A Brave Warrior short story about a castle, a noticeboard, and a warrior who is almost certain he has arrived at the right place, but not sure why.
“The castle stood exactly where the map said it would, which was unusual enough to make the young traveller suspicious.”
The castle had been built around a disagreement.
Nobody knew what the disagreement was about, or who had started it. The oldest records claimed there had once been a hill here, but the hill maintained a stubborn silence on the matter. The castle itself appeared on maps from three different centuries, always in the same place, always drawn by different paws or claws or hands , and always with a different number of towers. One particularly unreliable map showed seventeen towers and a public bathhouse. No bathhouse has ever been found, though every few years someone insists they have discovered it.
Tumblewick had come to challenge it.
He was of seventeen summers, which was old enough to be taken seriously by his aunt and young enough to be laughed out of most respectable sword clubs. Not that Tumblewick had ever found a respectable sword club willing to clean itself. He had spent three years practising with a wooden blade and another two explaining why he had not yet acquired a proper one. Believe it folks, it was becoming harder to explain every year. The sword he carried now was real, though with head of its own, and the shield on his back had once belonged to a pebble. Make of it what you will.
He had expected a gatekeeper. Perhaps a riddle. At the very least, a notice explaining the rules of entry.
Instead, the castle doors stood open, and a string of damp bunting fluttered between two towers. Somewhere inside, a brass band was playing what sounded like a funeral march at the speed of a particularly cheerful snail. Tumblewick briefly wondered whether a cheerful snail would move any faster than an ordinary one. He decided it mattered not.
Tumblewick approached cautiously.
A stoat wearing spectacles emerged from the gateway, carrying a tray of pears.
“Are you here for the tournament?” she asked.
Not at all sure what it was about, he wanted to sound confident. “Yes,” said Tumblewick, straightening his helmet. “I am a warrior.”
“Splendid. We are short of those.”
She handed him a pear and disappeared before he could ask what sort of tournament required refreshments at the entrance.
Inside, the courtyard was full of warriors, though not the kind Tumblewick had imagined. A crane in a velvet waistcoat was arguing with a suit of armour that appeared to contain nobody. Two elderly badgers were carefully measuring the shadows cast by the flagstones. On a balcony, a princess in travelling boots was teaching a cluster of pigeons to whistle through their feet.
Nobody seemed to be fighting. One pigeon, however, appeared to be losing an argument with its own reflection in a bucket.
At the far end of the courtyard stood a noticeboard. Its wooden surface was crowded with names, dates, arrows and small, hastily drawn maps. At the very bottom, in fresh black ink, someone had written:
THE CASTLE WILL REQUIRE A WITNESS BEFORE SUNSET.
Tumblewick read it twice.
Then a third time, because it felt like the sort of notice that ought to make sense eventually.
The castle gave a tremendous sigh.
Every window opened at once. The bunting went still. From somewhere deep beneath the flagstones came the sound of a door being unlocked, followed by three polite knocks.
All the warriors in the courtyard turned to look at Tumblewick.
The stoat reappeared, this time without her tray.
“Oh, good,” she said. “You must be the one.”
Tumblewick, the brave warrior, tightened his grip on the sword.
For the first time in his life, he was almost certain that he had arrived at the right place.
He only wished he knew what, precisely, he had arrived to do.