Sample text for Standard hero behavior / John David Anderson.
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Excerpt from Chapter One: Birds and Feathers
The gold pillars at the entrance to
Darlington loomed high over the
neighboring dwellings. Originally, they
had been only half as tall and made of
the same gray stone as the rest of the
wall surrounding the city. But six years
ago, about the same time he officially
changed the name of the town, the duke
commissioned a more resplendent portal.
Bridging the two pillars was a golden
archway, engraved with scenes from the
duke's own adventures, depicting acts of
such bravery and prowess as to make
fathers of wussy sons weep. Standing on
either side of the arch were twelve-foot
ivory statues of the duke, paid for, no
doubt, by the people's protection tax.
At that moment, some three hundred
townsfolk were gathered near the golden
arch. Toward the back of the crowd,
Mason and Cowel feigned disinterest and
picked at a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds
they had agreed to split while waiting
for the show.
"I wonder what kind of plume he has on
today," Cowel almost spat, a pumpkin
seed slipping out of the corner of his
lips before being sucked back in. It was
his biggest gripe, one that Mason
couldn't go a day without hearing: that
the only hero in the town--the only
person actually in need of plumes for
his helmets--had his plumes imported from
a warehouse in Yorkville. Mason couldn't
blame Cowel for being bitter--he shared a
similar complaint.
Cowel was in full rant by the time
someone near the front of the crowd
pointed to the top of a hill, to a man
jauntily straddling his horse. It was
the duke, all right. There was no
mistaking the advertising. Even from
this distance, Mason could see the
emblems hanging from the duke's
saddle--Darlinger's sponsors, the various
town businesses that paid him an extra
sum at the end of each month for
sporting their names on his equipment.
Heroism, brought to you by the good
folks at Caley's Pub.
The duke was about one minute's hard
gallop from the city gate, but as much
as a thunderous charge might liven up
the crowd, it would pale in comparison
to the regality of plodding ponderously
over the hill, the sun nearly finishing
its spectrum behind him, his glorious
suit of gold armor still polished and
gleaming despite his having hunted
goblins for nearly three days. Come to
think of it, Mason had never seen the
duke gallop anywhere. Near the front of
the gate, a twelve-piece orchestra broke
into a victory march.
Dirk Darlinger waved to the crowd--a
weighty gesture that looked as if he
were giving the masses his blessing; his
horse, rather repetitively named Steed,
lumbered along. The crowd could see the
collection of shields, helmets and
swords in a bag heaped on poor Steed's
back. They were Darlinger's trophies,
proof of yet another successful
adventure, of harrowing encounters with
blood-lusting denizens of darkness.
Otherwise, there was no sign that the
town's greatest hero had even had to
move a muscle. If anything, he looked
more refreshed now than when he had left
to hunt goblins three days ago. "Looks
like a successful trip," the man
standing next to Cowel murmured.
The duke halted just in front of the
city gates. A gentleman dressed in
colorful servant's robes made his way to
the front of the crowd and produced a
stack of placards that he held up for
the duke to see. Darlinger squinted a
bit, made a motion for the servant to
come a little closer, a little more to
the right, then turned to address the
townsfolk who had come to welcome him home.
"Commoners of Darlington," he began,
constantly casting his eyes sideways for
his next line, "and fine supporters of
Verdal's Tavern on the Hill, where every
night is dames' night."
"Way to slip that in there," Mason
whispered. Cowel nodded. They never went
to the Tavern on the Hill--it was
drastically overpriced--but being
businessmen of sorts, they could
appreciate the power of marketing.
"You are safe once again," the duke
continued. "The imminent goblin threat
has been squelched. Their supposed
magiks of mass devastation have been
rooted out and destroyed, and your hero
has returned to you." Nearly half the
crowd, recognizing the space for it,
clapped. Darlinger waited until the
applause had petered out fully before
continuing. "Though the goblins are
many, they are nothing compared to the
justice and valor contained in one man
who rides forth with no thought other
than the protection of his people." More
applause. Mason groaned. Cowel scratched
an armpit and muttered something again
about the man's plume. "So tonight,
please sleep soundly, knowing that your
children are safe and my sword hovers
over us all, waiting to fall . . ."
There was a significant pause as the
servant struggled to turn to the next
sign. Darlinger smiled nervously. "To
fall . . . to fall upon the . . . evil
makers who would threaten the freedoms
we hold so dear. Return home safely, and
remember that tickets to hear the tale
of my latest adventure will go on sale
in the morning. Buy three, get the
fourth one half price!"
Then, with a flourish of Darlinger's
hand, the crowd parted and Steed
sauntered through the throng, many of
them reaching out just to touch the
bootstrap of their hero as he rode
toward his mansion. The members of the
orchestra played another short victory
march and then bantered back and forth
about which tavern they were headed to.
"His bards are going to be up all night
throwing stuff together for that
concert," Mason said, scratching in the
dirt with his toe. "It's the same drivel
every time. The names and numbers
change, but I swear the lines all end
the same."
