Samuel H. Spalding The Crying Knight Leo was the strongest boy in the forest, or so he thought. With his hickory stick brandished in his hand he was invincible: with a swing and a scream he made sure the whole forest knew this. Leo’s mother was walking through with him, the way had made itself hidden as the undergrowth coiled over the human path and she was struggling to recognise it. Leo did not mind. He flattened his own path of destruction swiping at every fern and bracken he could; he cried at every valiant slay while his mother grew exhausted, begging Leo to be quiet for a bit so she could find her bearings, her phone having no signal. Leo stopped, only to spot a wild piglet snout-deep in the roots of the briars, its mother nowhere to be seen: at last a worthy beast to vanquish! Leo charged with a battle cry but his mother was quicker and snatched up Leo mid-stride, wary that the boar’s mother must be close. Leo kicked his little legs in frustration, eventually breaking free. In outrage he struck his mother in the knee and sped towards the briars, the boar longing having ran away. His mother keeled, winced, and could not keep up through the thorns as fast as Leo. She cried after him as he disappeared. Leo I’m sorry! Please come back, Leo! Soon her cries grew distant, but Leo was not listening anyway, his face scrunched up in violent anticipation. He ran out of breath to scream and stopped; the woods were now unknown to him, the trees bigger, the sky darker, and now with no mother to search for the path. A swell of panic in his gut, the sounds and smell of the branches and flowers grew unfamiliar. He spotted his mother, but she seemed different. She now had a mossy green cloak covering her entirely and a small basket in her hand. Where did she get these from? She also had no care for Leo’s presence, as she happily picked up mushrooms and hummed a little tune. When she bent over Leo saw this woman’s face, wrinkled and cragged, blending into the dirty green of the cloak her weedy hair. She had a smile with every mushroom she picked up. Leo changed: not worried anymore and now focused, angry for being tricked by this not-mother he charged at her like he did the wild boar. She straightened herself to a noticeable height and finally had to pay attention to this wild boy swinging a stick at her tired old legs. ‘Child? Excuse me, child? Could you please cease? The forest is large and my legs are tired from walking all through it. Besides, you would not accomplish anything, I promise.’ Leo slowed his flurry as his strikes were not hitting anything. He concentrated and tested this; each time his stick went through the cloak with no pain or no contact as the old lady still kept standing. She was still smiling, unoffended as she knows how men are, and grasped the hickory from his hands. Leo was staggered so could only watch as she focused in turn, and Leo’s weapon warped into a sunflower with a long stem and blooming head. ‘Here you go boy, I think this is a much nicer plaything.’ Leo said thank you and held his new toy, astonished. The stem bent over and the head slowly stroked the forest floor. He dared not throw it away. ‘Now boy, you are quite lost are you not? Do you miss your mother? What is your name?’ ‘L-Leo… What’s your name missus?’ 1 Samuel H. Spalding ‘Well Leo, let us take you home shall we? I know these woods, every bough and bird, you will be back in time for tea. Take my hand.’ Leo stared at the mossy and muggy hand, dusted with the debris of the forest floor. He slowly pressed his palm in hers, as not to be rude, and put one foot in front of the other. It seemed to Leo that the forest was opening up, but the trees were getting larger. Every being here had the impression of leaning, bowing, towards this lady in some weird respect. He did not recognise anything but was not going to question her ways. Gently the forest’s low moan of reverence set Leo easy in his walk. ‘I’m sorry for trying to hit you.’ ‘Oh do not concern yourself. You had quite a strong swing, do you practice?’ ‘Practice?’ ‘You must do. You remind me of a young Sir Godfrey. Has your mother ever told you about him?’ ‘No, was he important?’ ‘Well he claimed this entire forest, if you can believe such a thing, but the town and that castle was definitely his. Are you sure you have not heard of him?’ ‘No, my teacher hasn’t told me either, and she knows everything.’ ‘I am sure she does, but I am not surprised, not much is disclosed about him anymore, and it is hard to find anything about him written down. Back in 1355 all the monks burned-’ she could see that she was leading Leo down another confusing path. ‘But that is boring for a boy, I know! Sir Godfrey was a warrior, very strong and loved to fight, much like yourself. He always rode around his town to keep an eye on everyone in it, wearing his armour even during peace. He wielded a gigantic battle-axe in tribute to his old ancestor whom was merely a woodsman, very rare at the time. All the little townspeople thought he was very noble and fierce. Myself, I always thought he was a bully, more like a mess to be found underneath my sandal, a real piece of… nothing to be told to a young boy your age. Are you following? ‘Well, I think,’ Leo muttered as he kicked the leaves on the ground. ‘I am sorry, this all must be strange. To explain plainly, he thought he owned this forest as he loved to hunt here. However, he hated me and he especially hated my house here as well. It is strange: how can anyone hate my charming little cottage?’ They both had walked up to a branching path where she could show Leo her habitat. Leo didn’t think much of it, chiefly he was thinking of his own home, bright, new, and with all his toys and games. This hut was pushed up against several trees fighting for space, with a heavy top filled by masses of dirty straw under a family of ravens nesting near a squat chimney, eying Leo with unease. ‘It’s very pretty.’ ‘Thank you my dear.’ ‘My mum said I’m not allowed in stranger’s houses’ ‘And right she is! I am not taking you here in any case; your home is a bit farther. I just wanted to show you. Let us get back to Sir Godfrey.’ They strolled on past her homely cottage, having now found a clear path. ‘Sir Godfrey wanted me begone so he could commence his hunting in solitude without my presence bothering him. If I remember I believe he was a wee bit scared of me, hah! Can you imagine that!’ Leo gripped the sunflower tighter. ‘One day he came trotting up here ready to fight hell itself. He knew he was the strongest, I was not convinced, thus one of us came up with a challenge, I cannot recollect which one of us it was, that if he could defeat whatever “monstrosity” or “hell- 2 Samuel H. Spalding creature” I called forth he could keep my cottage and I would fade away from here. Look, at your feet, see where it leads.’ Leo had not noticed but they had been walking on spongy ground for a few steps now and there was a thick, musky smell. Clusters of mushrooms in a vast stretch surrounded them. Leo was asked to bend down and have a peak. The soil was odd, damp with this musk, a purple mulch soaking it through. It felt sticky and gritty. The mushrooms dotted to a nearby oak, going to where Leo could not see. He crept around carefully and saw where this ‘purple’ was coming from. It seeped from the wounds of this slumped-over creature, long dead but still wet from its own blood. Its head and limbs were broken over the ground and its damp scales, feathers, wings, tails and claws all warped around each other, stained with purple and hiding the rotten green and orange of its natural colours. Leo could have stared into its huge icy eye, easily as big as his head, empty and flecked, but did not: he was taken by the funny beak at its end, and the fleshy crest poking up and below its head. ‘Is this a big chicken? It’s really scary.’ ‘You are not the only one to think that. When I said that Sir Godfrey was strong I was not playing japes: he fought with a ferocity and that I have not seen until you tried to hit my legs. This is a cockatrice: when she is angry she scratches and pecks until one is in pieces. I thought she would make short work of Sir Godfrey, she has with every other man I set her on,’ The old lady rested a hand on the cockatrice, feeling the brawny feather-scales between her finger tips ‘but he proved himself.