At some point during the night Squire StinknZombalot realized his crate was bobbing in the ocean. There’d been the sound of some scuffling, then a bit of argument and not a moment later he’d felt the impact and heard the splash. While this meant he was no longer on the ship, on a positive note he’d realized after a moment of panic that the crate seemed remarkably watertight, and that left him feeling slightly better. Far less positive was the fact that his legs were now numb and he was ravenous. He didn’t even want to think of the word “brains” and usually saying that over and over again was a source of real comfort. Right now the utter lack of brains was just too much for him to take.
Another positive was that he still had the use of his hands. That was proving to be fortuitous, for during the night he’d found a knot in the wood and by working it back and forth with his fingers he’d managed to loosen it enough that he could pull it out. The knothole was at eye height and through it he could see nothing but night sky and the occasional top of a giant wave rolling by. The crate had tipped on its side which left his shoulders very uncomfortable, but at least water wasn’t leaking in through the knothole.
As morning dawned he encountered another bit of luck. It seemed that his crate was greatly attractive to seagulls, it did he recalled, smell of lambs brains, but he’d long since grown used to that odor and no longer noticed it. It was strange though, that so many birds were flocking around the crate.
They usually were only this attracted to scraps of food or rotten meat. Zombalot couldn’t fathom what they were so interested in his crate. The smell of the lambs brains would be far too faint for the seagulls to smell. After a bit more thought he decided that it was yet another mystery he was going to have to live without knowing the answer to.
A gull landed on top of the knothole. Then strangely, it actually tried to peck his eyes out.
“Go away! Stupid bird.” Zombalot’s tongue shot out of his mouth and he used that and his finger tips to protect his eyes. And there it was. Brains! With a snap he sucked the gull’s head in through the hole and with the precision of a drunken reveler biting the top off a beer bottle he snapped his teeth shut and slurped in the seagull’s brain whole. It tasted a lot like chicken, but then, everything did. The maneuver grew easier with practice and soon he was slurping seagull brains and spitting out their heads faster than the guys at the pub could shell peanuts.
You know, he thought, a guy could get used to this.
Not a moment later something very large slammed into the side of the crate. The wood creaked and there was the sound of something splintering. In response Zombalot’s stomach curled into a knot.
“What is that? Have it brought on board, my lady will want to see it.” The voice was musical, lilting. Zombalot found himself straining to see through the knothole and wishing he could just get a glance of the speaker. The knot in his stomach wrenched tighter.
Then things were being jabbed into the crate and he felt it moved and lifted. Once again the crate was back on dry land, or at least no longer bobbing.
“What is that smell?”
“My lady, I know you’ve been upset by these delays, but I do believe this is the gods smiling on us. I know that smell. I would recognize it anywhere. I believe the gods have delivered us a crate of zombie cheese.”
“You don’t say? How wonderful!”
“There’s no telling how fresh it will be, but the smell is amazing. They say the only thing better is Battlewom-infused garlic butter but how often do you ever see it? And here we have a crate of the next best thing. A full one, if I’m not mistaken.”
Another voice added, “It was awful heavy, my lady.”
“Yes, yes well this is good fortune indeed. Have Cook inspect the cheese and if it’s good we shall sup on it tonight.”
Zombalot was confused. Zombie cheese? This was a lambs brain crate, not a zombie cheese crate.
“There seems to be some kind of stain around that knothole there.” A pause. “Is that… is that blood?”
“It may be, my lady. We shall inspect it immediately.”
“Not on deck. Have Cook do it below and if it’s not spoiled have him prepare it immediately. It’s been years since I’ve had any decent zombie cheese. There are just fewer and fewer outbreaks these days.”
“As you say, m’lady.”
Zombalot held his breath, now too concerned to bash on the inside of the crate or cry out. Who were these people with their voices that sounded like musical score, and a taste for something called zombie cheese (I mean, really?)?
When the crate finally opened, Zombalot found himself face to face with the most beautiful psychopath he’d ever seen. He knew immediately that the creature lacked any kind of compassion or humanity. It was abundantly clear from the clinical way it looked him over and the tiny sardonic smile that seemed to slowly stretch across its face as it looked Zombalot up and down.
“How interesting,” the being said. “It does seem fresh.”
Fresh? “What are you talking about? Please let me out of this box.” He could tell he was on a ship,the walls were of polished timber but curved like the sides of a giant whale. The tinkle of tiny bells filled the air in a kind of swirling, metallic music that did not appear to come from any particular source.
The being’s tiny smile grew larger. It’s eyes were huge and as gray as swamp clay but purer as if the swamp clay were beneath the waters of the most crystal clear spring water. “Of course I’ll let you out. You shall have hte run of my kitchen. Well, the hop. I think we’ll need a leg to start with. It’s a long way to the Gulf of Lune. We’ve been in the doldrums so long I’m afraid we’d all but run out of provisions and then here you are.” The creature bent close and breathed in deeply, seeming to shiver with pleasure as he did so. “Fresh zombie cheese. You’ve no idea how happy this makes me. An my lady will be pleased to eat you.”
“’Pleased to meet you.’ I think you meant pleased to meet you.” Zombalot felt the knot in his stomach collapse into a singularity. One moment it was a tight ball of nervousness, the next the bottom dropped out from beneath him.
The being smiled. “Yes of course,” it said. “I meant pleased to meet you.”
“Who are you…people?” Zombalot asked, starting to work himself loose from the crate.
The creature laughed and at the sound Zombalot thought his heart might break. Such a perfect, precious sound he had never heard before. Not even the squelch of a fresh frontal lobe against his tongue could compare with it.
“Ah you poor dear. Haven’t you met any elves before?”
Zombalot shook his head and the creature laughed again.
“Well, no. You wouldn’t have, would you? You still have all your limbs.”
In the back of Zombalot’s mind a stony voice said, “Sir Scooterless, Lord Percival, Lord Nenad and Squire StinkZombalot - you have avoided the Typhoon but have failed to make the Himling crossing.” What the? Zombalot shook his head to clear it. He was clearly cracked. A stark, raving lunatic at this point.
The voice continued, “Head South East now to the Gulf of Lune and into Mithlond - once there, seek direction to 'The Shire.' Locate a Hobbit they call 'Bilbo Baggins.' He has a ring!”
A ring?
“Take possession of this ring and continue on to Mirkwood - try to avoid any 'Grey Wizards' or 'Elves' who might be loitering in the area.”
Avoid elves? Couldn’t you have bloody told me this before? Zombalot thought he might pass out.
“Hence forth thou shall be known as 'The Ring Bearers'”
As the last words boomed into Squire StinknZombalot’s mind, it was all suddenly too much. And although he knew he was likely to end up carved like a turkey by these murderous elves, he found himself falling to the floor. A moment later he heard the musical voice say, “Get him cleaned up. This is going to be one hell of a feast. They’ll be talking about us from Mithlond to the Shire once they get a whiff of this quality zombie cheese.”
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