"You're not jealous, are you?"
"Of Darlinger? Of course I am. Aren't you?"
"Absolutely not," Cowel said pointedly.
"You lie."
"Honestly, what does he have that I
don't have?" Cowel began counting on his
fingers. "Wealth, fame, a castle, his
own horse--who needs it?"
Mason nodded, not sure whether his
friend was serious. Cowel had lived life
with so little for so long, it was
possible he really felt all of it was
unnecessary. Or maybe that's just what
he told himself.
Cowel might have been right about the
castle, the wealth, the fawning
throngs--maybe they were more trouble
than they were worth. But Darlinger did
have something that Mason Quayle
desperately wanted, something his father
had had and he hadn't yet inherited.
He was noticed.
More than anything, Mason was afraid
that he would vanish one day, just up
and leave without a word, and his name
would never be spoken. It was a heavy
thought for a fifteen-year-old to have,
he knew, but then, Dirk Darlinger was
only in his twenties. Mason watched as
Darlinger rode off and disappeared,
whispers of his name following him, and
something inside of Mason grew brittle
enough to finally break.
"Are you all right?" Cowel elbowed him
in the side. "Come on, let's go to
Flax's." He started off in the opposite
direction and had to holler back to the
still-frozen Mason, staring off into
Darlinger's sunset.
Flax Romano never wanted much out of
life, which was helpful considering how
little he'd gotten so far. Childless and
wifeless, though the latter was not for
lack of trying, he had known only a
brief and sparkling success. At the age
of twenty-seven, he opened his own
tavern only a block away from Hero's
Alley and featured the "Hack and Slash
Special": Come in and show Flax your
most recent wound--still bleeding,
preferably--and your first tankard was on
the house. This didn't last long, as
people began stabbing themselves just to
get a free beer, but it established Flax
as a friend to adventurers--not the
pompous, Dirk Darlinger types but the
hard-working grunts who came home
stinking of putrid bogs, missing fingers
and toes, and wearing faces scorched or
covered in witch's boils.
That was twenty-five years ago, when
the town was teeming and Flax's coin
purse refused to jingle because it was
so full. The rarest treasure for an
adventurer in the Hero's District was
actually finding a table at Flax's. The
tavern had been the favorite of Mason's
father and still was the favorite of
Cowel's uncle. Though Mason had never
once seen his father walk into the
tavern--he would have been put to bed
long before his father went out--it was
unusual to see Cowel's uncle walk out of
it. So when they entered that evening,
the first thing Cowel did was go over to
his uncle sitting at the far end of the
bar. "I'll catch up to you in a minute."
"Okay." Mason liked Perlin Salendor
well enough, at least when he had the
chance to talk to him, but those
occasions were few. Most of the time,
Cowel kept his conversations with his
uncle private.
"Everything all right?" Mason asked as
Cowel shuffled back to the table, his
face shriveled like dried fruit.
"Same as always. Don't suppose you want
to order anything?"
"I spent my last bit of change on those
seeds," Mason said, then stared at a
knot in the table while Cowel talked at
him, chattering on about what it must be
like to hunt goblins, how you couldn't
really get a good pair of pantaloons
anymore, and how he thought Flax used to
put bowls of walnuts on the tables. "The
whole damn town is falling apart."
The door to Flax's started to swing
freely as more people trickled in. It
happened on nights when Darlinger
returned from an adventure. The
townsfolk, remembering how life used to
be, would head toward this side of town,
itching for a story. Mason watched all
of their mouths moving, saying nothing,
and tried to rub away the lurch in his
stomach. Like a drain in the middle of a
sloped room, all conversations
gravitated toward Darlinger and how
magnificent he was. Mason could feel his
spirits sink even further as he heard
the word "savior" repeated over and over.
And it came to him again, that itch
beneath the skin, the one he had no idea
how to scratch. The more he heard the
name Dirk Darlinger, the more he felt as
if nothing he would do with his life
would be worth anything. He hadn't
accomplished one thing he was proud of.
To hear his mother tell it, his father
was supposedly hunting werewolves by the
age of fourteen. Here Mason was, older
than that already and barely able to
feed himself. He pictured a piece of
rotting parchment, a title scrawled
across the top in faded gold letters:
"The Tale of Mason Quayle." Written
beneath it was only one word.
Um.
That's it, Mason thought. If someone
were to write a song about his life,
that's what it would say. Um, like the
pause as you try to think of something
nice to say to an ugly woman who asked
you about her hair. He wanted to do
something. But in this town, there
apparently was nothing to do except sit
in a tavern and talk about Dirk
Darlinger. He grew antsy and started to
rub his feet together, a nervous habit.
Mason had done nothing but keep his head
afloat, but his legs were getting tired
from working so hard to go nowhere. He
was still young, he told himself. There
was still plenty of time, provided he
could figure out where he was going.
He needed a way into that world, the
world of adventure and acknowledgment.
And with his father gone, his mother
lost in some past life, and all the
heroes of Highsmith vanished, there was
only one person who could give Mason
what he wanted.
