Martin had always considered himself to be an adventurous person. After all, he spent copious quantities of money and effort engineering his own forays into the world’s most exciting and magnificent places and cultural experiences. But that was just it, all of his adventures were engineered controlled, created, hardly more exciting than a ride on a roller coaster. Sure, something could always go wrong, but each “adventure” was designed to be safe, and given the appearance of risk. Now, here was Martin, not half a foot tall, in a strange land that may, or may not be Scotland, with a pack of nine druids (druids!?!), powerful enough, at least, to shrink ten people, on the loose, aiming to exercise some monstrous plan to enslave a magical race, and he, Martin Bentbrook, was meant to stop them, five inches tall, with a sword that belonged through an olive in a martini glass. Martin began to understand what the word “adventure” really meant, and then he panicked.
When Martin was on vacation, when he was out in the world where he could make the rules and set the limits, he was brave. He was brave because he was playing a game, and because he was in control. He knew he could back out of anything, at any time. If ever one of his vacations became too much for him, he could just pack up and go home. He called the shots, and he could call it quits. But when Martin was at home, when he was attached to the corporate/consumer machine, he had no control. He had to purchase to survive, and he had to earn to purchase. He was a pawn in the great game of market economics. This vacation was beginning to seem very much like life at home, except now there was real danger, added to the mix. At home he was a pawn in a game of numbers and processes and buying and selling, and the danger was figurative – here he was a pawn in a game of swords and magic, and the danger could kill him.
Why did the banshee, or whatever she was, choose him? He didn’t feel very brave right now. Right now he felt like sitting at a desk in a cubicle and pushing paper around. He crumpled against the thistle’s enormous stalk, and sat motionless, willing himself to wake up from what he knew was not a dream. Before very long, Martin had managed to convince himself that the banshee had singled him out in error. He decided that he would have a bit of an adventure after all, and his quest would be getting back to his own size and his own world (if, in fact he was in a different one, he was still unsure of that). Until he managed that, he would do his best to take what came in stride, and to keep his head down.
Martin got up and stretched, picked up his sword and jammed it through his belt. He looked around, trying to decide what would be the best direction in which to set off, and then he heard a soft sigh. It startled him.
“Who’s there?” he called in a wobbly sort of voice. He looked around in all directions (seeing no-one) and tried to free his sword from his belt.
“Oh, please leave that where it is,” said a voice rather like a child’s. The voice was that of a young boy’s, but as if someone much older was speaking with it. “I’m allergic to it, you know.”
The voice had come from above him. Martin swung his head to face upwards. About two feet up the thistle, a figure was perched in the crook of a large barb, peering down at Martin. His hair was cream custard yellow and his skin was a deep tan. Even from that great distance, Martin could see that his eyes were bright green, and that they sparkled. His clothes were simple, just a sleeveless, white tunic and knee-length honey-colored trousers. His face, well, his face was odd, like his bones had been sculpted by a master craftsman instead of a mere tradesman. Martin stared and let his sword slip back into the belt. The strange man (boy? Martin was unsure) smiled.
Martin cleared his throat, “What, um, who are you?”
“Ha-ha, it is rude for the visitor to demand information before offering any himself,” the smile remained intact – he wasn’t really offended, just making manners into a game.
“I’m sorry. My name is Martin Bentbrook. I came here by accident, I think. I was in Scotland, you see, and, well, this sounds silly … I, I fell on a light.”
“Ah. A light. That is troubling.” The blond man frowned slightly, then the smile returned. “But we can speak of such things later. For now, you must consider yourself lucky to have stumbled upon Underland. I am called Thrushsong, Martin Bentbrook. You will come with me to my home? I will show you some hospitality before you go back to Overland.”
“Um, certainly. It’s lovely to meet you, Thrushsong. Do, do you need any help coming down from there? How did you climb up there without me noticing, anyway?”
“I did not climb.” Thrushsong stood on the thistle barb and two paper thin wings unfolded at his back. Without any hesitation, he leaped from the barb and glided down in a lazy circle to meet Martin on the ground. Martin stared. He had not expected that.
“I’m a faerie, you see. I do not need to climb.”
“I see.” Martin found his voice, and his manners. He offered his hand for Thrushsong to shake. Thrushsong looked at it, then his eyes darted to the sword, warily. Finally he smiled, a forced grin and took Martin’s hand, keeping his eyes on the sword. When the handshake was over, Thrushsong stepped back a pace, keeping his distance from the weapon.
“You don’t like my sword, do you? You said you were allergic? I’ve never heard of anyone being allergic to swords, unless you call bleeding when you’re cut an allergic reaction.”
“I am not allergic to swords. I have one of my own in fact. It is the iron I am allergic to – all faeries are. But do not think that you may use that against us, we are not so weak that one iron blade would vanquish us all. We will find you a scabbard for it when we reach the village. The others will be more comfortable around you that way.”
“Thank-you. Does one of your friends know how to send me back to Scotland?”
“You are still in Scotland, Martin, just in a part you couldn’t see before. But yes, perhaps, one of my kin may be able to help you. We shall see. Come now, I will take you to my home.”
Thrushsong began to walk in the direction the druids had gone. That gave Martin a bad feeling, but apparently, his best chance at getting home so far was with Thrushsong. Martin shrugged and followed.
