They placed her gently on the ground, took a moment to massage their blistering hands, then Randall picked up the foot and tried to find a good place to set it. Her mouth was wide open ... but he decided against that for several reasons and just placed it on her chest.
They continued following Scar. “Whoops,” Randall said.
“What?”
“Ummm ... nothing. Just thought I'd say ‘whoops.'”
“What part did we lose?” Sir William demanded.
“I'm not sure. That big one on the ground.”
“Will you guys hurry up?” asked Scar.
“Could you run ahead and get us a bag or something?” Sir William asked.
“Uh-oh,” said Randall.
“What?”
“Ummm ... nothing. That was a good ‘uh-oh.'”
“You have to be more careful, squire! Did the head break when it fell?”
“No, it looks okay.”
“Then put it on top with the rest.”
* * * *
THE FORT consisted of a group of crudely-built wooden structures that looked like a hearty belch could knock them over. Scar's men sat around, some of them playing cards while others prepared for their weekly arts and crafts show. Randall, Sir William, and Scar sat at a table in her private structure. Princess Janice was contained in a large leather sack.
Scar finished drawing a map on a piece of parchment. “It should only take you an hour or so to get there,” she explained, “but the forest is very thick and you can get lost easily. When you finally meet the witch, don't tell her I sent you or she'll shred you on the spot. And don't comment on her nose.”
“What's wrong with her nose?” Randall asked.
“She doesn't have one.”
“How does she smell?”
If she says “Awful", thought Sir William, I'm going to scream and run from room to room shrieking incoherent curses and expose myself to each and every man present then stretch my lips around the back of my neck and tie them together in a bow and then hop around as my eyes spin in wild circles and I make gargling noises until I go absolutely completely stark raving drooling babbling mad.
“Awful,” Scar replied.
“Ha-ha!” Randall laughed.
Well, I guess even the oldest of jokes contain some contemporary humor value, Sir William decided. That must be why they've survived so long.
“I guess you gentlemen are set,” said Scar, handing the map to Randall.
“What about our horses and his sword?” Randall asked.
“We're keeping them,” said Scar.
“I don't think so,” Sir William told her.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.”
“You really don't think so?”
“No, not really,” Sir William admitted.
“No, not really meaning you really don't think so, or no not really meaning you don't think so but you don't really don't think so.”
“No not really meaning I really don't think so.”
“What point was I trying to make?” Scar asked.
“Nothing, really.”
“Oh, yeah, your weapons and horses. They're ours. Now, you could try and fight me—”
Sir William stood up to do just that.
“—but then you'll never know the answer to the first riddle.” She tapped a section of the map marked with an X. “To get to the cemetery gates, you'll have to pass through the Realm of Mystery. Your wits will be challenged like never before.”
“We'll see about that,” said Sir William. “My wits have been challenged on many occasions.”
“All I can tell you is that the answer to the first riddle is To get to the other side. After that, you're on your own. Oh, and I guess I should mention that any wrong answers will result in immediate death.”
“Any other obstacles we should know about?” Randall asked.
Scar began tapping her finger against various spots on the map. “Here ... here ... definitely this one ... here ... oooh, that one's nasty ... here ... here ... and here.”
“Thank you,” said Randall.
“Oh, and here,” Scar added.
“Let us go, squire,” said Sir William. “You carry the princess, I'll follow the map.”
* * * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES later they were completely lost.
“Is this map to scale?” Sir William wondered. “I don't think it's to scale. I think she just put these markers any lousy place she felt like.”
“Mind if we rest for a while?” Randall asked, leaning against a tree. “Princess Janice is getting heavy.”
“See, according to this worthless map we should be near a death trap right now, and there's nothing around.”
“The death trap's that way,” said a short man, stepping out from behind a tree and pointing behind them. “Vicious one. They have to hose it down every couple weeks.”
“Who are you?” Sir William demanded.
“My name is Lawrence. I'm a traveling salesman.” He extended his hand and Sir William shook it. Lawrence had a thin mustache, slicked-back hair, and was carrying a large black pouch. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I'm Sir William. Are you familiar with this forest?”
“Yep. In the short time it's been around, I've acquainted myself with every square inch of this place. I'm a remarkably good person to have around if you were to, say, become lost.”
“May I ask a stupid question?” Randall inquired.
“There are no stupid questions,” said Lawrence. “Only stupid people.”
“How can you make a living as a traveling salesman hanging around a forest like this?”
“I find people such as yourselves, of course. You have money, right?”
“A little,” Sir William said. “But we're not interested in buying anything.”
“Oh, I think you'll change your mind,” said Lawrence, reaching into his pouch. “Listen to me, William—may I call you William?—this here is the best offer since mankind came up with the concept of offering.”
“Listen, idiot—may I call you idiot?—I said I'm not interested in buying anything.”
“But look!” Lawrence pulled out the contents of the pouch: a wooden leg. “I'm going to sell you this leg!”
“You can't be serious,” said Sir William. “I'm not going to buy that.”
“Ah, but this isn't just any leg. This is the Smith Model KL7-RA Prosthetic Locomotion Assistance Device.”
“It looks like a cheap wooden leg.”
“Will you buy it?”
“Of course not. I've got two real ones of my own!”
“At the moment, maybe, but a wise knight such as yourself knows the importance of planning ahead. Suppose you're off defending the kingdom and one of your legs were to become severed. Instead of losing hours of valuable work time lying around whimpering, you could merely strap on the Smith Leg and return to being a productive warrior.”
“I'd bleed to death!”
“Ah, but you wouldn't. The Smith Leg comes equipped with its very own tourniquet.”
“But it's only a right leg,” Sir William pointed out. “What if I lost my left one? I'd be walking in circles for the rest of my life!”
“Buy two.”
“I don't need two. If I only lost one leg, I'd look pretty stupid walking around carrying a second fake one.”
“Listen,” Lawrence explained, “I obviously can't guarantee that you'll lose both legs in the accident. But there's still a fifty-fifty chance that it will be your right leg, making this a low-risk purchase.”
“Is it durable?”
“Oh, yes indeed. Keep it out of direct light and it'll last you for months.”
“There's a big crack in it!”
“That's supposed to be there. It's for ventilation.”
“I'm not buying a cracked leg.”
“Will you forget about the leg?” screamed Randall, having listened to exactly three more syllables of this conversation than his brain could handle. “Lawrence, we need your help. Do you know how to get to the lair of the witch Grysh?”