BRILLIG

A Jabberwocky tale

I know I don’t usually do this, but I was writing this story that I was putting up the the NOTES section of SUBSTACK. I know not a lot of the readers following me, go on NOTES. I mean some do, some don’t. And I get it. But I’ve been putting this story there as part of a challenge. It’s called WARRIOR WEDNESDAY where I’m supposed to write a fantasy story about 10,000 words long. I thought, that’s sounds pretty cool, maybe I can come up with something? So I did. For some strange reason I thought about THE JABBERWOCKY by Lewis Carrol. We were suppose to be baby sitting and I thought if I get a chance to read to them, maybe I could read ALICE IN WONDERLAND, which got me to thinking about the poem. I thought…I wonder what I could do with that? Like, you know, What if…?

Yeah, the story’s not finished yet, but I left you with a literal cliff-hanger

(An illustration of THE JABBERWOCKY by Luca Sotgiu I found on Pinterest.)

BRILLIG

1

“’Twas brillig, he said, Uncle. What does that mean? Brillig? An’ wot’s that ye’ve got, there?” the boy asked, looking at the youth where he was sitting on the log, staring into the fire. He had a fixed gaze, his face stained with dried blood. The large sword resting on his lap was slick with gore, as were his jerkin, and the doublet he wore underneath. “An’ wot’s that he’s got in the bag? He won’t tell me.”

“Oh, leave off, lad, can ye nae see what ‘e’s done?” his uncle said, stirring the stewpot and adding a few of the wild herbs he’d found near the river, into the broth. He would have liked to have hooked a fish, but there’d been no bites all day. All he had to show for his efforts was the left over rabbit stew from yesterday.

“Why? Wot’s ‘e done, then?” the boy asked again.

“Ye’ve nae sense in askin’ that of him, do ye?” his uncle said, stirring the pot and tasting it. He nodded slowly as he opened a small bag and poured in a pinch of salt into his hand. He dumped a few pinches into the broth and wiped the palm of his hand on his leggings.

“Aye, ’twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre an’ gimbal in the wabes — ” the youth said slowly, looking at the old man.

“An’ the borogoves?” the old man asked, looking up from the pot. “Did ye see ‘em as well? Ye know it’s close at hand if ye see a borogove gyrin’ about.”

“Aye, an all mimsy it was, too,” the youth said. He sounded awe-struck, as if seeing the beastie and trying to explain it should have been a simple matter, and yet, he found himself at a loss for words. He looked at the old man and shook his head, staring back into the fire.

“I dinna ken what he means, Uncle,” the boy said again.

“Hush, boy. It’s nae for ye to ken. Yer just a bairn as with this.” The old man looked at the youth again, saw the blood-soaked bag and nodded slowly.

“Is that it, then? In the bag?” he asked. The youth looked up at him and nodded slowly.

“Aye,” he said.

“See it, then?”

The youth looked at the boy and the old man gave a slow nod; the youth leaned down and rolled the bag toward the boy.

“Well, open it an ye must,” the old man said to the boy. The boy, no more than a dozen years old, looked at the youth who tried to force a smile. The boy knelt down beside the fire and began to untie the knot. He wiped his bloody hands on his pants once he’d untied the leather thong, and then looked up at the youth.

“It’s the beast, ain’t it?” the boy asked, looking anxious.

The youth shook his head.

“Nae? What is it then? I thought ye killed it?” the old man said.

“I’m thinkin’ t’was another,” the youth replied. “Go on, take a look. It can’t hurt you now,” he said to the boy.

“What do you mean, another one?” the old man asked.

“This one is too small. Look at it,” the youth said.

The Youth kicked it toward the fire and the old man stooped to pick it up. He could see exactly what the youth meant. It was obvious, now that he was looking at it. The two tendrils on his bottom jaw line were thin, when they should have been at least as wide as his thumb and two hands-width long; the other fibrous ones hanging off the cheeks, should have been longer, darker. The two top teeth were short, almost stunted; it was the same for the bottom two. Its eyes were a deep blue, under heavy veiled lids. But it was the two antennae projecting from the top of its head that told the tale as far as the old man was concerned. Those should have been as long as a man’s arm.

“An adolescent,” the old man said, dropping the head. “Still, worth something, don’t ye think?”

