pug to goblin.

Beside him, Doug flatulated and Sir Pubert collapsed to his knees, eyes streaming and throat on fire.

“That is bad,” Shabbaroon assessed. “Quite the catastrophe.”

“You made him do that?” Sir Pubert managed between wheezes. “You could have warned me!”

“Not as much fun,” Shabbaroon declared. “Right, let’s see if Shabbaroon can fix this.”

“Let me get out of the way, first.”

Sir Pubert scrambled to his feet and hurried to the edge of the glade so that distance was achieved from both Doug and Shabbaroon. At this point he wasn’t sure which of them he would have preferred near him.

Shabbaroon was on the move again, this time conducting his strange swaying dance in a circle around Doug, who tried to follow the strange goblin’s movements. Every now and again Shabbaroon would pull a section off a passing mushroom. Some he popped in his mouth. Others he rubbed across various areas of his body.

In the middle of the circle, Doug’s form began to shift. It started subtly, as if glimpsed through a heat haze. The parts of his body disappeared and reappeared so quickly that Sir Pubert wondered if he’d really seen it. Then Doug vanished entirely.

“Doug!” Sir Pubert cried. “What have you done with my pug?”

He began to race towards the still dancing goblin, determined to take revenge. A bark stopped him in his tracks and he turned to see Doug, entirely whole, on the far side of the clearing.

“Doug!” Sir Pubert cried.

He crouched and held out his hands and the dog began a deliberate gambol towards his friend.

“See, good as new,” Shabbaroon declared as the two met and Sir Pubert enveloped Doug in an embrace. “Transcombobulation. Always does the trick.”

Doug’s flatulation was long and loud.

Shabbaroon shrugged. “Almost always,” he corrected himself over the sounds of Sir Pubert’s retching.

Shabbaroon resumed his strange dance once more and Sir Pubert regarded him through watering eyes.

“Is that it?” he demanded.

“The night is young,” said Shabbaroon, entirely failing to answer the question. “Feel free to spend it with me and my pretties.”

Sir Pubert regarded the swaying figure. So far the goblin had injured him with magic, caused Doug to injure him, again with magic, and had used magic to transport the dog across the clearing but otherwise have no beneficial effect. Who knew what else awaiting them should they remain? If he left now it would be a wasted trip and he would be subjecting himself to the whims of the Wyldwood but at least they were normal, everyday whims rather than whatever brand of craziness Shabbaroon subscribed to.

“I think we’ll take our chances elsewhere,” Sir Pubert muttered, pulling himself to his feet and trudging from the clearing.

“Suit yourself!” Shabbaroon called after them, though Sir Pubert could not fathom how on Tauber the strange goblin could have heard his comment.

***

This time it didn’t take an hour for them to get lost. It took five minutes. One moment Sir Pubert was confident of the direction he had taken from the clearing, holding his course true. The next he had stumbled over a tree root and got himself disorientated in the dim moonlight. Brief glimpses of the night sky did little to give him any confidence as to his orientation.

Sir Pubert rested a hand on Doug’s head and scratched affectionately.

“Sorry about this,” he said. “I was just trying to get you some help. I didn’t mean for it to lead to this mess.”

Doug said nothing.

“We can try and set up camp somewhere,” Sir Pubert suggested. “We’ll find our way out better in the morning.”

Doug said nothing.

“Well, come on then.”

Sir Pubert took a few steps forward. Doug did not move. Doug growled.

“What’s up, boy?” asked Sir Pubert, turning back to his canine companion.

Doug’s disposition was usually so benign, despite the various combative scenarios into which Sir Pubert took him, that seeing him like this was disconcerting. The dog’s eyes were narrowed, bared teeth barely visible beneath quivering jowls, and his hackles were raised.

An answering growl caused Sir Pubert to spin around, drawing his sword from the scabbard at his side. A pair of eyes stared out of him from the dark beyond the moonlight’s scant illumination. Two more pairs joined it. Then still more. They advanced until the huge forms of wolves could be made out in the shadows, teeth bared and noses low as they stalked towards their prey.

“Run, Doug!” Sir Pubert cried.

He turned, ready to follow his own advice, only to find eyes all about them. The knight spun around wildly, trying to decide which direction to face, which foe was closest and presented the greatest immediate danger.

With a snarl, the first wolf leapt. It arced gracefully through the air, jaws wide, ready to strike. Sir Pubert braced himself to receive the charge, readying himself for a last stand that would have been famous if only there was someone around to document it.

Doug flatulated.

Sir Pubert dropped his sword and fell to his knees. His vision clouded and his eyes streamed. His breath caught in his throat as his lungs were filled with the noxious odours emitted by his faithful companion.

The knight was dimly aware, as he fought for the breath that would permit his continued existence, of a series of strained yelps all about him. He grinned as he considered that he and Doug would not be the only casualties of their final battle.

His vision was only just clearing as his grasping hands located the hilt of his sword and he hefted it in both hands, turning and surveying his surrounding through narrowed eyes to try and locate his enemy.

Slowly his eyes cleared completely and yet still no sign of the wolves could be found. All had fled in the face of Doug’s gastric gases.

Sir Pubert turned to Doug. The pug was sat on his haunches, one hind leg scratching furiously, seemingly unaffected by the recent attacks and certainly unperturbed by his own stench.

All this time Sir Pubert had been trying to fix Doug, as if the dog had something wrong with him. But if Doug was perfectly happy with who he was, who was Sir Pubert to say otherwise? Besides which, that same “flaw” that the knight had been so eager to erase had just saved both of them.

Sir Pubert smiled. Doug was perfect just as he was.