Milo and the Dragon Cross Page 10

  “Eat sparingly,” Ayuthaya advised, “for the food is made with the Blessing of the Grail. You’ll find that a little bit is filling and packed with nourishment. It will not run out until you reach your destination. The blanket is exceptionally warm and light, and will keep you warm and dry even through the wettest of nights.”

  “Here’s a hat to keep your head from the ravages of weather,” Blai said, handing him a broad-brimmed hat of oiled felt. “That and the walking stick mark you as a pilgrim and earn the respect of all who meet you. Because you’re a pilgrim, people along your way will offer you their hospitality, so you can expect to receive a meal and a dry place to sleep, at least in the parts of the path where people live. It’s an old custom that even bandits honor, although that could be because pilgrims rarely have much money or anything worth stealing.”

  “You must never spend two nights in the same place, no matter what,” Ayuthaya instructed. “Follow that rule and you’ll reach the End of the Earth for the Mid-Summer Games.”

  “Mid-Summer Games? What’s that?” Milo asked.

  “It’s the celebration that marks the reason for the Pilgrimage,” Alerik explained. “It’s a tournament that goes back to the Elder Race and the founding of the first clans.”

  “How long is it until mid-summer?” Milo asked just as a group of butterflies swirled in spirals around his head.

  “In twenty-nine days,” replied Alerik. “Watch the moon. Tomorrow it will be full. You must be there when it’s full again.”

  “But how far is it? How will I know that I can get there in time?”

  “It’s twenty-nine days from here,” said Alerik. “Unless you stop and spend more than one night in the same place, or act rudely to a host, or stray from the path, you’ll arrive in time.”

  “And when do I start?”

  “Now. You have already spent one night here. You can’t spend another.”

  Alerik shook Milo’s hand. “Godspeed,” he said.

  Erisa stepped up and kissed Milo on the cheek. “Come back one day when the Hunt is done and tell me all your adventures.”

  Ayuthaya kissed him on the other cheek. “Milo, you are indeed a hero. Remember who you are, even when you doubt yourself or when other people underestimate you.”

  Blai took the ball of rainbow yarn that she had handed him back at the tower and dropped it into his backpack. “Who knows? Perhaps this is a clue,” she said as she winked.

  “Go now, with the blessing of the Grail,” Alerik said.

  Tears glittered in all their eyes as Milo, dressed in the clothes and boots that Ayuthaya had given him for their walk to the Glass Tower, put his hat on his head, slung the pack on his shoulders, and took the staff in his hand. Bori led the way, tail high with pride.

  As he passed Cedric, the old man stopped him to shake his hand. He also handed him another gift. “A water bottle,” Cedric offered. “It’s just an ordinary bottle, but you’ll need to have it if you’re walking. And take this, too.” It was a belt knife with a sturdy blade. “Utrea,” Cedric then said.

  Milo didn’t understand the word, but he would learn it soon enough. Everyone at the castle was extending their hand to shake, wishing him a safe journey. And then he and Bori passed through the gates and out into the forest.

  “Gee, that was weird!” Milo told Bori.

  But Bori ignored his comment. He just trotted along by Milo’s side, tail high with the end tipped over, like a hook. He was looking left and right. “I wonder if we might find a saucer of milk somewhere?” he said.

  It was still morning, but Bori’s comment reminded Milo that they hadn’t had breakfast. The path they were following through the forest didn’t look very promising in terms of available meals. After several hours of walking, the prospects hadn’t improved. Milo had picked up Bori when the cat tired from the steady pace. He let Bori settle into the backpack so Milo could do the walking for them both. Unlike dogs, cats just aren’t built for long, steady endurance. Their strength is of the supple sort, and their natures aren’t suited for dogged duty. Besides, Milo discovered something special about this pack: Even after Bori—and he was by no means a small cat—had made himself comfortable on the blanket inside the pack, the burden felt no heavier.