“Certainly not a Princess,” the youth said with a sheepish grin.

“Is that why you agreed, then? Not the sheep being taken from the fold? You want the Princess? Do ye think the King’s gonna let her go to the likes of a lad like yerself?” he laughed. “A Blacksmith’s apprentice?”

“He will when I tell him this isn’t the one he’s after.”

“And how do ye think ‘e’s gonna know different? One’s as good as another, as far as he’s thinkin’.”

“And when it attacks his flocks again? D’ye think that’ll make his mind up?”

“He’ll just call for another tournament to find hisself another hero. He has no way of knowing the last one he sent out is dead.

“An’ so if the King doesn’t know ‘e’s dead, ‘e won’t say anything if I put that Knight’s armour on an’ pretend to be ‘im, will ‘e now?”

“Yerself! Ye wot not of bein’ a knight!” the old man laughed.

“What’s to know?” the youth smiled. “The only one who’s gonna know will be the Princess. I dinna think she’ll be raisin’ no alarm. Her father’ll just toss her back into that tower again, an’ wait for the next hero t’ come along. Which is why she won’t say nothin’ if I pretend t’ be that hero.”

“They’ll know ye for what ye are the moment ye speak!”

“Then I won’t talk. I’ll take the boy here t’ act as my Squire.”

“The Boy! Are ye daft? What’s ‘e know of bein’ a Squire?”

“How hard can it be?” the youth asked. He looked at the Boy who was still playing with the monster’s head, rolling it with his foot.

“What say, ye lad?”

“Ye want me t’ be yer Squire, knowin’ nothin’ of it?” the Boy asked, looking up.

“Think of it as an adventure, lad,” the Youth smiled.

2

The Knight’s body lay in the tall grass where it had fallen, unknown and untouched, the armour slashed and bloodied. The youth pulled up on the reins and the horse slowed to a stop, the wagon’s weight forcing it ahead a few staggering steps. The old man jumped down from the bench seat along with the youth, as the Boy made his way out of the back, climbing down the oversized wheel.

“Do ye think ye can work it back together?” the Youth asked.

“Aye, but I’ll need some fire.”

“Aye, ye will, but can ye mend it?” he asked again.

“If I can make a chain suit, I’m thinking it’ll be nothin’ repairin’ this lot.”

“Have ye ne’er worked on a suit afore?”

“Nae,” the old man grinned. “What of yerself?”

“How would I have if I’m yer ‘prentice?” the youth asked.

“Well then, we’ll find out together, won’t we?” the old man said, and taking off his doublet, set to work. They pulled the Knight’s body out of the tall grass and slowly stripped the armour from it. When they were done, the old man told the Youth to dig a grave for the body. It was the decent thing to do, he said, rather than leaving the body out for scavengers.

“An’ will ye be saying words over it as well, Uncle?” the boy asked, picking up a shovel.

“Will yerself be grievin’?” the old man asked.

“Nae. I ne’er seen ‘im ‘afore,” the boy replied.

“Then why would ye think I’ll be sayin’ somethin’?”

By mid-morn the Knight was stripped and his body buried. There was a fire stoked, and the ceaseless echo of a hammer ringing through the valley. At the first punch of the old man’s hammer, the birds flew off in protest; with the second stroke the echo of the first followed until the valley rang with an untold melody. The old man soon had a sweat, hammering and beating the bent metal back into shape.

“Mind for the Bandersnatch,” the old man told the boy.

“An’ what would ye expect me t’ do should one drop by?” the boy asked.

The old man stopped hammering and looked at the boy standing defiant in front of him. He looked at the youth who was busy stoking the fire and working the bellows, his jerkin and doublet hanging from a nearby tree. His body had a sheen of sweat from the heat, and he wiped his forehead with an arm when the sweat dripped into his eyes, but he kept up a steady rhythm and the flames beat like a dragon’s heart with each breath of the bellows.

“I’m not asking ye to kill the wee thing—”

“Wee thing?” the boy exclaimed. “I’ve heard tell they can grow t’ the size of a middling pony.”

“Aye,” the old man smiled. “That they can. But it’s not the Bandersnatch ye gotta be mindful of,” he said as he started hammering the breast plate again. “It’s the borogoves with the Beast hisself wot’s always near ye gotta be mindful of.”

