The New Kid at School (2 page)

“Hooray!” yelled one of Wiglaf’s little brothers. “Jugglers and lepers! Let us be off!”

“And so we shall be,” Molwena promised, “as soon as Wiglaf does the dishes.”

“We could be off sooner if someone dried,” Wiglaf hinted.

“Nah,” said the eldest brother. “We’ll wait.”

And so Wiglaf scrubbed the dishes. Then he dried them. Then he put them away.

At last the family set off for the village.

Just outside Pinwick, Fergus stopped beside the village message tree. He squinted at a new notice tacked to its trunk.

“Wiglaf!” Fergus shouted. “The minstrel showed you how to make sense of these squiggles. Tell us what this sign says!”

Wiglaf stepped up and read: “Dragon Slayers’ Academy.”

Fergus frowned. “Acada...
what
?”

“Academy,” Wiglaf repeated. “It means school.”

“I know
that
,” his father said. “Go on.”

“We teach our students to slay dragons,” Wiglaf read.

Slay dragons? Wiglaf thought with growing interest.
Heroes slayed dragons!

“And,” he read on, “they bring the dragons’ hoards home to
you
!”

“The dragons’ hoards?” Fergus scratched his armpit thoughtfully. “That would be... what?”

“Gold and jewels, most likely,” Wiglaf replied.

“Blazing King Ken’s britches!” Fergus roared. “Read it all!” Which is just what Wiglaf was dying to do:

“I’ll say,” snorted Molwena.

“That would do for us,” Molwena muttered.

“Oh, boy!” said Fergus.

“Do they, now?!” Molwena exclaimed. “I wonder how much this school costs.”

Dragon slaying,
thought Wiglaf. It sounded pretty gruesome. But dragons were evil. They deserved to be slain—didn’t they? And who slew them? Mighty heroes, that’s who!

Maps tacked to the tree showed the way from Pinwick to Dragon Slayers’ Academy. Wiglaf pulled one off and stared at it. Here was a path he might follow to become a hero!

“Father?” Wiglaf began eagerly, “I would—”

“Quiet!” Fergus barked. He turned to his eldest son. “Do you want to go to the acad... to the school?” he asked him.

The eldest picked at a scab on his ear. “Would I get in trouble for fighting and knocking other boys’ teeth out?” he asked.

Fergus nodded. “You might.”

“I wouldn’t like that,” the eldest declared.

Wiglaf tried again. “Father, I—”

“Shush!” Fergus turned to his second-eldest. “Do you want to go to the school?” he asked him.

The second-eldest scratched a bedbug bite on his neck. “Would I have to comb my hair and change my britches?” he asked.

Fergus nodded again. “Most likely.”

“Then I won’t go,” the second-eldest said.

“I will, Father!” Wiglaf exclaimed. “Pray, send me!”

But Fergus only rolled his eyes and turned to his fourth-eldest. “You’re a big, strapping lad,” he began. “How would you—”

“Wait, Father!” Wiglaf cut in. “Think on this: If I slay a dragon, I shall bring you a mountain of gold! You would like that, would you not?”

“Yes....” Fergus nodded slowly.

“And if the dragon gets the better of me?” Wiglaf went on. “Well, you say I am no use to you in the cabbage fields anyway.”

“Hmm....” Fergus tugged at a chicken bone that had been tangled in his beard all week. “I have it!” he roared at last. “I shall send
Wiglaf
to the dragon school! He is no use to me in the cabbage fields anyway!”

“That’s a fine idea, Fergus,” Molwena put in. “But what about the seven pennies? Where would we get that kind of money?”

Fergus shrugged. “That pig of his should bring seven pennies.”

“You mean, sell Daisy?” Wiglaf cried.

Wiglaf’s younger brother wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Daddy?” he said. “When Wiglaf goes, can I have his goatskin to sleep under?”

“Yes, all right,” replied their father.

“But-” Wiglaf began.

“Can I have his spoon, then?” asked his even younger brother.

“Yes, yes,” answered Fergus.

“Can I have his boots?” asked his still younger brother. “And his britches and his tunic?”

“Wait!” Wiglaf cried. “I’m not dead, am I? I still need my clothes! And I shall never sell Daisy! Never!”

“Oh, do be quiet,” Molwena scolded. “How else are you going to get seven pennies?”

Wiglaf folded his arms across his chest. “I shall find a way.”

“Mommy,” one of the younger brothers whined, “I want to go to the fair! I want to see the two-headed calf.”

“Of course you do!” Molwena exclaimed. “And we don’t want to miss the hanging.” She turned away from the tree, and the rest of the family followed.

All but Wiglaf. He straggled behind, thinking. He was going away to Dragon Slayers’ Academy! And, somehow, he was going to keep Daisy by his side.

Wiglaf smiled. At last he was on his way to becoming a mighty hero.

Well, farewell!“ Wiglaf said the next morning at dawn. Fergus and Molwena and a few of his brothers had gotten up to see him off.

Fergus slapped Wiglaf on the back and roared, “Knock! Knock!”

“Who’s there?” called a little brother.

“Oliver!” said Fergus.