  Milo thought briefly about going back to search for his flying crate, but he quickly abandoned the idea. First, the crash into the tree had splintered the wood, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to repair it. Second, Ayuthaya had told him that as a pilgrim he must walk, and he had to be a pilgrim if he wanted to get to the End of the Earth. And third, he would have to leave the path in order to go where the crate had crashed—another pilgrim prohibition—and he doubted he could find it anyway.

  A bit farther ahead, they came to a fork in the trail. One way looked as well traveled as the path they had been following, and the other way seemed to be rarely used. Milo saw a sign lying on its side, perhaps blown down in a storm. When he turned it over in order to read it, he saw that the faded, weathered lettering read “End of the Earth.” But because the sign had toppled, Milo couldn’t tell which side of the fork the sign had indicated.

  “So which way do we take?” Milo asked.

  Bori had hopped down to make his own appraisal of the situation. “We wait,” he advised.

  “What for?” Milo asked.

  Bori looked around. “For that,” he said, fixing his green eyes on a spot back the way they had come.

  Milo followed the direction where Bori was looking. A large, iridescent blue butterfly came floating along, sailing on easy wings. It passed just above their heads and, with a couple of deft flicks of its wings, turned along the path less traveled. Soon it disappeared up that trail.

  “Okay,” Milo said. “Let’s go.”

  Bori sprang up to the pack and got his lower body inside so he could sit with his paws on Milo’s shoulders and see the path ahead.

  “How did you know to do that?” Milo asked him.

  “I’m smarter than you are because I ate the Salmon of Wisdom. Besides, I was listening to Blai’s instructions. Didn’t she tell you to listen to me?”

  Milo had to admit that she had, though he sort of resented Bori’s superior attitude about it.

  On they walked. Or, at least, Milo walked. When Bori wasn’t giving directions, he napped. As the day wore on through the afternoon and toward evening, Milo was getting really, really tired, as well as seriously hungry. He said as much to Bori.

  “Think of it as an adventure,” Bori told him. “You’ll get used to missing meals. I’ve missed plenty in my time, though I’d rather not have.”

  Milo thought that that was easier to say from Bori’s position riding in the pack.

  Despite such bravado on the cat’s part, he seemed glad enough to accept a saucer of fresh milk when they came out of the woods at last and stopped at a farm. The farmer called them in to accept some pilgrim’s hospitality, and Milo got a cup of milk, too, along with fresh bread with butter, some cheese, a bowl of stew, and a couple of apples to take along. Milo gave Bori some pieces of meat from his stew—after all, it was the wage they’d agreed upon for Bori coming along as Milo’s guide. And Bori preferred the meat to the carrots and potatoes. By the time Milo pushed back from the table happy and full, the farmer and his wife had offered to let them spend the night in the hayloft of the barn.

  Looking out from the hayloft and onto the path that had brought them—and in the morning would take them to the End of the Earth—Milo noticed a figure loping along. The man was headed the same way that he and Bori would take at sunrise. It was Tivik.

  “Look!” Milo alerted Bori. “I wonder if he caught that deer.”

  “And also found the next clue,” Bori suggested.

  “But how? He wasn’t at the Crane Castle.”

  “Maybe the rainbow and the butterflies were enough. That Tivik is a sneaky one.”

  “Do you think he has to be a pilgrim, too, to get to the End of the Earth?”

  “Ayuthaya
said it’s the only way. But remember what Tinburkin told you: Contestants may find their own clues in their own way, and they might not even be the same clues, as long as the chain of clues gets them back to the Kingdom of Odalese.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Milo agreed. “Can you imagine Count Yeroen or Aulaires walking the whole way as pilgrims?” He thought some more. “If Tivik could figure out the next clue without getting to the Crane Castle, I guess the others, with all their knowledge, might be able to figure out the same thing. And that whole business about an ancient tournament from the Elder Race sounds intriguing.”

  “They may know more because they’re wizards and all, but we’ve gotten a lot of help,” said Bori. “And I think we’re doing just fine, wouldn’t you say?”

  Milo had to agree.