“The Beast?”

“Aye. With the jaws that bite and the claws wot catch,” the old man nodded.

“Are ye sayin’ the Beast will come whiffling out of the tulgey Wood?” the boy asked.

“Aye. It’s the hammering, Boy. It’s a most curious Beast, the Jabberwocky,” the old man said, driving the hammer down on the breast plate, the echo ringing through the valley.

“Ye’ve no water to cool it,” the youth said.

“Think ye on how it matters, then? One swipe of those mighty claws an’ ye’ll be dead afore ye touch the ground. The armour’s more a hind’rance than an adjutory aid. Ye’ve the Knight’s example to set yer mind straight on that.”

“I’ve the Knight’s vorpal blade t’ counter the Beast’s claws,” the youth laughed. “’Tis but a slice, an’ it’s off with ‘is mealy head!”

“Yer a fool if yer thinkin’ that,” the old man said.

“It may all come for naught, Old Man. When the King sees the head wot’s in the bag, ‘e’ll be givin’ me ‘is daughter an’ half the kingdom t’ boot.”

“An’ so it is,” the old man sighed. “Ye hear that, Boy? Ye’ve got yer work for sure. An’ mind ye bury ‘im deep. I don’t want the Beast diggin’ him up an’ befoulin’ his reedy corpse.”

“Reedy, am I then?” the youth said.

“Aye, thin an’ reedy,” the old man countered. “I’ve had t’ hammer the pauldrons tight. The man was of a size,” he laughed. “A right proper Knight, he was. The pauldrons as they were, they’d slip off yer shoulders an’ impede ye as ye swung yer new vorpal blade. The plackart would slip down yer hips as ye walked. There’s no fighting a beast an ye must, not like that.”

“Where’s the leather belt for the plackart?” the youth asked. “There’s apposed t’ be a belt what holds it t’ the breastplate.”

“Aye, there is, but the Beastie tore it off with its wrenchin’ claws,” the old man said.

“Have ye nae another? Can ye nae fash one of yer own makin’?”

“Aye, Boy, bring me that cover,” the old man called out, and the boy made quick time of the box, pulling the lid off with one tear. He stood off to the side and watched the old man fashion a belt from the old leather hinges, shaping rivets he drove into both the breastplate, and the plackart. He held the finished piece up and grinned, proud of his handiwork.

“I’d be right-proud t’ see ye as a Knight now,” the old man said with a certain sadness. “As far yer Squire,” he laughed, with a slow shake of his head.

“Wot?” the boy said. “I’ll be a right-fine Squire, I will.”

“Aye, an ye can lift his blade,” the old man laughed again, his hammer’s echo singing across the glade.

3

Edgeward was the name of the town that once lay at the foot of the mountain. It was situated on what used to be a cliff until the mountain slid down, engulfing the entire town and casting it into the low valley below, where it became legend. Over the centuries, a dense forest grew up around it, until a thousand years passed and a second town was built—the encroaching forest fresh-beaten by axe and saw. The village that once was, gave forth to luscious fields of grain, and orchards of fruit trees, and wildflowers. The stream that burbled through the original town, now cascaded down the side of the former mountain, with tiny waterfalls sliding off the jagged embankments.

The old man steered the wagon through narrow streets where houses stood up straight and tall, their painted façades painted anew, and the wooden shutters and windows gleaming in the morning light. There were chickens running in narrow, ruddy lanes, and goats bleating behind penned enclosures, while sheep meandered through meadows in the distance. A thick haze of smoke clung to the surrounding forest, and somewhere, the steady ringing of a Blacksmith’s hammer sang out a melody.

“D’ya hear that?” the boy asked.

“I do,” the old man nodded.

“Are we gonna stop?”

“Nae.”

“But it’s a Smithy,” he said.

“It’s the castle for us,” the old man said, pointing to the rocky escarpment where the castle stood tall on the hill, its towering walls flashing in the morning light with the flags of a dozen different Houses fluttering in the early breeze. The lane leading up out of the low valley was paved with stone, the small hillocks off to the side covered in dewy grass and a host of golden daffodils. The clouds caught the sunlight, spreading shadows across the surrounding hills.

“We can’t just walk in there,” the boy said.

“Yes, we can,” the youth said slowly.

