Hero is a Four Letter Word
Read Hero is a Four Letter Word Online
Authors: J.M. Frey
Hero is a Four Letter Word
Three short stories by J.M. Frey
A Fast Foreword eLight
Published 2013 by Fast Foreword, a Foreword Literary imprint.
Copyright © 2013 Jessica Marie Frey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. All inquiries should be addressed to
[email protected]
.
Cover images Copyright 2013 © Laura Cummings
Table of Contents
For Laurie McLean – let’s get this crazy adventure on the road!
by J.M. Frey
First published in “When The Hero Comes Home”
Edited by Gabrielle Harbowy and Ed Greenwood
Dragon Moon Press (August, 2012)
The first thing that Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future (well,
Now-ish
) King did upon his rebirth into the world at the moment of Albion’s greatest need, was to open his shrivelled red mouth and squall out: “Oh
hell,
no
.
”
Which startled his Mother quite badly, you’ll understand, as she had just put him to her breast for his first little feeding. She shook her head and glared balefully at the IV needle in the bend of her elbow, ignored her new son’s outburst, and went about her task.
The second thing that Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Now-ish King did upon his rebirth into the world at the moment of Albion’s greatest need, was to consume his body weight in breast milk. After which, he soiled his nappy, burped quite dramatically, and took a wee bit of a nap.
Getting born was hard work, you know.
The next thing that Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Now-ish King, did upon his rebirth was to wake up and ask to where that good for nothing senile git of a wizard had gotten. Nobody else was in the hospital room with Arthur and his new mother, so he had to repeat it a few times to convince her that she was not, in fact, hearing things. “Great ancient sorcerer with the beard?”
“What, Dumbledore?” his mother asked, trying to make her eyes the size of regular eyes again, rather than saucers. She wasn’t quite succeeding. “Or, um, Merlin?”
“Yes, Merlin!” Arthur shrilled, then frowned because his voice hadn’t been that high since, well, since the last time he was a baby. In a more sedate, and what he hoped was a more kingly tone, he went on to clarify: “Who the hell else would I mean?”
“I, uh, I’m sure I don’t know, dearest,” his mother said, and started to cry.
Arthur felt quite bad about that, because she seemed a nice lady, especially since she had just put up with him in her womb for nine months. He resolved to be a bit gentler with her thereafter.
Were Guinevere here, she would surely have clipped him round his ears already.
Arthur was quiet on the way home, watching with utter fascination as his new father manhandled the strange metal carriage in which they rode. The motion of the vehicle made him nod off, soothing and quite like being tucked up safe and sound in a caring person’s arms. His only grievance with this was that he had hoped to see more of the strange and wonderful world outside of the vehicle’s windows. There were tall buildings and everything was covered in glass. Some great king must have been very wealthy to afford to give his subjects a whole city of glass.
The thought caused his tiny tummy to burble with foreboding, because perhaps this wealthy king was the very person he had been brought back to defeat. Shoving thoughts of his destiny aside for now – it was not as if he had Excalibur, or was yet strong enough to even lift her – he let the rocking motion lull him into a doze.
Once they arrived home, Arthur made a point of vocally admiring the shade of green on the walls of his nursery, and complimented his mother on her pretty coming-home dress. He had, after all, promised himself to be nicer.
She started crying again, and Arthur, who had never really been all that good with girls and who probably wouldn’t have ever been able to attract a wife had he not had a crown weighing on his forehead, looked at his father and said, “What did I do?” He
really
wished Guinevere was here. His father only plopped down into the rocking chair and stared in horror at his little face.
“What?” Arthur said.
“I … don’t think this was in the baby books, hon,” his father said, all the blood draining from his face. If the man was going to swoon, Arthur hoped to at least be set down somewhere first. But the man stayed upright. He gulped on the air for a bit, then when his colour had mostly come back, he stood and lay Arthur in the middle of the crib and grabbed his wife’s wrist. They left. Arthur heard the footsteps pad across the carpeting, tracking them as they traversed the hallway and then descended the stairs and went out the front door.
Oh, dear.
For a long, long time, Arthur lay still, listening. There was no shouting, no noisy roar of an unhappy lynch mob or of the metal vehicles. There was only Arthur and the inadequate swaddling blanket and the boring white ceiling. There were also five fuzzy white sheep that kept going around and around above his head, hypnotic and really sort of … marvellous.