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A light rain began to fall as I and my companions touched down near the stables of Mortimer the Blind. Harold the Herald stood across the yard talking in hushed tones with a tall hooded and cloaked figure. Noticing our arrival, Harold ceased his conversation and hurried to our position.
“Allow me to assist your Majesty,” Harold said. He approached Pat and helped her dismount. An offered hand assisted the princess as she leaped down from the back of her gryphon. “I shall see to your beast, your highness.”
Harold took the animal by the reigns and led it into the nearby stable. As he walked away, he and the hooded man exchanged a knowing nod. Two stable hands quickly appeared and tended to Merv and my gryphons, leading them in the direction Harold had disappeared.
With our animals tended to, we headed for the main house and the mysterious cloaked figure. Dressed in black from head to toe, our unknown host seemed unconcerned with our arrival. As we got closer, I noticed a large black buzzard perched upon his shoulder. Its small beady eyes tracked me and my companions across the courtyard. A brilliant flash of lightening illuminated the cloaked figure momentarily, shadows quickly pushing the light away from man and bird. It almost appeared that darkness flowed forth from this person. I had a bad feeling.
“I am sorry thine has traveled so far on such a dreary day, your majesty. Sir Mortimer is not in good health and will not be able to accommodate visitors today,” a gravelly voice rasped from within the hood. “I am Cyrus Fowler, Sir Mortimer’s personal assistant and will be happy to inform him that you dropped by.”
“Nonsense,” Pat replied. “We will not tax Uncle Mort unduly. It is imperative that my young friend have an audience immediately. Please inform thy master that we art here.”
Cyrus stood unmoving for a long moment. The tension was palpable. With an exasperated sigh, he removed the hood covering his head and locked gazes with Pat.
Cyrus Fowler stood around six and a half feet tall and was solidly built. Black unruly hair fell across his pale blue eyes, eyes that glittered with a malicious intent. Dark stubble covered his chin.
A sense of impending conflict hung in the air like the storm clouds that gathered above us. Pat and Cyrus each stood their ground, neither giving an inch.
“As I said, your highness,” he said with a sneer, “Sir Mortimer is not available due to his health. If you hurry, you can be back to your daddy’s castle before the storm hits.”
“Let me be clear, sir,” Pat replied, “we are going to see Uncle Mort today; right now. I am not asking for your permission. I am telling you to stand aside ... Now.”
Pat’s tone of voice left little doubt about her intentions.
“And if I refuse your request, Princess?”
“Then I will return to my daddy’s castle and immediately return with my daddy.”
Cyrus stood firm, weighing his options. After what appeared to be a great internal debate, he bowed slightly and smiled malevolently. “Of course, your highness, as you wish,” he finally responded.
Stepping aside, Cyrus called into the house, “Sir Mortimer, you have visitors.” Turning back to us, he pointed toward the door and said, “Please try not to stay too long. He needs his rest.”
With that, he stomped across the yard taking his creepy bird with him.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“Very strange,” Pat replied. “Let’s go talk to Uncle Mort. Maybe he can shed some light on what just happened. Entering the house, Pat called out, “Uncle Mort? Hello? Uncle Mort, it is Pitter Pat.”
Venturing deeper into the dimly lit dwelling, Pat continued calling her Uncle’s name. The house resembled a museum instead of a home. Exotic looking artifacts from all over the world filled every available space.
Merv pointed out piece after piece, explaining each one’s significance or origin.
“That’s a Falovian war hammer,” he exclaimed. “That weapon single-handedly turned the tide of the First Coronian Wars.”
Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of Sir Mortimer’s collection, I heard only a small fraction of what Merv said. My mind struggled to take all of the wondrous items in.
“Oh my, a Tracorian long sword,” Merv continued. “Prized for both its strength and flexibility, the Traconian long sword is forged using a process that is much more advanced than any of the ...” Merv droned on.
My attention, however, was elsewhere. What appeared to be a surfboard leaned against the wall in a corner of the room! Swords, staffs, and a variety of other weapons and artifacts also lay propped against it, concealing much of it from view, but I had no doubt that I gazed upon an honest to goodness surfboard. I began to make my way between rows and stacks of books and manuscripts in order to more closely investigate my find. I had to be sure.
“Halt! Who goes there?” a frail, scratchy voice demanded from within the doorway ahead.
Focusing on the voice, I now noticed that candle light flickered through the next open portal.
“Uncle Mort?” Pat responded. “It is Pitter Pat. May we enter?”
“Pitter Pat? Ah, my favorite niece! Come in, child. Come in.”
“I have traveled with two companions, Uncle Mort. Merv Gryphon, advisor and mage in my father’s court and Eli Arnold, friend and traveler. Eli is here seeking answers in hopes of finding a way home,” Pat advised.
“Yes, yes dear. You and your friends come in and join me in a cup of tea,” Sir Mortimer replied.
Pat smiled and motioned for us to follow her into the next room. Surfboard momentarily forgotten, I excitedly fell into line behind Pat and Merv and prepared myself to meet Sir Mortimer the Blind.
I wasn’t prepared to meet Sir Mortimer the Blind. As we entered the room, the candle light revealed an elderly man sitting in what appeared to be a tub of water. His long gray hair was pulled back into a pony tail that disappeared down his back. Sightless eyes stared forward, unaware of our arrival. An almost circular scar began at the top of Sir Mortimer’s left shoulder and continued down below his chest and under his left arm.
“Shark bite,” the old man croaked. “Got that surfing off the Great Barrier Reef when I was a kid.”
I knew that was a surfboard in the corner of the outer chamber! My earlier suspicions were confirmed—Sir Mortimer the Blind was a traveler like Merv and me!
“How did you know ...” I began.
“Everyone asks about the scar,” Mortimer replied. “Figured you dudes were staring at it,” he cackled.
I smiled broadly. This man possessed great insight despite his lack of vision.
“So, you guys wanna join me in a cup of tea or not?” the old man asked again.
“We are not thirsty, Uncle Mort,” Pat replied. “We are here to see if you can help my friend, Eli, find his way home.”
“My dear, Pat, you misunderstand. I’m inviting you and your friends to soak in this herbal tea mixture with me. It’s a concoction made by the Eronian Mountain dwellers from several different kinds of teas. Very relaxing and great for the skin. I have extra swimsuits if you guys want in.”
Pat leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I warned you that he could be quite literal in his speech.”
She hadn’t been kidding. The first time I heard someone use the phrase “break a leg,” I wondered why anyone would say that. My mother explained that the phrase was only a figure of speech meaning good luck. No one literally means that they want or hope that you break your leg. Unless, of course, you are told to break a leg by Sir Mortimer the Blind.
“Join me in a cup of tea” typically means, let’s drink tea together, not literally let’s get in a cup of tea. Again, unless you are speaking with Sir Mortimer the Blind.
I nodded my understanding to Pat and prepared to decline the tea bath.
“You know, I’m blind, not deaf,” Mortimer said from the tub. “And there’s nothing wrong with saying what you mean. That’s a lesson that someone looking for answers would do well to learn. Sometimes the answers you see
k are right in front of you, boy.”