Sir Snuffles And The Magic Crown

“Perhaps it’s breakfast,” I whispered.

“It is not breakfast,” Mother said.

I tapped the shell.

Nothing happened.

I tapped it twice.

A tiny voice shouted from inside, “STOP KNOCKING! I’M TRYING TO HATCH!”

I jumped so high that both my ears flapped like pink flags. My boot landed in a watering can. The can tipped over, sprayed my pajamas, and rolled downhill with a cheerful metal clatter.

The egg wobbled.

“Oh dear,” I said.

“Move away,” said Mother.

The egg wobbled harder.

“Perhaps it needs encouragement.”

“Move away.”

I gave the shell one gentle pat.

It exploded.

Golden pieces flew through the cabbages. One landed in my porridge bowl. Another stuck to the mayor’s garden gnome. A third bounced off my snout and dropped down the back of my pajamas.

Out popped a tiny purple dragon with green wings, golden horns, and cheeks puffed up as if he had swallowed two balloons.

“Hic!” he said.

A bubble floated from his nose and burst with a tiny pop.

The dragon blinked at me.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Pickles.”

“Hic!”

A small purple flame shot from his mouth and singed the end of my left ear.

I patted it quickly.

“Good morning, Pickles.”

“Hic!”

This time the flame set fire to a cabbage.

Mother whacked it out with her wooden spoon.

“Who is this?” she demanded.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “He came out of the egg.”

Pickles fluttered up, spun in a circle, and landed on my head. His little claws gripped my ears.

“Are you the legendary pig hero?” he asked.

I looked around the garden. The gnome was still face-down. The watering can was upside down in a bush. The cabbage smoked gently.

“If you mean the pig who won the village cabbage-eating contest, that was me,” I said. “But legendary? Not really.”

Pickles’s wings drooped.

“Hic.”

A bubble drifted down and landed on Mother’s nose.

She stared at him through it.

I felt sorry for the tiny dragon. I picked up the piece of toast I had carried outside and offered it to him.

Pickles swallowed the toast, the butter, and the plate.

Mother raised one eyebrow.

“Well,” she said, “at least he has an appetite.”

Pickles patted his round purple belly. “I have a mission.”

“Hic!”

His hiccup blew a puff of smoke across my face.

“What sort of mission?” I asked.

He pulled a rolled-up parchment from behind one wing. It was nearly twice as tall as he was. When he unrolled it, the bottom sagged into the mud.

“The Magic Crown of Baconia has been stolen,” he announced.

A breeze lifted the parchment. It smacked him in the face.

“By whom?” I asked.

Pickles wrestled the parchment back into place.

“Lord Stinkbeard.”

Even the garden gnome seemed to groan.

Pickles pointed to a picture drawn in dark ink. It showed a tall wizard with a crooked hat, a long coat, and a beard that appeared to have been combed with a fork.

“He stole the crown before I hatched,” Pickles explained. “Without it, Baconia’s chocolate rivers are turning into broccoli soup. The castle towers are wobbling. And the royal bath inspectors are making every pig wash behind both ears.”

Mother gasped.

“Both ears?”

Pickles nodded solemnly. “The prophecy is very clear.”

I glanced at my muddy boots. I glanced at the smoking cabbage. I glanced at Pickles, who was now trying to eat the parchment.

“Stop chewing the prophecy,” I said.

He spat out a corner. “I was checking whether it was important.”

I looked toward the road beyond our garden gate. It curled past the hills and disappeared into the blue distance.

Lord Stinkbeard had stolen the crown. Baconia needed help. Pickles needed someone brave enough to travel with him.

I had a sandwich in the kitchen.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

Mother lowered her spoon. “Do what?”

“Help Pickles recover the crown.”

“With those boots?”

“They are sturdy boots.”

“One is full of water.”

I lifted my foot. Water sloshed inside it.

“That means it is extra sturdy.”

Mother sighed the way she did when I tried to explain why jam belonged on both sides of a sandwich. Then she went inside to pack provisions. I followed, with Pickles perched on my shoulder and hiccupping smoke into my ear.

We gathered twelve apples, a cheese sandwich, spare socks, a map drawn by a confused chicken, and my lucky rubber duck. Pickles climbed into my backpack.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked.

“No.”

“Would you like to come out?”

“No.”

