The Golden Acorn Chapter 3.

Chapter Three.

 

Heart Stopping.

 

          After six weeks of trying her best to cheer her husband up, Babbin was no better. No matter what Inga said or did, he remained sad and listless. People still brought work to the smithy, but it was not the same. The quality of Babbin’s work began to drop, and customers quietly started going elsewhere.

One afternoon, as Babbin sat on the bench outside, he suddenly clutched his chest and fell to the ground.

Inga, who kept a close eye on him, rushed across.

“My heart, my heart,” moaned Babbin. “It has stopped beating.”

Inga bent over him and listened. His heart was still beating strongly.

“I can hear it,” she protested.

“Not that one,” whispered Babbin. “The other one. The one the Witch took. It has stopped.”

Inga understood at once. She stood up, jaw set.

“Then we must find the suit of armour and get your acorn back.”

She helped Babbin into the cottage and sat him at the kitchen table.

“Stay here,” she ordered. “I’ll tell Father what we’re doing. He can look after the smithy.”

After a brief but lively discussion with her parents, Inga returned and began packing for a long journey. Babbin sat at the table, pouring the empty chain from one hand to the other.

“There’s plenty of money left from what the Witch paid for the armour,” Inga said brightly, though she did not feel bright at all. “We can afford to go looking.”

She loaded the trap with clothes and food, hitched up the horse, and ordered Babbin to climb in. There was a short delay while he insisted on fetching his favourite hammer.

“I never go anywhere without this,” he said sheepishly.

“First stop: the Witch’s cottage in the Dark Forest,” said Inga fiercely. “She did this to you, she can undo it.”

They travelled steadily until nightfall. Under King Rolan, the kingdom’s roads were well kept. That night they stayed at a wayside inn. Inga was unimpressed by the cleanliness and decided they would sleep under the stars in future.

The next morning, they caught up with a group of travellers sitting beside the road, staring miserably at their overturned wagon.

Inga stopped.

“A problem?”

A man came over and nodded.

“A wheel came off and the wagon tipped. We righted it, but we can’t lift it high enough to put the wheel back on.”

Inga climbed down.

“My husband is used to fitting cart wheels. Let’s see what we can do.”

She turned to Babbin. “Give these poor people a hand.”

Babbin sighed, tucked the chain into his pocket, and walked around the wagon.

“We’ll need a couple of strong tree trunks. Anyone got an axe?”

An axe was produced. Babbin went into the small wood nearby and soon returned with two stout trunks.

“One to lever it up, one to hold it,” he explained.

“You’ll have to empty the wagon,” said Inga.

The leader groaned.

“We only just put everything back in.”

“Sorry,” said Inga. “But if you want the wheel on, that corner must be lifted.”

The travellers obeyed. Soon their belongings were stacked neatly on the roadside again.

Babbin wedged one trunk under the wagon and tried to lift it, but even with his great strength it barely moved.

“Need more weight,” he grunted.

It took the combined effort of everyone before the wagon finally lifted. Quickly, Inga slid the second trunk underneath to hold it up.

Babbin examined the fallen wheel.

“There’s nothing wrong with this,” he said. “The axle pin’s fallen out.”

He pushed the wheel back on, rummaged in their cart, and produced a large nail. He hammered it into the end of the axle.

“That’ll hold until you find a wheelwright.”

He climbed back onto their cart and took out the chain again, letting it pour from hand to hand.

The travellers were extremely grateful. They reloaded their wagon.

“We travel from market to market,” explained the man. “We do shows. Camille here”—the woman curtsied—“is an acrobat. Albert is a clown. I do conjuring tricks. My name is Magico.”

He produced a bedraggled bunch of paper flowers from his sleeve.

“Or Fred, to my friends.”

He sighed.

“There used to be more of us, but we had a disagreement. The others went south. We hope to join another troupe at the Grimbridge market. Would you travel with us? It’s safer in a group, and your man is big enough to scare most trouble away.”

Inga nodded.

“We’re heading for the Dark Forest and Grimbridge. It’s on our way.”

They travelled together. As the shadows lengthened, Fred stopped his wagon and came to speak to Inga.

“There’s an inn ahead. We should stay there.”

“We thought of camping,” said Inga.

Fred shook his head sharply.

“Not wise. Wraith attacks along this road. Best stay somewhere with light and people.”

“In that case,” said Inga, “we’ll come with you. I just hope it’s cleaner than the last one.”

Fred looked embarrassed.

“We have a small problem. When the others left, they took all our money. We’ll have to perform at the inn and hope we earn enough to pay.”

Inga mentally counted their money. Enough for her and Babbin, not enough for everyone.

Fred scuffed a pattern in the dust.

“We wondered if you have any talents. Babbin looks like Jonno, our old strongman. He used to challenge the strongest person in the audience.”

Inga shook her head.

“He won’t fight anyone.”

“Not fighting!” protested Fred. “Just lifting things, the blacksmith’s anvil, a barrel, that sort of thing. People bet on who wins.”

Inga glanced at Babbin, still pouring the chain from hand to hand.

“I think I can get him to do that.”

“And you?” asked Fred hopefully.

“I used to sing,” said Inga. “People said I had a good voice.”

“Perfect!” said Fred. “I play the accordion. We’ll put on a show.”

The inn was already busy. The crowd fell silent when Magico banged a drum and announced that the King’s Road Players would perform.

Camille did handstands and backflips. The audience applauded loudly.

“They only clap because they can see my bare legs,” she whispered to Inga. “Most of them have never seen a woman’s legs before.”

Inga giggled.

Albert, with his painted smile and baggy trousers, made the crowd roar with laughter.

Magico produced flowers from nowhere and coins from people’s ears.

Inga sang three of her favourite songs and was astonished by the applause.

Camille wandered through the crowd with a collecting box.

Finally, Magico called,

“Who is the strongest man here?”

The crowd pushed forward a blushing man.

“Bert! He’s the strongest in the village!”

Bert was indeed a big man, with old burn scars on his arms, clearly the local blacksmith.

“Well,” said Magico, “I bet Babbin here can lift anything Bert can, and more.”

In the corner of the yard stood a large barrel.

“Let’s see who can lift that,” suggested Magico.

Bert swaggered over, wrapped his arms around the barrel, and heaved. It rose a couple of inches before he had to drop it.

“Let’s see Babbin do that,” he said smugly.

“Lift that barrel,” Inga told Babbin.

Babbin wrapped his arms around it and lifted it easily.

“Where do you want it?”

“Over there,” said Inga.

Babbin carried it across the yard and set it down gently.

“Now,” said Magico, “let’s see if Bert can put it back.”

Bert strained, but could not lift it again. Magico collected the winnings with a grin.

And so, it went for the next week. Each night they stopped at a roadside inn. Inga sang, and Babbin out‑lifted the local strongman.