(Adventure Adrian and the Kings) The Herald Quest

Chapter Seven

SEVEN

“So where are you from?” Jay asked.

“I’m from Lond…” I started to reply before suddenly hesitating. “I mean…erm.”

Hold on a second. I couldn’t possibly tell him the truth because what would I say…that I’d flown in from London on the back of a griffin? He’d thought that planes and cars didn’t even exist and so would never ever believe me in a million years. We’d been travelling down the track for only a few minutes but I could already tell that he was curious and full of questions. 

Just then, I realised I’d been quietly thinking for way too long whilst trying to come up with a believable answer. Fortunately for me, Jay was the type of person whose little brain always seemed to be working overtime. He’d barely even noticed my silence and continued to chat away without a care.

“You’re from the islands…aren’t you?” Jay guessed with a bouncy confidence. I wanted to ask him what an island person looked like but didn’t have the courage. It turns out, so I discovered much later, that island people are adventurers who live on the remote islands just a few miles off the shoreline.

“Erm...I don’t really remember,” I lied and trying to sound convincing as I could before rubbing the back of my neck nervously. “I think I hit my head and…well…my Aunt Edna isn’t at home right now so I thought I’d do some travelling.”

“You mean…you lost your memory?”

“Well kind of…” I lied again. Jay looked at me for a moment and squinted in thought.

“You’re a strange fellow,” he said. “I guess that’s why you dress so funny too.”

“Charming!” I thought to myself.

“Well I hope you’re hungry Adrian,” Jay said as he broke his stare. He seemed to loose his train of thought very easily. My guide then sniffed into the air at the sweet scent of home made bread. “Smells like dinners on the table.”

We suddenly turned off the path and down a bank into the small village. Tumbleton was a busy little place with about twenty small houses that I later found out were called Hovels. (Hovels are tiny stone shacks with thatched roofs and a brick chimney.) It was a tiny farming town surrounded by miles and miles of ploughed fields that seemed to stretch away over the horizon.

We walked through a small gate, down a cobble path that cut through the garden of Jay’s family hovel and towards the arched wooden door. Jay and I entered slowly. The inside of the hovel was welcoming and decorated like a tidy country cottage. In the middle of the room was an oak table and in the centre was a large clay pot filled with steaming broth.

Jay’s parents sat waiting around the table and were just about to serve up their evening meal. To my surprise, the whole family were short and stumpy just like Jay. And thinking about it, as I’d walked through the village, I’d seen no one even close to my height. I would have found it strange but as you know from the day I’d had…I had bigger things to worry about. 

“Jacob Jackerby Jr!” his mother nagged as she spooned a juicy serving of steaming casserole onto her husband’s plate.  “Where in the great kings have you been?”

“Sorry I’m late Ma. But I had to…” Jay began to apologise as he kicked off his muddy boots. But his mother instantly rushed over towards us and used an apron to wipe the mud splatters from her son’s cheek.

“And who might this be?” his mother interrupted rudely in her thick village accent before starting to look me up and down with a strange frown.

 “I’m Adr…” I tried to say but she butted in again.

“Trampling mounds of mud all over my new rug,” she complained before returning to the dinner pot and splashing another serving onto her own plate this time.