We sail ever north to the green land we are promised. Strange sights are to be had along the way. Giant air breathing fish and islands of white crystal float eerily past in the cold silence. Our breath freezes to our whiskers and our hands to the oars, but ever north we must go.
We had only taken the canoe because we needed to follow the river to get home. Ferris had seen it first. After a hard day of trudging along the muddy river bank, we had watched the fisherman pulling it up the shore. Laden down with his catch, he’d set off to his hut. We were out in the middle of the river and paddling hard by the time he’d looked round.
All afternoon we paddled until our shoulders were sore, but then the current picked up. Soon we were being whisked along effortlessly with just a little digging in of the oars here and there to steer. Ferris was proclaiming his genius, “We’ll be home in no time.”
We heard it before we saw it, that thundering roar.
“Watlou! I can’t swim” screams Ferris.
Fool. We’d need to be able to fly to get out of this one.
Well this is kind of embarrassing. I misread the title of the category as Trade and Trolls, rather than Trade and Tolls. However, I have a cunning plan to pull it all back. Here goes…
At dawn War trotted into the graveyard on his red destrier. I watched him from my hiding place behind the catacomb entrance. He stood in silent vigil over the unmarked grave for an hour. The land around grew dark and silent. Even his great beast of a horse stood shock still.
He left on thundering hooves. For the rest of the day the frantic news was of villages pillaged and farmland burned. Tomorrow I will be busy in the graveyard.
