Review
'Contains boggarts, goblins, giants and a talking water rat. Great stuff.' - SFX
Product Description
Faerieland. It's like a reflection of your world ...a warped reflection. And Jack has just stumbled right into it - with a whole lot of trouble on his tail. Trolls, goblins, ogres and giants ...all after one thing. But Jack's got no clue what. He needs some allies, like now. A wizard maybe. Or a High Fairy. Someone who can do serious magic. Someone who can help him get home. Anyone. Just not a dreamy young boggart named Spiggot...The Knights of Leofwende continues with: 2. Mallmoc's Castle (July '03) and Boggart and Fen (July '04)
About the Author
Twice short-listed for the Carnegie prize, Garry Kilworth has written a number of acclaimed stories for children, including the much-loved Welkin Weasels series.
Excerpted from Spiggot's Quest by Garry Kilworth. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Sparks showered from the grindstone. They sprayed the squat and stocky boggart faerie who was turning the wheeled stone. All up his thick hairy forearms were black specks where hot metal filings had left burn marks. But Spiggot never failed to be fascinated by the sight of bright sparks flying like a swarm of stars before his eyes. Never mind the burns, this was what he loved to do. Stare at fleeting beauty, though the instant he stopped turning the wheel, it vanished from the face of Liöfwende.
‘What are you doing?’ growled his father, the larger of the two faerie. ‘Dreaming again? Dreaming is for fairies, pixies and elves, not boggarts like us. Work! Work is what we do best. Be proud you’re not a wastrel like some of the faerie folk. You have the skill of centuries of metal workers in your bones. Use it.’
‘Sorry father,’ murmured Spiggot. ‘Didn’t mean to annoy you.’
To look at, Spiggot was a typical boggart. His skin was the dark brown of a hazelnut left in the sun too long; his unruly hair as dark and shaggy as a black bear’s; his fingernails were square and chipped at the ends; his legs were short and stumpy; his arms thick and muscled. Beneath it all his face was not unhandsome, in sort of burnt-oak way, but it would never win the heart of a fairy princess, or even turn the head of a human milkmaid.
Yet – yet inside Spiggot was just a little different from every other boggart son who worked at his father’s smithy. He had been born at the half-moon – not as was usual for most faerie – at the dark of the moon. There was a bright shining side to him which was just waiting to beam forth poetic and romantic energy. This was a boggart who unfortunately owned a soul as fine as muslin. It would do him no good, for he was destined to work the bellows of his father’s forge, carry the finished goods to those who would wear or use them, batter iron with a second-hand hammer. If he proved his worth eventually he would be allowed to work in gold and silver and other precious metals, refining an ancient craft to the point at which it became art. He would be judged by the results of his workmanship. No hunting with birds of prey for him. No wearing of silk fabrics. No singing at the bower of a beloved princess. No reading poetry under the crab apple tree. He was a boggart, and boggarts!
bashed iron. That was his lot in life – as his father never tired of reminding him.
‘When the suit of armour is finished,’ Gnomon said, ‘you will deliver it to King Cimberlin of Northumberland.’
Spiggot’s eyes opened wide.
‘And you can take that look off your face. You’re to go straight there, deliver the armour, and return by the swiftest route – you understand?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘And to make sure you do, I’m sending Kling with you. He can draw the cart.’
‘Oh father, not Kling,’ cried Spiggot. ‘Can’t I take another boggart? Can’t I take Fen with me?’
‘A female boggart. Most improper. We might be poor but we have our decency and honour. Unwed boggarts travelling together? Certainly not.’
‘But Kling!’
At that moment a water rat, about the size of a large dog, put its head around the door to the forge.
‘Did Kling hear his name? Did the master call Kling to his side? Kling shows his white teeth not in anger, but to copy a boggart smile. It is hard for Kling, for there is no feeling of happiness behind this smile, only aching face muscles.’
‘Ah, there you are, Kling,’ said Gnomon. ‘I was just telling this droopy son of mine that you are to go with him on a journey.’
The rat flicked his tail and groaned. ‘Does Kling have to?’
Gnomon drew himself up to his full height. ‘I just said so, didn’t I?’
‘Oh, all right then. But under protest.’
‘Water rats are not permitted to protest.’