  The next morning was a beautiful day to be walking. Milo was swinging Alerik’s walking stick in tempo with his own strides as the sun rose into the sky. When Milo noticed a huge oak tree standing alone in the field ahead, he thought at first that it was in autumnal foliage, which was odd because it wasn’t yet mid-summer. Then he saw that the tree was filled with butterflies. Yellow ones, purple ones, orange, green, violet, and blue ones. They were taking flight and streaming away in the same direction that Milo and Bori were headed. Very soon, the tree was green again with only its leaves for color.

  “That must mean we’re on the right path,” Milo commented, feeling a marvelous sense of awe at the sight. “I wonder why all the butterflies are going to the same place as we are?”

  “Maybe it’s Ayuthaya’s and Blai’s magic,” Bori suggested.

  “Or maybe it’s something else, something that their magic is based on,” Milo proposed, remembering Blai’s explanations.

  They—or at least Milo—walked all that day. And the next, and the next. In the evenings when Milo stopped for the night, Bori went exploring and managed his own feline business. He did the same whenever Milo took a rest. Milo didn’t ask him for details. As Blai had promised, people welcomed him everywhere along the road without asking him who he was, what he did, or why he was doing what he was doing. Just being a pilgrim was enough. They fed him whatever they had, whether simple or fine. Milo was thankful for whatever they offered, knowing how hungry he would be without it. They offered places to sleep, sometimes a hayloft and sometimes a feather bed with thick, warm blankets. Sometimes he washed his clothes in a river and bathed himself in the cold, flowing water while his things hung over bushes to dry. Sometimes he had the luxury of a real bath in a real tub, with hot water and soap—but that was rare.

  For the first several days he was exhausted after walking for hours on end. He was sore-muscled and blister-footed. Then a deeper weariness set in. He feared he would not be able to go on. Dragging himself up each morning felt hopeless. Only determination—which each day he doubted would sustain him—and the fear of failure pushed him on. But gradually, this faded. The wonders that he met each day helped him forget how hard it was to keep going, and the kindnesses that people offered gave him the courage to continue being a pilgrim. That’s what was expected of him, and what he wanted to be. By and by, the walk became an adventure in its better sense.

  He met other pilgrims, recognizable by their hats and their staffs, their cloaks and their rucksacks, and by the direction they were headed, led by the butterflies. They met one another like old friends, telling their stories, what they had been given to eat, and what they had seen as they walked through the countryside, whether marvelous buildings, grand vistas, or the sweet water from a particular spring. Milo learned about the traditions of the Pilgrim’s Way and the reasons that pilgrims had for finding the End of the Earth, a place that was sacred in the old histories. And he found that there were many mysteries and legends about the site—a likely place, Milo surmised, to find arcane clues that could show him where to look next in the Magical Scavenger Hunt.

  Meanwhile, walking was all that mattered. Milo woke up early to walk. He ate and he rested so he could continue to walk. He washed his clothes, took care of the little gear he had, and took care of himself in order to keep on walking. Some days he walked with other pilgrims for company until the road sent them on ahead separately. Sometimes while they rested, they shared whatever food and drink they had. It was that simple. Despite the continual work of walking, it wasn’t a bad life, Milo decided.

  Over and over he was told by the other pilgrims, “When the butterflies migrate, the End of the Earth draws them and us like a magnet.”

  “But why?” Milo would ask. “Why do the butterflies want to go there?”

  His question was often met with a shrug. “Maybe they’re pilgrims, too. We go there for the same reasons as the butterflies. And for the slinger tournament.” Although Milo didn’t know what a slinger tournament was, he decided it was something he would learn when the time came.

  One day Milo was waiting at a crossroads for a butterfly to show him the way when three pilgrims came up the road. Unlike most pilgrims, they where whooping, and dashing this way and that, using some sort of scoop-like things attached to their right arms to toss a ball back and forth. The pilgrims were noisy, high-spirited, and generally so congenial that Milo liked them immediately.

  “Utrea!” he called to them as they came to the crossroads. He had learned that this word was the customary pilgrim greeting. As far as Milo could tell, it meant something like “Onward!”

