CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THE COOK

 Alexander struggled and fought his captors as they drug him into the field leading to Morgan’s lair. Any trying to escape was futile. The guards multiplied. More guards joined in with every step. They popped out of the woods, pits, and caves. There were hundreds against one puny thirteen-year-old boy.

      He scanned the unicorn enclosure for any sign of Malley. There was none. Silently, he begged O’Toole to help, but all he received was a message: The leprechaun you are trying to contact is not available. Please hang up and try again later. He knew it was hopeless to try to locate Abby. The girl was just plain useless.

Surrounded by a throng of pond squirrels, blue and black zombies, dozens of the King’s soldiers, an assortment of snakes, and a few giant hairy yellow spiders, Alexander did what any brave boy would have done: he fainted. It wasn’t the most effective means of escape, but the easiest way to avoid pain.

                                                                  *

Alexander awoke to the putrid smell of rotten eggs and a severe headache. A feeling of emptiness consumed him. He broke down, and for the first time, he allowed his emotions to surface. Alexander blamed the whole ordeal on his parents. If they had refused to sign the permission slip in the first place, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. The next blame fell on his brother and sister. There was no sign of remorse when he told them he could die during the mission. They should have told him to be careful and try not to die. His family sucked. He also blamed Abby. It was her fault too. She was annoying, aggravating, and so cute.

The cell door creaked open, allowing a smidgen of light to filter in. Alexander jumped when four burly guards flung the door open, causing it to rattle. Two, dressed in black satin frocks and tights, walked into the cell and stood on either side of the doorway. The other two guards remained in the hall with their arms crossed, showing off their muscular biceps.

A dwarf or leprechaun—Alexander still couldn’t tell the difference—entered the cell, pushing a large tub full of water.

The small person studied a clipboard and then checked a name on the board. “You’re the right prisoner. We need to prepare you to see Morgan.” The person left the cell without saying another word.

The cell remained intense for the next few minutes. Alexander, too afraid to move, felt uncomfortable at the guards’ eerie silence. He tiptoed to the tub and peeked inside. “Do I need to bathe before I see the witch?” His question went unanswered. He turned to the guards. “Hey, Bert and Ernie, do you guys talk?” There was no answer. “Figures. I suppose I’m gonna have to guess what comes next.” He placed a finger into the water, “Yup, that’s hot enough for a bath. Could you fellows close your eyes or something? You know privacy?”

Bert and Ernie looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and closed their eyes. Alexander decided this was as good a time as any to escape and made it to the door. A round, diminutive man wearing a white jacket and a chef’s hat prevented Alexander from escaping.

“Going somewhere?” he smirked. “Sorry I’m late, but important matters detained me.” Rubbing his pudgy hands together, he continued, “Shall we get started? We have little time. We’ve just been informed that the King will join Morgan for dinner tonight.”

Great, I’m gonna be executed and burned at the same time. “Is that why I need to bathe? Like, I gotta get clean for the King and Morgan?”

“Bath?” the fat man asked, confused.

“The water, the tub, all that’s missing is my rubber ducky.” Alexander tried to sound calm and unafraid, but his insides were shivering from fear.

“There’s been a mistake,” the chef said with a snap of his finger. “My apologies for the confusion.” A servant, dressed in a similar white grease-stained jacket appeared at his side. The servant whisked the tub from the room.

“Then I don’t need a bath?” it relieved Alexander.

“No.” The chef snapped his fingers, and a servant wheeled in another tub, followed by another servant pushing a table filled with spices, sauces, and an assortment of vegetables.

I hope that’s dinner.

“As I said, there is no need for a bath.” The chef, servants, and guards chuckled. “Now, if you could be so kind as to remove your clothing and step into the tub.” Motioning for the servants and guards to leave, the chef straightened his hat, selected a sharp knife, and stabbed a large onion. “I’ll give you some privacy. Get undressed, and I’ll be back in twelve minutes to start the marinating.”

Alexander realized he was no longer wearing the clothes he had worn before they captured him. In their place was an orange prison jumpsuit, three sizes too large. His shirt was embossed in front with the words GRADE A CHOICE.