“And how do ye think that?”

“We’ve got the beastie’s head wot I slew.”

*

The youth picked up the bloody bag, sheathed his vorpal blade and tossed his armour over his shoulder, making his way to the castle gates. The boy followed behind, carrying the oversized shield.

“What have we ‘ere?” the First Guard asked, turning to look at his companion. He was laughing at the boy trying to hold a shield up, that was so obviously overlarge.

“Wot’s this?” the Second Guard and the larger of the two, asked, grinning.

“Come to drop off some knight’s wares, I’d reckon,” the First Guard laughed.

“That ain’t it at all,” the boy cried out, shifting the shield to his back.

“Wot’s that, Little Man?” The Second Guard laughed. “Are ye gonna say for ‘im what ‘e can’t say for hisself? Well, then speak up, Boy.”

“See that bag wot he’s got?” the boy said, nodding at the bloody bag the youth had tied to the blade’s belt. “That’s the Beastie wot he’s slayed.”

“What Beastie would that be?” the First Guard asked. Serious.

“The Beast wot the King promised ‘alf ‘is kingdom for,” the boy grinned. He said it loud enough so that those passing through the gate would hear him, pausing to look at the two, and the bloody bag.

“Just cause ye got a bloody bag don’t mean he killed the Beast,” the Second Guard said. “Let’s take a look at it then, if that’s what it is.”

The youth reached into the bag and lifted the head up for all to see.

“Behold, the Jabberwocky!” the boy screamed out for all to hear.

*

“Ye did that right well,” the youth grinned as they followed the Guard through the gates of the castle and down a long set of winding stairs. One of the guards took the bloody bag while the larger man lifted the suit of armour, telling him he’d see to it is was cleaned and repaired.

“Repaired?” the boy said. “It’s been repaired.”

“Has it?” the large man laughed. “How ‘bout we let the Armourer look at it? He’ll fix it up right smart, the way it should be, as befits heroes such as yourselves,” he added with another laugh. “And who should we say we have the pleasure of announcing to the King?”

“Sir Lionel,” the boy said. “And his Squire.”

“Squire!” the man roared as he pushed a large wooden door open, taking a torch off the wall and stepping through. He waited, and then pushed them both through the door, pulling it close behind him.

“Where are ye taking us?” the boy asked, suddenly wary.

“Where we take all thieves,” the man laughed, and cuffed the boy on the side of the head.

“Wait! What? No! We’re not thieves!” the youth called out.

“No? Then how come you have Sir Reggie’s armour? Did you not think we would recognize it? Did you come upon him as he slept? Maybe took his blade and slew him? Took the prized head and thought you’d pass it off as your own?”

They entered a large central area that was lit by an opening high up where the walls met. The sun’s light cast large shadows on the opposite walls, and the boy could see stairs leading up to a hundred wooden doors where prisoners called out for mercy.

“Ye can’t do this!” the boy cried out. “We din’t do what yer sayin’. It din’t happen like that! Lionel slew the Beast. It was him, not the Knight.”

“No? And where d’you suppose the Knight’s Squire would be if what you say is true? Killed and cast him into the forest is my guess.”

“The Beast killed him. Ate him, to be true.”

“A likely story.”

“I swear by all wot’s right an’ just,” the boy said.

“Swear all you want, no one can hear what you have to say down here, Boy,” the Guard laughed. He waited as another Guard stepped out of the surly shadows, looking down at the two new prisoners.

“Who’s this, then?”

“Here to see the King,” the Guard laughed.

“Aren’t they all?”

“Ah, but these two are special,” the Guard grinned. “They brought the head of the Beast, thinking they could claim the king’s honour.”

“As if the king’s honour works for the likes of these two,” the Dungeon Master grinned. “Maybe some of the king’s measures will help loosen up their tongues?”

“The king’s measures?” the boy said.

“Aye, lad,” the Guard laughed. “A few passes of Vergil’s hot poker up yer arse should loosen your tongue as to what really happened,” the Guard laughed.

“I’m not liking the sounds of that,” Lionel said softly.

4

The old man sat on the wagon watching the boy and the youth walk through the castle gates with the large Guard. He felt uneasy, and would’ve called out a warning to them, but by the time he realized they might be in danger, it was already too late.

