The Narrathon is over, the Solstice is past, the Yuletide celebrations have finished and all the residents have renewed their allegiance to Castle Marsh on a surprisingly mild and windy Green Willow Day.
Willoughby the Narrator has said his goodbyes to his followers and to his many friends at the castle, but King Fred accompanies him to the gate.
“You are very welcome to stay, you know.”
“Thank you, but I think I must move on, or I could get too comfortable in one place all winter.”
“It didn’t stop you taking the residency at Buckmore,” Fred says, referring to the previous year when Willoughby had been Narrator-in-residence, an initiative of Prince Lupin’s that had turned into a fixture.
Wiilloughby smiles, and looks over the southern marsh and the expanse of reeds he must travel through before he reaches the line of trees in the west.
“Where next, anyway?” asks Fred.
“I think I’ll visit the ladies.”
Fred laughs. “Well, they’ll give you a warm welcome. Then you’ll be eaten alive by their own story-tellers!”
“Yes, they’re very good. Glad they don’t go travelling or they’d put the rest of us out of work.”
“I have a job for you to do, if you want to keep moving. Actually, I have a job for you if you don’t, as well.”
“I know you need a steward, and I am thinking about it. Seriously. If you don’t have one this time next year…”
“Come for our Narrathon next year, then, and it’ll cover what I’d like you to do in the meantime.”
Willoughby looks at him with narrowed eyes.
“It should be easy. Just keep your eyes open.”
“I always do that.”
“Well, we need to know what’s going on at Vexstein. Really know, I mean, not just what they tell us. What the people think, how they are treated.”
“Whether the rumours are true, in fact.”
Fred nods, lips grim. “Be careful, though. We’ve not seen any refugees from there for months. Many months.”
Willoughby sighs. “I also need to check the situation at White Horse. And nobody’s seen Prince Kevin of Deeping since the spring.”
“If you go to Vexstein, tell Lupin or me that you’re going in, and tell us when you come out, too.”
“How long will you wait after I go in?”
Fred pauses. He’s not thought of that. How long will Willoughby need to find out what’s going on? How quickly should he or Prince Lupin take action if they don’t hear from him? And how long would make it too late?
“If I go in,” says Willoughby, having worked through the same questions in his head, “I’ll make sure someone knows how I am each day. I’ll let you know. If I go.”
Fred nods. Being a king is no fun, most of the time.
Willoughby grins. He sets off down the track from the castle, round the pond and off towards the woods. His fiddlesticks are casually slung across his back, and he whistles a jaunty tune. Being a narrator is fun, all the time. Especially when you have hidden talents.
(c) J M Pett 2015