“Then why did you climb in?”

“I’m comfortable being uncomfortable.”

A hiccup shook the backpack. A tiny flame poked through the cloth.

Mother tied the top shut with a scarf.

She stood by the garden gate while I adjusted the straps. Her missing slipper had turned up inside the flour cupboard, though no one knew how.

“You can still change your mind,” she said.

I looked at the road. Then I looked at Pickles’s purple nose sticking out of the backpack.

“If I stay home, Baconia gets broccoli soup.”

“And if you go?”

“I might get broccoli soup somewhere else.”

Mother smiled and tucked the sandwich safely into my coat.

“Come back before supper.”

“I will.”

“Try not to set anything important on fire.”

“I’ll try not to set anything important on fire.”

Pickles sneezed.

A spark flew from the backpack and landed on the enchanted garden gate.

The gate had stood at the end of our garden for as long as I could remember. Its iron bars were twisted into vines, moons, and tiny silver pigs. Usually, it opened onto the road. Today, the spark zipped through the metalwork.

The gate shuddered.

A bell rang somewhere underground.

“Oh,” said Mother.

The gate swung open.

Beyond it was not the ordinary road. It was a swirling tunnel of green light, purple stars, and what looked suspiciously like floating cabbage leaves.

Pickles poked his head out of the backpack.

“Is that normal?”

“No,” Mother and I said together.

The wind tugged at my pajamas. My ears flapped. The sandwich flew out of my coat, sailed through the gate, and smacked Pickles on the nose.

He caught it in his mouth.

“My sandwich,” I cried.

Pickles swallowed.

“I thought it was a dragon.”

The gate gave a loud metallic groan.

I grabbed the backpack. Mother grabbed my tail.

For one splendid second, we all held on.

Then Pickles hiccupped.

A purple flame burst from the backpack.

The gate sneezed.

Mother’s slipper flew off. My lucky rubber duck launched into the air. The garden gnome spun past us like a tiny stone helicopter.

The wind pulled harder.

“Let go!” Mother shouted.

“Of what?” I shouted back.

“Everything!”

That seemed like poor advice, but the gate was already dragging us forward. I clutched the backpack straps, squeezed my eyes shut, and felt the ground vanish beneath my boots.

We shot through the tunnel.

I heard bells. I heard Pickles yelling, “I regret eating the map!” I heard my rubber duck squeaking somewhere behind us. Something cold slapped my cheek. Something warm landed on my head. I suspected it was a cabbage leaf.

Then we landed.

I landed on my bottom.

Pickles landed on my stomach.

The backpack landed on Pickles.

The rubber duck landed in my mouth.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Pickles hiccupped.

The sound echoed across the wet ground.

I sat up and spat out the duck.

We were standing at the edge of a gloomy swamp. Gray reeds poked from black water. Mist curled between the trees. Somewhere nearby, something made a long, slurping noise.

Pickles climbed out of the backpack and stared at the swamp.

“This is not the mushroom forest.”

“No,” I said.

He unfolded the map. It was missing one corner and had a bite-shaped hole in the middle.

“Perhaps the mushroom forest moved.”

“It did not.”

“Perhaps the swamp moved.”

“It might have.”

A frog wearing a tiny hat rose from the mud, looked at us, and sank again without a word.

I turned toward the gate.

It stood far behind us, glowing faintly between the reeds. Then it snapped shut with a click and vanished.

The road ahead split into three muddy paths. One disappeared beneath the mist. One led toward a crooked bridge. The third ended at a sign that read:

WELCOME TO THE GLOOMY SWAMP. PLEASE WIPE YOUR FEET.

Pickles swallowed.

“Hic.”

A purple flame singed the sign.

I brushed swamp mud from my pajamas and straightened my coat. My boots squelched with every step.

Mother was safely at home. The crown was still stolen. Pickles was still hiccupping. And the only road we could see led straight into the gloom.

I picked up the backpack.

“Come on,” I said.

“Which way?” Pickles asked.

I studied the three paths.

The one with the bridge looked the least wet.

I pointed to the darkest trail.

“That one.”

Pickles blinked. “Why?”

“It looks important.”

Behind us, the swamp made another enormous slurping noise.

I took one soggy step forward.

My boot stayed behind.

End of chapter one. 4 more chapters and about 10,371 words in the full book.