It all comes down to me, he told himself.

He’d have to go to the King and tell him the youth had truly killed the Beast. Would anyone believe him? He doubted it. In their world, only Knights fought Knights, or challenged monsters for the hand of some fair maiden in return. Would the King honour his word and give his daughter to a Blacksmith’s apprentice? Doubtful. Even asking himself the question made him shake his head in disbelief.

What was he thinking? the old man wondered. The youth had been too full of himself, thinking he could enter that world with a battered suit of armour and that no one would question him. And what would happen to them? Would they be thrown into the dungeons and endure painful torture for pretending to be what they weren't?

It all comes down to me, he told himself again.

He flicked the reins and urged the horse and wagon ahead. He’d have to put the horse in the livery and set out on foot himself. There was little else he could do. How did he think he’d be able to get them out? There was little or no hope, and he knew it. Still, he had to try. He owed it to the boy’s father. He’d promised he’d take care of the boy, and he’d failed.

He stopped the wagon, pulling gently on the reins and climbed down from the seat, unhitching the horse and walking it into the stable of the livery which was just around the corner. He opened the locked trunk and took out a long sword, testing the edge with a thumb and telling himself it was sharp enough to do the job, if need be. He strapped the belt around his waist and sheathed the sword, donning a cloak lined with fur and trimmed with satin. He put on an old battered helmet that had seen better days and took down the shield buried under old clothes.

He walked to the gate of the castle and looked at the Guard with a sideways glance.

“What’s this, Old Man?” the Guard regarded him with a critical eye. “Have ye come to do battle with anyone?”

“That depends,” the old man replied.

“Depends? On what?” The Guard smiled.

“I’ve a nephew an’ my apprentice I’m looking for. Mayhap ye’ve seen ‘em? The fool thinks hisself a knight, an’ the other went with ‘im t’ make sure he came t’ no trouble. He took an old suit of my armour an’ I mean t’ get it back.”

“I know the boys ye’re speaking’ of,” the large Guard replied, coming up the long track of stairs to resume his post.

“Ye’ve seen ‘em? Good. The one’s not so right in the head, and it’d do his mother a world of ill were she to know he’s come to any harm.”

“An’ ye say it’s yer suit of armour?” the large Guard asked.

“An ye ken it, say so,” the old man nodded.

“Aye, it was Sir Reginald’s arms he held,” the Guard said.

“Sir Reginald? An’ why would ye say that?”

“I saw him just yestere’en as he rode forth to slay the Beast,” the Guard said.

“Aye, the Beast what the youth slew?”

“The youth?”

“Aye. He come upon the Beast feedin’ on yer good Knight, Sir Reginald,” the old man nodded. “He picked up the blade the Knight dropped and slew the Beast as it feasted. Sliced its head clean off.”

“An’ ye saw it yerself, did ye?”

“I did.”

“And what would ya have him do with the Beast, once he slew it?”

“Do? What mean ye by that? The youth slew the Beast, what more would ye have him do? The fool was determined t’ bring it t’ the King for his just reward. I told him there’s no reward for the slayin’ of such a Beast.”

“Ye’ve not heard then?” the first Guard said.

“Heard what?”

“The King offered his own daughter’s hand in marriage to him what slew the Beast.”

“An’ word went out about it?”

“Far and wide.”

“For all Knights an’ gentlefolk t' take up arms an’ slay the Beast?”
“Aye.”

“Then ye’d best tell me where it is they went afore it grows late.”

“What of it then?” the large Guard asked.

“I’d nae the heart to tell him it was nae the Beast he slew.”

“Nae the Beast?” the first Guard asked. “Then what was it in the bag he carried? Showed it to us, he did,”

“Then well ye wit ’twas nae the Beast.”

“I saw the head myself,” the large man said.

“Aye, ye did well see the head of a Beast, but ’twas nae the Beast.”

“Say what ye mean, Old Man?”

  “The Beast what the Youth slew was nae the Monster.”

“How say ye?”
“The head was overmuch too small.”

“Small?”

“Have ye ne’er seen the Beast?”

“What man has and lived?” the large man said.

“I have,” the old man said. “And well I wit where the Beast and his lair be.”

“You know where the lair of the Beast lays?”

“I do.”