“Oliver who?” asked another little brother.

“Oliver troubles will be over when Wiglaf comes home with the gold!” Fergus cried. He slapped him on the back again.

“Off you go,” Molwena said. “Get a good price for the pig.”

“And don’t come home without the gold!” Fergus added.

Wiglaf picked up his pack. Inside were six cabbage dumplings, a loaf of cabbage bread, and a pickled cabbage tart. He had also put in a length of rope, the map, and his lucky rag.

“Ready, Daisy?” Wiglaf asked.

The faithful pig glanced up at him and wagged her curly tail. Then the two of them set off for Dragon Slayers’ Academy.

They walked south all morning. Around noon, they came to Nowhere Swamp. The minstrel had told Wiglaf tales of this spot. Hungry serpents lurked in the slimy water. Hungry vultures circled overhead. Mad hermits lived in every cave and hollow tree. And most of them were hungry, too.

But worst of all was the quicksand. It was so quick it could suck a boy down—
slurp!
—before he could cry for help. A traveler had to be very careful to get across it with his life.

Wiglaf studied his map closely. “We must cross here, Daisy,” he said. “I shall carry you.”

Wiglaf picked up the pig and started along the spine of rocks jutting out from the quicksand. Wiglaf knew that one false step and—
slurp!
—he would never be a hero.

On a big, flat rock halfway across, Wiglaf stopped. He put Daisy down and searched the swamp to see how far they still had to go.

“Daisy!” Wiglaf cried. “A pointed hat is sinking in the quicksand! And look! There is a head beneath the hat!”

Daisy squealed in alarm.

Wiglaf cupped his hands to his mouth. “Stay where you are!” he shouted to the head. “I shall save you!”

Wiglaf grabbed the rope from his pack. His heart thumped. He never thought that he would be a hero
this
soon! But before he could throw the rope, the hat and head started to rise.

Wiglaf watched, amazed, as a man with a long white beard floated up, out of the sand. He wore a wide-sleeved blue robe dotted with silver stars. He glided over the quicksand toward Wiglaf and Daisy.

Now Daisy squealed in fright.

The man came to a stop in front of Wiglaf. “Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?” he grumbled. “And turn off that pig!”

Instantly, Daisy stopped squealing.

“I am sorry,” Wiglaf managed. “Are—are you a wizard?”

“No, I’m a fairy princess!” the man snapped. “Of course I’m a wizard. You know anyone else who wears a long blue robe with stars on it? I don’t think so. Zelnoc’s the name,” he went on. “And your name is...wait.” The wizard squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t tell me. It’s coming. Ah! I have it. Wigwam! No...Waglump!”

“Close,” Wiglaf said. “I am Wiglaf. And this is my pig, Daisy.”

“Charmed.” The wizard gave a little wave. “Now, Wuglop, what was all that yelling about? And what’s with the rope?”

“I was going to rescue you from the quicksand,” Wiglaf explained.

Zelnoc shook his head. “Do you know nothing of wizards, my boy? I wasn’t sinking. I was in for repairs. This part of the swamp is known as Wizards’ Bog. The quicksand here has strong powers. You see, sometimes my spells go wrong....” He shrugged. “It’s not your problem. So tell me. What are you doing out here in the middle of Nowhere?”

“I am on my way to Dragon Slayers’ Academy,” Wiglaf said proudly.

“You’re kidding!” Zelnoc exclaimed. “You are a dragon slayer?”

“Not yet,” Wiglaf admitted. “But a minstrel told my fortune. He said that I was born to be a hero. And heroes slay dragons, do they not?”

“Some do, I suppose,” the wizard said. “Well, I wish you luck, Wicklamp. And speaking of wishes, what’ll it be?”

“I beg your pardon?” Wiglaf said.

“Your wish!” Zelnoc repeated. “You did interrupt me, it’s true. But you meant well. And Wizard Rule Number 364 says every good deed must be rewarded. So wish away, Wigloop. But make it snappy. I haven’t got all day.”

“All right,” Wiglaf agreed. “I wish for... seven pennies!”

Zelnoc shook his head. “Sorry, kid. Wizards never carry cash.”

“I see.” Wiglaf thought for a moment. Then he said, “How about a suit of armor?”

“No, no, no,” the wizard scolded. “Only
knights
wear armor!”

Wiglaf sighed. “What should I wish for?”

“A sword,” Zelnoc told him.

“All right,” said Wiglaf. “I wish for a sword.”

“An excellent choice!” exclaimed the wizard. “And have I got a sword for you!”

Zelnoc reached up his left sleeve and pulled out a stumpy metal blade. It was badly bent, dented, and covered with rust.

“This is Surekill,” Zelnoc said. “It was made for dragon slaying. It has great power.”

“Oh, is it a magic sword?” Wiglaf asked hopefully.

“Would I give you any other kind?” Zelnoc rolled his eyes. “Now, here’s what you do. Point Surekill at your enemy and say...” The wizard frowned. “What is it, now? ‘Surekill, go get ’em!‘? No... ’Surekill, do your thing!‘? No. But it’s something like that. Anyway, when you do get it right, Surekill will leap from your hand and obey.”