"I've been thinking," Mason began
hesitantly, interrupting Cowel in the
middle of a commentary on the difference
between soup and stew. Mason knew that
what he was about to say wouldn't go
over well. The subject had been brought
up before but always as a joke. But
Mason was tired of telling jokes to feel
better about himself.
"Should I applaud or just hold my
breath expectantly?"
"I'm not sure I can continue to live,
doing what I'm doing."
"Tell me about it."
"I mean, I think it's time I tried
something else."
That got Cowel's attention--Cowel, who
tried to sell feathers to people who had
no caps to stick them in. "Something
besides barding, you mean?"
"Not exactly."
"What, then?"
"I was thinking," Mason said, then
stopped himself, summoned a breath, and
continued, "that I would go work for the
duke."
"What?" Cowel's face turned red, just
as Mason anticipated. "You pulling my
strings?"
"I'm not."
"Work for that pompous peacock? Doing
what? Darning his socks?"
"An apprentice, a scribe . . . something."
"You are kidding."
"I'm serious." He was. He thought he was.
"I can't believe I'm hearing this. You
know what that guy is. What he
represents. At best, you'll end up
peeling his grapes while he talks about
himself. It would be worse than being
friends with me." Cowel said this in all
earnestness.
"It's better than what I'm doing now. I
can't keep turning accidents into acts
of bravery."
"But him? Have you forgotten how much
we don't like that guy? The taxes? The
arrogance? The fact that he kicked all
the other heroes out of town? All of
them?" Cowel didn't need to emphasize
the "all." Mason understood perfectly.
"I know. But what do you expect me to
do?" Mason raised his voice, an open
invitation for Cowel to do the same.
"I don't know--leave. Go somewhere else.
I'll go with you."
"And leave my mother behind like he did?"
Cowel's face flushed. "Well, no. Of
course not. I didn't mean that. But
there's got to be something else."
"Look around you. You've lived in this
town most of your life. There's no
chance of me writing anything decent
unless I can write about him. He's all
we've got."
"Your mother would kill you," Cowel
said. "That's what you said just last
year. You said, 'I could never go work
for Darlinger because my mother would
impale me with one of her sewing needles.'"
"Well, a lot has changed in a year,"
Mason snapped.
"What? What has changed? I'm still
poor. You're still poor."
"Exactly. Nothing's changed, and I'm
starting to feel differently about it."
"So you've changed, that's all."
"You don't get it, do you?" Mason said,
leaning over the table. "I don't want to
be forgettable. That might be fine for
you, but some of us need more out of
life than going door to door peddling
feathers for pennies."
And with that, for the first time that
evening, he managed to shut Cowel up.
The plume salesman turned sideways. He
looked as if he had been scalded with
boiling water.
"Cowel." Mason angled for eye contact,
regretting he had said anything.
"Listen. I'm sorry. I just need the money."
"So go, then. Toddle off to his
majesty's royal chambers and throw
yourself at his feet. Maybe he needs to
hire someone to clip his toenails. Maybe
you can help give him his bath."
Mason gave up. "Fine."
"Fine."
"Fine. I'll go."
"Fine. Who's stopping you?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
"I'm going."
"Good."
"Fine."
"Go."
"I am."
"Good."
"Good."
Mason nearly pushed his chair over
getting out of it, and stormed through
the tavern's door, leaving Cowel
scowling and gritting his teeth. Cowel
struggled for something crippling to say
at Mason's back, but the best he could
come up with was "traitor." He just
hoped it was enough.
Walking in the night, the wind pricking
him beneath his shirt, Mason couldn't
keep his head from spinning. Fathers,
uncles, mothers, heroes, friends--for
some reason, they all felt like enemies.
He passed by the shortcut through Hero's
Alley but didn't bother to take it.
What the hell is wrong with all these
people, he wondered. Don't they see
what's going on? He wasn't going to end
up like Cowel's uncle, sitting at the
edge of the bar. He wasn't going to end
up like his mother, waiting by the
window, or like Cowel, pretending there
wasn't anything better out there. For
three years, Mason had sat in that shack
pretending, and the thought of it
sickened his stomach. If the duke
wouldn't have him, there really was
nothing left for Mason to do but take
off--to find his future elsewhere. He
would do the very thing he promised
never to do. Follow in his father's steps.
Mason wondered how his father must have
felt that day, the day the duke signed
the contract with the town's council,
promising to protect the townsfolk,
making the other heroes obsolete.
Whether his father kissed his mother on
the cheek or the lips before he left.
Whether he kissed Mason at all. Whether
he even said goodbye.
He wondered why his father had never
come back. If there was something about
the leaving that made returning
impossible. Wondered if he knew he
wasn't coming back when he walked out
the door. It must have taken
extraordinary courage to leave like
that. To set off into the unknown and
leave so much behind. A hero's courage.
Library of Congress subject headings for this publication:
Heroes -- Fiction.
Adventure and adventurers -- Fiction.
Humorous stories.