“And what would you have us do now, seeing how the Beast is not the true Beast?”

“Hie from here,” the old man laughed. “I plan t’ take the two boys an' flee this land afore the Monster herself comes in search of them what slew her bairn.”

“What say ye there?” the first Guard asked.

“The Beast what he slew was her bairn.”

“An’ ye say the Beast will come here in search of the lad?” the first Guard asked.

“Aye. Have ye nae seen the borogoves about? Know ye well, when ye see the borogoves, the Beast is nae far afield. The one what eats, with jaws that snatch, and claws that catch, waits first for the borogoves to hunt the prey, and the prey will be the youth and the boy for the one thing the Monster wants, is vengeance for her child.”

“Vengeance?”

“Aye, an’ she’ll tear this place piecemeal in search of him. I’ve got t’ get them afore the Beast hunts us down.”

“An’ ye say the Monster wills it?”

“Aye, that she does.”

“And ye say this true?” the large man asked.

“Why think ye I’ve gone in search of the fools? They’ll nae heed what I say, but well I wot the way of the Beast,” he said. “It’s why I walk about with a sword at my side.”

“Go, Gerald. Go get them! The last thing we’ll be wanting is the Jabberwocky here at the castle walls!”

“Bollocks! That’s what I say,” Gerald, the large man replied.

“Bollocks? Best to turn the two loose than have them sit in here as bait for the Beast,” the other Guard said.

“Then you get them,” Gerald smiled, laughing at the man’s unease.

“You don’t believe him?” the First Guard asked, looking amazed.

“Should I?”

“Have you never seen the Beast?”

“It’s a myth.”

“A myth? You saw the head! How can you say it’s a myth?”

“The head was no bigger than yours or mine,” Gerald said. “I’ve seen things no man has a right to believe even exists.”

“Beware the Jabberwocky,” the old man said.

“Whatever that thing was that the youth had, was no Jabberwocky,” Gerald said.

“Ye’re nae the first man to decry the Beast,” the old man said.

“I’m going to go and bring them—”

There was a low wailing in the distance; a keening that echoed through the hills about, and the town fell silent. The old man reached down and undid the tiny latch on the sword’s sheath.

“The borogoves are about,” he said softly.

5

“I don’t understand,” the boy said. “How come they let us out?”

“They just did,” the old man replied, urging the old nag through dark, narrow streets, following the twisting lane to the main gate in the distance. They were on the high ground, and he could see the ramshackle village spread out in front of them, safe within the castle walls. The huts and houses seemed to grow up beside the twisted lanes, leaning into each other the higher they reached. The North wall of the castle was covered in moss and lichen—a green scale that added to the chill in the air—with huge swaths of wet mud seeping in from under the wall.

Not much has changed since the last time I been here, he thought.

“How come everyone’s looking at us?” Lionel asked.

“They know what you did, thanks t’ the boy.”

“How? We ne’er told anyone,” he said, smiling at a pretty girl who stopped to look up at him. She giggled, until her father grabbed her by the arm and pulled her through the streets, cuffing her. He looked over his shoulder, and took a tighter hold of the girl’s arm.

“An’ wot was that the boy cried out in the middle of the yard, then? Some dire warning? ‘Beware the Jabberwocky!’ was it?”

“Behold,” the boy smiled. “I said, ‘Behold, the Jabberwocky!’ I did.”

“When ye rile up the beasties in the lands here-‘bouts, people tend to know,” the old man replied.

“And how’s that?” the boy asked

“By the keening of the borogoves.”

“Those are them what followed the Jabberwocky,” the boy said.

“Aye, ‘cepting it weren’t the Jabberwocky ye slayed, yestere’en.”

“What was it then?” Lionel asked, reaching for his vorpal blade and running his thumb along the edge.

“It was a Jabberwocky,” the old Man exclaimed, looking at the boy. “It just weren’t the Jabberwocky,” he smiled.

“There’s more’n one?” the boy said.

“Aye. Now must we face the bitch!”

“What are ye tendin’?” Lionel asked.

“T’is my intent t’ slay the Beast.”

“You?” the boy laughed. “Do ye even know where t’ find it?”

“Aye, that I do, Boy.”