  “Utrea!” they called back and then walked toward him. Milo looked at the scoop-like objects they carried—elongated, curved woven baskets as long as a forearm, closed at the neck where the boys’ hands reached through to grip a handle. The ball they tossed about was the size of a fist—just right to roll along the trough of the basket. The ball looked to be made of hard rubber. The three boys—a few years older than Milo, he guessed—tossed and caught the ball with the basket with amazing speed and dexterity.

  “Look!” said one. “He’s got a cat!”

  “That’s Bori,” Milo said. “Boriboreau. He’s my companion.” Milo was used to the attention that Bori drew. No other pilgrim was traveling with a cat. “I’m Milo.”

  The new pilgrims stopped tossing the ball and, one after the other, pulled their hands free of the bats to shake Milo’s hand.

  “I’m Teryl,” said the first.

  “I’m Deryl,” said the second.

  “And I’m Beryl,” added the third.

  They all looked exactly alike to Milo. They could have been identical twins if there had been just two of them. They had red hair and freckles, and all three were very lean and agile. Real jock types, Milo decided.

  “Are you pilgrims?” Milo asked.

  “That we are,” said one.

  “We’re headed for the End of the Earth,” said the next.

  “We’re going to play in the End of the Earth slinger tournament,” said the third. “We’re a team. We’re the best.”

  Whatever slinger was, Milo decided, the tournament must be a good reason to be a pilgrim.

  “Yeah!” said the one who Milo thought was Beryl. “We’re going to prove it at the End.”

  “Players come from all over to play at the End,” explained Deryl.

  “But since you have to be a pilgrim to get to the End of the Earth, we’re pilgrims,” added Teryl.

  “What is slinger?” Milo asked. “I’m guessing that it’s some kind of ritual game that’s played at the End of the Earth, but what is it exactly?”

  “What’s slinger? What’s slinger!” Teryl replied, as if Milo had committed heresy. “Slinger’s the best, the fastest, the most amazing game there is!”

  “Only the best teams come to the tournament at the End,” chimed in Beryl, “because only the best ones need bother.”

  “Winning there is the absolute top honor there is!” enthused Deryl. “The winners are the heroes of the whole world.”

  Sort of like the Super Bowl, Milo thought, recalling his own world for a comparison.

  “After we win there
, nobody anywhere can tell us what we can or can’t do, or where we can or can’t go, or that we’re nobodies,” Deryl continued. “We’ll prove that we’re the best. Slinger is what we should be doing instead of something else.”

  Milo detected a story behind that outburst. He decided not to go into it just yet. Maybe he’d ask again when he knew them better. “So, how is slinger played? You see, I come from another place altogether. We play soccer, football, basketball, baseball, hockey, tennis, and stuff like that. I never heard of slinger.”

  “I don’t know about those other games you mentioned,” Teryl said, “but with slinger, we don’t need ‘em. Slinger is the absolute game! Here, we’ll show you.”

  “I’m the goalie,” said Beryl. “Nothing gets past me. I can catch anything.”

  “I’m the forward,” Teryl said. “When Beryl catches the ball, he fires it out to me. I put it through the midline ring and into play for our side. I can outrun anybody, so the other team can’t pluck the ball before I can pass it to Deryl―”

  “Most of the time, you mean,” Beryl corrected him.

  “Yeah! Most of the time I get it!” Teryl said with fervor.

  “―so I can attack the opponent’s goal,” Deryl went on, breaking into the other two’s bickering. “Teryl and I work the ball back and forth until I get an opening on the opposing team’s goalie, then—bam!—I shoot the goal.”

  “Deryl’s our striker,” Teryl explained. “Nobody can shoot with the same speed that he can. And if he misses―”

  “Which doesn’t happen very often,” Deryl asserted.

  “―then I’m there to pluck it off before the other team’s forward, also called a runner, can recover it,” Teryl continued.

  “Let’s show him!” Beryl said. “Go long, Teryl!”

  Off went Teryl like a shot. In no time at all, he was way up the road. Beryl, with the ball resting in the basket of his scoop, whipped it out, sending the ball in a fast, hard arc. Teryl caught it in a lunge with his scoop and whipped it high into the air.