Kling’s nose twitched. ‘Well, if rodents were allowed, Kling would certainly be doing it. Is there any coarse duck-liver pâté going? Any falafel? Any couscous? It’s nearly supper time.’
Gnomon glanced at a potted dandelion standing in the doorway, almost all of its seeds had blown away in the wind. ‘So it is,’ said the elderly boggart. ‘I’ll just add the finishing touches to my work. I don’t know what sort of food you expect, rat, but what you’ll get is cheese.
‘Mozzarella? Brie? Cheddar?’
‘Plain ordinary goat’s cheese.’
‘Feta? Haloumi?’
Gnomon shook his head and turned back to his work.
‘What are you doing?’ growled his father, the larger of the two faerie. ‘Dreaming again? Dreaming is for fairies, pixies and elves, not boggarts like us. Work! Work is what we do best. Be proud you’re not a wastrel like some of the faerie folk. You have the skill of centuries of metal workers in your bones. Use it.’
‘Sorry father,’ murmured Spiggot. ‘Didn’t mean to annoy you.’
To look at, Spiggot was a typical boggart. His skin was the dark brown of a hazelnut left in the sun too long; his unruly hair as dark and shaggy as a black bear’s; his fingernails were square and chipped at the ends; his legs were short and stumpy; his arms thick and muscled. Beneath it all his face was not unhandsome, in sort of burnt-oak way, but it would never win the heart of a fairy princess, or even turn the head of a human milkmaid.
Yet – yet inside Spiggot was just a little different from every other boggart son who worked at his father’s smithy. He had been born at the half-moon – not as was usual for most faerie – at the dark of the moon. There was a bright shining side to him which was just waiting to beam forth poetic and romantic energy. This was a boggart who unfortunately owned a soul as fine as muslin. It would do him no good, for he was destined to work the bellows of his father’s forge, carry the finished goods to those who would wear or use them, batter iron with a second-hand hammer. If he proved his worth eventually he would be allowed to work in gold and silver and other precious metals, refining an ancient craft to the point at which it became art. He would be judged by the results of his workmanship. No hunting with birds of prey for him. No wearing of silk fabrics. No singing at the bower of a beloved princess. No reading poetry under the crab apple tree. He was a boggart, and boggarts!
bashed iron. That was his lot in life – as his father never tired of reminding him.
‘When the suit of armour is finished,’ Gnomon said, ‘you will deliver it to King Cimberlin of Northumberland.’
Spiggot’s eyes opened wide.
‘And you can take that look off your face. You’re to go straight there, deliver the armour, and return by the swiftest route – you understand?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘And to make sure you do, I’m sending Kling with you. He can draw the cart.’
‘Oh father, not Kling,’ cried Spiggot. ‘Can’t I take another boggart? Can’t I take Fen with me?’
‘A female boggart. Most improper. We might be poor but we have our decency and honour. Unwed boggarts travelling together? Certainly not.’
‘But Kling!’
At that moment a water rat, about the size of a large dog, put its head around the door to the forge.
‘Did Kling hear his name? Did the master call Kling to his side? Kling shows his white teeth not in anger, but to copy a boggart smile. It is hard for Kling, for there is no feeling of happiness behind this smile, only aching face muscles.’
‘Ah, there you are, Kling,’ said Gnomon. ‘I was just telling this droopy son of mine that you are to go with him on a journey.’
The rat flicked his tail and groaned. ‘Does Kling have to?’
Gnomon drew himself up to his full height. ‘I just said so, didn’t I?’
‘Oh, all right then. But under protest.’
‘Water rats are not permitted to protest.’
Kling’s nose twitched. ‘Well, if rodents were allowed, Kling would certainly be doing it. Is there any coarse duck-liver pâté going? Any falafel? Any couscous? It’s nearly supper time.’
Gnomon glanced at a potted dandelion standing in the doorway, almost all of its seeds had blown away in the wind. ‘So it is,’ said the elderly boggart. ‘I’ll just add the finishing touches to my work. I don’t know what sort of food you expect, rat, but what you’ll get is cheese.
‘Mozzarella? Brie? Cheddar?’
‘Plain ordinary goat’s cheese.’
‘Feta? Haloumi?’
Gnomon shook his head and turned back to his work.