*

They travelled over-thwart and endlong, until the sun slipped low, darkening the sky with royal colours of purple and gold. The old man watched the sky and finally pulled up on the reins. He looked at Lionel and nodded, and the youth leaped down from the wagon, grabbing an axe and setting about to make a proper clearing. He chopped down thin saplings of birch and maple, stripping off the branches so as to make poles.

The boy was eager to help and climbing out of the back, set about to make a fire. He took up his bow in search of game.

“Where would ye?” the old man asked.

“We need somethin’ for the pot,” the bot grinned.

“An’ think it that yer the one t’ do it?” the old man grinned.

“Ye’ve nae t’ show for yerself, Uncle,” the boy taunted. “Mayhap it’s on me t’ step up.”

“Aye. Mayhap,” the old man laughed. “I’ll be warming up the last of the stew. Mind ye fill it.”

“I will, Uncle.”

The boy proved true to his word, with two rabbits as well as a pheasant. He walked into the small camp Lionel prepared, dropping the rabbits beside the fire. The old man, watching him as he crossed the camp, chewed a stick as he checked the pot burning on the fire. He added water, using a bowl and measuring out four servings. He looked down at the rabbits and turned to look at the boy.

“Ye’d best clean ‘em, boy. The sooner yer done, the sooner we can chop ‘em up, an’ stew ‘em. An’ boy?” he added, waiting for the boy to look up. “Ye did right well good, ye did.”

With dinner done, it was decided they’d clean the pheasant and throw it into the last of the rabbit stew, pouring more water into the pot and placing it in the wagon for tomorrow’s meal.

“What say ye on the Jabberwocky?” Lionel asked the old man.

“T’would be best to run.”

“Ye canna think I will,” Lionel protested.

“Nae. T’is as I feared,” he said, staring into the flames.

“How say ye?”

“Listen,” he said, and out beyond the edge of darkness, beyond the edge of night, where the insects purred, and the beating wings of the owls sought their prey, they could hear it. It was the lamentable call of the borogoves.

“Are they searchin’ for us?” the boy asked.

“They have the scent,” Lionel said.

“Nae. Ye’d nae hear ‘em keening so,” the old man said with a slow shake of his head. He stroked his long beard with a large hand. “Ye canna hide from the borogoves. They sense the stench of fear—”

“I’m not afraid,” Lionel was quick to say.

“Then yer a fool, an’ a liar,” the old man laughed. “What did I say the first time? Beware the Jabberwocky. The one ye first o’erthrew was nae more than a bachelor. The bitch is intimation, ten-fold.”

“Intimation?” the boy asked. “What’s that?”

“An immediacy.”

“An’ that?” the boy said.

“The one wot he slew?” the old man said, looking at the boy, “an’ the one seekin’ ‘im out? That’d be her whelp.”

“An’ the borogoves?”

“Are searchin’ ‘im out. It’s only a matter of time afore they catch ‘is scent.”

“An’ then?” the boy said.

“Ye won’t be searchin’ ‘er out, as she’ll ‘ave found yerself.”

*

The boy was up first, as was expected. It fell to him to rekindle the fire and make the gruel that would last them until the pheasant stew tonight. He made it thick, poured honey and the last of the cream he could find overtop, then added a dollop of golden butter, and sat down to eat, waiting for Lionel and his uncle to wake up. He knew better than to wake them.

He was about to take a bite of the gruel when he heard a sound in the distance. It was the braying, barking, blathering cry of a beast he’d never heard before. He looked at his uncle, uncertain as to whether he should wake him. A part of him knew it was the borogoves; they’d picked up the scent. It was only a matter of time before they faced the Jabberwocky.

6

“Tell me boy,” the old man said, looking at him over his bowl of gruel. “Why would ye nae think t’ wake me? Did ye nae think, hearing the cry of the borogoves, it’d be a good enough reason?”

“I was afeared ye’d be angered,” the boy replied.

“Did ye nae think I’d be more wroth that ye said nae of it, then?”

“I was afeared.”

“Aye, that wot I well,” the old man said with a slow nod. “Well, there’s nae t’ be done about it now, is there?” he said, tossing the bowl down.

The boy was quick to pick the bowl up, rubbing a handful of sand inside it and scraping out the last of the gruel. He walked to the small water barrel tied to the outside of the wagon and poured a ladleful of water inside, swishing it about and pouring the water out.

