The Curse of the Giant Hogweed Read Online Free PDF Page B

authors who wrote about children falling down rabbit holes or stepping into wardrobes and finding themselves henceforth involved with adventures of a nature which at the time seemed to be fantastical. I therefore assumed these to be works of fiction. Now I realize they must have been mere vignettes of local history. That public house evidently functions in a manner somewhat akin to a wardrobe or a rabbit hole. We may perhaps consider ourselves fortunate to have encountered Sir Torchyld instead of a well-dressed rabbit or a talking lion.”
    “I’d have settled for a rabbit,” said Tim.
    “I’d have settled for a pint,” sighed Peter. “Drat it, why didn’t we pick another pub?”
    “Because you wanted to stop there and look at the goddamn hogweed, that’s why,” his old comrade snarled back.
    “Friends,” Dan interposed, “let us strive to avoid dissension. Dimmed by the passage of time though my recollection of Matilda’s tales must inevitably be, it strikes me that any show of disunity was always prejudicial to the outcome of any escapade in which the protagonists found themselves caught up.”
    “M’yes,” said Peter. “I’m afraid you may be right, Dan. All right. We’re down the rabbit hole and I’m the one to blame.”
    “Indeed, Peter, accepting full responsibility is not your privilege. I say this in no contentious spirit, but as a simple fact. We are equally grown men, and men of reason. Our right of choice is as valid as yours. Had we urged you to drive on, you would no doubt have acceded to our wishes. We chose instead to stop with you. Therefore, we must insist on our right to share the blame, if blame there be, for our present plight.”
    “Gad, Dan,” said Peter, deeply touched, “I had no idea you were a man of so profound a philosophical bent.”
    “Anyone who communes much with hogs inevitably becomes a philosopher. Would you care for some cheese?”
    “I would,” said Torchyld. “My fast hath not been broke since yester e’en. I meant to eat after my watch was over, but I got no chance, with everybody yammering at me and Great-uncle Sfyn banishing me and Dwydd enchanting me and my darling Syglinde—”
    “Give him some cheese, quick,” said Peter.
    “By all means,” Stott replied. “Tim, might I trouble you for the loan of that golden sickle? Though a sickle is not, I fear, the ideal instrument for cutting cheese.”
    “Ye could hack it with my disenchanted sword,” Torchyld offered. “Ye blade be no good for anything else. I doubt not that be why Dwydd let me keep it.”
    He hauled the mangled blade from underneath his robe and whacked a mighty hunk off the cheese. As he started to munch, Peter Shandy reached for the sword.
    “Let’s see that thing for a minute, if you don’t mind. Tim, what do you think?”
    The elderly gnome brought the blade close to his eyes, then ran a thorny thumb along its edge. “I’d say some bastard’s disenchanted this sword by whanging it against a rock. You want it reenchanted, son, or prince, or whatever we’re supposed to call you?”
    “Gin ye wottest to work so great a charm, archdruid,” Torchyld replied with his mouth full of cheese, “ye may call me anything ye crave to.”
    “Just let me find something to use for a whetstone. Ought to be a halfway decent stone kicking around here. Ah, just the ticket.”
    Among the arcane skills Timothy Ames had learned as a boy on a farm was how to put an edge on a tool with a hand-held stone and a judicious application of elbow grease. While Torchyld wolfed cheese and gazed in wonderment, Tim stroked at the nicked and battered blade. When Tim gave out, Peter took over. By the time the two disenchanters were telling each other they guessed maybe now she’d do, Torchyld was wiping his mouth on his forearm and Dan Stott was regarding the remains of his cheese with grave concern.
    “Ye be great wizards,” cried the young giant. “Now prithee disenchant me.”
    “I expect you’ll be