“Mind ye get all of the sand out this time,” the old man said. “I’m not likin’ the grit of it in my mornin’ gruel,” he added.

Lionel came back from hunting, laying the bow down and dropping two pheasants on the ground behind the boy. He reached into the small sack he was carrying and grinned, pulling out five eggs.

“With the last of the flour an’ yeast, we can make a loaf for feastin’ overmorn,” the old man smiled. “See that, boy? Eggs. It’s all well an’ good enow for ye t’ bag a bird, but it’s the nest ye needs seek out.”

“I can ne’er find the nests,” the boy said with a slow shake of his head.

“Ye have to get on the ground an’ root ‘em out,” Lionel smiled. He liked the boy, and sometimes thought the old man was too harsh with him.

“An’ did ye see the borogoves about?” the old man asked.

“Nae. An’ nae sound of ‘em, either,” Lionel replied, looking at the boy.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Isn’t that a good thing?” the boy asked.

“It’s ne’er a good thing when the borogoves are rootin’ about,” the old man said. “It’s when ye nae hear ‘em that they prove most harrowing.”

“An’ what does that mean?” the boy asked.

“When ye nae hear ‘em, but know right-well they’re out an’ about, ye needs be on yer guard. They’ll snatch at ye an they might.”

“They got claws an’ teeth like the Jabberwocky?”

“Aye, they do at that,” the old man said with a nod.

“Shall I help ye tear the camp down?” the boy said to Lionel.

“Aye.”

“Nae. We canna be off now. The borogoves ‘ave got the scent of us an’ are on the trail.”

“How can ye be for-certain?” the boy asked. “We could be half a league gone afore they find the camp.”

“Think ye this is me first brushin’ with the Beastie?” the old man asked. “I’ve slain the borogoves, an’ just as much the slithy toves when they were all gyrin’ an’ gimballin’ about. Aye, they’ll be here soon enough, they will. An’ we’ll be tested true, I dare say. An’ soon enough the Jabberwock’ll come galumphin’ through the glades, with her wings wide-spread an’ fannin’ the flames o’ fear t’ burst yer heart. She’ll be comin’ for ye lad, on account of yer slayin’ her offspring,” he said, looking at Lionel. “Bets ye put an edge on that vorpal blade. An ye slay the Beastie-bat, ye’ll be a true champion. It won’t win ye no princess, but ye’ll have slain ‘er all the same.”

“An’ what if he takes the real head t’ the King?” the boy asked.

“He’s nae knight.”

“Nae, but he’ll be a hero just the same,” the boy declared.

“Aye, a hero of the people with no claim for the princess.”

“We could take her,” the boy insisted.

“Take her?” the old man smiled. “Ah, child, there’s nae woman worth the price yer willin’ t’ pay. Think ye she’ll be gracious? Think ye she’ll give up her father’s love t’ run off with a Blacksmith’s apprentice? Think ye she’ll not be lookin’ for her Knight in shining armour ridin’ in on a fine white charger? ‘E’s got nothin’ t’ brag of but his bravery. It takes more’n that, t’ win a damsel fair.”

The borogoves came out of the woods and into the clearing. A thin shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out all round, looking something like a live mop. They hooted, and howled, cajoled and jowled, and with their twisted beaks held up like a horn, let loose with their horrid cry. The second beast echoed the first and they both danced a dance of circles, bobbing up and down.

“Take the head, boy! Take the head!” the old man yelled.

Lionel drew his vorpal blade and swung a great two-handed swing. The first borogove ducked underneath and the blade whistled through the air. The second borogove drove down low with its quill-like beak, twisted like a Mauritian parrot’s, and stabbed at Lionel, who brought the blade down with a carry-through blow that took the monster’s head clean off. He turned to face the first one again and feinted a swing, instead following through with a stabbing motion that caught the beast in the throat. He pulled the blade up, and cleaved the monster’s head in half.

A scream filled the valley and the three looked up at the rocks overhead where the Beast clawed among the rocks, its huge bat wings ripped and tattered with age. It was green, and spotted, a lizardine serpent with claws that snatch and jaws that bite; its cry a shrill call that was enough to make a man shrink in fear.

I hope you liked it. It’s obviously not finished yet, but it has a pretty cool picture!